“What did the old broad say to you?” he asks me, dragging his oxygen bottle behind him.
“She faked like she was sleeping so I would tell her personal things that she could use against me the next time we battle.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”
“Because I’m retired?”
“Because she’s going to die any day now. And ding dong the wicked witch will be dead.”
“You know what’s the weirdest thing about that?”
“What?” Old Man Linder asks.
“I’ll miss her.”
“I miss everyone from my past, Amber. I really do. It’s the curse of old age.”
We walk the rest of the way in silence, and just before we reenter the common room, I say, “Will you and Old Man Thompson sing one of your songs at The Bobby Big Boy Variety Show?”
“No one wants to hear two old men sing forgotten songs, Amber. Especially one who needs bottled oxygen to breathe. Singing’s a young person’s game. Who would want to hear me sing?”
“I would.”
Old Man Linder smiles at me all grandfatherly, but his eyes get misty and sad.
When he doesn’t say anything, I give Old Man Linder a kiss on the cheek, and then—in the common room—I make the rounds with BBB, allowing everyone to check out his scar while they give him a pet on the head.
And then B Thrice and I are walking through the depressing hallways with the dusty plants.
“How’d it go in there today?” DWL says.
“Okay. Even though he said he didn’t want to do it, I’m hoping Old Man Linder will change his mind and he’ll sing at The Save Bobby Big Boy Variety Show. That would be pretty cool.”
“Who asked him to sing?”
“I did.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to sing?”
“Do you sing?”
“You kiddin’ me? I’m a pro. I got me a band and everything. They’re called The Hard-Working Brothers. We do weddings mostly, but we play clubs too.”
“What type of music?”
“Mostly R & B. I’m known for my Aretha Franklin impersonation—but I do The Supremes, Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, all the big names.”
I cross myself, and then say, “DWL. You’re a diva?”
“Girl—I bring the roof down whenever I sing. I just work this job for the health insurance.”
Suddenly, I understand that Father Chee’s prayers are being answered—that JC has sent me and the KDFCs a diva. Word.
“Are you for real?” I ask.
DWL laughs and hands me her card. It reads:
Sister Lucy and The Hard-Working Brothers There is a phone number underneath.
I explain my relationship with The Korean Divas for Christ, our asking JC to send us a true diva front woman, and then, like a frickin’ maniac, I pedal Donna’s bike all the way to Father Chee’s church, telling everyone I pass that I hope they’re having a great day, and when I get there, I bang on the door until FC opens.
“Amber, what brings you here today on a—”
“I found us a true diva!” I say, and then hand him DWL’s card.
Father Chee reads the card and then smiles knowingly. “So Jesus has sent us a diva.”
“Hell yeah,” I say.
“I will take care of everything,” Father Chee says, and then jogs me and BBB in-a-basket back to my neighborhood, only I don’t go home after FC turns around—BBB and I go to Private Jackson’s house.
After so much time with people—I’m tired.
I’m not used to people.
I’ve been alone in a room for two months.
This is all baptism by fire.
I want to go somewhere I can just be—where I can chill and process the miracle of finding a true diva for The KDFCs.
I stash Donna’s bike around the back of PJ’s house and knock on PJ’s door with BBB in my arms.
“Come in, please,” PJ says while scratching Bobby Big Boy’s head. “I’ll put on tea.”
I put B Thrice on the floor inside of the door, and even though he had surgery not so long ago, he tears ass toward the bedroom. I’m a little worried about those stitches, but then I just sit down on the couch figuring Bobby Big Boy knows his own limitations.
A few minutes later, Private Jackson hands me a steaming cup of tea.
We sip in silence for a time.
I put my cup down on the coffee table, stand, pull an origami swan from my pocket, and hand it to PJ.
“It’s beautiful,” PJ says. “It’s perfect.”
“Open it up,” I say.
“No, I want to let it be—just as it—”
“I’ll fold you up another one. There’s a haiku inside.”
PJ nods and then unfolds my origami swan.
He reads my latest haiku for like—an hour, nodding and rubbing his chin.
“Do you like it?” I finally ask.
He looks up at me and says, “It is perfect. Will you do a reading for me?”
“You serious?” I ask.
“I would very much like to hear you read this haiku.”
I take the piece of paper from him, and read.
“We cry together—on the couch for different—reasons, but it helps.”
“I will hang it on the wall now,” PJ says, taking the paper from me.