Whistle

You want to learn to whistle.  You’re six.  There’s a bird, the kind that were silent when it was loud with bombs, and then when to make a sound meant the humans could find you to eat you.  Now, the war is over, at least the war against the emperor.  The other war is still marching: there are still soldiers over the hill, or over the next hill.  But still far enough away so that the singing bird makes you want to whistle.

You purse your lips like a duckbill. That doesn’t work. All that happens is a whooshing noise like you’re blowing out a birthday candle (which you won’t see for another three years, but you don’t realize that yet) or rather, just a candle. You hyperventilate trying desperately to make the whistling sound. The bird calls again. It is a mockingbird even if it’s not a mockingbird: the sound stings you.

Light falls between the trees like arrows. Among the trunks other boys play; your older brother is ganged up with the other bigger boys. You are always the Indian. Your younger brother is sitting on the porch, again, wide eyed. You know how to whistle now, remembering that day in Hong Kong when the whateverbird taught you that sound is a choice, even if you don’t yet know how to make it. You learned that you can choose to purse your lips like a duck and someday a bird will fall out, on command.

You have knock knees, skinny thighs, and socks with no elastic. You have hair the color of coal and teeth like full moons. You can trace circles in the dirt with your toe. Like a dancer. Like the dancer you will be someday. You can whistle low, tunelessly, to make yourself happy. All your older brother can do is growl.

“Hey, Frank!” You turn toward the familiar with only the briefest of hesitation. You have come to learn that hesitation equals an arm punch. You don’t want to turn. You know, you can hear the heavy breaths, four or five of them. Joe isn’t in the lead – you can tell he wants to be, but defers to the oldest boy. When no one else is around he is the boss, but has learned to become obsequious and deferential, in a sneering way. “Frank, we’re playing.” It’s not a question, or even a command. It’s just a fact. It was time for you to become the Indian again, to slip among the trees and disappear down dirt paths if you didn’t want to be the bottom cushion to a gaggle of fists. Before they can organize you take off running, dodging in case a rock flitters by like that time two months ago when Joe actually got in trouble when Mom visited, because of the welt and blood on the back of your head. Joe only smiled when you’re in pain, you realize. You hit the treeline 15 yards ahead of the pack and slalom like a rabbit. A laugh escapes and you whistle in bursts, laughing that you can’t whistle. It doesn’t matter what happens next: you’re running and laughing and every so often a bird escapes your mouth into the tiptop leaves, heading for the sun.