Umeboshi

FICTION

by Kimmy Chang

          Had our pantry always smelled like this—dried seaweed, jujubes—match-strike sharp in the dark? 
          I took my sister’s hand. Ma told us God had called for fasting, so we threaded through the farmers’ market outside the church with our eyes down. “God won’t tempt us more than we can bear,” Ma said. My sister pressed her small face toward a crate of cherry tomatoes, red and shining. I covered her eyes.
          Ma crossed her arms as Pa’s gaze flicked to me. “Hold this,” he breathed, pressing a tomato into my palm. “Then take another. Quick.”
          A warm globe settled there like a small heart. Then the crate tipped—my elbow catching the corner as I pulled back—and tomatoes spilled into the street like marbles.
          “That kid!” someone shouted.
          Panic surged; I bolted. Of all people, Pa caught me. Right there under the crowd’s stare, his hands clamped on my shoulders.
          “How dare you?” 
          My mouth opened. “I—” I couldn’t find the lie. “You told me to.” 
          My throat burned. “I’m hungry,” I said. “I’m hungry all the time.” 
          Pa’s face bloomed red. He smacked my cheek. 
          That night, I slept in the pantry again, between rice sacks and pickling jars.
          The next day, Pa set his phone on the table like scripture. A shaky clip. A caption:

TOMATO THIEF BLAMES FATHER

          Seasons later—after months without an office lanyard—Pa put one on again, smelling of lint and fluorescent halls. Soon after, he brought home umeboshi. “Sweet,” he said, then, with a sigh, “and sour.”
          My sister laughed, slurping red skins beside me. Congee. Steam. I lifted my bowl and said a prayer: Dear God, please let Pa keep his job. Even if he hates it. Let him keep bringing home treats. 
          When I opened my eyes, a plum half-submerged in my white circle of congee broke the surface—up, down—like a wishing lantern snagged on an electrical street wire.