SHE CHASED A DUMPLING

"What are the chances you have a bottle of sake hidden somewhere back there?"

The bartender stood staring at me as if he'd mistakenly been dropped into another person's dream. A scabrous, grey rag hung loosely in his right hand, a pint glass in his left.

I was six years old when the only woman in my life died suddenly of an aneurysm. I can still remember seeing her through the window of our apartment the moment her old body fell, the flesh folding across the back of our neighbor's Buick Skylark. Two young boys sprinted from across the street to help as my grandfather flung open the apartment door. He pushed them away and rushed for her, both of his hands cradling her cheeks. He pulled her close like a child does with a stuffed animal, and he landed with a bounce onto the curb. Both boys tried to steady the old man, but he didn't take notice. He wailed and buried his tears into my grandmother's long wool coat. I couldn't move from the window. I couldn't run to help or run to get away from it all.

I could only whisper, "Namma," my breath hitting the window pane with a cloud, then disappearing like a ghost.

She was eighty-six. The year before, she taught me how to say "dog" in Polish. And a few cuss words. She never sounded like anyone else int he family.

The bar was absolutely heaving with happy hour soldiers and I leaned in as the bartender screwed up his face for a moment, then loosened his jaw.

"Sah-kay?" I labored to pronounce.

I stood in the shower for what felt like the entire afternoon. Had it been a normal day, my father would've been banging on the bathroom door, followed by, "What's going on in there? Paying the utility bill, are you?"

My skin was red from the heat of the water, and each pap-pap-pap of the spray against my chest felt like a bullet. Earlier that year, my father had come home with a fancy looking detachable shower head salvaged from remodeling at the hotel where he worked. It was one of those dull buildings right off the highway, mostly visited by salesman, my father said.

I remember the parts rattling around in a box he'd labeled "ROBOT" with a red Sharpie, just to see my reaction. I sat on the edge of the sink, telling him about real robots working in factories, assembling cars and televisions right at this very moment, not in some fake science fiction story. He nodded and threaded the Delta fixture to the pipe jutting out from the wall.

"Mmhmm," he acknowledged, spinning the face of the shower head. It clicked four times. "You can set this to normal jet, wide jet, gentle rain, and machine gun."

"Machine gun!" I shouted, jumping down from the vanity, wrestling my way out of my clothes.

The hot jet of water pressed so hard against my body, I felt like it was the only thing stopping me from floating off into the air with the billows of steam. Pap-pap-pap. I moved forward to feel the beating pressure against my eyelids. My feet made a sound like rubbing a balloon.

Pap-pap-pap.

Mom left us two years ago.

Pap-pap-pap.

Now, Namma was gone.

Pap-pap-pap.

If I can believe my own memory, I said the following words out loud.

"If she's okay, send me a sign…a something."

And the water stopped.

Steam rose so quickly around me that I felt like I was falling. It took every bit of strength to stand. I looked at my body. Medallions of soap bubbles drifted down my chest and hung on the bones of my legs. I blinked and then stared a good long time at the shower head in what felt like a silent communion. I didn't like church at all, I thought about altar boys, and wine, and incense. There would be a church service tomorrow, followed by the smell of Eastern European food I'd grown to hate.

One drop of water fell from the tip of the machine gun nozzle and landed on my eyeball.

My naked body started shivering, but I couldn't feel any change in temperature. I couldn't feel anything at all.

The entire family would be downstairs soon, stuffing themselves with kielbasa and sauerkraut. I'd have to walk around in that stiff black suit that hung waiting for me on the back of the bathroom door. It would be my job to carry a tray of horseradish and pickles, winding among uncles and aunts, catching the tail end of words in Polish. I'd recognize a few of the cuss words Namma taught me.

I squinted to keep focus on the shower head. I thought I heard her voice just for a moment.

"God works in mysterious…"

PAP-PAP-PAP!

"Holy hell, guess what I found!" the bartender shouted in disbelief.

PAP-PAP-PAP-PAP-PAP-PAP!

The water rushed suddenly at my face. It felt cold now and it filled my open mouth. I choked and spit and fell back against the frosted sliding door of the shower.

"Ten years behind this bar and never has anyone or their brother asked for this."

The bartender held up an unopened bottle, stenciled with a red pagoda. He smiled like he was waiting for someone to take his photo with a prize winning sea bass. His elation faded, and he floated back down to the oaky familiarity of the bar.

We used to lie on our backs on her bed after lunch and Namma would tell me stories of strange lands with strange plants and animals. There were flowers that looked like women and crabs that looked like men, and they all paraded and danced across her ceiling. There was an emperor that always got tricked by his court fool. A little girl would get lost in a cave, searching for her dumpling that rolled and rolled and rolled away from her.

The people wore long robes with elaborate jewelry. They rode dragons that talked and they ate the strangest foods, all wrapped in seaweed. I could hardly imagine it, but Namma said it was all true. She had seen it herself when she was a little girl. Just like the girl who chased the dumpling into the cave.

"It's just rice, then?" the bartender half asked and half explained as he read the label.

"It's better warm," I admitted, "but don't go through the hassle."

"Make sure they put me in something like this," Namma said, pointing to a red and gold robe in a magazine. It flowed hot like fire. The woman in the picture wore white makeup on her face, but her lips were dark red. It was like she was talking without making a sound. She held a paper fan open to the left side of her face, and her eyes gazed at the beautifully drawn tiger that seemed to leap off its folds.

"Put you in? What do you mean, Namma? And you're Polish! You don't wear this stuff!" I laughed, turning the page.

She pressed her lips slowly against the top of my head and giggled into my hair.

"For now, yes, but not always."

Our small living room felt like a giant maze as I navigated the heavy tray of horrible smelling food between chairs and relatives, lots of pats on the head and a few dollar bills jammed into my pockets. All I wanted was a grilled cheese the way Namma used to make.

"Take a break," my father said, lifting the tray from my hands and smiling. I felt like a fish let off a hook and ran up the stairs away from everyone. I stood looking out the window, trying to ignore the burst of laughter from below. How could they laugh today of all days?

I saw the spot where she fell. The Buick was gone and someone had squeezed a black Lincoln town car in its place. There were men walking down the road in dirty yellow vests with hard white hats that didn't sit right on their heads. They held a thick hose over their shoulders that snaked down the center of the street. It reminded me of the celebrations Namma described in her stories; dragons with long bodies would wind themeselves through the streets, shaking their heads until the children would scream with laughter. One by one, they disappeared into a hole in the road, heavy lid that read NYC SEWER in big letters was pushed to the side. The hose jolted and shook and little streams of water shot out of small tears all along its length.

I felt the floor starting to vibrate underneath my feet. The water pipes rattled inside the walls. I wanted so badly to run into the bathroom and turn on the shower, but my feet were frozen to the spot. I wanted to strip my clothes off, stand under the warm spray and ask for another sign. I could feel my lips moving, but no words came. This might be my last chance to find out if Namma was okay and instead of running to find the answer, I was standing still in my suit, feeling sick.

A cab pulled up in the middle of the street and I turned my head back to the window. The driver was helping a woman climb from the back seat. She wore a long red and gold robe. It looked like fire.

"Hey, there you are!" My father stood at the top of the stairs. He was smiling, but he looked tired and his eyes were extra baggy. It was the way he looked when he brought the shower head home in the robot box. Happy, but so tired. He walked over slowly and put his hands on my shoulders as he knelt down.

"I need to tell you something about Namma," he said, looking into my eyes. "before you meet her sister."

The bartender stared at me gravely, his eyes moved like a camera taking snapshots of my black suit.

"You come from a funeral?"

"Yes," I said, emptying my glass. "Forty years ago."