Travelin' Man by Tom Mendicino Page B

they cut the cake. They light the cit-ronellas candles to chase away the mosquitos and gather at a picnic table set with festive plates and cups from the party store. Ong is pleased with his paper hat, but Ba struggles and grunts when KC tries to put one on her head. Cole says she’s jealous of all the attention her husband’s enjoying on his special day. He confides she was a real bitch before the stroke, constantly belittling his put-upon grandfather. He says Ong’s a happier man now that his wife is unable to speak.
    â€œHow old is he?” KC asks, needing to know how many candles to put on the cake. He’d bought three boxes to be sure there were enough. The fucking cake is going to be a fire hazard.
    â€œNo one knows,” Cole says nonchalantly. “Not even Ba.”
    Ong’s age is a mystery to everyone. He met Cole’s grandmother while they were in an encampment waiting to be evacuated. All of their documents had been destroyed; their personal histories are casualties of the war. Cole’s father might have heard stories of the family’s past when he was a child, but he was murdered during an armed robbery of the convenience store he’d bought with money earned and saved waxing and buffing the floors of the local hospitals and schools. But whatever his age, Ong’s a spry old rooster, enjoying his liberation from the blistering tongue of his wife.
    Cole’s sister has prepared a feast to observe the occasion, a shock to KC who’s never even seen her make a pot of coffee. There’s sticky rice and steamed buns. KC, who had never heard of lemongrass and fish paste a month ago, is stuffing his face with spicy grilled sausages.
    â€œSo, how do you like your first taste of dog?” Cole asks, doubling over in laughter when KC, a look of horror in his eyes, spits a mouthful of half-chewed meat on the grass.
    â€œI’m kidding, bro,” Cole confesses, wiping the tears from his eyes. “It’s pork. Just like Jimmy Dean.”
    But there’s no mistaking the final course set before the birthday boy.
    â€œBe careful you don’t burn yourself Ong. I just took them off the grill,” Cole warns his grandfather who’s salivating over the delicacy that’s been brought to the table.
    â€œYou gonna try one?” Cole asks KC who’s too appalled to answer, unable to believe anyone would willingly put a charred chicken head, skewered and roasted, in their mouth.
    â€œIt’s easy,” Cole swears as he demonstrates the proper to crack the tiny skull and suck the brains from the head. “Make up your mind before Ong eats them all.”
    Cole, his sister, and the man who she says isn’t her boyfriend laugh at KC’s squeamishness, insisting KC will never be a real Nguyen until he eats a chicken head. KC impulsively cracks one open and swallows the contents too quickly to actually taste it, a small price to pay to be accepted into a family.
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    Cole says God doesn’t care who or what he is. After all, who made him this way? All that matters is that you don’t hurt anyone else, he explains. He and his sister are good Catholics. They attend Mass every week, taking communion, and there are holy pictures of the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart throughout the house. KC doesn’t know much about being Catholic. He was baptized but never went to Mass as a kid and only attended Augustinian because they gave him a full scholarship to play baseball. He doubts he’ll be going to any more churches or listening to any pastors and their sermons like he did when he lived with the Freemans. But he still reads the Bible Coach gave him every night, finding solace in the words he sometimes struggles to understand. He’s started keeping a list of his favorite verses and is committing them to memory.
    Matthew 5:16.
    Luke 7:47
    John 8:12
    And always, he returns to his favorite passage and the words that prove Jesus