Walking Through Walls Read Online Free PDF

in place by his free-form gold tie tack. All of my father’s clothes seemed to come from another era. Thinking back, I now realize that he dressed as if it were still 1930. He wore dark, elegant, pleated pants, and if you looked close enough, you could see the small, subtle patterns floating throughout the weave. On several occasions I had asked why his pants were so baggy. I was trying to understand the purpose of those strange folds of fabric on the front of his pants. All of my school pants were Perma Press and pleat free, giving me that sleek sixties look. The pleats seemed to precede him as he entered a room and made him appear bigger than he actually was.
    He was a compact man with a dark mustache, at a time when few, if any, American men wore mustaches. It gave him a distinguished European air that women found attractive. His salt-and-pepper hair was turning grayer by the day on a head that seemed round and free of sharp angles. When he smiled, his face flushed with happiness. His voice was melodious, and he spoke with a precise and kind intonation, as if he had read endless amounts of poetry during his youth. This camouflage carefully hid his lack of any real formal education.
    As the sirens continued to wail, the atmosphere became claustrophobic. All my senses had been short-circuited by the noise, which seemed to be closing in on me. I decided to stay under the sink. Peeking through the doors of my makeshift bomb shelter, I watched my parents talking in very serious tones. It seemed almost as if they were going to have a fight. I cracked the door a little farther to hear what my father was saying but without jeopardizing my safety. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I have some bad news we need to discuss before this war starts.”
    All chopping stopped. There was an immediate and strained silence in the kitchen. Pop just stood there while my mother stared at the iceberg lettuce on the counter waiting to be washed. Dinner was on hold.
    â€œI have sanpaku .”
    â€œYou what?” my mother asked, still staring at the lettuce. Her face had a look as if she had stepped barefoot on a piece of glass. “What is this sanpaku, like cancer?” She began to slowly pull the outer leaves off the lettuce. In that split second, she must have imagined herself as a young widow with a child to take care of and no real income to speak of. Perhaps being vaporized by Castro’s nuclear weapons was not such a bad option after all. I could tell that Mom was not in the mood for this conversation. The threat of the bombs was upsetting her, and I think she was already overwhelmed preparing for her last night on earth.
    My father attempted to explain this mysterious disease. “There’s too much yang in my body. My system is being poisoned with an acidic pH. If I don’t correct this, my body will succumb to disease, most likely cancer. And it’s not just me. You’re toxic. Philip is toxic. We’re all toxic.” My father’s voice began to rise in intensity, which it rarely did. He was clearly upset. Something very serious was going on.
    This toxic stuff worried me; whatever toxic was, it did not sound good. I decided that bombs or no bombs, I needed to join the family predinner conversation. Jumping out from under the sink, I pleaded with my father, “Poppa, what’s toxic? Am I going to die too?” I started crying and hugging his legs.
    â€œSee what you’re doing? You’re scaring the kid. Now he’s going to have nightmares and will have to come sleep with us. Thanks a lot.” Mom got tough and angry when she was upset. Pop was the opposite: the angrier he was, the calmer he became. To her credit, my mother was seeking some clarification about this mysterious disease that was killing her husband. “Can you please start at the beginning and explain to me exactly what it is you’re talking about? Don’t we have more