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雨里的那把黑伞
我们家门口挂着一把黑伞，伞面洗得发灰，伞柄上缠了一圈又一圈胶布。这把伞是我爸爸的，从我家到学校那两公里，它每个雨天都跟着他出现在学校门口。
爸爸每天骑电动车接我放学。不管雨多大，他车筐里只有这一把伞。到了门口，伞塞进我手里，或者干脆举到我头顶，他自己穿一件旧雨衣，雨衣后背上磨出两块发白的印子。有一次我坐在后座上，看见雨点顺着伞骨往下淌，全落在他肩膀上，我的校服却干干爽爽。我让他把伞往那边挪一挪，他头也不回，说坐稳就行。
最沉的一次是入秋那场暴雨。车骑到半路，链子卡进了齿轮，电动车推不动。爸爸把车支在路边，蹲下去修，让我打伞。雨砸在伞面上咚咚响，我看着他两只手抠进链子和齿轮中间，扳手套上去转两下，黑油泥糊满了指缝。他指甲缝里全是黑的，雨水冲也冲不掉。链条咔哒一声归位，他站起来，在裤子上蹭了两下手，裤子上就多了一道黑印子。
到家以后，他先蹲下来拧我的裤脚，问湿透没有。我摇头，他自己才上楼换那件湿透的雨衣。换完出来，他手指缝里的机油还在那儿。我这才注意到，他那双手冬天裂过口子，缠一圈胶布就接着骑车，接着修车，拇指上有一层厚厚的老茧。
后来他修车，我就蹲在旁边给他打伞。扳手在他手里转得飞快，我盯着他拇指上那层茧，想说点什么，话到嘴边又咽回去，最后只憋出一句，爸，吃饭吧。他嗯了一声，手上没停。
期末那天开家长会，散会晚了，雨下得正大。爸爸举着伞在校门口等我，半边肩膀又是湿的。我走过去，没有像平常那样钻到伞底下就走，而是把伞接过来，举过他的头顶。我说，爸，谢谢你。他愣了好一会儿，好像没听懂这三个字，然后眼角堆起皱纹，连声说，谢什么，走，回家。
那天我们没有骑车，走路回去的。雨点打在伞面上，他的背挺得比平时直。从那以后他修车的时候，嘴里总哼着一支不成调的小曲。
The Black Umbrella in the Rain
A black umbrella hangs by our front door. The cloth has been washed so many times that it has turned gray, and the handle is wrapped round and round with tape. It belongs to my father, and on every rainy day it travels with him on his bike to the gate of my school, two kilometers away.
He picks me up after school every day. No matter how hard it rains, there is only this one umbrella in the basket. When he reaches the gate, the umbrella ends up over my head, and he wears an old raincoat with two pale worn patches on the back. Once, sitting behind him, I watched the rain run down the ribs of the umbrella and fall all on his shoulders while my school uniform stayed dry. I asked him to move the umbrella a little his way, and without turning his head he only said, hold on tight.
The worst time was a heavy rainstorm in early autumn. Halfway home the chain slipped into the gears and the bike would not move. He propped the bike at the curb, squatted down, and told me to hold the umbrella. Rain drummed on the cloth while his fingers worked between the chain and the gears, the wrench turning twice before the chain clicked back into place, and black grease filled every gap of his hands. The rain could not wash it off. He stood up and wiped his hands on his trousers, leaving two dark streaks.
At home he first squatted to wring the water from my trouser cuffs and asked whether they had soaked through. I shook my head, and only then did he go upstairs to change out of his wet raincoat. When he came back down, the oil was still deep in the lines of his fingers. I noticed then that the cracks of winter on his hands were only wrapped with tape before he rode on, and that his thumbs carried thick layers of old callus.
After that I squatted beside him with the umbrella whenever he repaired the bike. The wrench spun fast in his hand, and I stared at the callus on his thumb, wanting to say something. The words stopped at my lips, and in the end all that came out was, Dad, dinner is ready. He grunted once and his hands never stopped moving.
On the last day of the term there was a parents meeting that ended late, and the rain was falling hard. My father waited at the school gate with the umbrella, one shoulder wet again. I walked toward him, but instead of ducking under the umbrella as usual, I took it from him and held it over his head. I said, Dad, thank you. He froze for a long moment, as if he had not understood those three words, then the corners of his eyes folded into wrinkles and he kept saying, no need for that, let us go home.
We walked home that night instead of riding. The rain beat on the umbrella, and his back was straighter than usual. Ever since then, whenever he repairs the bike, he hums a little tune that never quite holds its tune.
车筐里的旧扳手
我们班接孩子的家长里，我爸爸最特别。别人家开车来，他骑一辆旧电动车，车筐里常年放三样东西：一把黑伞、一把旧扳手、一块叠得方方正正的抹布。
陆天第一次见我爸爸，是在一个雨天。我们的车挤在校门口出不去，他那辆车正好路过，链子掉了，就停在路边修。陆天趴在车窗上看，回来跟我说，你爸修车的样子跟别人不一样，他不嫌脏，整个手都伸进齿轮里。他说你爸手上全是黑的，可脸上一点嫌弃都没有。我听了没接话，心里却记下了这句话。
从那以后我总留意那双手。冬天他手上裂口子，胶布缠一圈照样骑车。有回他在巷口补胎，我站在旁边看，扳手咬住螺母，他手腕一压，咔的一下就开了，快得像变戏法。补完他拿那块抹布擦手，擦完把抹布叠回方块，一块泥点都不留在车筐上。
他话少。接我路上，他问的永远是那三句，今天几节课，作业多不多，冷不冷。我答，还行。对话就完了。有一回我故意多说了句今天体育课跑了八百米，他想了想，说，那晚饭多吃一碗。我笑出声，他不知道我笑什么，也照着笑。
雨天他还是只带一把伞。有一回放学雨太大，我们爷俩挤在伞下走，我半边肩膀没事，他半边身子透了。陆天在对面楼道里看见了，第二天问我，你爸是不是总把伞歪向你。我说，是。陆天说，我爸要是那样就好了。他说这话的时候声音低下去，我把车筐里那把扳手的事讲给他听，讲他怎么把整只手塞进齿轮，讲他指甲缝里的黑油泥。
那天晚上我回家，爸爸照旧在门口等我。我把书包放下，从车筐里把那把旧扳手拿出来，擦干净，放回他手里。我说，爸，你修车的手比谁的都好看。他手一缩，像被烫了一下，半天说出一句，去写作业。可是转身的时候，我看见他嘴角压不住地往上翘。
后来陆天见了我爸还是会打招呼。我爸话还是少，可每次应陆天，都比应我多一个字。
The Old Wrench in the Basket
Among all the parents who pick children up from our class, my father is the odd one out. Others come by car; he comes on an old electric bike, and its basket holds the same three things all year round: a black umbrella, an old wrench, and a cloth folded into a neat square.
My classmate Lu Tian saw my father at work for the first time on a rainy day. Our bike was stuck at the crowded school gate when the chain of his came off, so he pulled to the curb and fixed it there. Lu Tian watched from his family car window and told me afterward that your father repairs bikes differently from other people, that he did not mind the dirt at all and pushed his whole hand into the gears. He said the hands were covered in black grease, yet there was not a trace of disgust on his face. I did not answer, but I kept that sentence in my heart.
After that I began to watch those hands. In winter his knuckles cracked, and he wrapped them with tape and rode on anyway. Once he patched a puncture at the mouth of our lane while I stood beside him. The wrench bit onto the nut, he pressed down on his wrist, and it came loose with a single crack, quick as a magic trick. When he finished he wiped his hands with the square cloth, then folded the cloth back into its square, leaving not a speck of mud in the basket.
He is a man of few words. On the ride home he always asks the same three questions: how many classes today, is the homework heavy, are you cold. I answer, not bad, and that ends the conversation. Once I added on purpose that we ran eight hundred meters in PE class. He thought about it for a while and said, then eat an extra bowl at dinner. I laughed out loud. He did not know what I was laughing at, so he laughed too.
On rainy days he still brings only one umbrella. Once the rain was so heavy that we walked squeezed under it together; one half of my shoulder stayed dry while one half of his body soaked through. Lu Tian saw us from a stairway across the street and asked me the next day whether the umbrella always leans toward me. I said yes. He said, if only my father did that. His voice dropped as he said it, so I told him about the wrench in the basket, about the whole hand pushed into the gears, about the black grease in the lines of those fingernails.
That evening I came home and my father waited at the door as usual. I put down my schoolbag, took the old wrench out of the basket, wiped it clean, and placed it back into his hand. I said, Dad, your repair hands are better looking than the hands of anyone else in our class. He pulled his hand back as if burned, and after a long while managed to say, go do your homework. But as he turned away, I saw the corner of his mouth refusing to stay down.
Lu Tian still says hello to my father whenever he sees him. My father is still a man of few words, yet every answer he gives Lu Tian has one more word in it than the answers he gives me.
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