Dragon House

by John Shors

  Thien sat nearby, her shorter legs barely touching the water. She started singing. Her voice was nearly drowned out by the drone of the barge’s engines. So she sang louder.

  Iris’s smile broadened. The warmth of the delta traveled up her feet, into her body, and she no longer felt so alone.

  THE LARGE JARS OF DIRT STOOD like rows of tree stumps before him. There were several hundred jars, each filled to the brim with dark, rich soil. Some of the soil had already sprouted grass, weeds, and flowers. Noah lifted his shovel and drove it into the nearest jar. Swinging his arms up, he sent dirt flying, scattering it over the tiny cement chips that covered the empty lot.

  It took Noah almost five minutes to empty a single jar. He couldn’t work faster, as such labor placed excess weight and strain on his prosthesis. Soon his back ached. The carbon-fiber sleeve of his prosthesis rubbed painfully against his stump. He cursed, thrusting the shovel deeply into the next jar. Pivoting to his right, he swung the heavy shovel high, sending the soil skyward. His body protested the movement, yet he didn’t pause. Instead he worked harder, as if intent on putting so much strain on his prosthesis and back that he’d break one or the other. A second jar was emptied, then a third and a fourth.

  Soon Noah’s body screamed at him to rest, but the pain merely propelled him onward. His rage grew as the pain grew. Jars were chipped by his shovel. His hands blistered. His back ached as if he were being flogged. Still, he moved faster, seeking to hurt himself, wanting the pain to overwhelm him. Within such agony, he couldn’t think.

  The ground before him darkened with dirt. He moved down the line of jars, emptying a seventh and an eighth. His prosthesis was scraping his stump and thigh raw. Suddenly he hated it beyond anything he’d known. He lifted his pant leg and, hopping on his good foot, yanked his prosthesis from him. He threw it aside and picked up his shovel. Continuing to hop, he attacked the ninth jar. Half the dirt seemed to fall on him as he tried to spread it around. His leg trembled. His back might as well have been on fire. But he didn’t stop. The jar was cursed, cracked, and emptied. He hopped toward another, tripped, and then was falling. The fresh dirt rose to strike him, and he rolled from his back to his belly, unwilling to look at anything but darkness. He screamed, smashing the side of his fist onto the soil he’d just cast.

  Suffocating in the hell that enveloped him, Noah crawled to where he had left a bottle of Vietnamese whiskey. He drank deeply from it, swallowing several mouthfuls the way he might lemonade on a hot day. He felt the alcohol’s presence almost immediately. It warmed him. Holding the bottle in one hand, he crawled until his shoulders were against a nearby jar. His back and stump hurt fiercely and he took another swig of whiskey.

  His stump was ugly and he despised the sight of it. For his whole life he’d never even considered his feet. He had taken them for granted. But now that his foot was gone forever, Noah longed to see it again. He wanted to touch his toes, to jump, to run, to kick through clear water. He would give every possession he owned to have his foot back. He’d live in a shack for the rest of his life, walk to work each day, and wouldn’t drive a car again. He’d never drink another beer or eat a delicacy or sleep on a bed.

  Noah cursed, his thoughts soon moving to Wesley, to their unlikely friendship—the white, middle-class boy from Chicago and the black boy who was raised by his uncle in Detroit’s housing projects. Wesley had always believed in the war, and in himself—at least until he’d shot the Iraqi man, until he’d learned that the man’s daughter had died because she couldn’t get to a hospital. Then everything had changed. Wes had fallen into a bottomless pit that turned him inside out, that stole his soul.

  More whiskey traveled to Noah’s belly. He thought about the things that conspired to ruin his life—a country led blindly into a war that didn’t need to be fought, his reckless decision to enlist, and the traffic accident in Baghdad. Had anything gone differently in this chain of events he’d still have his foot and Wes would still be alive. Life would be good again. He’d laugh, take joy in simple pleasures, and muse over a future that appeared so bright.

  Instead of such a life, Noah spent his days in pain. And such chronic pain broke his will as surely as would a stay in prison. He awoke each morning afraid of the agony that would soon dominate him. And this agony, experienced day after day, wore him down until he was unable to think of anything but his own misery. Though painkillers and alcohol provided reprieves, they dulled his mind to the point where his thoughts formed and moved within a dense fog. In this state he couldn’t hope for better days. He couldn’t laugh. He was no different from a caged lion that lay motionless day and night, crippled by the bleakness of its existence.

  Aware that he’d be sick if he drank more whiskey, Noah rolled the bottle away. Still leaning against the jar, he glanced at the open space before him, wondering how he’d ever get it covered in soil. A year ago, he could have finished the work in a day or two. And he’d have enjoyed the labor, knowing that he was doing something good. Listening to music, he’d have imagined children playing on what he was creating, and worked from dawn to dusk.

  Tears began to roll down Noah’s dirty face as he thought about whom he’d become, about who was gone forever. The best parts of him had vanished as completely as his foot. His laughter, his joy, and his optimism were but memories, recollections that now tormented him. They tormented him because he didn’t believe that he’d ever have such feelings again. Those feelings had been stolen from him, taken somewhere distant to be smashed into a thousand pieces. Even worse, those feelings had been replaced by bitterness and misery, hate and pain.

  Wishing that the roadside bomb had killed him, Noah lay down on the warm soil, still crying. If the bomb had killed him, he’d have died with honor. He’d never have encountered this world of blackness, of perpetual woe. Perhaps he would be in heaven. Or at the very least, he’d sense nothing, be nothing. And sensing nothing was infinitely more appealing than lying on dirt, wishing he were dead. At least then he’d be at peace.

  Noah took a handful of the soil and dropped it on his chest. He looked up, gazing at a slice of blue sky. “Heal me . . . or kill me . . . goddamn you,” he whispered, shuddering, his tears leaving trails on his cheeks. “Do you hear me?” The sky remained motionless and Noah moaned, the pain in his back almost unbearable. “Please . . . please help me. I can’t . . . I just can’t . . . go on like this. Please.”

  Noah cried until a crushing weariness overcame him, a weariness that he welcomed as if it were his lost lover. His breathing slowed, his pain dissipated, and he fell asleep.

  MINH PRODDED MAI FORWARD WITH HIS hand. She hadn’t eaten in two days, and he didn’t like how weak she seemed, how she wasn’t as talkative as usual. They’d been trying to set aside a little money each night, and Minh also had an empty stomach. The first day without food had been the worst for him—the endless cramps that caused him to double over, the many thoughts of delicious treats. He’d drunk water constantly to try to fool his belly, but this trick didn’t work well for long periods of time. Fortunately, the next day had been better. He’d been lethargic, of course, but at least the cramps were gone.

  “When we leave Loc, we won’t ever be hungry again,” Mai said, walking slowly, eyeing the Saigon River below.

  Minh glanced around, worried that they’d be overheard.

  “He’s not here, Minh the Jumpy.” She scratched at a bug bite on her arm. “Now that he has our five dollars, he’ll have the pipe in his ugly mouth.”

  Minh recalled awakening to see Loc standing above them. He’d taken five of the six dollars they’d earned the previous night. Though Minh hated to see so much money go, at least Loc hadn’t hit them. He’d seemed very tired.

  “Are you sure you want pho?” Mai asked.

  Minh nodded.

  The sidewalk ended, dropping into a one-lane road that was covered by a steel awning. Hundreds of scooters idled on the road, which turned into a ramp that led toward the river. As a ferry pulled into a doc
king area, people on the scooters watched two televisions that hung from the awning. When the ferry was secured, the ramp lowered and the drivers revved their scooters’ throttles. The battered vehicles moved up and over the ramp and onto the ferry. A cloud of exhaust lingered for a few seconds and was then carried away by the wind.

  Mai stepped ahead, watching the ferry depart for the other shore. Day and night it traveled across the river, carrying thousands of scooters to and from the city’s center. “I wonder what’s on the other side,” she said, for they’d never crossed the waterway.

  Minh shrugged, having asked himself the same question many times.

  They rounded a bend and immense riverboats came into view. The riverboats were tied to the paved shoreline and were three-storied vessels about half as long as a city block. Scores of tables, a dance area, and a stage occupied each floor. At night, the riverboats bustled with diners and activity. Most of the boats would leave their moorings and travel up and down the river while people ate and danced.

  Mai and Minh were friends with a chef on one of the boats. For a nominal fee he’d cook them pho and let them sit at a table nearest to the water, where they could watch the river traffic. This outing was one of their favorite activities. On the boat, eating pho, they were temporarily able to forget how they would earn their money that night, or how they’d keep Loc happy.

  Holding Minh’s stump, Mai guided him across the stainless-steel walkway that led from the shoreline to the riverboat. The friends stepped onto the vessel’s linoleum floor and said hello to a waitress they knew well. They proceeded up a stairway that carried them to the top level and moved to a table in the distant corner. Each sat as close to the railing as possible. Below, the wide and lazy Saigon River brimmed with commerce.

  After a few minutes the waitress brought them two large bowls of steaming pho. The light brown broth was filled with rice noodles, chicken, green onions, and cilantro. Minh’s mouth watered. He picked up a spoon and savored a bit of the broth. Mai asked him how it tasted and he smiled.

  Like Minh, Mai had learned not to fill her belly quickly when she hadn’t eaten for several days. She sipped the broth at first and then sucked in a white noodle. “Ah,” she said, licking her lips. “That’s some good pho.”

  Mai and Minh continued to eat, watching the river below. Ferries and water taxis sped about, darting around much larger barges and naval vessels. Coconuts and clumps of floating flowers bobbed in the currents. On the opposite shore rose giant electronic billboards amid countless apartment buildings. More than a dozen cranes reached skyward, swinging supplies to the tops of unfinished structures.

  Chewing slowly on a piece of chicken, Mai smiled for the first time all day. She could already feel the food fueling her, almost magically replenishing her fatigued body. “Should I tell you a story?” she asked, glad that Minh appeared to also be relishing his food.

  He nodded, a noodle dangling from his lips.

  “You look like you’re trying to kiss that noodle,” she said, giggling.

  Minh grinned, leaning over his bowl as broth dropped from his lips.

  “I should call you Minh the Messy . . . or maybe Minh the Noodle Kisser.” She sipped some water, wondering what story he might like to hear. Should she tell him an old fairy tale, or repeat some adventure they’d had together? “Do you remember the story of how the tiger got his stripes?” she asked, suddenly inspired.

  Of course Minh did, but he shook his head nonetheless.

  “Well, one day,” Mai said, “a tiger came to a field. In the field a man and a water buffalo labored. The tiger watched the buffalo hard at work and later said to him, ‘You are much stronger and bigger than the man. And yet he makes you work for him. Why don’t you crush him and run away?’ The buffalo thought and then said, ‘I will never escape the man, for he has wisdom, which I do not.’ The tiger reflected on this, thinking that if he had wisdom, he’d no longer have to hide in bushes and stalk his prey. He could simply trick them into becoming his dinner.

  “And so the tiger said to the man, ‘Will you teach me of your wisdom? ’ The man looked carefully at the tiger, thinking that this was the beast that had been eating so many of his pigs. ‘Certainly,’ said the man. ‘But first I must go home and get my wisdom. And I must tie you up, so that you do not eat my buffalo.’ The tiger quickly agreed to this plan, because he knew that with wisdom, he could eat whatever he wanted.”

  Minh smiled, sucking up more noodles.

  “You do remember this story, Minh the Slurper,” Mai said, laughing. “So, once the man had tied the tiger to a tree, he began to set branches beneath him. He then lit the branches on fire and said, ‘Here is my wisdom!’ The tiger snarled, realizing that he’d been tricked. He fought against the ropes, and only escaped when the fire burned through them. After many days his burns healed, but the burning ropes left the stripes that we still see today.”

  Minh clapped, bringing his good hand together against his stump. He’d always liked the story, because even though the man was weak compared to the tiger, he’d been able to outwit him. And though Minh was terrified of Loc, he hoped to someday trick him just as the man had the tiger.

  “You want to be that man, don’t you, Minh?” Mai asked, seeing the gleam in her friend’s eyes.

  A nod confirmed her thoughts.

  “But you’re already him, don’t you see?”

  He shook his head, not understanding.

  “Every night, Minh, you play your game against people who’ve traveled around the world, who went to the best schools, who had the best parents, who have both their hands. They look at you, and I know what they think. They feel sorry for you, and they let you win the first game. But soon they try to win. But unless they’re very, very lucky, they can’t win. You see? You sleep under a bridge. You have a stump for a hand. You never went to school. You don’t talk. But every night you tie a tiger to a tree. And I watch you tie him, Minh, and it makes me so happy to watch you do this. Because then I think that someday . . . someday maybe I can tie up a tiger. Maybe I’ll be more . . . than a girl who sells fans.”

  Mai’s eyes glistened, and Minh moved beside her. He leaned her head against his shoulder. His fingers went to her hand. He wanted to speak, to tell her that she was his sister, that he loved her. But he couldn’t give life to such words. And so he continued to hold her, thinking of how he could help her become all that she wanted to be.

  QUI ADDED SOME WOOD TO THE small fire that fluttered beneath her pot. She dipped a cloth into the water that she was warming. “This will feel good,” she said to Tam, who lay in her underwear on their bed. Tam smiled weakly but said nothing, exhausted from their day of begging. Kneeling beside her granddaughter, Qui stroked her brow with the damp cloth. She moved with no sense of haste. Dusk was still an hour or so away, and they had little else to do. More important, Qui knew that Tam enjoyed being bathed.

  Qui proceeded to wash Tam’s face, softly stroking the contours of her eyes, nose, lips, cheeks, and jaw. She talked as she cleaned, telling Tam how beautiful she looked, how it might rain tomorrow. Tam replied on occasion, though she preferred her grandmother’s voice to her own.

  After shuffling to the pot and rinsing her cloth, Qui began to wash Tam’s shoulders and chest. Cleaning her torso was always the hardest, for she was so much thinner than she ought to be. Glancing at Tam’s ribs, which seemed to grow more visible each day, Qui closed her eyes. Tam’s hips also protruded from her flesh, as if trying to escape from her body. The sight of Tam’s bones made Qui sometimes wish that she were blind.

  As she wiped the grime from her granddaughter, Qui remembered bringing her to the hospital and saving their money for six months to make such a visit possible. The doctors had been kind and many tests were taken. And Qui had learned about something called acute lym phoblastic leukemia. She hadn’t understood much of what the doctor had told her. But as she’d sat and wept, he had explained that Tam was dying, that it was too late to save her. If Tam had been
seen earlier, she probably could have been saved. But not now, not when the cancer was already deep in her bones.

  Knowing that she’d failed Tam was the source of endless pain to Qui, as endless as raindrops during the monsoon. It kept her up at night, because night was the only time she could cry. And in the darkness of their room she wept until her body seemed empty of salt and water. At that point Qui would beg Buddha for some sort of miracle, would silently beseech her daughter to come home, and would lie as close as possible to Tam.

  Now, as Qui cleaned Tam’s emaciated legs, she wondered if she should have stolen so they could have gone to the doctor sooner. If she could step back into time, Qui knew that she’d do just that—perhaps sneak into the market and steal the watches and necklaces that tourists seemed to favor. Qui would have stolen, sold her body, done anything to take Tam to the doctor six months earlier.

  Qui pretended to sneeze, allowing her to blow her nose and wipe away a tear. She rinsed the cloth, then helped Tam put on her pajamas. “I’ve something to show you, my sweet child,” she said, doing her best to smile.

  Tam’s eyes didn’t focus for a moment, but she soon found Qui’s face. “What?”

  “Today, when you were sleeping, I traded books. I gave a foreigner my guidebook for Vietnam, and he gave me his for Thailand.”

  “For Thailand?”

  “Yes,” Qui replied, showing Tam the book. “I thought we could see pictures of where your mother is staying.”

  Tam nodded. “Please show me, Little Bird. Show me where she lives.”

  Qui opened the book to a section of color photos. The first page depicted a golden temple with a peaked, angular roof. Next was an image of a water taxi making headway down a canal. “Bangkok looks like Saigon, doesn’t it?” Qui asked.