by Eric Nguyen
For the past week, everyone in Versailles decorated their homes as if it were Tết. Paper streamers hung like moss from trees. Pots of marigolds (because no one sold mai vàng plants in New Orleans) sat outside doors to invite good luck. Lanterns swung in the light breeze on laundry lines. Tuấn didn’t know what an anniversary was, but he hoped there would be more in the future.
At noon, he changed into his swim trunks and, together with his mother and brother, walked toward the water, where the celebration had already started. Someone played Vietnamese music from a recording. A group of teenage boys played đá cầu in a wide circle, joking while the beanbag bounced off their shoes. The smaller kids splashed in the bayou. Trúc and Ngọc waded in by themselves, a cloud of mosquitoes and gnats swarming their heads.
Tuấn had just touched the bayou when Trúc bent down and splashed water into his face. “Hey, American!” she said. “What are you gonna to do, American?” She splashed him again.
Tuấn spat out the dirty water and coughed until the taste of mud and sticks was gone. “I’m not American,” he said. “I’m not talking to you anymore, either. Get away.” Turning toward the forest on the other side of the water, he saw a boy sitting by himself. Đinh, who else?
Trúc grabbed him by the arm. “But we’ll forgive you,” she said. “Just prove you’re not American. Prove you’re not like him.” She pointed to Đinh. His back was turned to them. He didn’t notice them.
“This is ngu,” Tuấn said and tried to walk away, but Trúc pulled him back. He looked to the adults. They were talking and listening to music. His mother was sitting in a plastic lawn chair beside Bà Giang, who fanned herself with a newspaper. They wouldn’t even hear him even if he wanted to cry for help.
“Listen,” Trúc said, tapping Tuấn’s cheek. They looked eye-to-eye. “You see Fredric over there? You see him all by himself?” She let go of Tuấn’s arm and dipped her hands into the water. “Put this down his shirt,” she said. A smirk lit up her face. A guppy swam in her hands.
“Give me your hands,” Trúc said. “No, make it a bowl.”
Tuấn looked into his hands. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel much. The fish moved but didn’t tickle. “I don’t want to do this,” he said. “I don’t want to.” He tried to sound firm and mean the way Trúc always did.
“Đi,” Trúc commanded. “We’ll watch you.”
He walked out into the bayou toward the other shore. It surprised him that the water wasn’t that deep, only up to his belly button at its deepest in the middle. Passing the lone tree that grew out of the water in the middle of the bayou, he looked up and expected to see a bird, but there was nothing. He remembered the boat they left Vietnam on and the water they sailed through. The water in New Orleans acted differently. Out on the shores of Vietnam and beyond, the water had been violent, shaking anything that lay atop it. But here, the water didn’t move; it stayed still, lazy. In the distance, ducks floated without a single care in the world like they were on vacation.
He found himself just behind Đinh. He dropped the fish into the water and it swam away. He smiled. Back in school, in Vietnam, the teachers told him about releasing captured animals for karma. It was like helping out one small thing so that someday, perhaps in the next life, the universe would return that generosity. Maybe if I let this go…he thought, but didn’t finish the sentence.
Tuấn took several more steps before Đinh turned around and saw him.
Their eyes met. They said nothing.
“It’s okay,” Tuấn said. “I’m your friend!” he added. He dusted some of the dirt off one side of the log and straddled it to take a seat. He inched his way toward Đinh but not too close. Đinh reminded him of a small animal, a butterfly, perhaps, that flies away when it’s scared. He wiped his hands on his shorts. “I’m Tuấn,” he whispered. Then, “I know your name. Your name’s Đinh. Đinh-Fredric.”
The sun sat high in the sky. In the evening, the sun would begin its descent behind the trees, making silhouettes out of them before turning them into shadows. But now it just sat there, the same way the two of them sat on the log, avoiding looking at anything for too long.
He heard his name being called in the distance. He looked back. His mother had gotten up. With one arm she held Bình, with the other she held her hand above her eyes and looked out into the water. “Tuấn,” she called.
“I don’t like it here,” Đinh interrupted.
It surprised Tuấn. The boy was barely audible. “My mother came here to find cha. He came here, she said. She said she had a letter from him. But she lied and he isn’t here.”
How funny, Tuấn thought, that he didn’t have his father here, either. What a coincidence! They were the same! They were exactly alike!
“Tuấn,” his mother called again.
Đinh picked up a twig and bent it, snapping it into two then throwing it away.
Tuấn wanted to tell Đinh about his own father, about the man who missed the boat, the man who they were waiting for. He wanted to tell him about the tape messages—in themselves, like letters—his mother made. And how they, too, were waiting. He imagined they could wait together.
“My cha,” Tuấn started, but Đinh threw his twig down, turned around, and started walking toward the other shore.
“Whatever happened to your cha isn’t going to happen to my cha,” he said accusingly. “Mày không biết!” he said, almost yelling now, almost crying. “You don’t know anything.” He got up and walked through the water toward Versailles.
Tuấn watched him and saw his mother meet Đinh in the bayou. The boy pointed to the woods and continued on his way toward Versailles.
As she waded her way to him (Tuấn could hear the water splashing), he slid down the log until he settled onto the dirt.
“There you are!” said his mother when she was behind him. “You got your mother worried.” Bình giggled in her arms. She sat down on the log beside Tuấn. The baby grabbed Tuấn’s hair and stroked it playfully. “What you doing all the way out here?”
Tuấn looked up at his mother. The sun made her glow beautifully. He wiped his nose. He hadn’t realized he was crying.
“Nothing,” he replied, embarrassed.
“Don’t lie to your mother,” she said. “People don’t go somewhere for no reason.”
She looked out into the woods. For a few seconds, something caught her attention, and they, the three of them, sat in silence. Tuấn looked where his mother was looking and saw what she was seeing: white flowers on the top of a tree. There were no other flowers on the tree, but there was that bouquet, there, growing on the edge of a branch. Tuấn smiled.
“Did you pick flowers back in Vietnam,” he asked, “when you were a little girl?”
She looked down at him, as if remembering he was there.
“Yes,” she said with a smile. “Mẹ used to keep this flower book. I pressed flowers into it. Later, I wanted to know what flowers they were. So I went to the library, the small one in Mỹ Tho. I met your father there. He was a librarian and he helped me find a book about flowers not just in Vietnam but all over the world.”
“Where’s that flower book now?” Tuấn asked.
His mother stood up and let out a small sigh. When Tuấn looked up, she turned away to hide her frown. “Let’s go home, Tuấn.”
Tuấn jumped up with a smile, the widest and brightest he could make to make her smile again. “Let’s go home!” he exclaimed.
They waded through the water toward shore.
Hương
1980
A splash of water in the bayou shook Hương out of her thoughts. She looked out her window and a saw a light in the water, a small circular spot of yellow that must have been a flashlight. The light flicked off as if noticing Hương, and then, after a few seconds, it was back on again.
It was nearly midnight
and no one should have been out there. She put away the letter she’d been reading, grabbed the keys, and walked out.
“A lô?” she called and the light began moving. She walked toward the water and tried to see who it was. She wondered if it was one of the teenagers. The light moved back and forth, as if whoever was holding it were trying to hide. It annoyed her. She had work in the morning, and here someone was making a ruckus. She hadn’t been asleep, but if she were, she was sure it would have woken her up.
“Hello?” Hương called, this time in English. “Somebody there? Hello?”
When no one answered, she called out louder. The light dimmed as she approached the water. The bayou lapped against the shore steadily.
She took a step forward and there she saw the boy—Thanh’s boy. The darkness made him look smaller than she remembered, but she saw him clearly, a half-Vietnamese, half-black boy about the age of Tuấn. He stared at her as if thinking he couldn’t possibly be seen if only he didn’t move. He reminded her of a bird, a small orphaned sparrow, perhaps, who fell out of its nest, and with that, her annoyance melted away into something else, a mix of relief and pity.
“Get out of there,” she said. She’d forgotten his name and waved for him to come along. “Let’s go. Your mother’s probably worried sick.”
“No, she’s not,” he said.
That he spoke back so sharply surprised her.
“She doesn’t care at all,” he added.
“Of course she does,” she replied. “Come along, tối rồi.”
Hesitantly, the boy dragged a cardboard box out of the water and walked to shore.
“It’s a boat,” he told her.
Hương didn’t know what to say to that, so she nodded, then said “Come along” again, pointing for him to the lead the way.
They walked to his apartment near the main road. All the way, the boy dragged the cardboard box—bigger than he was—behind him. Seeing him struggle, Hương reached over, but he pulled the box closer to his body protectively. Hương let him have it and continued ahead of him, looking back every few feet as he stumbled across the dirt road that ran through Versailles.
When Hương knocked, a light came on and the door opened. The boy’s mother shook her head. “You should know better,” she said and opened the door wider for her son to come in. She let out a heavy, exhausted sigh.
Hương wanted to say something else, but she didn’t know what. The door closed and was locked before she had a chance.
It was past midnight by the time she returned to her room. Though she was tired, she pulled out the letter.
* * *
—
The next morning, Kim-Anh went on and on. They were the only two Vietnamese working in the Coke factory in Gert Town and, because of that, were drawn together magnetically, inseparable because of circumstance.
Kim-Anh was a spritely twenty-one-year-old with fair skin and a boisterous laugh who had no business being in America, let alone New Orleans. She had left Vietnam on—of all things—a cruise ship.
“I was told we were going to Úc,” she told Hương. “Turns out it was Hồng Kông. Turns out my parents were right. Saigon was going to fall any day and I left just in time. And I was only sixteen! Imagine, a girl so young on a cruise ship without even an older brother to protect her!”
In Vietnam, Kim-Anh would have a husband by now, and a child, too. The girl had neither of those. She shared a house in Metairie with an American man who was much older than she was.
“He has so much money!” Kim-Anh always said. “I don’t have to work. That’s the truth. I just work because I get so bored at home.”
It was an absurd claim. The other factory workers called her Princess.
It was the second Friday of the month as they stood in line waiting for their paychecks when Kim-Anh paused whatever she was talking about—Hương had stopped paying attention—and exclaimed, “Have you ever been to Madame Beaumont?”
Hương said no.
“The American and I are going tonight,” Kim-Anh went on. “The men who go there buy me drinks on Fridays.” She giggled. “Ladies’ night,” she said in English.
“I have children,” Hương said. She had nearly said responsibilities but caught herself before telling Kim-Anh she had to pick them up from their babysitter. “It’s not that I don’t want to go, but I’d have to pay Bà Giang more and this paycheck’s already going to rent.”
“What you need, chị Hương, is an American,” Kim-Anh told her. “When I came here, I was lost, confused. Then you know what happened?” She smiled excitedly, silently begging Hương to ask what happened. “I met the American! Americans are so wonderful,” Kim-Anh blurted out. “They’re ugly, but they have money, which is all that matters sometimes, though sometimes it doesn’t at all.”
When they walked outside, the sunlight struck Hương’s eyes. She squinted at the factory gates. The sound of idling cars and radios filled the air. A lone cloud floated in the sky, a perfect white against blue.
Kim-Anh opened her purse and drew out a clutch wallet decorated in fleurs-de-lis. “Chị Hương, I’ll pay your babysitter overtime. You’ve been here for so long, and you never have any fun. You work too hard!” She handed Hương two bills. Two twenties. The man on them, someone told her, was named Andrew Jackson. His face looked strong and determined. On his head, white and wavy hair grew thick as grass.
“I can’t. I shouldn’t.” Hương tried to hand the money back, but Kim-Anh stuck a cigarette in her mouth. She lit it up and waved Hương away.
“You’re young, too, chị Hương,” Kim-Anh said, smoke blowing out of her delicate lips. “Enjoy yourself a bit. You deserve it. You’ve worked so hard. I know that. Everyone knows that. Look at those bags under your eyes. There’s a cream I got at D. H. Holmes for that, you know.”
Hương touched the space under her eyes.
After a few more casual puffs, Kim-Anh’s eyes brightened and she rounded her lips. When she couldn’t make any smoke rings, she clasped her hands together and laughed at the fun of failing.
Hương looked down at Andrew Jackson in her hands.
“Ông già Mỹ and I will pick you up later tonight. We’ll head out around eight.” She spoke with confidence, a quality Hương always envied.
“But—” Hương said.
Kim-Anh giggled and waved to a car. The American waited for her. “I won’t take no for an answer, sister,” she said. “I am not that kind of lady,” she added in English.
* * *
—
On the bus ride home, Hương reminded herself she wasn’t old. Twenty-seven wasn’t old. She was nearly Kim-Anh’s age. And she had missed out on so much. When she was younger, she’d heard of tango lounges in Saigon, but she never visited. She became a wife. Then a mother. When the Americans came to Saigon, the city was a place no self-respecting woman would find herself going to day or night. And when the Americans left—that was another story.
The war made her miss her youth. She owed this to herself.
At Bà Giang’s, the kids sat in front of the TV watching puppets, except Thanh’s son. They were both strange, sad people, that mother and that son. No one knew where the father was, but everyone said—Bà Giang said—Thanh came to New Orleans to find him. Thanh let herself in behind Hương. Hương didn’t even have to look behind her; she knew the peanut-oil smell of the fast-food restaurant where Thanh worked. While Hương talked to Bà Giang, Thanh went to the bedroom and knocked on the door. Of course her son was hiding! He was always doing that.
“I’m going out tonight,” Hương said to Bà Giang.
“So you’ve met a man!” Bà Giang replied.
“No, no!” Hương laughed. “There’s no other man for me, Bà Giang. Kim-Anh is taking me out to see this place. Madame something or other. I won’t be long. I can’t
imagine staying out all night.”
Hương gave Bà Giang one of the two twenties and went to her sons. Bình was sitting with the other kids watching TV. Tuấn was in the love seat by himself with one of Bà Giang’s sets of playing cards. They were facing down. After a few seconds, her son picked one up, then another. Unsatisfied, he returned both cards.
“Tuấn,” Hương called. She sat behind him and watched his game. “What about that one? I remember seeing a queen there.”
“No,” he said. “Can’t be.” He picked it up anyway. Four of diamonds. “Told you.”
She rubbed his hair and leaned down to kiss him. “Mẹ will be out late tonight.”
From across the room, Bình saw her and ran toward his mother. He tripped on the way and stayed where he fell, having decided staying on the floor was easier than getting up. She lifted him and patted his head. “Be vâng lời for Bà Giang, okay?”
“Dạ,” he said with a nod.
When she set him down, he followed her to the door. She picked him up and set him back on the sofa. But this time, as she left, he burst into tears. She held him and cradled him.
“Be good for Mom,” she said. “Be good for Bà Giang. Why are you always crying?”
Bà Giang ran to him then and took the two-year-old in her arms. “Mommy’s coming back,” she cooed. “Is that what you’re afraid of? Don’t be afraid. Don’t cry. Mommy’s coming back.” Then to Hương, “Have fun tonight. Have a drink. You deserve it!”
Bình cried even louder. Hương was about to grab him but stopped herself. Yes, she told herself, she deserved it.
“Goodbye,” she called out as she left. Thanh and her son followed after.
* * *
—
She settled on a modest dress, a teal piece with a fabric belt. Before New Orleans, she wore mostly black and white polyesters—simple clothes that were also lightweight, because Vietnam was hot and there was a war and you dressed for practicality. But in New Orleans, the weather was not as hot, and everything was colorful already. She thought of the houses in the Marginy, the cars that passed by as she rode the bus, the flowers in the parks, soda bottle labels. She told Công about the colors of New Orleans, how it shook her awake and made her feel alive, how she had grown fond of the place because of the colors.
