Children of the River

by Linda Crew

  “Oh, all right,” she said. “We can split a cinnamon roll.” When the first rush of customers passed, she gave him some change. Soka wouldn't like it if she knew. Save, she always reminded them. Don V spend. But today Sundara could take the money from her own portion, the money Soka allowed her to keep.

  She tore off a small piece of Ravy's proffered roll, a bit without the syrupy glaze—too sweet as far as she was concerned. But Ravy had become a real little American, and loved anything with sugar. Sundara watched him gobble his down. He enjoyed it so much, she didn't mind spending the money, but she did wish her own savings would add up faster.

  She hoped to buy a fine jacket with fleecy lining to keep her warm this winter. This one the church people had given her three years earlier was such an ugly green color, and she was tired of mending the worn-out elastic at the wrists. Now, even though she would have enjoyed the extra warmth a little longer, she pulled it off and put it in the truck cab.

  “Ravy, while we're not too busy, why don't you run over and get our eggs?” Soka planned to pickle a jar of them and wanted the brown kind that were harder to find in the stores here. She was still suspicious of these funny white ones.

  While Ravy was gone, the mother of the Lam family minced up with her string bag. Sundara touched her palms together in a brief bow.

  The Chinese woman picked up a bok choy and regarded it disdainfully. Then she poked a finger at the snow peas. “How much?” she asked in English, the only language she and Sundara had in common. When Sundara told her, she said, “Too much. Not so fresh.”

  “I promise you, very fresh.” Sundara was polite but firm, playing along.

  “I give you one dollar a pound.”

  Sundara clenched her teeth behind her fixed smile. Chun-Ling's mother knew very well she was not free to bargain with Mr. Bonner's produce. The Americans usually preferred to set their prices and stick to them. The woman just liked to make things difficult, Sundara thought, because her own daughter had not been offered this job.

  “I am so sorry. I can sell only for the price Mr. Bonner ask.”

  The woman sniffed indignantly and moved on down the row of parked produce trucks, but Sundara knew she'd be back. No one else at the market today had pea pods or bok choy.

  How difficult it was to be pleasant to that dragon of a lady. And Soka always reminding her she ought to be. “Their son would be a good match for you. Look how fast he's educating himself. He already has a job at the computer factory. Of course, it's too bad they are Vietnamese-Chinese instead of Cambodian-Chinese, but still your children would have whiter, prettier skin.” Lam Bing would one day be wealthy, Soka confidently predicted. Never mind that his family had been relieved of its gold by Communist Vietnamese officials before boarding that rusting ship. The Chinese, as she said repeatedly, can make money anywhere. “You should be grateful to me, Niece. I'm going to find the very best husband I can for you. You're a pretty girl. Nice and tall. We're not going to give you to just anyone.”

  But somehow this only made Sundara sad. Her aunt talked as if she'd already lost hope of Sundara's own parents ever coming to take care of these matters. Was Sundara supposed to forget her beloved Chamroeun so easily? Her parents and his had always teased that one day they would be matched in marriage, but it had never been a joke to Sundara. She had loved Chamroeun ever since she was small, from the first time she had peeked down from her perch in the coconut tree and saw him with her older brother, Samet. “If your little sister is so interested in spying on us,” he'd said, “why doesn't she climb down and come along to the river?” How she'd loved him for that! What a privilege, to trail behind them through the public gardens! She sighed. Such happy times they'd had, the three of them .

  “What are you thinking about now?” Ravy asked, coming back with the eggs.

  She blinked. “Oh, nothing, Little Brother.” Would she ever be free of these memories? The bad ones—the war, the horrible weeks on the ship—came back unbidden, haunting her dreams, flashing on her in unguarded moments; the good ones constantly tempted her with escape. Sometimes it seemed her spirit wanted nothing to do with the present time, the present place .

  But soon the customers were forcing her to pay attention. The tomatoes sold quickly, and the ladies in jeans with names on the back pockets were snatching the pretty red pepper strings faster than Sundara could hang them on the rack. She pulled the last flat of raspberries off the truck, thinking how happy Mr. Bonner would be with her load of empty boxes and thick bundle of twenty-dollar bills.

  Then she saw him, the blond boy she'd first noticed in English class, the one who'd written the funny paper about cafeteria food. He was pushing his bicycle straight toward her display.

  “Hi,” he said.

  She gave him a restrained nod. Yes, the same boy. In class she watched only the teacher or her notes; she had never looked at him so closely before. Those blue eyes! She still wasn't used to all the different colorings Americans had. But she liked this boy's blondness. He was not like the white-haired ones with the pink skins. His skin was a light brown color, his wavy hair a rich, burnished gold.

  She braced the edge of the flat on the counter, setting out the pint boxes. Why was her hand shaking so?

  “You know, about your poem ”

  The flat slipped. Luckily she caught it, but heaven protect her—ten dollars’ worth of fruit almost turned to jam on the gravel Her face flamed. That foolish poem. Whatever had possessed her?

  A new rush of customers descended on the stand, forcing him aside.

  Sundara fumbled with sacks, had trouble calculating totals, dropped a slippery head of lettuce. She kept glancing at Ravy to see if he was noticing her odd behavior. But if she didn't hurry, the blond boy might grow impatient and leave. And now, somehow, she didn't want him to.

  “You're good at this,” he said, after she'd finished with the last tomato customer.

  She smiled. “We Khmer women know how to handle money.”

  He was grinning at her. “To say nothing of big trucks. You really drive this thing?”

  She nodded. “Not too hard. Just like a car.”

  “Sundara. That's your name, right? I'm Jonathan Mc-Kinnon.”

  “Jonatan.” He smiled at her pronunciation. “Hard one for me to say,” she explained. “I cannot make the t-b sound very well.”

  “I don't mind.”

  She fussed with the display, picking off a less than perfect raspberry, adding another cucumber to the box. All the while she eyed him from beneath her lashes. He wore a T-shirt and gray shorts. His thighs were tan and smoothly muscled, covered with curling blond hairs. Embarrassed to be noticing, she glanced away.

  “I guess I want some flowers,” he finally said.

  “Okay.” Now she could justify giving him her attention. “Fresh or dried?”

  “Uhh ” He broke into a grin, shrugging. “Whatever. Which is best, do you think?”

  She glanced at Ravy again. He knew perfectly well she wasn't supposed to talk to boys. Hadn't he heard Soka say it often enough? Strange. That rule never bothered her before. It had been her protection against loud, overly bold American boys, made it easier to smile away their advances. But now, somehow, looking at Jonathan McKin-non, she felt constrained by Soka's admonition. They were discussing flowers, yes, but the way he was drawing it all out

  She spoke politely, nothing more than a helpful shopgirl. “What you are going to do with the flowers?”

  Jonathan simply looked at her, half smiling. After a moment she began to think he'd forgotten to answer.

  “Do you like for a gift?” she prodded gently.

  He blinked, startled. “Uh, yeah. Right. I'm going to uh .” He brightened. “ give them to a girl.” Then, inexplicably, he turned red.

  These poor Americans with their light skins. How easily they colored with every emotion. No wonder they never seemed to remain properly composed.

  Jonathan coughed and hastily pointed to her bushel basket of dried flowers, reading the sign. “ ‘Everlastings.’ Do they really last forever?�
�

  She tilted her head. “Nothing last forever. But last a long time.” She smiled, showing her dimples. “Long enough.”

  “Okay, how about you choosing one for me?”

  She gave him a slight, I-am-your-obedient-servant nod. Her hands hesitated over the tissue-wrapped bouquets. Then she plucked one out.

  “This is okay?”

  “Perfect,” he said, looking at her, not the bouquet. Was it possible? Could he actually be flirting? It seemed so, but with Americans it was hard to be certain. He paid; she made change. He pocketed it without counting. So difficult not to stare at his hair, his eyes the color of the sky! Odd, but he made her think of Chamroeun. Here was a boy as golden as Chamroeun had been dark, yet something in the slow warmth of his smile was the same, and curiously familiar.

  “Have you decided which trouble spot to do your report on for international relations?” he asked.

  “I'm not sure yet.” He'd noticed, then, that she was in his honors social studies class.

  “I guess I just assumed you'd want to do Cambodia.”

  “Oh ” She looked over to a break in the cotton-woods where the shaded green river slid by. “I don't know Sometime kind of hard for me to think about that”

  “Maybe I'll do it, then.” He spun the bike pedal with the toe of his dirty running shoe. “Didn't that kill you when the kid at the end of the row was worried there wouldn't be enough trouble spots to go around? We should be so lucky.”

  “Hey,” Ravy piped up. “Do you play golf? I have some good golf balls to sell. Excellent condition and a very fair price.”

  Sundara and Jonathan exchanged smiles.

  “Sorry, I don't play.”

  “How about your father?”

  “Yeah, he does, once in a while.”

  “Here's my card.” Ravy pulled out a baseball card with his name and phone number printed across the back in felt pen.

  “‘Ravy's Pre-owned Golf Balls,’” Jonathan read.

  “Here's a sample of my quality.” Ravy produced a clean white ball from a shoe box stashed under the crate counter.

  To Ravy's grinning satisfaction, Jonathan bought a sackful. Then he turned to Sundara. “You know, I was really hoping you'd be here today.”

  Her cheeks burned. Ravy shouldn't hear this.

  “I saw you here last week. I go, ‘Who's that?’ but I don't usually just walk up and start talking to girls I haven't met.” He looked down, spun the pedal again. “I couldn't believe it when you turned up in my English class. And like I said, that poem—it really got to me.”

  “Ohhh ” She looked away toward the river again. “That kind of bad, I write that.”

  “What do you mean? You made us understand what you feel. That was the idea, wasn't it?”

  She sighed. “Maybe everything a person feel should not be told to the world. You have the right idea, I think. Just make everyone laugh.”

  “But the assignment was to write about something really important to us, right? After I heard yours, I felt like a total turkey, griping about cafeteria food.”

  She smiled, pleased in spite of her protests. For a moment neither said anything. Catching a whiff of smoke, she turned to watch a brown column rising from across the river. These violent-looking billows had frightened her before she'd heard about field-burning. Now she understood they had nothing to do with war.

  Jonathan was tossing and catching one of the golf balls. “So how long have you been in America?” he finally asked.

  “We come in 1975.”

  “Four years? You must have known English before then, right?”

  She shook her head. “Only French.”

  “You speak French?” He sounded impressed.

  “Mais out!” She smiled, showing him her dimples again. “Everybody learn French at school in my country, because before the American, we have the French, you see. Too bad we never know we come here, or I would study English instead!”

  “So how did you learn?”

  “Listen a lot. Watch TV. Not much choice. Cannot talk is like a prison. Cannot make a new life.”

  “And how'd you learn to drive a big truck like this?”

  “Same thing as learn English. We come here, we see right away, everybody have to drive. My family make me learn quick, as soon as I'm old enough.”

  He looked at her for a moment, as if thinking. “Well, I'd better keep moving.” He clutched the flowers and the sack of golf balls to his handlebars and pushed off.

  “Good-bye,” she said, and when he flashed that smile back at her, she added boldly, “See you at school.”

  She glanced at Ravy. Would he mention this at home? What fate! Having to concern herself with her conduct in front of a ten-year-old boy. But then he gave her a sly smile, which was somehow reassuring. He wouldn't want to betray her, she decided. Not after all they'd been through together.

  She looked up and watched Jonathan round the curve of the bike path in a drift of the first-fallen honey locust leaves, his golden hair lit by the sun.

  CHAPTER 4

  The urgent thump of the pep band vibrated through the crisp night air, drawing the streams of people on the sidewalks toward the football field. Sundara's pulse quickened as she and Ravy neared the bright lights. She was actually going to a football game! Through the chain link fence she caught a glimpse of the field, the growing crowd. They bought their tickets and jostled through the turnstiles.

  “Where shall we sit?” she asked Ravy when they were inside.

  “Sit wherever you want. I'm meeting my friends over there.”

  “But Ravy—”

  Too late. He was already headed for a crowd of younger kids in the end zone.

  For a panicky moment Sundara thought of leaving. She'd looked forward to the game; she hadn't planned on being alone. But she'd have to stay. Ravy would need a ride home, and that had been the only reason Soka allowed her to come. Taking a deep breath, she went over to the stands. Most of the seats were filled, and to find an empty one a person had to walk along in front of those rally girls, craning, searching while everyone in the stands looked down and thought, Who is that person in the horrid green jacket?

  “Sundara! Up here” It was Kelly, waving her to a seat.

  Sundara climbed the wooden steps and nodded gratefully at Kelly's friends as they scooted down to make room for her. A couple of them even smiled and called her by name.

  “I can't believe it” Kelly said. “I never thought I'd see you at a football game.”

  “I can't believe either.” Never before had she asked permission to come, and perhaps Soka bad looked at her a bit suspiciously. But it was a natural thing to want to go to the football game like everyone else, wasn't it?

  Sundara could hardly admit even to herself her real interest tonight: Jonathan McKinnon. What did he do in this game that made the girls whisper and giggle when he passed in the hall? She wanted to see for herself.

  There were other people she was curious about too.

  “Kelly,” she whispered after a while, “who is the rally squad girl on the end? To the right?”

  Kelly wrinkled her nose. “Oh, that's Cathy Gates. Don't tell me you didn't know that.”

  Actually, Sundara did know that, but she wanted to know more. For this was the girl who clung so brazenly to Jonathan in the halls. As Sundara watched, Cathy waved to someone up in the stands and did a perky little dance step that made her breasts bounce under her orange sweater.

  “She and Jonathan McKinnon have been going together forever. You know the guy I mean? He's on the team?”

  Sundara nodded.

  “They went to my junior high. They've always been like this perfect couple. He's really nice. Not stuck-up at all considering he's a big star. Don't you think he's good-looking?”

  Sundara nodded again, careful not to show the slightest enthusiasm.

  “She's nice, too, I guess. Sometimes it gets kind of sickening, though, all the attention she gets—awards and stuff. I mean, she's not dumb.”

  Sundara remembered Cathy's English class paper that first week. It was written well enoug
h. Something about the importance of being yourself. But how puzzling. Who else could you be?

  Now Sundara's eyes widened as Cathy and the other rally girls launched into a shimmying, hip-wiggling dance.

  “Oh, Kelly,” she breathed. “I'm shock!”

  “What? Oh, I know. Except for the pleated skirts, they could be a bunch of strippers.”

  Sundara had seen this on television, the young women in the white cowboy hats and the skimpy fringed vests, but these were girls her own age, girls who walked the halls of Willamette Grove High every day!

  She watched Cathy Gates swinging her hips, flipping her little skirt up, showing off her thighs. This was what Jonathan McKinnon liked? She sighed. Perhaps she'd been mistaken in thinking he meant to flirt with her at the market. And yet all week it seemed he'd been trying to play eye games with her in class, staring at her so that she'd look. Of course she wouldn't. She'd been taught to sit erect, face forward. But why would Jonathan McKinnon want to look at her anyway? She was not like Cathy Gates at all.

  The players gathered at thč sidelines now, hands on their hips. Those funny tight pants! Sundara had to smile behind her hand at the lumpy padding on their thighs. The players didn't seem embarrassed to be dressed this way, though. They strutted around as if they felt quite manly and powerful.

  Suddenly they all took off their helmets, dropped to one knee, and put their heads down. The crowd hushed.

  “What are they doing?” Sundara whispered to Kelly.

  “Praying.”

  “Praying? What for?”

  “To win the game, I guess. Or to do their best. I don't know. Coach Hackenbruck always makes them do it.”

  The rally girls, too, had their heads bowed.

  Sundara frowned. “I thought in this country no one can make you pray.”

  “Well, people don't argue with Hackenbruck. That's him, there.” She pointed out a solidly built man in gray slacks, a V-neck sweater, and a baseball cap.

  After the prayer the players stood in a huddle and chanted, “War! War! War! War! Warriors” Then they ran onto the field.