He turned back to Chay.
"How do you know how my mother sounds?"
Again, his hand through his hair. "In Cambodia, we lived in a refugee camp for three years."
"So?" said Henry.
Chay looked at him, then back at the road. "The Khmer Rouge came into the camp while all the fathers were in the fields. They lined up all boys over twelve to fight for them. My older brother was taken because he was so big. But he was only ten years. My mother tried to tell them. She begged the soldiers. They would not listen. When she would not let go, a soldier shot my sister. My mother ran to her. The soldiers dragged my brother away. He was screaming for her."
Henry remembered the hearing. "So, many of your students have had their sisters shot in front of them? Or their brothers taken by force?" How had he forgotten?
"That is how I know what your mother sounds like," said Chay.
The tires hummed on the road, and Henry turned back to the dark window.
They crossed into New Hampshire, and because Chay was driving at the exact speed limit—which meant that he was being passed by every truck on the road—sixteen minutes later they were crossing the bridge into Maine. Henry had driven across many times when his family was heading up to the resorts of Kennebunkport. But he had never come across at night, when the lights of the industrial plants below were strung like jewels along the water's edges, and all the grittiness and dirt and smoke were hidden.
Henry closed his eyes.
He saw his brother, pale and white on the hospital bed. He saw the tubes stretching into one arm. He saw the stump of the other, and the bandage with blood and gore leaking through. He saw his brother breathing in time with the machine behind him. He saw his mother with her wide, unblinking eyes. He saw his father with his hands up to his face.
And suddenly, it wasn't his mother. It was Chay's mother—and nothing was white.
He heard their sounds.
They drove on through the night.
Henry kept his face to the window, and they passed one exit after another until the sky ahead reddened and suddenly there were bright lights high above the road. Henry saw them reflected in expanses of the sea that had pushed into the coast and come right up by the highway. The water shone black obsidian, and streaks of red cut across it—the reflections of the lights of Portland.
"I'm getting off here," said Chay.
Henry didn't look at him.
"I haven't eaten anything."
"You don't have to explain," said Henry. He looked at his watch. Almost ten o'clock.
What is it that makes a city look so beautiful at night? he wondered. Probably it's the lights that come unexpectedly out of the darkness. To the east, they glowed brilliantly in buildings that may have been insurance or accounting offices but now were made magical and exotic by their white and orange and yellow lights. It was like something conjured up, so rich they were, and mysterious.
Black Dog woke up when they slowed and rounded off onto the exit. Henry heard her bark, and when he turned around, she was stretching with her back end way up in the air—and trying to keep her balance.
They drove into Portland—mostly deserted this late—and then turned onto Commercial Street to follow the coastline. Here it was not deserted. Small cafés and restaurants still shone their bright lights, and Henry could hear light music playing. Couples were eating at tables outside the restaurants. He rolled his window down. He could smell the piquant sea.
Henry remembered it all—though it had all been in daylight. He remembered walking this street with his family, year after year, visiting the same gift shops and toy shops and kite shops and—because his father thought there was no better thing in the world to do on vacation—the old book shops, just to see if, by chance, there might be a lead on another medieval manuscript with another ad usum. He remembered the first time his parents let Franklin and Louisa take him by themselves through the city, and how his mother reminded them to watch out for him, and how Franklin had said, "Henry's old enough to watch out for himself. He's not a baby," and how he thought he would lift off into heaven because his older brother thought that he could watch out for himself. He wouldn't even take Louisa's hand when they crossed the busy downtown streets, because he wasn't a baby.
Chay reached the end of Commercial Street. He looked in the mirror, then made a quick turn and drove back the same way. He looked hungrily into the restaurants.
"There's a chowder house down at the end of the street, before you turn back toward 95," said Henry. "On the wharf. It's probably still open."
Chay didn't say anything. They drove slowly.
"There," said Henry. "It is still open. You park past it. Right there."
Chay pulled into the half-dark parking lot beside another pickup—this one rusted, and dented, and filled with beat-up duffle bags, and sporting a torn bumper sticker that shone in Chay's headlights: AMERICA FOR AMERICANS DAMMIT! Chay turned the lights off, but he did not turn off the engine. He held his hands rigidly on the wheel and stared into the rearview mirror.
"If you're waiting for someone to come out to take your order, they're not going to do it," said Henry. He smacked Sanborn—"Wake up!"—and reached for the handle of his door.
"Wait," said Chay.
Henry turned and looked through the back window. Nothing. And then, slowly, a policeman drove by at a crawl. Henry felt Chay tighten beside him. He could almost hear his heartbeat. He saw the policeman's brake lights come on, saw the patrol car slow. Chay's tightness almost exploded. He's barely holding himself together, thought Henry.
Then the brake lights went off and the patrol car drove by.
"It's only a policeman," said Henry. "He doesn't have any reason to stop you—except maybe for a stupid U-turn where you weren't supposed to pull one."
Chay took his hands off the wheel and looked at him, and Henry wondered whether, if the lights had been on, he would have seen a face as white as his brother's had been in the hospital. "Policemen don't need a reason to stop me," Chay said.
"Sure," said Henry. He hit Sanborn on top of his head. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. You want something to eat?"
"Bring back a shake," Sanborn said—if that was what he was really saying. It was all mixed up with a yawn.
"What kind?"
No answer.
Henry got out of the pickup and climbed up into the bed, where Black Dog was straining and eager. As soon as he untied her to put her into the cab with Sanborn, she jerked the lead out of his hand, vaulted over the side of the pickup, and jumped up on Chay—who was also out of the pickup—her ears up, her tail wagging, her mouth panting and barking and whining and wheezing—and all just because Chay had stopped to pick them up! Henry thought she was overdoing it. And it was humiliating, especially when Chay stood rock still, his face set, his hands high in the air, until, as if he had made a sudden decision, he knelt in the lot and let Black Dog, in utter rapture, lick him all over his face while he rubbed her sleek sides.
Henry had never seen her tail spin so wildly.
He grabbed Black Dog, half-pulled, half-carried her into the cab, and closed the door on her. "Lie down," said Henry, and Black Dog looked beyond him once again to Chay. "Lie ... down," said Henry again. And because she sometimes wanted to be obedient, she did. Sanborn, who could apparently sleep through about anything, rearranged his unconscious self and cuddled up next to Black Dog, probably because she was soft and warm. Black Dog looked at Henry, then at Chay, then at Henry. "You stay," Henry said.
She looked at him with half-closed eyes, annoyed.
"I'll bring back some fried clams."
Black Dog looked as though she might forgive him if he did.
Chay hadn't moved at all. He was still kneeling and his hands were held out as if he was still stroking her sides. "All right?" Henry asked. Chay nodded, and Henry turned toward the chowder house. He really didn't care whether Chay followed him or stayed in the parking lot.
The Chowder Mug was the kind of place th
at was surprising to find on Commercial Street, because it didn't look as if it was fixed up for tourists. It looked as if it served real food to real people, and they couldn't care less if tourists came in to spend their money. The chairs were metal and vinyl, the tables were old Formica, and the menus were chipped plastic. They hadn't been changed in a long time—except for the new prices taped over the old ones. The place smelled of cooking oil and fried fish and clams.
Henry loved it all. He sat down at one of the tables and didn't even look at the menu; he knew what he wanted. But when Chay came in—after all—and sat down across from him, Henry handed him a menu. "You should try the chowder," he said. Then he stretched and waited for the waitress, who, when she came, looked as if she wasn't about to take any nonsense this late at night, thank you very much. And that was fine, since Henry wasn't interested in nonsense. He ordered a large bowl of clam chowder and fries and an Admiral Ames root beer.
"And for you?" said the waitress to Chay.
Chay studied the menu again, then looked up. "What's a chowder?" he asked.
"What's a chowder?" the waitress said. "You come into a chowder house and you want to know what's a chowder?" She turned back toward the kitchen. "Hey, Willy, we got a customer out here wants to know what a chowder is."
"So tell him," yelled the unseen Willy.
Chay waited.
The waitress sighed. "Chowder is a milky soup. It's got potatoes and onions and clams. If you lived in New England, you'd know this."
Chay handed her the menu. He ordered a hamburger and fries and a Coke.
"Daring, aren't you?" said the waitress.
Chay did not answer.
The waitress looked at Henry and shook her head. She slapped Chay's menu beside the other one already on the table. Then she went to the counter and hollered the order back to Willy: "Chowder, fries, and a blue plate!"
"What's a chowder?" Willy yelled back.
"I'll show you what a chowder is," the waitress said, and shook her head again.
There was hardly anyone else in the restaurant. An old couple wearing matching berets. They held each other's hands as they sipped their tea. They looked as if they had built their house far enough away from Trouble.
In the back, a couple of fishermen, maybe lobstermen, lining up bottles—and they weren't Admiral Ames root beers—lining them up on the edge of their table. They laughed loudly and suddenly, and then fell into sullen silences. They glared around at the restaurant, and once Henry caught their eyes, he didn't look their way again.
Henry and Chay didn't say anything the whole time they were waiting for their food. When their clam chowder and hamburger came, they ate in silence, too. Henry saw Chay glance at the chowder. He doesn't know what he's missing, thought Henry. He ate his chowder, hot and thick, quickly. He used his French fries to clean the sides of the bowl, and in between long drafts of Admiral Ames root beer he sighed happily, since there is nothing like a bowl of clam chowder and a good root beer to make a person happy.
And then he stopped himself.
He looked across at Chay. Who had murdered his brother, Franklin. And he felt his anger rise in him and sour the chowder in his stomach. And he felt guilt for sitting at the same table. And it was too bad that Chay had lost his sister, but he wasn't sitting at the same table with the people who killed her.
He pushed his bowl away. He didn't finish his fries.
He had not known how much he looked like her. How he moved like her. How he held himself like her. She had said it was so, but he had not known.
And the dog! The dog! Keats was right about aching Pleasure.
But why would anyone eat a chowder?
13
CHAY, MEANWHILE, ate little by little. His head hung low. His eyes were half-closed, and his hands seemed made of weights, he raised them so slowly to his mouth. He's going to fall asleep, thought Henry. His face is going to fall right into his blue plate.
But his face didn't fall. Chay kept eating.
When the waitress came to take away Henry's bowl and to leave their bills, Henry ordered a basket of fried clams to go. And a milkshake. Vanilla.
"This is a chowder house," said the waitress.
"Chowder houses do not serve vanilla milkshakes. If you want a vanilla milkshake, there's an ice cream place down the street, but it's probably closed by now."
Henry ordered another bottle of Admiral Ames root beer instead.
When the fried clams and root beer came, he went up to the counter to pay his bill. The two fishermen came up to pay theirs at the same time, and they stood largely on each side of him. He could smell the sea on them, and the stale scent of beer.
The waitress took his money. "Where you boys headed?" she asked.
"Katahdin," Henry said.
"My brother climbed it once," she said, making the change. "He always said it was overrated." She handed the coins to Henry.
"You climbing with your friend?" said one of the fishermen, nodding back to Chay.
"He's not my friend," said Henry.
The other fisherman laughed abruptly. More stale beer smell.
"So why hang around with a VC?" said the first fisherman.
Henry had never heard anyone called a VC, and he had no idea what it meant. He figured that it probably didn't mean "Very Cool."
"He's my ride," said Henry.
It wasn't the best moment for Chay to come up to the counter. But Trouble comes when it wants to.
Chay took out his wallet. Henry could see that it didn't have much in it.
"You should've tried the chowder," said the waitress. Chay didn't say anything.
"Maybe he don't like American food," said the first fisherman.
Both fishermen watched Chay carefully. The second took a last drink from his last bottle, and then cracked it down on the countertop. The first tipped his bottle up to his mouth again. He sucked loudly on it.
"C'mon," said Henry. He picked up his bag of fried clams and his bottle of Admiral Ames, and he nodded to Chay to go on ahead.
The fishermen followed them out of the chowder house. Henry felt them walking behind him when they got onto the street. He felt them turn into the half-dark parking lot with them. And he felt the beer bottle crash past his feet, shards of glass skittering away on the asphalt.
"Hey, gook, where do you think you're going?"
Chay stopped and turned around. He looked past Henry.
Even in the dark, Henry could see in Chay's face an anger greater than he had ever felt. It startled him. It came from a place deep inside. Then Henry turned, too.
"Mack, this one don't look like he's going to run away," said the first fisherman.
"Maybe he knows kung fu or something. Is that it, gook? You know kung fu?" He held his hands up in front of him and crouched. "Are you Bruce Lee?"
The fishermen thought they were hysterically funny. They both laughed uproariously.
"What do you want?" said Henry.
"Maybe you should go away, little boy. This doesn't have anything to do with you."
"Unless you love gooks."
The two fishermen laughed again. Then they both stopped, almost as if they had rehearsed it. They stepped closer.
"We don't want any trouble," said Henry.
Mack punched the other fisherman on the arm. "They don't want any trouble." He turned back to Henry. "But you got trouble. And you know why? Because he's trouble." He pointed to Chay. "Him and all the others from Vietnam, coming over here like they have every right to. Taking jobs. Bringing in new fishing boats and taking up all the licenses."
"He's not from Vietnam," said Henry.
"Good fishermen getting laid off and new fishermen can't get a place—unless they're from Vietnam, and then they got the whole federal government of the U. S. of A. sending them checks to help out. They get the spots on the boats, and real fishermen—"
"Like us!"
"Yeah, real fishermen like us got to leave their homes and come up to Portland to try to
hire on. Or sit around and drink cheap beer."
They laughed uproariously again. Then stopped.
"You should never have left Vietnam, gook. We're going to teach you why."
Chay was very still.
Henry looked around them. On one side of the parking lot was a row of metal-fronted warehouses and lobster fisheries—as closed as vaults. On the other side, the parking lot ended at a wharf. Henry could hear the water lapping up against it, and he imagined its dark, oily surface—and what it would be like to fall into it.
A door opened and shut.
Sanborn stood beside them.
"Looks like the gook's got another friend," said Mack.
"Henry," said Sanborn, "for the record, you don't handle things very well on your own." He pointed at the Admiral Ames. "Is that for me? I told you to get a vanilla shake."
"They don't serve shakes in a chowder house," said Henry. "It's root beer."
Chay reached over and took the Admiral Ames from Henry. He held it by the neck, then bent down and smashed the bottle. He stood up, holding the shattered and sharp top half out.
"I guess that means I'm not going to get my root beer," said Sanborn.
Chay took a step forward toward the fishermen. He still didn't say a thing. But he took the keys out of his back pocket and flicked them to Henry.
It did not take Henry long to figure out the plan.
In a second he had sprinted back to the pickup and pulled the door open.
"We don't care about you anyways!" yelled Mack.
Henry got in, pushed Black Dog's snout away, looked around for the ignition, found it, put the key in, couldn't turn it, pushed Black Dog's snout away, took the key out and put in the right key, pushed Black Dog's snout away, started the pickup, whipped it into reverse, and stomped on the accelerator.
Which cascaded a yelping Black Dog into the windshield—and scattered Sanborn and Chay and Mack and the other fisherman like bowling pins.
Henry stomped on the brake, and Sanborn got in and Chay threw the broken root beer bottle and got in beside him and together they hollered things that Henry couldn't make out but it wasn't at all hard to figure out what they wanted. Henry stomped on the accelerator again and they flew out of the half-dark parking lot into the empty streets of downtown Portland.
Trouble Page 14
