The Unwanted

by Kien Nguyen

  I nodded. My mother, however, was not convinced. She frowned with skepticism.

  “Nosebleed?” she asked. “Impossible, he never had a nosebleed before. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am sure,” he assured her. “Leave the boy alone to rest. If his condition doesn't get better, we'll take him to the hospital, okay?”

  His words seemed to calm my mother, and she laid me back down on my pillows. He took her by her shoulder and led her outside.

  Soon after, Lam returned, pulling the sheet off me. “Get up, and out of bed,” he said. “You have to convince your mother that you are not sick. Otherwise, she'll find out what a little tramp you were last night, and then I won't be about to cover for you anymore.” He pushed me out of my bedroom and into the front lawn.

  For several minutes, I sat on the front steps, holding on to my belly. The pain inside me was excruciating. I could also feel the blood oozing into my underwear, and its odor nauseated me. From the other side of the wall, Duy waved, beckoning me to come over. Gathering myself, I played with him and Goofy for the rest of the day and did not return home until dinner.

  That night, my mother came to tuck me in. Her soft hand rested on my forehead, checking my temperature. In his bed, Lam watched us through his half-shut eyes. His presence made me anxious.

  “How are you feeling, Kien?” she asked me.

  “Fine,” I answered her.

  “Are you sure? You don't look fine to me.” There was a moment of silence before she went on in a voice filled with worry. “Tell me what's wrong. It has been several weeks, you can't possibly still be upset about Lulu.”

  Instead of answering her, I closed my eyes, pretending to fall asleep.

  “Listen,” she said, “this is very hard for me to do, but I promise to get you another dog tomorrow if you promise to get well.”

  I opened my eyes. Under the dim light, my mother's face sagged with new creases. There were tears in her eyes. I shook my head at her suggestion.

  “You don't want another dog?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Tell me what you want then. The butcher's dog just had a litter. I already told him to reserve a puppy for you. What am I going to do with the puppy if you don't want it?”

  “Give it to Jimmy,” I suggested to her, and added, “Mommy, I don't want another dog.”

  “Okay, if you are sure. But please be well. I need you.”

  My mother kissed me good night and turned off the lantern on her way out. Once she left the room, I became paralyzed with fear. In the dark, I anticipated Lam's approach with every fiber in my body. At last, his snoring sawed into the silent room, and then I heard him mumble something unintelligible in his dream.

  I crawled out of bed, holding a pillow in my hands. Quietly, I tiptoed out of the room and into the garden.

  Outside, dark clouds hung low above the trees, warning of the coming rain. Trees transformed into monsters, chanting in eerie rhapsody. Again, to my active imagination, everything in the garden materialized into weird forms around me. Even so, it was a much less threatening place than my bedroom.

  I lay down on my back near the house. About ten feet above me, a corrugated scaffold concealed most of my view of the sky. A short distance away, Lulu's grave lay hidden in the ground. Her presence somewhat softened my anxiety, and I began to relax. Sleep came quickly, but not for long. From the depth of my subconscious, I recalled Lam's threats: “Hey, Kien,” his voice echoed, “I will go after your brother next. I will go after your brother next. I will go after…”

  I jolted from the cold ground and ran back inside. Drawing a deep breath, I sneaked past Lam's bed in my bare feet. Deep in his own dream, my brother was not aware of my presence until I was next to him. I shook him awake, keeping him from making any noises with the palm of my hand. Jimmy opened his big eyes to stare at me.

  “Get up, and come with me,” I whispered in his ear.

  “Kien?” his eyes blinked, but he did not yell. Matching my whisper, he asked me, “Where are we going?”

  “Don't ask any questions. Just take your pillow and follow me.”

  I helped him out of bed and guided him outside to the front porch. Jimmy did not ask any more questions, only looked at me with his trusting eyes. I told him to lie down on the pavement, and I lay next to him, holding him in my arms to shield him from the cold air as much as I could. We fell asleep holding on to each other as the rain began to fall. The scaffold kept the raindrops from reaching us through most of the night.

  The next morning, my mother was furious to discover that we were not in our beds. She yelled into our faces, jolting us from our sleep.

  “Wake up. Why are you sleeping in the rain?”

  We jumped up, not knowing what to say.

  “Oh, kids,” she moaned. “Why are you such a problem for me? Tell me what I have done to deserve this? And you,” she turned to me, “don't you remember anything I told you last night?”

  Behind her were my grandparents, holding on to the door and looking at us with worry. On the floor, Jimmy sneezed. His face was covered in sweat and reddened with fever.

  “Look what you have done,” my mother cried. “Your brother is getting sick.” She picked him up in her arms and snarled to me, “Get inside. I am going to kill both of you.”

  She put Jimmy in bed and shifted her attention to me. “Was it your idea taking your brother outside last night?” she asked.

  Fearfully, I nodded.

  “I knew it,” she shrieked. “Are you crazy, or are you rebelling against me?” She grabbed my shoulders. Her fingernails found their familiar way into my flesh.

  “I am sorry,” I cried out in pain. “I got scared last night.”

  “Why? What are you afraid of?”

  “I don't know, Mommy.”

  “Stop! He is just a child, for God's sake,” my grandfather broke in. “Haven't your children gone through enough already? Give them some time to adjust to the new situation, please. The child must have a reason why he got so scared. Why don't you find out from him instead of beating him up like he was your enemy?”

  “He is spoiled, Daddy,” she barked. “He is making the other one sick, and I can't even imagine what other stunts he is going to pull next. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Stop yelling,” my grandfather said. “Something must be terribly wrong for my grandchildren to leave their warm beds in the middle of the night and sleep on the cold dirt outside. Let me ask him.” Turning to me, he lowered his voice to almost inaudible. “Kien, tell Grandpa why you didn't stay in your bed last night. Why did you sleep outside like the homeless people? What are you running away from?”

  I did not answer him. Strength ebbed from my body, leaving my face hot with dizziness. I leaned against the wall for support.

  My grandfather sighed with frustration. Turning to my mother, he spoke with unusual vigor.

  “This is a new plan,” he said. “From now on, Kien is going to sleep with me, and Jimmy is staying with Grandma for a while. Would this make you feel better, my boy?”

  I nodded. Satisfied, my grandfather retreated back into his bedroom. From his bed, Lam sucked his teeth noisily and stepped outside. My mother muttered with annoyance, “I hope you are not spoiling them, Father.” She then also went out, pounding her feet on the ground with frustration.

  At the front door, the butcher appeared with a small puppy, resting peacefully in the palms of his hands. No one paid any attention to him, except for my brother. He got up from his bed, reaching out to receive the dog from the butcher's hands with a small cry of happiness.

  My grandfather kept his promise. Night after night, he rocked me to sleep in his arms, trying his best to keep my nightmares away. At the same time, in the next room, Jimmy shared his bed with my grandmother.

  MY MOTHER WENT INTO LABOR in September, two weeks early. In a dirty room of the hospital, next to the venereal disease section, she gave birth to my sister. The moment that she was pushed into the world,
she began crying nonstop, as if she were constantly in pain. My mother called her BeTi, meaning “little girl”—a name that reflected my mother's indifference to her.

  A few days later, Lam came in for a visit. BeTi was feeding at my mother's breast. Without touching either of them, he leaned over to stare at his daughter. My mother avoided looking at him. In her tired voice, she asked, “What is on your mind, Lam?”

  He whispered to her, “I don't want to be here anymore. I am getting myself out of this mess.” Then, without waiting for her answer, he continued, “Let's face it, we are making each other sick by staying together. To make it easy for you, I came up with a plan to help you get rid of me.”

  “What can you possibly be thinking?” she asked.

  “I have a connection.” The tip of his nose almost touched my mother's face, and he said, “I need some money. Help me escape.”

  1978

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Nhatrang, 1978

  For the next three years my family continued to live in the house next to my aunt and her family. My mother was busy caring for our baby sister, BeTi, and our only income came from selling her jewelry. We wore the same clothing that we had brought with us from the Nguyen mansion. For many years, Jimmy and I never outgrew these outfits because my mother kept adding length to the hems and width to the waistbands in order to accommodate us. We had two meals a day; the mainstay of our diet was rice, which my mother bought from the market at eight dong per bushel. Rain or shine, we concentrated on surviving from day to day.

  As I grew older, my hair got darker. I do not know if it happened because of my mother's wish when she poured liquid dye all over my head or simply because of my own urgent desire to fit in with the other children in our community. By the time I was eleven, my blond hair had become a rich brown. Even on the hottest day of summer, the sun could not bleach it back to its original silvery hue.

  Jimmy and I attended the local elementary school, where our studies focused on math, literature, history, and science. All were taught from the Communist point of view. Miss San, who continued to teach my class, decided to hold a free tutorial session at her home every Sunday afternoon. Those were the only lectures in my experience that were not delivered with any political overtone.

  Miss San lived in a two-story dwelling several blocks away from my street. She used her first floor as a fish-sauce factory, and three enormous earthenware jars were constantly at work there. Each container could hold two to three hundred pounds of fish, marinating in an equal amount of salt. She explained to us that making fish sauce was her main source of income. Teaching was just a recreational activity. The rancid smell of rotten fish was deadly, like the stench of tooth decay, only stronger. The odor permanently clung to her clothes, seeped into her hair, and like a miasma, spread to her surroundings. The adults, especially men, avoided her. They feared her eccentric nature. Children, however, were drawn to her warm personality, and no one found her more magnetic than I did.

  As each Sunday afternoon approached, we eagerly wondered what surprise she had in store for us this week. Sitting on the floor in her rumpled bedroom among her scattered clothes, we waited for her appearance like the audience of a performing artist. One of Miss San's favorite subjects was English. “The only way for us to grow as a nation is to learn from other countries' technologies,” she often told us. “How can you learn their technologies? You can start by learning the universal language—English.”

  She winked at us with a mischievous smile. “Today, let's not learn from the textbook. Instead, let's test our vocabularies, shall we? For the next hour, all of us must speak in English. I know this is a very difficult game, but we can try. Let's have some fun together.”

  We were trembling with excitement. Abandoning our language in a large group discussion such as this one was a forbidden act, yet it seemed so natural and harmless to us in that moment. As if she sensed our uncertainty, Miss San continued, “Let's keep this our own little secret, children.”

  She switched to English and the lesson began. “Duy went out last night,” she said, and I saw my friend sit up a little straighter. Pointing at a small girl in a ponytail, Miss San ordered, “Chi, please finish that thought.”

  Chi pondered a few seconds and then said carefully, “Duy went out with a girl last night.”

  There were some giggles among the students. The image of Duy with a girl was funny in any language. Miss San turned to me. “Kien, please?” she asked.

  “Who was that girl?” I formed a sentence quickly.

  “Yes, that is a good question,” she said. “Tell us who that girl was, Duy.”

  Duy stood up. Scratching his ears, he stuttered, searching the room for help. Someone whispered an answer, and he seized it as though he were drowning. “That girl was—was—was—my—mother,” he shouted. His voice cracked from the excitement. We fell into each other's arms with laughter. Leaning against the wall, Miss San, too, was smiling. In the shadow of the room, I thought she was quite a beautiful lady, almost like a vision.

  That day, after dismissing the class, Miss San asked me to stay behind. “Do you think these curls would be gone completely if you, let's say, cut your hair really short?” She ran her fingers over my head thoughtfully. Something about the way she posed her question made me sit up with apprehension.

  “I don't know,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “The school is planning to celebrate the unification of Vietnam. The dean has chosen our class to lead the parade because of our academic achievement. You are my best student, and I have decided that you will be the front-runner of the march, holding the national flag in your arms.” She paused. “There is one small problem, though. I fear that your appearance may cause some distraction among the spectators.”

  “I can get a haircut tomorrow if you think it would help.”

  She nodded. “Yes, love, I think it's a wise decision. Do it and the honor will be yours.” A cloud darkened her face. “Kien, please do a good job. We won't be together for much longer. School will be closed for summer the day after the parade. You will be in junior high next semester and I won't see you much anymore.”

  “I'll visit you often.”

  “We'll see. It's difficult to plan for the future. I may or may not still be here,” she said sadly.

  “Of course you will be here, helping other students,” I said. “Where else could you go? You belong in a classroom, Miss San.”

  She bit her lower lip and turned away. Outside, my classmates' laughter echoed through the sultry air as they raced each other to the juice stand at the end of the road. Miss San searched her bedroom and located her fake leather bag. She rummaged through it for several seconds and then looked up, brushing a heavy lock of curled hair away from her face.

  “I have a few teacher coupons left over from the beginning of the semester that I never used. Why don't you take them and buy some notebooks for yourself? You'll need them for next year.” She handed me a couple of red tickets.

  The new regime reserved special vouchers solely for schoolteachers so they could purchase books and educational supplies at very low prices. To augment their meager salaries, many professors sold their coupons on the black market instead. Miss San's unexpected and generous gesture surprised me. The thought of showing my mother a couple of new notebooks and observing her happy face prompted me to reach for the tickets. At the same time, an awareness of my destitute condition came over me, burning my cheeks red with shame. I took a step back and shook my head.

  “They are expensive gifts. I can't accept them, Miss San.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  I sighed, searching for my answer. “My mother usually buys enough supplies for us at the market.”

  “I know,” she said. “I saw her there the other day. We talked for over an hour. She was upset because she wanted to buy you and your brother some new clothes, but there wasn't any money left after she bought the books. I thought I could help her with these coupons, s
ince next year you are going to need a lot more than just a few notebooks.”

  I lowered my voice. “We can manage.”

  Miss San furrowed her brow. “Are you ashamed of being poor, Kien?” she asked me.

  I avoided her stare by concentrating on a dot of sunlight on the ground.

  She pushed the coupons into my hand. “You should not be ashamed of your humble condition or of who you are. In fact, you should be proud. Look at it this way: you are no longer a capitalist. In the Communists' eyes you have achieved the lowest and most desired status—the class of the poor. Be pleased, Kien, for you now have nothing to lose but much to gain. Wait, there is more.” She searched in her bag a second time. “Take this money, too. I want you to get a haircut, so that no other teacher in this school can criticize my brand-new parade marshal. I want them to be just as full of pride as I am when they watch you lead the march. Now go home. You have a lot of chores to do, and so have I.” She stroked my hair and simultaneously pushed me out the door. I muttered an incoherent appreciation to her as I left.

  THE NEXT DAY, I visited the local barbershop for the first time. Before then, my mother had always cut my hair. The shop, where most of the male populace went for a haircut and a nose-hair trim, was a small hut built crudely out of four wooden posts and a black poncho. It stood under a large oak tree, a few steps away from my school. The barber gave me a military-type haircut. His instruments seemed to have been around for at least twenty years, and he occasionally sharpened them on a piece of cowhide nailed to the tree trunk. He left about an inch of hair on top of my head, shaving the rest with his gleaming blade.

  For the following three weeks, under Miss San's supervision, we practiced marching around the schoolyard like small soldiers. The rest of the school lined up behind my class according to their ranks of achievement.

  A week before the parade was to take place, Miss San failed to show up for school. Even the teachers seemed to have no idea what had happened to her. A substitute was assigned to take over my class—a man in his early thirties with greasy hair and teeth that were so dark they made his mouth look purple. He, too, refused to discuss Miss San's absence.