by Billie Letts
One night a couple of months ago, she’d turned back to Jack Daniel’s, her old remedy for getting through a bad night, but she found out liquor was no match for this.
Anyway, Wolf said he’d seen your sister walking around out there night and day, talking to herself and setting fire to timber, scraps of paper, a mattress. Anything that’d burn. Said he only talked to her once when she came asking for a butcher knife to cut off her hair.
Sometimes she stayed awake all night, thinking she’d be safe to sleep during the day, but the voice was always waiting, no matter when she closed her eyes.
No, ma’am. From what I’ve been able to put together, it looks like an accident. Somehow, she set her clothes on fire.
Just before Vena drifted off, she realized she had left the candle burning. But the voice was silenced now, and she didn’t dare move for fear it would speak again.
Besides, she thought, no one was going to notice a light flickering in the windows of a deserted bus.
And she was nearly right.
Chapter Eight
BUI KHANH’S JOB at the Dallas Auto Detail lasted less than three hours. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done wrong, but the boss, Apostolos Kartsonakis, had no doubts about the reason.
Apostolos hadn’t been enthusiastic about hiring Bui in the first place because he had trouble understanding him. Bui’s opening line, “Please needs to working cars cleaning,” caused Apostolos to shake his head in confusion. And if anyone knew the value of learning the language, it was Apostolos, who had come to America with an English phrase book in one pocket and five drachmas in the other.
Still, two of the regular detailers hadn’t shown up, and cars were already jammed all the way to the street when Bui walked in asking for a job. Besides, as Apostolos often said, “Beggars can’t be chewers.” But when he turned Bui over to the manager of the cleaning crews, he told her to make sure Bui didn’t talk to the customers.
Sheniqua, an energetic woman with skin as dark as Bui’s, operated on only one speed—fast-forward. Her rapid-fire instructions whizzed past Bui like bullets, most far wide of their mark. But he paid careful attention as she demonstrated the equipment and showed him the supplies.
Ten minutes later, Bui joined one of the crews, three men wearing blue shirts stitched with their names. When a new Mercedes was pulled forward in the line, they swarmed it.
One of Bui’s jobs was to apply wax to the car after it had been washed and dried. He was expected to work quickly to stay ahead of Milton, the man with the polishing machine, the man who taught him the meaning of “Get your ass in gear” and “Okay, let this shit wagon roll.”
By the time Bui’s crew moved on to the next car, a black Volvo, he was beginning to enjoy the feel of the sun on his back and the deep, rich smell of car wax. He also liked listening to the other workers, some who spoke languages he had never heard before.
For the first time since he left Houston, Bui started to feel safe again.
He had been trying to convince himself for the past five days that the yellow-haired woman had recovered from her injury, that the money he gave her had paid for her damaged car and that the police had more important work to do than search for him.
On that first night, as he walked away from Houston, the lights of every passing car made him step into the shadows and turn his face away. Even as he crawled out of the train car the next day in Nacogdoches, he was certain the barking dogs he heard were coming for him.
That evening he paid two hundred dollars for a car with one door wired shut and no backseat. The woman who sold it to him lived in a sagging house with peeling paint, bars on the windows and a dozen other cars in the yard, most in worse shape than his. The woman did not ask Bui for an insurance form; he did not ask her for a title.
He drove to Dallas that night, slept in his car and started looking for work the next morning in Little Asia where he blended in with thousands of other Orientals. But the restaurants needed no cooks, the coffeehouses were full of waiters and the meat markets had enough butchers. So he drove into a part of the city where signs in the windows said HELP WANTED.
He had tried a beauty shop, two liquor stores and a motel before he stopped at the Dallas Auto Detail.
Just before Bui and his crew finished their third car of the morning, Milton handed him the buffer and told him to finish while he went to take a leak.
And that’s when the trouble started.
At first, Bui was afraid Sheniqua would see him doing Milton’s job, but he was also afraid not to keep working because the owner of the car, a woman dressed like a picture in a magazine, was watching him from the window of the customers’ lounge.
Bui worked the buffer in slow, easy loops, but when the woman came out of the building to stand a few steps behind him, the loops seemed less easy.
“I have an important meeting at noon,” she said.
Bui glanced at her and offered a tentative smile. Her hat, a soft shade of gray, matched her hair and the silk suit she was wearing.
“I have to be on time.”
Though he didn’t understand all the words she used, Bui could tell she wanted him to hurry. When she raised the sleeve of her jacket to check the time, the diamonds of her watch sparkled blue in the glare of the sun.
“How much longer do you think you will be?” she asked.
Bui nodded, still smiling.
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes, I am learning to speak English,” Bui said, careful to enunciate and glad now for the opportunity to use the sentence he had learned from the beginner’s language tape.
“Can’t you work any faster?”
“Yes, I am learning to speak English,” Bui said as fast as he could.
“No! Not speak faster,” she said. “Work faster.”
Bui tightened his grip on the buffer as he jerked it fitfully from side to side.
“Perhaps you should call back the other man….”
But Bui had stopped listening to words he did not understand. He had used the only response he knew to answer her questions, and he did not think she wanted to hear it again.
The woman continued to speak, but Bui had no time now for either smiles or nods. He bent to the work, the buffer skimming across the surface of the car. If Milton was not coming back to rescue him, he would have to rescue himself.
By the time he went after the last smear of wax, the muscles across his shoulders felt full of fire and his arms had numbed from wrists to elbows.
Finally, finished, he switched off the machine, stepped back and turned to the woman. Then, with a courteous bow of his head, he said, “Okay. Let this shit wagon roll.”
After Apostolos yelled at Bui in two languages, neither of which Bui understood, he took him to his office where he stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into his pocket, kissed him on both cheeks, then said good-bye to him at the door.
Several of the detailing crews were taking their lunch break when Bui left the office and started across the lot. Most didn’t even try to hide their grins as he passed, and when someone whispered, “Shit wagon,” a few laughed out loud.
When Bui saw his own crew bunched together, he would not look into their eyes. But as he passed near them, a hand gripped his shoulder and Milton said, “Take it easy, kid.”
Smiling, Bui blinked back tears. When he walked away, he was still wearing the warmth on his skin from Milton’s strong, dark fingers.
Then, just before he reached the sidewalk, he heard footsteps coming up behind him.
“Không may mn, bn tôi.”
Stunned at hearing his own language, Bui wheeled and stared into the face of a teenage boy wearing one of the detailers’ blue shirts with TRAN NGUYEN written above the pocket.
“Bn? Bn có thê2 gi tôi?”
The boy made a shushing sound as he gestured toward the other workers, but Bui didn’t seem to notice. The words, which had been locked inside him for so long, began to spill out, the staccato sounds of Vietnamese coming w
ith sudden rush, punctuated only by quick stabs of breath.
“Come on,” the boy said, pointing to the street, but Bui’s hurry now was not in leaving.
“Bn có thê2 qui tôi du’’c không,” Bui said, hoping the boy could intervene for him with Apostolos.
“Hey, man. Not here, not in front of these guys.” Taking Bui by the elbow, the boy steered him to the street.
Like a child with no sense of direction, Bui let himself be propelled down the sidewalk, then pulled into the doorway of a squat, empty building.
“Hãy nghe tôi.” The boy’s tone sounded warmer and more sincere in Vietnamese.
Ten minutes later, Tran Nguyen left Bui with an empty money pouch and the assurance that he would make Apostolos change his mind.
Bui understood such dealings. Several hundred dong given to the father of a beautiful girl could secure a lovely wife; several thousand slipped into the hands of a government official could provide passage to a new country. And here in America, four hundred sixty-six dollars would buy back a job.
Bui hoped that Apostolos would not demand all the money, but even if he did, it would be a small price to pay. The Vietnamese boy had told him about the bonus the workers got every month, a bonus that sometimes ran as much as eight hundred dollars.
For the first hour he waited, Bui thought of all a good job would bring—a nice car for Nguyet to ride in, a beautiful house and garden, trips to Disney World and the Grand Canyon.
During the second hour, the sky darkened and rain began to fall. Within minutes the detailers started to leave work, running to their cars with their blue shirts sticking to their backs.
Still, the Vietnamese boy did not return.
Perhaps, Bui thought, the boy did not have enough influence to beg his case. Or maybe had not shown the proper respect. Bui had seen the result of such mishandled attempts many times. A government permit, bought and paid for, could get lost. An apartment secured with a thousand dong might require another thousand before the deal was done. So much could go wrong.
The rain had stopped before Bui finally stepped out of the doorway, but the clouds hung low and a chill wind picked at bits of trash in the gutters.
A chain hung across the entrance to the empty parking lot, its asphalt surface washed clean by the rain.
When Bui found the door unlocked and the office bright with light, he believed he might still have hope for a blue shirt with his name. But when he found Apostolos alone, his face full of confusion and surprise, Bui knew the Vietnamese boy had taken his money and run away.
By the time Apostolos pieced together the story, his face was red with rage.
“That little some-o-bitch!” Apostolos screamed. “Lying little some-o-bitch!”
But this time Bui didn’t struggle to understand what he was hearing, didn’t try to make sense of the words.
“Malaka!” Apostolos pounded his desk. “Thieving chicken-squat malaka,” he yelled, reaching for the phone. “Well, the police will pin his skinny ass to the wagon.”
“No!” Bui heard the echo of his own voice as he pleaded with the yellow-haired woman in the middle of the Houston street. “No police!”
But Apostolos was already dialing, even as Bui backed out the door.
An hour and fifty-two miles later, with the fuel needle pointing to E, Bui remembered the twenty-dollar bill Apostolos had put in his pocket that morning.
He pulled off the highway at the next station, a truck stop, and filled the car with regular.
Inside, he paid for the gas, then waited for his change at the counter where a sheet of glass covered a map of the United States. When the clerk dropped two coins on the glass, Bui picked them up from the places where they fell—a quarter on top of Nevada, a penny on Tennessee.
Then, without knowing why, Bui placed the flat of his hand over the map, pressed his palm into the middle of the country and spread his fingers wide. But his reach was too small to cover it… the breadth of his hand too narrow to stretch from east to west, the width too short to touch north or south.
He studied his hand there on top of America and wondered how he could ever find his place in a country so big.
He had left his home with a dream… a dream that had walked with him across Vietnam, sailed with him on the South China Sea, lived with him in a refugee camp in Malaysia. And now that dream seemed as lost as he was.
“Where you headed, partner?”
Bui turned to the man standing beside him, a big man with red hair twisting from beneath a cap with GLOBAL TRANSFER printed across the front.
“Saw you ponderin’ over this map, thought you might need some help.”
Bui nodded, more for the sake of courtesy than from understanding.
“Well, tell me where it is you’re tryin’ to get to, and I’ll show you the way.”
Bui narrowed his eyes in concentration and watched the man’s lips, waiting for more information.
“Just show me where you’re goin’,” the man said as he tapped his finger against the glass.
Uncertain, Bui let his gaze wander over the map, taking in the strange shapes and odd-sounding names. Finally, he reached out and touched a spot near the center of America.
“Oklahoma? Why, hell, partner, you’re almost there. See, you’re gonna cross the Red River…”
Bui walked out of the truck stop into swirls of tiny flakes of ice. He had seen snow only in pictures—white banks piled against houses, cars half-buried, the round shapes of snowmen with hats atop their heads.
He smiled at the thought of Nguyet seeing snow for the first time, imagined her eyes wide with surprise, could see her spinning, mouth open to catch the taste of it on her tongue.
Bui’s car, holding the snow in its creases and dents, was painted in soft patterns of white. And when he crawled inside, the vinyl seat covering, now stiff with the cold, made cracking sounds as he slid across it.
After he turned the key in the ignition, the motor caught once, then died. He pumped the gas pedal several times before he tried again, but the engine, sputtering, would not fire.
Bui was anxious to get back on the road, to drive into the darkness and snow. He had miles yet to travel, but he would not be traveling alone. His dream had resettled inside him, the dream that would ride with him across a river named Red to a land called Oklahoma.
When Bui turned the key again, the car roared to life.
“Okay,” he said, grinning. “Let this shit wagon roll.”
Chapter Nine
CANEY HAD BEEN WATCHING for her since sunup, though he had no reason to expect her at that time of morning. Even so, as soon as he had the coffee going, he was back at the front window, waiting.
When he saw her coming, he hurried to fill two cups, then slid one across the counter for her. He tried to wipe the smile off his face before she walked in, but couldn’t quite get it done. He was glad she was there, and no way in hell could he hide it.
“You’re out early,” he said, sounding more pleased than he had a right to.
“What time do you open?”
“Whenever the first customer walks in.”
Vena, unsure if Caney was teasing or telling the truth, looked at the Coors clock mounted above the jukebox.
“It’s not even six.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “If you’re hungry, then you’re the first customer. And if you’re the first customer, then we’re open.”
“Okay.” Vena smiled. “I’m hungry.”
“Great! How do you like your eggs?”
“Scrambled. Let me put the dog in the back and I’ll help you.”
“She doing any better?”
“Not much.”
When Vena came back from the utility room, Caney was already in the kitchen, slapping a thick slice of ham onto the grill.
“Smells good,” she said as she soaped her hands at the sink.
“You had her a long time?”
“What?”
“The dog.”
&
nbsp; “Found her a few days ago in Kansas.” Vena took a handful of eggs from the refrigerator and began cracking them into a bowl. “She’d been hit by a car.”
“What do you do, travel the country looking for—”
“How many of these will you eat?” Vena jumped in so quickly that Caney’s question got lost.
“None for me.” Caney flipped the ham over, then brushed butter on two slices of bread. “So, you come from Kansas?”
Vena feigned attention to the eggs, whipping them to a froth. “You already had breakfast?”
“No. I just make it a rule not to eat my own cooking.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Well, good enough to keep the doors open. Can’t manage to find a cook who’ll stay more than three days.”
“Maybe you’re too hard on the help.”
“Yeah,” Caney said in mock sincerity. “That’s how I whipped MollyO into shape.”
“What time does she come in?”
“Whenever she damn well wants to.”
Vena glanced toward the front, half expecting to see MollyO at the door. “Doubt she’s going to be thrilled to find me here.”
“Look, Vena, I don’t know what got into her last night, but don’t pay any attention to it.”
“Is she a relative? Or… a friend.”
“Little bit of both, I guess. She’s been with me since I opened this place. Loyal as a brood hen. And she likes to mother me. Too much. But that’s just her way.”
Vena poured the beaten eggs on the grill as Caney turned the toast, his arm brushing against her hip.
“Sorry,” he said.
They were quiet while Caney finished with Vena’s breakfast. She carried her plate to the dining room and slid onto a stool while Caney wheeled to the other side of the counter, handed her a knife and fork, then freshened their coffee.
He watched her as she ate, but she was too hungry to feel self-conscious.
“This is good,” she said between bites. “You’re a better cook than you give yourself credit for.”
