Things We Lost to the Water: A Novel

by Eric Nguyen

  “This is our room,” he told Vinh. He pointed to a bed against one wall. “That’s my bed, but that’s where you’ll sleep.” He pointed to Tuấn’s bed. “I’ll share with Tuấn.” They were both twin beds. In earlier years, Tuấn and Ben shared one bed. Tuấn said Ben took up too much space, and in the middle of the night Tuấn would hold him in headlocks, squeeze him at the throat with his knees, or push him against the wall. One time, frustrated with it all, Ben bit his brother on the arm and left a mark that didn’t disappear for months. It wasn’t until Ben was five that they got the second bed.

  “Nice view,” Vinh said, opening the window. He leaned against the bars that covered half of the window.

  “You gotta be kidding me, right?” Ben said. “It’s ugly here. I don’t know why anyone would ever want to come here.” He joined Vinh and looked out at the dead grass and the mud. And beyond that, the bayou, where a plastic trash can floated in aimless circles. It was time someone went out and got that, but no one ever did anything. “I mean on purpose,” he added.

  Vinh tapped his hands on the bars and laughed. “I won’t be here long,” he said. “I’m just a guest.” He went to his suitcase and opened it. In the next instant, Ben was disappointed to see only clothes and not many of those, either. Vinh pulled off his T-shirt to change into another one. And again, that same skin flashed before Ben’s eyes before it was replaced by two large owl eyes and the word hooters.

  “Just call me Vinh, no ‘Uncle,’ ” Vinh said.

  * * *

  —

  That first night, Ben couldn’t sleep. He felt eyes on him, though his nose was pressed against the wall. Tuấn’s sweaty back, slick and pungent, pressed against him. For the first few minutes, he tried to push back, but his brother didn’t budge.

  He must have lain awake for hours before he heard the springs on the other bed move. When the padding of feet faded, Ben climbed over his brother, bounced on the hardwood, and stood for a minute looking into the dark.

  Vinh was gone. The sheets lay disheveled, the door open.

  Walking into the hallway, Ben saw light under his mother’s door. At first he hesitated. But when he heard his mother and Vinh talking, he walked closer, trying to make out what they were saying. At the door, he squatted and aligned his eye with the keyhole.

  Nothing—he could see nothing.

  “Vinh,” he heard his mother say. They both laughed. His mother was happy. As far as he knew, she was never happy. She went to work and came home and cooked dinner and went to her room, where she sometimes watched Paris by Night and listened to Vietnamese folk music on cassette tapes. Unlike other parents, even Addy’s dad, she didn’t go to PTA meetings or parent-teacher conferences, at least not any longer. And you could forget about parties like Versailles Day or Mardi Gras. She didn’t even buy king cakes anymore. (Too expensive, she would say when he asked.)

  Her present happiness made the air feel electric, made it hum and vibrate. It made him realize that perhaps she was lonely all this time. She needed a friend. He almost smiled, but when the sound of bare feet hit the floor, he made to run back to the room. The door opened and Vinh came out. Hoping he wasn’t found, Ben detoured into the bathroom and slammed the door. He let the water run for a good minute before coming back out.

  * * *

  —

  At school, Ben talked to Addy about Vinh. He told her about the tattoos, about Alaska, about the whispering in the middle of the night.

  “He sounds interesting,” Addy said.

  It was after school and they were waiting for Thảo, Tuấn’s girlfriend. Thảo was a year older than Tuấn and gave Tuấn rides because he didn’t have a car. Since Ben’s school was on the way home, they picked him up, too.

  “Is he good or is he bad?” Addy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ben said. “He’s supposed to be gone by the end of the week.”

  “Then what?”

  A white van pulled in to the parking lot.

  “He’s on his own. He’s new to New Orleans, he said. He hasn’t got a tattoo from here yet.”

  “Is he staying?” Addy asked. “I mean, is he staying in the city?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Maybe,” Addy began, “he might be your new dad?”

  “Gross! Don’t say that, Addy!” Ben stuck out his tongue. He couldn’t imagine his mother falling in love. She was not the type to believe in love. Love didn’t pay the bills. It didn’t cook dinner. It didn’t provide for a family. For all intents and purposes, love was too impractical.

  The van pulled up and its front passenger window rolled down.

  “In,” Thảo said. She played with the rearview mirror and readjusted her bandanna around her hair. The speakers blasted a song with flamenco guitars and heavy maracas and bongos. The lyrics were in Chinese. “ ‘In,’ I said,” Thảo said, this time in Vietnamese.

  “What happened to your other car?” Ben asked.

  “Fire.”

  “Fire?” Since he’d met her, Ben had the feeling Thảo was a liar. She was quick and invariably had an explanation for everything. They always sounded unlikely. “What kind of fire?” Ben asked.

  Thảo rolled her eyes. “A big fire,” she said. “Now, the both of you, get in.”

  Ben opened the side door and found Tuấn sprawled across the middle row. “Move over,” he said.

  “Sit in the back,” said Tuấn. He lifted his head, then dropped it back. He laid a Saints cap, which he got last Mardi Gras, on top of his face. As Tuấn had been walking in the Quarter, it fell off a balcony and landed right on his head, at least according to Thảo.

  “How’s your father, Adelaide?” Tuấn asked, his voice muffled.

  “Fine, Tuấn.”

  “How’s his painting business coming along?”

  “He’s fine, just fine.”

  “What’s with the attitude? Can’t a brother ask? All I’m saying is that I haven’t seen him in a while. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “He’s fine,” she repeated.

  “Walgreens run!” Thảo said, making a sharp left turn. A car honked its horn and Thảo cussed at it in Vietnamese. She parked the car in a handicap spot and unlocked the door. “Bình,” Thảo said (she called Ben only by his Vietnamese name), “why don’t you get whatever you want? I’ll pay for both you and Addy.”

  “Why don’t you two go in, too?” Ben asked.

  Thảo reached into her purse and pulled out a crumpled ten. “You can keep the change,” she said. “Get a Coke for me,” Thảo added. “Tuấn, what do you want?” She slapped his knee. “Get him nothing.”

  Inside, a white man stood by the cash register reading a magazine. When he saw them come in, he laid it down.

  “We’re not no hangout for kids, you know,” the man said.

  “We’re just getting sodas,” Ben said, projecting his voice. “Just keep walking,” he whispered to Addy.

  The man raised his voice. “We’re not no hangout. If you come in here, you have to buy something. Are you buying something?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re buying, sir.” Ben shook his head.

  Someone else came in. The man went back to his magazine.

  Through the glass door, Ben couldn’t see Thảo’s van anymore. He didn’t like Thảo. He’d first met her when she came over to Versailles to pick up Tuấn. Their mother wasn’t home and Tuấn invited her in for Café Du Monde coffee. As they let it brew, Thảo said chicory coffee was good for hangovers. They talked about the party they both went to the night before and how late she had stayed and how much Tuấn missed out for not staying. Ben was struck by her beauty—her highlighted hair, her pink fingernails, and her sense of fashion: she wore a plaid skirt and white blouse and leather cowboy boots that went up to her knees. Despite this, there was an unexpected roughness about her. She
was loud and wore a suspicious smirk. Worst of all, she made Tuấn act weird. He became meaner to everyone when she was around, as if he was competing with her. Their mom didn’t like Thảo, either. “If you ever bring home a girl like that,” she would say, “I’ll chop off your hands,” though Ben didn’t know what hands had to do with anything.

  After Ben paid for their sodas, they walked outside but couldn’t find the van.

  “They could’ve parked somewhere else,” Addy reassured him.

  There were two sedans, a blue private-school bus, a bike tied to a lamppost, but no van.

  They walked behind the store, where the dumpster sat, and there they found the van alongside a yellow sports car. Tuấn and Thảo were standing and talking to a group of older Asian boys. When they saw Ben and Addy, they hushed and looked at Tuấn.

  One of them said something in Vietnamese and slapped Tuấn on the chest. “Em bé mày”—your baby brother—was the only thing Ben could understand. The older boys cackled. All of them wore matching black tank tops. Most of them had tattoos on their arms. When he took another step, Ben noticed one of them had a gun strapped to his belt. Another had a gun hanging out of his back pocket. Another held one by his side. All of them had guns except Tuấn and Thảo.

  “Tuấn, watch out!” Ben began, but his brother stampeded over and grabbed him by the arm.

  “What’s wrong?” Ben asked. “Who are those boys?”

  Tuấn pulled Ben and squeezed his arm tighter. When they were out of sight of the boys, Tuấn released his grip.

  “Don’t you ever do that again!” Tuấn said.

  “Do what? What do you mean? What did I do?” Ben dropped the bag and the soda bottles began rolling. He started to go after them, but Tuấn pushed him down.

  “Don’t you ever do that again,” he said, yelling so loud this time his spit sprayed the air.

  * * *

  —

  Vinh stayed with them past the end of the first week. He stayed another week. Then another.

  He was always there when they got home; they’d find him sitting in their kitchen and drinking coffee, Vietnamese style, or he’d be sleeping in their room. When Vinh came to, he would look startled, then a smile would grow across his face and he’d ask them if they were hungry or if they wanted anything to drink. He played host in their own house.

  He’d fix them something—noodles or rice, chrysanthemum tea or Tang—make small talk, and then return to sleep shirtless as his chest inflated and deflated and the bear tattoo grew and shrank.

  Ben was fascinated. He learned Vinh used to be a fisherman, a farmhand, and a used-car salesman. He was fired from all of them, he said. Vinh liked to watch boxing on TV and didn’t like spicy food. That he was Catholic surprised Ben the most. His mother did not seem to like Catholics as a whole, though she made exceptions for those she liked. She tolerated his praying voice each night before bed, a singsong voice that was melodic and sad. Vinh went to church on Sundays, too, walking to Our Lady of Saigon late in the morning instead of borrowing Ben’s mother’s car or taking the bus because, Vinh said, walking gave him fresh air and time for reflection.

  Ben wrote a story for school about a man who went from town to town, marrying widows and stealing their most precious items—a metal urn of a husband’s ashes, a wedding band that was no longer worn but still cherished, a wedding day photo with a bride and groom smiling. In the story, Ben made a twist: the man was misunderstood. He stole these pieces of personal history because he had lost his own; he had amnesia and wanted to make a new life.

  As Vinh slept one afternoon, Ben went through his suitcase. The only thing of interest was his wallet. Vinh still had an Alaska driver’s license. There was also a credit card, a stick of cinnamon gum, ten dollars in ones, and a card with what Ben concluded was the Virgin Mary on one side and a prayer in Vietnamese on the other. Disappointed, Ben put the wallet back where he’d found it.

  How could a man, unbound by life and responsibilities, be so boring? If Ben were to leave, he would collect everything he could find, keepsakes of a life lived and lived well. It dawned on him that Vinh was a silly old man. He would never be like him, didn’t want anything to do with him. It made him sad for his mother.

  Was his own father anything like Vinh? Did she go out of her way to get his favorite beer? Did she make his favorite desserts on her days off? Did he make her smile the same way? And did they take long walks in the evening, strolling into the sunset, two figures hand in hand? He would never know.

  For a brief time he thought Vinh might be his actual father—not dead after all these years but miraculously alive—and his mom was just waiting for the right moment to reveal the truth: she was wrong and he hadn’t been killed. They had the same skin color, after all. A part of him waited for the revelation. He imagined himself acting surprised, then blushing bashfully because he’d confess he knew all along. Smart boy, they’d call him, and afterward they would all go to Gambino’s to celebrate.

  But everything was wrong—the nose was fat, not thin and long; he didn’t wear glasses; his hands were big, but where was that hard callus from writing on the left? The theory would not hold up. He threw it away.

  * * *

  —

  The next afternoon, Tuấn and Thảo were late. The buses came and left. Soon the parking lot was empty, too. Mrs. Easton, the music teacher, asked if they needed a ride home. Addy said yes, but Ben said they were waiting for his mother to pick them up. Mrs. Easton said, “Great,” and left.

  Thảo always came on time. She was punctual if nothing else. When the sun was setting and the shadows of birds flew into the distance, Ben became anxious. Addy made him more anxious.

  “What if there was a car crash? What if your brother did something wrong? What if she did something wrong?”

  “Like what?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t know,” Addy said. “Rob a bank? She’s the type who would rob a bank.”

  “Yes,” Ben agreed. “Yes, she is.” He smirked, imagining Thảo and his brother robbing a bank, Thảo with her southern twang and Tuấn with his mangled accent like their mother’s. “Maybe there’s an accident and they’re stuck in traffic,” he said.

  “That girl is an accident,” Addy said. Ben laughed and they high-fived each other.

  As it got later, Ben imagined Tuấn dumping Thảo—that was why he was late. He didn’t have a ride but he was walking. Hours later, into the night, even, his brother would arrive at the school.

  “Let’s walk home,” he’d say. And they’d walk and talk. They hadn’t talked in a long time. It was like he didn’t know who his brother was anymore. God, he thought, Thảo is terrible; girls are terrible!

  An hour later, Thảo’s van pulled up. She unlocked the door and waited for Ben and Addy to hop in. Inside, Tuấn was lying in his seat, a T-shirt covering his face. He didn’t say anything. Ben closed the door.

  “How you feeling?” Thảo asked Tuấn when they got back on the road. He let out a groan and Thảo snickered. She turned up the music and made a right-hand turn.

  * * *

  —

  After Thảo dropped them off, Ben saw the bruised eye, the right one circled in purple and black.

  Ben gasped. “What happened?”

  “Shut up, will you?”

  “Was it a fight or something?”

  “Open the door,” his brother said.

  “Was it Thảo? Did Thảo do this?” After Ben said it, he realized how stupid it sounded, a girl beating up a boy. “Thảo did something,” he said after a pause. “Thảo’s fault. It’s all Thảo’s fault, isn’t—”

  “Open the door, will you? Stop being gay already!”

  Ben unlocked the door. Vinh was doing push-ups in the living room when they walked in. He looked up, stopped his routine, and walked over. When he got to them, he placed
his hand on Tuấn’s face.

  “Trời ổi. Your mother won’t be pleased.” He touched the bruise, and Tuấn turned his head away.

  “It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t,” Tuấn said.

  “You shouldn’t be fighting. Especially if you can’t.”

  “Shut up,” Tuấn said. “You’re not my father!”

  Not my father, Ben repeated in his head. Not my father, as if it was a useful phrase.

  Vinh ruminated over the words, and, amused, he went to the freezer and filled a plastic grocery bag with ice. When he came back, he guided Tuấn to the couch and eased the cold bag over the eye.

  “Rest,” Vinh said, “but don’t let this happen again.”

  After several minutes, Tuấn left for his room and Vinh followed after. The last thing Ben heard was Vinh telling Tuấn, “Let me tell you something, son,” before they both disappeared into the bedroom.

  Later his mom told Vinh Tuấn should’ve known better than getting into a fight. She had told him before—don’t engage, look the other way, move on.

  “I try so hard,” his mother said, “to raise them right. You’ve no idea. If something were to ever happen…I don’t know. It’s my job to keep them out of trouble, to make sure they become good people.” She paused. “Their father…” she said, and trailed off. She stood up and her voice became muffled as she walked across the room. “These letters…They would be devastated if they knew. That’s why…”

  Ben strained to hear more and waited a few more seconds before giving up and walking back to his room. He climbed in beside Tuấn, who lay belly-up with a cool, wet paper towel on his bruised eye. Ben couldn’t sleep that night, and Vinh didn’t come back to his bed.

  Tuấn

  1991

  The Southern Boyz said Tuấn was a good recruit. He did what he was told. He knew where to be and when. Tuấn was a good man, and they trusted him. And Quang, smoking a cigarette, said his new nickname should be “Handy” because he was useful.