by Andrew Lanh
Dustin opened the door before we knocked.
“Nobody’s home.”
I teased him. “You are.”
His eyes widened as he stepped back. “I mean, like my mother.”
“Can we come in?” Hank asked.
Dustin blinked his eyes quickly, as though struck by sudden sunlight. “You’re not in your uniform,” he said to Hank.
“I’m not on duty.” Hank pulled at his sleek winter jacket. “I’m advertising the latest fashion from The Gap.”
Dustin hesitated. “I was afraid you’d wear your uniform.”
“I’m here as your friend, Dustin.” Hank purposely lowered his voice. His words sounded warm. I smiled at him. Hank smiled at me. Dustin didn’t smile at anybody.
“I thought your mother would be here,” I told him.
“I told her. She will be, I guess. Shopping.” He seemed at a loss what to do. Finally, shrugging, he pointed to the small living room. “I guess you should sit down. Is that what you want to do?” Helpless, he waved his hands in the air. “You gotta take off your shoes.”
“We know that,” Hank said.
Dressed in a T-shirt that was too small, he could have been a bony child. A tear under his left arm showed surprisingly white skin, a contrast to his dark face. He was wearing baggy cargo shorts, but he was barefoot. As he sat down opposite us, rocking on the edge of his chair, I noticed scratches on his shins. Absently he dragged his nails down a leg. A bead of thin blood appeared. “What do you want to ask me?”
“A couple things.”
Hank zeroed in. “Your relationship with Professor Winslow.”
The abruptness surprised him. “No relationship.”
“That’s not true,” I said sharply. “A week before he died you suddenly went to war with him.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
Anger in Hank’s voice. “You’re gonna have to. Especially if you want our help.”
He slumped down, uncomfortable. “I was his spy at the Gospel of Wealth. I wrote this paper. I told him my mother—others in my family—go there. I could be a spy. Maybe. He promised not to tell anyone. But he wanted to meet my mother…” It was a cockeyed story, sloppily rehearsed in his head, that finally sputtered to an end. He sat back, closed his eyes, a thin smile on his face.
It was a lie, I realized. A bright boy, he’d expected the question from us. Of course. And he thought he was ready.
“Dustin, I don’t believe that nonsense.”
His lips quivered. “It’s true. He—promised me. I went there—I talked to that Reverend Simms guy, you know. But he was gonna break his promise. I mean, Professor Winslow, like—tell people my name.” But even now the words sounded false. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he whispered, “There was no other relationship.”
“But the fire in your voice. I heard it, Dustin. And going to his home.”
“I told you the reason.”
Hank was frustrated. “No, Dustin.”
“And more than one person gave your name to the cops. That kid filmed it—loaded it onto YouTube. Bad taste, yes, but…”
Dustin stood up. “Yeah, I was real mad at him. Stupid, I know. But it had nothing to do with—like murder. I mean, murder. Real murder. That blew me away. Like, you know—guns. Just because I didn’t like him any more, I’m not gonna kill him.” A strange, faraway laugh that broke at the end. “That would never cross my mind.”
I said nothing for a bit, then, “I believe you.”
“You do?”
“I do. I don’t think you shot Ben Winslow. But I also think you’re lying to us.”
“Because it’s got nothing to do with murder.”
“So you admit you’re not telling us the whole story.” Hank threw the words at him.
Dustin toppled back into his seat. “You’re trying to trick me.”
“We’re trying to save your skinny ass,” Hank yelled at him.
This line was getting nowhere, so I shifted my approach. “Talk about your family.”
His eyes got cloudy. “Nothing to say. I live with my mother.”
“How is she dealing with this?”
For some reason he gestured toward the kitchen, a bony shrug, as though his secreted mother would suddenly leap out and surprise us. I followed his hand. In view: a forties red enamel table covered with stacked dishes. A carton of Lucky Strikes half out of a brown bag. On a far corner wall, high up, a small shelf with a shrine to Buddha. A porcelain statue surrounded by joss sticks. Artificial flowers. A bowl of water. Something dark red. Maybe oranges. A small cardboard box. Beneath it a calendar from an Chinese restaurant.
Dustin followed my glance. “We’re poor.”
“I was looking at the shrine. I’m Buddhist.”
“I’m not.” Hank’s contribution.
Dustin smiled at Hank. “I’m not either.”
“But you go to Reverend Simms’ church a few blocks over?” I asked.
Dustin rustled in his seat, uncomfortable. “Yeah, I saw him talk about me on TV. I don’t know why. That was real stupid of him.”
“You go?”
He swung his head back and forth. “No, like never. A few times I gotta drive my mom. Like in bad weather. Otherwise she walks. They all walk from the projects. It’s like a…a pilgrimage of the poor. Everybody here thinks he got the key to millions. She and my Uncle Binh go. My Aunt Suong.” He shuffled out of his chair and took a pamphlet off a sideboard. “Here. Protestantism meets the great Buddha. My mom thinks they belong together.”
I scanned the glossy pamphlet. The usual pitches about seed money, instant wealth, promised riches, God’s blessings. The keys to the kingdom.
“Dustin, he knew your name. He knew who you were.”
He faltered. “I told you. I was—like a spy. I…”
“Stop it,” Hank demanded. “Don’t bullshit me.”
Dustin rolled his eyes. “Mom dragged me up to him one time. Another time he talked to us. But I won’t go any more. He’s a scary dude. Really. All that shaking and hallelujah stuff. I went to please my Mom.” He made a face. “It didn’t work. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to please her, but I never win.” He scrunched up his face. “Strike three.”
Hank leaned in. “She’s your mother. She must love…”
His words hot, furious. “You don’t understand, do you? I was the mistake boy. That’s what Uncle Binh calls me. The mistake boy. I’m eighteen and my Mom is sixty-five or something. Do the math.”
I did. I was good at math.”
“But…” Hank protested.
He tightened his face. “No buts, man. You know I got two brothers who look right through me. The scuzziest is Hiep—Hollis to the authorities. He hasn’t said more than a few words to me in ten years. Maybe more.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t get it, Mr. Lam.” A thin smile as he faced Hank. “Hank?”
“Tell us.”
He debated what to say. Then, quietly, “Everything stopped when I was born. My dad killed in that car crash on the way to the hospital. They blame me.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Hank said.
“Yeah, tough shit. Since when does ridiculous stop people from thinking dumb thoughts?”
I laughed out loud. “True. But surely your mother…”
He kept checking out the front door. “Everything was perfect in Saigon. Before the Commies. A paradise. I don’t know—crap talk like that.” The words hung in the air like a painful lament. He waited a moment. “The clock stopped ticking when my family was dropped into Fort Pendleton in California.”
“They had to get out of Vietnam, Dustin.” From Hank.
“What do you know about the war?” I asked.
That surprised him. “Nothing. Nobod
y wants to talk about it. Mom—she like cries. So I shut up. I don’t care anyways.”
“Another lifetime.” Hank watched the boy’s face closely.
“What they have left is a postcard. In their heads. A hope to go back. Look around here.” His index finger shot out, pointing here and then there, aimless, a scattershot gesture. “A dump.”
Life in the projects: a small, tight living room with peeling white walls, scuffed and battered wood floors covered with grimy throw rugs, a large plastic potted plant near a cabinet, an oversized flat-screen TV on a stand, on the wall the obligatory clock in the shape of Vietnam. I stared at it. The time was wrong. He saw me looking. “It’s set to Saigon time from a hundred years ago.”
A stale, rancid smell hung in the rooms: old wood, decay, perhaps mouse droppings in the walls, water bugs and cockroaches underfoot, the lingering hint of old cooking oil and onions and ginger.
A sarcastic laugh. “It was the world’s fault—the Americans—that they had to abandon the lake villa I always hear about, shade from a goddamn banyan tree in the backyard, the overripe mangoes hanging outside their windows, a French Citroën in the street, country girls to do the cooking. Bougainvillea blocking the scent of napalm. Da da da dum da dum. Drum roll, please. The same story over and over. All my life. A bedtime story. That story, yes. But the war—taboo city. The Americans promised this and promised that—and then forgot about them.” He stopped, out of breath. “Sorry.”
“They flew them out. Your family. Uncle Binh and his wife.”
“Yeah, sure, big deal. Forced into purgatory. Handouts. Welfare. This”—his voice got shrill—“this stopover on the road to wealth.”
“You’re a bright young man. You’ve thought about things. That’s evident. You found your way to Farmington College.”
“A charity case. We’re all charity cases. But I won’t be here forever.”
“So your family stopped…living?” Hank questioned.
That same laugh. “No, they still live. But back in Vietnam. In their dreams. The past but never the present. Or the future. America is money. Right behind door number something is the key to the gold mine. I got a druggie brother Hollis who stumbles from one get-rich scheme to the next—and falls on his face. Lives with this girlfriend or that. Shoplifts cigarettes and lottery tickets. Does time in county. I got another brother Thang—a loser named Timmy—who is married to a Puerto Rican woman who lives down the street. They got two kids and he got no job. She goes to work—McDonald’s.” The laughter stopped suddenly. “But someday we’ll be living on easy street. Living large.”
I didn’t know what to say to this rant. But then he shut up, regretting his words, biting his lip, switching to “Do you want anything to drink?”
The polite young man who wanted to please.
Hank and I both shook out heads: No thanks.
He sighed, relieved.
“You got your mother,” Hank said.
His lips in a razor-thin line. “A monthly check until I turn eighteen. Which just happened.”
“What does that mean?”
“Hey, we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“Dustin, Rick and I want to help you. You called me. But what can you tell us about the murder? Anything. Some clue. You and Professor Winslow. Let’s get the police to stop thinking it’s you.”
Color rose in his neck. “It got nothing to do with murder. Okay, yeah, I got a temper. Yes, I made a fool of myself with the professor—he made me so mad.”
“I believe you,” I repeated.
Suddenly his face fell as he brushed away tears. Embarrassed, he shielded his face with both hands. He slipped down in his seat. “What’s gonna happen to me?”
The front door opened, the sound of laughing voices filling the room. An old woman, a younger man and woman. The laughter stopped when they noticed Hank and me sitting with Dustin. The man grunted, nudged the old woman who tottered, leaned on her cane, but shot him a mean look.
“Company,” the man said.
Dustin whispered, unhappy, “My Mom. Brother Thang—Timmy. His wife, Rosie.” He jumped up, performed almost a benedictory half-bow, then rushed away. Within seconds we could hear a door at the back of the apartment closing quietly, the sound of a latch.
“I’m Rick Van Lam,” I said to the old woman.
His mother, doubtless. A woman in her sixties who appeared much older. Small and skinny like her son, but shriveled, her prune face a continent of deep wrinkles. She stepped closer, squinting through myopic eyes concealed behind thick magnifying glasses as she balanced herself on a cane. Wobbly, she grasped the edge of a shelf. Close-cropped white hair mostly hidden beneath a frayed knit cap. When she looked at me, she offered a slight, confused smile, and I noticed a missing front tooth.
“He told me you would be here,” she said in thick Vietnamese I had trouble understanding.
“If we could talk…”
But the man interrupted, his voice gruff. “The police been here. He explained.” The he was Dustin.
Dustin’s fortyish brother was no reflection of Dustin—nor the mother. Short but thick, a flabby stomach over spindly legs. Close-cropped military hair with the hint of a light green tattoo on the side of his neck. He glanced at the woman with him, also short and chubby, with long uncombed hair, an enormous winter parka doubling her size. She mumbled something to him in Spanish and he rolled his eyes.
“We’re not the police,” Hank explained, which of course was not exactly true…
The couple had walked in loaded down with packages. Christmas shopping, I could tell. A board game sticking out of the Toys R Us bag. A Sears bag. Target. Long rolls of wrapping paper—cartoonish Christmas trees, snowflakes, jolly Santas. Dustin’s mother motioned to a side table, and Timmy put down the packages, sighing as he did so. For a moment mother and son talked in broken English about something that happened while shopping, with muttered interjections from Rosie. Some insult, some muttered slight by a cashier. “Piece of trash, she was,” Rosie commented.
Hank and I exchanged looks, uncertain what was happening.
Then, almost on cue, the three turned as a body and faced us.
“He didn’t kill no one,” the old woman said loudly in English.
“I believe that,” I began, “but…”
“So it should be over.” Flat out, a dip of her head.
“It’s not that easy,” Hank added.
She held up her cane, punctuating the air with it. “Over. We want to be left alone.” She muttered in Vietnamese at us, “Khong phai chuyen cua an.”
This was none of our business.
“What would you have us do?” I asked in English.
“It’ll go away.” She sighed. “He brings trouble, always.” Then in Vietnamese, “Khong ra gi.”
Good for nothing.
“Always?” From Hank.
That same weird smile. “Always.” Then back to Vietnamese. “The day he is born out on the highway. That night I dream of a life that stops.”
“What she saying?” Rosie asked her husband sharply. “You know I hate it when she does that.”
He puffed out his cheeks. his eyes flashing anger. “It ain’t nothing. The kid, that’s all.”
“He ain’t a kid,” Rosie told him.
“Timmy,” I interrupted purposely, “what do you think about Dustin’s problem? You must have given it some thought, no?”
“No.” He acted surprised that I addressed him, question in his voice.
“No?”
“I don’t know nothing about it. He hides in his room.”
“You want his name cleared, right?” From Hank.
“She”—he pointed at his mother—“says he ain’t done it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know nothing about him.”
Rosie’s voice ran over her husband’s w
ords, glancing first at me, then at Hank. “You see what he did? He’s a ghost here. Hides in his room.”
The old woman mumbled, “We don’t want to see us no more on TV.” She pointed to the big-screen TV.
“The Reverend Simms named him.”
She shook her head sadly. “A good man, that one. But a mistake to do that. Neighbors knock on our door. They throw stones on the doorstep. Reverend Simms is a child of God. Blesses us. He says Anh Ky is touched by the devil—that’s why it all happened.” She leaned toward Hank, confidential. “A foolish boy, a liar. He was supposed to know what to do. I ask him one time.” She stressed the words. “One time. Behave—no trouble. The boy who broke my body. One time.” She actually screamed out. “Good for nothing. Breaks the dreams in half.”
“What are you talking about?” Hank asked.
She waved a dismissive hand at him. “Nothing. Trouble in the house. He walks around like trouble.”
With that she turned and hobbled into the kitchen. Timmy and Rosie followed, picking up the packages from the side table. From where I sat I could see them peering inside, emptying the contents onto the kitchen table, commenting, even laughing.
We were forgotten.
“Time to leave,” I told Hank.
No one said a word as we walked out, Hank fuming and looking back over his shoulder. “What the hell’s the problem with them?”
I flicked my head back toward the doorway. “Dustin is a ghost it that house. That was one of the truest things told to us.”
Hank spoke bitterly. “That’s why he hides away.”
“A mother’s love.”
“Mistake boy.”
“Sad.” I shook my head. “The winter apple.”