by Andrew Lanh
“We won’t wait for the others,” Hank’s mother said, glancing at the clock.
Hank’s father and Grandpa. Since her husband retired as a factory laborer at Manchester Tool & Die, he’d discovered other cronies at Minh Le’s Bar and Pool Hall on Park Street in Little Saigon, a dusty old tavern where he talked for hours with other retired Vietnamese, Laotian, and Cambodian foundry workers. Never a social man in his working days, in retirement he’d found a crowd. He’d forget to look at the clock.
So the four of us sat at a kitchen table covered with a slick, pristine oilcloth, crinkly at the corners but now loaded down with bowls of bun. Grandma served goi cuon first, prepared earlier, luscious cylinders of shrimp, pork, chives, and mint encased in a thin rice wrapper. Dipped in thick hoisin and peanut sauce, the summer rolls thrilled with each bite, the taste of mint taking you away from the winter outside your door. Hank used chopsticks to stir a dollop of hot sauce into his dipping sauce. I never did.
“Coward,” he threw at me.
“You leave him alone.” Grandma smiled at me. “When Hank was a boy, he put hot sauce on everything. Even…what do you call that bread? Wonder Bread?”
“I did not,” Hank laughed. “Only sometimes. Rarely.” A pause. “Only when I had to.”
“The house is quiet now,” I said to his mother. “Now that the kids are gone.”
She looked sad. Hank’s younger siblings were at school—his sister finishing a scholarship program at a prep school, preamble to her first year at the Rhode Island School of Design. His younger brother was now a freshman at the University of Connecticut. This week his major was chemical engineering. Last week it was biology.
Grandma answered. “A house needs young folks running around. Now all you hear is my old bones cracking and the wheeze of old men.”
“Grandma,” Hank began, sitting back and placing his chopsticks across the top of his bowl, “tell Rick about the Trangs. I told him you know them.”
“Know of them,” she corrected. “I know them the way we all know each other. All of us fleeing Vietnam. All of us dazed as we met each other in the marketplace.” She smiled. “All of us shell-shocked from the bombing, suddenly standing in the aisles of Stop & Shop and”—she changed to English—“crying because we didn’t know how to buy a chicken.”
“But you met Uncle Binh. Even Anh Ky’s mother?”
Hank’s mother was making a tsking sound. “His mother. Ngo Thi Mai. A sad story, that one.”
Grandma sighed. “You have to understand how it was back then. The end of the war. Here we are—1975 maybe, up to 1980, one horrible year after another. We are in America—scared of the streets. But the Trang clan was”—again the drift to English—“how you say, celebrities.” Back to Vietnamese: “Uncle Binh, the hero. The decorated hero of the South Vietnamese army. He walks around the camp in Guam in his uniform. The stars on his shoulders. His head thrown back. The man who worked with Westmoreland.” She pronounced it: Oet-mo-len.
Hank was baffled. “But I don’t understand what happened to them?”
Grandma clicked her tongue. “You stop living.”
“But why?” From Hank.
Grandma fiddled with her chopsticks, tapping them on the edge of her bowl. “You see, the rush of folks out of Vietnam—the craziness of that April day in 1975—helicopters and planes and boats—screaming, crying. We struggled out, we paid gold coins for a boat to Hong Kong, we all ended up in Guam, stunned, numb. But folks like the Trangs were taken out without—without tears.”
“But they must have been sad to leave,” Hank said.
“Yes,” Grandma said hurriedly. “Of course. Tears to leave behind the only world you know. We all cried—we’re human. Tears from panic, fright, gunshots, bombs, limbs lost. But the Americans flew out Uncle Binh because he was a high-ranked man. He and his family. His wife. His brother and his family. That is, Anh Ky’s father.”
“How did they make it to Hartford?”
Hank’s mother answered. “Most went to California, of course. Camp Pendleton, the first stop. Some to other camps. But so many…everyone tried to get sponsors. We had cousins in Connecticut. So, I guess, did the Trang clan. Connections.”
Grandma added, “They lived for a while on Park Street. Little Saigon. But…how do I say this? They weren’t in America.”
“I don’t understand.” I stared into her face.
Grandma shook her head back and forth. “Their souls stayed behind in Vietnam. The meat of their bones. A rich, good life there. Mangoes fell from the trees into their palms. The servant girl hands you lotus tea. You get used to that life. A good life. And the American military there added this pleasure to their lives, that reward, this bit of candy and spice and beautiful silk ao dai.” She chuckled to herself. “But here in America they got frozen dinners and people who pointed at them and cursed.”
“But I still don’t see how they fell—I don’t know—from that kind of grace.” I glanced at Hank.
Grandma’s voice got soft. “You see, they sat in America and waited for the Communists to fail in the homeland. They believed they would go back when Uncle Ho’s cruel world ended—when the Viet Cong found God. Wisdom. Penitence. Jesus. The better nature of loving Buddha. Their eyes long for the old village.”
“So they waited…”
“And waited,” Grandma went on. “Uncle Binh would fly to San Jose, to the big Vietnamese colonies on the West Coast. He’d wear his uniform and march with the other military men in a parade, the South Vietnamese flag flying. The red beret on his head. The men marched while the women stood on the sidelines and cried. Vietnam on the Pacific.”
“Or applauded,” Hank’s mother added. “The women applauded.”
“There was even a rumor that Uncle Binh was somehow involved in the invasion of Vietnam through Thailand by some refugees and American military. All secret. All failing. Men captured, tortured, killed.”
“I know,” I said. “A number of attempts to invade or to find MIAs. American congressmen led campaigns, dropping leaflets. Vietnamese-based operations from America. Exiled soldiers moving through the mountains. A disaster.”
“Yes, a sad time. The Communists stay in power.”
“But I still don’t see why the family ended up in a housing project. In poverty.”
Grandma’s voice got sad. “I told you.” She said in English. “Frozen.”
“Frozen?”
“America is not a country they live in. They live under America. Their dreams are all back in Vietnam.”
“But decades have passed.”
Hank’s mother summed up: “After a while, doing nothing is all you know how to do.”
“And the government pays you to do that,” Grandma remarked. “Look at other Vietnamese refugees. Look at their children. One generation. Harvard. Yale. Doctors. Lawyers. These are children of poor people who carried nothing with them to America.” She paused. “Except hope.”
Hank’s mother made a face. “And some become state police, so that their mothers toss and turn in bed all night long.”
“I carry a gun, Mom,” Hank said with a smile.
“And this is supposed to make me feel good?”
Grandma was listening closely. “No matter. These children make their own lives.”
“But Dustin’s mother, Ngo Thi Mai, even Uncle Binh, had misfortune.”
“Yes, that car crash. Yes, Uncle Binh works at a factory and a machine falls on him. But the car crash was—what? Two decades ago. When little Anh Ky was born. That’s twenty years or so after they arrive in America. The stunned life began right away. The accident just gave them a reason to curse God.”
Grandma nodded at the shrine high on a kitchen shelf: porcelain Buddha and the Plaster-of-Paris Virgin Mary, fresh blood-red oranges, joss sticks, a few dried palms from Palm Sunday Mass. A bowl of water. A family of Bu
ddhists and Catholics living under one roof.
“What about Dustin’s older brothers?” I asked.
Hank jumped in. “Yes. Hiep and Thang.”
“They gave themselves American names,” Hank’s mother said. “Hollis and Timmy. Who know where they got those names? Even Anh Ky became Dustin. A name no one has ever heard of.”
“I met Timmy. Thang. Married to a Spanish woman.”
Grandma nodded. “The gossips in A Dong talk of them. A drifter, that one, but I understand a decent father. His wife, a woman called Rosie, she’s had to raise their kids on her own salary from McDonald’s. A struggle.”
“And the other brother?” I asked.
Grandma actually shivered. “Hiep. Hollis. A petty thief, I hear. The gossips in the market whisper—drugs. He was caught once or twice. In jail. Or out of jail. Out of jail now but not for long. His mother is afraid of him, so they tell me. He stole from her purse. She won’t let him in the apartment. At A Dong market she was crying in the aisle.”
“And what about Anh Ky?” I said.
“The baby nobody wanted,” Grandma said sadly.
“And I bet he was told that over and over.”
Grandma dipped her head into her chest. “When he was born and her husband was killed, she was alone with Hiep and Thang. Two wild teenagers, out of control. A little baby that cried all night. Grieving, she slept all day. The baby lay in its filth all night.”
“How do you know this?” Hank asked skeptically.
Grandma’s voice rose. “You think we all didn’t talk then. Uncle Binh’s fame in Saigon—the way he strutted in Guam—made them the subject of talk—jealousy at first, then…then mockery. ‘See how they fall in America?’ That kind of remark.”
Hank’s mother frowned. “She asked the state to take the baby away.”
My jaw dropped. “Adoption?”
She waved her hands in the air. “It was a scandal we all talked of. She called people I knew, other mothers in Little Saigon. Childless families. A baby for you. Come, take him. Like you had a litter of puppies.”
“No one took her up on it, I bet.” Hank’s face was red.
His mother nodded.
Grandma poured more tea, stared into the cup. “One time I saw her, it must have been fifteen years back, a Tet Festival at the VFW Hall. They show up, Uncle Binh in his tattered uniform. He marches in. His wife in a stained ao dai dress. Little Anh Ky was maybe three or so, tagging after his mother, pulling at her hem. Burying his scared face in her dress.”
“Trying to get her attention?”
“I guess so.”
“What did she do?”
“She ignored him. She made a joke to other women that made no one laugh. She pointed at her boy. ‘Ah, the morning sickness that stays with me forever.’”
“Good Lord,” I swore.
Hank summed up, “And he’s probably still trying to get her attention to this day. To please her. Trang Anh Ky, cipher in the corner. ‘More gruel, Mr. Bumble.’”
“And it never works,” his mother said sharply. “Little Trang.”
While we were talking, the kitchen door opened, and Grandpa and Hank’s father walked in. They paused on the threshold, watching, listening as Hank’s mother repeated her lament—“Little Trang”—and I heard Grandpa emit a low, muttered “Damn.” But that was his gift to me, I knew, though it was said less convincingly than had been the case for years. Just as Hank’s father had softened his dislike of impurities gracing his homestead—sipping blackberry wine on a hot summer night, we’d have long, aimless talks about homeland politics, the homeland being Vietnam—Grandpa would nod at me, acknowledge me, and one time even shook my hand. The earth moved. Planets spun out of their orbits. Hank gurgled with pleasure.
Saying nothing, Hank’s mother immediately began assembling bowls of bun, rushing to the counter and dipping vermicelli noodles into a pot of water kept at low boil.
Grandpa, shaking his head, mumbled something about not being hungry and began shuffling toward the hallway.
But Hank’s father wore a faraway look. “Trang,” he echoed.
His wife’s brow furrowed. “We are talking of the…accusations against the boy. The story in the paper.”
He cleared his throat. “I heard you. Why do you talk about failure?”
Grandma spoke into the silence. “Rick is trying to save the boy from jail.”
“Maybe he belongs there.” He slid into a chair, hunched over the table, and fiddled with a pair of chopsticks. Under the overhead light his balding head gleamed.
I hesitated, but spoke up. “I want to make sure he’s judged fairly.”
He scoffed. “Fairly?” He punched the air. A chopstick fell out of his grasp, clattered to the floor. He pointed to the refrigerator, and his wife scurried to get him a Budweiser.
“How well do you know the Trangs?” I asked.
He waited a second, watched his wife pop the tab. “Years go by. Nothing. A chance meeting at a Tet Festival maybe.” Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Uncle Binh. The evil patriot.”
“What?” From Hank.
He took a swig of Budweiser, grunted his satisfaction. “The hero in the uniform. Captain from the military. Each time he talked about it, he was closer and closer to Westmoreland. An acquaintance, a friend, a loyal confidant.” A harsh laugh. “Blood brothers maybe. Slicing a finger and watching the blood flow into each other’s life.”
“Dad,” Hank began, “you don’t like him?”
“A schemer, that one. How to get your hands on the gold. You know what we called him. I was in the army, too, but lowly, a grunt. We called him Buddha for Hire.”
“Meaning?”
“Pockets filled with gold coins. ‘A gift from Buddha,’ he whispered. ‘Because I honor him.’ The best persimmons in the marketplace. The only slab of dried beef during the lean days at the end. ‘I work for Buddha.’” He swallowed. “Buddha for hire. A greedy man.”
A rustling from the hallway, Grandpa shuffling in, his face set in a scowl. He’d been listening to his son’s condemning words.
“A hero,” the man began. He eyed his son, his gaze hard. “To speak like you do.” He spat out, “Im di!” Shut up.
His son faltered. “I was in the army with him.”
The old man shuddered. “I don’t care. A man who fought against the Cong. Uncle Ho’s torture.” Now he faced me, his face trembling. “Easy to forget the ugliness. Hanging by your feet. Bleeding. Scrunched in bamboo cages that wouldn’t hold a small monkey.”
“Grandpa,” Hank broke in, “that was long ago.”
He yelled at his grandson. “That was yesterday. Today.”
“You knew the family?” I asked, curious.
“Uncle Binh and his wife were from a village a few kilometers from Vung Tau, two hours from Saigon. His brother’s family, too. We—we—were in Saigon, but when the North overran us like animals breaking free in the barnyard, Binh went and got his brother’s family. Americans swept through there, then the Cong. Bloodbath. A burnt-out village.”
“And now?” I asked him. “What’s left there?”
He debated what to answer. Then, quietly, “Cousins and aunts, maybe an old aunt, now living in one house. The Commies gave them one house. A meager farm. Binh sends money back. What little he has. We all do. We send money back. He has to. We have to. Packages of medicine. Bayer’s Aspirin.”
Hank questioned his grandmother. “That’s what you mean—their eyes still long for that village?”
But Grandpa answered. “They think it’s still a place with jack fruit toppling into your lap. The lazy afternoon eating chicken and crunching the bones underfoot. Peace. You know, when I saw Uncle Binh in Little Saigon, maybe four, five years back, he talked of the village, of wanting to die there. His dust mingled with his ancestors. But I felt sorry
for him. What about the present? I wanted to say—you live like a mole under America. You are a hero. You fought…”
Hank’s mom was in a hurry to say something. “I don’t understand about the boy. The trouble now. Anh Ky. This…Dustin.”
Grandpa blew out his lips in a dismissive gesture. “He made the mistake of being born in a world they didn’t live in.”
“What does that mean?” From Hank, frustrated.
“It means, when they look at him, they see America.”
“So what?” Hank said, furious.
“That’s not a country they live in.”
“But neither is the Vietnam of their memories,” Hank said.
“Try telling them that.”
Chapter Thirteen
Something caught my attention as I stepped out of my car after I pulled into a space in front of Brasso’s Luncheonette. A busy intersection, cars jammed at a light, but from one street over a squeaky ka-clunk ka-clunk ka-clunk from a passing car. Every few seconds, a rhythm. No big deal, but the sound, mixed with the other sounds of the street, made me realize I’d heard it earlier that day. Stopping at the market down on Main, rushing in, I’d heard that same annoying repetition: ka-clunk ka-clunk ka-chunk. I’d paid it no mind but now, already late for my lunch with Liz, there it was again.
Glancing toward a side street that ran parallel to where I parked, I caught the glimpse of an old car slinking by slowly. An unrecognizable dark car except for a right-hand passenger door painted with white primer. Ka-clunk.
Bothered, I hopped back into my car, steered into traffic, and rounded the corner. Cold out, I nevertheless rolled down my window and listened. Vaguely, I heard the sound up ahead. I followed. Nothing. Stuck at a light, I thought I heard it in the distance, but wondered: What am I doing? I tracked back, circled the block, but found nothing.
My phone beeped. Liz, texting:
Where R U? I’m here waiting. Everyone’s late. I saw you parking then nothing. Off you go.