Child of My Winter

by Andrew Lanh

  I pulled my car into the back lot of the Binh home, a haphazardly plowed narrow lot, parked it alongside an old Chevy up on cinder blocks. Rusted fenders and open windows—snow and old tires filled the back seat.

  The house sloped down to the right, so that the owners had converted the basement into a walk-out apartment, its unshoveled sidewalk hazardous with packed-down snow and patches of frozen ice. A plastic snow shovel rested against a cellar doorway.

  Aunt Suong opened the door before I could knock, a worried look on her face. “You are Vietnamese?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She was confused. “Yes, but those blue eyes. The…”

  “My father was white.”

  “No one told us.”

  “Is it important?”

  She faltered. “Of course not.” A nervous glance over her shoulder. “Come in. Please.”

  A tiny woman, bony, stoop-shouldered, with a gaunt, long face with high cheekbones. Large dark eyes, alert and wary, clashed with her small mouth. A feeble smile revealed glittery false teeth. Salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a careless clump at the back, secured with a red ribbon. She shuffled as she walked, her shoulders rocking back and forth. Maybe in her mid-sixties, maybe older.

  “Sit here.” She pointed to a worn sofa under the South Vietnamese flag tacked to a plaster wall. Left and right of it hung tourist-market pastels of old Saigon. A small, dank room, low-ceilinged, with a run of exposed pipes overhead. I sensed the weight of three floors above this cavern. Only one lamp was on, which threw most of the room into shadow. Scatter rugs covered a black-and-white tile floor. A stingy world. Gorky’s lower depths. Purgatory.

  She called out. “He’s here.”

  I looked toward a small hallway that led to a kitchen and a bedroom. Leaning against a wall was a wheelchair and a pair of crutches. She followed my gaze.

  “My husband suffers still.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “A moment in time and you pay for it forever.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. But I soon heard the labored steps of Uncle Binh, a pitter-patter sound of a child learning to walk. He paused in the doorway as he held the doorjamb, caught his breath, and nodded at me. “Mr. Lam.” He spoke in Vietnamese. “Xin chao.” Hello.

  I answered him, returning the greeting and adding my thanks. “Cam on.” I waited a second. “Ban co biet noi tieng Anh knong?” Do you speak English?

  Aunt Suong was surprised. “You speak…”

  “A little.” I shrugged.

  “A language that breaks my heart.” Her lips quivered.

  Binh took small difficult steps into the room, finally settling himself slowly into a side chair. He grunted, exhausted.

  “Some days are worse than others.” He had a thick accent, almost impenetrable, and finally drifted into Vietnamese. “Ai bao troi khong co mat.” A bitter laugh as he offered his own English translation. “It is easy to forget that God can see you.”

  Aunt Suong mumbled something about hot tea—“Of course, tea, of course”— and moved toward the kitchen. She returned with a tray and poured tea into small decorated Chinese cups. I thanked her. Jasmine tea, strong, fragrant. The whole time Uncle Binh said nothing, staring at me over tented fingers held in front of his chin.

  Like his wife, Binh was tiny, barely five feet tall, with the same drawn look in his eyes. But he had a flat moon face, a round head on a skinny neck, so that he seemed in danger of having his head wobble, fall like a balloon loosed from a string. Cheap green work pants, a blue denim shirt. On his head the red beret I associated with soldiers of the failed republic. But battered now, stained.

  “Drafts,” he said, a wheezing smile. “I carried it with me the day we fled.”

  Suong shook her head. “Foolish.”

  He shot her a look that was more indifferent than angry.

  “You live close to your sister-in-law,” I said to Binh. “A few streets away.”

  Suong answered me. “Section 8 housing. Poor people.”

  Binh narrowed his eyes. “You got to live somewhere.”

  “Are you a close family?”

  “Yes. Who else do we have?” Suong waved her fingers in the air.

  Binh’s voice suddenly got strong. “It’s our hope to die in Vietnam. To return to the village of my father…”

  Suong smiled. “All of our dream. Of course.”

  Binh continued, “It would be nice if, like Russia, the Commies fail.”

  “You can return now,” I said. “Vietnam is open to travel—to returning…” I stopped because Binh was shaking his head.

  “Ah, yes,” Binh sneered. “But the Communists still rule, though they can’t rule over a dead man in the family graveyard. My dead body has no politics.”

  “True,” I agreed. “But…”

  “Of course, I cannot wear my uniform.” He pointed to a far wall lost in shadows, where I could see a green uniform hanging off a hook. “I can still fit into it.” A laugh that dissolved into choking that went on too long. He straightened himself in the chair. “Somehow my uniformed body will thumb my nose at the Commies. A senior officer, you know. I worked with Westmoreland.”

  “When do you plan to return?”

  They nodded at each other, and Suong answered. “Someday.”

  “Relatives there?”

  “Everybody has relatives there.” Peeved at the question, she looked at her husband. “Everybody. Cousins in his village. Near mine. Outside Vung Tao. Neighbors. A struggling life there, everybody in one house. The Northerners permit that.”

  Binh was fussing. “But…peaceful. Quiet. The water buffalo in the morning. Afternoons under the banyan trees. Laughter. Families smile at each other, bring children into the world and then watch the old people die happy.”

  I waited a moment. “I hope you get your dream.”

  Suong’s voice had an edge. “It isn’t hope, Mr. Lam—it’s fact. We will return.”

  Binh pointed to the kitchen, lost in darkness. “Buddha is the answer. We suffer here”—his hand swept the room—“suffering, suffering. The pain in my body from the American machine that fell on me. But Buddha answers.” Again he pointed.

  High in a corner of the kitchen, murky in shadows, an obligatory shrine to Buddha. A shaft of light from a window in the room illuminated the head of a plaster Buddha, disembodied, lost in clouds.

  Suong smiled at me. “Our Buddha talks to us.” She paused, lapsed into Vietnamese: “Cai kho lo cai khon. You understand?”

  I nodded. “Suffering will bring wisdom.” I sat back, sipped the tea. “Dustin.” I paused. “Anh Ky.”

  “Madness.” Suong threw out the word, her English shrill.

  “Why are you doing this?” From Binh.

  Flummoxed, I stared into his face. “You mean investigating?”

  He fluttered his hands. “What is going on? Our family is caught in this…”

  “Madness,” Suong finished again, an English word completing his Vietnamese sentence.

  “I want to prove your nephew innocent of murder.”

  “Murder,” Suong screeched. “That boy? Are you crazy?”

  Uncle Binh cleared his throat. “You know, we don’t understand this…this thing. Who is this teacher that died?”

  “Ben Winslow. And he was murdered.”

  “Yes, yes.” Suong rushed her words. “But the police come to their house, and they scare her. She runs to us for help. They tear apart the place.”

  “Well, Dustin—Anh Ky—had been having a fight with the professor. Some disagreement.”

  “And you kill a teacher for that?” Binh’s words ended in a raspy cough.

  “Dustin won’t say what the fight was about.”

  Suong shrugged. “Maybe it was nothing. A grade on a paper.”r />
  I sipped my tea. “Dustin has conflicting stories. He’s lying to the cops. To me.”

  Binh swallowed. “A boy that’s trouble.” His eyes rested on the wheelchair as he sighed deeply.

  “How?” A trace of anger crept into my voice.

  He shrugged. “You know. He comes out of nowhere, born out of nowhere.”

  “His mother Mai goes into labor during a snowstorm, no midwife like before, the old days…and…”

  “And her husband dies on the highway.” Uncle Binh’s fingers stroked his chin.

  “Not Dustin’s fault.”

  “A mistake baby.” He shot a glance at his wife.

  “I’m tired of hearing that,” I said hotly. “He’s an intelligent, clever boy.”

  Suong raised her hand in my face as she chuckled. “We were surprised he went to school.”

  “You mean the college?”

  Binh spoke in English, his accent thicker now. “No one ever sees him.”

  I waited a heartbeat. “That’s true. No one ever does see him.”

  Suong weighed my words, then said, “He runs from the house. School, he finds a job, he hides in the library all night. He locks himself in his bedroom. Like a criminal.”

  “He earned himself a scholarship.”

  Her wave dismissed that fact. “Yes, his high school pushed that for him. And now he is mentioned on TV. Like on Cops. The face of evil. In the newspaper we do not read. Pictures of the police at Mai’s house. The world upside down.”

  “If you could get Dustin to tell us—tell the cops—what was going on.”

  A harsh laugh from Suong. “You think we got power over that boy?”

  “What do you want from me?” I asked finally, finishing the last of my tea. “You asked me to come here today.”

  They exchanged looks, then Suong said slowly, “Make this go away. First, you stop…pushing that boy. With your questions. Your friend, the state cop. Police everywhere. His mother comes to us for answers. You—tell them to—stop.”

  “I can’t do that.” I waited a second. “Don’t you want his name cleared?”

  Suong squeaked out, her English almost unintelligible, “But he didn’t do nothing. No name to clear.”

  “That’s not how it works. The police…”

  Smugly, a breathy voice. “Will find the killer. Not you.”

  “I’m not tracking a killer. I’m trying to clear that boy.”

  “What’s the difference?” From Binh, agitated.

  Soung’s voice was sharp, her face contorted. “His mother, you know, is a fool. She expects a son to be a son. Dutiful. Good. Not…this.” She stood up and disappeared into the bedroom, returning with a small sheaf of flyers. “This.”

  She handed me a flyer from the Gospel of Wealth Ministry. Expensive paper, glossy, a toothsome smile on the Reverend Simms’ fat face.

  “What?” I asked. “What are you telling me?”

  Her voice rippled with laughter. “We go to this big church. The three of us. Mai, Anh Ky’s mother. Us. We find strange comfort there. We are Buddhists”—a nod in the direction of the shrine—“and that is our heart. But the minister comforts. A whole lot of Vietnamese go, sit in a group.”

  “I’m not following this? You follow Buddha and Jesus Christ.”

  “The Reverend Simms says there is no problem. One the path to peace, the other the path to heaven. Suffering, then peace.”

  I stared at the flyer in my hand. “He said that if Dustin killed Ben it was the work of goodness, God’s hand striking down the Satanic infidel.”

  “It has to go away.” Finality in Binh’s words. He closed his eyes as though it would all disappear. “Nobody knocking on their door.”

  “This!” yelled Suong, pointing to the words on the flyer. “This is what comes of that murder. Anh Ky on TV. This new flyer!”

  I read: “The Enemy Outside, the Enemy Within: Satan’s Henchman Slain by the Sword of God.”

  “Lord,” I said under my breath.

  “Yes, yes.” Suong pushed the paper at me. “Take it, take it. You see what we mean? This coming Saturday night he gives a sermon on that teacher’s murder. His enemy. A man who attacked him for years. Mocked his ministry.” A weary sigh that was almost a sob. “We are afraid he will mention Anh Ky again. Our family dragged through the dirt. Fingers that point. We are afraid of that.”

  “Will you go?” I asked.

  Binh flicked his eyes. “Yes, maybe. If he sees us—our faces—maybe he will not shame us.”

  I tucked the flyer into my breast pocket. “He promises to make the poor rich.”

  “Hope.” From Binh.

  Suong leaned into me, her palms out, a plea. “Disgrace for our family. We have so little but—pride. Do you see that?”

  A sharp rat-a-tat on the door, but only I jumped. Neither moved, but the door swung open. Two men walked in. I recognized Timmy, Dustin’s married brother. Another man behind him, shorter, but pushing against Timmy’s back.

  Without saying a word, both men slipped into chairs and focused on me. “You again?” From Timmy, a smile on his face.

  “Timmy.”

  “You remember my name?”

  “Yes.” I checked out the other man. “And you must be Hiep.”

  A cigarette grunt. “Hollis.” A cough. “Yeah.”

  Timmy grumbled at his aunt, “Didn’t know you got company.”

  Suong’s voice was wispy. “We called him. You know…to stop…”

  “Bullshit.” Timmy pounded a fist into his palm. “You fuckin’ crazy? Butting in our business.”

  I kept still, watching the brothers. Timmy’s enormous belly peeked out of his flannel shirt. A cheap plaid jacket tight in the shoulders. But Hollis was rail thin, wiry, with a ferret’s narrow pointed face and dull dark eyes. Sallow skin, someone who shunned sunlight. A neck plastered with prison tattoos. Some sort of Chinese symbol over an eyebrow. He wore an unzipped parka over a T-shirt, and his wrists, exposed, revealed a wealth of zigzag tattoos.

  “Your little brother…” I began, but stopped, alarmed by Hollis’ contorted face.

  “A piece of shit, that fucker.” Hollis’ voice was mechanical, dragging. Said, the words seemed to make him smile, and I saw broken teeth. He reached into a pocket and took out a cigarette, snapped on a lighter. Smoke covered his face.

  “Hiep,” Suong pleaded, “I told you—not in the house…no.”

  He ignored her. He blew a smoke ring into the air, watched it. “I ain’t allowed in mom’s house, so you gotta put up with all my vices.”

  Timmy waved away smoke that blew in his face. “Anh Ky is trouble. Always.”

  “Did he ever tell you about his beef with Professor Winslow?”

  Hollis snickered. “Who the hell talks to that boy? I ain’t heard nothing.” Hollis widened his eyes. “Fuck him.”

  Suong was waiting to speak. “You see, Mr. Lam, what has happened in America? The children become godless. They curse.” She shook her hand at Hollis who muttered under his breath.

  “But not Dustin,” I said purposely.

  “The most godless of them all.”

  “He doomed this family,” Timmy said.

  Hollis was nodding. “Look around you, man. Look around this fleabag of a place. Some families is…like they’re doomed. It’s the way it is.”

  “I don’t buy that.”

  He sneered at me. “I don’t give a fuck what you buy.”

  Timmy spoke over his words. “They”—he pointed at his aunt and uncle—“they rush to that money-bags preacher and think money will flow into their pockets. Look around you.”

  Suong protested. “Comfort, that Reverend Simms.”

  “If you want money you gotta get it yourself. God ain’t gonna help you.”

  Uncle Binh was listeni
ng to all this, but nervously, his arm twitching, and his jaw kept dropping. His eyes watery, he breathed in. “Stop this. All of you. “ He narrowed his eyes at Hollis. “Yeah, what you got—jail for selling drugs on the corner.”

  Hollis was unfazed. Idly, he blew smoke rings into the air.

  Suong, flustered, stood up quickly, rocked left, then right, then said angrily, “A family is never doomed.”

  “You got that wrong.” Hollis was actually smiling.

  Suong was becoming increasingly nervous. “Maybe you have to leave now.”

  I stood up. “I still don’t know why you asked me here.”

  For the first time her voice got ugly. “To stop this. You know the police. Tell them to stop talking to Anh Ky.” Her voice broke at the end.

  Hollis watched me. Absently, he scratched his chest through his shirt. His head jerked back and forth. Like a meth user, I thought.

  He pointed a finger at me. “Doomed.” He started to laugh.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dustin Trang surprised me. Sitting in the adjunct faculty office, I’d been dreamily marking final exams, getting ready to leave to do some Christmas shopping, when I heard the tentative knock. Dustin was standing on one foot, balancing himself, adjusting the book bag on his shoulders, while curiously picking lint off the ratty sweater he wore.

  “I finished my final exam with Professor Laramie.”

  I waited. He watched me, one nervous finger still picking at the fabric.

  “Is that your last one?”

  “They don’t want me here on campus.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Everybody looks at me, you know. People stop walking to watch me.”

  “Come in.”

  He moved by me and took a seat. Strangely, he kept his book bag slung over his shoulder, forcing him to sit awkwardly, his body tipped to the side. His winter coat was open, a pair of gloves protruding from one pocket, a knit cap stuck in the other.

  He avoided me, his eyes sailing left, then right, unable to focus.