The Unwanted

by Kien Nguyen

  The old wizard's words were true. The nasty wound healed a few weeks later, but her foot shrank down to the size of a twig, black and lifeless. The cancer, however, had spread to her internal organs. For the remainder of her days, my grandmother lay in bed, staring past the window into space. It was as if a part of her mind had died before her body had time to give up.

  I EARNED MONEY by delivering fish from the seaport to the market after school. Jimmy's job was to gather firewood in the forest. In order to work and look after my sister at the same time, every afternoon I tied her to a post near the shore, despite her crying and pleading. At five years old, BeTi was slow-witted and skinny. Leaving her alone in the sand, I joined the crowd of children at the harbor, waiting for the fishing boats to return.

  After a captain hired me for his boat, I ran down to its stern, where the fish were piled up on the deck. A seaman shoveled the fish into a large black lacquered basket then lifted it and balanced it on my head. Fish blood and salty seawater would gush from the holes in the basket, running down my back, and dripping out through the hem of my shorts. Staggering away from the boat, I pushed the other kids aside to get to the street, watching my sister from out of the corner of my eye. A good day or a bad day depended on how large the catch was, and how many other children I had to compete with for the job. The market was just about two blocks away. Sometimes if I was lucky, I could deliver up to four loads of fish. At the end of the day, I went back to the head fisherman for my pay, and rushed home to prepare dinner for my family.

  One afternoon, as I balanced a large fish basket on my head, I saw a girl leaning over my sister, unhooking the rope that bound BeTi's hands to the wooden pole. She must have been fourteen or fifteen, and she wore a sleeveless blouse as red as blood. I walked over to them, and I couldn't help noticing that the skin on the girl's neck was smooth and white like lotus blooms.

  “What do you think you are doing?” I barked at her, as ferociously as I could.

  The girl looked up. Her eyes were bright and huge in her delicate face. Her long, jet-black hair fell over her face. She closed her eyes to think before responding, and the ocean, the blue sky, and the bustle of the docks faded in my mind. As I watched her pink lips, like rose petals, the heavy basket and its foul odor no longer seemed to exist.

  “You can't tie her hands like that,” she said to me. “It's so cruel.” Her voice was harsh with the thick, nasal Hanoi accent. Everyone in the south despised the inflection of the North Vietnamese, as it represented all the repressions of Communism. But to my ears, a songbird could not have sounded sweeter.

  I stammered, “But if I don't, she would wander away and get lost.”

  “In that case, I'll stay around and watch her for you.”

  “You can't do that! You don't know us,” I said.

  She laughed, showing me her white, straight teeth. “Actually, I do know you. I've seen you and your sister on the beach every day. Would you trust me more if I buy a tuna from you?”

  “I can't sell you these fish. They are not mine.”

  From his boat, a fishmonger called to me, “Hey, Curly. Get back to work!”

  “Go on,” the girl urged. “Don't worry about us! Your sister will be fine.”

  BeTi stared at me fearfully, her face swollen from crying. I turned away, embarrassed. As I walked down the street and headed to the market, I could hear them giggling together.

  When I returned to collect my sister, the girl in the red blouse was gone. The sun had set, and its pale purple rays shimmered over the waves. BeTi sat on the sand, eating a spring roll. She beamed at me with her toothless smile.

  “Where is your friend?” I asked BeTi.

  “Kim's gone,” my sister said. She raised her hand and opened her fingers, revealing an oily wrapper with another spring roll inside. “This is for you.”

  Kim. My mind echoed her name. I reached for my sister and lifted her up off the sandy beach. “Did she talk about me?” I asked BeTi.

  “Yes,” my sister said with excitement, “a lot.”

  1981

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  My grandmother stopped talking. The only sounds she made were moans. She barely recognized any members of her family. She stopped eating, except for a few drops of soup my grandfather forced down her throat. As she got sicker, her bladder and digestive tract stopped working. In bed, she passed her bodily wastes continuously. Nobody in my aunt's family helped us to take care of her. The stench of her illness became part of our existence.

  Even my mother's patience was challenged on numerous occasions. After being cleaned up, my grandmother would soil herself on her cheap tatami mat again. Sometimes I could hear my mother's frustrated scream from the front of the house, cursing my aunt's family for not helping her, and cursing my grandmother's cruelty for being alive in such a pitiful condition.

  My grandmother lay motionless for days, looking without recognition at my grandfather through her crusty eyelids. As she drifted away, an incessant stream of gibberish came out of her mouth. She grasped wildly at invisible objects. Jimmy and I sat on the floor a few meters away, watching her delirium, and wishing for death to take her quickly.

  One afternoon I came home from the seaport drenched in fish blood. As I walked through the thick, wild grass of my aunt's garden, I heard my grandmother calling for me. Her lucid voice surprised me, and I paused at her window to look inside.

  She was lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. Her hair was mostly gone, revealing her whitish, wrinkled scalp. She was naked. Her hands froze in midair, catching an invisible butterfly. She defecated, and her feces mixed with her urine to drip from her mat to the cement floor below. She lifted her head to meet my gaze, and her lips trembled as she called out my name.

  I wanted to rush to her side, but somehow my feet were buried deep in the ground. I wanted to call out for help, but the words were trapped inside my parched throat. I saw two lines of red ants along her legs, feeding on her flesh. Eerily, I wondered how long they had been there. Her eyes never left my face. Her voice weakened as she begged for my help. Her hands dropped down on top of her sagging breasts. Then, with one last, rasping breath, she was gone.

  I started to scream. At first, the cry that escaped my throat sounded like a broken duck whistle. I sucked in air and tried again. The next sound that came from my lungs was so foreign to my ears, I wondered if it belonged to someone else. Nevertheless, I couldn't stop.

  From her room, Moonlight ran outside. Seeing me at my grandmother's window with my finger pointing into her bedroom, she understood immediately. She, too, began to scream.

  The news of my grandmother's death spread through the village. My grandfather had gone out for his usual walk, and my mother was at the market. By the time they came back, a crowd had gathered in front of the compound. The news did not seem to surprise my grandfather. Without a word, he closed himself behind the bedroom door to be alone with the corpse. The rest of us stood outside and waited in silence. Nobody in either family shed a tear.

  Night was falling, and the sun melted over the red tile roofs. More and more people were coming to my house. The town commander came up behind my mother. His face was inches away from her hair.

  “I am so sorry about your loss,” he said to her. “We are here to help you with the funeral arrangements.”

  My mother didn't look up. “Thank you,” she muttered, “but we can manage. We wouldn't want to trouble you.”

  “No trouble at all. It is the town's responsibility to take care of its citizens. Your mother is a part of the community,” he said.

  “It's okay, sir.” My mother looked up. “You may be our community leader, but you have also worked so hard to relocate your wife and daughter from Hanoi. They are finally here after fifteen years. It's only right that you should be home celebrating with them. We can take care of our own misfortune.”

  My aunt interrupted, “Shut up, sister. Let the honorable comrade do his job.”

  “Your sister's
right.” The community leader looked hurt. “But if you don't want me here, I'll leave. It's been our country's tradition to pay respect to the dead. I've ordered the town to prepare for the ceremony. Tonight, I give everyone permission to help your family. You have my deepest sympathy and best wishes.” He turned and exited through the front gates.

  An hour later, a group of men from the funeral home arrived. With my grandfather's help, they cleaned my grandmother's body and marinated it in rice alcohol. When the wine had straightened her limbs, which had stiffened from rigor mortis, they dressed her in new clothes. Using a thick red thread, they tied her two big toes together to prevent her spirit from wandering.

  A cheap red lacquered coffin was brought into my grandparents' bedroom. A layer of sand was spread at the bottom to cushion the body. Rich families would use tea leaves instead of sand. The more expensive the tea, the richer and higher in status the dead were. We covered the sand with coarse, loosely woven cotton gauze. After my grandmother's body was laid inside the coffin, a small dish filled with burning oil was placed on the ground beneath it to keep her spirit warm. Incense in a large urn perfumed the air. It was time for friends and relatives to pay their respects.

  That night, my family slept by the coffin to keep my grandmother company. On the cold cement, Mrs. Dang and my mother were discussing the details of my grandmother's burial. Lying next to them, Jimmy and I slowly drifted to sleep. Mrs. Dang leaned over to my mother and whispered in her ear. Drowsily, I heard her every word. “Are your sons asleep, Khuon?” “I think so, why?” my mother answered. “I don't want them to hear this, but I am leaving soon.” “What do you mean? Leaving my house, or planning to escape?” “Planning,” she whispered. “I found a connection. The owner of the boat will allow me to take one more person with me. My parents are too old and live in Saigon. Since I have no one else, I can take one of your sons. You have to decide which of the boys you want to let go.” I lay quiet, but inside I screamed out to my mother, begging her to pick me over my brother. Her silence drove me wild with anticipation; I could barely keep still.

  Then, I heard my mother murmur, “How much will it cost?” “Not a dime. We are good friends, aren't we? It's my way to say thank you, darling.”

  “How long do I have before I must give you the answer?” “A month. You can decide after the funeral.” “Let's talk about something else,” my mother said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  We buried my grandmother on a rainy February afternoon, three days after her death. The funeral bus dropped us at the entrance to the cemetery, which lay fifty kilometers outside the city, draped alongside a mountain. A few hundred feet below crept a wrinkled sea.

  We trudged in silence along the steep, rock-strewn trail that led to the gravesite. The wind wailed over the white salt banks, rippling the red-and-black funeral flags above us. Drops of acid rain stung my eyes as we moved numbly across the desolate landscape.

  Flashes of lightning cut through the sky, turning the clouds an electric blue. Thunder followed, roaring through the air like bombs. Jimmy and I walked next to our mother. Our white tunics and headbands were soaked in the salty rain, filthy with mud. My grandfather leaned heavily on his wooden cane as he limped beside my grandmother's glossy red coffin, which was hoisted on the shoulders of my aunt's sons. His eyelids, puffy as if stung by a bee, blinked away the tears. A few steps behind, Loan walked alone. Her wail rose sharply over the sound of trumpets and flutes.

  Loan had showed up at our house on the second day of mourning. She wore a well-tailored black suit, which she quickly exchanged for the white tunic of mourning. Sitting on the floor next to my grandmother's coffin, she faced us with a red and embarrassed face. Her hair, tied into a large bun beneath a cotton headband, carried the sweet smell of jasmine. My mother had reached out and patted Loan's shoulder.

  “How are you, Loan?” my mother asked. “It is good to see you again.”

  “I am doing fine, thank you.”

  “How is Mr. Tran?”

  “Problems.” Loan smiled sadly. “We are being investigated. It's part of the Sixth Plenum's rectification campaign against the negative aspects within the Communist Party. The government has reason to believe that Mr. Tran is no longer a purist or a socialist in his thinking. It started as far back as the day he confiscated your mansion and made it his own. It is very tense in the house with him.” Her delicate fingers clenched together on her lap. Each nail had a purple rim of dried blood, a result of her biting habit.

  “Maybe it would help if you have a baby with him,” my mother suggested. “Good fortunes always come with a new life.”

  Loan turned away. Her voice lowered to a whisper; we had to strain in order to hear her. “I can't have children. The lining of my uterus has too many scars from the abortion. The doctors said it wouldn't hold the egg anymore.” She got up and walked outside.

  Now her voice rose from behind my grandmother's coffin. She threw herself on the ground, crying, “Oh, Auntie, why did you abandon us? Who will help me when I need guidance?” She wiped her face with muddy hands. Dirt matted her long hair and stained her clothes in large blotches. My aunt drew Loan along until we reached the gravesite. The cemetery stretched into the gray distance, while the wind-whipped funeral flags flapped noisily.

  A rectangular grave had been dug prior to our arrival. My aunt's sons, following the funeral director's instructions, lowered the coffin into the grave with two thick ropes that were held parallel at each end. Loan and my aunt wailed, reaching out for the coffin lid. My cousins dragged them away as the men threw dirt into the hole. The downpour intensified. Its salt tasted bitter at the tip of my tongue. My mother's grip tightened around my fingers. Tears mixed with rain flooded her face.

  AT HOME, the air was dry and still after the cloudburst. My mother and Mrs. Dang went to the market. The only food in the cabinet was three large cassava roots, a cheap food item in Vietnam. I decided to steam them for dinner. All of a sudden, from the front part of the house, my grandfather's voice rose in a weak counterpoint to a much louder, more aggressive soprano.

  I ran out and saw a strange, middle-aged woman arguing with my grandfather. There were bruises on her eyes and around her cheeks. Her face was red with indignation. She pointed a finger at my grandfather and spoke in a heavy northern dialect. The girl in the red blouse, whom I had continued to encounter at the seaport, huddled next to her. Kim looked at me with her sad eyes.

  “What is going on?” I asked.

  My grandfather spoke up with irritation. “These people are looking for your mother. I told them that she isn't home, but they wouldn't leave.”

  The woman was tall and thin, and her voice was harsh with anger. “I won't leave this place until I see that whore's face, if she dares to show it to me.”

  “Let's go, Mother. Please!” Kim tugged at her mother's arm.

  “My mother is not a whore,” I protested.

  The stranger stepped up until her face was a few inches from my nose. I could smell the faint stench of farm animals from her clothes. She pulled up her sleeves to show me more bruises on her arms, and others around her neck. “My husband did this to me,” she said. “He beat me near death because of your mother. Don't tell me she isn't a whore.”

  “Who are you, and who is your husband?” I stammered.

  The woman proudly pushed her chest forward. “I am Mrs. Qui Ba, the wife of the community leader. Your mother has no idea what kind of hell is waiting for her when she messes with me.”

  “Mr. Qui Ba?” My mind conjured up the image of the community leader, his silver hair, and his catchy smile. “Impossible. They hardly know each other. You must have gotten the wrong person, lady.”

  “Please, Mother. Let's go home. You are making a scene,” Kim begged.

  “I don't care if the whole world is watching. I am not leaving,” Mrs. Qui Ba said.

  From the other side of the street, Pink's voice called out in gleeful anticipation, “Kien, your mother is coming
home.”

  Mrs. Qui Ba ran out into the street and shouted. “Where is the slut? Show your face.”

  Her daughter looked at me, her eyes filled with pain. I remembered the sandy beach, the distant ocean covered with silver waves, and the way her lips had reminded me of rose petals. She turned and ran after her mother. I followed them.

  My mother and Mrs. Dang stopped at the far end of the street. Someone from the crowd outside had warned them about the crazed woman, who now charged at them with a howl of rage. The crowd kept pace with her, eager to watch a fight.

  “Which one is the whore?” the woman demanded.

  Mrs. Dang stepped forward. “Can we help you?” she asked calmly.

  “I want to meet a whore named Khuon.”

  “You want to talk to her, talk to me first,” Mrs. Dang said.

  The woman looked at my mother. “So, you must be the whore then. My damnable husband called out your name while on top of me. Then he beat me up to hide his shame. Fifteen years I waited for my husband while he served his country. I never expected to be treated this way. You have corrupted him, you dirty imperialist slut.”

  She lunged at Mrs. Dang, pushing past her to get to my mother. Mrs. Dang fell to the ground as the woman attacked my mother's face with her sharp nails. Her daughter and I jumped behind her to pull her back, but it was too late. She grabbed a handful of my mother's long hair and yanked at it with all her might, shaking my mother's head the same way she would have smoothed out a wrinkled bedspread. At the same time, she kicked furiously at my mother's abdomen.

  Mrs. Dang got up. She grasped the woman's arm, peeling her fingers from my mother's hair. Mrs. Qui Ba struggled to get free, but ran out of strength and finally collapsed. I held on to her waist, watching her gasp for air. Next to us, Kim cried quietly.

  My mother leaned against Mrs. Dang. Her hair spilled over her face, and red scratches streaked her cheeks. She screamed at Mrs. Qui Ba, “I did not have anything to do with your husband.”