by Kien Nguyen
I burst out laughing.
My grandfather patted me on my shoulder. His eyes wrinkled thoughtfully. “Yes, that's good. Go ahead and laugh, child. You don't laugh enough for someone your age. I hope that may change soon.”
And then he continued. “When your Grandma finally got home, your mother and I sat in the living room. We tried to act normal, but that lasted only a second once we saw her all wet and mad as hell. I fell off the chair from laughing so hard, and your mother got the hiccoughs for the rest of the evening. The dress was completely ruined. My urine was so strong that it ate through the velvet like acid. And because of that, your grandmother didn't talk to me for a whole week.”
I commented, “That is a side of you I've never seen before, Grandpa.”
My grandfather reached out to hug me. “I know, Kien. I am sorry we have grown so far apart. I am sorry you have never had a happy, jolly grandfather like you should have. And I am sorry I've kept you and your brother here in this godforsaken land where you don't belong. So many things have gone wrong, I don't even know where or when it all began. I just hope that it isn't too late for you, your brother, and your sister to have normal and happy lives, wherever you are going. Just remember, life is short. You have to enjoy every moment before it passes you by. Forgive me for all of my foolish decisions. I was behaving like a selfish and stubborn old bastard. Forgive your mother for taking your childhood away from you. What she did, she did the best way that she knew how. About your aunt and her family”—he sighed—“I don't know if you can forgive them for what they have done, but at least try to free yourself from them. Don't let this anger ruin your life any more than it already has. If you want to ever achieve happiness, don't dwell on the past. Instead, start living. What is the point of obsessing over something that has already happened, and that you cannot change? Live! And be merry. Remember Grandpa's advice when you have your own family someday.”
I said over his shoulder, “Oh, Grandpa, are you going to be okay after we leave Vietnam?”
He nodded. “I am going to be fine. Don't worry about me. I have your grandmother's memory here to keep me company.”
I hugged him for the last time. He kissed both of my cheeks. So many years had passed, yet my grandfather's breath still smelled like Jolly Rancher candy. I suddenly felt small in his arms, like the day I turned eight.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Night fell over the city. The shade of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the loud motorcycles down the street all faded away with the dying sun. On the surrounding rice paddies, crickets and frogs blended their songs into an eerie, melancholy chant. The path to Kim's house was long and convoluted. Without a streetlight to show the way, I could not even see my own shadow as I made my way blindly down the pitted road.
The early summer heat was still intense, making the soil under my feet feel like the inside of an oven. Oily sweat trickled down my forehead, stinging my eyes. With little difficulty, I found her house standing across from a shallow stream of water. Cool mist from the brook evaporated like a natural humidifier, and I gratefully inhaled the fresh air it released. From a distance, every room in her house gleamed with fluorescent light, while the outside porch sank into the darkness. The closest neighbor was at least a hundred yards away, separated from her family's property by a desolate rice field.
It didn't take me long to find out where Kim was. Through a tangle of overgrown vines and thorn bushes that bordered her backyard, I saw her next to the well. She was wet from head to toe. The dim light from the kitchen bathed her body in a bronze glow. Her clothes clung to her like a second skin. With each bucket of water she poured over herself, I smelled the familiar fragrance of fresh lemongrass as it marinated weakly into the night. The kitchen door was open, and I could see her mother's tall silhouette hovering over a stove.
Carefully I climbed over the scratchy fence, making as little sound as possible and praying that my presence would not startle her. Then hidden in the dark, behind a thick rack of bamboo, I whispered her name, letting the wind carry that single syllable to her ear.
After my fifth try, Kim stopped bathing and peered into the dark garden in my direction. Her arms coiled over her chest in an attempt to cover herself as she walked closer to me.
“Who's there?” she said loudly.
I emerged from the shrubbery.
Her mother called out, “Is there something wrong, Kim?”
“Don't be afraid,” I said to Kim. “It's me, Kien.”
Under the pale light, I could see Kim holding her breath from nervousness. Several seconds passed, then she said to her mother, “It's nothing, mother. I just saw a squirrel.” Then she whispered to me, “Kien, I didn't know you were coming to see me tonight.”
“I need to speak to you.”
“Give me a few minutes to get dressed, please. I'll meet you outside by the stream.”
I shook my head. “I can't. I am leaving tonight for Saigon, then to America. I came to say good-bye.”
She took a few steps further, and I reached out, pulling her toward me. We withdrew further into the rice field, away from her mother. Her wet body curved into my feverish embrace. No matter how many times I had held her in my arms, I could not get over how soft her body was. My heart beat wildly in my chest, threatening to burst. The thought of seeing her one last time gave me new courage to do what I had not dared every time we met. I grabbed her breasts. Kim let out a small cry, but she did not resist. I covered her mouth with kisses, keeping her body still as my flesh came alive with an overwhelming desire to make love to her.
In her ear, I whispered incoherent phrases. “I want you, your body—Everything about you is so beautiful. I need to see you alone, without your clothes —”
“I love you,” she replied fervently. “Do you know that I loved you from the very first day I met you at the beach?”
I unbuttoned her shirt, peeling it off her body. She trembled like a sparrow caught in a trap. Her eyes rimmed with tears. I didn't understand why she cried; yet I didn't want to find out. One thought reverberated over and over again in my head: I had to get revenge for my mother, and for myself. Revenge required a price. I wondered what would be my price? I reached for her nylon pants, took them off and threw them on the ground next to her shirt. Intoxicated with my newly discovered power, I took off my own clothes as I watched her naked body shiver.
“I love you,” she said. “Even if I never see you again, I will always love you, Kien.”
I covered her mouth. “Stop talking,” I told her.
We lay together on the grass and slowly I entered her. It was difficult at first, but I drove myself inside her. Her body shook more violently in response to the lovemaking, and for a moment, I got frightened. The images of her father, Mr. Tran, and many other Communist policemen temporarily disappeared from my mind.
“Am I hurting you, Kim?”
She didn't respond. Instead, her silent sobbing grew stronger.
Overcome with guilt, I begged her, “Please, let me know if I am hurting you.”
“No, it doesn't hurt,” she answered. “But I am scared.”
“Of what?”
Wild grass entwined with her wet hair. She looked as if she had melted into the soil. Turning her face away from me, she whispered, “I am scared that you are making the same mistake that your father did. Look at us! You will be leaving this country soon. What will happen to me if I get pregnant? What will happen to the baby, unwanted before it's even born because its father is a half-breed?”
Her words stabbed me, penetrating the agony that I had buried so deep inside my soul. I shrank away from her and fumbled for my clothes. Kim grabbed my arm.
“Please,” she said, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. “Don't leave angry. I love you. Do what you want with me, but please be clear to yourself about why you are doing it.”
I snapped at her, “Stop talking! Why do you have to be so smart all the time? Can't you just shut up and spare me your feeling
s? You want to know why am I doing this? Just look at yourself, and look at me. Do we look like we belong together? You with your stupid Communist accent, it sickened me from the very first day we met. I hate you and everything that you stand for. I hate your father and the way he treated my mother. I hate your people, how they robbed me of everything I ever got. If I could hurt one of you, I can leave this place satisfied.”
“Don't go!” She gathered her clothes in front of her, sobbing. “That isn't why you came here tonight. Tell me you are here because you love me. You promised you were never going to hurt me, remember?”
I walked away.
Her wailing rose sharply in the dark, a foreign sound among the crickets' chirping. “Tell me just one time, before you leave me forever.”
I froze in my tracks, dizzy from the conflicting thoughts that raced through my head. My lower lip quivered so much that I had a difficult time talking. “I can't say that, Kim. I can't love you. I don't know how.”
I escaped her property like a thief, closing my ears to her desperate pleas.
BY THE TIME I got home, the whole neighborhood was submerged in a deep sleep, and the sliver of moon hung like a piece of fingernail across a bottomless sky. My mother sat in BeTi's bed, waiting for me. She ran her hand though my sister's hair and softly sang one of BeTi's favorite lullabies. A candle burned weakly in a tray nearby. Its light reflected on the wall created a host of distorted, dancing figures. Even wearing full makeup, my mother appeared haggard, tired, and old. Her eyes were sunken, encircled with droopy, wrinkled lids. Her facial skin sagged downward in the expression of a sad clown.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
I ignored her question, searching the room for my backpack. “What time is it?” I asked her.
“Eleven o'clock. Where were you?”
“I stepped out to say good-bye to a few friends of mine. Mom, have you gotten any money for my train ticket?”
“Yes,” she replied unenthusiastically.
“Excellent,” I said. “I need to go through the documents with you. I will take everything with me, but I'll leave you one copy of the real estate papers. You must try to get them signed here, in case I can't get my set approved in Saigon. Right, Mom?”
“I'll try all I can. Everything is in my room,” she said.
“By the way, how did you get the money?”
She looked straight at me. “It isn't important how I got it. You don't need to know, understand?”
I walked into her room, taking the candle with me. After we sold the kitchen's roof, the water had leaked into my mother's bedroom every time it rained. On the wall, the black and white pictures of my family in their cellophane covers—some of my mother and me, others of my mother and Jimmy—all were damaged from the constant moisture. They were peeling, torn, and yellow at the corners like fifty-year-old snapshots. On the floor, where her makeup desk used to be, our family's documents were gathered into stacks of paper, arranged in rows two feet high and four feet long. Three years of pursuing the visas had resulted in this mountain of records.
My mother followed me. She sat against the wall, watching as I went through the papers. I came upon a thick stash of hospital receipts wrapped together in a rubber band.
“What are these, Mom?” I showed the bundle to her.
“They are from me,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Every time I sold my blood at the hospital, I got a receipt.”
I uttered a small cry. “There must be at least fifty vouchers here. Why did you do it? And why wouldn't you tell us?”
“Oh, forget it.” She waved aside my concern and said, “I had to put you, your brother, and your sister through school. Every semester, you needed books, clothing, shoes, and other stuff. Ten years of having no steady job, no income, what other choice did I have? I just didn't want you to worry, that's why I never told you.”
I sighed deeply, overcome with guilt. My mother pulled at my arm. Her face relaxed, and the deep creases around her eyes pulled upward as she smiled.
“Listen, honey,” she said gently. “You know your education is very important to me. I don't have anything to give you, except to show you a way to better yourself. And you know something? I didn't make a mistake. You've learned a great deal in school. You found a way to get us out of this miserable existence. On top of that, you have been a very good son to me. I promise you, it is going to get better soon from this time on.”
“We may not get out of here, Mother,” I said bitterly. “If those bastards refuse to sign the paper, we'll get stuck in this place forever.”
She put a finger over her lips. “Don't speak like that. Think positively and the gods will help us work things out.”
I got up from the floor, shoving the documents into my backpack. The moment had come for me to say good-bye to her, and I stood awkwardly in the room, searching for words.
“Are you ready?” she asked me.
“Yes, Mom.”
She handed me three one-hundred-dong bills. I grabbed both of her hands, pushing back her long sleeves to reveal her veins. Under the flickering candlelight, I found a bandage on her right forearm. Beneath it, a large bruise had begun to form.
“You did it again,” I cried. “You just sold your blood this afternoon.”
“Like I said, it isn't important. Go now if you want to catch that train.”
I grabbed my mother in my arms and hugged her. Her body felt so thin in my embrace.
“Take the money,” she said.
I took two bills and handed her the last one. “I only need this much. You should go out tomorrow and buy something nice for yourself. Maybe you should take all the white out of your hair for the big trip.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding.
“Good-bye, Mother. I'll see you in a few days.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
As I walked through the empty streets in the middle of the night, a few rays of moonlight peeked out from behind the thick purple clouds, cracking the darkness open with their pale light. From a distance, I could hear the weak but distinct noise of a train, its pitch descending as it came to a stop. The station rested on the bank of a river that was black with the scum of the sewers from the neighborhood nearby. A fog of gas exhaust flooded the air as I ventured closer. Its burnt odor mixed with the stench of garbage.
An old woman, holding a teapot and a ceramic cup, sat on a large rock. Behind her, the glass window of the train station mirrored my reflection as the moonlight hit it at an angle. I touched my oily, lifeless hair, trying to improve my appearance. The old lady looked at me with puffy eyes, red and swollen from a chronic infection. Cautiously, she guarded her teapot.
“Want some tea? It's fifty cents per cup,” she said. Enthusiasm filled her voice. “But for you, it's free.”
I shook my head to decline the offer, searching over her shoulder for the ticket salesperson. The booth was empty. There was no other soul in sight, except a bored policeman, who nodded drowsily at the far end of the station ground. In his hand, the hard leather of a black nightstick gleamed in the dark.
“Where are you going?” the old lady asked.
“To Saigon,” I answered. “Where can I buy a ticket?”
She shook her head. “No one is here at this hour to sell you a ticket.”
The thought of staying another day in Nhatrang struck panic in me. “Do you know of a way for me to get to Saigon tonight? I can't afford to waste any more time here.”
A lamppost cast eerie shadows on her creased face as she looked at me. “Do you know how to jump a train?”
I shook my head no. “I am afraid that I don't.”
“It's easy,” she explained. “Wait till the train starts to move, then jump up into the last car. I could show you exactly where to hide so that you won't get caught. Once it gets to Saigon, wait until the train slows down before it reaches to a stop, then hop off. Just try not to break your legs on the way down.”
“It's too risky,” I thought out loud.
“Is there any way I can get a ticket?”
“You won't get caught if you follow my directions. More than half of the people riding the train have no ticket. Just keep calm and blend in, you'll be fine.”
“Okay.” I saw no alternative. “Thank you very much, lady.”
She held out a serving of black tea. The cup was stained with some unknown substance, the same shade as her black fingernails. “Do you want some?” she asked. “It's on the house.”
I shook my head politely. In front of a stop sign, people began to form into a cluster, waiting for the train to depart. They seemed to materialize from out of nowhere. I turned to bid the old lady good-bye.
“I know who you are,” she whispered. “Thank you for helping my grandson fill out his application.”
I turned around to face her. “I am not sure I know who your grandson is.”
“It's doesn't matter,” the old lady said, waving her hand. “I know why you are going to Saigon. What you did for us, I couldn't repay you, but I could pray for the gods to bless you on your journey.
Someday soon, it will be my grandson's turn to be on this train just like you.”