That same afternoon, the teacher told Thanh he was probably not cut out for school and handed him a note to take home to his father. Thanh didn’t read the note because he could guess what it said: he was too daydreamy and cloud-headed for school. He wished his mother were alive, knowing she’d understand. Dawdling on the road home, he wished too that he could make the words on the paper rearrange themselves into something full of praise: Thanh is a great storyteller! So imaginative! Something that maybe his father could be proud of. The afternoon sun slanted onto the path as he skirted the rice fields. Water buffalo communed in the river, drinking and digesting with one another. Swallows swished across the fields. Close to home, Thanh cut through an orchard. In the light breeze, grapefruit flowers dropped petals on him. As he walked, he crushed the white petals with his fingers, breathing in the tangy promise of fruit yet to come.
In the darkness of their house, Thanh’s father read the teacher’s note slowly and looked Thanh long in the face. He didn’t say anything, but Thanh could see his own failure reflected in his father’s eyes. His dad folded the note in half, then in half again and again, until it was a small thick square he held between finger and thumb.
“What did the teacher say?” asked Thanh. He knew. But he wanted his father to say it was nothing, the teacher was stupid and wrong, and he, Thanh, was smart and just needed to be left alone to make up stories.
His father turned the square over in his fingers, as if it were a coin and he was wondering what to spend it on. “I’m disappointed, son. I thought you would try harder.”
His father—once a respected pilot and officer in the South Vietnam air force, now in hiding and unable to find a job except of the lowest kind—sat at the table, his hands grimy from fieldwork. Sang’s cooking permeated the house, and Thanh could pick out the smells of home: cabbage, sweet potato, onion. She brought the soup out, stopped when she saw them sitting in silence, then placed the bowls of watery broth on the table. “Supper’s ready.” And the evening proceeded.
That was all Thanh’s father said. I’m disappointed, son. I thought you would try harder. He didn’t speak in anger—anger might have been easier to hear. As Sang put the soup on the table, Thanh’s father looked away, shook his head, and slid the many-times-folded note in his shirt pocket. They ate in silence.
The village school had been closed shortly afterward, in the chaos that followed the war. But Thanh always knew he’d been kicked out.
That same night as the letter, Thanh’s father was arrested and taken to a prison camp. He never returned. He still had the note in his pocket when he was taken away, and his last words to Thanh had been of disappointment.
• • •
AS THANH slouched in the bottom of the boat, lost in his memory, an enormous wave washed over the boat, drenching everyone and shocking him back to the present. The sun was low in the sky. Sang and The Turtle and the other kid crouched next to him, tense and sodden messes. The two grown-ups, Uncle Truc and his brother, had been working the engine together, one guiding the tiller and the other adding fuel when necessary. Now Uncle Truc (in charge of fuel) half stood and stretched his bad shoulder, rolling it as if trying to get it to slide into place.
“I know you’re all scared,” Uncle Truc said, stooping to pick up The Turtle. He patted her back but looked at Thanh as he talked. “Everyone should try to rest as much as possible. Drink some water and then try to sleep. Three days from now we’ll be at the refugee camp.” His voice rose in confidence as he spoke, and his daughter planted a wet kiss on his chin and babbled. He rested one hand gently on her twisted bare foot.
The adopted nephew scrambled up to help his uncle Hung. In the daylight he looked even more capable than he had in the dark: tall and strong and focused on the job. As the older man directed, the boy took the tiller and steered, gazing determinedly into the distance and flexing his muscled arms casually, as if he guided boats across the ocean every day. Uncle Truc’s stocky brother, meanwhile, tottering with weariness, unfolded a large oilcloth and, with wooden poles and ties, tented it over Sang, Thanh, The Turtle, and himself to shelter them from the waves as much as possible. They lay in the boat’s bottom, in a puddle of warm water, under the tarp and away from the hot afternoon sun. Uncle Truc’s brother dozed off immediately, despite the rocking boat. After Uncle Truc sang a good-night song to his daughter, Sang took The Turtle and whispered her to sleep and then shut her own eyes, exhausted. Much later, after helping around the boat, the adopted nephew joined them.
When the boy closed his eyes, Thanh studied his face. Even in the tarp’s shadows and with that fuzzy, uneven crew cut, the boy was handsome. Thanh knew this kind of boy—popular at school and liked by all adults, full of common sense and matter-of-fact about the many, many things he did well. He knew this kind of boy; he just didn’t know how to be this kind of boy. This kind of boy usually didn’t like Thanh.
The boy’s crudely cut hair accented his small neat face, now at rest. He wore baggy, too-large pants held up with a rope for a belt, and an even more oversize red T-shirt, probably made for an adult. He looked cool and unworried and sure of himself, even in sleep. Why couldn’t Thanh be like this kind of boy?
The boat bobbed more and more gently as the waves began to calm, almost rocking him. Thanh slept, dreaming of his mother.
2
THANH DOZED and woke through the night and into the next day. There wasn’t much to do other than worry and try not to be sick. Only two more days, he told himself. Outside the triangle opening of the tent, the adopted nephew and his uncle Hung sat at the engine—the adopted nephew with a fuel can at hand. Uncle Truc was asleep just outside the tent. The boat rose and fell with the choppy water.
Thanh’s clothes were still damp, but he was warm under the oilcloth. He slid out, careful not to wake Sang, who lay next to him, or The Turtle, who was curled on the other side of Sang, stepping with extra care over Uncle Truc as he stooped out of the tent. He lurched over to the engine—the boat jerked under his feet—to sit near the two who were awake and to sun-dry his clothes. The engine growled ceaselessly; they could talk without waking the others. Uncle Truc’s wide-shouldered brother looked at ease, like he was simply on a job trawling up the river to deliver goods, and his adopted nephew sat next to him. The man and boy did seem like they could be related—not so much in looks, but something about their personality Thanh couldn’t yet put his finger on.
The man nodded hello. “Thanh, is that right?” He was from a village up the Mekong, and although Thanh had heard about him, they’d never met. “Call me Uncle Hung,” the stocky man said. “And this is Mai.”
Thanh blinked. Mai was a girl’s name.
Mai laughed, one short low ha. “Fooled you, didn’t we?” Her voice was low and measured, with a little bitterness underneath, like the caramel sauce his mom used to make.
“Why do you have a girl’s name?”
“Knucklehead. Because I’m a girl.”
Thanh almost said Why are you a girl? but he managed to stop himself in time. And slowly the boy’s compact, neat features rearranged into a girl’s face, and he wondered how he hadn’t seen it. She was not what people would call pretty—especially with that almost-crew-cut hair—but she looked like a girl, now that he knew she was one. “You sure fooled me.”
Uncle Hung said, “I think you two are the same age, maybe? Twelve?” They both nodded, Thanh surprised again, for he would have guessed she was older from her height. Hung said, “We heard that girls can sometimes come to harm on these trips. So we decided that until we reach a refugee camp, she would be my nephew. Then my nephew magically turns into my niece.”
At that, Mai’s face transformed. Her smile was slow and deliberate, like a bonfire taking its time to light. She held out her hand.
Unsure what to do, Thanh took it. She shook, Western-style, with such a strong grip that his fingers tingled afterward. She might be a girl, bu
t she was stronger than he was. She was probably better at everything than Thanh was. Inside his head he sighed.
“Now you: off to bed,” said Uncle Hung to the girl.
Mai frowned, but Uncle Hung said, “No arguing.” To Thanh he said, “She’s been awake since Truc dozed off. A great helper.” Then to Mai: “You can be first mate again after you get some sleep.”
Mai slid under the tarp.
Thanh was not unhappy to see her go. He said to Uncle Hung, “If there’s anything you want me to do . . .”
Uncle Hung shook his head. “Mai already did everything that needs doing. She’s a natural sailor, that kid.”
More silence. The sea stilled and the boat stopped bumping, now skimming across the flat smooth water.
Uncle Hung said, “Your sister, how old is she?”
“Sang,” Thanh supplied. “Sixteen.” Sang was small with delicate features, smooth clear skin, and thick hair that cascaded down her back, straight and glossy. Men would turn to look at her when she walked down the street, and she would ignore them but sometimes smile to herself. She liked being pretty; she’d even insisted on bringing her tortoiseshell combs along on this trip (though Thanh had forgotten them). In addition to being pretty, she was realistic, so she had in recent months slept with a knife under her pillow. But none of the men in their village had ever bothered her.
Uncle Hung said, “Sang should become a boy, too. If she can.” He sounded doubtful. “She should’ve cut her hair before we left. Tell her to cut it now. Remove the necklace. Wear my extra shirt. Her pants are okay. You talk to her about it.”
Thanh nodded. He’d heard things could happen to girls on these trips, too. But not in this boat. Not anyone here. Still, they might meet up with other people in their travels. He’d talk to Sang about her becoming a boy.
As soon as he worked up the courage, he’d talk to her.
She wouldn’t like it.
Uncle Hung said, “I know something you can do. There’s a package of cooked rice I brought. I thought we’d share that today. Why don’t you find it and give everyone some food? And we’ll finish that first container of water. We’re making good time.”
Thanh got out the rice and, using the leaf wrapping for plates, divided it into little piles, spilling a few grains. Maybe trying to make plates was a bad idea, but he wanted to feel more like home. He finished his task just as The Turtle crawled out from under the tarp, so he fed her rice until her pile was gone. Uncle Truc jerked awake and relieved his brother so that Uncle Hung could eat. And then Sang woke and ate. Lastly and finally, Mai poked her head out of the tarp. “Are we there yet?” Her face was blank, but her mouth twitched as she spoke, absentmindedly ruffling her smooshed hair to make it stand up again.
Sang smiled. “Almost.”
As Mai joined them, the sky darkened and the waves started to build again. She grimaced. “I was hoping my clothes would dry.”
“You missed the best part of the day,” said Thanh. “It was sunny and calm for hours while you were sleeping.”
At the engine Uncle Truc shrugged lopsided, stretching his bad shoulder, and studied the sky. “Let’s make sure we’re ready for a storm,” he said. “Tie down anything that’s loose, put the tarp over.” His voice softened. “Turtle. Sweetie.” His daughter replied, saying Daddy! Ba! “Go to Sang,” Truc said.
The toddler scooted toward Sang, pushing her twisted foot in front of her. Sang picked her up and tied her onto her hip, where The Turtle played with Sang’s long dark hair.
“Sang and Thanh,” said Uncle Truc, “find the ropes and fasten yourself to the boat. I don’t want to have to dive in after you.”
“What about Mai?” Thanh was appalled that he had to tie himself in if Mai did not.
She snorted like he’d said something ludicrous, then spoke in her caramel sauce voice. “Not only do I swim like a fish, but I can help steer if Uncle Truc needs a break. You can’t.” She glided across the boat—loose and graceful, moving with the waves—carrying a water jug to Uncle Truc, who took a small drink.
Thanh frowned at her back. Show-off.
Sang obeyed Uncle Truc, tying a rope from her waist to a metal loop on the boat’s side. She handed Thanh the other rope, and he tied himself in, grumpy.
But the storm was coming quickly and there wasn’t much time to sulk. When it hit them, it slapped with such precision that Thanh first thought they’d struck a giant rock. It was only a wave—and then wave after wave after wave, slamming the boat again and again, as the rain poured down and the lightning zigzagged across the sky.
Huddled in the bottom of the boat, he felt his food bounce around in his stomach and, several times, reach the back of his throat, though he was never quite sick. The baby, meanwhile, threw up on Sang’s shoulder and hair. Uncle Hung, who’d been resting, went to help Uncle Truc; and soon Mai was sent below with Thanh, Sang, and The Turtle. There wasn’t any rope left, so she wedged herself between Thanh and Sang and held on to the end of Sang’s rope as the boat jangled them around like they were a handful of jacks tossed out over a concrete floor. Thanh thought again of the picture of the rowers at sea, Mount Fuji behind them, and he wondered if those rowers had arrived at wherever they were heading. And if any of them had lost their breakfast on the way.
3
THE STORM did not ease up as the night went on. Thanh worried less about throwing up and more about capsizing and drowning.
Mai ducked out, then returned to join them in the growing puddle. “Uncle Hung says this isn’t a bad storm,” she said as she wedged herself next to Thanh.
“Lovely,” said Sang, on Thanh’s other side. The Turtle’s vomit still stained her shoulder. Like everyone else, Sang was bedraggled and soaked. Thanh wondered if she felt bone weary, too, as he did.
“It’s just that the boat is small, so we feel the waves more.” Mai’s voice sounded unconcerned.
No one answered. Thanh wondered if Mai ever felt scared.
After a while, Sang shifted The Turtle, who hovered between asleep and awake, to her chest. The toddler’s feet stuck out on either side of her, one twisted and one whole and healthy.
“Why is she called Turtle?” Mai asked.
“The Turtle,” Thanh said.
“Okay, but why?”
Thanh didn’t answer. But Sang nudged him and said, “You tell it,” and leaned back to listen, rubbing the baby’s back.
“When she was born,” Thanh said, “it was a long labor and a hard birth, and the midwife worried that the baby would never come.” As he spoke, he could feel his mood improving. This was a good story. “When the baby finally arrived, the midwife didn’t say anything about her little dimple in her left cheek or her thick fuzzy hair or her perfect first breath. The first thing the midwife said was, That’s too bad. That leg.”
Mai shook her head at such rudeness.
“But the baby’s mother, resting against her pillows, held her arms out for her child. And she looked the baby over—every fingernail, the soft insides of her ears, her round little belly (still with the cord attached), her feet and toes, every bit of her. And she said, No, this baby is perfect. Her foot is curled just like a turtle pulling its leg into its shell.”
“Ah,” said Mai.
“And then, too,” said Thanh, who enjoyed telling stories as much as his sister liked to sew fancy cloth, “this baby is loved by everyone, which means that, like the turtle, she carries her home with her wherever she goes.”
“You made that part up,” murmured Sang, almost asleep. But her tone was approving.
Mai nodded. “That makes sense.” She closed her eyes.
The storm continued, but Thanh felt better.
He woke from a doze hours later to find the storm had passed. Sang was gone, but Mai was snoring, curled around The Turtle, who flopped, arms out, in her embrace. Mai’s sturdy face looked younger and
more delicate in sleep than it did awake. Thanh could almost imagine her making a mistake. He decided not to wake her.
If Mai slept, he wouldn’t have to watch her being better than him at everything.
Outside, Sang was awake, as was Uncle Truc, who was running the engine. Uncle Hung slouched next to him, asleep and swaying back and forth like a rice plant in a breeze. Both brothers looked years older than they’d looked only yesterday, Uncle Truc’s long face sagging with weariness and his bad shoulder tight and low, and Uncle Hung’s forehead deep with wrinkles, his wide cheeks smudged with grime. Sang had deep circles under her eyes. The engine, too, ran sluggishly, as if tired.
The sea, once again, shone smooth as glass. Thanh was used to the big river and its constant small movements and seasonal floods. This enormous sea, yo-yoing so quickly between peace and violence, made no sense.
“Morning?” asked Thanh, looking at the sky. It was certainly morning, but he couldn’t believe he’d slept that long. Or that the stormy night had ever ended. One more day. Maybe even tonight?
Uncle Truc nodded. “I didn’t think we’d make it through that storm. You should have seen the waves at their worst.”
“It’s probably good you didn’t,” Uncle Hung said, opening his eyes. “You wouldn’t’ve slept well.” He waited for Thanh’s smile, then continued. “Mai and Truc and I thought we’d be boating at the bottom of the ocean by morning.” Yawning, he closed his eyes again and swayed with sleep.
A Crack in the Sea Page 12