Lucky Child

by Loung Ung

  “Aunt Keang,” Chou calls at the door, her voice rising above the barking dogs.

  “Chou, come in!” Aunt Keang’s voice shakes, and she opens the door. She takes Eng from Chou’s hands. “Quickly, find a place to hide.”

  With the precision of someone who’s done this many times, Chou takes her children and crawls under a plank bed while Aunt Keang locks the door with a wooden beam. Chou sits in a cross-legged lotus position while her two small babies sleep on her lap, their heads cradled in her arms. Next to her, Eng holds on to Chou’s arm, her small face pressed against her mother’s flesh.

  “Ma, why don’t we let the dogs loose so they can bite the Khmer Rouge?” Aunt Keang’s little boy Nam asks her.

  “No, my son. That will only make the soldiers more angry and more trouble for us,” Aunt Keang explains and wraps an arm around Nam.

  “Chou, they will be all right,” Aunt Keang tells her in a small voice. “The Lord Buddha will look after them.” Chou silently echoes the prayer in her mind.

  In the blackness of the room, Chou sees the red amber of the mosquito coil under the other plank bed. Around the small light, the dark shapes of the rest of her family huddle together. On their side of the room, Aunt Keang cradles her infant daughter Hoong in her arms and Amah sits with Nam on her lap. As they try to stay quiet, mosquitoes buzz around them in the hot, oppressive air. Outside, the dogs bark and howl loudly; their cries reach a frenzied pitch when dark ghosts emerge from the forest and run past them toward their master’s house.

  “Open the door!” a Khmer Rouge soldier barks. Chou’s skin goes cold as she places her hand over Eng’s mouth. “Open the door or we’ll shoot it open!” Chou holds her breath and grits her teeth. In her arms, as if picking up their mother’s terror, the babies shiver and stir. “Open the door now! When we count to three, we’ll shoot! One!”

  “Stop!” Aunt Keang cries out and rushes to open the door. The lead soldier pushes her aside, his rifle hanging off his shoulder and pointing straight out in front of him.

  “The rest of you, come out of your hiding place!” Startled by the loud noises and the soldiers’ screams, the babies and infant children begin to cry, their wails filling up the hut. “Don’t you hear?” the lead soldier demands. “I said come out now!”

  Slowly, Amah crawls out on all fours, her bony knees scraping against the ground. Chou leaves her crying children under the bed and comes out after Amah. Behind her, the older children exit their hiding places while the toddlers and babies scream for their return.

  “Only women and babies!” the soldier declares in disgust. “Where are the men and boys?”

  “Good comrade,” Aunt Keang pleads. “We are a poor family. Our husbands and sons have to travel very far to sell our vegetables and crops. They are not here.”

  The soldiers ignore her words and shine their flashlights under the beds. They still believe that all Chinese are rich and have gold in their houses. The small units of four soldiers all have guns swinging from their shoulders or waists. They roam through the hut, turning over crates, bags, and boxes. Since they can’t find the men, the soldiers sift through the clothes and stuff what they want in a burlap rice bag. Then they walk around the hut as if it’s a market and take pots, shoes, bags of rice, and dried fish. While they steal from the family, Chou’s breasts wet her dark shirt with milk at her baby’s cry. Outside, she hears more soldiers rummaging through her hut while the dogs bark on.

  “No men and boys here!” a soldier shouts from Chou’s hut. Suddenly Chou hears the soldier curse the barking dogs and many loud solid thuds as he kicks them. The dogs yelp and then whimper, and then finally the lead soldier leaves Aunt Keang’s hut.

  “Just take whatever we can use, then!” he shouts back in anger. After a moment, he reenters the hut, picks up a crate of the family’s silverware, and throws it against the wall. The noise splits open the night air and deafens Chou’s ears. “Where are your husbands and sons?” The soldier grabs Aunt Keang’s arm and glares at her.

  “Please, comrade, they are not here.”

  “Please, comrade, take whatever you want but don’t hurt us!” Chou begs and steps forward to stand by Aunt Keang. “Please don’t hurt us.” Chou takes Aunt Keang’s other arm.

  The soldier looks at them with annoyance. “Let’s move on!” he hollers to his unit, and exits the hut. The family thanks him profusely as the rest of the soldiers grunt and pick up their bags of stolen goods. Still shaking, Chou watches the last soldier grab Uncle Leang’s old bike and push it out the door. The bike’s wheels spin and rattle into the forest until finally everything is quiet again.

  “Amah, come.” Chou leads her to the bed. “You rest.” Chou puts the babies back on the bed under the mosquito net. “Eng, watch your brother and sister.”

  In the soft golden candlelight, Chou helps Aunt Keang pick up the crates and put their hut back into order. As she works, Chou prays for the safety of her husband and uncle. When the dogs bark again, Chou rushes out to the door.

  “Pheng!” she yells, her hand gripping the door.

  “I’m here as well,” he replies softly. Chou feels her stomach steady and exhales with relief.

  “Thank the Lord Buddha you’re both safe!” Aunt Keang ushers them into the house. “What happened? Where did you hide?”

  Once the women and children tell the men their story, Pheng begins to tell his.

  After they left Chou, Pheng and Uncle Leang ran into the woods not far from the hut and made their way to the neighbor’s fields. There they found a cluster of big metal containers that the neighbor uses to collect palm juice and make sugar. Though many were full, Pheng found two empty ones where he and Uncle Leang could hide. Quickly, each climbed inside and slid on the wooden lid. Inside the containers, the air smelled of rust and sweet palm syrup. As he sat on top of a layer of sticky sugar, Pheng’s feet instantly began to tickle as if marched on by hundreds of little legs. Before Pheng could brush them off, the ants bit his ankles, the soft tissue between his toes, and the arches of his feet. But as he was about to leap out of his container, he heard people approaching. He knew no villagers would travel at night. Pheng clamped his teeth together while the ants feasted on his flesh. As the soldiers passed by, one abruptly banged a metal tin with the butt of his gun. Without thinking, Pheng fell to his knees and crouched lower in his container.

  “It’s full!” the soldier yelled as he kicked a few more. With each kick, the tin made a small noise as palm juice splashed against the lids. “Should I check the rest?”

  “No, let’s go!” another soldier replied, and then they were gone.

  When Pheng finishes the story, Chou, Pheng, and their children carefully return to their own hut. Chou retrieves a small tin jar of tiger balm and rubs the oil on Pheng’s back while he does his legs and feet.

  “It’s lucky the Khmer Rouge didn’t look for the cows in the back of the outhouse,” he says. “What else did they take from our hut?”

  “Just two of your shirts and a bag of rice,” Chou answers quietly.

  “We’re lucky. I still have one shirt left.” Pheng yawns and lies down.

  By the time Chou’s head sinks into her pillow, she knows that when tomorrow comes, she will sell her new, never-worn white shoes to buy her husband another shirt.

  23 no suzy wong

  January 1991

  My toes are beginning to go numb with cold. I imagine they will soon become gangrened and snap off my feet like icicles off a roof. I wiggle them to get the blood circulating and stare through the glass door at the parking lot. No signs of Mark’s jeep. It’s twelve noon. He’s thirty minutes late already. I press my hands on the door and will him to show up but he doesn’t. High above the earth, a small sun shines brightly in the clear blue sky. In the parking lot, tall piles of packed snow are slowly melting and creating black slush on the ground.

  When I finally hear the roar of an engine, I glance up only to see an old Honda Civic inching its way toward the front do
or. A girl sporting a black, lumpy down jacket and a black skullcap climbs out and runs to the door as the car sputters away, white smoke puffing out of its exhaust pipe like storm clouds.

  “Hey.” The girl opens the door and greets me, sending in a cold gust that stings my cheeks.

  “Hi.” I smile back as she ascends the steps. I wrap my arms around myself and considering returning to my room. But I live on the fourth floor and am too lazy to make the trip.

  Mark and I met last semester in our political science class. I was writing in my journal when he walked into class with his long, dirty-blond hair tied up in a ponytail. As he crossed the room in unhurried strides, I took in the details of his blue jeans, fashionably shredded and ripped at the knees, and his wrinkled black sweater and multicolor woven belt. I was intrigued. On a campus full of pressed shirts, khaki pants, and brand-name dresses, he didn’t look the part of someone attending a four-year private Catholic college. And so in class, I secretly took pictures of him, my eyes like paparazzi cameras snapping up images of him from my perch.

  Then after class one day, I approached the professor about an assignment. The next thing I knew, Mark was standing beside me with his questions. As the professor rushed off to his next class, he suggested that Mark and I discuss the material. We decided to meet over coffee. By the time we were through with the first cup, I had told Mark bits and pieces about Cambodia and my interest in politics. Halfway through the second cup, he shared that he took his sophomore year off to travel, and worked as an English teacher at a refugee camp in the Philippines. When we were both sufficiently caffeinated, I told him about the guy I was dating and he talked about his girlfriend. That was six months before.

  And now he’s predictably thirty-five minutes late to pick me up for our hiking date.

  In my mind, Mark’s lateness can only mean one of two things: either he’s been injured in an accident and is lying somewhere with his head gashed open and red blood melting the white snow around him, or he’s dead. I imagine his cold body lying in a hospital, pale and lifeless and unable to reach for a phone to call me. If he is dead, I hope at least that his death will be quick and painless.

  When Mark’s jeep finally pulls up, he leaps out of the car to open the door for me.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says with a sheepish grin.

  “Again,” I return with a steely gaze.

  “Ready?”

  “You’re always late. You know I hate waiting.”

  “Come on, I’m sorry. It’s a gorgeous day and the sunset will be spectacular!”

  I stand my ground and glare at him, my feet frozen to the ground.

  “I’m really sorry. Let’s go. I’ll buy dinner at The Mandarin afterward.” Mark knows The Mandarin is my favorite Chinese restaurant.

  “Fine, but I’m still pissed,” I tell him and get into the jeep.

  Though it’s a short drive to the mountain, it’s a four-hour round-trip hike. I tuck my two pairs of long johns into two pairs of socks and tie my heavy Timberland boots tight around my ankles before pulling my jeans over them. Then I put on my wool cap, wrap a scarf around my neck, and slide my hands into my ski gloves. Before I step out of the jeep, I zip up my winter jacket on top of three layers of sweaters.

  “Okay, I’m ready,” I announce.

  “You know, it’s thirty-five degrees and sunny,” Mark comments as if this makes a difference. He wears only one layer of everything.

  “Hey, if it’s not eighty degrees, it’s too cold,” I conclude, and hike in front of him.

  On the trail, Mark stops every five minutes to stare out at the lookout points and I have to wait for him to catch up. And after two hours, my body, toes, and fingers are snug and very toasty under all my layers.

  “Wow, look at that view.” He spreads his arms out like a bird. “It’s beautiful.”

  From two thousand feet above sea level, the snow-covered world is magnificent and silent except for the whistles of the wind above the trees. As I breathe the clean, crisp air, the cold air reaches my warm throat and burns.

  “All right, let’s go.” I cough and resume my exercise.

  “Can you believe you’re hiking in the winter?” Mark asks beside me.

  “Well, you know what they say, if you can’t beat them, join them. I still prefer sun and sand but I can’t sit around all winter just eating and getting fat,” I answer, and reach into my pocket to grab a Snickers bar.

  “And you sure like to eat!” Mark laughs.

  “Damn right.” I chomp into my candy bar. I love food. But not just any food—I love fried chicken, fried shrimps, fried beef, fried catfish, fried pork, fried eggplant, fried mushrooms, and anything Asian and spicy.

  “But isn’t it beautiful out here? Now?”

  “Uhh,” I shrug. “It’s more beautiful in the summer.”

  By the time we make it to the top of the mountain, the sun is already sinking behind the horizon. Off the cliffs before us, bright colors of gold, orange, pink, magenta, and red splash across the sky, giving us a majestic sunset that even the gods themselves would admire.

  “Wow,” Mark utters with awe.

  Unlike Mark, each bright color hurts my gut so viscerally I want to reach in and cut out the cause. In each breathtaking sunset, Mark sees romance, peace, and beauty; I see the outline of Pa and two soldiers walking away from me.

  “It’s getting late. Let’s go,” I tell Mark, and head back down the mountain.

  For the next forty-five minutes, I thrash down the trail, running away from the sunset. By the time I reach the car, my chest burns and my legs shake with exhaustion.

  “I’m starving!” I huff.

  “Yeah, it’s been at least two hours since you last ate,” Mark laughs.

  “Let’s go for some Chinese.”

  In the jeep, my insides twist into painful knots. I reach into my coat and pants pockets and rummage through my backpack. I’m usually good about having food with me wherever I go, but not today. Suddenly my hands begin to tremble with anxiety. I wrap my arms around my stomach, which growls as if it hasn’t been fed for days. I lean back into my seat, close my eyes, and inhale and exhale deeply.

  “You okay?” Mark’s voice sounds worried.

  “I’m starving,” I murmur, close to tears. Then suddenly I snap. “Why the hell can’t you go faster? God damn it!”

  “Chill,” he tells me.

  “What the hell? I’m starving! How can I chill? What the hell do you know about starving?” I turn my head away from him and dig my fingers deeper into my stomach.

  Mark is silent. I focus on the heat blasting at full force through the ventilator. The loud noise distracts my thoughts from food and for a moment calms me.

  “Sorry I cracked,” I finally tell him. “I just don’t like being hungry.” I say nothing more and continue to gaze out the window as the jeep curves along the winding road. I stare at each passing road sign, concentrating on each one until my pupils narrow and my surroundings fade out. As time passes, I grow calm, but I’ve also checked out. My identity has shrunk down to two unblinking eyes zeroing in on road signs with laser-beam precision.

  Then in the distance I see a marker for a country store.

  “Stop at the store,” I tell Mark. “Please.”

  “I thought we were going to eat at The Mandarin.”

  “I can’t wait that long. We’ll go to The Mandarin some other night.”

  “Okay.” He parks in front of the store.

  While Mark stays in the car, I walk in and grab a few candy bars, stale bagels, beef jerky, bags of potato chips, and cans of root beer. From the counter, a man in his sixties follows me with his eyes as I make my way around the maze of junk food to the cashier. As he rings each item, he glances up at my face. When I reach into my pocket to pay him, he smiles and says, “Young lady, has anyone ever told you that you look like Suzie Wong?”

  “No. No Suzie Wong here.” I give him the money and leave with a tight smile.

  In the car I
crunch on the chips loudly, but the noise does not shut off the old man’s question. Most Asian girls who’ve heard of Suzie Wong dread the comparison. Suzie Wong, after all, is a character in an old movie titled The World of Suzie Wong. In the part, actress Nancy Kwan played the character of a popular Chinese prostitute with a heart of gold who falls in love with an older white dude and gets rejected. I was bored with the movie but watched it when it was on TV because it was the first one I saw that actually had an Asian woman playing an Asian woman. After many years of watching movies where white women taped their eyes to play Asians, Kwan was at least the real deal. But I look nothing like her. We have different eyes, noses, mouths, and body types.

  It’s seven P.M. when we arrive back at my dorm.

  “Sorry we didn’t get to The Mandarin,” Mark says, and stops the jeep in front of my door.

  “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll pay next time,” I assure him and get out. Then I stop and turn back. “Sorry again about going psycho on you,” I say sheepishly and look away with embarrassment. “I think I’m manic or something.” I smile and try to think of something else to say. “Oh, by the way—if you ever run into my boyfriend, pretend you’re gay.”

  “What?” Mark bursts out laughing so hard, his blue eyes squint and disappear just like an Asian’s.

  “Yeah, he was getting jealous, seeing you in my room all the time, so I told him you like only boys. And he believed me.” Because Mark is so pretty, stylish, and nice, it’s easy to convince people he’s gay.

  “That’s why I like you. You’re never boring.” Mark wipes his eyes. “Pick you up at ten-thirty for the party?”

  “Sure. Don’t be late!” I holler as the jeep takes off, knowing it’s no use.

  Back in my dorm room, I quickly glance at my calendar for the week. In between classes on the Old Testament and Luke, Matthew, and Paul, I have feminist theology, Hinduism, and witchcraft. Then there are meetings with the students’ Hunger Program, Diversity Club, and International Student Association. On my desk, the piles of homework and study sheets await my attention.