When Heaven Fell

by Carolyn Marsden

  Di asked gently, “You didn’t bring a change of clothes, did you, Binh?”

  Binh studied her bare feet.

  Di looked around. “I don’t see any shops here. Just swim in your dress and it’ll dry.”

  Binh dropped her sandals and the plastic bag of their things onto the sand. Di expected her to go in the water. If she didn’t, her auntie would be disappointed.

  They waded into the warm water beside a man maneuvering a boat woven like a round basket. The ocean moved against Binh, pulling her one way, then another. She gripped Di’s hand harder. The ocean might carry her to the horizon, which was a faraway, clear line — unlike the uneven horizon of the valley where she lived.

  “Don’t be afraid, Binh. This water is shallow. The waves aren’t strong enough to hurt us.”

  Binh could see the bottom, crisscrossed by ripples of light.

  Di took Binh’s hand and led her in deeper, past the point where the man had climbed into his round boat, past where the waves pushed and pulled. Here the water rose gently, taking Binh up and down.

  Di let go of her hand. “You’re on your own now.” She lay flat on her back, her suit very red in the turquoise water.

  “I can’t swim,” Binh called out.

  “You don’t need to swim here. The water isn’t deep,” said Di, righting herself.

  The round boat was small now, the man rowing out to sea using a palm leaf as an oar.

  “Lie down, Binh. I’ll hold you up.”

  Binh lay with Di supporting her. Her dress billowed around her and salty water splashed into her mouth. She coughed.

  Di withdrew her hands and Binh continued to float. She rode on the surface of the ocean, the sun hot on her face, the outlines of her body disappearing.

  After a while, Binh stood up. “Let me carry you in the water, Di.”

  Di threw herself back and allowed Binh to move her this way and that. Di weighed nothing!

  If only Cuc were here, she suddenly thought. She thought of her now, perhaps flattening cardboard boxes for the recycler to collect.

  Suddenly, Di stood up. “It’s time to go.”

  “Oh, can’t we stay longer? We just got here.”

  “I feel bad. Everyone was hoping to go to America.” Di said, the blue-green of the ocean reflecting onto her face. “I’d like to make it up to them. I’d like to do some shopping.”

  Shopping! Binh’s eyes grew wide.

  Yet as she followed Di out of the water, Binh sighed and caressed the smooth waves. She might never be here again. Reluctantly, she stepped out of the white foam and onto the hard sand once again.

  Di pulled her dress on over her wet bathing suit. “Your clothes will dry by the time we get to the main road.”

  As they walked across the mounds of warm sand, Binh kept looking over her shoulder at the ocean. A wind had come up, flecking the blue water with white.

  Binh leaned down and picked up a small pink shell. She put it in her pocket. The shell hadn’t cost a thing. It wasn’t American. But it was nonetheless beautiful.

  The highway led into a town unlike any that Binh had seen. No one squatted by the side of the road selling flat baskets of fruit or vegetables. No shops sold car parts or machinery. No chickens meandered.

  Instead, shop after shop sold tourist items: non las with fancy paintings, paper fans with cut designs, carved animals, bowls made of coconut shells.

  People with round eyes and all colors of hair — light brown, yellow, and even orange — strolled in and out of the shops. None spoke Vietnamese.

  Binh stared at these people, who looked like the children in the photographs of Di Thao’s school.

  “Lots of foreigners here,” Di merely commented.

  Binh noticed that both Vietnamese and foreigners stared at Di.

  Di stopped in front of a restaurant with a patio. Each table was sheltered by a brightly colored umbrella. “This looks like fun. Italian food will be a nice change from rice and vegetables.”

  The umbrellas were lit with strings of lanterns. Cheerful music played from the loudspeakers.

  “Madame,” a Vietnamese man said, then uttered some words in English.

  Di spoke Vietnamese. “I am here with my niece for dinner.”

  The man raised his eyebrows and looked at Di more closely. He led them to a table and pulled out chairs for each of them.

  Di read the menu, which was not in Vietnamese. “How about spaghetti, Binh? That’s noodles — surely you’d like those — with red tomato sauce.”

  When the waiter came, a small white towel over his forearm, Di pointed to the menu. “Two of these dinners, please.”

  As they waited for food, Di took out her camera and they looked through the photos of the day: taking off in the bus, the photos of the street children (“I’d rather not look at them!” Binh protested), the road to the beach, the ocean.

  Then Di took a photo of Binh drinking limeade there in the Italian restaurant.

  The spaghetti arrived. The waiter also brought bread in a basket and small plates of salad.

  When Binh tried to lift the slippery noodles with her spoon, they slid off. The waiter hadn’t brought chopsticks.

  “Like this,” Di said. “Use this to move the noodles onto the spoon.” She held up a silver tool that looked like what Ma used to turn the soil in the garden.

  Binh picked up the unfamiliar tool and copied Di. But the strong-smelling cheese made her stomach queasy. The red sauce tasted sour and harsh. “Do they have food like this in America?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. People call it Italian food, but it’s very popular in America.”

  Binh slowly moved the unfamiliar eating tool into the noodles.

  When the waiter brought the check, Di glanced at it then pulled bill after bill from her wallet.

  Binh stared at the pile of money Di put down. It had paid for just one meal for the two of them, yet it could have bought rice and vegetables forever and ever.

  Leaving the restaurant, they walked down the street, past women and girls peddling cups of fruit, sodas, and coconuts. Binh thought of how soon she too would be selling by the side of the road.

  They wandered into a shop many times bigger than Third Aunt’s tourist shop. Binh gazed at shells with words painted on them, parasols like huge flowers, dolls wearing tiny ao dais — while Di made her way to a rack of clothing at the rear of the shop.

  “Look, Binh. They have dresses. Why don’t we buy you something clean to change into?” Di pushed the dresses along the rod, pausing over some, fingering the fabric.

  Binh lifted her eyes to the wall, where an ao dai hung. The tunic was of apple green silk, the loose trousers white. The pattern on the green silk was like soft clouds. It wasn’t American. But it was so lovely. . . .

  Pointing to the ao dai, Di beckoned the shopkeeper.

  The shopkeeper began to speak to Di in English. When Binh listened to English in movies, it sounded strange to her. But at least she had subtitles to read. Here there were no subtitles and she was lost in a sea of words.

  In America it would be like that: a continuous noise like the rumble of the ocean, sounds that made no sense.

  As Di and the woman spoke back and forth, Binh gazed up at the ao dai.

  Finally, the woman used a long-handled hook to lower first the trousers, then the tunic.

  “How much is it?” Binh asked Di.

  “Three hundred thousand dong.”

  Binh sucked in her breath. She sold cups of pineapple for one thousand dong. Three hundred thousand dong would buy a school uniform.

  The shopkeeper led Binh behind a curtain, where she changed out of her salty blue dress into the magnificent ao dai. The silk was cool against her skin, just as she’d always imagined. She fastened the soft loopy buttons and straightened the high-necked collar.

  When she came out, the shopkeeper and Di both smiled.

  “Look in the mirror, Binh,” said Di. “You look beautiful now.”

  The mirror was
as tall as Binh. She stood straighter and smoothed her hair, stringy with salt water, away from her face.

  She felt her whole body cool in the silk. It was her special moment. Di was offering to buy her an ao dai even prettier than the ones the high-school girls wore. And yet . . . her heart didn’t sing as she’d expected. Instead, it churned like a motor about to break.

  How could she wear something that cost so much when Ma and Ba fretted about money?

  Binh turned around, looking back over her shoulder once more, studying the elegant stranger she’d become, then returned to the dressing room.

  “You can wear it home if you like,” Di called.

  But Binh undid the loopy buttons with heavy hands, her fingers clumsy. She hung the pants, then the tunic, back on the hangers, then slipped her salty blue dress over her head.

  Stepping out, the dressing room curtain falling into place behind her, Binh handed the ao dai to her auntie. “I have no place to wear this.”

  Di straightened one trouser leg. “Not to a wedding?”

  “It’s not really that.” She looked up at the ceiling. “It costs too much.”

  Di lowered her eyebrows and stared hard at Binh. “Before you said I didn’t come here to buy you red plastic basins. . . .”

  Binh blushed at the reminder.

  “Are you now saying I shouldn’t buy you a nice gift either?”

  Binh looked down at her blue dress. A small hole had appeared near the waist. Soon the fabric would rot — the salt water hadn’t helped — and the rips would be uncontrollable.

  What was she saying? What did she want from her auntie? Now that Di wasn’t taking her to America, shouldn’t she get as much as she could from her? No one else would buy her an ao dai. So why was she turning it down?

  She thought suddenly of the monk’s talk, given the Sunday before Di’s arrival. The monk had talked of possessions as cows that weighed a person down. And now — she’d never thought it could be true — she felt the burden the ao dai would become.

  “Are you still holding out for a trip to America?” Di asked, smiling.

  “Oh, no.” Binh shook her head. She had, really had, given up on that. What did she want?

  The answer came to her slowly, as though evolving out of the mist. When she spoke, her words also evolved slowly: “I think . . . I’d rather you gave the three hundred thousand dong to my family.” Spending the money on a pretty outfit would be cruel.

  “Give them money? Wouldn’t that be rude?”

  “Not rude. Not at all,” Binh said.

  Di sighed. “I just don’t understand Vietnamese culture.” As though exhausted, she sat down on a low shelf, propping her chin in her hands. “Are you saying,” she asked, “that I shouldn’t buy anyone in your family anything? That instead they would rather have the money?”

  Binh nodded.

  “I’ve been a little blind, Binh. I’m sorry.” Di stood up. “I sensed a big need. I thought I could fill it with things like this.” She touched a bowl inlaid with bits of iridescent shell. “Or this.” She laid an open palm on a stone elephant. “I’ve been very thoughtless.”

  A small basket of greeting cards lay on the counter. Di fingered through the pile and chose one picturing two birds. The birds were made of pale straw. “Let’s see if I can do better,” she said, paying the disappointed shopkeeper.

  A thatched hut served as a bus station. Sitting down on the bench, Di said, “I want to write a little message in this card. But I can’t write Vietnamese. Would you?” She held out a pen and the card with the straw birds.

  As Di dictated, Binh wrote, slowly and carefully, while her auntie watched. Did she notice how poor Binh’s handwriting looked, how much time it took her to write the simple words? Would Di guess her secret?

  When the bus came, Di led the way on, choosing two seats in the front. Once they were settled, Binh looked out the window at the pretty town. Even the trunks of the palms were wound with strands of lights.

  Di leaned her head back and sighed. “It’s been a good day.”

  The bus rolled out of town and into blackness. Binh dozed, resting against Di’s shoulder.

  Finally, the engine stopped and Binh looked out to see the restaurant where they’d eaten in the morning. The same street children were already milling around the door of the bus.

  “Can we stay inside this time?” Binh asked. She didn’t want to see the children again.

  “I’m thirsty, Binh. And we both need to stretch our legs,” said Di, getting up from her seat.

  At the door, the children pressed toward Di. “Madame! Madame!”

  “Go away.” Binh shooed them.

  The children retreated a few steps, then followed Di as she walked to the restaurant.

  Di ordered two sodas.

  The children hovered nearby, greedy for the sight of an American with money.

  “Those boys and girls are here all day and night,” Di said. “Once their vacation is over, at least they’ll be back in school.”

  They don’t go to school, Binh almost said. Instead, she knocked against her drink and spilled it.

  Di reached across with a napkin, while Binh just stared at the soda bubbles bursting on the surface of the table. Di assumed the children were on vacation. Did she think that Binh herself was on break and would soon return to school?

  The bus driver honked and the passengers stood to leave.

  Di handed out money as she passed through the children. “When do you go back to school?” she said, relaxing into her seat.

  “Never,” Binh blurted out.

  “What do you mean never?” Di’s thick American eyebrows met over her nose.

  Binh clutched the arm of the seat. The word never still vibrated in the air. Why hadn’t she thought of a quick lie?

  She felt as though she’d fallen into a river current that carried her against her will. “Those children don’t go to school.” She waved toward the faces on the other side of the glass, already growing smaller as the bus backed up. “And neither do I.”

  Just then, the driver turned off the lights inside the bus. Di’s voice cut through the sudden darkness. “What do you do instead?”

  “I sell fruit and soda. That cart in the backyard . . .”

  Di was nodding. “Now I understand. I thought school was out. Yet I saw children in school uniforms. I thought you . . . Why don’t you go?” When she turned, Binh smelled the Italian food on her breath.

  She waited until the bus turned onto the highway before saying, “Ba can’t pay the six hundred thousand dong a year for my schooling.”

  “Six hundred thousand dong? I thought school was free in Communist countries.”

  “School is free. But not uniforms or books. Without those, I can’t go.”

  “Six hundred thousand dong — that’s — mmm . . .” Di held up her fingers as though counting. “That’s only about forty dollars a year. That’s not much.”

  Binh sat up straight. “But Ba doesn’t have six hundred thousand extra dong.”

  “I’m sorry, Binh. In America, forty dollars isn’t a lot of money. What about Hai? Has he gone to school?”

  “Oh, no. Ba Ngoai taught us to read and write a little. I can read all the subtitles in the movies.”

  “Oh, my.” Di laughed, then asked, “What about your cousins?”

  “They do what I do. They help with the vegetable garden. Or sell things.”

  “Well, you have to get an education. I’ll see to that.”

  Binh put her hand on Di’s forearm and left it there. She recalled the way the ship captain had handed Fourth Uncle the shining red apple. Before biting in, he’d held the apple to the sky. Just so, Binh examined the apple that Di had just handed her, imagining its sweetness.

  After a while, Di said sleepily, “I knew I chose the word Wonder for a reason.”

  Binh giggled. Maybe the blue stone hadn’t been such a silly gift after all.

  “Would Hai like to go to school?” Di asked.
<
br />   “Anh Hai already has a real job. He has to work.”

  Binh thought of Cuc unpacking coconut ashtrays in her mother’s shop.

  Going to school without Cuc, Binh thought, would be like getting on a bus and driving away, leaving Cuc in the darkness.

  Binh let several miles go by before she increased the pressure on Di’s arm. “Di Hai,” she said, willing her voice to rise above the sound of the engine, “could Cuc go to school too?”

  “Cuc? What does she do now instead?”

  “She helps Third Aunt at the tourist shop.”

  “Well, if your brother can’t go . . .”

  Binh held her breath while the bus hurtled through the night.

  “Cuc should go.”

  Binh let her breath out in a long sigh. “Thank you, Di.” The imaginary apple was very sweet indeed.

  When the bus pulled into the village, Binh looked out the window to see her family waiting in a line, just as they’d stood in the morning. Once again, Ba and Anh Hai wore their good white shirts, and even though it was very late, Ba Ngoai had come along.

  Anh Hai carried a sign that said, Mung Di Hai va Em tro ve! Welcome Home, Auntie and Sister!

  Her family expected the ocean to be her big news, Binh thought. Goose bumps rose along her arms. Soon they’d learn how much her life was about to change.

  Di descended first, and Ba Ngoai drew her daughter to her with a sigh.

  Binh stepped down, and everyone pressed close, as though making sure she’d really come home. Even Anh Hai put a hand on her shoulder.

  Cuc kicked at the ground. “I bet you had fun.”

  Binh shrugged. “It was okay.” On purpose, she’d left Cuc behind. But now she would make up for it. “Will you come home with us?” Binh held out her hand. “I have something for you.”

  The white dogs ambled to greet them, and the house smelled of familiar, sweet incense. Bowls of rice and vegetables with bean curd were laid out, ready to eat. Someone had fixed Binh’s favorite dish of sliced melon with mint.

  Binh smiled at the photographs of the ancestors, wondering if they too were welcoming her home. There, among the offerings of flowers and fruit, lay Di’s rocks: Love, Imagination, and Wonder.