“What about Jack’s life insurance?”
“The state declared Jack dead, a victim of homicide. My lawyer doesn’t think there’ll be a problem with the insurance company.”
“Lucky you.”
“Are you driving back to the Cities tonight?”
“I think that would be best.”
“You could come down to Fertile; stay in the guest room like you did during the holidays.”
“If I did that, people might think we actually like each other.”
“We certainly can’t have that, can we?”
“Besides, you’ve been a widow for less than a month. What would Jack say?”
“I think Jack is past caring, don’t you?”
I carried Jack’s golf bag through my back door into the kitchen. Jodi met me there with a spatula in her hand and wearing a white apron.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully.
Jodi looked a little like the Barbie dolls she used to collect, except for the bruises on her face, neck and arms where Deputy Bakken had beaten her. But they had already faded to a soft yellow and would soon be gone forever.
Jack appeared in the doorway behind Jodi and went to the golf bag, taking it from my hands.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“According to plan.”
“Is it in here?” Jack opened zippers and flaps. Instead of balls, tees, shoes, rain gear and other golfing paraphernalia, thousands of dollars spilled out, most of the money in packets held together by rubber bands.
“Wow,” Jack said. “How much is here?”
“I didn’t count it,” I said. “I was in a hurry. Bakken kept the money in a lock box buried in the woods behind his trailer. The box was designed to keep the contents safe in case of fire or flood or whatever. It wasn’t hard to open. I took the money from the box, ran it over to your place and stashed it in the golf bag before meeting the sergeant.”
“How did you know where it was?” Jodi asked. “Even I didn’t know where it was—he made sure of that.”
“The first thing Bakken did when he realized that you left him was to check to see if you took his money. I knew he would. I was watching.”
“Four hundred sixty-seven thousand dollars,” Jack said after he finished counting. “That’s more than I had hoped for.”
“If the Polk County Sheriff’s Department ever starts arresting some of those meth dealers instead of just chasing them down the road to another jurisdiction, they’ll probably find that Bakken had been taking money from them for years.”
“I want you to take some of this—you did all the work.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t do it for the money.”
“You did it for us,” said Jodi.
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for love.”
“I kinda feel sorry for Tess, though,” Jodi said.
“Don’t be,” said Jack. “She has all that insurance money to keep her warm.”
“But she doesn’t have you.”
Jack and Jodi embraced. I poured myself a cup of coffee.
“You will look in on Tess, won’t you, Danny?” Jack asked. “Once in a while just to make sure she’s all right.”
“Sure.”
“You’re a good friend. I think I’m going to miss you most of all.”
Jack hugged me.
“Do you want to know the names we’ve chosen?” Jodi asked.
“No,” I said. I hugged her - there was a lot of hugging going on in my kitchen. “Just have a good life, both of you.”
An hour later they were gone, driving south in an aging Ford Escort I had bought at a charity auction and registered under a false name. It was the same car I had planted in the parking lot of the Fertile-Beltrami High School for Jack and Jodi to escape in. A few minutes later, I called Fertile, Minnesota.
“Hi,” I said when Tess answered.
“Are they gone?” she asked.
“Just left.”
“Will they be all right?”
“Bakken left them nearly a half million dollars. If they can’t start over on that…”
“I kinda feel sorry for them.”
“Don’t be. They have each other to keep themselves warm.”
“That leaves just you and me.”
“I’ll have plenty of closet space cleared out by the time you move in.”
“A Domestic Matter” Copyright ©2005 by David Housewright. First published in The Silence of the Loon,” Nodin Press.
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Author’s Note: This is my favorite short story, a piece I wrote for the anthology Twin Cities Noir. The editors, Julie Schaper and Steven Horwitz, told me they made it the lead story because “it was the most noirish.” I really like that. The Twin Cities Daily Planet wrote: “Minnesota Book Award winner, David Housewright’s ‘Mai-Nu’s Window’ opens the collection. A shy Puerto Rican teenage boy and a Hmong woman going to law school are Frogtown neighbors. The unexpected consequences of their encounter reveals the challenges of immigrant tradition and American assimilation, with subtle perfection, echoing classic themes from James M. Cain”. I really like that, too.
Mai-Nu’s Window
Benito Hernandez did not know when Mai-Nu began leaving her window shade up. Probably when the late August heat had first arrived—dog days in Minnesota. It was past ten thirty PM yet the temperature was eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit in Benito’s bedroom and his windows, too, were wide open and his shades up. Just as they were in most of the houses in his neighborhood. That was one way to tell the rich from the poor in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. The ones who could afford central air, all their windows were closed.
The window faced Benito’s room. Through it he could see most of Mai-Nu’s living room as well as a sliver of her bedroom. Mai-Nu was in her living room now, sitting on a rust-colored sofa, her bare feet resting on an imitation wood coffee table. She was stripped down to a white, sleeveless scoop-neck tee and panties. What little fresh air that seeped through the window screen was pushed around by an electric fan that swung slowly in a half circle and droned monotonously. It didn’t offer much relief. Benito could see strands of raven-black hair plastered to Mai-Nu’s forehead and a trickle of sweat running down between her breasts. Next to her on the sofa were a bowl of melting ice, a half-gallon carton of orange juice and a liter of Phillips vodka. She was reading a book while she drank. Occasionally, she would mark passages in the book with a yellow highlighter.
Less than five yards separated their houses and sometimes Benito could hear Mai-Nu’s voice; could hear the music she played and the TV programs she watched. Sometimes he felt he could almost reach out and touch her. It was something he wanted very much to do. Touch her. But she was twenty-three, a student at William Mitchell Law School—it was a law book that she was reading. Benito was sixteen and about to begin his junior year in high school. She was Hmong. He was Hispanic.
Still, Benito was convinced Mai-Nu was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. A long feminine neck, softly molded moon face, alluring oval eyes, pale flesh that glistened with perspiration—she was forever wrestling with her long, thick hair and often she would tie it back in a ponytail as she had that night. Watching her made him feel tumescent, made his body tingle with sexual electricity, even though the few times he had actually seen her naked were so fleeting as to be more illusion than fact. Often he would imagine the two of them together. And just as often he would berate himself for this. It was wrong, it was stupid, it was asqueroso! Yet when night fell, he would hide himself in the corner of his bedroom and watch, the door locked, the lights off, telling his parents that he was doing homework or listening to music.
Mai-Nu mixed a drink, her second by Benito’s count, and padded in the direction of her tiny kitchen. She was out of sight for a few moments, causing Benito alarm, as it always did when she slipped from view. When Mai-Nu returned, she was carrying a plate of leftover pork stew with corn bread topping. The meal had been a gift from Juanita Hernandez. Benito’s moth
er was always doing that, making far too much food then parceling it out to her neighbors. She had brought over a platter of carne y pollo when Mai-Nu first arrived as a house-warming gift. Benito had accompanied her and was soon put to work helping Mai-Nu move in.
It wasn’t much of a place, he had noted sadly. The living room was awash in forest green except for a broad water stain on the wall behind the couch that was gray. Burnt orange drapes framed the windows and the carpet was once blue but now resembled the water stain. The kitchen wasn’t much better. The walls were painted a sickly pink and the linoleum had the deep yellow hue of urine. Just off the living room was a tiny bathroom: sink, toilet, tub—no shower—and beyond that a tiny bedroom.
There was no yard. The front door opened onto three concrete steps that ended at the sidewalk. The boulevard between the sidewalk and curb was hard-packed dirt and exactly as wide as eight of Benito’s size ten-and-a-half sneakers. Mai-Nu had no garage either, only a strip of broken asphalt next to the house that was too small for her ancient Ford LTD.
“It is only temporary,” Mai-Nu had told Juanita. “My parents came from Laos. My father had helped fight for the CIA during the war. They did well after they arrived in America—they owned two restaurants. But they believed in the traditions of their people, so when my parents were killed in a car accident, it was my father’s older brother who inherited their wealth. He was supposed to raise my brother and I. Now that we are both of age, the property should come to us.”
But six months had passed. The property had not come to them and Mai-Nu was still there.
Benito wondered about that while he watched her eat. Mai-Nu did not have a job as far as he knew, unless you would call attending law school a job. Possibly her uncle helped her pay the rent on her house, such as it was. Or maybe it was her brother—Cheng Song was not much older than Benito, but he had quit school long ago and was now the titular head of the Hmongolian Boy’s Club, a street-gang with a reputation for terror. They had met only once. Outside of Mai-Nu’s. She had been shouting at him, telling a smirking Cheng that he was wasting his life when Benito had arrived home carrying his hockey equipment. He was only a sophomore, yet his booming slapshot had already caught the notice of both pro and college scouts alike. Several D-1 schools had indicated that they might offer him a scholarship if he improved his defense and kept his grades up, which Juanita vowed he would do—“Si no saca buena noto le mato!” Cheng hadn’t seemed impressed by the hockey player, but later he told Benito, “You watch out for my sister. Anything happen, you tell me.”
Mai-Nu took the remains of her dinner back to the kitchen. When she returned she mixed a third drink and retrieved her law book. She kept glancing at her watch as if she were expecting a visitor. The phone rang, startling both her and Benito. Mai-Nu went to answer it, slipping out of sight.
There was a mumbling of hellos and then something else. “Yes, Pa Chou,” Mai-Nu said, her voice rising in volume. And then, “No, Uncle.” She was shouting now. “I will not.”
Benito wished he could see her. He moved around his bedroom, hoping to get a better sight angle into Mai-Nu’s house, but failed.
“I know, I know…But I am not Hmong, Pa Chou. I am American…But I am, Uncle. I am an American woman…I will not do what you ask. I will not marry this man…In Laos you are clan leader. In America you are not.”
She slammed the receiver so hard against the cradle that Benito was sure she had destroyed her phone. A moment later Mai-Nu reappeared, her face flushed with anger. She guzzled her vodka and orange juice, made another drink and guzzled that.
Benito wished she would not drink so much.
The next morning, Benito found Mai-Nu at the foot of her front steps, stretching her long legs. She was wearing blue jogging shorts and a tight, white half-tee that emphasized her chest - at least that is what he noticed first. He was startled when she spoke to him.
“Benito,” she said. “Nyob zoo sawv ntyov.”
“Huh?”
“It means ‘good morning.’”
“Oh. ¡Buenos dias!”
“I’m probably going to melt in this heat, but I really need to exercise.”
“It is hot.”
“Well, I will see you…”
“Mai-Nu?”
“Yes?”
Benito was curious about the phone call the evening before, but knew he couldn’t ask about it. Instead, he said, “Your name. What does it mean?”
“My name? It means ‘gentle sun.’”
“That’s beautiful.”
Mai-Nu smiled at the compliment. Suddenly, she seemed interested in him.
“And Cheng Song?” Benito asked.
“Cheng, his first name, that means ‘important’ and my brother certainly wishes he were. Song is our clan name. The Hmong did not have last names until the West insisted on it in 1950s and many of us took our clan names. I am Mai-Nu Song.”
“What about Pa Chou?”
“Where did you hear my uncle’s name?”
Benito shrugged. “You must have told me.”
“Hmm,” Mai-Nu hummed. “Chou means ‘rice steamer.’”
“Oh, yeah?”
She nodded. “‘Pa’ is a salutation of respect, like calling someone ‘mister’ or ‘sir.’”
“Why does he have a salutation of respect?”
“Pa Chou is the leader of the Song clan in St. Paul. What that means—clan leaders are called upon to give advice and settle arguments within the clan.”
“Like a patron. A godfather.”
“Yes. Also,” Mai-Nu’s eyes grew dark and her voice became still, “also they arrange marriages and decide how much a groom’s family must pay his bride’s family to have her. Usually it is between six thousand and ten thousand dollars.”
“Arranged marriages? Do you still do that?”
“The older community, my parent’s generation, they really value the old Hmong culture. That is why they settled here in St. Paul. St. Paul has the largest urban Hmong population in the world. Close to twenty-five thousand of us. They come here because they can still be Hmong here. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
Benito attended a high school where thirty percent of the student body was considered minorities—African-Americans, Native-Americans, Asians, Somali, Indians, Latinos—all of them striving to maintain their identity in a community that was dominated by the Northern Europeans that first settled there.
“It is changing,” said Mai-Nu. “The second generation, my generation, we are becoming American. But it is hard. Hard for the old ones to give up their traditions. Hard for the young ones, too, caught between cultures. My brother—he liked to have his freedom. I asked him, my uncle asked him, where do you go? What do you do? He says he is American so he can do whatever he likes. You cannot tell him anything. Now he is a gangster. He brings disgrace to the clan. Maybe if my parents were still alive…”
Mai-Nu shook her head, her ponytail shifting from one shoulder to the other.
Benito said, “What about you?”
“Me? I am bringing disgrace to the clan, too.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“In my culture, a woman can only lead from behind. To be out front, to have a high profile, to be a lawyer—the old people, the clan leaders do not tolerate it. My uncle is very upset. He is afraid of losing power as the young people become more Americanized. Keeping me in my place, it is important to him. It proves that he is still in charge. That is why he wants me to marry.”
“He arranged your marriage?”
“He is attempting to. He says—Pa Chou and my brother hate each other—but Pa Chou says he will leave all his wealth—my parents’ wealth—to Cheng unless I agree to marry.” She grinned then, an odd thing Benito thought. “My bride price—the last bid was twenty-two thousand. If they wait until after I get my law degree, the bidding will top twenty-five thousand.”
“You are worth much more than that,” Benito blurted.
&nbs
p; Mai-Nu smiled at him. “You are very sweet,” she said. And then, “I have to run if I am going to have time to get cleaned up before class.”
A moment later she was moving at a steady pace down the street. Benito watched her.
“Gentle Sun,” he said.
It was nearly ten PM when Mai-Nu went from her bedroom to her tiny bathroom—Benito saw her only for a moment. She was naked, but the rose-colored nightshirt she carried in front of her hid most of her body.
“¡Maldito sea!,” Benito cursed.
Mai-Nu did not have a shower, Benito knew. Only a big, old-fashioned bathtub with iron feet. He imagined her soaking in the tub, white soap bubbles hugging her shoulders. But the image lasted only until he wiped sweat from his own forehead. It was so warm, he could not believe anyone would immerse themselves in hot water. So he flipped a channel in his head, and suddenly there was a picture of Mai-Nu standing in two inches of lukewarm water, giving herself a sponge bath. He examined the image closely behind closed eyes. Until he heard the sound of a vehicle coming quickly to a stop on the street.
His eyes opened in time to see three Asian men invade Mai-Nu’s home. Flinging open the door and charging in, looking around like they were seeing the house for the first time. They were older than Benito but smaller, the biggest about five-five, one hundred forty pounds.
One of the men called Mai-Nu’s name.
“What do you want?” Mai-Nu shouted in reply.
She emerged from her bathroom. Her hair was dripping. The short-sleeve nightshirt she had pulled on was wet and clung to her body.
“I have come for you,” the man replied.
“Get out.”
“We will be married.”
“I said no. Now get out.”
“Mai-Nu…”
“Get out, get out.”
The man reached for her and she punched him hard enough to snap his head back.
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