The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  An array of needles waits patiently in a tin, and he selects one that must work well because it looks as though it’s been used often. He coats the sharp end in the pitchy mixture. “We are ready,” he announces.

  He instructs me to hold out Nisay’s arms, a task that proves difficult. Nisay too recognizes that the show is about to begin and resists mightily. The more I try to straighten his arm, the harder he pulls it inward, wailing his fear.

  “Be calm. This will help you,” I whisper—words that I hope will console, but that I fear may instead confirm that this boy’s mother is nothing but a neak kohak (big, fat liar).

  The Healer pokes Nisay first in the center of his left wrist—he wails louder—then again slightly to the left, and yet again on the other side to the right. The black tar must seal the wounds quickly because, though the needle pierces my son’s skin, there is no blood.

  There is a Cambodian proverb Grandfather loved that says, For news of the heart, watch the face. At this moment, I think it would be more apt to say, For news of a mother’s heart, watch her child’s face. Nisay is terrified and my heart weeps.

  The poking and screaming, the tense muscles and tears, all continue on the opposite wrist, and then the Healer moves to the boy’s feet. The man must sense that I reach a point where I can’t bear to watch my son’s fear and pain any longer because he sets the needle down. I expect him to say he is finished. Instead, he passes me the teacup that holds the rest of the menacing concoction and says, “Put some on your finger and place it in the boy’s mouth.”

  My son is sobbing so hard in my arms that when I reach my finger into his mouth, he gags. I try again but only manage to spread more of the inky goo on the outside of his lips than inside. I look to the Healer for guidance, letting my despair-filled expression plead for mercy.

  “Just a little more on his tongue.”

  I scoop the last of it on my finger, push it deep inside his mouth, and let it coat his throat and tongue the best I can. The Healer then speaks words that cause my eyes to tear. “It is over.”

  Auntie steps beside me and takes Nisay, while I take money from my pocket. “Let me take him outside,” Auntie says. “We will wait for you down by the river.”

  My legs have gone to sleep, and it takes a moment to properly stand. There is a small table that holds the burning incense where the offering of money is placed. It is customary to leave payment, but there is no set price that the Healer charges. It is up to the patient to decide. Yet as I unfold our money and count, the Healer waves it away.

  “No payment is needed today.”

  He waits until my gaze meets his, as though he wants to be sure I share his conviction, his words that address the real concern still weighing down my heart. He speaks in a tone so matter-of-fact, I almost do believe him. “He will now get well,” the man assures.

  I don’t mean to be a skeptic, to lack hope, or to harbor fear. However, experience has been my diligent teacher. Still, I hate it. I don’t want to raise a child of doubt. I want my son to believe, to hope, to dream that the future holds brighter days.

  Grandfather, where is the balance between humbly accepting our life’s trials and pleading toward heaven for help, begging for a better tomorrow?

  And then Sopeap’s lesson drops out of hiding and into my head. “Whether we like it or not, hope is written so deeply into our hearts that we just can’t help ourselves, no matter how hard we try otherwise. We love the story because we are Sarann or Tattercoats or Cinderella.”

  And it must be true; some hope must remain in my heart, for I am standing in the hut of the Healer. If all hope had died at Stung Meanchey, I would not be here.

  I am so caught up in my own internal brooding that it takes a minute for the Healer’s next words to register. “The way you stand there so perplexed, you look a lot like your father,” he says.

  “You remember my father?” I ask with such surprise it causes a man who had yet to smile to offer what some might call a grin.

  “Assuredly. We were good friends. We grew up together, not terribly far from here.”

  “I didn’t know. Mother never mentioned that.”

  “That is my fault,” he replies with reluctance. Though I wait for an explanation, he offers none.

  “I wish I could remember him,” I say, speaking of my father. “Unfortunately, I don’t. He died the night I was born.”

  “Yes, I know,” the Healer says, with a still solemn tone. “I was with him.”

  “No . . . but . . . you couldn’t. You were with him? I was told he died alone, in front of our home, while Mother gave birth inside.”

  “Half of your story is correct,” he says.

  “Which half?”

  His pause is evidence of his reluctance, but I don’t turn away. When it is apparent that I’m not leaving until I know more, he motions for me to sit once again. “Your mother was in labor. I waited with your father in front of his home. He was so pleased to finally have a child.”

  “He was pleased?”

  “Beside himself. I mean, he was also worried, as all new fathers are; but he couldn’t wait to teach you about life.”

  “What happened?”

  “As we talked, he lost sensation in his left arm, hand, and fingers; then he began having difficulty breathing. I was just learning the art of healing from my father, but I wasn’t married yet, and I was still trying to decide if my father’s path should also be my own. Sang Ly, what I’m trying to say is that when your father collapsed, I didn’t know how to help.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran to find my own father, hoping he would know what to do—but I made the wrong choice. By the time I came back, others had discovered your father on the ground, and I was too late.”

  The man leans toward me with eyes that plea for absolution.

  “You couldn’t have known,” I tell him.

  “That may be true,” he says. “I couldn’t have stopped death from coming, but I should have been with your father when it led him away. Nobody should have to pass away from this world alone.”

  It’s a reminder that stabs at my heart with thoughts of Sopeap. I reach out and touch the Healer’s hand, but he is not yet finished. “I have one more regret,” he says. “I wish I had been closer to your family. I convinced myself that staying away would make it easier to forget. It turns out, it only deepened remorse—though I suppose there was one bright side.”

  “What is that?”

  “Had your father not passed away as he did, it is unlikely that I would have become a Healer. After his death, I promised myself I would learn all that my father could teach about the ancient ways of healing—so that the next time, I would know what to do.”

  The Healer’s eyebrows rise when I ask my next question. “What did he look like?”

  “Your father? He was a handsome man—looked just like your grandfather. Yes, imagine your grandfather, but take many years off.” Then he pauses. “You have never seen a picture of him?”

  I lower my head. “I know of no photograph. Mother said the one taken at their marriage was lost when the river flooded.”

  The Healer’s previous sadness skips to excitement. “Please, wait here.”

  He climbs down the stairs and hurries next door to his home. When he returns, he passes me a small black-and-white photograph of two handsome young men standing in front of a rice field. The man on the right indeed bears a striking resemblance to Grandfather. It is a peek into heaven, and I am left without words.

  “Please, take it with you,” the Healer says.

  The photo is old. It is stained and it is grainy—and it is, without a doubt, the most wonderful gift I have ever been given in my young life.

  “He would have been proud of you,” the Healer says as I prepare to depart.

  Perhaps he didn’t listen earlier. “We live in the dump,” I remind him.

  He nods warmly. “It doesn’t matter where you live, Sang Ly, it is how you live.”

 
; It sounds as though he’s been talking to Auntie. I don’t know proper protocol with Healers—what is acceptable and what is not—but I reach out and clasp his hands in mine, pull them close, then offer a sincere bow of gratitude. He returns my bow.

  With thanks complete, I place Father in my pocket. By the time I reach Auntie and Nisay, they are sitting at the river’s edge watching a man fish. Nisay’s crying has ceased.

  As the sound of the boat’s motor mixes with the splashing river, I glance at the picture once more and then slide it into my bag, where it will stay safe and not get wet. I gaze heavenward toward a man I can finally picture.

  Thank you, Father, for helping your friend decide to become a Healer so that he could be here today to help Nisay. Thank you for not caring where I live. Thank you for being proud of me. Oh, and when you get a moment, tell Grandfather that if he has something to say, he will have to wait in line. You and I have a lot to catch up on.

  *****

  As we say our final good-byes, Auntie is somber.

  “Give this to your mother,” she says, passing along some folded bills. “Tell her it’s to help cover the phone calls, since she’s always the one to call me.”

  I take the money, bow to her and Uncle, and thank them for their kindness. Ki says his good-byes the way most men do, with a quiet tip of the head and few words.

  I carry Nisay. Ki has a suitcase in each hand. We are a few steps away when I notice the old woman, our book-burning roommate, clinging to the distant stairs. Perhaps she wants to be certain we are actually leaving.

  “Ki, wait,” I say. “There’s one more thing I need to do.”

  He glances at the woman, then at me. His expression reads, Don’t do anything stupid. I answer by trading him Nisay for a suitcase. I then open the lid and remove my torn-up book. I have already inventoried the damage. She ripped out sections randomly, and no complete stories remain.

  When Ki understands what I’m doing, he smiles—as do Uncle and Auntie. The old woman eyes me warily until I step to where she lingers and present my parting gift—the rest of my book.

  Once the woman realizes I’m bestowing a peace offering, the suspicion in her eyes melts into wonderment. Her wrinkles turn upward and her old hands shake with glee. She snatches the book’s remains from my fingers, says not a word, but immediately shuffles around to gather matches, a pot, and her old stove. Shortly the crazy girl who wanted to murder her will be but a distant memory, while she happily cooks rice and vegetables for her dinner.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ki’s head rests against the closed window of a bus that thankfully has both air conditioning and plush seats. When catching a bus ride home from the province, you wait by the side of the road and take whatever comes along. Today the ancestors were smiling.

  Thank you, Father.

  Nisay is draped across Ki’s chest and both are sleeping like content babies. The scene is so picturesque I wish I owned a camera. The black spots on Nisay’s wrists and feet remain, since I forgot to ask the Healer when to wash them off. At this point, I’m not taking any chances.

  I try to sleep myself, but my occupied mind is holding my tired body hostage. The bus slows to a stop near a crossroads on the highway to let an elderly couple disembark. As I wait, I can’t help but glance across my husband and our sleeping son to the faces of the villagers who mix and mingle along the road. I’m certain that each of them has an interesting life story to tell.

  And then I see her.

  I lean forward as my heart quickens. Just to be certain my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me, I slip out of my seat and into the empty row in front, where I can scoot right up against the window.

  Yes, there is no mistaking that girl. It is Maly, walking beside a well-dressed woman who is perhaps older than I am, but not by much. The two carry half a dozen rolls of brightly colored fabric, as if they are returning from the market. As they pass parallel to the bus, they chat contentedly together.

  I want to pound on the window to get the girl’s attention, to chase her down and wrap my arms around her and tell her that I’ve been thinking about her, that we’ve all missed her. But as I reach for the latch to slide open the window, my hand freezes.

  Does Maly know about the death of her brother? Does she know that Lucky Fat wonders daily about how she’s doing? Are the memories she holds of Stung Meanchey ones she hopes to forget?

  As my questions swirl, I remember the story I read with Sopeap about Pyramus and Thisbe. It was about two children in love whose homes were separated by a thick wall—and yet they found a crack through which they could sometimes speak. I touch my fingers to the glass as Maly turns down a dirt road that leads to a distant village. I notice her giggle and laugh as she converses with the woman. She doesn’t even realize that I am there.

  I imagine this is how it must be with our ancestors. They watch us closely, full of love and concern, sometimes whispering encouragement through a crack, but mostly just satisfied to know that we are happy.

  When I scoot back to my seat beside Ki, he lifts his head and glances up. “What’s the matter? Sang Ly, why are you crying?”

  “It’s nothing,” I tell him as I reach down to grasp his hand. “I was just allowed to peek through a crack in the wall. Let’s go home.”

  *****

  It’s late when we finally arrive at Stung Meanchey, but there is enough moonlight shining over the dump that we can see our way. When we reach our shack on the mound, my feet become anchors and I jar to a stop. My mouth opens, but no words escape. I carry one suitcase while Ki holds the other and our son, and my suitcase hits the trash with a thud.

  While I can’t seem to verbalize my disbelief, Ki fills in for me. “It appears we’ve been robbed.”

  We have been more than robbed—we’ve been plundered, pillaged, and raped. Our home is completely empty. Except for its three bare walls and a roof, which surprisingly remain intact, there is nothing left.

  I dash around back but don’t have a light. Ki brings his lighter, and, with one flick of a finger, my fears are confirmed. They’ve even taken our possessions that were stored beneath—my washtub, my pans, my stove, our quarter sack of rice. They’ve taken my books and magazines, our sleeping mats and pillows, Ki’s long rubber boots, our empty plastic jugs, and our old Styrofoam cooler still filled with empty snail shells.

  The ground that once held our ceramic water jar, the same one we’ve used since moving to Stung Meanchey, is bare and empty. Ki’s picking tools are also missing, as well as our supply of empty sacks that we fill with recycled trash.

  We stumble back around front and confirm that our canvas—the one that served as our fourth wall, our front door, our protection from the elements—isn’t just folded up onto the roof. It’s nowhere to be found. They have even taken my broken clock.

  Every last thing we own—except what we have carried home from the province—is gone.

  *****

  I hear the sound of a distant, gurgling brook as an animal pulls at my face in the darkness. I am dreaming—only it is not a dream at all. When I open my eyes, it’s no longer dark. Nisay is beside me, and he is wide-awake and grabbing at my hair. I sit up in the unfamiliar surroundings and then remember we are at Mother’s. Late last night, when we discovered that all our earthly possessions were gone, we decided to sleep here for protection in case it rained.

  My husband is still asleep behind me, as is Mother across the room. I lie back down, pull my naked baby close, and realize there is no mess, no diarrhea to clean up—and he is trying to talk to me. I don’t know what he is saying, but his voice is loud enough that Mother wakes up next. She takes a quick glance and then comes over for a better look. She can hardly believe what she sees.

  “Nisay looks very good,” she says, not wanting to sound too hopeful too soon. She throws open the door to let in more light, just to be certain.

  “He has been much better,” I tell her. “He slept all the way home on the bus. He’s had no diarrhea and he
does seem more alert.”

  Mother couldn’t believe her eyes and now she doesn’t believe her ears. “No diarrhea?” she asks, shaking her head.

  “Not yet.”

  She reaches down and picks up the child, who is more than happy to oblige. I want to laugh with her as she plays with the boy, but I remind myself that hope was dashed too soon before, when his sickness returned. Yet that happened when his medicine ran out. Currently, he is taking no medicine.

  “You look as though you are starving. Is my grandson starving?” Mother says, speaking now in baby-talk to Nisay. “We must cook you a big breakfast to celebrate.”

  Ki, now awake, sits up. He is less cheery. “I should go to work,” he says, “but I have no boots, no picker, nothing.”

  Of course, he is right, we have nothing. And yet, if Nisay is truly better, we have everything.

  It is a simple notion—accepting that Nisay is going to be fine—but it’s a hope that I’ve kept caged in my heart for too long. When I finally crack open the door to the possibility, gratitude rushes past so quickly to reach the sunshine, there is nothing I can do to stop it. My lips begin to quiver as tears roll down across my cheeks and past my nose. I can’t help myself, and the first reaction I see from Ki is concern. “It’s okay,” he says, instantly apologetic. “I can get another picker.”

  I try to explain that it’s not about the picker, but my words mix with sobs to create sounds only a mother can decipher.

  “She’ll be fine,” Lena confirms. “Just give her a few minutes.” And then Mother turns to address us both. “And don’t worry about the things you lost. We are making arrangements.”

  “Arrangements?” we both mumble.