Hương 1980

A splash of water in the bayou shook Hương out of her thoughts. Shelooked out her window and a saw a light in the water, a small circularspot of yellow that must have been a flashlight. The light flicked off as ifnoticing Hương, and then, after a few seconds, it was back on again.It was nearly midnight and no one should have been out there. She putaway the letter she’d been reading, grabbed the keys, and walked out.“A lô?” she called and the light began moving. She walked toward thewater and tried to see who it was. She wondered if it was one of theteenagers. The light moved back and forth, as if whoever was holding it weretrying to hide. It annoyed her. She had work in the morning, and heresomeone was making a ruckus. She hadn’t been asleep, but if she were, shewas sure it would have woken her up.“Hello?” Hương called, this time in English. “Somebody there? Hello?”When no one answered, she called out louder. The light dimmed as sheapproached the water. The bayou lapped against the shore steadily.She took a step forward and there she saw the boy—Thanh’s boy. Thedarkness made him look smaller than she remembered, but she saw himclearly, a half-Vietnamese, half-black boy about the age of Tuấn. He stared ather as if thinking he couldn’t possibly be seen if only he didn’t move. Hereminded her of a bird, a small orphaned sparrow, perhaps, who fell out of itsnest, and with that, her annoyance melted away into something else, a mix ofrelief and pity.“Get out of there,” she said. She’d forgotten his name and waved for himto come along. “Let’s go. Your mother’s probably worried sick.”“No, she’s not,” he said. That he spoke back so sharply surprised her.“She doesn’t care at all,” he added.“Of course she does,” she replied. “Come along, tối rồi.”Hesitantly, the boy dragged a cardboard box out of the water and walkedto shore.“It’s a boat,” he told her.Hương didn’t know what to say to that, so she nodded, then said “Comealong” again, pointing for him to the lead the way.They walked to his apartment near the main road. All the way, the boydragged the cardboard box—bigger than he was—behind him. Seeing himstruggle, Hương reached over, but he pulled the box closer to his bodyprotectively. Hương let him have it and continued ahead of him, looking backevery few feet as he stumbled across the dirt road that ran through Versailles.When Hương knocked, a light came on and the door opened. The boy’smother shook her head. “You should know better,” she said and opened thedoor wider for her son to come in. She let out a heavy, exhausted sigh.Hương wanted to say something else, but she didn’t know what. The doorclosed and was locked before she had a chance.It was past midnight by the time she returned to her room. Though shewas tired, she pulled out the letter.—The next morning, Kim-Anh went on and on. They were the only twoVietnamese working in the Coke factory in Gert Town and, because of that,were drawn together magnetically, inseparable because of circumstance.Kim-Anh was a spritely twenty-one-year-old with fair skin and aboisterous laugh who had no business being in America, let alone NewOrleans. She had left Vietnam on—of all things—a cruise ship.“I was told we were going to Úc,” she told Hương. “Turns out it was HồngKông. Turns out my parents were right. Saigon was going to fall any day and Ileft just in time. And I was only sixteen! Imagine, a girl so young on a cruiseship without even an older brother to protect her!”In Vietnam, Kim-Anh would have a husband by now, and a child, too. Thegirl had neither of those. She shared a house in Metairie with an Americanman who was much older than she was.“He has so much money!” Kim-Anh always said. “I don’t have to work.That’s the truth. I just work because I get so bored at home.”It was an absurd claim. The other factory workers called her Princess.It was the second Friday of the month as they stood in line waiting fortheir paychecks when Kim-Anh paused whatever she was talking about—Hương had stopped paying attention—and exclaimed, “Have you ever been toMadame Beaumont?”Hương said no.“The American and I are going tonight,” Kim-Anh went on. “The menwho go there buy me drinks on Fridays.” She giggled. “Ladies’ night,” she saidin English.“I have children,” Hương said. She had nearly said responsibilities butcaught herself before telling Kim-Anh she had to pick them up from theirbabysitter. “It’s not that I don’t want to go, but I’d have to pay Bà Giang moreand this paycheck’s already going to rent.”“What you need, chị Hương, is an American,” Kim-Anh told her. “WhenI came here, I was lost, confused. Then you know what happened?” Shesmiled excitedly, silently begging Hương to ask what happened. “I met theAmerican! Americans are so wonderful,” Kim-Anh blurted out. “They’reugly, but they have money, which is all that matters sometimes, thoughsometimes it doesn’t at all.”When they walked outside, the sunlight struck Hương’s eyes. She squintedat the factory gates. The sound of idling cars and radios filled the air. A lonecloud floated in the sky, a perfect white against blue.Kim-Anh opened her purse and drew out a clutch wallet decorated infleurs-de-lis. “Chị Hương, I’ll pay your babysitter overtime. You’ve been herefor so long, and you never have any fun. You work too hard!” She handedHương two bills. Two twenties. The man on them, someone told her, wasnamed Andrew Jackson. His face looked strong and determined. On his head,white and wavy hair grew thick as grass. “I can’t. I shouldn’t.” Hương tried to hand the money back, but Kim-Anhstuck a cigarette in her mouth. She lit it up and waved Hương away.“You’re young, too, chị Hương,” Kim-Anh said, smoke blowing out of herdelicate lips. “Enjoy yourself a bit. You deserve it. You’ve worked so hard. Iknow that. Everyone knows that. Look at those bags under your eyes. There’sa cream I got at D. H. Holmes for that, you know.”Hương touched the space under her eyes.After a few more casual puffs, Kim-Anh’s eyes brightened and sherounded her lips. When she couldn’t make any smoke rings, she clasped herhands together and laughed at the fun of failing.Hương looked down at Andrew Jackson in her hands.“Ông già Mỹ and I will pick you up later tonight. We’ll head out aroundeight.” She spoke with confidence, a quality Hương always envied.“But—” Hương said.Kim-Anh giggled and waved to a car. The American waited for her. “Iwon’t take no for an answer, sister,” she said. “I am not that kind of lady,” sheadded in English.—On the bus ride home, Hương reminded herself she wasn’t old. Twenty-sevenwasn’t old. She was nearly Kim-Anh’s age. And she had missed out on somuch. When she was younger, she’d heard of tango lounges in Saigon, but shenever visited. She became a wife. Then a mother. When the Americans cameto Saigon, the city was a place no self-respecting woman would find herselfgoing to day or night. And when the Americans left—that was another story.The war made her miss her youth. She owed this to herself.At Bà Giang’s, the kids sat in front of the TV watching puppets, exceptThanh’s son. They were both strange, sad people, that mother and that son.No one knew where the father was, but everyone said—Bà Giang said—Thanh came to New Orleans to find him. Thanh let herself in behind Hương.Hương didn’t even have to look behind her; she knew the peanut-oil smell ofthe fast-food restaurant where Thanh worked. While Hương talked to BàGiang, Thanh went to the bedroom and knocked on the door. Of course herson was hiding! He was always doing that.“I’m going out tonight,” Hương said to Bà Giang.“So you’ve met a man!” Bà Giang replied.“No, no!” Hương laughed. “There’s no other man for me, Bà Giang. KimAnh is taking me out to see this place. Madame something or other. I won’tbe long. I can’t imagine staying out all night.”Hương gave Bà Giang one of the two twenties and went to her sons. Bìnhwas sitting with the other kids watching TV. Tuấn was in the love seat byhimself with one of Bà Giang’s sets of playing cards. They were facing down.After a few seconds, her son picked one up, then another. Unsatisfied, hereturned both cards.“Tuấn,” Hương called. She sat behind him and watched his game. “Whatabout that one? I remember seeing a queen there.”“No,” he said. “Can’t be.” He picked it up anyway. Four of diamonds.“Told you.”She rubbed his hair and leaned down to kiss him. “Mẹ will be out latetonight.”From across the room, Bình saw her and ran toward his mother. Hetripped on the way and stayed where he fell, having decided staying on thefloor was easier than getting up. She lifted him and patted his head. “Be vânglời for Bà Giang, okay?”“Dạ,” he said with a nod.When she set him down, he followed her to the door. She picked him upand set him back on the sofa. But this time, as she left, he burst into tears.She held him and cradled him.“Be good for Mom,” she said. “Be good for Bà Giang. Why are you alwayscrying?”Bà Giang ran to him then and took the two-year-old in her arms.“Mommy’s coming back,” she cooed. “Is that what you’re afraid of? Don’t beafraid. Don’t cry. Mommy’s coming back.” Then to Hương, “Have funtonight. Have a drink. You deserve it!”Bình cried even louder. Hương was about to grab him but stopped herself.Yes, she told herself, she deserved it.“Goodbye,” she called out as she left. Thanh and her son followed after.—She settled on a modest dress, a teal piece with a fabric belt. Before NewOrleans, she wore mostly black and white polyesters—simple clothes thatwere also lightweight, because Vietnam was hot and there was a war and youdressed for practicality. But in New Orleans, the weather was not as hot, andeverything was colorful already. She thought of the houses in the Marginy,the cars that passed by as she rode the bus, the flowers in the parks, sodabottle labels. She told Công about the colors of New Orleans, how it shookher awake and made her feel alive, how she had grown fond of the placebecause of the colors.“You would like it here,” she often found herself repeating, “when youcome here.”All in all, she sent dozens of tape messages to Công and several shortletters. They all went unanswered. Some were returned with a rude stamp—–‰˜™–’ ˜“ —‰’ˆ‰–—next to the postmark. Others came back damaged,packages ripped apart, as if inspected. (By whom, she would wonder.) Shekept everything that came back. Yet she still hoped some of the messagesfound their way to Công. She could hope.She could hope for a hundred years. She could hope for a thousand years.She imagined her body made of hope, made for hope. Until the day his firstletter came.It came in a thin aerogramme tucked in between a Kmart circular and amagazine of coupons. It said “Trần Văn Công” and had the address of theirSaigon home. Her heart stopped. Then it quickened wildly. The letter fellfrom her hands and she went to get a glass of water. The image of their oldhouse flashed in her mind. It was saved, was her immediate thought. Perhapseverything was fine now. Perhaps they would even move back. (Sheimmediately admitted to herself that it was a silly thought.) She waited until after dinner to open it. In the dim light of her room—shehad only a floor lamp with a weak bulb—she peeled back the flap. She did itcarefully, afraid one slight clumsy move might rip apart the thin paper,leaving the message unintelligible.She saw the letter in her drawer as she grabbed her earrings. Kim-Anhrang the doorbell.“Are you ready, chị Hương?” Kim-Anh asked. She stepped inside andlooked around. When her eyes settled on Hương, she grabbed the fabric ofthe dress, handling it with a surprising roughness. “You’re not wearing that,are you, chị Hương?” Kim-Anh announced.“What do you mean?”Kim-Anh, for her part, wore a flowing pink lace shirt with a matchingskirt. “We’re going to the Quarter. You can’t wear this. You can’t.” Kim-Anhheld the fabric higher and shook it to emphasize her meaning. “Maybesomething shorter? This makes you look like a mom.”“What am I supposed to look like?” Hương asked.“How long have you been in this country?”“Long enough.”“Things are different here.”“I know that.”A car horn sounded and Kim-Anh glanced down at her watch. “No time,”she said. “This will have to do.” She walked down the stairs. Hương followedafter.Kim-Anh’s American was not an unattractive man. He almost looked likeAndrew Jackson—a strong face, wrinkles of wisdom, and rich white hair,which, from the backseat, looked like soft white fire.“You’re as pretty as Kim,” he said as they drove toward downtown.“Kim-Anh,” Kim-Anh corrected him.“Kimmie. My Kimmie,” he replied. He reached over and rubbed her hand.“Keem-On,” she said, slower this time as she pulled away her arm.“Kim-Anh,” he repeated.“I told her to change, but we running out of time,” Kim-Anh said. “No, she looks all right,” he said. “She looks pretty. What’s your nameagain?” He looked at Hương in the rearview mirror. His eyes were pale grayand kind.“My name Hương,” she answered.At one point, they drove on an overpass looking out over the city. Howdifferent it all looked at night, how it felt—at least from the car—less messy.She imagined putting the city into neatly labeled boxes. In here would be theBusiness District. There, Mid-City. In a tiny box the French Quarter could fit,while Gentilly would need a big one.Because of traffic, they slowed down to a creep. Kim-Anh fanned herselfwith her hands.“Hot,” Kim-Anh said.Already, Kim-Anh must have forgotten the heat of Vietnam and thoseblistering days when you couldn’t even touch the ground with your bare feet.Back then, Hương and Công didn’t have cars, they had bicycles. On hotterdays, he didn’t want her to work hard pedaling, so he told her to climb on hisseat and he would stand and pedal them instead. Everyone did that in thosedays, but riding down the avenue she felt self-conscious. Together they wouldride to their favorite little bakery, where they served bánh cam and, accordingto Công, the best salted lemonade in all of South Vietnam. Her favoritememories were of Công and her there, eating and laughing, the world fadingaway from around them, the only world that mattered the one they made.Those memories felt haunted now. In her mind, they appeared smokesmudged, and, watching, she felt uncomfortable, as if she were an intruder—these weren’t her memories, they were another woman’s, from a differenttime and a different place.In the Quarter, the American drove in circles to find parking. At one pointhe found a parking spot between two cars, but his was too large to fit. “It’s theproblem with a car like this on nights like these,” the American said. “Youknow what I mean?”“I take bus every day,” Hương said.“A beauty like you doesn’t belong on a bus,” the American said. Then, asif remembering, “Kim said you were married.”“Kim-Anh,” Kim-Anh said.“Kimmie.”“My husband,” Hương said. “He coming soon. Really soon.” She said thesame thing at work when the other ladies saw her simple gold band. Whatelse was she supposed to say? If she told the truth, she would have beenembarrassed. They knew she had been waiting a long time. What could shetell them now? The letter Công sent said this much: that he could not followafter her. She had to go on without him. Please don’t try to contact him again.Please have forgiveness.The letter was very unlike Công. Even the handwriting was sloppier.Almost every night, she looked at it again before going to bed, convincingherself at times that this was a prank—a cruel prank from someone inVietnam or even someone in Versailles. She’d eye the people outside. Howcould people be so mean? She felt like a schoolgirl again, and the otherstudents were laughing at her, pointing and laughing. She wrote back: “Whatdo you mean?”Eventually, they found parking near Lafayette Square, seven blocks fromMadame Beaumont. Kim-Anh took off her shoes and walked barefoot. Aftertwo blocks, Kim-Anh stopped. Hương stopped, too, but the Americancontinued, not noticing.“I can’t walk for so long,” Kim-Anh yelled after him.The American came back. “You’re a strong girl,” he said. He rolled histongue against the inside of his cheek and pressed his lips together like hewas going to say something else but stopped himself. “Both of you are stronggirls. All you’ve been through, the boat, the sea—”“Cruise ship,” Kim-Anh said.“Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “A cruise ship. Of course. A cruise ship.”Kim-Anh rubbed her right foot and continued walking.“Kimmie,” the American called after her. He took off. “Kim-Anh.”Madame Beaumont sat on the corner of Chartres and Conti. Loud musicplayed from outside speakers, and gaudy Halloween decorations spilled outfrom its doors: a plastic skeleton sitting on a rocking chair and holding a glassbeer bottle; a table with unlit tea candles; a stained wooden board with oldfashioned letters printed on it. Kim-Anh shook the skeleton’s empty hand.“Every day is Halloween!” she sang. She tried to pull the bottle away fromthe skeleton’s grip. When it didn’t budge, she moved toward the neon lightsinside, giggling all the while.