Across the Mekong River (12 page)

Shone gave a short laugh.
“We must tell you the rules and how things work.”

“
Always rules from these people. They treat us like children,” Kia said. “Life is very different, but you will get used to it.”

Kia led Yer and me through our new home, demonstrating how everything worked, reminding me of the stewardess on the
airplane. In the second room, she plopped down on a thick, slightly lumpy mattress, covered with yellow striped sheets and a beige wool blanket with a large brown stain on the bottom left side. Yer sat down uncertainly and ran her hand across the blanket. Cousin Yer joined us and gently lowered little Houa, sound asleep, into the crib at the side of the bed. She smiled down and tucked a pink blanket around her.

Kia
went to the doorway and beckoned. “Come see the bathroom.” We crowded around the blue-tiled room, lit by a bright bulb under frosted glass, surveying the shiny white fixtures and slightly tattered, green towels hanging off the rack. Kia lifted the toilet seat up and down then threw in a wad of paper from the rack. With a flick of the handle, a great rush of water swirled around in the bowl and disappeared. “See? It goes away.”

Yer smiled, admitting that she and Nou had been baffled by the toilets in
the airport and on the plane. They did not know to flush them.

Kia turned on the water i
n the sink, then the bathtub. “Hot and cold water any time you want.”

“The lights turn on and off.” Kia reached her hand around to the switch and flashed them several times.

We trailed after her back to the kitchen. Kia opened the door of a large white box. A light flashed on to reveal shelves holding bowls of soup and rice. “This keeps food cold so things don’t go bad. I made you this meal if you get hungry.” She looked up and smiled. “Stick your hands in and see.” Yer hesitated. “It’s not a trick,” Kia insisted.

Ye
r thrust her arm into the box. Curious, I did as well.

Kia shut the door and
turned to a smaller white box. Her face became serious. “You cannot light a fire on the floor, because then the whole building would burn. This is the stove for cooking. Here on this metal grate, you put the pans. And you light it like this.” She turned a knob and flames shot out. Yer jumped back. “It is easy once you know how.” She turned the fire off. “They do not allow live chickens or pigs in the buildings.”

“What will we eat?” Yer asked.

“You can buy the meat at a store already cut up and ready to cook.”

I frowned.
“What about our ceremonies?”

She shrugged.
“We sacrifice the animals in the parking lot.”

“I will never get used to these things,” Yer said, shaking her head.

“It won’t take long.” Kia patted Yer’s arm. “You look tired. We will go.”

After the family left I slowly turned around, taking in our apartment with plaster walls that smelled of paint and a wooden door barricaded
with four locks. This was our new home. Not one single thing remotely resembled our life in Laos. Yer stared at the television without registering a reaction, her face sagging with confusion. The silver and black screen flickered and cast shadows across the walls. Faint voices echoed off the ceiling. Nou and Moa had fallen asleep on the floor.

I picked Nou up in my arms.
Her face was slack, her breathing slow and untroubled. Yer began to pull at the rope on one of our boxes, as if she needed to open it and find something familiar, something that belonged to us. I told her to leave it and come to bed. It would be better in the morning after a good sleep. I placed Nou in the middle of the big mattress then settled Moa in the crib next to Houa. The sounds of the city drifted through the window. A horn beeped. A group of men were shouting at each other as if fighting, but then laughed. A piercing siren grew closer then faded into the night. A door slammed somewhere. The windows rattled. Yer draped an arm across Nou and gripped my hand. We drifted to sleep, still in our clothes, and did not wake until the sun came up.

YER

Her big supermarket. Kia had been talking about it for a week. Cousin Yer stayed with the babies as Pao had gone to English class and Nou to school. I left Moa and Houa in front of the television lost in a cartoon of a dog chasing its tail.

Going so far
from our apartment made me anxious. But it seemed important to Kia, and I did not have the strength to fight her. I had passed another night with only short snatches of fitful, dreamless slumber. Exhaustion sapped the energy from my limbs. I could not find the rhythm of day and night in this new place. There were no roosters crowing before dawn. Instead, an alarm clock bleated like an unhappy goat. I had to hide my head beneath the blanket. I did not know how to go to sleep with the lights outside our window that burned forever. When we finally crawled into bed, still my mind would not rest. I listened to the steam heater hiss and crackle. Pao snored next to me. Hours passed. Sirens wailed. Nou kicked her legs and arms into me. The babies whimpered. In these sleepless hours, I could not fight the longing and grief that once again pushed down on me. Ever since we had left Ban Vinai, my boys had vanished. The dreams had ceased. Not a whisper of wind carried their gentle presence. At first in the processing camp, I had not worried. But weeks passed. Nothing. I told Pao it broke my heart to leave everything behind. He didn’t understand. He said we must look forward. I had to do as my husband wished. I had no choice. When we left for America, panic began to swallow me. I had seen the map. Fong and Fue would never find me half-way around the world. I only wanted to sleep. I only wanted my children to return to me. But now I could not sleep. I could not dream.

Kia wrapped her muffler twice around he
r neck and hurried me outside. “You can buy anything you want at my store. You have never seen so many choices.” She flashed a bright smile. “I want you to meet my friends Rosita and Mary, but they are not working today.”

Tuesdays through Saturdays, from early morning until mid-afternoon, Kia unpacked boxes of food in the storeroom o
f the supermarket. She had learned English and taken the job to earn money to bring us from Thailand. For this reason, Shone had agreed. Now, she did not want to quit. She liked her independence and earning money for the family.

“Rosita is
so funny, you will like her. She is from Puerto Rico. It’s an island in the ocean somewhere. It sounds a little like Laos, warm and sunny, only with water all around.”

“Why did she come here?”

“She was very poor in Puerto Rico and her husband drank too much. He used to hit her. So she took her three children and came to America.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. She has an aunt who lives in Minneapolis. Now she is with a Vietnamese man, Tran. He came here right after the war.”

I shook my head.
This could never happen in Laos. Maybe in America people from different places mixed together this way.

Kia held my arm as we stepped carefully along the icy sidewalk. Th
e sun sat low in the pale sky. It was not a warm, bright sun like in Laos, but faded yellow, almost white. I thought the frigid air must wash away colors in this place. Freezing fingers nipped at my cheeks like tiny pricks from a needle. Even with my gloves, hat, and scarf, I shivered. The cold seeped through the soles of my shoes and thick socks into my bones.

“We have to hurry or
we’ll miss the bus,” Kia said. “It’s only another block.”

A police car roared
past, siren blaring and red and yellow lights flashing. The muscles in my middle tightened. I caught my breath. I would not leave the apartment without someone to accompany me. I could not speak the language. I had no idea of the value of money or the papers we used to buy food. Even with Kia or Yer to escort me, the world outside loomed large and frightening. Many days we gathered at our family’s home for dinner, talking late into the evening, filling in the pieces of our years apart. They lived in a two bedroom apartment in another red brick building like ours. I would cling to the children and step close to Pao as we walked the two and a half blocks home. I knew evil spirits lurked in the dark corners.

But it was more.
I felt uneasy among the gangs of brown and dark-skinned young men that lived around us. Only a few times at the Long Chieng base had I seen American soldiers with these colors of skin. The young men pushed past me in and out of our building. They gathered on the street, smoking and staring at everyone who passed. So much anger filled their eyes. White people scared me too—the tattooed man at the corner market and the woman at the thrift store with white hair and glass frames that sparkled. Maybe they were not as rough, but their dislike did not escape me. It carried in the tone of their voices. Their lips closed into tight lines. Their eyes stared through me. I wanted to be like Fue’s favorite insect in Laos, the brown walking stick that blended into tree trunks until you could not see it.

We stood at t
he bus stop, huddled together. Under her heavy jacket, Kia wore a sweater, a tight, black skirt that came above her knees, and heavy dark tights. Black leather boots with tall heels laced up the front of her legs. They made her sway and wobble when she walked. She had cut her hair to her shoulders, shaggy around her face like ruffled feathers on a bird. Little gold crosses dangled from her lobes. Another cross hung around her neck on a chain. It was the blue-green color she painted on her eyelids and her red lips that surprised me most. Pao did not approve. He said she looked too much like the women in Ban Vinai, the ones who danced at the café in the evenings and slipped off with men into the darkness. He said Shone should tell his wife to stop this. I did not argue with him. I thought Kia just wanted to look American.

The bus rolled up and st
opped with a loud squeal. The doors popped open. Kia put coins into a box. They jingled as they dropped. The driver, a heavy black woman with bright red hair, handed Kia tickets and started up again. I grabbed a metal pole, nearly falling down as the bus lurched forward. I felt the eyes of others on us: four old women, a man in a suit and dark gray top coat, three giggling teenage girls, and a young mother with a baby bundled tightly in a pink blanket. We collapsed onto an empty seat. Hot, sour air flowed over us smelling of exhaust fumes.

Kia reached across me, wi
ping the steam off the window. She pointed. “This is St. Paul’s Church. See the window at the top. It’s made of colored glass and when the sun shines through, it is very beautiful. The parish hall is behind. The Hmong sewing group meets there. Yer likes to go.”

We passed a drab brick buildi
ng with a steep, pointed roof. Stairs led to wooden doors. A gold cross had been attached to the left wall. Pao and I had been surprised to learn that Kia and Shone attended St. Paul’s Catholic Church every Sunday. There were a number of Hmong families who came.

Kia bowed her head and pulled
on the edge of her knit glove. “I am starting classes next month to learn more about the church. I want to be baptized. Then I will go to heaven.”

I wo
ndered which heaven she meant. Was it separate from our Hmong heaven? When we were together with our husbands, I did not question Kia or Shone about their church. But now, I had to ask, “What about our Hmong beliefs? Do you not follow them?”

She looked up. “We do both.
We pray to the Catholic God and pray to our ancestors.” She laughed softly. “We all need extra help.”

I nodded,
although I did not understand. Perhaps it did not matter if they found comfort in this American church. Perhaps our ancestors, the spirits and gods of the Hmong heaven would understand.

“I want you to come
with me one Sunday,” Kia said. “You will like Father McConnell, the priest.” I nodded again. But I knew Pao would not allow this. He had experienced enough of the Catholic priests and their contempt for Hmong beliefs during his school days in Vientiane. We had to keep our traditions, be true to our heritage, he insisted.

Eve
ry few blocks, the bus stopped. People got on and off. I studied the store fronts plastered with signs and pictures above the doors and windows. Sometimes there were big signs on poles with pictures of furniture or cars or buildings. One had a smiling family in front of a big house on a sunny day with no snow. This was how I learned about America, from pictures on billboards and advertisements on television.

The bus drove onto a wide concrete bridge with many lanes of traffic.

“This is the Mississippi River,” Kia said. “It is very long like the Mekong.”

Mekong
. The name struck me the way lightening plummets from the sky. My mind muddled with memories. I could not figure out where I was. It did not look like the Mekong, not with snow covered riverbanks and little crests of silver lapping at the shore. I pictured my boys in the cold depths of the swirling gray-brown waters that rushed under the bridge. I had to save them. I had to get from the bridge to the water, but I could not see a path. Soon we would be too far away. My breathing came in short gasps, my heart pounding. Then I felt Kia’s hand on my arm and heard her voice echoing in my head. Slowly, I drifted back to Minneapolis and a river called the Mississippi. But there was no name for my sorrow.

Kia shifted in her seat, and put
a hand over her bulging middle. “This baby kicks all day and night. It must be a boy.” She shook her head and sighed. “I have something to tell you. It is very sad, and Yer cannot bring herself to talk of it. She lost two babies this year and now she cannot have any more. She was very sick in the early weeks and then the bleeding began.” Kia paused a moment. “The last time it was so bad that Soua took her to the hospital. They did an operation and took out her uterus. Yer begged them not to, but they said otherwise she might die. They have been very sad. She would not let Soua write such terrible news to you in the camp.”

I put a hand to my mouth.
It was the worst thing that could happen to a woman. Poor Yer. So many losses piled upon our family year by year.

We passed
streets that looked like the movie at the processing center. Tall buildings of glass and metal rose up from the sidewalks. Traffic slowed to a crawl, jammed with cars and buses. People, bundled in heavy coats, hurried along the sidewalks, carrying packages. Kia called this downtown. The window became foggy again. My breath against the cold glass. Everything floated by in a gray and white blur. Office buildings gave way to apartments. Then houses painted green and yellow and blue.

Finally, Kia pulled a string a
bove us to make the bell ring. The bus left us behind, choking on gray smoke. Dark clouds swept across the sky now and blocked the pale, useless sun. Across the street people hurried through the glass doors of an enormous square building with a flat roof and no windows.

Ki
a pulled me inside and stopped. “What do you think?” Her voice was full of a child’s excitement for a special surprise.

I did not disappoint her. My mouth fell open.
I stared at the enormous space, the whirl of bright lights, and noisy bustle. A forest of tall shelves spanned out in rows as far as I could see. People crowded up and down the aisles with metal baskets on wheels, piling in cartons and cans. Voices echoed over a background of soft music. Kia led me down rows to shelves stacked with boxes of cereal and crackers and cookies. Cans of brown beans, beets, and soups. Bottles of juice. Jars of jam and peanut butter. Of course I did not know these things. I squinted at the labels, trying to interpret the pictures, while Kia named the different items. We stopped next to the glass doors of the freezer. Kia explained the miracle of frozen dinners, already cooked and ready to warm. The strangest site was the meat counter with its little trays of beef and chicken and fish, neatly wrapped in clear plastic. Everything was cut in perfect shapes, free of flies and dust.

An older woman with silver hair and black hoop earrings stood behind a small table wearing a
blue and white striped apron. She spoke to me and held her hand out to a tray filled with little bites of meat speared on wooden sticks. Whole sausages sizzled in a flat pan. The aroma made me hungry, but I could not afford to buy strange food like this. Kia grabbed two and handed me one. “They’re free,” she said. “Try it.” It tasted a little like pig only very salty.

“You w
ill like this best,” Kia said. We rounded the corner to rows of stands displaying apples, oranges, bananas, yams, green beans, corn, and dozens of fruits and vegetables unfamiliar to me. I sighed. For the first time something resembled, ever so slightly, the markets in Xieng Khouang and Thailand. Kia pulled plastic bags off a roll. We selected onions, kale, green peppers, and shiny red apples. The corner market near our apartment had few choices, and the produce was wilted and tired. This was worth the long bus ride.