Across the Mekong River (14 page)

T
he next week, the nightmares came. I was falling into a lake, thrashing and grabbing for a raft that drifted just out of reach. My limbs grew heavy and useless as the water dragged me under and sucked the air from my lungs. I woke up crying, my body cold and damp. Father or Mother would hold me close until at last I slept again. The dream came back to me in unexpected flashes as I washed the dishes or gave Moa and Houa a bath.

After the
story of the two drowned girls, Auntie Kia signed my cousins up for swimming lessons at the YMCA. But I did not go. Father said it wasn’t a good time. Mother needed me at home. It was only one more disappointment in a string of small injustices. Father would not allow me to go to the Sunday school classes at St. Paul’s with my cousins. He was very clear that we would not become Catholics. I had to stay home while my cousins played at the park or went to the occasional movie. I chafed when they prattled on about the soccer game they had watched or the ice cream Uncle Soua had bought them on the way home. Blia and Mee spent afternoons that summer making art projects at St. Paul’s community center while Tou played softball with a group of boys from the church.

It felt as if my cousins embellished their fun to make me jealous of their good
fortune. Blia couldn’t wait to show me her new yellow swimsuit and goggles. I tried to act as if I didn’t care. In time I came to blame them more than my father for what I was missing. Our relationships had grown precarious and complicated with shifting circumstances at school and home. When third grade had begun the previous fall, I was placed in the advanced class with Mee and Tou. Blia would not speak to me for a week, as if I had betrayed her. But I knew my success in America depended on speaking English well and getting good grades. Father had drilled this into me night after night. When I no longer qualified to take Mrs. Swenson’s English class, she volunteered to tutor me once a week at lunch. With her help and encouragement I flourished, and in January the principal moved me to a fourth grade class. My cousins reacted as if I had challenged them to a competition. It was one that none of us would ever win.

I passed the long, hot days of summer doing chor
es and caring for my siblings. Mother had given birth to my sister Boa our first July in Minneapolis and my brother Tong in May right before school ended. Between his work and English classes, Father spent little time at home. The demands of four small children seemed to overwhelm Mother. My aunties helped out when they could, but they had families of their own. Auntie Yer watched little John and baby Adam while Kia went to work and volunteered at the church. And so I carried the burden. Since Ban Vinai Mother had relied on me for many household tasks, but life in Minneapolis added another dimension to her dependence. She had no time or inclination to learn English. I became her translator and ambassador to the outside world, escorting her on errands and counting out money at the grocery store. It fell to me to call the social worker and explain why Mother hadn’t taken Boa to the free clinic for her immunizations.

Father’s insistence on my presence at home drew from a darker need, one
we never really acknowledged. The depression and grief that had pulled Mother from us in the refugee camps returned. On bad days, Father would say she had a headache. It was a small lie we both accepted. Better not to speak the truth. Some days she never left her bed, crying and whispering to the corners of the room. She would not eat or dress and barely heard me when I handed her Tong to nurse. I held her hand and tried to pull her back to us with idle chatter, but greater forces worked against me.

My only compensation for being home all summer was the new color television Father had bought and a trip t
o the library every two weeks. Father took me on his Thursday afternoons off to the big branch downtown. I looked forward to our outings. No one else was invited. We spent several hours, each in our respective sections—children’s books and magazines for me, history and geography for Father—perusing up and down the aisles, pulling out books and feeling the weight of sturdy covers, leafing through lovely crisp pages. I had my own library card. Each time I selected five books to take home, always taking one picture book to read to Houa and Moa. On our outings Father and I spoke English so he could practice. Sometimes, with a great deal of trepidation, I corrected his pronunciation. He nodded and tried again.

That summer I saw with uncomfortable clarity the intolerance that undermined our tenuous hold on happiness
in this place we called home. At school, older kids taunted my cousins and me, along with other Hmong, Cambodians, and Vietnamese who gathered in small groups at lunch:
chinks, gooks, slant-eyes, ching-chongs
. They hurled slurs across the playground the way they threw French fries in a cafeteria food fight. It was a sport, a game.

Other, more subtle mes
sages made me feel inadequate. While my teachers were kind, I shrank from their probing questions.
Did you eat breakfast this morning, Nou? You’re such a tiny thing. Is there anyone at home who speaks English to help with your schoolwork? Do you have any other clothes to wear? I can get you some clothes from the PTA. How many people did you say are in your family?
Would you like to tell the class about your New Year’s celebration?
I could see into their hearts and read their thoughts; poor little Nou, such an odd family. Such strange customs. All those children.

One morning in early August,
Mother and I set out to shop. She was having a good day, up at dawn to fix breakfast before Father left for work, bustling around the apartment cleaning. We would take the bus to the supermarket--not Auntie Kia’s market but a closer one. Every few weeks we went to buy staples like rice, cooking oil, toilet paper, and bags of fresh vegetables, where the prices were cheaper.

As we left the apartment, Mrs. Johnson, the elderly black woman who lived three doors away, came down th
e hall carrying a grocery bag. She was always friendly and sometimes gave my little sisters and me cookies or slices of apple when we played in the hall. She stopped to fuss over Tong, who was tied to Mother’s back in an embroidered cloth baby carrier.

“Look at this boy.
He is getting so big,” she cooed. I had Boa in my arms, and Mrs. Johnson patted her tangle of dark hair. “My goodness, how does your mother keep up with all these little ones?” I smiled. “Well, God bless you. You have a lovely family.” Mother smiled and nodded, and Mrs. Johnson shuffled to her door.

In the lobby, the Russian lady, whose name I could never pronounce, was standing by the mailboxes visiting with Mrs. Her
nandez, our next door neighbor. I heard them whispering as we passed.
Another baby already? She’s pregnant all the time, poor thing. He’s never home. The relatives are popping out babies too. They’ll take over the country soon.
And they laughed and shook their heads. I kept my eyes cast down, my cheeks growing warm, wondering if they knew I understood their words.

We left my sisters with Auntie Y
er and hurried to the bus stop. The sun sent heat waves rippling off the streets and sidewalks even though it was only ten o’clock. The stifling damp air settled like dew on my arms and pressed on my lungs. The weather report predicted 101 degrees by mid-afternoon.

As we reached the bus stop, a hulking man with dark chocolate skin stumbled down the str
eet and halted in front of us. He leaned over and put his face, beaded with sweat, near Mother’s. He reeked of alcohol. “What are you gooks doing in my neighborhood?” Mother grasped my arm and tried to step around him, but his hand flew out and grabbed her shoulder. “You’re taking all the damn jobs. That’s what you’re doing. Why don’t you go back to the jungle where you came from?” He threw his head back and spat on Mother’s face, then staggered away.

I could
not bear her expression as she wiped away the spittle on a piece of paper from her pocket. Tears formed in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. I wanted to protect her, to run after the evil man and scream at him. But I was too afraid. I could only hang my head in shame. Our day was ruined. Mother’s happy mood vanished. We completed our shopping trip in silence.

Mother said not to tell Father, tha
t it would upset him too much. We must forget about the bad people. But that evening my hurt and bewilderment would not give me peace. Father came home for dinner before leaving for his night job. When Mother left the room, I told him what had happened.

He was sitting in a chair, watching television and eating a bowl of noodles.
He put the bowl down, looking very weary. His eyes wandered for a moment to the television screen and a report of a bank robbery near downtown on the local news. At last he turned to me. “Many people hate anything that reminds them of the Vietnam War. A lot of American soldiers died there. They blame us for the tragedy even though we fought on their side. You must ignore these things. You are so young, it is hard to understand. Things will get better.”

Another lie we both accepted.

PAO

Shone and I bought a truck one Saturday in late October. Our new pride and joy was a faded green 1970 Ford pickup, a sorry conglomeration of dents, scraped paint, broken tail lights, and bald tires. As we drove home the engine rattled and shook, spewing a gray stream out the tailpipe. We paid $745 in cash to a young white man in Bloomington who had used it for his construction job. Splinters of wood, rusty nails, and splotches of yellow and white paint littered the truck bed.

Shone pulled front first into a parking spot across the street from his apartment building, easing the truck in, then backing up and forward three times until at las
t it was parallel to the curb. He only had his license a week—the first in our family to attempt such a feat—although he had driven a forklift for his job at the paper warehouse. His truck driving involved a lot of checking the rear view mirrors, pumping his foot on and off the gas pedal, and slamming on the breaks. He had laughed when two different drivers yelled at him and flashed obscene gestures as they zoomed around us.

Tou opened the passenger door, which produced a loud cr
eak, and ran to get the family. Shone and I waited on the sidewalk with silly grins smeared across our faces, like little boys with their first bow and arrow. An icy wind swirled scarlet and gold leaves over the lawn and into the gutter. I zipped my cotton jacket up to my neck. The whole family emerged and circled around our wonderful prize.

Soua gaped and smiled, running a hand over the ri
m of the truck bed. “Very good. Very solid,” he said.

“The seats are torn and the fill
ing is coming out,” Kia said as she inspected the cab.

Shone shrugged.
“No problem.”

Kia clucked her
tongue, her hands on her hips. “I’ll make a cover for them.”

Nou and her cousins climbed up the bumper and into th
e back, giddy with excitement. Houa wanted me to lift her up, and then Moa asked as well. When I told Moa she was too little, she threw herself on the grass and sobbed. I relented and plopped her into the back. Yer stood back, holding Tong in her arms and looking askance. She still needed convincing of the soundness of our plan.

It was Shone’s idea.
He had met a Mexican man in an ESL class who made a good living with his own gardening business. Shone proposed the idea to Soua first, but Soua preferred to stay at the paper company where he’d been made a supervisor. When I arrived in Minneapolis, Shone laid out his plan with such enthusiasm and hope that I could not say no. All we had to do was save a little money to get started. We calculated the cost of equipment, and we decided to put aside three months income as a cushion until the business took off. For almost three years Shone and I scrimped and saved each month for our business. It took a long time as we were also saving to bring the rest of our family from Thailand. We watched the want ads for used lawn mowers and blowers. Several Sundays we took the bus to yard sales in the suburbs and picked up clippers, shovels, trowels, and hoes. Finally, we were ready to get our truck.

“Come on, Soua. I’ll take you for a ride,”
Shone said, dangling his keys. “Who wants to go after that?”

“Can we ride in back?” Tou asked.

“Only if you sit down and hold on to the sides,” Shone said.

I worried
, but at the speed Shone drove not too much could go wrong. I sat with the children to make sure they were safe, clutching Moa in my lap. We took four trips around a three-block circuit, first with Soua, then Kia, then cousin Yer, and finally my wife. By the last round the sun was dipping down over the city and my ears and hands turned numb.

Such a
celebration we had that night. Our wives prepared a great feast with pork, chicken, spinach, rice, and green papaya salad. Kia brought out beer, sodas, a big bag of potato chips, and a package of Oreo cookies that she had bought at her store. We listened to a new music tape from Thailand. Since I rarely had evenings off, I relished this time with family to laugh and remember, to look forward to better days.

As we settled back in our chairs to smoke our cigarettes, I pulled a paper f
rom my pocket and unfolded it. “Here is the flyer.” I handed it to Shone. I had made an advertisement for our services on the computer at work and paid for a hundred copies. The next day we would drive the truck to the suburbs with nice houses and big yards to pass out our flyer. Then we would wait for calls. Shone had quit his job at the paper company, and I had given notice at the restaurant. As soon as we had enough customers, I would quit my night job too.

“Very good.” Shone scanned the sheet.
“I like this,
many years
experience in cultivation
.”

I smiled.
“How different can growing grass and flowers be from corn and rice?”

Soua br
ought out a bottle of whiskey. He handed out glasses and lifted his in a toast. “To your new business. Much success and good fortune.”

“To freedom,” Shone said.
“Not quite our own land to farm, but it is a start.”

“No more bosses telling us what to do,” I said, hoping Soua did not take this badly since he would still b
e working at the paper company. He smiled and tipped his glass back.

“Pao
, can I see the letter again?” Soua asked.

I had received a le
tter from Chor the day before. Gia, now nineteen, had married a girl named Ia. Everyone was happy for them, but otherwise life was grim. Conditions in Ban Vinai had become even more intolerable. Thousands of people were hungry and sick, and the officials grew more abusive every day. The Thai had started forcing families to go back to Laos where the communist government imposed severe punishments. Our family was now desperate to come to America, but immigration had become trickier.

Soua scanned
the letter and shook his head. “I’ll call the immigration people on Monday. We must get the paper work completed as quickly as possible.”

“Chor says his wi
fe’s family is trying as well. They have done quite well farming in California. Perhaps they will have more luck,” I said.

Soua frowned.
“I hope they will come to Minneapolis.”

“Of course.
But the first step is to get them to America,” Shone said. “Then we can work out a way to be together.”

I glanced at Yer chatting with Kia and
her cousin in the living room. She seemed so happy in this moment with Tong asleep in her arms and Boa curled beside her. If only it could always be like this. I struggled every day to understand what afflicted her. My prayers to our ancestors to restore the balance to her souls brought little relief. I talked to her, cajoled her, but I was met with a wall of indifference. Of course it was difficult for her caring for the children. My dear Nou, we could not have managed without her. She never complained. At times I grew angry and frustrated with my wife, at what I sacrificed laboring day and night at menial jobs to support my family.

From five in the afternoon until three in the morning I loaded towels and sheets into the washing machines and dryers in the basem
ent at the big hotel downtown. The smell of detergent and bleach saturated the hot, steamy air. A woman from Mexico helped with the laundering while two others from Puerto Rico ironed and folded the linens. They talked to each other in Spanish all night. Their chatter, like birds chirping in a tree, blended with the whirling and chugging of the machines.

I registered in ESL classes at the adult school, and no matter ho
w tired I was, I went to class. I studied the lessons while I waited for loads of laundry to finish. At home I listened carefully to the television and practiced with Nou when time allowed. After eight months, I made an appointment with Mr. Bryant, the hotel manager, and in my rudimentary English I asked him to consider me for other positions. He brushed me off. But I went back every week for a month until at last he said he’d give me a try as a busboy in the coffee shop. The pay was the same, but I got a small share of the tips. For six months I worked the early shift, pouring coffee and water, clearing dishes, and stacking plates in the buffet line. Once more I made my case to Mr. Bryant. I moved to security for $1.50 an hour more. All night I walked the property with my two-way radio and flashlight in snow and rain or the heat of summer.

Six months after we arrived, social services canceled our food stamps. Mrs. Robinson said that now I was earning a steady income, we no longer qualified.
But my salary barely paid the rent. In the want ads I found a second job washing dishes at the Thai Palace restaurant, not too far from the hotel. The owner, Mr. Tongkao, had come from Thailand ten years before. He understood the difficulties of starting a new life in America. When my hours at the hotel shifted, he made accommodations for me. I moved up to busboy and then waiter.

Every day I showed up at my jobs and did the tasks asked of me, even though they were women’s work, things I
would never have done in Laos. I was an educated man doing laundry and washing dishes, but I overlooked the humiliation and never complained.

Yer laughed at something Kia said and g
lanced my way. Her eyes were warm and inviting. I sighed. Nothing was easy for any of us. We all floundered to find our feet on this unstable land. I dedicated myself to work hard and promised myself it would get better. And for a long time I believed this.