Across the Mekong River (21 page)

YER

In November, I woke one morning yearning to be in the fields, longing for the fragrance of wet soil, the touch of fresh green leaves and sturdy stalks. I could hardly remember the weeks before. Visions of terrifying monsters had hung from the ceiling. Fue and Fong, injured and begging for help, lurked in the corners of the bedroom. I was desperate to help them. My mind clouded until I could not see or hear anything else. My arms and legs stuck, my body sinking into a deep mud. I needed to return to the one place that calmed my dark thoughts and drove away the demons, hoping for a sign from my boys.

The
family carefully eased around me, speaking softly, as if I were a fragile piece of glass that could shatter with one harsh word. Perhaps I was. Days of harvesting tightly-budded broccoli and great white rounds of cauliflower gave me a purpose. The dirt yielded beneath my feet, pliant and forgiving, and crumbled through my fingers full of the sustenance of life. I grew stronger. Clouds swirled across the sky like a swarm of gray doves and dropped raindrops that tickled my nose and cheeks. One morning the wind embraced me and the faintest echo of my boys’ voices reached my ears like the distant chants of monks in a Buddhist temple calling out prayers of peace, the gentle harmonies rising and falling. I could feel their spirits in the cool damp air. My heart filled with relief and happiness like water pouring into a jar. They were safe.

As
the days passed my boys continued to comfort me as I wound up and down the rows, pulling stubborn weeds from the wet earth. I allowed my thoughts to wander to happier events. The New Year was almost upon us. I focused on the pleasure of familiar rituals and festivities, the laughter, games, and music. The thought of being among so many of our people once more stretched my spirits higher. I could not help but catch the contagious excitement of my young ones who grew wilder as the days approached. At last my husband would have a few days to relax and enjoy the companionship of other Hmong men. I knew the toll my lapses took on him. And as I turned the soil, I nourished another hope. Perhaps Nou might meet someone special and at least begin to think of her future.

On the second day of the Thanksgiving weekend we drove to the fairgrounds dressed in our new clothes.
Midday skies threatened rain, but the weather had not discouraged anyone. Thousands of Hmong congregated wearing their new clothes in a parade of brilliant colors and intricate patterns. People mixed in a chorus of greetings and good wishes that made my heart glad.

Pao headed immediately for the pavilion
where the older men assembled. They drank beer and reminisced about Laos, recounting old war stories and tracing clan and village connections.

Mee and Nou slipped away among the dozens of booths displaying the latest
tapes and videos from Thailand. Music blared from a hundred speakers and left me covering my ears from so much noise. Kia, Yer, and I, with the young children trailing behind, circled the stands displaying Hmong instruments,
paj nuab
embroidery, jewelry, healing herbs, imported fabrics, and steaming bowls of hot food.

“Where is Blia?” I asked cousin Yer.

A distressed expression crossed her face. “Her stomach hurt. She stayed home.”

“Too bad to miss the fun and all the young men,” I said.

Kia, standing behind Yer, raised a hand to warn me not to say more. I wondered what had happened. I had seen a skinny boy visiting Blia once or twice. Yer did not say much about him, but it was clear she did not like this boy.

I dropped the subject. We bought bowls of noodle soup and wandered over to the groups of girls and boys playing
pob pov
, tossing tennis balls back and forth. The banter and flirting brought happy memories of a New Year’s celebration in Xieng Khouang many years ago. I was only fifteen at the time and shy and uncertain. I had wrapped my black cloth tight and smooth into a perfect round ball so it might travel directly to the object of my yearning. Then I saw Pao, standing across from me, young and handsome, a man of wealth and education. My pulse quickened to that of a frightened bird. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. He looked at me, a slight smile on his lips, and stepped forward. I knew he was my fate. I tossed my ball, my heart soaring through the air, into his waiting hands. It landed as gently as a mother bird swooping into her nest, home at last.

Nou stood apart from the crowd, watching Mee toss a ball with a noisy boy who
teased her and made her laugh. My cousin Yer rushed over, chiding and pushing my reluctant daughter into the line. A tall boy with a nice smile stood opposite Nou. He tossed a ball her way. They spent the rest of the day together.

Over the next few weeks
, Dang came to visit Nou at our home. I found him pleasing and polite. Finally, she had found a suitor, an honorable young man, who stared at her with sparkling eyes. Auntie Khou made inquiries about the family and found they were honest, hard-working people from Savannakhet in southern Laos. Not as good as being from Xieng Khouang, but still good. Nou laughed at his jokes and talked comfortably with him. True, she did not gaze into his eyes with the deep yearning I had felt for Pao. But a friendship was a start.

This turn
of events did not surprise me. Around this time Fong and Fue visited me in another dream. They were older this time, young men. We sat quietly together on the top of the mountain above our village, the one we had lived in right after the war ended. Dawn turned the sky the pink of frangipani and pale lilac of orchids, then berry red and the orange of glowing coals. A rainbow streaked across the sky until a brilliant ball of gold appeared and filled the day with light.

The boys were eating langons, competing to see who could spit the shiny, black seeds t
he farthest. From our perch we viewed the land below in all directions--deep green forests weeping pale gray mists and distant houses in neighboring villages where life was stirring. The air filled with the crisp cool smell of pine needles and a hint of smoke from the cooking fires. Our family appeared in the valley below ready to work in the golden brown corn fields. My children were all there, even little Chou who was tied to Houa’s back. We called to them. But they could not hear us. The young ones chased each through the stalks of corn.

Nou sat to one side with a faint smile on her lips, her image fading in and o
ut of view like an apparition. I blinked my eyes trying to keep her in focus. I told my boys how I worried about the children, especially Nou. If we could have stayed in Laos, everything would be fine. And the boys smiled. Fong took my hand, his palm and fingers smooth and cool and comforting. Do not worry, he told me, it will turn out well, my sisters and brothers will find their right place. Fue nodded. Our ancestors will watch over them, he promised, and so will we.

After this dream I felt sure that Dang was a
n omen of good things to come. I could trust in our ancestors to keep my Nou safe.

LAURA

At the New Year’s celebration, Dang Moua caught me by surprise. When he positioned himself across from me and tossed a ball into my hands, I thought he was simply another Hmong boy, cocky and sure of himself. I expected to thoroughly dislike him. But somehow the message got lost in the shy dark eyes searching mine for a reaction. A soft smile and voice soothed away my inclination to flee as we began a halting conversation.
Where do you go to school? Where is your family from? How old were you when you left Laos? Which refugee camp were you in? When did you leave Ban Vinai? Where did you settle? How long have you lived here?
Soon the awkward exchanges ebbed and flowed into a comfortable rhythm. I lowered my guard with the relief of speaking openly, discovering our shared history and journey. For once, I did not have to lie.

He was a senior at St. Ignac
io, a friend of my cousin Tou. He wore a traditional Hmong shirt, vest, and sash over blue jeans with black Nike running shoes. This compromise of old and new pleased me for some reason. He was tall by Hmong standards and athletic. Shaggy hair framed an angular, handsome face. I liked his generous smile that revealed a slight gap between the top front teeth.

During the afternoon events, he stayed unobtrusively at my side, reading my wariness and matching
it with patient determination. He said he had seen me the previous year and had hoped to meet me this time. I looked into his eyes, cautious of encouraging him. But after listening to Mary talk endlessly about Kevin, I too wanted someone special to care about me, a break from the drudgery and demands of my life.

Rain began to fall in the late afternoon as my
family gathered to head home. My cousin Tou punched Dang in the arm and pushed him toward me.

“I was wondering, maybe,” he said, clearing his throat, “if maybe I could visit you this week,”

“I’m hardly ever home.” I concentrated on smoothing my sash with its pattern of brilliant mustard flowers and a border of protective tiger’s teeth to fend off evil spirits. “I’m so busy at school.”

“I study with Tou sometimes.”
He hesitated and licked his lips. “Maybe there will be a day when you’re home.” Splotches of red emerged on his cheeks.

In this way Dang slowly seeped into my l
ife. He came to Tou’s apartment that week on the pretense of studying and waited until I arrived home. He came the following week and the next, and four days during the Christmas vacation. We sat in the living room and talked, sometimes with Tou. My sisters and brothers milled around curious about him as Mother watched from the kitchen wearing a satisfied smile. I told myself I would keep it light, merely a friendship. It didn’t have to be anything more.

I was chopping squash and onions for dinner, glancing out the window at the January sky that threatened another storm. Mother had gone to visit Auntie Khou and returned wearing an odd smile.

“Have you heard?” she said. “Blia is getting married.
The negotiators meet tomorrow.”

The knife slipped from my
fingers and fell into the sink. Over the summer and fall months Mee had confided in me that she was worried about Blia’s reckless behavior. She had been sneaking off to meet Bee--the boy I had seen her with at the pizza parlor--even though she knew it was forbidden by our Hmong culture. I had tried to talk to her once, but she laughed and told me she could take care of herself.

Chou screamed with outstretched arms, and Mo
ther lifted him from the floor. “Auntie Khou told me everything.”

My st
omach felt queasy. I ran cold water and splashed it on my face. Oh Blia, I thought, what have you done to yourself?

“The school called yesterday.
Blia did not go to class. She didn’t come home. Soua and Yer were crazy with worry. Mee finally told them about the boy Bee.

“Blia came sneaking in at two in the morning,” she cont
inued, becoming more animated. “A terrible fight. Soua found out where the boy’s family lives. Uncle Boua went this morning to demand payment for their daughter’s dishonor.” She wagged her head.

Chou wailed
and grabbed at Mother’s hair. She turned to him distracted, pulling his sticky little hand away and handing him a cup of water. “Bee’s family said he must marry her. They have to pay the money anyway. Auntie Khou thinks they will give a big bride payment.” Mother crowed as if she were completing the negotiations herself.

Her enthusiasm appalled me.
I thought nothing would make her happier than to marry me off in some triumphant coup that brought great honor for the family. She didn’t care about my dreams for the future. But who would pick up the pieces when she disappeared for days in her bedroom?

“Blia is an idiot.
She’ll end up pregnant and dropping out of school. She’ll be nothing but Bee’s wife.” My body felt unnaturally heavy. Our Hmong culture taught me to honor and respect my parents, but I no longer understood anything my mother valued.

Mother’s mouth tremb
led as she took a deep breath. “Go get some lemon grass from the garden and check on the children.” She walked into her bedroom and slammed the door. Chou began to shriek.

The wedding celebration for Blia and Bee fell as flat as the notes my sister Boa tried to play on Father’s bamboo flute. Auntie Yer and Uncle Soua strained with the effort of smiling as they greeted family and friends. A pale sun shined in the clear sky, but inside a dark mood pervaded as everyone pretended pleasure over the occasion. They brought gifts and money for the newlyweds and wished them a long and prosperous life together. No one believed it. Least of all me.

I sat o
n the living room sofa observing the farce. Mother glanced over at me and smiled, undoubtedly nourishing delusions that I might be next. It was hard to imagine my cousin, only fifteen years old, married to this scrawny, ugly boy of seventeen who from that day forward would dictate the shape her life. Mee had confirmed my worst fears. Blia was almost five months pregnant. Now I understood the protruding roundness of her belly beneath the layers of her clothes. She would have to drop out of school before the year ended and plunge herself into a world of babies and tending house for her in-laws. Given her age, it was not a legal wedding. But in the eyes of the Hmong community this ceremony would bind her to Bee more tightly than any paper from the government. It seemed wrong and out of kilter when so many other opportunities awaited us.

Blia and Bee stood beneath a black umbrella draped with the embroidered ribbon removed from Blia’s black turban, which had indicated her single status.
The best man and maid of honor, negotiators, family, and friends surrounded the couple. Elders from both families lit candles and incense and sang blessings as they tied a string on the wrist of the bride to the wrist of the groom, uniting their spirits. Relatives and friends sang toasts to love and honor and family connections. Others offered jokes and laughter and more toasts. Bee had begun to sway unsteadily from the rounds of whiskey and beer. His demeanor appeared as that of a man sentenced to a life of hard labor. Blia whispered in his ear several times before he finally knelt on the floor before Auntie Yer and Uncle Soua to show his respect. When he read the list of his in-laws’ ancestors’, he stumbled over the names, slurring the words together.

Blia stood by watching. Her skin had turned pasty and her face puffy, making it look too broad
and square, her nose too flat. But she reveled in the extravagant clothes her mother had sewn over the past few years in anticipation of just this moment. She wore a densely pleated white skirt made with fabric brought from Thailand. The sleeves of her deep blue, silk jacket and the black apron and sash showcased beautiful designs fashioned with reverse appliqué and delicate embroidery in forest green, bright yellow, red and pink, trimmed with colored beads and silver coins, which jangled when she moved. Auntie Yer had used the beauty of nature in the vegetable blossom and eye of the peacock, and then the snail pattern for family connections and the wandering maze of the love design. Tiger teeth provided a border to keep Blia safe from evil spirits. But I wondered if any of it be enough to help this marriage.

Around Blia’s neck was her parents’ most prized possession, a silver necklace carried out of Laos and across the ocean, from Minneapolis to Sacramento. Back in another lifetime, in a far away village, Uncle Soua had fashioned the solid ring of silver that supported tier upon tier of silver mesh and filigree, adorned with coins
and squares of pounded silver. In the refugee camp, links had been removed and sold to provide needed cash, but were replaced when fortunes improved. No matter what my aunt and uncle thought of Bee or the marriage, they were sending their daughter into her new life with the best they had to offer. It was a matter of family honor.

The afternoon passed as guests feasted on roasted pig and two chickens, which had been sac
rificed to honor family spirits, enjoying the luxury of ample meat to mark the special occasion. Bottles of vodka and whiskey continued to flow, and Bee grew more obnoxious until he no longer seemed conscious of his actions. At last the best man and the maid of honor prepared to escort the couple home. There had to be an even number of people to maintain balance. By now Blia’s expression was pinched with strain and worry. Was this how she had expected it to end? Had she really wanted to marry and give up her life? Watching her, I vowed not to allow myself to fall into the same trap.