Across the Mekong River (9 page)

She frowned.
“Thank you. I will take care of this.”

I slumped over the table with my
face burning. My very first day, and already I had done something wrong.

Ger ran away from school at the morning
break and again the next day. For the next two weeks Auntie Yer planted herself outside the school during breaks until he accepted his fate. I could not understand his aversion to class. I loved hearing the tones of the alphabet and drawing each curlicue and loop of the letters. I became Mrs. Khamvongsa’s favorite, passing out papers and pencils each morning and cleaning the blackboard after class.

Father bought me a fresh pad of paper and two pencils and help
ed me practice in the evenings. He beamed when a few months later I read him a simple story after dinner one night. Buoyed by his enthusiasm, I raced to see my cousins, clutching the story.

I found Ger and Tou at the end of their
building, shooting stones from their slingshots at a pile of sandals stacked on a tree stump. Blia and Mee sat nearby drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick. “I can read you a story. Do you want to hear?”

Mee looked up,
her face bright with interest. But Blia spoke first, “I don’t care about your story.”

Ger glanced over.
“Quit bragging. You’re not so smart.” He had trouble learning his letters because he didn’t pay attention. It made him mad when the teacher called on me and I answered correctly.

“It’s a good story.
You’ll like it,” I tried again.

Ger s
tood up and pushed me roughly. “Go away. We don’t want you or your stupid story.”

I stared at the
m, stunned by the hostility. These were my cousins, the friends I played with every day. All I wanted was to be part of their group, to belong. What had I done that Ger should be so mean? And the others went along. Even Mee kept silent and would not look at me.

“I hate you, Ger.
I’ll never, ever speak to you again,” I cried.

I ran down the path past three buildings and took refuge under a
fig tree next to a small shed. I slumped to the ground as hot tears spilled down my cheeks. My breathing came in short, uneven gasps. I crumpled up my story and threw it in the dirt. Ger had tried to make me feel small. I swore to myself that I would never play with any of them again.

And I did not see Ger again until his funeral.

Two days later, as Mother fixed dinner, Auntie Kia ran into our room, wailing and flailing her arms. Mother tried to calm her as words flew like sparks burning my skin. Ger and Tou had been playing at the end of the building when the
ir neighbor Sia, drunk, had roared around the corner on his motorcycle. The bike tossed Ger twenty feet into the air. He landed on the tree stump. All the breath squeezed from his body. He died before Auntie Yer could reach him.

Uncle Boua
led Ger’s funeral over the next three days. The ceremonies passed like a long dream from which I could not wake. Rain lashed at the roof and blew through the room. Ger lay on a bamboo bier, dressed in his funeral coat, hat, and hemp shoes that my mother and Auntie Kia had spent all night preparing. Auntie Kia placed embroidered pillows under his head and wound strips of white cloth around his legs. His pale, waxy face showed no sadness or anger. I had to look away.

The cold, damp room smelled of burning incense, the smoke swirling up and around into the rafters, carr
ying his soul to another world. I had come to know Uncle Soua by his jokes and easy laughter, but on these days he collapsed on the floor and cried like a child. Auntie Yer wept beside him, rocking back and forth. My mother and Auntie Kia tried to comfort them as their own tears flowed. Poor Blia curled into a tight ball on the sleeping mat, refusing to speak or see her brother off.

Uncle Boua
chanted and talked to Ger, guiding his spirit back to our village in Laos, the place where he was born, to where his placenta lay buried under the center post of the house. Only if he reached his placenta could he leave this world behind. Father beat a steady rhythm on the drum. The
qeej
player blew on his reed, accompanying each step in Ger’s travels. Years later I would learn the names of these pieces--showing the way chanting, last breath reed music, helping the person mount the horse for the heavenward journey, and raising the body to get it on its way to the spirit world before burial.

Mee and I kneeled together at th
e side of the room, shivering. I kept my eyes down and tried to concentrate on saying blessings for my cousin. I offered good wishes for his afterlife, the way Father had instructed me. But a horrible guilt possessed me, pressing on the middle of my chest. Perhaps I had caused Ger’s death with my angry words. Father said evil spirits who dwelled in the camp had stolen Ger’s souls. It had been too late to extend the time on his life papers.

Chor helped Uncle Shone slit a rooster’s throat, and Mother cooked the liver f
or Ger to take as spirit food. Uncle placed the dead rooster at the top of Ger’s head so its spirit could guide him to his ancestors. Father motioned to me. Mee and I rose and took turns placing mangos and rice balls for Ger to eat on the trip. We added spirit money to help in passing through the gates to heaven. My gift to him was a favorite red stone that I had found by the stream. Tou parted with his best slingshot, and Mee presented a new pair of plastic sandals and three rubber bands. More chickens were sacrificed and meals prepared that we offered to our ancestors. Later we would eat the food.

On the third afternoon, Chor and F
ather placed Ger in his coffin. Mother and Auntie Kia had to support Auntie Yer as the procession trudged up the hill to the burial ground. The rain poured down, and our feet slipped in the red mud. We left packages of food along the way to keep Ger’s souls from returning home and taking other souls with him to the afterworld.

As they lowered his coffin into the ground, my knees grew weak. The tear
s I had held back burst forth. I fell to the ground and whispered last words, “Please be happy.”

After this the nightmares came.
A giant black bird with Ger’s face swooped down from the sky and plucked me from a field where I sat naked. We soared higher and higher into the air above the clouds until he let go. I spun out of control down to earth with nothing to stop me. Other nights I found myself plunging into a river, grabbing for my father as his hand slipped away. Ger was in the water, pulling me into the depths. I woke screaming for help.

PAO

In September, final papers arrived from Danny in America. He had approval to sponsor Shone and Souas’ families and had located jobs and housing for them. Both families interviewed with the American immigration team and prepared to leave for a place called Minneapolis. Shone said he knew nothing of this village, but if Danny lived there, it must be a good place.

Once again our family would be split apart, only this time half-way across the world.
They had been in the camp for over four years without a future. Perhaps a fresh start would bring them a good life and better luck. America was a land of opportunity.

The birth of our second daughter
, Moa, in late August brought joy. Our beautiful new baby delighted the family, especially Nou. Yer became more placid and content. Still, I worried how she would manage without the tempering influence of Kia and Yer. Her cloud of sorrow, though more distant, still colored our lives. At night she often talked in her sleep, and in the mornings her attention strayed. It was as if she forgot Fong and Fue had died. Once she asked me to give her extra money to buy a chicken for the boys. They were very hungry she said. I looked at her puzzled. She turned away and played with the buttons on her blouse.

On a cool October morning, with fog still hugging the ground, we saw our family off on the bus to Nikhom Process
ing Center, the bus to America. Others who were departing crowded up the steps and settled into seats as their families stood under the bus windows and called out good wishes. But we lingered over our goodbyes, prolonging the separation we knew could last a lifetime.

Shone surprised me with a big hug. “As soon as we are settled…I’ll do whatever I must to sponsor you.”

“I pray you find success and happiness,” I said. “We will write often.”

The driver urged them to hurry.
Our family rushed onto the bus, leaning out the window to touch our hands one last time. Yer held Moa close, sobbing. Nou waved to her three young cousins with a forlorn face as the bus disappeared down the dusty road.

I sat with Nou on the edge of the sleeping mat, helping her practice five new French words. She continued to excel in school, and I had enrolled her in a private French class in the afternoons.

She wrapped her hair around her
fingers and studied the first word. “Von,” she said.

“It is
bon
,” I corrected, “with just the faintest ‘n’ sound. You almost do not hear it.” I pinched my nose to exaggerate the sound. She pinched her nose and repeated the word over and over with me, copying the shape of my lips, until she had it right. “Yes. That is it.”

Her serious little face broke into a smile, too
rare an occurrence these days. The mood in our home had remained somber since our family had departed. Life loomed too quiet, too lonely. Even before this, the shock of Ger’s death had sapped Nou’s cheerful nature and brought her terrible nightmares. I feared an evil spirit, or possibly Ger’s ghost, tormented her soul.

“
So much work for a little girl,” Yer said, looking up from her stool near the fire. She was nursing Moa and stirring soup for dinner.

“She lik
es it,” I said, smiling at Nou. I hoped keeping her busy learning French would ease the separation from her cousins. But I was also indulging my own dreams, my love of speaking this sophisticated, beautiful language. This knowledge had served me well during the war. The Pathet Lao, with their endless slogans, had declared the French language a bourgeois, elitist tool of the colonial exploiters. For me, it was the language of possibilities, the promise of the larger world.

Nou put her hea
d to one side. “I want to learn, Mother.”

Yer clucked her tongue.
“What is the point?”

I frowned with impatience. “An education is important.”
It did not matter to me that Nou was a girl, although I had to pause and wonder. Would I have placed so much hope on her education, if my boys were still alive?

Yer stood and patted Nou’s knee. “You need to fill the water buckets before th
e pumps close.” Nou sighed and put down the paper with her new words.

“I’ll go with you,” I said.
“We’ll practice the last two words as we walk.”

As
we returned, Uncle Boua and Gia arrived home. They had spent the day working on a nearby farm to earn a few coins. Money became scarcer and our silver slowly dwindled. Rations grew more austere every month, and the cost of food in the market more expensive. Chor had moved in with us when the family left for America, so we had another mouth to feed. I was luckier than most to have a good job. With my pay, Yer’s income from sewing, and the sporadic contributions of others, we did not suffer like others in the camp.

It pained me to see so many men languishing
without work, trapped and unable to support their families. Too many went hungry. Too many fell ill and died.

Chor breezed in as
Yer was serving soup and rice. We hardly saw him these days. When he was in the camp, he stayed only long enough to eat. He took off with his friends to find odd jobs or carry out activities I preferred not to know about. Evenings they spent drinking, gambling, and dreaming of girls. Some nights he did not come home at all. Now that the dry season had arrived, he would be disappearing to Laos for weeks at a time to fight with the resistance.

“What did you do all day?” Uncle Boua asked with an edge of irritation.

Chor shrugged. “I had some business.”

Gia’s eyes
turned bright with anticipation. “What kind of business?”

“Importan
t business.” Chor winked at Gia. “But it is secret.” Chor often slipped out of camp to meet with shady figures who delivered guns and ammunition financed by supporters in the camp or General Vang Pao and his followers in America. It was possible they also sold drugs to finance their activities.

At fourteen
years, Gia found his older cousin a thrilling figure, a brave hero oblivious to danger. Uncle Boua and I worried he would try to follow Chor on one of his escapades.

Chor came back from his missions in Laos reporting small successes—a road blown up, electric wires cut down, an attack on four Pathet Lao soldiers--but these skirmishes did little to change the situation. Th
e news grew worse all the time. Hmong forces in Xieng Khouang had nearly been crushed. Casualties kept rising as more rebels were driven deeper into the forests or across the river to Thailand. It seemed futile and senseless. Still, I gave what extra money I could to the cause. I could not turn my back on my own people.

Chor finishe
d his soup and stood to leave. “My friends are waiting.”

“I almost forgot my English class is tonight,” Gia said, jumping up to escape before his
father could protest.

Uncle let out a long sigh.
“These boys have no manners. They pay no attention to their elders anymore.”

Yer surprised me by speaking up, “They have lost their mothers, Uncl
e, and Chor his father as well. We must not be too harsh with them.”

I decided to change the subject. “They’ve called a special meeting of the camp leaders tonight.
Perhaps you will come, Uncle?”

“What has happened?”

I sat back as Yer and Nou cleared the dishes and stepped outside to wash them. “MOI says the new arrivals from Laos are fleeing because of flooding and ruined crops, not the Pathet Lao. They have threatened to send several thousand back for repatriation. We must discuss how to dissuade them.” The population at Ban Vinai had almost tripled in the past year and a half, despite the thousands leaving for resettlement in other countries. The Thai grew increasingly nervous that the influx would ruin their economy. This latest threat was most likely a ploy to pressure the U.S. and other countries into accepting more refugees.

Uncle Boua
shooed a fly off his forehead. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes sagged half-shut. “I am too tired to listen to any more troubles.” He was the head of the family, yet he deferred most decisions to me. The loss of his wife and children and the futility of camp life had defeated him. He kept busy with his shaman practice, drifting between worlds, lost in his own reality.

“But, Uncl
e, you are an important voice. We could use your wisdom.”

“Nothing changes; nothing gets bett
er. What could I add?”

I did not have an answer.
While the other camp leaders and I struggled to create some semblance of self-determination for our people, everything depended on others--relief workers, United Nations representatives, the Thai government, and, most importantly, the immigration agents of countries that might take us away from this place.

Uncle shook his head.
“This place is full of evil spirits and ogres, disgruntled spirits of the water and dirt and air. I feel them all around us. I no longer have the strength to work against them.”

I too felt the presence of evil spirits and hundreds
of ghosts of misplaced souls. All the shamans in the camp could not counter the suffering they caused.

The camp celebrated the Hmong New Year in early December at the time of the rice harvest, even though we had no harvest. For four days we put troubles aside and honored our traditions. Laughter and excited chatter reverberated across the camp as people prepared for the events. The air crackled with anticipation.

On the first day
, Yer swept evil spirits from the previous year out of our tiny room to make way for the good spirits of the New Year. We welcomed the New Year with prayers and offerings to our ancestors to bring us good luck and prosperity, and special meals of pork and chicken.

T
he second afternoon, we joined the festivities in the central square. Families paraded around the grounds, greeting each other with good luck for the New Year, proudly displaying their skills. Yer, like the other women, had spent months sewing new clothes for each member of our family, embroidering colorful
paj ntaub
patterns on vests, sashes, skirts, and headpieces. Coins, sewn to our vests and jackets, jingled as we moved about. In Laos we used silver coins, but given our current circumstances, Yer had reluctantly used coins made of tin. Still, most layers of our silver necklaces, which Uncle Boua had crafted in Laos many years before, hung down our fronts, symbols of our former wealth and position.

We each gravitat
ed to our favorite activities. Gia went off to play soccer on the field with the older boys. Nou and Yer watched groups of young women perform traditional dances, gracefully dipping and turning, making intricate movements with their fingers and wrists to the strains of Hmong violins and flutes. Nou was particularly fond of the
qeej
competition. Each man vied to be the most acrobatic, twisting and hopping while playing his instrument.

Uncle Boua and I joined a crowd of men to bet on the bull
fights. Fiery bulls, prodded on by their owners, snorted and pawed at the ground, stirring up great clouds of dust. The beasts lunged and locked horns as they struggled to knock the other down. This led to a great deal of shouting and cheering.

As usual Chor disappeared with
his friends. Late in the day, I spotted him lining up to play
pov bov
. The New Year celebration brought romance and the opportunity for a young man to find a wife. Chor had turned twenty years old a few months earlier. It was time for him to settle down. He tossed a cloth ball back and forth first with one girl and then another.

Shortly after the last day of celebrations, Chor s
poke to us of a girl name Lia. She was sixteen with a delicate, pretty face and eyes that reflected the sun. Her demeanor was shy and traditional.

For the next few weeks, Chor courted Lia every day, singing love poems and playing the mouth harp outside her room at night. Yer and I laughed to see cocky, young Chor tr
ansformed into a lovesick bull. We hired a marriage negotiator, and Uncle Boua and I provided most of the bride price to Lia’s family. January brought the blessing of a wedding and another member to our household.