Pioneer Girl (18 page)

Another window showed a new e-mail from Alex, with a series of question marks in the subject line. Alex, who had read all the
Little House
books. Who had driven with me to Missouri, had kept watch while I sneaked into the storage room at Rocky Ridge; who had been my accomplice. We'd made no promises to each other, but I knew I couldn't keep ignoring his texts.
Hey,
I started to type in reply, then, hating the look of it, hit delete.

I closed all the windows on the computer. I checked on the old man in the garage; he was still sitting in the same position. I wondered if he had fallen asleep.

I stared at the blank screen for a minute before clicking on the Word document that held my dissertation. The last time I'd worked on it, over two months before, I'd stopped in midsentence while revising one of my chapters on
The Age of Innocence
. I'd first read that book in ninth grade, captivated by the wealth porn—opulent Gilded New York, strict social structures, hothouse blooms and Roman punch, and all the longing that had to be repressed. It was hard to recall what it was like to read a book just for fun, to become absorbed in the world of it. That was probably why, I realized, I had returned to the
Little House
, wanting escape from the escape of Edith Wharton—as if the literature of childhood wouldn't be so fettered with critical complications.

My hands were on the keyboard, each index finger resting on the little raised dashes that signified the placement of the
f
and
j
keys, or what my computer teacher in high school had called
home
. On the screen, I read a sentence I had started about Ellen Olenska sitting in the Public Garden in Boston, a portrait of her being painted without her knowledge. I pressed command-N: new window. New blankness. I closed my eyes for a moment, and started writing.

—

T
he sunlight got me out of bed by seven, though I'd collapsed there only a couple of hours before. For the first time in years I had sat at my computer until I'd nearly fallen asleep, the words blurring on the screen. The achiness I felt seemed almost akin to accomplishment. Outside, the old man across the street was gone, the garage closed.

I was surprised to see Ong Hai at the dining table. He had his box of cereal bars in front of him again, and as I made some tea he unwrapped a bar for me.

“Can she handle the morning rush on her own?” I asked.

“Ah, well. People won't get coffee as fast.”

“She's going to be mad.”

“She's mad at me, that's okay. I wish
you
and your ma don't fight so much. It's not good. Not healthy for anyone. You have to try and get along better, Lee.” He'd said this so many times before, and I'd always agreed and said that I would. Usually I meant it, and sometimes I did make an effort; my mother, I sometimes thought, did too. But it never lasted.

“I tried just last night,” I pointed out. “I was trying.”

“Okay,” Ong Hai said. “But what about Sam? That's what she's thinking about all the time. She doesn't have to worry about you.”

“It's always Sam, even though he took her jewelry and even though he's staying in California. I don't know what you guys expect me to do.”

I considered telling him the truth—the booming marijuana business, even what Sam had said about Hieu and our mother. Over the years Ong Hai and I had been able to talk about most everything from dinner plans to Oscar nominations to the extinction of the dinosaurs. Prepping meals together, we had agreed about Sam's irresponsibility and my mother's irascibility; we had complained about Chicago weather; we had brainstormed ways to pretty up, on a budget, the restaurants he and my mother ran. I had always thought we were on the same side.

But I had come to understand, more now, the burden that came with knowing what could change someone else's life. No matter what he said, I
had
altered Gregory's perception of his family and his family's past—and perhaps, as an extension, altered what he thought of himself. With Sam, knowing his whereabouts, his plans, and his role as the son who wasn't going to be returning anytime soon, made me not just the same old messenger but the decision maker. It would have been easier if Sam had sworn me to secrecy. But he didn't really care. He wasn't going to be around to see our mother's reaction. I was the one who had to decide what she and Ong Hai should, or had a right to, know.

Ong Hai said, “I just mean you have to give her some understanding. She's very upset about Sam. You know, I wonder too why things go wrong. Your ma, I think she doesn't know who to blame.”

“For what's happened with Sam?”

“For what happened to your ba.”

He so rarely mentioned my father's death that I was taken aback. “She blames herself, and that's why she's always spoiled Sam—I get it. But I lost ba too. We all did.”

“You're the daughter, so it's different.”

“It shouldn't be like that.”

“But it is. Anyway, I want to tell you something else. While you were gone your ma made some decisions,” Ong Hai revealed. “She met with Hieu about some, what do you call it—financing.”

He dropped Hieu's name as though the guy had always been around, as if Ong Hai himself hadn't fallen silent often enough, refusing to say anything about him.

“Hieu,” I repeated. “We're talking about Hieu now.”

My grandfather didn't blink at that. “Here's a possible fix,” he said. Hieu had offered to invest money in the Lotus Leaf as a business partner. He would be part owner but my mother and Ong Hai would continue to run the place as usual.

“Where'd he get all this money?”

“Real estate.” It turned out that Hieu had not only done well in the Florida house-flipping market, he had gotten out before it all went to crap. “Even before that, he made money here too. He's more than a millionaire by now.”

“And what about the money he's been giving Mom over the years?”

“Does it really bother you, Lee? This is your ma's business. You know that. Did you ask her?”

I laughed at that. “Sam is so angry about it. He still wants the money. Is it true there were college accounts set up for us?”

“I don't know that. But you went to college. You had good scholarships. You didn't need any college accounts.”

I had said as much to myself, told myself that I had no claim to Hieu's money anyway.

“You're more independent,” Ong Hai said. “And now it's all in the past. Right?” When I didn't acquiesce, he went on, “Hieu's a good man. He would be a good business partner.”

“So this is how everything is going to be,” I said. “The whole past remade.”

“You know how your ma is. She needs things her way—her terms.” Ong Hai rose from the table and tucked another cereal bar into his shirt pocket. “You coming over to the café soon?”

I had no desire to, but at my hesitation he said, “Come on and help, okay?”

So then I couldn't say no. When I agreed to be there in time for lunch he smiled and gave a little salute as he headed out the door.

Alone again, I stood in the kitchen and drank another cup of tea. Beneath my bare feet the worn linoleum floor seemed gritty and I thought about sweeping it. I noticed the dishes sitting in the sink and a few stray apple peels on the counter. The whole house, in fact, looked neglected. My mother and Ong Hai might not have had much interest in home décor but they'd always insisted on keeping our rooms wiped and clean. They'd seen enough restaurant vermin to make sure of that. Once, when Sam and I were kids, our mother had brought home a pair of dead cockroaches, wrapped in napkins, and left them on our beds. I had screamed and screamed, and my mother, not telling me that the roach was dead, forced me to pick it up and flush it down the toilet.
See what happens when you slob everywhere
,
she'd said. She talked about how clever the cockroaches were, how they could live in my pillowcase and crawl over me in the night, and how they could lay eggs under my bed and climb up through drains in the sink. Every now and then the memory would cause me to throw my sheets back and check every wrinkle. Sometimes I felt phantom critters skittering across the bed or heard them whispering up the walls. When I once mentioned this to my mother she had laughed, proud to know that she had taught me well.

In spite of this, and the fear of what a fallen crumb could invite, I brought a cereal bar to my room to read what I'd started the night before. It was a relief to look at the screen and feel the need to rearrange things, to shape the sentences into something better. I glanced at the clock. I had two hours, maybe two and a half, all to myself.

A
week later, I saw Hieu.

It was midmorning at the Lotus Leaf, my mother and Ong Hai working on summer rolls and pho, me back at the cash register. I wasn't very good at it—I usually forgot to smile and ask people how they were doing—but my mother believed that whoever had the best English was obligated to deal with customers.

We were in that lull before the lunch-seekers arrived, so I was staring out the windows when a silver Mercedes convertible rolled into the parking lot and stopped in front of the café. The man behind the wheel was tall for an Asian guy, and starting to go bald. I didn't recognize him exactly, but when he walked into the café I knew it had to be Hieu. Chu Hieu, my mother's benefactor and, perhaps, something more. I hadn't seen him since my father's funeral.

“Hello, Lee,” he said. With his spread-collared shirt and cordovan shoes he was a lifetime away from the laughing young man in threadbare Hanes tees and flip-flops splitting a six-pack of Miller with my father. He spoke in Vietnamese, “Remember me?”

I nodded. “I didn't know you lived around here.”

I could feel my mother listening from the kitchen.

“I live in Florida half the time,” he said, following my cue and switching to English. “I hear you're a big success in school. PhD and everything. Your family is very proud.”

“How do you know?” I asked. My words surprised me, and him too.

“Your ma,” he said simply, though of course I already knew the answer.

She appeared then. Her face and voice were unreadable as she offered him some tea. I had forgotten to ask if he wanted to order anything. Hieu declined but my mother told me to prepare a pot of jasmine tea anyway. They went outside and sat down at one of the rickety-looking metal tables Ong Hai had set out on the sidewalk in front of the parking lot.

I brought them a teapot with two ceramic cups, along with a plate of miniature red-bean pastries. Hieu thanked me as I set down the tray. Back at the cash register, I watched as they resumed talking, leaving the food untouched.

A customer came in then, looking for a chai latte and a few summer rolls to go. As I finished pulling together the order, I glanced at my mother and Hieu again and saw him start to put his hand on hers. She drew quickly away. The customer left with her summer rolls and I pretended to clean up the pastry display.

At last they stood. My mother was picking up the tray and bringing it into the kitchen before Hieu had even gotten into his Mercedes. He gave me a slight wave as he backed out, and I wondered: Did he wear a ring? Was he married or had he been? Twenty years ago Hieu had lived in an apartment that had a pool table in the living room instead of furniture. On weekends and at holidays he brought over bags of gummy candy, boxes of Whitman Samplers, tubs of ice cream, and new games for the Nintendo he'd given me and Sam. He and my father laughed and joked for hours, late into the nights, drinking beer and then whiskey, playing card games and smoking cigarettes.

My mother chose that day not to run errands or go out for more supplies. We ended up practically driving home together, Ong Hai having gone ahead to get takeout for dinner. Back at the house, neither of us spoke as we stepped around each other in the kitchen, she steeping tea and washing dishes while I searched the refrigerator for a piece of fruit to snack on. She had changed into flowy pants and a T-shirt—she always changed the minute she got home—and they made her look so much younger, like one of those undergrads who go to class in pajamas. At the same time, she still managed to employ the full power of her don't-approach-me stance, the one that kept almost everyone, from store clerks to panhandlers, at bay. It had always worked on me too, and it dawned on me that maybe she counted on that.

I understood—and it had taken me the whole day to figure it out—that Hieu's visit to the café had been no coincidence. It would have been arranged by my mother. It would have been at the call of my mother. In her own way, she was letting me know what I'd been too afraid to ask.

I shouldn't have been so nervous, then, to ask her why Hieu was at the café, but I couldn't even look at her when I spoke the question.

She rinsed dishes and set them in the drainer. “Eh,” she said dismissively. “Business.”

“What about the money?” I dared to say. “The college accounts. Did all of that go into the Lotus Leaf?”

“You went to college,” she said indignantly.

“I could have used some help. I could have gone to a different school.”

“That's stupid.”

“It's not fair.”

“Why do you think anything belongs to you?” My mother was scrubbing at the calcium deposits around the faucet. “The Lotus Leaf is the whole family's.”

For once her voice didn't rise into the sharp tones of anger, and the effect it had on me was silence. Foolish, to think I'd ever had a claim. That was how she won again, leaving me to weigh my next attack, locate the next angle.

Then Ong Hai opened the kitchen door, bringing in an early summer gust and the sound of someone starting to mow a lawn down the street. He held out a paper bag. “Tacos for dinner.”

This seemed to annoy my mother more than my questions about Hieu. “What happened to the Thai food?”

“There's this new Mexican place next to the Thai place. Looks good, so why not try it?”

I brought the bag of tacos, burritos, chips, and guacamole to the table while Ong Hai removed his shoes, washed his hands, and grabbed a couple of beers. My mother started toward the living room but Ong Hai called her back. “Tran, oi. Come sit down.”

To my surprise, she did. Reluctantly she refreshed her cup of tea. I set out plates and forks and Ong Hai brought out the Sriracha.

So the three of us sat down together for dinner.

I was on my second carnitas taco, thinking of ways to bring up the subject of Hieu again, when Ong Hai did it for me. “Hieu's buying the café?” he asked outright, as casually as if he were asking about a new show on TV.

“Maybe,” was all my mother said.

I spoke up. “There are three new banh mi places in the city. It's having a moment.”

My mother, who had only picked at the chips and guacamole, stood up. I thought she was going to strike down the idea, but she said, “Is it perfect? When it's perfect, we can try it.”

She rinsed out her teacup, set it near the sink, and headed to the living room.

“You see?” Ong Hai said to me. “There's always progress. Tiny bit by tiny bit.”

I waited until I heard the sound of the television before asking him if Hieu was married, if he had a family.

He shook his head. “Never married.”

“Why hasn't he been around before now?”

“Out of respect,” Ong Hai said quietly.

But I wasn't sure now what that meant. Had my grandfather known all along about my mother and Hieu, about whatever relationship or agreement they'd had? Had he too kept it carefully hidden from Sam and me?

“Hey,” he said, switching topics, “they're showing that
Bourne Ultimatum
movie again.”

Ong Hai and I—and Sam, when we were all together—had often watched action movies, especially repeats, because then we could discuss the various plot points and logistical gaps. We were fascinated by the scope of such films, and marveled at how much money and energy and bodily effort went into their production. How money could make the make-believe real. Even though Ong Hai owned plenty of DVDs, he preferred watching movies when they appeared on TV, commercials and all, because they seemed, that way, like an unexpected gift.

Usually I looked forward to such moments, retreating to a cavern of someone else's tumult and adventure. This time, I told Ong Hai that I needed to get back to work.

“Your research?” he asked.

“I really think it could be you in that photograph.”

“You want it to be so,” he said, and I nodded. “Well, it could be. No doubt it maybe could be.”

“How many times did you tell us that story about meeting Rose and how she spent time in your café?”

Ong Hai smiled in recollection. “You know what word fits for her? Generous. Not too many people around like her back then. Not American ladies either.”

“That's where it all began, right? Well, here's another part of the story.”

“True, maybe that's true. But whose story?”

I felt the unintended sharpness of that question. “Yeah,” I said. “No wonder Mom thinks I need to leave it all alone.”

“Your ma doesn't like those kinds of questions because she thinks it makes trouble.”

“That's only because she wants to be in control.”

“The person who controls the story is the person in control,” Ong Hai said. He meant it as a joke, I think, but it was more real to me than he could have known.

His movie was starting, so Ong Hai went to watch and I went to my desk. In my e-mail inbox there was a new message, from a name I didn't recognize. It was a professor at one of the schools where I'd applied for a postdoc. The e-mail said that the recipient of the fellowship had withdrawn in order to accept a tenure-track teaching job, and that I was the runner-up: it was a one-year fellowship and it was mine if I wanted it. I needed to let them know within the week, since fall semester would be starting in less than two months.

The school was near Philadelphia, on a train line that Alex had called the Eastern Corridor, a term I'd often heard and kind of loved, picturing old-fashioned passenger cars racing through neatly structured halls. Something cozy, close, and dependable; something out of Cheever, waiting on a platform for a train ride home.

I had never lived anywhere beyond the Midwest and barely remembered applying for the postdoc. I didn't know anyone who lived around Philadelphia. Still, I didn't hesitate to answer the e-mail immediately.
Thank you
, I typed.
I accept
. I thought about it for a second, then backspaced.
I happily accept
.