“You sure you don’t want something to eat? I could make you a salad or some—”
“I’m stuffed.” Giving up on the TV, Brenda took off her jacket and dropped it on the back of a chair. “Didn’t you see the turkey Caney piled on my plate?”
“Well, I think I’ll put on some potato soup so when your friend comes—”
“No, don’t do that. He won’t stick around long enough to eat.
We’ve got a lot of miles to cover.”
“Now how long does it take to eat a bowl of soup? He can’t be in that big a hurry.”
“You don’t know Travis.”
“I guess I can fix him an egg sandwich.” Molly O braced for an attack when she added, “If he shows up,” but Brenda, peering at a picture of herself and her daddy, seemed unperturbed by the remark.
“He’ll show up.”
“You sure he knows how to get here?”
“He knows.” Brenda fingered a trophy she’d won in a talent contest when she was ten, then flipped through some of her old copies of
American Songwriter
and
Country and Western Stars.
“Nothing’s changed,” she said. “Not even the magazines.”
“Your room’s just like you left it, too. Still full of your stuffed animals,” Molly O said, oblivious to the tone of renunciation in Brenda’s voice. “I wish you could stay the night, honey. Sleep in your old bed.”
“I told you we have to be in Vegas tomorrow night.”
“I’m just worried about the roads. They say this snow’s moving in from the west, right where you’re headed.”
“Well, Travis didn’t even want to stop ’cause he said coming here was gonna cost us three or four hours, but I just had to come to tell you the news.”
Molly O felt a squeezing sensation in her chest. She had been here before, waiting for “the news,” the news that Brenda had started on birth control . . . that Brenda was quitting school . . .
that Brenda was leaving home.
“What news?”
“Me and Travis are gonna get married.”
Molly O grabbed one of Brenda’s old magazines and began fan-ning the flames of another round of hot flashes.
“I knew you’d be surprised.”
“Surprised don’t even begin to catch it. Why, I don’t even know this . . . this Travis.”
“Well, you’re not the one marrying him, are you?” Brenda squared her chin and locked her lips together, a gesture she had affected when, just shy of her first birthday, she was told not to eat the leaves of an ivy plant.
“How long have you known him, Brenda?”
“Long enough.”
“What about your career? All your plans?”
“None of that’s changed. Travis is part of my career now. He’s the one who hires the musicians, arranges our tunes, books our gigs. And he’s the one who takes care of me.”
“Sugar, do you think you’re ready for marriage?” Molly O
reached for Brenda’s hand, but she pulled away. “I mean, you’re just so young.”
“Mom, how old were you when you got married?”
“Sixteen the first time, but—”
“Well, I’m almost eighteen.” Brenda struck a practiced pose which amplified the curves of her hips and breasts.
“But I didn’t have your talent, I didn’t have your dreams.”
“And you weren’t pregnant, either.”
Breath put on hold, fan stilled in midair, Molly O whispered,
“Brenda, are you—”
“About two months, I figure.”
“You’re going to have a baby.” Molly O said the words as if to test their truth.
“Yeah, that’s usually what comes of getting pregnant, isn’t it?”
“How did this happen? I thought you were on the pill?”
“God, Mom, it was an accident, okay? We were on the road, I ran out of pills. What difference does it make now? I’m pregnant!”
“So that’s why this Travis just put you out at the Honk.” Her voice rising with anger, Molly O slapped the magazine down on the coffee table. “That’s why he hightailed it out of there the way he did.”
“I told you, he had to find a filling station to get a tire fixed.
And why are you calling him ‘this Travis’? His name’s Travis Howard.”
When her hands began to tremble, Molly O walked to the window, staring out at the falling snow. “You mind telling me when this wedding’s going to take place?”
“Well, Travis says we need to wait until—”
“Wait?” Molly O wheeled, poised to pounce. “Why wait?”
“Just listen, this is the best part. Travis wants us to finish this gig in Vegas and another one we have booked in Denver, then come back here, find us a place and—”
“A place here? In Sequoyah?”
“That’s right.”
“You’d give up show business and come back home?”
“We’re not gonna give it up entirely, just put it on hold till the baby comes. And I’ll keep writing music, maybe play a gig around here once in a while.” Brenda shrugged to show the simplicity of her plan. “It’ll all work out.”
Her anger cooling, Molly O nodded. “It might.” Then, with a smile threatening, she said, “It just might.”
“There’s one thing, though. I guess I ought to see a doctor. An OB-GYN.”
“Are you having problems, Brenda?” Molly O tried to hide her alarm. “If you are—”
“Oh, I’ve been having this pain here”—Brenda touched a spot low on her belly—“but it’s not that bad.”
“Don’t take any chances, honey. You get yourself to a doctor, make sure everything’s all right.”
“But see, me and Travis don’t have any insurance and the band’s money is tight right now, so I was wondering . . .”
“I’ve got almost four hundred dollars,” Molly O said as she hurried to the kitchen.
“You still keep your money frozen?”
“Sure do.”
Molly O pulled a box of waffles from the freezer, dug out a plastic bag crammed with bills and handed it to Brenda.
“Mom, I’m gonna pay you back, you know that.”
“Don’t you worry about it. Just get to a doctor and see to it that my grandbaby is okay.”
When a horn honked outside, Brenda went to the window.
“That’s Travis.”
“Well, he’s coming in, isn’t he?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But I want to meet him.”
“He wants to meet you, too. But he said you’d be pissed right now, so he wants to wait until we come back.”
“You go out there and tell him I’m not mad. Not one bit. Tell him—”
Travis honked again, several short bursts suggesting his impatience.
“I’d better go.” Brenda grabbed her jacket and purse.
“Brenda . . .”
“With the snow and all, we really need to get back on the road.”
Blinking back tears, Molly O enfolded Brenda in her arms.
“Take good care of yourself, darlin’. And remember, call me. Soon!
Call collect.”
After Molly O waved from the window until the car was out of sight, she began to wander the room, straightening Brenda’s magazines, inching the talent trophy back into place, touching the two-year-old face in the framed photograph.
Pausing before a mirror over the couch, she stared at her own reflection. “Merry Christmas,” she said, pushing a limp wisp of hair away from her face. Then, smiling at herself without feeling foolish, she whispered, “Merry Christmas, Grandma.”
*
Bui entered the church by the same window he had crawled through the night before, careful not to rattle the stiff plastic shade as he slid inside. Hardly breathing, he listened for sounds and let his eyes adjust to the darkness before he closed the window. Then, still clutching the paper sack he had carried with him from the car, he felt his way down the hall until he came to the room where he would sleep again.
He covered the small shaded lamp with a shirt from his sack, hoping his shadow could not be seen at the window.
The room looked exactly as he had left it that morning while the sky was still dark. The same scraps of paper remained in the trash can, books stacked crookedly on the desk were undisturbed and the telephone cord was still twisted beneath the typewriter.
Satisfied that his intrusion of the previous night had not been detected, Bui slipped next door to the bathroom where he washed himself. When he finished, he carefully dried the sink with paper towels before he turned out the light in the windowless room.
He didn’t know if sleeping in a church was a crime, but he suspected it was. And if he got caught breaking the law here, the police were sure to find out about Houston and the woman with yellow hair. He would have to be very careful in the church, make sure he left no traces of his coming and going.
He was ready now to write the letter he had been saying inside his head for two days. From the drawer of the desk, he took a pen, an envelope and a sheet of paper with “AME Church of the Living God” printed at the top. Then he began to write.
Em yêu Nguyê.t,
-
-
Anh ro’i Houston va-bây gio’ anh sôn´g o’2
. . . a town that is small and quiet. My job is very important, I think, for the man who owns the cafe has legs that do not walk, so he travels in a chair with wheels. His name is Mr. Chaney, a man with sad eyes. He is not a good cook, so he is glad for my skill with food.
I am also in charge of repair in the restaurant as Mr. Chaney is unable to take care of the equipment. Today I fixed a big problem with the machine that washes dishes. Nguyet, in America machines do much work. One called “microwaver”
boils food within the time of a breath and another executes with electricity bugs that fly. So much here is surprising.
One woman who works with me is Miss Ho, and though she has a Vietnamese name, she does not look like us. Another woman has the job of carrying food to people who eat in cars. I think these people are not allowed to come inside our restaurant, but I do not know why.
I am learning to speak English now. Mr. Chaney talks to me many times and he often speaks in a very loud voice, so I can understand him.
The place where I am living is like a mansion with too many rooms, but believe me when I say it is not expensive for me here.
One room of this house has beautiful windows with glasses of colors and a piano which I hope to learn to play.
Nguyet, my transfer to this city is fortunate for us. I believe we will have a good life here. The people are kind, much kinder than in the city of Houston where it is easy to find problems.
I cannot send more money to you now because the cost of my transfer was very great, but in my next letter, I hope to send you the rest of the money for your passage.
Nguyet, I think of you every minute of every day and at night, as I sleep, I smell the sweetness of your hair and feel the smoothness of your skin on my fingers. My love for you . . .
anh
yêu em mãi mãi.
Yêu em,
Bui
*
After he sealed the letter inside the envelope, Bui ran his hands across his eyes. He had slept poorly the night before, listening to strange sounds, waking to dark shapes and shadows not yet familiar to him. Now he had little energy left, but enough for what he had yet to do.
He picked up his sack, then crossed the hall to a pair of heavy wooden doors. After taking off his shoes and placing them side by side against the wall, he slid the doors apart and stepped between them.
Though this was the second time Bui had stood inside the great room, he was just as transfixed by its beauty and tranquillity as the first time. The stained-glass windows, softly lit by streetlights outside the church, shimmered in shades of green and amber, and the pews, stretching to both sides of the room, smelled of dark, rich wood.
Against the far wall, a raised platform held four elegant high-back chairs, a pulpit carved with intricate designs and an upright white piano.
Bui bowed at the door, then started down the aisle, moving slowly and with reverence, for he knew he was in a sacred place. At the front of the room, he stopped before a long, narrow table covered with red velvet cloth. Candles stood at each end in tall silver holders between vases of delicate purple flowers.
He put his sack on the floor, then carefully removed the Buddha he had brought from Houston and placed it in the center of the table. With matches from his pocket, he lit the candles.
When he stepped back and clasped his hands before him, he bowed, first to his Buddha of stone . . . then to a carving on the wall—the statue of a man, hands and feet nailed to a wooden cross.
Then Bui Khanh knelt to pray.
*
Caney switched off the Honk sign just before seven. He hadn’t had a customer for more than two hours, so he was shutting down early tonight.
The tracks of Bui’s car, the last to pull out, were barely visible now, filled in with another half inch of the snow still coming down.
Vena came from the back with the dog, then slid the box onto a chair. “I’m going to take off, Caney.” She turned up the collar on her jacket and buttoned it at the neck.
“Hate to see you out in this weather,” Caney said.
“I’ll be all right.”
“It’s freezing out there now.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have far to go.”
“You know, I was just thinking . . .” Caney felt his mouth go dry. “Maybe . . . well, no reason you can’t stay here tonight,” he said, lowering his eyes like a shy teenager.
But there was nothing shy about Vena’s response.
“Oh, is that how it is? I can work here
if
I sleep with the owner.
Part of my job description, right?”
“No, I . . . I didn’t mean . . .” Caney licked at lips so dry he could feel their heat. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“See, I have a couch, there’s a couch in my room . . . and, well, I just wanted you to know . . .” He was rushing now, trying to get it all out, trying to make her understand. “I thought about the couch and you’re welcome to it, some extra blankets and a couple of pillows, so you could—”
“No, thank you,” she said, but the “thank you” sounded less than sincere.
“Well, I just wanted you to know.”
A silence settled between them then, holding them in place until, moments later, headlights swept across the window.
“Now who the hell is that?” Caney said as a vehicle pulled to a stop, too far back on the darkened lot for them to make it out in the blowing snow. “Is someone coming for you?”