The Unwanted (31 page)
I examined the paper in my hand. “Is it really his address? Half of his name is missing.”
“I know. But that's all I have. I wish you a lot of luck finding your father. And when you do —” She paused.
“Yes, Moonlight?”
She sobbed, “Find Ty Tong for me. Tell him my heart is broken. Tell him I waited like he asked, but the postman never came.”
I wiped the tears off her face and kissed her forehead before I withdrew from her room. Her mother pushed the door open and ran inside. My grandfather accompanied me back to my house, lit a candle for the kitchen gods, and then prepared tea. I could hear my aunt's weeping, faintly echoed in the rain.
T
hat night, after dinner, I helped my mother with the dishes by the well. My aunt's family clustered inside Moonlight's room with a doctor. On the ground next to us, a candle dripped its red, waxy tears onto a bronze dish. Its weak light sputtered in the thick darkness, showing just enough contrast for my mother to see what she was doing. The rain had stopped and the water inside the well was like black ink. Each time I dropped the bucket to scoop up some water, it made a wet sound. As the pail moved upward, pulled by old ropes on squeaking wheels, the noise reverberated like a moan. After filling up the basin, I sat down beside my mother.
“Mother, can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Do you remember anything about my father?”
She paused. Her long hair covered most of her face, hiding her expression from view. “I remember some,” she said, turning back to the dishes.
“What is he like?”
My mother wiped her hands with the rag she kept on her side and looked up. In the dim light, her eyes were as dark and mysterious as the well. “It has been so many years,” she said. “Why do you want to know now?”
“I don't know,” I said with a shrug. “Just wondering. Everyone has a father. I want to know whether or not mine exists, that's all.”
“He exists just fine, somewhere in America.”
“Does he know about me, mother?”
“Yes, son. You were three months old when he left.”
“Mom, how did you meet him?”
My mother stretched her arms upward and moaned softly, complaining about a dull ache she felt on her back. In the shadow of the night, everything around us seemed calm. At the same time, the temperature was dropping. In a soft, whispering voice, as though she were talking to herself, my mother told me her story.
“I was supposed to get married to a son of your grandfather's friend. In those days, there was no such thing as marrying for love, and matches were prearranged. The night before the wedding, I sneaked out to see the groom's face, with the help of your late uncle, of course. We hid behind a bamboo bush outside his house for two hours before I could get a good look at his face for the first time. Good heavens, was he ugly! I cried like my Daddy had just died. It was awful, the thought of living with that man for the rest of my life. So, that same night your uncle, barely your age then, took me to the bus station and sent me off to Saigon.”
“Mother, weren't you afraid?”
“Afraid? I was terrified, but I was also determined. Your grandfather was so mad, he beat the tar out of your uncle, and then went to Saigon to look for me. By the time he got there, I had a job in a jewelry store working as a hand model. I refused to go home, so your grandfather had to apologize to the groom's family and call off the wedding. It was a real scandal, and I was lucky that he didn't disown me for what I did. Then, a couple of months later, the Americans came to Vietnam. Everybody in the south took English classes so that they could get a better job working for the foreigners and getting paid in dollars instead of dong. I was inspired by their sophisticated culture, so I went back to night school and learned English. I met your father in Saigon, through an ad in a newspaper. Your daddy was looking for a translator, so I came for an interview and ended up spending the night. He was tall, dark, and handsome—just like a movie star. He swept me off my feet. You know the rest of the story. We moved back to Nhatrang and I got pregnant. The following year I gave birth to you.”
In front of us, the dishes had been washed, dried and stacked on a tray. She went on, her voice low and mournful. “Three months after you were born, he left Vietnam. Your father was very upset that he had to leave you behind. In fact, he offered to take you with him, but I refused. You have a good father, Kien, just like everybody else. And for the short time that he was here with us, he loved you very much.”
“What's his name?”
My mother sucked in a deep breath. “I don't remember.”
“How could you not? You were living with him.”
“He was my boss,” she explained. “I called him by his last name like everybody else in the company, Mr. Russo this, Mr. Russo that. Have you any idea how many years ago that was? I am forced to forget about these things.”
“I bet my father would remember your name,” I said sarcastically.
My mother burst out laughing. “I seriously doubt that. He never knew my real name. He used to call me Nancy Kwan. Names weren't important to us. It was the sixties, for god's sake.”
“Do you believe that he thinks about us sometimes?” I asked.
“Sure he does.”
“Does he still want me?”
My mother furrowed her eyebrows. “I don't know, son. But if I were he, I certainly would. Any parent would be proud of you, Kien. You are a good son.”
I got up and touched her hair gently. “Thanks, Mother.”
THAT EVENING
, after everybody else had gone to bed, I got up and poured some oil into the old lantern. On my new bed, which was made out of discarded rice sacks Tin had brought back from his company, I drafted a letter to my father. Even with the help of an English-Vietnamese dictionary, and with my limited knowledge of English grammar that I learned in school, the foreign language was more difficult than I had imagined. Under the dim light, I struggled to convey what I wanted him to know, wondering whether or not he would understand.
Dear Mr. Russo,
I am your son from Vietnam. You don't know me yet. My name is Kien Nguyen, and I am fourteen years old. I was born May 12 , 1967. You left Nhatrang, Vietnam on August, same year.
It was an exciting time this morning when I found your address. I have looked for you many years before. I think, of you everyday and I want to meet you.
Please take me to America. I have nothing to live for in Vietnam. I am always hungry, and unhappy. I don't have new clothes, or blanket. I am sleeping on two rice sacks because I have no bed. After many rains, lots of mosquitoes around, and the weather get very cold at night. You may remember about that since you lived here before.
Please write. I want to hear from you. I can't send you any picture, because I don't have yet. Nancy Kwan says hello to you. She also said you love me, and you will take care of me. I want very much for her to be right.
Your son,
Kien Nguyen
I read the letter over and over again, trying to correct as many mistakes as I could before I put it in an envelope. Then, exhausted from my euphoria and hope, I fell asleep holding the letter close to my chest.
The next morning, I woke up early. I jumped out of bed, intending to show Moonlight the letter. On my way to my aunt's house, my mother stopped me at the kitchen. She was holding a pair of wooden chopsticks. Behind her, a pan of fried rice sizzled over the kiln. From inside my aunt's house, someone struck a gong three times and the sound echoed through the morning air. Monks in yellow robes appeared at her front steps between the rose bushes. “Where are you going?” my mother asked. “I am going to see Moonlight.”
“Don't! Please stay here,” she said sadly. “Moonlight passed away last night. Do not disturb her family.”
I staggered to sit down, dizzy and numb from the news. Outside, white clouds and beautiful morning sun had replaced the rain. Lights sparkled on the soggy ground as if to announce summer was here at last.
Sometime later, I got up from the floor and stepped out of the kitchen. Sitting at my aunt's dinner table, my grandfather seemed lost in thought. In front of him, a cup of tea was left untouched. In the garden, my uncle, with the help of the monks, released the latch on his birdcage and let go about a hundred sparrows. Their wings fluttered under the bright sun before they disappeared from sight. Outside Moonlight's room, my aunt collapsed on the floor, hitting her head against the cement threshold in frustration. Her wail was bloodcurdling and painful as her daughters huddled next to her. The moment she saw my face, my aunt stopped crying, got up and lunged at me. “I want to know what she said to you last night,” she said. “Who?” I lied. “I don't know what you are talking about.” “My daughter, Moonlight,” she pressed. “What sorts of things did she tell you last night?”
“I can't tell you, Auntie,” I stammered. “It's confidential.” “Why not?” she wailed. “I am her mother. Tell me.” “I can't. I promised her. Besides, it isn't important anymore.” The anger crept back in her eyes, and Pink pulled her away from me. “Not important?” my aunt cried. “How dare you? She hung on for weeks, waiting for your return so that she could tell you something. How dare you not confide in me what my daughter said?” I shook my head and ran away.
IN THE GARDEN
, I encountered Mr. Qui Ba on his way to my aunt's kitchen.
“Hey, congratulations,” he said. “You are back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Great, I got news for you. I talked to your dean the other day. He wanted me to tell you to enjoy the summer. Next semester you can go back to school. There will be no penalty after the faculty has evaluated your conduct.”
“Thank you, sir.” I looked at his face. “Or should I ask my mother to thank you for me?”
His smile disappeared. “You ungrateful mongrel,” he snapped. “Your mother is a nobody. Who do you think she is, Queen of Sheba? And you, stay away from my daughter. She is out of your league. You are a smart boy—don't make me one of your enemies, son.”
“If not because of my mother, why would you help me?”
He waved his hand. “Get out of here. I am sick of you.”
I walked past him and headed to the post office to mail my father the letter.
THREE MONTHS LATER
, one Saturday morning, the postman came looking for me. He handed me an envelope, which I recognized immediately. The letter had returned to me unopened, after traveling around the world. A red stamp slashed across my father's address, accompanied by the words, “Return to sender, address unknown.”
Nhatrang, April 1984
W
hen the letter to my father was returned to me unopened, any last shred of hope for a better life finally abandoned me. I grew to accept the disappointment, convincing myself that such misfortune was a part of my existence. With the deaths of Moonlight and Mrs. Dang receding into the past, and the tortures I had endured at the hands of the police still fresh on my mind, I focused my attention on leading a normal, less turbulent life. I did my best to block the horrors from my recollection.
In 1984 I was seventeen, Jimmy was fifteen, and BeTi was nine. Our clothes were ragged from years of wear, and no amount of patching or letting out seams could make them presentable. My mother bought second-hand garments from the thrift shops and altered them by hand to fit us. At school, the way we dressed drew a lot of attention from teachers and students. Their teasing was cruel, though perhaps inevitable. Jimmy and I got into fistfights with other children almost as often as we had lunch. Neither one of us confided the problem to our mother. We knew she had too much stress already.
By now, my mother had sold everything that could possibly be sold from our household. One item at a time, we parted with our blankets, the window frames, the marble thresholds, and part of our tin roof that covered the kitchen area. When she ran out of things to sell, my mother went back to the market. This time, with very little capital, all she could do was clean out a small area at the market entrance and sell fish soup by the sidewalk. Her customers were mainly the local housewives who came to the bazaar to shop for groceries.
Every day at dawn, my mother woke up before anyone else in the house. In the kitchen, she re-boiled the soup broth that she had prepared the night before, fried the fish cakes, steamed the noodles, and arranged lettuce into a container of salad. Once the soup bubbled and the smell of fried fish penetrated our mosquito net, my mother placed everything inside a glittering black lacquered basket. Into another basket she loaded clay bowls, chopsticks, spoons, and spices. When the grandfather clock in my aunt's house chimed six times, she left the house, lifted the two heavy containers on a bamboo rod over her shoulders, and headed to the market.
On weekends, when we didn't have school, Jimmy and I would help haul her burdens. Most days, my mother took my sister along for company. BeTi walked slowly behind her, holding the salad bowl in one hand and a broom in the other as they passed through the villages and rice paddies. Once they got to the bazaar, my mother set up her business on the ground under an oak tree. BeTi sat on the dirty pavement and played with her pillow, while my mother prepared to receive her first customer, keeping the pot's temperature up with the extra coals she carried in a tin inside her thin jacket.
Around noon, after she had sold her last bowl of soup, my mother closed her little shop and got ready for her next job. While BeTi waited under the oak tree, keeping an eye on the baskets, my mother took her broom and swept the sidewalk, moving up and down the street until she had cleaned up the entire market's entrance. The shop owners whose stores faced the street paid her a small service charge to keep their path clean. My mother used to tell us that this was how she had swept away the summers and winters of her life.
On stormy days, as the wind howled through the trees, it was painful to watch her bending down, her head hidden under a torn conical hat, struggling to keep the trash from being blown across the avenue. She grew thinner. Her skin was brown, leathery from the sun. Her hair turned mostly white, fuzzy, and unkempt, covering her head like cotton. The sparkle in her eyes, once so bewitching, had long since given way to a colder, more sullen look.