Beauty Rising (10 page)

His easy going attitude made me laugh, and I reached for the envelope.

“What’s this?”

“You are going to need a little cash.”

“No, no, you’ve been-“

“Martin. You need to pay the airport tax to get out of the country. Then you need a little cash for food or whatever.”

“But”

“Martin, it’s okay. It’s my pleasure to help you. Really.”

“I don’t know what to say. You’ve been really kind to me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Tan told me about your father’s death and what you tried to do for him. I really respect that. I know it’s been a tough week for you, so I’m glad I could make it a little better.”

“Thank you,” I said, appreciative of a level of kindness I never experienced in my own home. “I hope to come back to Vietnam someday. I was just starting to experience it.”

“You should do that, and let me know when you are coming.” He looked down at his watch. “It’s almost 6:15. Tan will be waiting outside the main gate. We should go.”

Tan wasn’t there. While we waited Jason bought me a small plastic bag filled with sticky rice, shaved pork and fried onions. I devoured it in about three bites.

At 6:40, Tan arrived in his white and blue taxi apologizing for being late because of his breakfast. But he assured me that we would make it to the airport on time. I thanked Jason again for his kindness and we drove off, dodging a rapid river of motorcycles every inch of the way. After about twenty minutes of nudging our way through traffic, we entered the highway and before I knew it we were crossing that same Thang Long Bridge exiting the city. The Red River did have a tinge of red to its muddy water. I glanced back once to see the mass of cement houses of Hanoi surrounded by a smattering of high rises in each direction. Another fifteen minutes and we passed the toll booth and came to the final cross roads; straight went to the airport; on the right side of the road stood a green road sign “Thai Nguyen 50KM”. I thought of dad, and immediately my breathing picked up and I had a nervous twinge right through my stomach and a small swelling of tears in my eyes.
He’s so far away. He’ll be so far away forever,
was the only thing I could think. I started to second guess myself.
Should I have really have brought his remains here? Why didn’t I just listen to Mom? He’s an American veteran who had his ashes poured in the heartland of communist Vietnam.
Tan mumbled non-stop about various English questions to which I only grunted in reply. He answered all his own questions anyways so it didn’t matter.

“Here you go, Mr. Martin.”

“Tan, thank you so much for all of your help. I learned so much about Vietnam, and I couldn’t have survived without you.”

“You’re welcome Mr. Martin. You write me an email, okay?”

“When I get a computer, I will. And I’ll pay you back for all your taxi rides.”

“No, no, no. It’s okay.”

I nodded in appreciation again and then walked into Noi Bai Airport in search of my flight home. I flew from Hanoi to Bangkok to Tokyo to Los Angeles. Twenty seven hours including layovers. I kept wondering what I would find when I got home. On the flight to Bangkok I sat between two scrawny Vietnamese men. They both reminded me of Tan, as they talked non-stop to each other right over top of me. My large frame did nothing to impede them. My flights were a frightening and uncomfortable time of anticipation. I was lonely. I missed my two-day old friends, and I missed Hanoi. On the long flight to LA from Tokyo, I sat next to a Catholic priest who was returning to San Diego from a youth conference in the Philippines. We talked civilly on and off throughout the flight. At one point the conversation turned to religion.

“Do you believe in God?” he asked.

I thought fast. I really didn’t want to get into it.

“I was just in church last week,” I said slickly.

For some reason that response satisfied him. I shuddered in horror to think of him probing deeper along those lines. I don’t think I could have told this story at that point.

When we landed at LAX, everyone was herded into the immigration lines. I followed the crowd feeling incredibly out of place. When my turn came, I approached the immigration officer who stood behind a counter with a computer screen in front of him.

“Can I have your passport?”

“Oh, yes,” I said nervously and reached into the front pocket of my jeans – the same jeans that had lost the wallet out of the back pocket – and handed it to him.

“Where are you coming from, sir?”

“Tokyo.”

“How long were you in Tokyo?”

“Just two hours.”

“Where did you come from before that?”

“Bangkok.”

“How long were you in Thailand?”

“Just two hours.”

The officer at this point looked up at me and had a perturbed look on his face.

“Mr. Kinney. What I’m getting at is where were you spending your time overseas? I’m not asking about your layovers.”

“Sorry. I was in Vietnam.”

“And how long were you in Vietnam.”

“Two days.”

“And what other countries have you visited,” he persisted.

“None.”

“So you went from the United States to Vietnam and stayed only two days? Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Why such a short stay?” he inquired.

I was starting to get nervous. My whole life sounded like a joke.

“Well, I was just going there, and I,” I said stumbling over my words and the officer glanced right at me.

“What were you doing in Vietnam, Mr. Kinney?” he said in a more forceful way.

“I was burying my father.”

He raised his head and gave me a startled look.

“Well, no, I wasn’t burying him. I just brought his ashes to Vietnam. He asked me to take his ashes to Vietnam.”

“You are carrying ashes with you now?”

“No, no. I dumped them out. They are in Vietnam under a banana tree. Not that that was important.”

“Why were you bringing your father’s ashes to Vietnam?”

“He asked me on his deathbed if I would bring his ashes there. You see, there was this girl, and, well, actually he was a soldier in Vietnam during the war and, and, he was very sick, and he asked me, after he told me about the girl that smiled at him, ah, then…”

“Mr. Kinney,” the officer interrupted my rambling. “What do you do for a living?”

I stopped and looked squarely at him.

“I work in the stockroom of K-Mart in Lyndora, Pennsylvania, sir.”

He sized me up again, looked down at the passport and chopped it once.

“Thank you Mr. Kinney,” he said and pointed toward the baggage claim area.

I breathed a sigh of relief. My country wanted me after all. I had felt like an unwanted orphan during that short exchange. Another bout of humiliation – a sure sign I was getting close to home.

I took the red-eye to Pittsburgh landing at 5:35 AM. I felt so tired and hungry. I had used all the money Jason had given me, and I only hoped that my stockroom colleague remembered to pick me up. If not, I would be stranded thirty miles from home. The airport transit train unloaded me at the air mall. I walked past the statue of the young George Washington who surveyed the back hills of Western Pennsylvania as a young British officer. I imagined Tan as an American taxi driver telling me all about the young George – I missed him. It dawned on me that George and Uncle Ho of Vietnam had a few things in common – the great symbol of freedom for their people. George stood beside the other great symbol of our region – a statue of Franco Harris making the immaculate reception. I’m sure Tan would have had no equivalent for Franco.

I descended to the baggage claim area and found my conveyor number on the display board. Belt 1. As I approached the belt, I looked and then looked again. I thought my jet lag played tricks on my eyes. Standing in front of me, arms calmly at her side, slight smile on her face stood my mother.

“Hello Martin. Welcome back.”

She spoke with a warm, unfamiliar glow. Her face seemed calm without a hint of anger or frustration.

“Mom?”

“Welcome home,” she said and came over to give me hug.

My tongue locked. My heart nearly stopped. My stomach ached and twirled.

“Mom?”

I could say nothing else.

“I’m glad you’re home. Let’s just put all this stuff behind us and live our normal lives. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Emotion welled up in me. Tears slipped slowly down my cheeks. She met me at the airport. She didn’t yell at me, and above all she hugged me. I hadn’t felt a loving touch from a parent in such a long time. I had trouble putting my emotions into perspective the whole ride home. We said very little to each other except for a few exchanges about how the airplane rides were. She asked me nothing at all about Vietnam or dad’s ashes, and I certainly didn’t feel that I could bring any of it up. Perhaps it all didn’t matter anymore. Perhaps just these few days apart put everything into perspective for her. Maybe it wouldn’t be like it used to be. Perhaps we could finally put the abusive past behind us and slowly pretend to be family. It’s strange that during the entire two days travel home I could think of nothing but Vietnam, my new friends, the girl who stole my wallet, the lovers cuddling by Turtle Lake, and the ashes under the wrong banana tree. But now, Vietnam suddenly seemed less important – a mere distraction from everything that was really important in my life. Could it be that my excursion abroad would bring us together? I started missing my room at home; even the thought of showing up to work at K-Mart didn’t seem too bad.
It will be fun to bowl with my buddies on Tuesday
I thought. I looked out the window as the sun rose, a red ball. Its piercing light blinded me, and I eagerly awaited what this new day would bring.

Three Years

I slept for fourteen hours. I awoke around 10 PM and started unpacking my suitcase. There wasn’t much to unpack since I didn’t buy any souvenirs. As I threw my clothes into a pile on the floor that would eventually end up in the laundry basket, I remembered something about my blue striped button down shirt. It was the shirt I wore when Tan took me sightseeing around Hanoi. I reached into the front pocket and felt it immediately – the Phuong tree flower petal. It was still brilliant red in the shape of fan with a serrated edge. I laughed when I thought of how Tan told me it represented the girl that got away because I didn’t have money. It made me think about dad. I traded my dad’s ashes for a red flower petal. I touched it gently and smelled the faint sweet scent emanating from it. I went into the dark living room.
Mom must have already gone to bed,
I thought as I turned on the stand lamp and walked to our book shelf built into the wall and encased with wooden framed glass doors. I opened the shelf doors and looked for a book in which to place the petal. After glancing through the shelves, one particularly large hard cover picture book caught my eye –
A Day in the Life of Vietnam.
I had never seen it before. I removed it from the shelf, went into my bedroom, and spent the next hour pouring over each photograph until I saw her on page 89. It was that same Vietnamese girl with the simple smile, the small statured frame, who looked taller due to her thin features. It was that girl that popped into my sights on every street corner, at the ice cream shop, and in dad’s dreams. It was most likely the same girl that sat on the rock in the banana tree grove looking down at my father. This girl, too, had a smile on her face. I stared at her for several minutes and then pressed the Phuong flower petal directly against her and closed the book firmly. I placed it on the night stand and lay back down in bed. I would be back at work in the morning.