Children of the River (3 page)

“I guess I'll see
you
tomorrow morning, then, right?” Mr. Bonner said to Sundara.
Sundara nodded, proud. She was the one he'd singled out to sell his produce at the Saturday farmers’ market.
They plodded up the parallel ruts of the dirt road, passing through alternating pockets of warm and cool air, wispy puffs of haze forming where the sun-heated earth met the chill of the coming night. Sundara carried Pon in her aching arms, his head nodding sleepily against her shoulder. A few stars blinked, but before they could brighten, the moon loomed above the eastern treetops, glowing orange through the field smoke.
Soka stooped to gather some tender young pigweed she had spotted earlier. She liked to scold Mr. Bonner about all the good food he grew without trying and then never bothered to harvest.
“Listen,” she whispered, standing up, holding the greens. “What's that sound?”
They stopped, and in the quiet punctuated only by the chirping crickets, Sundara heard a distant roar. It died away, then rose again, coming from the direction of town. They all looked west, back across the Willamette River, where the lights of town paled the sky.
“I know” Ravy cried. “It's the high school football game! The fans are going wild!”
“Soka, this son of ours! He's so American.”
“I know. How do you think I feel, always having a child explain things to me?” Her voice wavered between annoyance and pride.
“Odd, isn't it?” Naro said. “How the sound carries over the fields.”
The football game,
Sundara thought. That's probably what the rest of the students were doing tonight. She shifted Pon in her arms and followed the others along the soft dirt road.

CHAPTER
3

The next morning at dawn Sundara pulled the station wagon into the parking lot of Mr. Bonner's produce stand. Gently she shook Ravy awake.
“Time to work,
Ab-own.
” She did not often call him Little Tender One these days, but at this moment it seemed fitting. He looked so small and vulnerable in sleep, breathing softly through parted lips.
He blinked, looked around, and sighed with ten-year-old resignation. “Why do we bother going home at all?”
She smiled. Not a bad question. It had been only a few hours since they left the night before.
“Come. We must hurry.”
While Ravy trimmed lettuce, Sundara cut an armload of pungent dillweed, tying it into bundles. Then she waded into the dewy, overgrown flower patch and went to work with her pocketknife. The sun's rays were shooting over the horizon now, touching the bronze strawflowers and the yellow apples in the orchard with gold.
“Don't forget your wreath,” Mr. Bonner reminded her when the big flatbed truck was loaded. He took the circlet of rose-red flowers from its peg in the fruit stand. “Got to keep my reputation. Only farmer down there who's got a princess pushing his stuff.”
Sundara smiled, shyly placing it on her head. The first time she'd worn the wreath, Mrs. Bonner had said she looked exactly like an exotic
Sunset Magazine
travel ad:
Come to captivating Tahiti, discover enchantment
Sundara had blushed, unsure if this was to be taken as a compliment. Then Ravy had elbowed her in that American way he'd learned, and hissed in Khmer, “They think you look pretty, get it?”
Of course. The Bonners always meant to be nice— even if they sometimes said strange things. And Mr. Bonner did seem pleased with her work, had even offered a full-time job all summer if she would work only for him. But Soka and Naro thought the family should work together. “A bundle of chopsticks cannot be broken like one alone,” Naro reminded her, and Soka added that even at the piecework rate Sundara might earn more by picking. “Work more hours and help watch little Pon at the same time.” Still, the idea of guaranteed work had its appeal. They hadn't forgotten the year the price fell so low on cherry tomatoes that Mr. Bonner couldn't afford to have them picked. Finally they agreed to let Sundara work the Saturday markets. Ravy would be her helper. And, she suspected, her chaperone.
The fir-lined ridges of the Coast Range foothills etched a faint line above the swirling fog as Sundara drove west, back toward town. She hoped the last wisps would burn off quickly; she didn't want to be wearing her shabby jacket when people started coming to the market. But it was still chilly when they pulled into the municipal parking lot by the river. Ravy got out, hopping from one sneakered foot to the other, slapping his thin arms around himself.
“It
is
cold, isn't it?” Sundara said. She envied the Cambodians who had left Oregon for the warmth of southern California. A warmer place might have made her family's exile from Kampuchea less harsh, but they'd had to go where the sponsors could be found. And a sunnier climate alone would not be enough to lure her family away now, not when they finally had a house of their own —a new American subdivision house—and Naro was once again working as an accountant instead of a dishwasher. And at least Oregon was green. Here the luminous, newly sprouted grass fields surrounding Willamette Grove reminded her of the paddies of tender rice shoots covering the lowland Kampuchean countryside. It was good to dwell among living things. She thought of the refugees the resettlement people had sent to the cold gray cities of the northern states. How could they bear it, after the lush green and rich brown of Kampuchea?
“Let's hurry,” she said to Ravy now. “You'll feel warmer if we keep moving.” They arranged the empty crates as a makeshift counter and tugged the full crates off the truck, struggling to set up ahead of the customers. Already the first eager buyers were poking into the wire-bound crates of corn, asking prices, getting in the way. Sundara quickly filled the bins to give them the overflowing look Mr. Bonner wanted, set out the pails of purple zinnias and spicy pink carnations, then put the raspberries in a tempting spot. It never failed—customers would scurry from all over the lot like ants surrounding sugar to admire and buy the luscious ruby-red fruit.
The bakery lady pulled in next to them, and at the first whiff of warm pastry, Ravy turned his big eyes up at Sundara.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “We can split a cinnamon roll.” When the first rush of customers passed, she gave him some change. Soka wouldn't like it if she knew.
Save,
she always reminded them.
Don
V
spend.
But today Sundara could take the money from her own portion, the money Soka allowed her to keep.
She tore off a small piece of Ravy's proffered roll, a bit without the syrupy glaze—too sweet as far as she was concerned. But Ravy had become a real little American, and loved anything with sugar. Sundara watched him gobble his down. He enjoyed it so much, she didn't mind spending the money, but she
did
wish her own savings would add up faster.
She hoped to buy a fine jacket with fleecy lining to keep her warm this winter. This one the church people had given her three years earlier was such an ugly green color, and she was tired of mending the worn-out elastic at the wrists. Now, even though she would have enjoyed the extra warmth a little longer, she pulled it off and put it in the truck cab.
“Ravy, while we're not too busy, why don't you run over and get our eggs?” Soka planned to pickle a jar of them and wanted the brown kind that were harder to find in the stores here. She was still suspicious of these funny white ones.
While Ravy was gone, the mother of the Lam family minced up with her string bag. Sundara touched her palms together in a brief bow.
The Chinese woman picked up a bok choy and regarded it disdainfully. Then she poked a finger at the snow peas. “How much?” she asked in English, the only language she and Sundara had in common. When Sundara told her, she said, “Too much. Not so fresh.”
“I promise you, very fresh.” Sundara was polite but firm, playing along.
“I give you one dollar a pound.”
Sundara clenched her teeth behind her fixed smile. Chun-Ling's mother knew very well she was not free to bargain with Mr. Bonner's produce. The Americans usually preferred to set their prices and stick to them. The woman just liked to make things difficult, Sundara thought, because her own daughter had not been offered this job.
“I am so sorry. I can sell only for the price Mr. Bonner ask.”
The woman sniffed indignantly and moved on down the row of parked produce trucks, but Sundara knew she'd be back. No one else at the market today had pea pods or bok choy.
How difficult it was to be pleasant to that dragon of a lady. And Soka always reminding her she ought to be. “Their son would be a good match for you. Look how fast he's educating himself. He already has a job at the computer factory. Of course, it's too bad they are Vietnamese-Chinese instead of Cambodian-Chinese, but still your children would have whiter, prettier skin.” Lam Bing would one day be wealthy, Soka confidently predicted. Never mind that his family had been relieved of its gold by Communist Vietnamese officials before boarding that rusting ship. The Chinese, as she said repeatedly, can make money anywhere. “You should be grateful to me, Niece. I'm going to find the very best husband I can for you. You're a pretty girl. Nice and tall. We're not going to give you to just anyone.”
But somehow this only made Sundara sad. Her aunt talked as if she'd already lost hope of Sundara's own parents ever coming to take care of these matters. Was Sundara supposed to forget her beloved Chamroeun so easily? Her parents and his had always teased that one day they would be matched in marriage, but it had never been a joke to Sundara. She had loved Chamroeun ever since she was small, from the first time she had peeked down from her perch in the coconut tree and saw him with her older brother, Samet. “If your little sister is so interested in spying on us,” he'd said, “why doesn't she climb down and come along to the river?” How she'd loved him for that! What a privilege, to trail behind them through the public gardens! She sighed. Such happy times they'd had, the three of them….
“What are you thinking about
now?”
Ravy asked, coming back with the eggs.
She blinked. “Oh, nothing, Little Brother.” Would she ever be free of these memories? The bad ones—the war, the horrible weeks
on
the ship—came back unbidden, haunting her dreams, flashing on her in unguarded moments; the good ones constantly tempted her with escape. Sometimes it seemed her spirit wanted nothing to do with the present time, the present place….
But soon the customers were forcing her to pay attention. The tomatoes sold quickly, and the ladies in jeans with names on the back pockets were snatching the pretty red pepper strings faster than Sundara could hang them on the rack. She pulled the last flat of raspberries off the truck, thinking how happy Mr. Bonner would be with her load of empty boxes and thick bundle of twenty-dollar bills.
Then she saw him, the blond boy she'd first noticed in English class, the one who'd written the funny paper about cafeteria food. He was pushing his bicycle straight toward her display.
“Hi,” he said.
She gave him a restrained nod. Yes, the same boy. In class she watched only the teacher or her notes; she had never looked at him so closely before. Those blue eyes! She still wasn't used to all the different colorings Americans had. But she liked this boy's blondness. He was not like the white-haired ones with the pink skins. His skin was a light brown color, his wavy hair a rich, burnished gold.
She braced the edge of the flat on the counter, setting out the pint boxes. Why was her hand shaking so?
“You know, about your poem …”
The flat slipped. Luckily she caught it, but heaven protect her—ten dollars’ worth of fruit almost turned to jam on the gravel … Her face flamed. That foolish poem. Whatever had possessed her?
A new rush of customers descended on the stand, forcing him aside.
Sundara fumbled with sacks, had trouble calculating totals, dropped a slippery head of lettuce. She kept glancing at Ravy to see if he was noticing her odd behavior. But if she didn't hurry, the blond boy might grow impatient and leave. And now, somehow, she didn't want him to.
“You're good at this,” he said, after she'd finished with the last tomato customer.
She smiled. “We Khmer women know how to handle money.”
He was grinning at her. “To say nothing of big trucks. You really drive this thing?”
She nodded. “Not too hard. Just like a car.”
“Sundara. That's your name, right? I'm Jonathan Mc-Kinnon.”
“Jonatan.” He smiled at her pronunciation. “Hard one for me to say,” she explained. “I cannot make the
t-b
sound very well.”
“I don't mind.”
She fussed with the display, picking off a less than perfect raspberry, adding another cucumber to the box. All the while she eyed him from beneath her lashes. He wore a T-shirt and gray shorts. His thighs were tan and smoothly muscled, covered with curling blond hairs. Embarrassed to be noticing, she glanced away.
“I guess I want some flowers,” he finally said.
“Okay.” Now she could justify giving him her attention. “Fresh or dried?”
“Uhh …” He broke into a grin, shrugging. “Whatever. Which is best, do you think?”
She glanced at Ravy again. He knew perfectly well she wasn't supposed to talk to boys. Hadn't he heard Soka say it often enough? Strange. That rule never bothered her before. It had been her protection against loud, overly bold American boys, made it easier to smile away their advances. But now, somehow, looking at Jonathan McKin-non, she felt constrained by Soka's admonition. They were discussing flowers, yes, but the way he was drawing it all out …
She spoke politely, nothing more than a helpful shopgirl. “What you are going to do with the flowers?”
Jonathan simply looked at her, half smiling. After a moment she began to think he'd forgotten to answer.
“Do you like for a gift?” she prodded gently.
He blinked, startled. “Uh, yeah. Right. I'm going to … uh….” He brightened. “… give them to a girl.” Then, inexplicably, he turned red.
These poor Americans with their light skins. How easily they colored with every emotion. No wonder they never seemed to remain properly composed.
Jonathan coughed and hastily pointed to her bushel basket of dried flowers, reading the sign. “ ‘Everlastings.’ Do they really last forever?”
She tilted her head. “Nothing last forever. But last a long time.” She smiled, showing her dimples. “Long enough.”
“Okay, how about you choosing one for me?”
She gave him a slight, I-am-your-obedient-servant nod. Her hands hesitated over the tissue-wrapped bouquets. Then she plucked one out.
“This is okay?”
“Perfect,” he said, looking at her, not the bouquet. Was it possible? Could he actually be flirting? It seemed so, but with Americans it was hard to be certain. … He paid; she made change. He pocketed it without counting. So difficult not to stare at his hair, his
eyes
the color of the sky! Odd, but he made her think of Chamroeun. Here was a boy as golden as Chamroeun had been dark, yet something in the slow warmth of his smile was the same, and curiously familiar.
“Have you decided which trouble spot to do your report on for international relations?” he asked.
“I'm not sure yet.” He'd noticed, then, that she was in his honors social studies class.
“I guess I just assumed you'd want to do Cambodia.”
“Oh …” She looked over to a break in the cotton-woods where the shaded green river slid by. “I don't know … Sometime kind of hard for me to think about that”
“Maybe I'll do it, then.” He spun the bike pedal with the toe of his dirty running shoe. “Didn't that kill you when the kid at the end of the row was worried there wouldn't be enough trouble spots to go around? We should be so lucky.”
“Hey,” Ravy piped up. “Do you play golf? I have some good golf balls to sell. Excellent condition and a very fair price.”
Sundara and Jonathan exchanged smiles.
“Sorry, I don't play.”
“How about your father?”
“Yeah, he does, once in a while.”
“Here's my card.” Ravy pulled out a baseball card with his name and phone number printed across the back in felt pen.
“‘Ravy's Pre-owned Golf Balls,’” Jonathan read.
“Here's a sample of my quality.” Ravy produced a clean white ball from a shoe box stashed under the crate counter.