The Reeducation of Cherry Truong (16 page)

On the tile floor, Hoa lined up the empty Mary bottles so they were all standing upright. Holding the full bottle, she unscrewed the blue crown cap, and poured a small drop into each one, until every Mary had her own portion of holy water. She then placed one of the bottles under the sink faucet, filled it to the brim with tap water, and screwed on the blue crown cap. Hoa repeated this for every bottle.

After she was finished, Hoa sat on the bed next to Trinh, holding one of the Mary bottles, scrutinizing it. As she traced the Virgin Mother's serene, plastic face with the pads of her thumbs, Hoa realized Trinh would never be able to tell. Her hands trailed Mary's long robes and her folded reverent hands. It was only water.

Trinh's head lolled over on the pillow, her eyes blinking open. After Hoa told her that the men had found Xuan, Trinh's face crumpled up. Her shoulders shook with new tears. “You can't tell Yen,” she said.

“I won't,” Hoa said.

“If you tell Yen,” Trinh said, her eyes wet, but clear and alert for the first time since Hoa found her, “I will die. I promise.”

“I won't,” Hoa said again.

 

1980

Kim-Ly Vo
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

… I wonder what my children will think of our former country now that we are here. Lum's memories are already fading, and this new child will know nothing. Vietnam will just be a place his parents talk about. He will be an American. Did I tell you this second child is going to be a boy? I had the same feeling with Lum.

I know the child being an American is beneficial, but still it worries me. Shouldn't he know his family's history? I'm probably acting foolish. You can tell me if I am. Many parents in Vietnam must envy my position. Our children have the opportunity to be educated in a free country. They can become doctors, engineers, lawyers, whatever we'd like.

But I could never forgive myself if he were to grow too spoiled to remember the past. His parents and family have sacrificed too much for him to be here. He should know this. I will tell him.…

Tuyet Truong

Tustin, California, USA

 

Chapter Four

KIM-LY

L
ITTLE
S
AIGON
, C
ALIFORNIA
, 1992

When Kim-Ly agreed at the last minute to go to the beach with her family, she could tell by their eyes glancing at the clock and the collective exhales in their chests that they felt burdened. Having Grandma along meant less space in the minivan. They'd have to bring the large sun umbrella, Kim-Ly's preferred nylon lounge chair, and the velour blanket. Kim-Ly also insisted on carrying along a large tote bag of her books, a personal Walkman, and cassette tapes; the extra boogie board and boom box would have to stay in the garage.

The location on the beach was another negotiation. Since her children insisted on going to Huntington Beach—which they claimed was more enjoyable than the less crowded and arguably cleaner Newport Beach (Kim-Ly's preference)—she requested a patch of sand that wasn't so close to the waves, surfers, volleyball players, seagulls, screaming toddlers, and radios playing obnoxious American rock music.

“That's the entire beach,” her delinquent grandson Lum said. He'd turned sixteen the previous month and acquired a driver's license, which made him think he was an adult.

After finally settling upon a spot and instructing her sons-in-law on how to properly set up her umbrella, blanket, and chair, Kim-Ly watched her family strip down to their bathing suits, while she remained decent in her
ao dai
and pants. Kim-Ly did not like to tan and was annoyed by the Americans' obsession for doing so. Though her family slathered on sunscreen, she was dismayed that the children still darkened every summer as if they were Mexicans or Africans. She was most concerned with her granddaughter Duyen, whose delicate complexion resembled her own.

“Shouldn't you cover up more?” Kim-Ly asked the teenager. “You don't want to get dark before next week.”

“I'll be fine, Grandmother,” Duyen said. Her voice was gentle, respectful, but her meaning was clear. Kim-Ly's opinion wasn't needed.

V
UNG
T
AU
, V
IETNAM
, 1972

Kim-Ly began bringing the children back to her favorite beach after her husband died. Her sister Ha owned a restaurant right on the sand. Kim-Ly needed a break from watching the children, and barren Ha enjoyed the company. After her oldest son Thang initiated a lucrative partnership with some American officers in Vung Tau, there was more reason to make the resort town their weekend home.

On the water, Kim-Ly's daughters attracted plenty of attention. They were beautiful back then, their skin not yet sun damaged, their hair still lustrous and black. They all inherited their mother's finely sculpted face and their deceased father's lean body. The middle child, Tuyet, was especially striking, with a small, wicked grin she could use to manipulate any man. Kim-Ly watched in satisfaction as both men and women noticed—curiously, jealously—her daughters' collective beauty.

Unlike her friends who bemoaned having daughters, Kim-Ly understood their potential. For every pretty daughter, a beneficial son-in-law could be procured. She did not believe in the old-fashioned notion that a daughter left to join the husband's family, the reason Kim-Ly always preferred to select suitors whose families she could research. Never choose an eldest or youngest son. Go for the middle, typically the most forgotten. He would crave a mother who needed him and Kim-Ly could satisfy that longing. If the suitor's mother had died, that was ideal. Her daughter Hien's fiancé, Chinh, had been raised motherless.

One weekend, Kim-Ly and Ha noticed an older American military officer ogling her daughters. The man had been meeting with her son, and stayed after Thang left. The girls waded in the low tide, while the officer, Kim-Ly, and Ha sat in the shade of the restaurant bar.

“He's been watching them for over an hour,” Ha said to her sister in Vietnamese. “You should ask him which one he prefers.”

“Why notice only one?” Kim-Ly asked. “From here, they're only bodies.”

The officer turned around, revealing himself as a thick man, large chest, gray in both his thinning hair and mustache. Like most Americans she knew, his face dripped abundantly in the humidity. “The one in the yellow is beautiful,” the man said in Vietnamese.

Kim-Ly and Ha gaped at him. They shouldn't have been surprised, Kim-Ly later realized. Most American officers in the area spoke their language fluently.

“They're mine,” Kim-Ly said, smoothly recovering, taking a sip from her sweaty beer.

“Your daughters?” the man asked.

She nodded.

“You look too young to have daughters.”

Unimpressed, Kim-Ly smiled nonetheless. American compliments could be incredibly transparent. The trick was not to let on to their false flattery, so one could determine what they really wanted.

“Are you married?” Kim-Ly asked.

The American shook his head. “Not anymore. I was, twice. Both my fault. I should have learned my lesson about American women the first time.”

“Vietnamese women are very obedient,” Kim-Ly said.

He nodded. “I know.”

Their eyes drifted back to Kim-Ly's daughters, who were splashing one another, shrieking with laughter. The girls had always been close. It was Tri's yellow bikini, but that morning her older sister had asked to wear it. Kim-Ly had to agree. Tuyet did look flattering in yellow.

*   *   *

Usually, Kim-Ly preferred driving to walking to the family's nail salon, but not with her grandson. She didn't like traveling in Lum's death trap. He had purchased the vehicle himself, he'd tell you proudly, although the automobile was nothing to be proud of. A previously owned Japanese car, with cigarette and hamburger stink in the interior upholstery, broken front seats so one had to fall inside to find the backseat.

Yet it was still more desirable than walking by herself. She'd heard a story from the twins about an elderly Vietnamese man recently accosted by some punk on a street not too far from where they lived. She had no wish to become a cautionary tale, and resigned herself to wait for her grandchildren to return from school that afternoon and give her a ride. Quynh was with them. The well-mannered young woman was Linh's friend, a positive influence, but lately, she had been accompanying Lum on more afternoons than not.

In the Deathtrap, the children were chatting about one of their cousins. Kim-Ly wanted to listen—her backseat position should have some advantages—but she was too distracted by Lum holding Quynh's hand. Kim-Ly pulled on the oppressive seat belt, leaning forward to peer over the console. Their hands were absolutely touching.

Kim-Ly kicked the back of her grandson's seat with her slippered foot. “What is this about a boyfriend?” she asked.

The children's hands released. Quynh glanced over her shoulder, a sheepish grin on her delicate face. “Jorge is not her boyfriend, Ba Vo, he is just Linh's friend.”

“A Mexican?” Kim-Ly cried. “No, no, I said that only Vietnamese suitors are acceptable.”

“Grandma,” Cherry groaned in the seat next to her, rolling her eyes from behind her paperback book.

“Regardless, you are children,” Kim-Ly declared. “I didn't allow your mothers to socialize until after they were finished with their schooling. You need to concentrate on your studies, like Cherry.” She nodded approvingly at her granddaughter, who was now frowning. “I'm complimenting you, child. I never see boys running after you, distracting you. Believe me, that's a good thing.”

“Grandmother,” Lum said, his eyes narrowing in the rearview mirror. “Leave Cherry alone.”

“What did I say?” Kim-Ly asked. “What is wrong now?”

No one answered her. Cherry sullenly stared out the window, avoiding her grandmother's gentle elbowing. Kim-Ly gave up, instead turning her attention to Lum's driving, taking note of when he jerked on the brake and forgot to signal making left-hand turns. She worried about her grandson. He was too much like his mother—impulsive and temperamental.

Dat once tried to explain it to her: “He doesn't try in school because he's too scared. He and his friends would rather pretend they failed their classes on purpose than embarrass themselves by studying. It's a shame, Grandmother. I honestly feel sorry for them.”

Dat was a good, obedient boy (honor roll every semester, advanced science classes), so Kim-Ly had no reason to doubt his stories about Lum (academic probation, repeating algebra). Kim-Ly had practically raised Dat, instilling a solid work ethic from the beginning, but Lum was already ten years old when she finally arrived in America, too late to correct the mistakes of his parents, too late for so many things.

Raising grandchildren in America had proven far more difficult than she imagined it would have been if they'd remained in Vietnam. This, Kim-Ly had discussed and agreed upon with the twins Ba Liem and Ba Nhanh and other concerned grandmothers in Little Saigon. Though staying in Vietnam was no option at all, noble values could be learned growing up in constant fear of poverty, hunger, and a corrupt government. Grandchildren had no chance of ever growing up spoiled or privileged in that kind of environment. They had to behave and respect their elders. Their survival depended on this courtesy.

In America, with no fear of death, and with opportunities lying all around their feet waiting to be picked up, they had little incentive to be courteous. Kim-Ly would witness in disapproval how her grandchildren—even her favorites—could express impatience with their parents, who deserved to be treated with esteem, no matter how they had behaved in the past.

At the Asian Palace, Cherry and Kim-Ly took the escalator to the second floor, where she spied from above clusters of children running wild throughout the mall. One boy almost ran into them at the top of the escalator, and without apologizing, took off again for the filthy, time-sucking, gum-infested video arcade.

Was this the fate of their Vietnamese community? For their children to discard their ancestors' values and traditions in favor of the next bright, material object America told them to desire? The only true Vietnamese that would be left in the following generations would be the Communist victors, who certainly had their own misguided versions of history and values to tout. No, they couldn't give up on the Vietnamese children in America. If many would fall by the wayside in American culture, then they needed to focus on the few gems they could preserve.

In their family's beauty salon, on a prime corner location across from the escalators, Kim-Ly saw her gem. Sweet, beautiful Duyen smiled when she recognized them approaching her in the mirror. She wore a black smock, her hair in curlers, face artfully painted in blue eye shadow, synthetic eyelashes, and red lip liner.

*   *   *

Though he no longer did any business with her son, Officer Anderson kept in touch with Kim-Ly, sharing drinks at the Hotel Majestic in Saigon or having lunch at his favorite noodle shop. For over a year, he shied away from having a formal introduction to her daughter.

“I'm an old man,” he'd say. “She wouldn't want me.”

After Hien's wedding to Chinh, an economics student from an educated family in Saigon, she warned Officer Anderson that Tuyet would be next to marry.

“I want to secure my daughters' futures,” Kim-Ly said. “There are many men who are interested in her and Tuyet wants to marry. She is ready to become a wife.”

These were partial truths. She did want to secure her daughters' futures. They'd enjoyed their youth as singles with limited supervision from Kim-Ly, but now the time had arrived to become serious before people started gossiping. Kim-Ly was also concerned about her family's safety in Vietnam. The end of the war seemed inevitable and her family stood on the losing side.