The Reeducation of Cherry Truong (6 page)

On stage, another corrupt man had duped poor Kieu. The young girl playing Kieu raised her hands to the sky, asking again why such misfortune had fallen upon her.

“What is taking them so long?” Phung's wife, Ngoan, asked, peering behind them, her square jaw clenched, making her plump face look even more serious than it usually did. “The show is almost over.”

“It may be a good sign,” Trinh said, fighting off a yawn. “Perhaps the French delegation said yes.”

“They couldn't have agreed so quickly,” Sanh's wife, Tuyet, said. Hoa's youngest daughter-in-law was no doubt the most beautiful of the three women, with a clear complexion, a straight, attractive set of small teeth, and large, haunting eyes. Tuyet was pregnant again, but had begun to show only recently.

“Why not?” Ngoan asked. “It's happened before. If we're lucky, we could leave as early as next week.”

Tuyet shook her silky head of hair. “You've been saying that for months.”

“It might be true,” Ngoan sniffed. “Don't you want to leave?”

“It does no good speaking like that, especially in front of the children. You'll get them excited over nothing.”

“Well, you don't want your child born here, do you?” Ngoan asked, staring pointedly at Tuyet's small belly bump. “Or is France not good enough for your baby?”

“Stop creating problems,” Trinh spoke up.

“Girls,” Hoa finally warned, conscious of the irritated glances from their neighbors.

The women resumed watching the show, now approaching its sentimental climax: Kieu reuniting with her long-suffering, devoted lover Kim. The children embraced flamboyantly, giggling into each other's shoulders. All the children scrambled back to the stage to sing the national anthem of the South Vietnamese government. Emotional members of the audience joined in, their deeper voices soon drowning out the children's.

Ngoan shifted restlessly in her seat, the palm fronds lying flat against her thigh. As the first daughter-in-law, Ngoan was several years older than Trinh and Tuyet, and inevitably more traditional. A matchmaker had affianced Phung and Ngoan when they were still children. Though their marriage turned out successfully, Hoa's younger sons refused the same kind of arrangements. Ngoan often complained of her younger sisters' lack of manners and parenting skills, but Hoa suspected she secretly envied their youth, their friendship, their beauty.

“I'm not the problem,” Ngoan finally said during the applause. “Phung told me what your husband is trying to do.”

“Will you be quiet?” Trinh asked.

But Hoa could see the uncertain expression on Tuyet's face. “What is Ngoan talking about?” she asked her youngest daughter-in-law.

“Phung saw Sanh talking to the U.S. immigration officer last week,” Ngoan said.

“So what?” Trinh said, waving her hand. “It doesn't mean anything.”

Hoa's eyes remained on Tuyet, who didn't respond, instead only glaring at Ngoan.

“Don't be stupid,” Ngoan sneered. “We know who is always talking about America. We know where she really wants to go.”

Tuyet stood, reaching her hands out for a sleeping Lum. The boy whimpered as he left Hoa's arms. “I don't need to sit here and listen to this,” she said.

“Tuyet,” Hoa said, touching the woman's arm, but Tuyet quickly brushed it off.

“I don't care if she's the oldest sister. She can't talk to me that way.”

“Am I lying?” Ngoan asked, her voice rising.

“I'll leave with you,” Trinh said, standing and waving to Xuan, who still stood on the stage. He and Cam, still in costume, waved back at the family and ran toward them.

“We're walking back with Aunt Tuyet,” Trinh said to her son.

“Right now?” Xuan asked, removing his paper mask, his face crumpling in a scowl. “But Cam and I were going to play tag with the other kids.”

“It's getting late,” Trinh said.

“The lights won't turn off for another hour,” Xuan cried, stamping his foot. “Please, I don't want to go back there right now.”

“Let him stay, please, Aunt Trinh?” Cam asked. “He can spend the night with us, right, Mother?”

“We can take Xuan back later,” Ngoan said.

“No!” Trinh cried, then stared at the ground. “Thank you for offering, but Xuan should leave with me now.”

“I don't understand why you isolate yourself like this,” Ngoan said. “Tuyet isn't the only person who can help you. We're your family, too.”

Trinh glared at her. “I know what you say about me.”

“Do you see this, Mother?” Ngoan asked. “They turn against me, and claim that I'm the bad person.”

“Be quiet, all of you,” Hoa muttered, recognizing her husband and sons' shapes approaching. She watched her boys come closer, thankful she bore males, siblings who rarely argued with one another. The children ran to embrace their fathers, while Xuan wrapped his arms around his grandfather's legs. Hoa smiled, trying to look happy.

“We missed the whole show?” Phung asked, carrying Cam in his arms.

“Of course you have,” Ngoan said. “You've been gone for hours.”

Disappointment was etched upon Phung's sun-worn face. The eldest child, Phung had inherited his father's height and sharp bone structure; upon appearance, he seemed formidable, even fierce. But once he spoke in that gentle, wavering voice, his true nature surfaced, as soft and pliable as Hoa. Hung saw his complicity as a weakness, an inability to stand up for himself, but nevertheless, he exploited it. Phung obeyed his father's every request: agreeing to an arranged marriage, joining the army, reporting early to the reeducation camps before anyone realized what they really were.

After two years in the prison camp with his brother Sanh, Hoa hoped Phung would return home furious, disavowing his father's terrible advice and finally emerge his own person. Sanh had, screaming at Hung about his two lost years and missing his first child's birth. This insolence had finally earned his father's reluctant respect. But not Phung. He returned even more lost than before, looking to anyone, even Hoa, to tell him what to do, how to make things better. Of all her sons, she mourned the most for Phung because like her, he could never be more than a ghost, absorbing other people's thoughts and decisions as his own.

“What happened?” Trinh asked.

“Our application was accepted,” Hung said, smiling faintly, like he'd expected this news all along. “A Catholic charity in Paris has agreed to sponsor us. We leave in a month.”

The children cheered. Forgetting their bickering, the women embraced. Xuan clung to his mother's waist. While Hung explained the details of their departure, Hoa tried to listen, thankful of course, but unable to tear her eyes from Sanh and Tuyet, his hand over her belly, their silent conversation, the word that she believed swirled under their tongues: America.

*   *   *

“I need you to be honest with me,” Hoa said.

“It's nothing,” Sanh said. “We only talked a few times. We're going to France.”

Hoa exhaled, leaning heavily into her son's arm as they walked back to her shanty. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sanh said, his natural, friendly face so reassuring. Her youngest son smiled the most in their family, his ability to put people at ease his greatest strength. “I only wanted to know about other options. Now that's not necessary.”

Hoa believed her son and gladly put all the nonsense about America out of her thoughts. She had so much else to think about. The Truongs were scheduled to depart Pulau Bidong in four weeks. Since immigration decreed only one suitcase per person, Hoa traded away most of her belongings accumulated at camp—the kerosene stove, sleeping mats, cooking utensils—in exchange for more durable clothes and shoes.

The night before their departure, Hung still insisted on the entire family eating dinner together at the mess hall. This was a Truong rule that had never been broken, despite their two-year stay at Pulau Bidong. It wasn't their mother-of-pearl rosewood table in their Nha Trang home or their smaller teak kitchen table in Saigon, but Hung still sat at the center, flanked by his sons and grandsons, while the females filled in the remaining seats. Horrified by the casual cafeteria-style of serving meals, Hung denounced the manners of the mess-hall workers as barbaric when compared to his devoted servants in Vietnam. Hoa had to collect her husband's meal. Though the food cooled quickly, no one could eat until everyone was seated and Hung led the family through prayer.

While the other refugees at the surrounding tables hollered their conversations, swallowed their food, and rushed out the door to watch a soccer game on the community television or to gossip on the beach, the Truongs observed slow consumption and appropriate conversation. Hoa realized it had to look strange to others—further perpetuating camp rumors that the Truongs were too arrogant for their own good.

These suggestions and accusations never deterred Hung. Since they lived in different sections of the island, he argued that dinnertime presented the only few hours the whole family could stay together. With thousands of refugees on the island, hundreds arriving and leaving at any given time, dinner alleviated any insecurity they had about each other's well-being. A full table meant everyone was still safe and well. Hoa knew Hung felt a supreme satisfaction in maintaining this family tradition, up until their last meal on the island.

“We first fly to Manila,” Hung informed them over the rattling of chopsticks and passing plates. “We spend three weeks there for medical evaluations and language and culture seminars before flying to Paris.” He smiled generously in Trinh's direction. “Yen will meet us at the airport with our sponsors. Sanh, I'll need your assistance tonight going over our papers.”

“I can help you,” Sanh said, “but there has been a change in our plans.”

“What change?” Hung said, looking concerned. “The delegate said everything had been settled.”

“My family is not going.”

Hoa slowly looked up, her eyes turning to her husband's.

“What are you talking about?” Hung asked. “Of course you are. I have the papers right here.”

“Did something happen with immigration?” Phung asked. “Why didn't you tell us?”

“My family will not go to France,” Sanh said, his gaze focused squarely on his dinner plate. “I'm sorry for the change in plans, but it won't affect your departure, I promise.”

“When did you decide this?” Phung asked. “Why?”

While the men interrogated Sanh, Hoa glowered at Tuyet, who, like her husband, appeared incapable of maintaining eye contact with anyone at the table. Instead, Tuyet continued to feed Lum dinner.

“What are you going to do?” Hung asked. “Stay here? You want to raise your child a Muslim?”

“We're not staying here,” Sanh said. “We're going to America.”

“So it's true,” Hoa said to Tuyet. “This is what you wanted all along.”

“Quiet,” Hung said. “Tell me, Sanh.”

“I don't wish to raise our children in France,” Sanh said. “I think we will be better off in America.”

“Better,” Hung spat. “Without your family?”

“I don't expect you to agree with my decision,” Sanh said. “But it is final. Once we're in America, we're going to help Tuyet's family to come over.”

“So this is the Vos' decision.”

Tuyet slammed her chopsticks onto the table as Lum cried out in protest. “Do not talk about my family, especially after the way you have treated them.”

“How I treated them? I don't even know them, child.”

“You mean they don't matter?” Tuyet asked. “Not as much as your own family? You could have bought more seats on the boat if you'd wanted to, I know it.”

“Tuyet,” Sanh said, trying to place a hand on his wife's arm, but she pushed it off.

“We have fulfilled our duties to you,” Tuyet said. “Now it is time to help my family.”

Hoa stared at her daughter-in-law in shock. No one had ever spoken out against Hung in this manner, especially in public. But Hung simply smirked at Sanh's impudent wife, regarding her as seriously as a mosquito around his ankle.

“Congratulations, Hoa. I foolishly believed your youngest son actually grew some sense after his prison time, but he is still as brainless as his mother.”

“Don't insult Mother,” Sanh said with a sigh. “This has nothing to do with her.”

“Of course,” Hung said. “It has nothing to do with the Truongs. You've made that perfectly clear.”

“Please,” Sanh said. “I don't want to part on bad terms.”

“Families don't part,” Hung said. “You're the one doing this. And I hope you understand the consequences of your wife's decision. You are going to America with a wife and two children, with no help from the rest of your family. You must live with this choice.”

Hung offered his youngest son another long, proud stare, one last opportunity to change his mind, to plead forgiveness for a reckless decision, to pledge to never go against the family again. When Sanh did not reply, Hung looked down at his shrimp and vegetable stew. The family resumed eating in near silence, except for a few murmurs from Xuan and Cam, and a small laugh from Lum. Sanh avoided eye contact with his mother, working hard to swallow each bite of food he pushed through his lips.

Sanh stood once he and Tuyet had finished their dinners. “Excuse us, Father,” he said. “We have a lot of work to do before leaving tomorrow. I can help you later tonight with the papers.”

“That won't be necessary,” Hung said. “You have so much to do. We'll be fine without you.”

Hoa silently watched as Sanh and Tuyet lifted their trays, walked to the counter, and dropped off their dirty plates. Sanh carried Lum on his back and Tuyet looped her arm through her husband's. They passed through the cafeteria doors.