The Reeducation of Cherry Truong (7 page)

*   *   *

Hung didn't say anything when Hoa made up an excuse to leave their shanty that evening. He knew where she was going, but only casually nodded as he and Phung sorted through the papers by flashlight.

“Come back before the lights turn off,” Hung reminded her.

Finally free of her husband's scrutiny, Hoa allowed her composed face to collapse, to give in to the grief that had clumped up in her stomach since dinner. Even when she closed her eyes and shook her head, she could not eradicate the image of victorious Tuyet from her mind. Hoa had never wanted to strike another person so violently in her life. She'd been deceived, they all had. Hoa realized she could trace the subterfuge back to when Tuyet first entered their lives.

After Yen and Trinh's surprise elopement, Hoa naïvely thought she'd seen the last impulsive marriage in her family. Their youngest son Sanh had been so shy around girls. Though he'd refused his parents' suggestion of an arranged marriage when he was a teenager, the older he grew, still single, not even a girlfriend, the less strenuously he objected to their mentioning the topic.

That is, until one afternoon, when Hoa returned from her morning trip to the market. Sanh stood in the kitchen, wearing his light gray suit and a polished pair of loafers. While her older sons retained Hung's tall, lean figure, Sanh's stocky body and chubby cheeks clearly came from Hoa. Yet he always took pride in his appearance, his hair neatly combed, a handkerchief in his pocket to blot the sweat from his face.

“Why aren't you at work?” she asked, dropping her baskets onto the kitchen table.

“I'm taking lunch at home,” he said.

Hoa stared at him suspiciously as he helped her unpack the fruits and vegetables from her baskets. “Your father went through a lot of trouble arranging that job for you.”

“I need to talk to you,” Sanh said.

Hoa felt her breath drain out. She pulled out a chair and slowly sank. “Is something wrong with Yen?” They hadn't received a letter from him in weeks.

Sanh shook his head. He sat next to her, placing a clump of bananas on the table.

She pressed her hand into his. “Phung? Has he been injured?”

“No, Mother,” he said, impatiently pulling his hand back. “It's me.”

“What is it?”

“I met a girl. I want to marry her.”

Hoa sat back in her chair, relieved. “Is that all? Then why do you look so grave?”

“We want to get married next week.”

“Please don't tell me she's pregnant.”

“She isn't pregnant, but we need to get married soon. I want her to come live with us.”

“This is hardly a good time for a wedding, Sanh. You need a proper engagement, at least six months. We need to meet her family.”

“Mother, I need your support, especially when I tell Father about this. We can't wait months, we can't even wait weeks.”

“I don't understand.” First Yen, now Sanh. What had she done to deserve this?

“She's a good girl, Mother. You're going to love her. She's from a respected family. Her father was a doctor in the army. But her mother isn't fair to her. I don't want her living there any longer. Tuyet needs to live with us.”

“Tuyet,” Hoa repeated.

She did seem like a good girl. The day after the wedding, Tuyet immediately made herself useful, demonstrating she was not beneath any household chore. She sat to tea every afternoon with Hoa, learned to cook the proper family dishes, prepared the tobacco for Hung and his visiting friends. She cared for her nephew and niece, and befriended Trinh, who was relieved to have a new sister-in-law. Even Hung had to admit that perhaps Sanh's bold decision had turned out to be correct.

“My new family is so kind to me,” Tuyet would say, with a different, personalized smile for every family member who looked at her. “I thank the Lord that he brought me to you.”

But now, Tuyet's face displayed no such smile when Hoa arrived at their shanty in Zone B. She did not offer tea or a seat. Instead, she avoided Hoa's eyes as she slipped past her mother-in-law, carrying Lum away.

*   *   *

“We weren't lying,” Sanh said. “We had every intention of coming to France with you. But Tuyet's mother is sick and she needs to leave Vietnam. And we have a better chance of getting her out if we're in America.”

“You could have told us,” Hoa said, “before all the plans were made. Then we could have tried to stay together.”

“You know Father would never go to America.”

“Families aren't supposed to live in different countries.”

“Well, we weren't supposed to leave Tuyet's family behind. If they were with us now, we wouldn't have to separate.”

If this, if that. So many conditions conspiring to take her son away from her. How could she remind Sanh now that their loyalty was to the Truongs, and not to his wife's family? He would think she was being selfish. But Hoa had honored this tradition, placing Hung's parents above her own when she married. Why wouldn't Tuyet?

Because of Tuyet's pregnancy, their shelter was a slight improvement over the other shanties. They had a wooden roof, four walls, and a real mattress on the floor. Sanh motioned for Hoa to sit on the mattress. Despite the solid walls, they could still hear a group of older men outside, loudly chuckling over a game of cards.

“You know you could come with us,” Sanh said.

Hoa laughed.

“You can,” Sanh said. “It's a new beginning for all of us. You have the choice, Mother.”

Hoa lowered her head, curling her hand into the thick folds of the mattress. She never considered it before, such an impossible, rash option, but the mere thought of it warmed her completely, dulling her anxieties. Perhaps America was not as bad as Hung declared. He'd always been one to react in the extreme. Look how severely he turned on Sanh, practically disowning him at the dinner table. In America, she would be the head of the family, the matriarch. How could she leave Sanh and Tuyet alone to raise the children? They were too young and naïve to live in a new country by themselves. She could offer advice, take care of the children. They needed her to do these things.

Perhaps this was the best decision. Hung could take care of the rest of the family in France. Hoa could have America.

“What am I saying?” Sanh shook his head. “Father would murder us both. He's already on the verge of killing me. Never mind, it was a stupid idea.”

He moved off the bed, peering over their half-packed bags. Hoa stared at his back, unable to say anything.

Footsteps outside. Tuyet appeared at the front door carrying a sleeping Lum in her arms. This time she looked at Hoa, unable to help a small smile, her triumph so apparent. Sanh belonged only to her now.

Hoa stood. “I should leave now. It's getting late.”

“You don't need to go,” Tuyet said, walking in and carefully placing Lum onto the bed, where he curled into a snail.

“I have a lot to do,” Hoa said.

“Please.” Tuyet's face relaxed into her deceptively demure frown. “I wanted to talk to you about Trinh.”

Hoa waved her hand. “Whatever Trinh needs, we'll take care of.”

“It's not that easy.”

“She is reuniting with her husband,” Hoa said. “You don't need to worry about her anymore.” She turned to Sanh, her hand reaching inside her blouse pocket. “Your father has most of our assets,” Hoa said, slipping a small silk pouch into his fingers. “But I have several gold leaves of my own and these pearl earrings.”

“Mother,” he said, closing his eyes.

She pressed the gold into his palm, folding his fingers over it. “You have a baby coming. I want you to care for your family as best you can.”

“We'll visit you,” Sanh said. “This is not good-bye. When we're all settled. I promise.”

Hoa looked over at her youngest grandson, still deep in sleep. She walked over to him, leaning into his lightly perspiring neck, inhaling his child sour-sweet smell.

“Be good for your mother and father,” Hoa whispered into his hair, softly kissing him. Lum shifted to his other side, his cheek blooming red, sighing. “Remember you are a Truong. You are Vietnamese. Nothing will change this.”

*   *   *

The camp lights switched off as Hoa walked back to Zone A. She slowed her pace, though that meant her rubber sandals sunk deeper into the muddy trail. The moon was only a sliver, and she worried about tripping over some brushwood or a stray piece of trash. Damp, wrinkled laundry rustled softly from strung-up wires and tree branches along the shanty rows. Refugees lingered outside their shanties, mostly men, the embers of their cigarettes briefly illuminating their bored faces.

This time tomorrow, they'd be gone. They could try to forget all of the months enduring the purgatory conditions of the island: the cramped quarters; the barely edible food; the crude behavior of their fellow refugees.

They could try to rebuild a home. Hoa could prepare proper meals again. She wondered if she could remember her recipes, the ones their cook taught her after they moved to Saigon. Could she find the proper spices and vegetables in France? Where would they live? Would Yen's home be comfortable for all of them? Wherever it was, Hoa could find her private space again. It didn't have to be too large, she could even make do with another closet, just something that was entirely hers.

These thoughts, these assurances, had made the last few weeks bearable, even exciting. Now, imagining the future, she could only see the empty space that Sanh and his family would leave behind. She wondered if this was God's punishment for leaving behind Sanh's in-laws. That was her husband's mistake. Hung should have tried harder to persuade the boat captain to sell him more seats. Then the Vo family would have come with them, and Hoa wouldn't be losing her grandchildren.

At the bottom of the hill, Hoa looked up at their shanty. Hung and Phung were still going over the paperwork, methodically examining every detail to ensure no technicality interfered with their transfer to Manila. When she entered the shelter, her oldest son would murmur to her in greeting and then the men would resume their work, ignoring her for the rest of the night. Hoa observed the hill, not moving. She didn't feel tired. She should only go in when she felt ready to fall asleep.

“Excuse me,” Bac Nhut said, suddenly standing next to her, a bobbing flashlight in hand.

Hoa forced the scream back into her throat. “Hello,” she said. “Good evening, sir.”

“Are you walking up?” he asked. He wore a thin blue cotton shirt and wrinkled brown pants.

She turned her head to the inky sky, looking at nothing, anything. “No, sir. Thank you for the offer, it is very kind of you.”

He didn't leave. Instead, he crossed his arms, wiry black hair matted on dark, cracked skin. His portable light bounced along the hillside. Where were his children? Why was he creeping around the island alone so late at night?

“Your youngest son is going to America,” Bac Nhut said.

“Yes, he is,” Hoa said, smoothly hiding her surprise.

“He is on the same flight as my family. We are leaving tomorrow, too.”

Hoa smiled politely. “I'm glad my son and his family will have friends in America. You can look after each other.”

Bac Nhut wasn't as tall as Hung. He had more pockmarks on his face. Hoa's mother once said they indicated prosperity.

He stared at her. “Your husband is wrong about the United States. The Vietnamese will be better there.”

“I hope so.”

“Why would you want to go somewhere so cold? Your daughter's hats will not be enough. Don't you want to be somewhere more like home?”

“I want to be with my family.”

“So where they go, you go? Why don't they follow you where you want to go?”

“Would you have followed your wife?” Hoa asked.

“We would have discussed it. I listened to her. I respected my wife.”

His face was inches away from her. She inhaled and looked away. “You've been drinking.”

His face spread open into a ridiculous smile. “Even after drinking, dear Ba Truong, I would never humiliate my wife. I wouldn't hit her in front of strangers.”

Hoa shook her head and began walking away. “Stay away from the guards,” she warned. “You don't want to be locked away your final night.”

“Best of fortune, Ba Truong,” Bac Nhut said, staggering into an exaggerated bow. “I hope your husband's choice makes you happy.”

*   *   *

They would take a boat to the Malaysian mainland, a bus to the Kuala Lumpur airport, and then an airplane to the Philippines. And then another airplane to Paris.

Despite all their preparation, they still scrambled to make the boat off the island. Trinh and Xuan hadn't finished packing when they came by. Ngoan couldn't find Cam's jewelry box, which she'd hidden in their shelter months ago. Still, Hung blamed Hoa several times for lagging behind.

“I can't do this all myself,” Hung said. “Why did you have to bring so much junk?”

The boat captain loudly grumbled as their family finally boarded, the last to arrive. All the interior seats were occupied, so they had to sit out on the deck. Hoa searched the faces of all the passengers on board, half-hoping to be surprised. But they weren't there. The America group would take a separate boat to the mainland.

At the harbor, a group of UN volunteers saw their boat off, while most of the remaining refugees, including Sanh's family, stayed away. Cam happily waved to anyone she could (
Good-bye! Good-bye! I'll never see you again!
), while Xuan wept in his mother's arms.

“Foolish boy,” Hung said, an amused smile on his face. “Doesn't he know he's finally going home?”

The last time they had seen Bidong Island from a boat was when they arrived. Back then, all they paid attention to was the land, the creamy expanse of the beach, the other Vietnamese waving to them. Now, Hoa's eyes traveled upward: the palm trees arching over the knotted green hills; the gray and brown roofs of the buildings; the vivid, clean sky.