The Reeducation of Cherry Truong (35 page)

“You are not my wife,” Hung screamed when Trinh grabbed his other arm. Together, they dragged him back to their apartment building, while he hollered, kicked, and spat. “You are evil women. I do not know you. My family would not treat me this way.”

After Hung hurled his rice bowl against the wall during lunch, shattering Cam's framed diploma from culinary school, Hoa and his daughters-in-law carried him back to his room. Although he kicked and flailed on the bed for several minutes, Hung eventually tired himself out and fell asleep.

“Are you sure you don't want to reconsider the nursing facility in Neuilly?” Ngoan asked when Hoa returned from the bathroom. They'd already swept up the rice and broken bowl from the floor. “We could talk to the Buis about how their mother likes it.”

“Who is their mother?” Hoa asked, serving herself some soup. “I think we saw her there. Does she have Parkinson's disease?”

“Yes,” Ngoan said. “That's Ba Cuc. But she liked people calling her Audrey because her mother was French. No one ever did, though.”

“Audrey,” Hoa echoed, the name suddenly sounding very familiar. She could see the name before her, printed in letters, in loopy scribbled handwriting.

“Don't you remember?” Ngoan asked. “Ba Cuc and her family were on the boat with us. She was the widow, just she and her children. They stayed at Pulau, too, but left for Paris a few months ahead of us.”

“She brought all those canned sardines on the boat,” Trinh said. “I can't believe I almost forgot that. Those sardines saved our lives.”

“I don't know,” Hoa said, staring at her soup, her breath collapsing as the woman's face, young and old, bloomed together, in her mind.

*   *   *

These were the letters she could not read. They were all in French—in tiny, tiny cursive script—and they made up almost half of Hung's precious collection. They were still disheveled from Cherry's reading a few days ago. She hadn't had the opportunity to reorganize, but with her daughters-in-law's unwitting help this afternoon, she was ready to burn the letters on the stove.

Hoa remembered seeing her at the community center. She coordinated the French tutoring services for the young refugee children. Cam and Xuan had both enrolled in those classes. Hoa could not recall ever seeing her husband with the slut, even in passing conversation. But Hoa never spent as much time at the community center as Hung. She had preferred her sanctuary in their apartment, and he apparently wanted to be elsewhere, which was fine by her.

She had been confused when Hung returned to their home in Saigon and confessed that he only purchased enough seats for their family. Hoa had seen the amount of gold Hung had hidden in his clothes and it seemed enough to purchase the entire boat. Sanh's wife, Tuyet, was devastated. She had already told her mother and siblings about the planned escape. Hung scolded her for telling them before he'd even bought their seats. He claimed he never promised her anything. He also reminded her that the Truongs were now her family, not the Vos. While Hoa felt badly for her daughter-in-law, she had to admit she also felt leery of Tuyet's devotion to a mother who had disowned her for marrying their son. Hung was correct: they didn't owe this cruel family anything.

But even they didn't deserve this, being passed over for Hung's mistress and her bastards. It didn't matter if he felt disdain for the Vos. Could Hung have imagined the ramifications? That by leaving Tuyet's family behind, they'd lose their youngest son and grandchildren to America?

Trinh was correct. Their family was cursed. They'd broken their promise, left the Vos behind. They'd never been the same since.

The letters lay heavy in her tired hands. She wondered if he still thought it had been worth it. While the correspondence with the other women seemed superficial and immature, Hoa could not pass the same judgment on these letters written in French. She could only imagine what their affair had meant to them if it had survived a war, a refugee camp, and a new country. It reminded her of those terrible soap operas.

Hoa wanted these answers, despite the way it made her heart tighten and her breath catch. But there was no way to know. She couldn't read French. She couldn't ask Hung or any of her children to translate. She could only hope Cherry could forget them.

Standing over the lit stove, Hoa imagined these letters burning up, purging her sanctuary of the filth her husband had brought in, the sordid details that had taken Sanh and her grandchildren away from her. But her hand would not complete the action her heart willed. She stood there, watching the blue-and-orange flames flicker. When finally, her arm ached over the tension, she turned away, placing the letters on the kitchen counter.

Stealing these letters had initially felt like a triumph. Though she scoured his desk drawers and the top of his closet, she never could find his journals; she suspected he'd destroyed them when he realized he was growing ill. But somehow he couldn't bear to get rid of these precious letters. They were enough. The information of his past would be hers, just as his knowledge slipped away. After all these years, she believed she'd earned it.

But the discovery did not make her stronger. Even with his mind half gone, Hung still won. The words would haunt her for the rest of her life, whether they burned or not. Because while he was allowed to forget everything he'd done, she had no choice but to remember.

“What are you making?” Hung asked, wandering out of his bedroom, sniffing at the air. “When are we having lunch?”

“We already had lunch,” Hoa said, tucking the letters into the cutlery drawer.

Hung looked pained, but she firmly maintained his gaze. “I'm still hungry.”

“You'll have to wait until dinner.”

“I know that we don't live in Vietnam anymore,” he said softly, the closest he could come to apologizing. It was impossible to know what he remembered of the last few hours, of the last several days.

“Good,” Hoa said. “Do you want to watch your program?”

He nodded and walked over to the couch. Hoa turned on the television. Another soap opera, different characters, similar storylines.

“Where is Cherry?” he asked.

“She left this morning.” Hoa approached the window and looked outside, where the trees, sidewalks, and cars gleamed harsh and bright in the sunlight. It would be several hours before her sons and grandchildren returned home.

“Oh,” he said. “When will she come back?”

“She's not coming back,” Hoa said, drawing one of the window shades to soften the rays of the afternoon light.

“Oh,” he said again. He was not paying much attention. The commercial had ended and the program's opening credits began.

“You were wrong,” Hoa said. “You thought Sanh and his family would follow us to France. You thought that you could have everyone around you, your sons, your mistress. But you made a foolish, stupid choice.”

Hung looked askance at her, annoyed. “Why are you yelling?”

“One seat,” Hoa said, struggling to keep her voice level, “you could have offered Tuyet's mother one seat, but you had to give them all to Ba Cuc? Because her family was so much more important? So worth destroying mine?”

He straightened his shoulders, looking directly in her eyes. “I honor my obligations, woman.”

The way he said it, his tone, sounded clearer and sharper than Hoa had remembered for a long time. She narrowed her eyes, aware she was talking to her true husband now. “What about the obligations to your own children?”

“I wasn't going to leave my daughters behind.”

She rolled her eyes. “You don't have any daughters.”

“I promised their mother I would protect them. They suffered enough without me.”

Hoa stared at him, a knot of dread uncoiling in her stomach. “What family are you talking about?”

Hung blinked a few times, then returned his gaze to the television. “I told Audrey you would never understand.”

But Hoa did. Finally, after all these years. She slowly walked in front of the television, blocking his view, forcing him to look at her. Her old Hung didn't even flinch, cold and imperious as she remembered. So many wives would have cherished such an opportunity to reconnect with their demented husbands, a precious moment of clarity. Hoa could only hope this was their last true conversation.

“Did you talk to her about me?”

His features softened in an expression that was completely foreign to her. “We discuss everything together.”

Why did this surprise her? Even when she thought he had been rendered powerless, when she finally had achieved the upper hand, Hung could find another way to cut into her.

“But you don't have her now,” Hoa reminded him. “Ba Cuc is dead.”

Hung's face blanched.

“She is. Soon, you will be, too. And then I'll be the only one left.”

Hung didn't answer, turning his head, as if distracted.

“No one else is going to know. I wouldn't ever wish that on any of our children. Do you understand me, Hung? This beautiful sacrifice of yours? It will die with you. But me and my boys? We'll go on. We'll survive in spite of you.”

He did not look at her. Hung was choosing not to listen. Hoa stepped out of the television's way, and watched her husband's eyes brighten at the sight of his soap opera. Within seconds, he was engrossed in the made-up people's problems, a faint smile tugging on his dried lips.

Hoa walked to the sofa, pulled out her knitting needles and sat next to her husband, struggling to relax her breathing because, as she reminded herself, there was no purpose in getting upset over this man. Nothing would change and it could never be improved. His mind was leaving both of them, and she didn't want to interrupt its departure.

“Who is being bad today?” she asked, untangling the yarn in her lap.

After staring at the screen for a minute, Hung remembered the storyline, the characters, and he pointed.

 

1987

Cuc Bui
Paris, France

… I do not see much purpose in reevaluating past decisions. For the most part, I think I have done well for my family. I protected and cared for them as best I could. But I am only a man. Life does not always present us with ideal circumstances. Our beloved country is a great example. When I think of our countrymen still suffering under those Godless heathens, I feel full of shame.

They did not choose poverty. Not only were they born without resources or schooling, now they must watch as the wealthiest, most educated people flee the country. I cannot imagine their frustration. So I cannot presume to judge any decision they make to survive. When we hear about the corruption and bribery plaguing the new government, it should be no surprise to any of us. What choice do they have?

While our generation was expected to marry under our parents' wishes, our children and grandchildren are not required to build their lives around such an obsolete tradition. Why couldn't this more liberated thinking have been an option for us, only a generation earlier? Seeing all the couples openly kissing and strolling along the Seine, even at the food market, I envy their youth, their freedom.

I have honored my wife in every obligation. I have performed all the duties required of me. I do not regret your companionship. It helped me survive my marriage. And as you've told me before—and it comforts me to no end—it has helped you survive.…

Hung Truong

Paris, France

 

Chapter Ten

CHERRY

L
ITTLE
S
AIGON
, C
ALIFORNIA
, 1997

Cherry could hear her father's bellowing through the thick carpet and insulated walls. She turned up the volume, the music of
Faust
strumming over her father's frustration. The CD, a present from her cousin Xuan, was her most effective study aid. After listening to several hours of
Faust
's violins, she'd memorized three pages of conjugated verbs and could recite them without prompting. Cherry tested herself twice, then pulled off her earphones. Her father continued to rant, but other voices had joined in, her brother's, then her mother's.

Someone stomped across the ceramic tile hallway. The side garage door slammed, the house shuddering in response. Lum's car.

Cherry jumped off the bed, swung her door open, and ran down the stairs. “Wait!” she cried, pushing past her father in the kitchen to reach the garage. By the time she ran out, her brother's car had already pulled out of the driveway, the garage door noisily closing.

“What's wrong?” her father asked.

“Lum was supposed to drive me to school this morning,” she said.

“It's Saturday.”

“We're meeting for a history-class project.”

“Tuyet!” her father called out to the living room, where his wife stood by the front window next to her plastic cherry blossom tree, her arms crossed in front of her. “Can you take her?”

“Why can't you?” her mother asked, barefoot, still dressed in velour pajamas, her unwashed hair and her reading glasses on.

“The electrician will be here soon,” he said. “Do you want to talk to him about the wiring?”

“Fine,” her mother said, walking into the kitchen and picking up the keys from the counter. She appraised Cherry: up, down. “Don't you think it's time you learned how to drive?”

“Don't pressure her,” her father said. “She will learn when she's ready.”

Then Cherry remembered. “My books are in Lum's car.” Her mother loudly sighed. “I thought he was taking me.”

“You cannot rely on him anymore, okay?” her father said. “From now on, Mommy and I will take care of your rides.”

“What is the matter with you?” her mother asked. “You drove him away. Isn't that enough? You don't need to attack him in front of his sister.”