back a retort as the server brought our food and refills on our water and Khanh’s coffee. When she’d gone, Khanh took a deep breath and said, “Not mean that. Just feel . . .” She made a helpless gesture. “Want hit everything.”
“I wouldn’t mind punching a wall myself,” I said. “But let’s both restrain ourselves.”
She jabbed at a dried cranberry. “I try.”
I tested the trout with the edge of my fork. Flaky inside, crisp and golden outside. “So, this Mr. Mat Troi bought Tuyet a ticket to the United States. Round trip?”
It was how I’d do it, if I were Mat. A round trip ticket would have reassured her.
“One way,” Khanh said. “She get money for ticket back from you father.”
“Assuming she found him.”
“She not so good at think ahead.”
“Tell me about her,” I said. “Everything you can think of.”
She stared into her coffee cup. “This help find her?”
“I don’t know what will help find her.”
“She beautiful. Smart. Stubborn. She like pretty thing. Always want more.” She touched the jade monkey at her throat. “She buy necklace, one me, one my mother. Save money long time.”
While I ate, Khanh told me how Tuyet had draped silk scarves over lamps to brighten their one-room home and how she’d sold her grandmother’s favorite earrings for money to buy a new dress, then saved her money for the next six weeks to buy them back.
Khanh said, “She bar girl. I tell her no need dance in bar. Mother and I own coffee shop, make enough for food, clothes. And Mother . . . she call spirit sometime. People pay, talk to ancestor. Or husband maybe. Get advice. Plenty money get by, before Mother sick.”
I tried to imagine the woman in the photo Frank had shown me sitting across a table, telling fortunes—reading palms, or maybe tea leaves. “Your mother is a psychic?”
“She spirit caller.”
“Spirit caller. Right. Why didn’t Tuyet listen when you tried to talk her out of working at the bar?”
“She think rich American man come take her away. Always she pray for rich American boyfriend.”
“Prayers the Devil answers,” I said.
She cocked her head, quirked an eyebrow.
“It’s an Appalachian saying. Like a monkey’s paw. You get what you asked for, but in a bad way. Like you pray for a thousand dollars, but then your husband dies in an accident and the insurance payout is a thousand dollars.” I pushed my plate away. Nothing left but a couple of lettuce leaves and a few flakes of fish. “Okay, let’s go talk to some more folks. If you’re finished.”
Khanh laid her silverware neatly across her still-full plate. “I finish.”
Tuyet
H e made love as if they were in a hotel bed in Ho Chi Minh City and not in a walled compound where she’d been beaten, raped, and starved for days on end. Lying on his side, gazing at her across the pillows, he ran the tips of his fingers across her cheek, swept a few strands of hair away from her face.
She smiled to hide the churning in her stomach and forced the tension from her body, deep breaths in and out, forced her limbs into a post-coital lassitude she didn’t feel. Might not ever feel again.
“So beautiful,” he said in Vietnamese. “Remember that day in the park?”
A tiny nod. They had strolled through the gardens hand in hand, then made love behind a topiary tiger. “You bought me quail eggs in rice paper. Then we walked on the Thu Thiem Bridge. We dropped petals into the water.”
He had been another man then. A better man. She could still feel the warmth of his lips against hers, the way his gaze softened when he looked into her face. Surely, it had not all been a lie.
Not all.
She said, “I thought we were happy. I thought I made you happy.”
“You did.” He ran a thumb across her lips. “You used to shine.”
“I shine for you. Only for you.”
She drew in a long breath and summoned images of her mother, her grandmother, the sweet drink her mother made from heart leaves and
“I wouldn’t mind punching a wall myself,” I said. “But let’s both restrain ourselves.”
She jabbed at a dried cranberry. “I try.”
I tested the trout with the edge of my fork. Flaky inside, crisp and golden outside. “So, this Mr. Mat Troi bought Tuyet a ticket to the United States. Round trip?”
It was how I’d do it, if I were Mat. A round trip ticket would have reassured her.
“One way,” Khanh said. “She get money for ticket back from you father.”
“Assuming she found him.”
“She not so good at think ahead.”
“Tell me about her,” I said. “Everything you can think of.”
She stared into her coffee cup. “This help find her?”
“I don’t know what will help find her.”
“She beautiful. Smart. Stubborn. She like pretty thing. Always want more.” She touched the jade monkey at her throat. “She buy necklace, one me, one my mother. Save money long time.”
While I ate, Khanh told me how Tuyet had draped silk scarves over lamps to brighten their one-room home and how she’d sold her grandmother’s favorite earrings for money to buy a new dress, then saved her money for the next six weeks to buy them back.
Khanh said, “She bar girl. I tell her no need dance in bar. Mother and I own coffee shop, make enough for food, clothes. And Mother . . . she call spirit sometime. People pay, talk to ancestor. Or husband maybe. Get advice. Plenty money get by, before Mother sick.”
I tried to imagine the woman in the photo Frank had shown me sitting across a table, telling fortunes—reading palms, or maybe tea leaves. “Your mother is a psychic?”
“She spirit caller.”
“Spirit caller. Right. Why didn’t Tuyet listen when you tried to talk her out of working at the bar?”
“She think rich American man come take her away. Always she pray for rich American boyfriend.”
“Prayers the Devil answers,” I said.
She cocked her head, quirked an eyebrow.
“It’s an Appalachian saying. Like a monkey’s paw. You get what you asked for, but in a bad way. Like you pray for a thousand dollars, but then your husband dies in an accident and the insurance payout is a thousand dollars.” I pushed my plate away. Nothing left but a couple of lettuce leaves and a few flakes of fish. “Okay, let’s go talk to some more folks. If you’re finished.”
Khanh laid her silverware neatly across her still-full plate. “I finish.”
Tuyet
H e made love as if they were in a hotel bed in Ho Chi Minh City and not in a walled compound where she’d been beaten, raped, and starved for days on end. Lying on his side, gazing at her across the pillows, he ran the tips of his fingers across her cheek, swept a few strands of hair away from her face.
She smiled to hide the churning in her stomach and forced the tension from her body, deep breaths in and out, forced her limbs into a post-coital lassitude she didn’t feel. Might not ever feel again.
“So beautiful,” he said in Vietnamese. “Remember that day in the park?”
A tiny nod. They had strolled through the gardens hand in hand, then made love behind a topiary tiger. “You bought me quail eggs in rice paper. Then we walked on the Thu Thiem Bridge. We dropped petals into the water.”
He had been another man then. A better man. She could still feel the warmth of his lips against hers, the way his gaze softened when he looked into her face. Surely, it had not all been a lie.
Not all.
She said, “I thought we were happy. I thought I made you happy.”
“You did.” He ran a thumb across her lips. “You used to shine.”
“I shine for you. Only for you.”
She drew in a long breath and summoned images of her mother, her grandmother, the sweet drink her mother made from heart leaves and
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