My Father, the Panda Killer, page 3
I’m tired when I arrive. The signage might say Liquor Store, but it’s really a convenience store that happens to sell liquor. We’re a local joint, so what the sign reads doesn’t really matter; the people who live here know what we are. I pick up the empty wrappers, random takeout, and plastic cups that somehow always appear overnight and toss them before walking to the front to unlock the doors. Lately, my brain just won’t shut off. It plays and replays hundreds of scenarios of me leaving for college with different outcomes, some hopeful, some awful, and all terrifying. If I ask Dad too early, I risk the possibility of him changing his mind. If I ask at all, I risk having to enact a plan resulting in not being able to see Paul ever again. There is no scenario in which it goes smoothly, and knowing that makes me anxious, which in turn means I’m awake for more hours than any living human being ever should be. So, my patience is virtually nonexistent when I happen upon a man sitting against the iron pull-out gate of our shop. It’s bent inward against his weight, and this would normally be a mild annoyance, but because I’m so tired, it might as well be the end of the fucking world.
“You can’t sit here.” My pitch is just a notch below yelling. I don’t want to have to repeat myself, even though I know thinking that is a self-fulfilling prophecy in this case. He doesn’t move.
“Hey.”
He stirs.
“Get up, or I’m calling the cops. No loitering.”
He stares daggers at me as he stands, moving at the speed of a sloth. Before I have a chance to step back, a smell is kicked like sand into my nostrils: it’s the familiar spicy stench of someone who hasn’t showered in days, maybe months.
He knows me. He’s seen my face before. We’ve had this same interaction at least three other times this month, yet he acts as though this is his first offense. As though he’s never seen me before. His disheveled blond hair swings sideways and then back over his eyes while he struggles to stand.
I feel bad. Of course I do. I mean, I’m a freaking human. But he needs to skedaddle.
With the man now sufficiently far enough away from the shop, I scan the perimeter to make sure no one can sneak up on me, uncurl my balled-up fists, and, with mildly trembling hands, open up for business.
One fucking summer. I just need to get through one last fucking summer.
Skip Notes
*1 fried rice
*2 burnt rice
*3 broken rice
When the news broke about a boundary being drawn, Phúc’s family had no idea. They weren’t tapped into the main line of communication, and they weren’t educated enough to understand the ramifications of what it meant. So, even if they had heard of it, maybe on the radio, they didn’t understand it. In any case, they weren’t going to move to the North just because the government decided to cut itself up. Their home and their livelihood were in the State of Vietnam, so they remained in the State of Vietnam.
As a new government, new currency, and new leaders who were friendly with the Americans emerged, the fight for country began. For the Vũ family, though, it was simpler than that. Their only objective was survival. For twenty years, they lived this way. This was true for everyone except Phúc’s older brother, Long.
Long emerged from the womb as a ball of fire. Hot-tempered, he would not be stopped from joining his friends at war. He developed a friendship—probably through one of the many tunnels that ran deep underground from North Vietnam into the South—with someone in the North, probably Bà Nội’s sister, who still lived up there. It’s all speculation and gossip, though, because even today, only the Việt Cộng know where those tunnels begin and end. Whatever the circumstances, Long smuggled himself across the border, forged documents, and proclaimed to be a northerner. Again, it was probably as simple as this: Long wanted to be with his friends, his friends joined the army, so Long joined his friends. Long means dragon in Vietnamese, and, true to his namesake, once he learned to breathe fire there was no stopping him. Born in 1955, Long left home at just sixteen years old.
For Grandma and Grandpa, his defection was an embarrassment. Rumors rolled in, permeating the neighborhood with toxic whispers, and Long was immediately denounced. It wasn’t a loud proclamation. The family simply stopped discussing him. Phúc was out a brother, and that was that. Still, seven-year-old Phúc missed Long and continued to ask for his whereabouts. He was told they didn’t know. Phúc pressed on.
“Anh Long ở đâu rồi?” Still nothing. Maybe no one knew.
After hours of pestering, Bà Nội snapped, “Đừng hỏi nữa.” Her stern tone told Phúc she was serious, he better not ask again, but the flick of her wrist shooing him away concerned him more than the reproach. He knew the truth. This gesture was Grandma’s attempt at downplaying her own worries.
No matter; Phúc idolized his older brother, who had always jumped when Phúc was afraid to, who spoke with conviction when Phúc was stunned mute by fear, and who was in every way the man Phúc wanted to become. He heard the rumors. Whispers among neighbors turned Long into a kind of legend—good or bad, though, was still to be determined. But Phúc remained loyal.
For months, Phúc listened as his parents peddled false narratives around town to counteract the truth. Long died in an explosion…was sent off to live with relatives in Vũng Tàu…joined the Republican army…drowned in a boating accident…The story was forever changing. But it was his sister’s words that cut him deepest. Reeling from her husband’s departure to fight for the south, she was cold and callous about the truth: Long was a traitor.
As the war dragged on and recruiters came looking for new soldiers to join the army, it became a constant worry for the family. Would any of the neighbors give them up? What would the Army of the Republic do when they discovered the truth? More important, how much would it take to pay them off?
When the Army of the Republic asked about Long, Ông Nội told the soldiers that he believed his son was dead. He explained that Long had a mean streak, that he wanted to fight for his country, and he ran away. He didn’t mention which side he ran away to fight for. The family had no idea if he was still even alive. They heard the grumblings of betrayal, but they had so many reasons to believe differently. Why would the Việt Cộng trust Long? He was no one special. He had no combat experience. So why wouldn’t they just shoot him for trying to be a spy? Or to make an example of him? It was entirely possible that Long was just a stupid teenager whose body now lay in a mass grave of likewise rebellious teens.
Phúc never believed this, though. His brother was scrappy and sharp. Nothing like how his parents described him. And their betrayal only made Phúc’s allegiance stronger.
The soldiers left the family alone after that. But this visit scared them by bringing the possibility of persecution right to their doorstep. So, that night, though it broke Bà Nội to do this, she put her son’s photo next to their other deceased ancestors. Back then, superstitions were as sacred as religion. Even though she believed putting Long’s picture on the ancestor wall was basically signaling to the universe that she accepted her son’s death, she had to do it. There was no other choice.
* * *
When a regime falls, there is this image of the winning side marching in on big tanks and seizing everything immediately, but that’s not what happened in Đà Nẵng. It took weeks before Phúc ever saw their presence, and when they eventually arrived, it wasn’t on tanks but in haphazard caravans with valuables strapped to the rooftops. They were looters in uniform who moved from house to house touching the wives of their enemies, ripping walls and furniture apart in search of jewels, burning money, and leaving behind a yellow slash across each door to mark their progress.
For weeks the military men swept through the community. One family tried to barricade their doors closed, and the entire village watched as a pistol was held at the temple of the oldest son in the house and the trigger pulled. The boy, a kid just a year older than Phúc, was shot point-blank for his father’s defiance. The message was clear: Do you value your belongings or the lives of your loved ones? For most, those who had lived on rations for years, giving up what few valuables they had left meant further starvation and eventual death anyway, so even though they knew the price, some of them chose to play the odds.
As homes around them were ransacked, the Vũ family’s door remained untouched. The entire town was burning, yet they seemed to be cloaked in invisibility. But why? Their walls were made of the same sand-brick as the neighbors’. As far as status, they were neither the richest nor the poorest. If anything, they should’ve been a primary target because Grandpa technically worked for the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. But maybe no one knew that. Maybe the records had been destroyed.
In the days and months that followed the fall of Saigon, Phúc naively thought he would see his brother again. The war was over, and there was no reason they couldn’t be brothers again. He had been gone for just over four years. Four years couldn’t possibly change a person that much, could it? Four years wasn’t enough to erase eleven years of brotherhood—of family. Phúc believed this. He really did.
“Vũ Đoàn Thái, get out here!” a voice yelled from outside.
Phúc began to shake. The voice was curt, extremely rude, and arrogant. All signs of bad things to come. And more confusing still was this soldier looked exactly like Long. Much to everyone’s dismay, his long-lost big brother stepped forward. He was older, taller even, and more…not sophisticated—robotic. He had the commanding presence of a general or a lieutenant, someone of high ranking. He stood with his back straight, his posture perfectly stiff.
“Anh Long!” Phúc stupidly called to his brother. “Anh Long về rồi!” Phúc was so overcome with emotion that he shouted Long’s return loudly before running, arms outstretched, toward his big brother.
“Đứng yên,” Long barked, the palm of his hand stretched forward in front of Phúc. Phúc stopped, following his orders. Confused, he looked up at his brother, who ignored him completely. Closer now, Phúc noticed the men behind him. Like a flock of migratory birds flying in formation, his comrades, with duplicate faces of stone, stood rigid and still behind Long.
His brother wasn’t acting like a general, he was a general, and the men behind him were waiting for his order.
Ông Nội emerged, quiet and peaceful like a monk, with Bà Nội following suit. Behind them, Linh’s shrieks of anger followed by Uyên’s careful cries could be heard. Bà Nội must have forced them to stay in their room. Phúc’s sisters would not be greeting their brother today.
“Quỳ xuống.” Long’s voice was firm and confident in a way that showed this wasn’t rehearsed—it was practiced. As he spoke, spit flew like sparks from his lips.
Ông Nội moved farther into the courtyard, but not before putting up a hand to stop Bà Nội from following him through the entryway. In the courtyard, he knelt silently. Tethered by an unshakable bond, Bà Nội also slid to her knees in place, watching as Ông Nội’s thighs shook involuntarily with fear.
“Father, do you know what my superiors are saying about you? They’re saying I can’t be trusted,” Long said, circling the weathered figure of his father.
Standing not two feet from Long, Phúc kept waiting for his dad to stand up, to slap Long across the face and ask him who he thought he was talking to.
But Ông Nội kept silent for a long time before asking, “Why did you come home?”
This was not the right thing to ask, and his question was met with a backhanded slap across the face.
“Dã man.” This would’ve been insulting to say to a peer. To his father, though? Unfathomable. With the flick of two fingers, Long was given a long metal chain that he wrapped around his palm like gauze. The metal locks crushed together, then ripped taut as Long’s hand swung backward, and the chain whipped across Ông Nội’s face.
Grandpa dropped to the floor. Phúc quickly scrambled backward as he watched the large gash that cut across Ông Nội’s cheek and nose peel open like a bleeding red flower.
At the sight of blood, Grandma shrieked and cried out, “My family is broken!” Tears fell from her face as she knelt in the doorframe. “What is my son doing? What is my son doing?” she repeated in a dazed chant.
The chain loosened until it hit the ground and metal scraped against dirt following Long’s movements. As he adjusted his grip, Phúc saw the slightest of movements, an opening of his palm. Then, like a boxer who’s just heard the starting bell, Long whipped his father once, twice, three times. Six. Ten. Fourteen. Too many times to count. Too many times.
Long’s eyes glistened as they flickered past, his body like a hawk circling its prey. Phúc looked on, paralyzed with fear. Say something! Phúc screamed to himself. No sound left his mouth. Instead of standing up for his father, instead of taking the beating in his place, Phúc cowered in the corner, hiding his eyes, shielding his ears, and waiting for it to all be over.
Finally, it was Bà Nội who stepped in. Amid the chaos, she had retreated into their home, but now she moved with the same purpose and determination she had when rebuilding her courtyard. Slow but steadfast, she walked over to her elder son and stared him dead in the eye, daring him to hit his mother. At her feet, Grandpa lay motionless, his face turned into the gravel dirt, the brown linen of his shirt melting into his open wounds.
“Đủ rồi.” Her words were even and firm, like a referee who’s let a fight go on too long. With two hands, she offered Long a small bag of jewels and money. Phúc watched as Long took the neatly folded stack—which was more cash than Phúc had ever seen in his life—flicked open a lighter, held the money to the flame, and lit it on fire.
“Số tiền này không có giá trị.” Their money no longer had value. Flipping a coin into the air, he let it land in the dirt. This was the new currency. The burning bills fell at Phúc’s feet, and he closed his eyes, waiting for his brother’s wrath to turn to him. Feet shuffled, the chain slid backward, and when Phúc finally had the courage to look, he saw his mother helping his father to his knees.
“Dạ.” His body was weak, but Ông Nội spoke in a tone Phúc had only ever heard him take with his grandfather—a voice of deference.
Power made Long fierce. It emboldened him to strike a man Phúc would never even dare raise his voice to. But Phúc saw something else that day. Through the armor and the projected hate, he saw a flash of sorrow, a twitch of remorse, an imperceptible loosened grip on the chain. Long hadn’t wanted to beat his father. He hadn’t wanted to burn their savings. He was not a monster. He was just doing what he had to do. By beating him, he saved their lives.
Stereotypes aren’t true—except when they are. And when they are, they’re annoying as hell. Vietnamese people often get lumped with Chinese people, and their stereotypes become ours. Like the overachieving student thing. You know the type. The two-year-old who reads physics books, plays the piano, and speaks Chinese (or in our case, Vietnamese) as fluently as they speak English, if not better. Take me, for example. I am a straight-A student, but I do not have a mother who pushes me to excel. And not because she left—she was just never interested in my studies at all.
It makes me wonder if, in trying to make up for this, I’m too tough on Paul. He’s smarter than I am, but his intelligence also makes him lazy. When I quiz him on his vocab, and he knows all the answers, I have to find more complicated words for him to learn.
“Don’t.” I stare.
With one hand holding a bowl of eggs over rice, his other reaches for the handheld Columns video game tucked away in one of the small cubbyholes beneath the shop’s register. I swear he’s going to go blind from staring at that tiny screen for hours on end.
“But it’s the weekend,” he whines.
“Define ambition.”
He sighs. “The strong desire to achieve something.”
“Continent.”
“Any of the seven big landmasses on Earth.”
“Privilege.”
“Having the time to annoy your younger brother on the weekend.”
“Funny. Thirteen times twenty-six.”
Paul laughs. “Even you don’t know the answer to that!”
I relent. “Two hours. Then it’s studying. Okay? Finish your food first.”
Holding the bowl to his face, he scoops what’s left of his breakfast into his mouth, grabs his game, and turns it on.
“Hey, nerd, make some room. I’m coming in.”
I look up to see Jackie’s face pressed against the cloudy bulletproof (in theory) window.
Jackie is wearing jeans, a white tank top, and a color-block jacket with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair has a faint purple streak in it and is tied up with a scrunchie into a high ponytail. She is cooler than I am in every way.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, suddenly feeling self-conscious in my “work uniform,” which consists of high-waisted jeans, an oversized gray T-shirt, and maroon Vans sneakers. Despite being best friends, Jackie has never, not once, come to hang at the store. When we were kids, I asked my dad if she could come play with me, and he agreed, but her mom said she’d rather I come to their house—something I couldn’t do because I was always working. Neither of us ever mentioned meeting up outside of school after that.
“I brought coffee.”
“We have coffee,” I say.
“That’s Vietnamese coffee. This is Starbucks,” she says, handing me a mocha Frappuccino she knows I never would’ve paid for on my own. I don’t spend money on frivolous things like overpriced coffee.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?”
“It’s our last summer,” she says. “If you can’t come out, I’m coming here.”
