My Father, the Panda Killer, page 5
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News in those days, especially news of the personal kind, was like a game of telephone—hardly reliable.
Thanh’s boat sank.
Thanh’s boat made it to Australia.
Thanh’s boat got stopped by Thai pirates.
No one has heard from anyone on Thanh’s boat.
Khánh made it to California.
Wasn’t Khánh on Thanh’s boat?
There was no database of people to search through. The census that would later calculate the 3.1 million lives lost during the war and subsequent mass exodus didn’t exist yet. But people felt the loss of their loved ones. Mothers knew their sons were gone. Fathers knew their daughters were lost. Because of this, Grandma and Grandpa made a strategic choice about escaping and sent their kids off separately instead of all in the same boat. Trust was not built: it was gauged by intuition—and hope. Every person they encountered was a potential threat. The priest who organized the trip, the captain, or the other passengers could purposely or inadvertently lead the Communists to their escape boat.
After Long’s return home, things settled into a new, disquieting normal. The downstairs room, which was now Long’s, became off-limits even though he didn’t have much—just three identical uniforms on hangers and a drawer of casual clothes. A maid was brought to live with them. Bác Loan was a live-in helper whose uniform consisted of a simple brown button-down and matching loose cotton capris with an elastic waistband. She didn’t speak much except to answer directions, but she loved the family like they were her own. And she tended to Grandpa’s wounds with herbal remedies only a military nurse would know about. The family was careful never to speak ill of Long or the Communist regime in front of her, because though she had a kind disposition, she could not be trusted. No more neighborhood houses were ransacked. No more fighter jets were seen in the sky. No more explosions. There was still gunfire, though. And executions. So many executions. Anyone convicted of supporting South Vietnam was shot dead and left there for family members to bury, if they dared. Families wanted to bury their loved ones, of course they did, but they were afraid of looking like sympathizers.
Phúc envied his sisters for their bond. Linh, at nineteen, was a natural-born leader. After Long left, she swiftly stepped into her role as the elder sibling, but Phúc loathed her attempt to replace his brother. Uyên, two years behind Phúc, was quiet and reserved like a monk. Even at nine, Uyên often moved behind Linh, clinging to her dress like a permanent shadow.
Lose a war, and people quickly repatriate—that’s the job of the new citizen. Long’s return meant that the family kept the house, whereas many others were forced to leave—pushed into the streets with nothing but the clothes they wore. Overnight, everyone loved Hồ Chí Minh. Hồ Chí Minh was a great leader, the rightful leader. The Army of the Republic was defeated because they did not believe in Vietnam enough. That’s what the kids were taught, anyway—until they shut the schools down.
By May 1976, the countryside still had no music. People moved about in hushed fear as families planned escape routes. The Americans were gone, but signs of their occupation still littered the landscape. A full year later, the scenery was becoming quite pretty. Ships that sank close to shore had transformed into colorful anemones. Life grew around and through the crashed airplanes, burnt helicopters, broken tanks, army boots, and helmets. And refugees used these markers to help each other navigate their escapes.
On the eve of June 17, 1976, 414 days after the fall of Saigon, Phúc was woken up in the dead of night. He rubbed his eyes several times to get them to adjust, but even after a few minutes, he could barely see. He had never known the world to be so dark. Bà Nội quickly gave him pants to pull over his shorts and a long-sleeve shirt to button over his nighttime T-shirt. Straightening his clothes, Grandma said, “Watch for these lines, inside are pieces of gold. Only if you desperately need it do you take it out.” Phúc reached down to touch his pants, but she slapped his hand away. “Don’t give anyone a reason to think they should cut off your ankles.” He stood up straight. The only other thing he was allowed to take with him was his flute.
“If they ask where you’re going, tell them you’re visiting your uncle. If they accuse you of escaping, ask them, ‘With what? A flute?’ If they threaten to shoot you, tell them who your brother is.”
The instructions were vague, but there wasn’t time to ask questions. In the hush of night, the two of them began to walk. With only cracks of moonlight leaking through the thick jungle and Bà Nội’s memory to guide them, they moved steadily toward the ocean. This was the same jungle covered in landmines that Phúc had been strictly forbidden to enter. Beneath his feet, Phúc could feel the damp mud squish under his weight. Every step potentially his last. Every step toward the unknown. Every step away from his family.
In preparation for the journey, Grandma had dimmed a flashlight by leaving it on for several nights. When they came to an area so dense that Bà Nội couldn’t see the small hand that clutched her own, she turned it on. Slowly they continued forward until her faded light landed in front of a fighter plane partially swallowed by the mud. After a quick look around, she reached into the cockpit and produced a small bag. This fallen plane was both a marker and a storage place for supplies. They pivoted ninety degrees east and continued past torn parachutes hanging from burnt and hollowed tree trunks, rusty metal chains, and blown tires. Every step was wrought with fear, but Phúc’s body pressed forward despite his heart begging him to retreat.
“Sình, sình, sình…” Phúc repeated this word over and over again as a way of manifesting it. If he said mud, it would appear beneath his feet. Mud was good, mud was ideal. In this situation, mud was better than gold. Mud meant life.
Wet leaves brushed across his face, arms, and legs. A snake hissed from one of the trees above, spiders scuttled up dried bark, a rat raced across Phúc’s open-toed sandal, and crickets bounced against his legs as he walked. A mosquito that he dared not kill drew fresh blood from the back of his neck. The distance, which was probably no farther than his eight-block bike ride to school, might as well have been the distance from Earth to Saturn—impossible.
Bà Nội’s hand dug deeply into Phúc’s shoulder, forcing him to a halt. The sun had begun its slow ascent and shapes were taking form. Not good. The night was his cloak, and daylight was about to strip him of his camouflage. Those seconds moved like hours, ticking slowly as she stood still next to Phúc’s racing heart. We’ve been caught. The Communists are coming. Phúc’s knees shook and started to buckle before he heard it, the low whistle of a familiar tune. Kìa con bướm vàng, Kìa con bướm vàng.
* * *
“Kìa con bướm vàng
Kìa con bướm vàng
Xòe đôi cánh
Xòe đôi cánh
Sorry, bro, I don’t remember the rest. It’s a kid’s lullaby.”
* * *
Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, pause, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, pause, tweet, tweet…This repetition of the first stanza hung in the air as Bà Nội and Phúc tried to discern its direction.
“Use your flute, blow the sound, thit, thit, thit, the, thit, thit, thit, the, thit, thit. Quietly.”
Phúc’s hands trembled, causing the first few notes to fall flat. He tried again. This time, soft notes fluttered outward.
Silence. Maybe they hadn’t heard it. Maybe he needed to blow louder. Bringing the flute to his lips again, he took a deep breath, filled his lungs with courage, and was about to blow when soft beeps could be heard pushing through the cold morning air.
Turning to their left, where the sound originated, they saw it—a speck of light in the distance.
Darkness, then three quick beams, so tiny they could’ve come from stars in faraway galaxies—if those were things that floated toward the sea in the middle of the night. Three clicks of the light, then darkness, three clicks, darkness, this repetition was his guide.
“You’ll go alone from here,” Bà Nội said, strapping the cloth bag full of food onto Phúc’s shoulder before nudging him onward. “Đi, đi.”
Fear gripped his ankles as Phúc walked forward, every step feeling more cumbersome than the last. At the water’s edge, he looked back toward his mother for reassurance, but the space she had occupied just moments earlier was already empty.
In the distance, the speck of light appeared again in a continuous, foreboding loop. Adrenaline propelled him into the cold oceanic water. With every silent stroke, he reminded himself to trust. Trust that his mother knew what she was doing. Trust that his boat would make it. Trust that he would be one of the lucky ones.
Breathless, he surfaced, slowly sipping air so as not to make a sound despite his burning lungs. Up ahead maybe forty paces, the light was brighter now. Its source, a thin hand flicking the silver flint wheel of a lighter. Flame, flame, flame, darkness, flame, flame, flame, darkness.
He reached the boat’s edge but was told to stay put. Slowly, the two men on board scanned the shore while Phúc waited. He tried not to think about what might lurk in the water beneath him.
“Đưa tay đây.” The high-pitched whisper came from a man whose arm was extended toward him. Phúc recognized him as a fisherman whose boat Ông Nội had once helped fix. Phúc reached up and grabbed the man’s arm. He felt his body scrape against the boat’s wooden side as he was hoisted on deck before being quickly shooed toward the engine room. Through a small entryway and down a few steps, Phúc found thirty-seven people crammed into a space meant for eight.
For a while, nothing happened, but then the small engine rumbled to life, and the boat began to cruise. Water rushed against the sides. No one spoke. No one locked eyes. Everyone prayed. Everyone except Phúc. He sat on the bottom step of the stairs. The last to arrive, he found this to be the only surface left unoccupied. Curling up into a ball, Phúc pressed his chin to his knees and tried to think of brighter days. Running through the hills and ancestral cemeteries with his friends, eating sweet rice in a hammock, skipping stones along an alleyway, racing up his mountain. “I am safe, I am safe, I am safe,” he whispered. He pleaded for safety, but it wasn’t a prayer; it was a chant meant to convince himself that he would survive.
In the darkness, Phúc searched for familiar faces and, surprisingly, found that there were many. No one with whom he was particularly close, just villagers he had seen around. Like Quốc, a classmate who used to get in trouble all the time for having a dirty or torn sheet of paper. Paper was scarce back then, so students wrote on a single sheet and erased it day in and day out. They weren’t friends, nor were they enemies—they were classmates. There was also the local butcher and his family, and a few of the upper-class families huddled together, clutching their things tightly to their chests. A couple in their early twenties—the wife looked pregnant and pale. A dressmaker and her son, no father. And others who Phúc had seen around, a cousin of a cousin, perhaps, or some other more distant relation.
As Phúc turned his attention back to Quốc, it dawned on him that he was the only person on the ship traveling alone. Everyone else had family. He searched again. There was an uncle, a notoriously mean drunk, who would shove Phúc’s head and demand he get him another beer. Dressed in a silk shirt and black slacks, he looked like he was trying to fit in with the wealthy group.
Phúc gazed down at his own muddy and drenched cotton drawstring pants and pit-stained shirt and knew his uncle would not be an ally on this journey. In fact, he should be avoided at all costs.
Knock.
Knock, knock.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Im lặng!” someone whispered loudly. But it was hard to be quiet amid panic. The knocks continued, then more rapidly. A gasp. Then screaming. People were bleeding.
“Gunfire,” a solemn voice said to no one in particular. It wasn’t a scream, nothing like what you’d expect. Just a voice acknowledging circumstance. Like a reporter talking about the aftermath of a catastrophe. Except they were still mid-catastrophe. Bodies slumped. More screams met by more bullets.
This isn’t good.
There’s a commotion in the living room. He sounds drunk. Or maybe just angry. He’s talking to someone. That person is drunk. I don’t know who.
The front door shuts. It never slams. He’s never been one to punch walls or break things.
I don’t move.
Footsteps pound heavily on the carpeted stairs. I’ll know if they move past me. I’m hoping they move past. My hands are squeezed so tight the nails I consistently neglect to trim dig into my palms as I count to ten. I do this even though I know my balled-up fists will not protect me.
This could all blow over in ten seconds. That’s all I need. Just ten seconds.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Silence.
Fuck.
My bedroom door opens and I shut my eyes.
Something hard presses against my back.
“Get up.”
Thump. The impact is harder this time, and I can feel my organs vibrate as they bounce forward and back, following my body’s natural momentum. It’s the sole of a shoe.
The next kick is unmistakable. The slam reverberates all the way through my chest and hangs there a moment before I remember to breathe. I scramble to my feet, but I am prepared to fall backward. My feet are planted exactly two inches in front of my bed, right by the strategically placed Barbie doll I put there to mark the exact spot my heel needs to touch so that I’ll land without hitting my head or knocking into my desk. I know what’s coming. I’m prepared. My body tenses as its only form of defense, and I wait.
“Get dressed. I’ll be in the car.”
This is unexpected. His tone is unagitated, calm even, like he’s not mad, except that I know he is. There’s an edge to that tone, moderate as it may be, an edge that warns me not to do anything stupid—like ask him why he’s upset. Instead, I stand still, waiting for the expected. A slap across the face, a shove onto the floor, or worse. But that’s it. He leaves the room, and I quickly scramble to get ready.
Paul.
He’s awake. Obviously. But I’ve taught him the art of pretending to sleep, and he’s perfected it. It’s one of my prouder achievements. Whatever he hears, he doesn’t move. And he won’t for many minutes until he’s sure that we’ve gone.
As fast as I can, I change into jeans and a T-shirt. Yesterday’s filth clings to my skin despite my change of clothes, but I ignore the sticky feeling as I rush to the car, where he is impatiently drumming his fingers on the sill of the open window. I quickly get in before he starts backing up with my door still ajar. Using both hands, I shut it, and we peel out of the driveway. There are hardly any other cars on the road at this early hour on a Saturday, and my dad takes the liberty of driving in two lanes while speeding down residential streets. It’s frightening how fast he’s going, but I keep my mouth shut.
One hundred yards from an intersection, the light turns green, but the car in front isn’t paying attention, and my dad ultimately has to slam on his brakes. This jolt causes the psychology textbook that I’ve stored beneath my seat to slam against my heel.
It’s summer, so nothing is technically due, but I have no intention of going to college unprepared. My plan had been to read a textbook a week until school begins. Except that, lately, it’s been impossible to concentrate. I’m used to being interrupted during my studies by customers in the store, but in the past week, I’ve had to read and reread entire sections because all I can think about is the conversation I still haven’t had. Though conversation seems too light a word for the life-altering moment I’m preparing for. It’s nerves. Or maybe it’s fear. I’m worried my dad will tell me no. I’m worried I’ll actually be okay with that outcome, that I will slide into the reprieve it would give me from the guilt I know I’ll feel if I leave.
As we pull into the parking lot of the store, I am both relieved and nauseous—the latter having only partly to do with his erratic driving. Jackie is supposed to come back today, and I really want to hang with her, but I have to tell her not to come. When my dad is in a bad mood, he doesn’t like surprises.
“I need to work in the back. Watch the register.” Before turning to leave, my dad looks at me for a moment. For a second I think he can sense that I’m waiting for him to leave. He has this uncanny ability to know when I want privacy and then to not give it to me.
This time, though, there’s something he needs to do, so he leaves. As soon as he exits, I pick up the phone and dial Jackie’s house. I twist the phone’s cord around my hand, stretching it tight so that it leaves red indentations on my skin. The phone rings and rings, which means someone is on the phone and won’t click over, or they’re asleep like normal people would be at six in the morning. I hang up,
“Pack of Marlboro and whatever beer you have on sale,” a voice says, startling me. The woman’s bloodshot eyes stare at me hard as the smell of weed wafts toward my nostrils. (If bulletproof glass doesn’t protect against odors, how am I supposed to believe it’ll stop a bullet?) She tosses a twenty-dollar bill toward me. It’s crumpled and warm, like she’s had it tightly balled up in her fist since the moment it met her hand. Her boyfriend moves to the refrigerated section.
“I don’t know which one is on sale, so you’ll have to bring it to me.”
“Jesus, you don’t know your own inventory? Just charge me for the cheapest beer and I’ll go get it after. What the hell kind of shop are you running?” Her pushy attitude puts me on high alert. In the liquor store business, pushy means they’re up to no good. If she’s yelling, it’s because she’s the distraction. The real action is going on at the drink coolers.
