Lucky Child (32 page)

On this day, Chou straps Chang to her chest and tills her land and garden to grow food for her family. In the dirt and mud, her soles slap against her old, worn-out flip-flops. After two months, her new shoes are still wrapped up inside the hut because she can’t bear to get them dirty or scratched. On the ground beside her, Eng and Hok play by themselves, their grimy fingers constantly pulling out earthworms from the upturned soil of Chou’s shovel. While Chou keeps the house and minds the children, Pheng typically does all the heavy work of collecting water, chopping wood, and farming their rice fields.

By the time Pheng arrives home in the evening, Chou already has their dinner cooked and the children bathed and ready for bed. In the twilight, Pheng eats and plays with his children while Chou serves him, feeds the small children, and devours her food quickly. Then when the sky grows dark, Chou, Pheng, and their children snuggle close to one another
to keep warm under their one old mosquito net as they drift to sleep. Above their porous hut, the moon lights up the land like a giant white Chinese lantern.

One night, the family’s peaceful sleep is interrupted by the distant barks of their neighbor’s dogs. As if picking up the distress signals, Uncle Leang’s two dogs wake the two houses with their desperate screeches and howls.

“Quick, Pheng—the Khmer Rouge!” Uncle Leang shouts as he pounds on their door. The force of his knocks shakes the whole compound. Pheng leaps out of bed to let him in.

“How far are they?” Pheng hastily slips on his sandals and grabs an ax.

“I don’t know. Maybe very close. We must go and hide now.” Uncle Leang grabs Pheng’s arm as he turns back to look at his young family.

“Chou, go to Aunt Keang’s house and stay there until I come back,” Pheng tells her. And then he and Uncle Leang disappear into the dark woods. The noise of their bodies brushing against shrubs and bushes follows them, but then all is quiet.

In their silence, Chou stands gasping, her heart pushing at her chest. As her eyes fog over, the ringing in her ears turns her mute and deaf.

“Ma,” Eng calls out, her voice dazed and confused. “Ma? Pa …”

Immediately, Chou snaps back to life. She cinches her sarong tight around her waist and jogs to the bed. Pulling the net open, she scoops up Eng and puts her down on the ground.

“Eng, wake up and make no noise,” Chou orders her urgently. Too frightened to answer, Eng rubs her eyes and nods at her mother. Chou then grabs sleeping Chang and Hok and cradles one in each arm. “Eng, walk to Amah’s house. Walk in front of Ma. Quickly.” Slowly, Eng walks with unsteady legs as she feels her way on the bumpy ground in the dark. A few meters away, tied to a tree, Uncle Leang’s dogs bark at them, their front legs leaping into the air.

“Quickly, Eng!” At the sound of her mother’s raised voice, Eng begins to cry and her legs stop moving. Chou runs to Eng and picks her up off the ground. With her back bent by the weight of three children, her barefoot wide feet spread out like webs, she marches to Aunt Keang’s house.

“Aunt Keang,” Chou calls at the door, her voice rising above the barking dogs.

“Chou, come in!” Aunt Keang’s voice shakes, and she opens the door. She takes Eng from Chou’s hands. “Quickly, find a place to hide.”

With the precision of someone who’s done this many times, Chou takes her children and crawls under a plank bed while Aunt Keang locks the door with a wooden beam. Chou sits in a cross-legged lotus position while her two small babies sleep on her lap, their heads cradled in her arms. Next to her, Eng holds on to Chou’s arm, her small face pressed against her mother’s flesh.

“Ma, why don’t we let the dogs loose so they can bite the Khmer Rouge?” Aunt Keang’s little boy Nam asks her.

“No, my son. That will only make the soldiers more angry and more trouble for us,” Aunt Keang explains and wraps an arm around Nam.

“Chou, they will be all right,” Aunt Keang tells her in a small voice. “The Lord Buddha will look after them.” Chou silently echoes the prayer in her mind.

In the blackness of the room, Chou sees the red amber of the mosquito coil under the other plank bed. Around the small light, the dark shapes of the rest of her family huddle together. On their side of the room, Aunt Keang cradles her infant daughter Hoong in her arms and Amah sits with Nam on her lap. As they try to stay quiet, mosquitoes buzz around them in the hot, oppressive air. Outside, the dogs bark and howl loudly; their cries reach a frenzied pitch when dark ghosts emerge from the forest and run past them toward their master’s house.

“Open the door!” a Khmer Rouge soldier barks. Chou’s skin goes cold as she places her hand over Eng’s mouth. “Open the door or we’ll shoot it open!” Chou holds her breath and grits her teeth. In her arms, as if picking up their mother’s terror, the babies shiver and stir. “Open the door now! When we count to three, we’ll shoot! One!”

“Stop!” Aunt Keang cries out and rushes to open the door. The lead soldier pushes her aside, his rifle hanging off his shoulder and pointing straight out in front of him.

“The rest of you, come out of your hiding place!” Startled by the loud noises and the soldiers’ screams, the babies and infant children begin to cry, their wails filling up the hut. “Don’t you hear?” the lead soldier demands. “I said come out now!”

Slowly, Amah crawls out on all fours, her bony knees scraping against
the ground. Chou leaves her crying children under the bed and comes out after Amah. Behind her, the older children exit their hiding places while the toddlers and babies scream for their return.

“Only women and babies!” the soldier declares in disgust. “Where are the men and boys?”

“Good comrade,” Aunt Keang pleads. “We are a poor family. Our husbands and sons have to travel very far to sell our vegetables and crops. They are not here.”

The soldiers ignore her words and shine their flashlights under the beds. They still believe that all Chinese are rich and have gold in their houses. The small units of four soldiers all have guns swinging from their shoulders or waists. They roam through the hut, turning over crates, bags, and boxes. Since they can’t find the men, the soldiers sift through the clothes and stuff what they want in a burlap rice bag. Then they walk around the hut as if it’s a market and take pots, shoes, bags of rice, and dried fish. While they steal from the family, Chou’s breasts wet her dark shirt with milk at her baby’s cry. Outside, she hears more soldiers rummaging through her hut while the dogs bark on.

“No men and boys here!” a soldier shouts from Chou’s hut. Suddenly Chou hears the soldier curse the barking dogs and many loud solid thuds as he kicks them. The dogs yelp and then whimper, and then finally the lead soldier leaves Aunt Keang’s hut.

“Just take whatever we can use, then!” he shouts back in anger. After a moment, he reenters the hut, picks up a crate of the family’s silverware, and throws it against the wall. The noise splits open the night air and deafens Chou’s ears. “Where are your husbands and sons?” The soldier grabs Aunt Keang’s arm and glares at her.

“Please, comrade, they are not here.”

“Please, comrade, take whatever you want but don’t hurt us!” Chou begs and steps forward to stand by Aunt Keang. “Please don’t hurt us.” Chou takes Aunt Keang’s other arm.

The soldier looks at them with annoyance. “Let’s move on!” he hollers to his unit, and exits the hut. The family thanks him profusely as the rest of the soldiers grunt and pick up their bags of stolen goods. Still shaking, Chou watches the last soldier grab Uncle Leang’s old bike and
push it out the door. The bike’s wheels spin and rattle into the forest until finally everything is quiet again.

“Amah, come.” Chou leads her to the bed. “You rest.” Chou puts the babies back on the bed under the mosquito net. “Eng, watch your brother and sister.”

In the soft golden candlelight, Chou helps Aunt Keang pick up the crates and put their hut back into order. As she works, Chou prays for the safety of her husband and uncle. When the dogs bark again, Chou rushes out to the door.

“Pheng!” she yells, her hand gripping the door.

“I’m here as well,” he replies softly. Chou feels her stomach steady and exhales with relief.

“Thank the Lord Buddha you’re both safe!” Aunt Keang ushers them into the house. “What happened? Where did you hide?”

Once the women and children tell the men their story, Pheng begins to tell his.

After they left Chou, Pheng and Uncle Leang ran into the woods not far from the hut and made their way to the neighbor’s fields. There they found a cluster of big metal containers that the neighbor uses to collect palm juice and make sugar. Though many were full, Pheng found two empty ones where he and Uncle Leang could hide. Quickly, each climbed inside and slid on the wooden lid. Inside the containers, the air smelled of rust and sweet palm syrup. As he sat on top of a layer of sticky sugar, Pheng’s feet instantly began to tickle as if marched on by hundreds of little legs. Before Pheng could brush them off, the ants bit his ankles, the soft tissue between his toes, and the arches of his feet. But as he was about to leap out of his container, he heard people approaching. He knew no villagers would travel at night. Pheng clamped his teeth together while the ants feasted on his flesh. As the soldiers passed by, one abruptly banged a metal tin with the butt of his gun. Without thinking, Pheng fell to his knees and crouched lower in his container.

“It’s full!” the soldier yelled as he kicked a few more. With each kick, the tin made a small noise as palm juice splashed against the lids. “Should I check the rest?”

“No, let’s go!” another soldier replied, and then they were gone.

When Pheng finishes the story, Chou, Pheng, and their children carefully return to their own hut. Chou retrieves a small tin jar of tiger balm and rubs the oil on Pheng’s back while he does his legs and feet.

“It’s lucky the Khmer Rouge didn’t look for the cows in the back of the outhouse,” he says. “What else did they take from our hut?”

“Just two of your shirts and a bag of rice,” Chou answers quietly.

“We’re lucky. I still have one shirt left.” Pheng yawns and lies down.

By the time Chou’s head sinks into her pillow, she knows that when tomorrow comes, she will sell her new, never-worn white shoes to buy her husband another shirt.

23 no suzy wong

January 1991

My toes are beginning to go numb with cold. I imagine they will soon become gangrened and snap off my feet like icicles off a roof. I wiggle them to get the blood circulating and stare through the glass door at the parking lot. No signs of Mark’s jeep. It’s twelve noon. He’s thirty minutes late already. I press my hands on the door and will him to show up but he doesn’t. High above the earth, a small sun shines brightly in the clear blue sky. In the parking lot, tall piles of packed snow are slowly melting and creating black slush on the ground.

When I finally hear the roar of an engine, I glance up only to see an old Honda Civic inching its way toward the front door. A girl sporting a black, lumpy down jacket and a black skullcap climbs out and runs to the door as the car sputters away, white smoke puffing out of its exhaust pipe like storm clouds.

“Hey.” The girl opens the door and greets me, sending in a cold gust that stings my cheeks.

“Hi.” I smile back as she ascends the steps. I wrap my arms around myself and considering returning to my room. But I live on the fourth floor and am too lazy to make the trip.

Mark and I met last semester in our political science class. I was writing in my journal when he walked into class with his long, dirty-blond hair tied up in a ponytail. As he crossed the room in unhurried strides, I
took in the details of his blue jeans, fashionably shredded and ripped at the knees, and his wrinkled black sweater and multicolor woven belt. I was intrigued. On a campus full of pressed shirts, khaki pants, and brand-name dresses, he didn’t look the part of someone attending a four-year private Catholic college. And so in class, I secretly took pictures of him, my eyes like paparazzi cameras snapping up images of him from my perch.

Then after class one day, I approached the professor about an assignment. The next thing I knew, Mark was standing beside me with his questions. As the professor rushed off to his next class, he suggested that Mark and I discuss the material. We decided to meet over coffee. By the time we were through with the first cup, I had told Mark bits and pieces about Cambodia and my interest in politics. Halfway through the second cup, he shared that he took his sophomore year off to travel, and worked as an English teacher at a refugee camp in the Philippines. When we were both sufficiently caffeinated, I told him about the guy I was dating and he talked about his girlfriend. That was six months before.

And now he’s predictably thirty-five minutes late to pick me up for our hiking date.

In my mind, Mark’s lateness can only mean one of two things: either he’s been injured in an accident and is lying somewhere with his head gashed open and red blood melting the white snow around him, or he’s dead. I imagine his cold body lying in a hospital, pale and lifeless and unable to reach for a phone to call me. If he is dead, I hope at least that his death will be quick and painless.

When Mark’s jeep finally pulls up, he leaps out of the car to open the door for me.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says with a sheepish grin.

“Again,” I return with a steely gaze.

“Ready?”

“You’re always late. You know I hate waiting.”

“Come on, I’m sorry. It’s a gorgeous day and the sunset will be spectacular!”

I stand my ground and glare at him, my feet frozen to the ground.

“I’m really sorry. Let’s go. I’ll buy dinner at The Mandarin afterward.” Mark knows The Mandarin is my favorite Chinese restaurant.

“Fine, but I’m still pissed,” I tell him and get into the jeep.