The Honk and Holler Opening Soon (7 page)

Smiling, Bui blinked back tears. When he walked away, he was still wearing the warmth on his skin from Milton’s strong, dark fingers.

Then, just before he reached the sidewalk, he heard footsteps coming up behind him.

“Không may ma˘ń, ba·n tôi.”

Stunned at hearing his own language, Bui wheeled and stared into the face of a teenage boy wearing one of the detailers’ blue shirts with TRAN NGUYEN written above the pocket.

“Ba·n? Ba·n có thê2 go·i tôi?”

The boy made a shushing sound as he gestured toward the other workers, but Bui didn’t seem to notice. The words, which had been locked inside him for so long, began to spill out, the staccato sounds of Vietnamese coming with sudden rush, punctuated only by quick stabs of breath.

“Come on,” the boy said, pointing to the street, but Bui’s hurry now was not in leaving.

“Ba·n có thê2 qui´p tôi d-u’o·’c không,”
Bui said, hoping the boy could intervene for him with Apostolos.

“Hey, man. Not here, not in front of these guys.” Taking Bui by the elbow, the boy steered him to the street.

Like a child with no sense of direction, Bui let himself be pro-pelled down the sidewalk, then pulled into the doorway of a squat, empty building.

“Hãy nghe tôi.”
The boy’s tone sounded warmer and more sincere in Vietnamese.

Ten minutes later, Tran Nguyen left Bui with an empty money pouch and the assurance that he would make Apostolos change his mind.

Bui understood such dealings. Several hundred dong given to the father of a beautiful girl could secure a lovely wife; several thousand slipped into the hands of a government official could provide passage to a new country. And here in America, four hundred sixty-six dollars would buy back a job.

Bui hoped that Apostolos would not demand all the money, but even if he did, it would be a small price to pay. The Vietnamese boy had told him about the bonus the workers got every month, a bonus that sometimes ran as much as eight hundred dollars.

For the first hour he waited, Bui thought of all a good job would bring—a nice car for Nguyet to ride in, a beautiful house and garden, trips to Disney World and the Grand Canyon.

During the second hour, the sky darkened and rain began to fall.

Within minutes the detailers started to leave work, running to their cars with their blue shirts sticking to their backs.

Still, the Vietnamese boy did not return.

Perhaps, Bui thought, the boy did not have enough influence to beg his case. Or maybe had not shown the proper respect. Bui had seen the result of such mishandled attempts many times. A government permit, bought and paid for, could get lost. An apartment secured with a thousand dong might require another thousand before the deal was done. So much could go wrong.

The rain had stopped before Bui finally stepped out of the doorway, but the clouds hung low and a chill wind picked at bits of trash in the gutters.

A chain hung across the entrance to the empty parking lot, its asphalt surface washed clean by the rain.

When Bui found the door unlocked and the office bright with light, he believed he might still have hope for a blue shirt with his name. But when he found Apostolos alone, his face full of confusion and surprise, Bui knew the Vietnamese boy had taken his money and run away.

By the time Apostolos pieced together the story, his face was red with rage.

“That little some-o-bitch!” Apostolos screamed. “Lying little some-o-bitch!”

But this time Bui didn’t struggle to understand what he was hearing, didn’t try to make sense of the words.

“Malaka!”
Apostolos pounded his desk. “Thieving chicken-squat
malaka,
” he yelled, reaching for the phone. “Well, the police will pin his skinny ass to the wagon.”

“No!” Bui heard the echo of his own voice as he pleaded with the yellow-haired woman in the middle of the Houston street. “No police!”

But Apostolos was already dialing, even as Bui backed out the door.

*

An hour and fifty-two miles later, with the fuel needle pointing to E, Bui remembered the twenty-dollar bill Apostolos had put in his pocket that morning.

He pulled off the highway at the next station, a truck stop, and filled the car with regular.

Inside, he paid for the gas, then waited for his change at the counter where a sheet of glass covered a map of the United States.

When the clerk dropped two coins on the glass, Bui picked them up from the places where they fell—a quarter on top of Nevada, a penny on Tennessee.

Then, without knowing why, Bui placed the flat of his hand over the map, pressed his palm into the middle of the country and spread his fingers wide. But his reach was too small to cover it . . . the breadth of his hand too narrow to stretch from east to west, the width too short to touch north or south.

He studied his hand there on top of America and wondered how he could ever find his place in a country so big.

He had left his home with a dream . . . a dream that had walked with him across Vietnam, sailed with him on the South China Sea, lived with him in a refugee camp in Malaysia. And now that dream seemed as lost as he was.

“Where you headed, partner?”

Bui turned to the man standing beside him, a big man with red hair twisting from beneath a cap with GLOBAL TRANSFER printed across the front.

“Saw you ponderin’ over this map, thought you might need some help.”

Bui nodded, more for the sake of courtesy than from understanding.

“Well, tell me where it is you’re tryin’ to get to, and I’ll show you the way.”

Bui narrowed his eyes in concentration and watched the man’s lips, waiting for more information.

“Just show me where you’re goin’,” the man said as he tapped his finger against the glass.

Uncertain, Bui let his gaze wander over the map, taking in the strange shapes and odd-sounding names. Finally, he reached out and touched a spot near the center of America.

“Oklahoma? Why, hell, partner, you’re almost there. See, you’re gonna cross the Red River . . .”

Bui walked out of the truck stop into swirls of tiny flakes of ice.

He had seen snow only in pictures—white banks piled against houses, cars half-buried, the round shapes of snowmen with hats atop their heads.

He smiled at the thought of Nguyet seeing snow for the first time, imagined her eyes wide with surprise, could see her spinning, mouth open to catch the taste of it on her tongue.

Bui’s car, holding the snow in its creases and dents, was painted in soft patterns of white. And when he crawled inside, the vinyl seat covering, now stiff with the cold, made cracking sounds as he slid across it.

After he turned the key in the ignition, the motor caught once, then died. He pumped the gas pedal several times before he tried again, but the engine, sputtering, would not fire.

Bui was anxious to get back on the road, to drive into the darkness and snow. He had miles yet to travel, but he would not be traveling alone. His dream had resettled inside him, the dream that would ride with him across a river named Red to a land called Oklahoma.

When Bui turned the key again, the car roared to life.

“Okay,” he said, grinning. “Let this shit wagon roll.”

C
ANEY HAD BEEN WATCHING for her since sunup, though he had no reason to expect her at that time of morning. Even so, as soon as he had the coffee going, he was back at the front window, waiting.

When he saw her coming, he hurried to fill two cups, then slid one across the counter for her. He tried to wipe the smile off his face before she walked in, but couldn’t quite get it done. He was glad she was there, and no way in hell could he hide it.

“You’re out early,” he said, sounding more pleased than he had a right to.

“What time do you open?”

“Whenever the first customer walks in.”

Vena, unsure if Caney was teasing or telling the truth, looked at the Coors clock mounted above the jukebox.

“It’s not even six.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “If you’re hungry, then you’re the first customer. And if you’re the first customer, then we’re open.”

“Okay.” Vena smiled. “I’m hungry.”

“Great! How do you like your eggs?”

“Scrambled. Let me put the dog in the back and I’ll help you.”

“She doing any better?”

“Not much.”

When Vena came back from the utility room, Caney was already in the kitchen, slapping a thick slice of ham onto the grill.

“Smells good,” she said as she soaped her hands at the sink.

“You had her a long time?”

“What?”

“The dog.”

“Found her a few days ago in Kansas.” Vena took a handful of eggs from the refrigerator and began cracking them into a bowl.

“She’d been hit by a car.”

“What do you do, travel the country looking for—”

“How many of these will you eat?” Vena jumped in so quickly that Caney’s question got lost.

“None for me.” Caney flipped the ham over, then brushed butter on two slices of bread. “So, you come from Kansas?”

Vena feigned attention to the eggs, whipping them to a froth.

“You already had breakfast?”

“No. I just make it a rule not to eat my own cooking.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Well, good enough to keep the doors open. Can’t manage to find a cook who’ll stay more than three days.”

“Maybe you’re too hard on the help.”

“Yeah,” Caney said in mock sincerity. “That’s how I whipped Molly O into shape.”

“What time does she come in?”

“Whenever she damn well wants to.”

Vena glanced toward the front, half expecting to see Molly O at the door. “Doubt she’s going to be thrilled to find me here.”

“Look, Vena, I don’t know what got into her last night, but don’t pay any attention to it.”

“Is she a relative? Or . . . a friend.”

“Little bit of both, I guess. She’s been with me since I opened this place. Loyal as a brood hen. And she likes to mother me. Too much. But that’s just her way.”

Vena poured the beaten eggs on the grill as Caney turned the toast, his arm brushing against her hip.

“Sorry,” he said.

They were quiet while Caney finished with Vena’s breakfast. She carried her plate to the dining room and slid onto a stool while Caney wheeled to the other side of the counter, handed her a knife and fork, then freshened their coffee.

He watched her as she ate, but she was too hungry to feel self-conscious.

“This is good,” she said between bites. “You’re a better cook than you give yourself credit for.”

“Well, it’s hard to mess up ham and eggs.”

“So you open this place whenever someone shows up, and you don’t close till nine?”

“Seven days a week.”

“When do you get a chance to get out?”

“Oh, if we had someone dependable in the kitchen, Molly O

could run the Honk without me, but . . .” Caney was quick to turn Vena’s attention back to her food. “You want some jelly?”

“That’ll do it for me.” Vena laid her knife and fork across her plate. “Best breakfast I’ve had in a while.”

“Now you’re just trying to butter up the cook.” Caney poured more coffee, then offered Vena a Camel.

“I’m quitting,” she said, but before Caney pulled the pack away, she held out her hand. “But I’m not quite there yet.”

Caney lit her cigarette, then his own.

“You know,” he said, “Molly O was probably right about this being a slow weekend. We’re not likely to get a crowd in here today and tomorrow won’t be any better.”

“I don’t know.” Vena gestured toward the window. “Looks like you’re getting off to a good start.”

Caney looked up just as Life Halstead opened the door and stepped inside.

“Morning, Caney. Ma’am.” As Life took his stool at the counter, he craned his neck trying to see into the kitchen.

“Guess she’s sleeping in this morning,” Caney said.

“Never knew her to do that.”

“Well, sometimes we all break the pattern, don’t we?”

“Not me.”

“You ready for your breakfast?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Life said with reluctance. “But Molly O always takes care with my eggs, Caney. Makes sure the whites ain’t runny and the yolks ain’t hard.”

“I’ll do my best, Life.”

Caney rolled into the kitchen, and after Vena crushed out her cigarette, she picked up her plate and followed him.

“Can I help?”

“I guess I can handle this.”

“Then I wonder if I could ask you a favor?”

“Shoot.”

“If you’ve got a shower back there in your room, I’d sure like to use it. See, they haven’t turned the water on at my new place yet.”

“Help yourself. Towels and washrags in the hall closet.”

“Thanks. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time.”

Caney’s bedroom felt familiar to Vena in the way that one motel room seems like a hundred others. The walls were unadorned except for a framed print of a mountain scene, picked, no doubt, by Molly O for the colors that matched the bedspread.

The room was spare and neat. Vena imagined that Molly O did the cleaning, slipping in sometime every morning to smooth the covers back on the bed, empty Caney’s ashtray and straighten the stack of paperback books on the bedside table.

Vena located the linen closet in the hallway leading to the bathroom. When she opened the door and reached in to grab a towel, she saw that the top shelf was crowded with trophies. She didn’t count them, but figured there were twenty-five or thirty, heavy trophies each topped by a brass figure, a rider perched on the back of a bucking horse.

She stood on tiptoes to reach the tallest of these, pulled it down and read the plaque on the base.

CANEY PAXTON

FIRST PLACE

BAREBACK EVENT

HILDAGO COUNTY RODEO, 1971

Molly O arrived just in time to listen to Life’s whispered com-plaints about the mess Caney had made of his eggs. As evidence, Life had saved two small clumps of congealed yolk which he’d hidden beneath his toast. He wanted to make sure Molly O felt the sting of guilt over the damage her tardiness had caused.

But Molly O was a little stingy with her remorse, owing, perhaps, to the strain of facing the first early hours of a gray Christmas Eve. Try as she might, she just couldn’t manage to force regret and joy at the same time.