When Heaven Fell (14 page)

W
hen the bus pulled into the village, Binh looked out the window to see her family waiting in a line, just as they’d stood in the morning. Once again, Ba and Anh Hai wore their good white shirts, and even though it was very late, Ba Ngoai had come along.

Anh Hai carried a sign that said,
Mung Di Hai va Em tro ve!
Welcome Home, Auntie and Sister!

Her family expected the ocean to be her big news, Binh thought. Goose bumps rose along her arms. Soon they’d learn how much her life was about to change.

Di descended first, and Ba Ngoai drew her daughter to her with a sigh.

Binh stepped down, and everyone pressed close, as though making sure she’d really come home. Even Anh Hai put a hand on her shoulder.

Cuc kicked at the ground. “I bet you had fun.”

Binh shrugged. “It was okay.” On purpose, she’d left Cuc behind. But now she would make up for it. “Will you come home with us?” Binh held out her hand. “I have something for you.”

The white dogs ambled to greet them, and the house smelled of familiar, sweet incense. Bowls of rice and vegetables with bean curd were laid out, ready to eat. Someone had fixed Binh’s favorite dish of sliced melon with mint.

Binh smiled at the photographs of the ancestors, wondering if they too were welcoming her home. There, among the offerings of flowers and fruit, lay Di’s rocks:
Love, Imagination,
and
Wonder.

Binh’s whole body settled.

“How was the trip?” Anh Hai asked.

“It was exciting. But”— Binh looked around at everyone —“it’s also nice to be home.”

“Tell us everything,” said Ba.

While Di Hai showed the photos on the screen of her camera, Binh told about the ride through the unfamiliar landscape, her first sight of the ocean, the swimming, the foreigners in the tourist town, the odd tastes of the Italian food.

She didn’t mention the conversation in the tourist shop.

When the meal had been eaten and the bowls, spoons, and chopsticks placed in the large woven basket, Di took the card from her purse. She looked around as though she didn’t know to whom to hand it. Finally, she settled on Ba Ngoai.

Ba Ngoai unsealed the envelope. She held up the card with the straw birds for everyone to admire. When she opened it, a variety of bills fell into her lap.

Binh even saw American money, the green faces of the men looking up at her.

Cuc gasped.

“Dear family,” Di said, “from time to time I will be able to spare a little something for you.”

Ba passed his hot cup of tea from hand to hand.

Ma glanced up.

Anh Hai studied his fingernails, black with motorcycle grease.

Ba Ngoai slid closer to Di Thao.

Each of them, Binh saw, was trying to hide a smile.

Di touched Binh’s hand. “Now,” she whispered.

Binh smiled at the gecko on the ceiling, then spread a hand on each knee. She paused until she had everyone’s attention. When they looked to her to speak, she took a big breath and announced: “Di Hai is going to send me to school.”

Steam rose from the cups of tea, and beyond, the river danced in the darkness.

Di Thao looked at Ma until Ma nodded slightly.

“I don’t have enough money to bring anyone to America,” Di said, then paused, letting the words sink in. “But I want to pay for Binh and Cuc to go to school. They need an education.”

“Oh! Me too?” Cuc asked, her eyes brightening.

When Di nodded, Cuc climbed over Anh Hai’s lap, knocking over a cup of tea, to fling her arms around Di’s neck.

Anh Hai winked at Binh, and Binh just smiled.

W
hen Binh entered the school surrounded by high walls, she was wearing Cuc’s dress with the red flowers. Ba Ngoai had taken up the hem and washed out the smudge of oil from Cuc’s bicycle.

As Binh, Cuc, and Di passed through the gate, two roosters strutted across the courtyard. Binh heard the sound of children reciting in one classroom and in another, the voice of a woman reading numbers. She paused.

“Aren’t you coming, Binh?” Cuc asked, turning back to her.

Binh drew a circle in the dust with her toe, remembering the many children who’d bought fruit cups and sodas at the cart. She pulled her
non la
low over her eyes. “Do I really belong here?” she whispered to Di.

“As much as anyone,” Di said, lifting Binh’s hat and looking into her face.

Cuc took her own hat off. “In America,” she said, “everyone goes to school.”

Di took Binh and Cuc by the hand. Together they marched across the courtyard, sending the roosters scurrying ahead.

Binh saw a woman — was it the one who’d smiled at her the other day? — come out of a classroom.

Binh lifted her hand to wave, and the woman waved back.

Di stopped at a red door with a sign that said
Office.
Letting go of Binh’s hand, she turned the knob and went inside.

Mr. Luong, who was also the village mayor, stood to greet them in his black suit and white shirt. A portrait of Ho Chi Minh — with a long, narrow beard — and a yellow hammer and sickle on a red flag hung behind Mr. Luong’s desk.

The wall was dirtied at the base where the mop had bumped against it.

“Sit down,” said Mr. Luong, pulling up three chairs. The chairs scraped on the tan floor tiles.

Binh noticed that some tiles were perfect squares, others chipped at the edges. She sat down and pulled the skirt of her dress straight. The red flowers bloomed over her knees. She held her
non la
like a soft shield across her chest.

“My name is Sharon Hughes,” Di began. “I mean it is Thao . . . uh . . . Hughes. These are my nieces, Binh and Cuc. They will be coming to school here.”

“Very good. It is always good to have new students. Welcome, girls.”

Binh looked into Mr. Luong’s brown eyes.

“They have never been to school,” Di said.

Binh blinked at Di’s words, as though a bright light had been turned on.

“In that case, they will need to take an examination,” Mr. Luong said. “We need to know how much they know.”

Mr. Luong didn’t seem shocked, Binh noticed. He acted as though entering school so late was normal.

“Does that mean they might be put in with younger children?” Di asked.

“It’s a possibility.”

Cuc put her hand to her mouth and giggled.

“But only temporarily,” Mr. Luong said hastily. “These look like smart girls who will catch up quickly.”

Binh hardly cared if she was put in a younger class. She wouldn’t sell on the street anymore. She’d become one of those in the blue and white uniforms. She’d learn about the world and hear all the stories she wanted.

At home, Binh slipped her new school uniforms, wrapped in cellophane, underneath the ancestral altar. She lined her new books along the wall and placed a pink dragon on either end.

Di held up the tourist guidebook. “We can get a head start on your education, Binh. This book includes a chapter on the history of Vietnam. I’ll translate it for you.”

They sat side by side while very slowly, omitting words she didn’t know, Di Hai translated the English words into Vietnamese.

Every now and then, she stopped to quiz Binh. “What year did the war with France start? . . . How did China influence Vietnamese culture? . . . Why did the Americans withdraw from the war in 1973?”

They leafed through the guidebook, looking at pictures of a tall waterfall, beaches with jagged rocks rising out of the water, and the wide, green Mekong River.

“It’s too bad you’ve only seen a little bit of Vietnam,” Binh said, inching closer to her auntie. Di would go back to America and might never visit these beautiful places.

Di sighed, then smiled. “I guess I’ll have to come back, won’t I?”

“Oh, yes!” said Binh, taking Di’s hand. “Oh, yes!” She flipped to the picture of the waterfall. “When you return, can we go here?” She put her finger on the lacy cascade.

“Of course, Binh. We’ll go together.”

Binh squeezed Di’s hand, and Di squeezed back.

Just as the sun balanced on the horizon, its orange rays passing through the open doorway, Di took the guidebook from Binh. She opened to a new page and said, “And now, let’s get back to our studies. It says here that Vietnam is a country moving forward. . . .”

While the sunshine silently entered the room, Binh found herself sitting very close to Di Hai, listening to the story of her country. The color ripened, and Binh watched the transformation of her home: the plain walls, the borrowed motorcycle in the corner, and Ma’s stack of
non la
s all aglow. Her world, the center of the world, was being painted with a rich golden light.

In 1975, Operation Babylift flew more than four thousand Vietnamese children out of their country to new homes in America, Canada, Europe, and Australia. Supposedly these children were orphans, but many were not. Some parents hoped that their child would have a chance at a better life in the United States. Many mothers sent children who had American GI fathers. These children were considered
my lai,
in danger of being killed by the new Communist regime. The Communists had fought against the Americans and regarded these children as enemies.
My lai
children who survived were often shunned and mistreated by Vietnamese society.