The alley was littered with potholes. He wished they could be fixed but knew that far more important concerns faced Vietnam. His government was wise to let the potholes grow to the size of sinks. Better to cure a man of his disease, Sahn thought, than to cut away tissue and hope for the best.
He rounded a corner and saw the destination of his walk—the American woman’s center for street children. He studied the three-story building as much as his vision allowed. To him, the structure resembled a lifeless stone cube. Thinking of the woman’s efforts to create clouds on the ceiling, he wondered if she’d paint the exterior.
Sahn walked around the entire site. He wanted people to know that he was interested in the center, as his interest would make it less likely that twisted minds would seek to exploit the facility’s future inhabitants. He knew that children could be lured to their doom by nothing more than the offering of pretty things and promises. But with his shadow often looming, those providing such temptations would be forced to think twice.
His feet hardly stirring the gravel beneath them, Sahn moved to the fence that surrounded the lot behind the facility. Squinting, he looked through a hole and thought he saw the American soldier. The man appeared to be lifting stones and placing them on the ground. Either the work was hard or the man was weak, for he often paused. Sahn realized that the foreigner frequently drank from what might be a beer can. Pursing his lips, Sahn left the fence and proceeded to the front of the building.
The iron gate that could be pulled across the open-air entrance had been partially shut. Sahn stepped past the gate. “Hello?” he called out in Vietnamese.
A shape materialized—the girl beneath a baseball cap whom he’d spoken to before. “Good morning, Captain,” she said, her voice not unlike that of the bird. “May I help you?”
“Is the American woman here?”
“Upstairs. In her office. Would you like me to—”
“I’ll go,” he said, moving toward the stairwell.
“Please let me know if you need anything.”
Sahn grunted. He could tell that the walls bore brightly colored paints, but in the confined space, exactly what had been portrayed eluded him. Reaching the second floor, he turned to his right, moving more by memory than sight. He cleared his throat and the American woman rose from in front of a white box that he assumed was a computer monitor.
“I didn’t hear you,” she said, running her hand through her hair.
Sahn looked around the room, wishing she spoke Vietnamese. “You are busy?”
“Well . . . sort of. What can I help you with?”
He gestured toward the computer. “What do you work on?”
Iris wondered why he was here. She wasn’t sure what to make of him—if he was friend or foe. She would ask Thien about him. “I was writing an article,” she replied, hoping that he’d sit, that he wouldn’t always stand like such a statue. “An article for a magazine.”
“I thought you write about books. Not about . . . about maybe what you see in Vietnam. About how poor Vietnam is.”
“Would you like something to drink? Some water?”
“Is this article about Vietnam?”
“Yes.”
“What it say?”
Iris sighed, tired of being intimidated by the strange man before her. “I’ve got enough of my father’s money to last a year,” she said, sitting back down, but facing him. “You understand that? A year. If I don’t raise some more money . . . somehow . . . whatever we do here will end in twelve months. And the girls will be back on the streets. So I’m trying to write an article, sell it, and get it published. That might create some awareness about children who don’t have homes. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Because an article like that might bring some money our way. It might keep us afloat.”
Sahn tended to believe that Americans had mountains of money and chastised himself for not anticipating that the woman might run out of funds. “You could sell this?” he asked, amazed that someone might pay for such a thing.
“I don’t know,” she replied, glancing at the computer screen, knowing that her story wasn’t ready, that she didn’t yet understand the subject matter well enough. “But maybe to a big magazine. I think people want to hear about what’s happening in the world. And maybe if a million people read the story, a few people would help.”
Nodding, Sahn wondered if strangers might send money to help children they’d never met. “In America,” he asked, “do children live on streets?”
Iris thought about Chicago, about what she’d rarely seen, but knew existed. “It happens. Unfortunately.”
“Even in your rich country?”
“Yes. Even in our rich country.”
“Then why you no do something in America? Why come here?” A jackhammer sprang to life somewhere distant. Iris thought of Noah, as he’d be startled by the noise. “My father started something,” she answered, glancing at the urn on a shelf behind Sahn. “And I want to finish it.”
He grunted. “Maybe your father, he have a guilty mind.”
“So?” she replied, the notion of her father being disparaged in his own office causing her voice to intensify. “Maybe he did. But do you think what happened so long ago somehow takes away from what he was trying to do with this center?”
“I—”
“Maybe you should worry less about the past and more about the present.”
Sahn let her words tumble within him, knowing she was right but pretending otherwise. “How you choose them?” he asked, looking about the office, memorizing its blurs.
“Who?”
“The children. There be many who want to come.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t—”
“Start with youngest. And those with no family.”
“Why?”
“But be careful who you take them from.” He took a half step closer to her. “You understand? You be careful. And if you have problem, then you tell me.”
She rose from her chair. “But they’re all alone. That’s the whole point. They’re alone and living on the street.”
“No. You mistaken. They need people and people need them. So be careful who you take them from. You take them from wrong kind of people, and someone come looking for you. And not a good person. Understand?”
Her heart quickened its pace. She’d never imagined that she could place herself in danger by opening the center. “But . . . but how can I tell . . . who I might take them from?”
He pursed his lips. “You pick your girls. Then bring them to park. Stay there all day. I will change clothes. And I will see who follows them to park. And if bad person comes, then I will take this person away.”
“For how long?”
“One hour. Forever. That be their choice. But either way, they no bother you again.”
“Why are you helping me?” she asked, unsettled by how he looked at her. His eyes seemed so lifeless, like a pair of dark stones that had been set within his head.
“I no help you,” he said, grunting. “I help children, the future of Vietnam.”
She glanced at the clock on her computer. “Well, I should get back to work. I’ve got a lot to do today.”
“Tomorrow I bring something for children.”
“You’ll what? What do you mean?”
He thought about his fish tank, about the brown blurs that he’d fed for so long. He’d enjoyed feeding the blurs, watching them dart toward his fingers. Perhaps the children would also enjoy such a simple pleasure. He hoped so. “You will read it to me?” he asked, turning to leave.
“Read it?”
“Your article. I may wish to add something.”
She shrugged. “You may add whatever you want.”
NOAH WANTED TO ENJOY THE MOMENT—the process of laying large, flat stones on the new soil to create a path through the playground. Before Iraq, such a project would have created not only a sense of accomplishment, but a comforting knowledge that something of his making would enjoy a degree of permanence. As a teenager, he’d spent his summers working for the park service and had built several trails and bridges. He had liked fashioning such creations and often carved his initials into unseen spaces, so that he could return later and admire what he’d built with his hands and will.
The making of a trail or a bridge had been strangely cathartic, the process of driving a nail into freshly cut wood a simple pleasure that Noah found hard to replicate. While working outdoors, he’d often whistled or hummed, pleased to be alone in the woods with nothing more than a hammer or shovel in his hands. In the woods he could listen to the birds, feel the sun on his face, or find treasures that only he’d ever truly appreciate.
Now, as Noah leaned over and forced a heavy stone into place, he felt immeasurably saddened by the fact that it no longer felt good to be working outside. Even after he’d popped a pain pill earlier in the morning, his stump and back ached. And these aches bound him to his sorrows, as they reminded him of what his life had become and what it had once been. A year ago, creating a stone trail that children would follow into a playground he made would have brought him profound joy. But now, he could focus only on what he’d lost—the freedom to live without suffering, without regret, bitterness, and anger tainting his thoughts.
The stone fell on Noah’s finger, scraping the skin from his knuckle the way a paring knife peeled away a potato’s casing. He winced, watching blood fill the wound and drip to the ground. He didn’t curse, didn’t wipe the blood away. The knuckle hurt, but he knew this hurt would fade. It was nothing, of no consequence whatsoever. Its ability to cause pain would expire and his wound would heal.
But nothing would ever bring back his leg, and this knowledge produced a bitterness in him that he hadn’t known he was capable of feeling. He was bitter that he’d been maimed, that he’d so blindly trusted his government, that he hated who he had become. If only he could build a time machine. With a time machine he could go back to his job of selling cars instead of enlisting in the marines. With a time machine he could return to who he once was—the man who laughed and played jokes and enjoyed his own thoughts.
Noah wiped the blood from his knuckle on his sock and kept working. He reached for another stone, a part of him wanting to build the path and another part wanting to bury himself beneath the heavy rocks. The stone fought him for a few heartbeats and he wrestled it into place. He forced his misery aside long enough to imagine the path snaking its way through the playground. He started to work again, glancing up as Thien emerged from the center, carrying two glasses.
“Good morning, Mr. Noah,” she said, smiling widely, her sandals leaving prints in the fresh soil.
“Hello.”
She studied his path, wondering where it would go. “Are you making a yellow brick road?”
He shrugged. “I would if I could.”
Thien saw his whiskey bottle lying nearby and walked over to it. She poured a dash of whiskey into the glass of mango juice that she’d prepared. “Here,” she said. “This will lead you to the wizard.”
Noah saw warmth and perhaps compassion on her face. He took the drink and sipped it. “Why don’t you judge me?” he asked, watching her sip her own drink, moved that she’d so freely pour him whiskey.
“Judge you?” she replied, wiping her brow with paint-stained fingers. “How could I? I have never been in a war. Or hurt like you. Or suffered like you. Maybe if I did not have a leg, I would also drink or do something else to escape.”
“I doubt it.”
“Whiskey does not make you weak, Mr. Noah. People escape with food, with sports, with power and money. Whiskey is no different than those things.”
“But those people . . . they aren’t . . . numb. They know how to live. They aren’t ruined.”
She gestured toward the skyline. “Vietnam was once ruined. Parts of it will always be ruined. But there is also much beauty here. More beauty than ruins.”
Noah sipped his drink, wishing that he didn’t always feel so alone, didn’t have to stand and face his demons with no one beside him. “I’m so . . . tired, Thien. Do you think I’ll always be so tired?”
Her hand found his elbow, gripping it lightly. “You are worn down, Mr. Noah. Your body and mind are worn down, and you could sleep for three days and three nights and still feel worn down.”
“You’re right,” he replied, his voice trembling slightly.
“I wish I could take your suffering. I would take it for the rainy season, just to give you a rest.”
“You would?”
“Of course,” she said, continuing to grip his elbow. “But I cannot take your pain. When you need it, though, I will make you a mango whiskey drink. And if you wish, I will sing a little song for you. And maybe my drink and my song will let you rest.”
His eyes grew moist. “Would you . . . sing something now?” he asked, needing to be reminded again of beauty. “Just for a minute?”
Thien set her glass down, adjusted her baseball cap, and then began to sing. At first her voice was little more than a whisper of wind as it tried to squeeze through old walls. But then her voice rose, and the whisper became a living thing that seemed to envelope Noah in a cocoon of purity and strength and loveliness. He didn’t understand her words. He’d never heard the song before. But her voice rescued him for a moment, taking his hand and leading him toward a place of light. He let her guide him to this place, and he watched her face as she sang of something that made her smile.
When her lips finally ceased to stir, he found her eyes. “How did you do that?”
“Make you a mango whiskey drink?” she asked, grinning.
He shook his head, wondering how she’d briefly managed to make him feel as if he weren’t alone. “I don’t know how you did that,” he finally said.
“I just sang a song, Mr. Noah. Nothing more. But I was happy to sing it for you. Thank you for listening.”
He was about to ask her to sing one more song but saw that two children had walked through the first floor of the center and now stood at the edge of the playground. He recognized them. The boy with the missing hand stood holding his game box. The girl whom he’d been with at the park was next to him. The two children glanced around, and the girl waved, her gesture warm but indecisive.