Tâm watched the massacre from the path behind her family’s hut. When they shot her parents and Sáng, a violent rage swept through her. She understood what her mother had done and why. She would have done it too. Now she wanted to attack, maim, and kill every American soldier in the village. Slowly and painfully. Like a photograph from her father’s camera, the deaths and destruction of her village would be imprinted in her memory forever. They would pay.
But Mai was still in the bush. She couldn’t abandon her sister. The only family Tâm had left. But Tâm couldn’t take the chance that a clumsy step or the snap of a twig might reveal her to the Americans. So she squatted on the path. She couldn’t see, but she could hear. The soldiers’ leader was talking, his tone harsh and defensive. Long silences followed his words. He must be on a two-way radio. Was he receiving orders?
At last he signed off and yelled to his men. More heat spilled over Tâm. She peeked out. The Americans were burning the bodies. The fires were so intense she had to retreat into the bush. Then she moved, knowing her movements would be muffled by the crackle and hiss of the flames. She hid behind a grove of coconut palms until two helicopters approached and hovered overhead, their blades roaring and whipping the air into eddies and currents of wind. The men aboard the chopper must have given the all clear because after they thundered off, the GIs packed up their gear and headed out on foot.
She returned to the path and looked out. There was nothing left of the village except the foundations of straw huts, still-burning bushes and trees, charred lumps that were once humans, and blackened earth. The odor of burned flesh, thickly sweet and nauseating, permeated the air. A crow cawed. The vultures would swoop down soon.
Tâm cautiously made her way back to the jackfruit trees, a grief as deep as the Mekong River mingling with, then surpassing her rage. She debated whether to find her family’s bodies and cremate them. That was the Buddhist way. Then again, the Americans had already done that. She gazed at the scene in the clearing. Find Mai, she heard her father’s voice say. There will be time to mourn. Protect your sister.
It was the hottest part of the day and the heat was oppressive. But she didn’t allow herself to think about that. She tried to imagine what she could possibly say to her sister—she didn’t know how much of the massacre Mai had seen. But when she reached the spot at which she’d left her, her sister was gone.
Had she run deeper into the forest? Had the soldiers found her and—Tâm swallowed—killed her too? She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t stay here. She and Papa had shared many conversations, but how to survive in the bush wasn’t one.
The Americans seemed to be gone, but she didn’t think it was safe to call out, so she trudged in ever widening circles around their original hiding spot. She crept slowly, making as little sound as possible, on the alert for human footsteps, their scents, the swish of brush moved aside.
Nothing.
Tâm ran her hands up and down her arms, feeling desperate. The nearest village was several miles away. Easy to reach in a cart with oxen, but there were no oxen. Had Mai ducked deeper into the bush? No. Mai was afraid of forest critters, especially ones that foraged at night. And night would fall in a few hours.
Tâm retraced the path to the river. To be safe, she climbed down the hill rather than the steps. She didn’t want to risk being seen by a passerby in a sampan or boat. As she neared the shore, she heard tuneless humming. Discordant notes. Tâm shaded her eyes from the sun and looked up and down the shore. There! Protected from the sun, a slight figure squatted at the edge of the river, rinsing shirts in the water. Mai. Tâm broke into a jog and hurried toward her sister.
“Mai,” she cried joyfully. “I’ve been searching for you! I’m so glad you’re here. But we are too exposed. We must move back from the beach and hide.”
When Tâm started talking, Mai made no sign of recognition. In fact, she scrambled to her feet and ran in the opposite direction.
“Dirty Rabbit!” Tâm chased after her sister, using the nickname their parents had given Mai. Many Vietnamese parents bestowed unflattering, practically insulting nicknames on their children. An ancient tradition, it was done to keep evil spirits away. When the spirits heard what parents called their children, they would not be tempted to injure or allow bad karma to fester on them. Mai was “Dirty Rabbit.” Tâm was “Stinky Monkey.”
But hearing her family nickname only made Mai run faster. They used to race when they were younger. Mai was small and nimble and often beat Tâm. Now, though, a haze of leftover soot and smoke lingered at the river’s edge, making it hard to breathe. Why was Mai running? Where to?
Mai peered over her shoulder as she ran. Tâm waved. “It’s me, Mai. Please. Stop!”
But Mai showed no sign she knew who Tâm was. Tâm started to close the distance between them. When Mai glanced over her shoulder again, Tâm saw panic on her face and began to understand. Mai was fragile, her emotions close to the surface. Right now, Mai’s mind was not her own. The trauma of the day’s events had been too much for her. In her mind, Tâm was the enemy, intent on capturing and killing her.
Tâm slowed down and coughed up phlegm. She squatted on the narrow strip of beach and worried her hands through her hair. Her mother, when she felt helpless or afraid, would go to the temple to give an offering to the monks. After the nightmare of today, Tâm’s faith was stretched thin. But if a prayer would bring Mai to her senses, she would give Buddha ten.
She must have waited more than an hour. The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon. The haze in the air created a perversely beautiful sunset. How could Buddha or whatever deity controlled the sun have the nerve to paint such a brilliant combination of reds, oranges, and gold? In this light the Mekong looked clear and clean. Tâm bowed her head and rocked. She tried to recall what prayer she was supposed to say.
In a corner of their hut on a shelf above their heads, her mother had created a small shrine to Buddha. She’d bought a small statuette of the god and placed a gold bowl and wood bell next to it, easily the most valuable objects they owned. It was there that her mother placed fresh-cut flowers, lit candles, and burned incense a few times a week. As Tâm prayed, watching the sun slowly sink, she felt her spirit loosen. The day was ending much like it had begun. Calm. At peace.
Tâm wasn’t sure how long she prayed. Dusk settled, lengthening shadows and darkening the water of the Mekong. Eventually she felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned around. “Mai!” Her cheeks were dirty and tear streaked. Tâm got to her feet and they embraced.