Two Weeks Later
The life span of some butterflies is only two weeks, Tâm thought one night after work. If she’d been a butterfly, the past two weeks would have given her an enterprising, resourceful life. Both she and Mai were settling into their jobs at the Saigon Café. Tâm remembered Bác Quang mentioning a refugee camp in Cholon, not far from the Binh Tay market, so after their interview they walked back to check it out. During the Tết Offensive two months earlier, the North Vietnamese Army and their Communist allies in the South, the Viet Cong, had penetrated Cholon and held it for nearly a week before South Vietnamese and U.S. forces took it back. Since then, it had been generally peaceful. Tâm rationalized it was only a temporary solution, and it was free. The sisters spent their first week’s wages on a tent and two mats and moved in.
The camp teemed with hundreds if not thousands of refugees from the south and central parts of the country. Like Tâm and Mai’s, their arrival was the result of American retaliation for Tết. Space was cramped, conditions were unsanitary, and the level of noise during the day, whether it was children playing, adults shouting, or the din of Saigon around them, was oppressive. Tâm longed for the silence of the bush back home.
But there were benefits. Women set up makeshift markets in the camp, and the sisters could barter or buy fresh fruits and vegetables, phở, even cooked chicken and fish. Because of their evening hours, Tâm and Mai usually returned late, when the noise was muted, except for sporadic gunfire on the outskirts of the city.
By the end of the first week, Mai had befriended several girls around her own age. Some, like her, had jobs; others didn’t. But all of them were of an age when they thought they knew everything about the world and could navigate the ocean of life with ease. When they gathered together, they chattered like magpies, offering one another advice about jealous boyfriends, overly protective mothers, or how to find a good paying job.
Tâm listened with half an ear when they met in their tent, instead studying the English phrase book they’d bought. She begged Mai to do the same, but Mai was unenthusiastic.
“Why must I study English?” she complained one night. “It’s a waste of time. I’ll never use it.”
“Because a waitress who knows English makes more money than a kitchen helper.” Tâm reminded her that Cô Cúc had said Mai was pretty and could waitress if she learned enough English.
“But I don’t want to be a waitress.”
“What are you going to do?”
Mai gave her a sly smile, as though she had a secret. “I may have other plans.”
“What other plans?”
“You’ll see.”
“Mai, what are those chatterboxes filling your ears with?”
Mai shrugged. “If you’re so eager for me to waitress, why don’t you take the position?”
Tâm had no illusions about her own beauty. She was average—not ugly, not beautiful. She wasn’t jealous of Mai’s looks; she had never considered beauty a defining character trait. But beauty could be an asset in business, and that included a restaurant where a pretty waitress could make extra money. “What secrets are you hiding?”
“I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”
The stirrings of anger roiled Tâm’s gut. She’d saved her sister from certain death after the massacre, made sure she had food and a path forward, even if it was by sampan. Yes, Mai had approached Anh Phong and his father’s trawler, but that was just luck. Tâm had found them jobs and a place to live. And this was how Mai repaid her? Not with gratitude, but with secrets and smirks? Tâm understood how frustrated her parents had been with Mai at times. Sometimes Tâm herself wanted to slap her sister’s face. But Mai was only fourteen. Not much older than a child, despite her pronouncements. Sixteen was the age of majority in Vietnam. So Tâm reined in her feelings and spoke quietly.
“Mai, you are the only family I have left. I love you, and I only want the best for you. But you are not old or wise enough to be responsible for your actions. When you are sixteen, you may do as you please. Until then, we’ll have to talk before you make any important decisions. Do you understand?”
Mai nodded, then let out an exasperated breath and flounced out of the tent.
Despite Mai’s cheekiness, their lives grew into the semblance of a routine. Tâm wasn’t in love with her job either, but it was stable; Cô Cúc and her husband were fair and honest; and if she was careful, she could save a little every week. They’d both bought used bicycles with their second paycheck, and Tâm reminded herself how far they had come. They had survived a vicious massacre. Aside from Mai’s wrist, they were uninjured. They had jobs. They would have food for the next day. And they could use their bicycles to get around Saigon.
They had survived for a reason. Perhaps it was their karma. They were supposed to be here, one step above poverty, even though she didn’t know why. Tâm knew she would have to reckon with the why at some point. She grieved for the days when all she needed to do was study. Now she had to deal with what life threw at her each day.