Mai and Đêm Nguyệt were met at the airport by a tall, lean, gray-haired man who introduced himself as Dave Chapman. He and his wife, longtime members of the Catholic church of Chicago, had agreed to sponsor them.
Once they had their suitcase, which she’d been given at the Pennsylvania camp, Dave opened the door to walk from the baggage claim to the garage where his car was parked. Mai let out an immediate yelp.
“Ayii!” she shouted. “What is this? It is cold!”
Đêm Nguyệt shivered too and threw his arms around his mother.
Dave laughed. “Didn’t they tell you about Chicago weather?”
Mai hugged Đêm Nguyệt and ran her hands up and down his arms to warm him. She vaguely recalled someone saying something about buying coats as soon as they arrived. But she hadn’t been paying close attention. “Is it like this all the time in Chicago?”
Dave laughed and opened the trunk of his car. “Not at all. We have a lovely summer, but it is November now, and it will be very cold until April.” He stowed their suitcase and pulled out a blanket. “My wife told me to bring this. Wrap it around yourselves for the ride.”
They piled into the biggest car Mai had ever been in, a giant gray Chevy, Dave told her. It had enough space for six people and reminded her of the limousines she had occasionally seen in Saigon, floating down the streets bearing important American officials. Dave circled the garage, pulled out, and started to drive. Mai tried to wrap Đêm Nguyệt in the blanket, but he was so excited he pressed his face against the window of the back seat for the entire journey, pointing out all the new and astonishing sights.
At first Mai was so overwhelmed she tried to pretend that she was merely in a Vietnamese city, rather than halfway across the world. It didn’t work. The signs on the streets, for one thing, were a jumble of words and letters she hadn’t yet mastered, and the giant skyscrapers rushing by the car’s windows were intimidating. But it was the traffic, teeming with huge cars and powerful engines but never moving more than a few meters at a time, that terrified her. No motorbikes or tuk-tuks or bicycles on these roads. How was she supposed to navigate through them? She had hoped to buy another Vespa, but these machines would run her down in an instant. It was clear she had been transplanted into a different, strange world.
Their apartment was on the North Side of Chicago on Argyle Street. A second-floor two-bedroom apartment, it was huge compared to their tiny apartment in Saigon. There was a room for each of them, a kitchen large enough to accommodate a tiny table, and a living room with a couch and chairs. Mai clapped her hands in delight.
A woman was boiling water on the stove. Dave’s wife, she said. She was almost as tall as her husband, and almost as lean. She had seen a lot of tall, massive, and muscular GIs, but was everyone in America a giant?
The woman didn’t speak a word of Vietnamese but gave Mai a warm hug of welcome. She tried to pantomime a few things and grew flummoxed when Mai giggled.
“I speak English,” Mai explained.
“Wonderful!” The woman switched to English. “My name is Irene Chapman and we will be spending time together until you are settled and on your way. The first thing we will do is register your son for school.”
Mai translated for Đêm Nguyệt, who clapped his hands, like his mother had. “Will I start today, Mama?”
Mai asked Irene.
“Probably not until next week. He will find it difficult at first—it is all in English—but he is young. He will learn quickly. Plus, there are other Vietnamese children at the school. It is quite close by.” Irene smiled. “For now, though, why don’t you unpack? Later we will go to the grocery store, and then my husband and I will take you and your son to dinner at a real American restaurant.”
Mai was overwhelmed. “But I cannot pay you for these groceries. Or the dinner.”
“You do not owe us a penny. We are your hosts. Your sponsors. And, hopefully, your friends.”
The next few days flew by. They registered Đêm Nguyệt for school. At six, he would be in first grade and would start the following week. The supermarket was another head-spinning experience. Mai couldn’t believe all the foods, cans, fresh fruit, and produce, all stacked neatly in endless aisles or behind counters. Most of it was unfamiliar, and even familiar foods looked foreign. The only way to tell what kind of food she was looking at was the picture on the label, if there was one. She recognized apples, the fruit that Freddy had brought her from his mess hall. A picture of one had appeared in one of Đêm Nguyệt’s English readers for the letter “A.” She bought three of them, anxious for her son to taste them.
A chicken already cut into parts and packaged with cellophane was rare in Vietnam. The same with fish. But it was the beef that made her feel lightheaded. She had never seen so much red meat carved and sliced in so many different ways. Did Americans eat beef every day? How did they know if it was fresh?
The smells were odd, too. Actually, there were few scents in the store, with the exception of a light fishy aroma at the fish counter. Clearly, American shoppers did not judge the quality of food with their noses.
After they carried six bags of food up to her apartment, Mai made tea. Irene had suggested she buy a box of Oreo cookies for Đêm Nguyệt, and after asking Mai’s permission, she opened the box and gave him one. He bit into it and his eyes grew as round as saucers. He wolfed it down in two bites and held out his hand for another.
“You’d better ask your mother, son.” Irene pointed to Mai.
“Just for today,” Mai answered. “A special treat.”
Đêm Nguyệt waited for Irene to put it in his hand. He was about to grab it when Irene said, “When someone gives you something you want, we say, ‘Thank you.’”
Mai grinned. “He knows. Cảm ơn cô, sweetie.”
“Cảm ơn cô,” Đêm Nguyệt said. “Tank you.”
Irene laughed. “Excellent!”
Over tea Irene told Mai she was a lucky woman. “A very famous actress in America—her name is Tippi Hedren—visited a Vietnam refugee camp in Northern California. She wanted to help Vietnamese women find jobs in the States. So she brought in seamstresses and typists to help train them. But when the women met her for the first time, they wanted something altogether different. What do you think it was?”
Mai sloshed her tea. “What?”
“They were dazzled by her long, beautifully polished nails, and they wanted to paint their nails the same way.”
“Manicures!” Mai clapped her hands. “I did them in Vietnam.”
Irene grinned. “I know. We received that information.”
Mai was grateful, and a little surprised, that information from at least one of her interviews at the refugee camps had reached America.
“So Tippi changed her plans. She found a local beauty school that taught and trained the women how to give manicures. One of the women who was trained is on her way to Chicago and wants to open her own nail salon. She will need help. Are you interested?”
Mai’s jaw dropped. “Of course I am! It is perfect! I can’t believe it. Buddha’s compassion truly is infinite.”
Irene chuckled. “Maybe because he is working with Jesus Christ our Lord.”