At the beginning of 1979 Mai opened a third nail salon, this one in Skokie. Although it was primarily a working-class area, she hoped her lower prices would attract new clients. She expected the women to be more diverse; Skokie was slowly becoming home for immigrants from all over the world, not just Southeast Asia.
Her bet paid off. The salon was a hit from the day it opened. College girls from nearby Northwestern and the teaching college, Asians, and even black women came in for a manicure or pedicure and the free babysitting. Witt, almost ten now, worked at the salon on weekends. Mai wanted him to understand the importance of hard work. He kept the place clean and helped her with the receipts.
Mai had to laugh. She was now in Sandy’s territory. She wondered if his wife might drop in at some point. The babysitting service was clearly a draw. Then Mai realized she didn’t really care. She imagined herself being polite, even friendly to the woman. It wasn’t her fault she had married a coward.
The Vietnamese neighborhood center for refugees, which had opened in Uptown a few years earlier, organized a Tết celebration for the Lunar New Year. As a successful member of the Vietnamese immigrant community, Mai was invited to give a short speech about her achievements. The night before the party, a snowstorm dumped six inches on the ground, but more than fifty people managed to slog through Chicago’s frigid streets to attend.
The “Community Room”—there wasn’t much more to the center yet—was decorated with paper dragons, crepe paper streamers, and paper flowers. Since 1979 was the Year of the Goat, two crepe paper goats welcomed in the New Year. A buffet spread included both Chinese and Vietnamese food, like rice noodle rolls, bun thit nuong, bánh xèo, Vietnamese crepes, spring rolls, dim sum dumplings, and more.
Mai made sure to look her best that morning and wore a brand new red brocade áo dài one of her clients had sewn for her. She rehearsed her talk with Witt the night before but asked him to stay close by. She was too nervous to eat anything and was afraid to have tea. What if she had to relieve herself in the middle of the talk?
They’d been there for forty long minutes before the head of the center motioned her to the front of the room. His introduction gushed with flattery; how ambitious she was, how industrious, how she had assimilated so quickly, and, of course, spoke English like a native. Mai didn’t recognize herself. When he finally finished, it was her turn. She took in a long breath and spoke in Vietnamese.
“Kính thưa quý vị. Good afternoon.” She smiled, but butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and she was sure her voice sounded as shaky as she felt. “I almost did not recognize myself from that introduction. Thank you so much. I am happy to tell you my story as we celebrate the New Year. But I must warn you: there is no magic to it. It is not a fairy tale. There are parts which I am still ashamed about.
“My journey started when the Americans massacred our tiny village in the Mekong Delta in 1968. My sister and I were the only survivors. Our father, mother, and baby brother were slaughtered, along with about thirty-five other people. My sister and I stole a sampan and paddled toward Saigon. When we stopped, my sister taught me to fish with just a hook and a line. I wasn’t very good.” She held up her wrist, where her scar was still visible. The audience laughed.
Mai told them about the trawler that picked them up, the tent in Cholon, the job at the Saigon Café, and her rebellious nature, which made her look for something that paid more. “I am not proud of it, but I became a bar girl at the Stardust in Saigon.” There were nods from the crowd; they clearly remembered it. She went on to talk about one GI in particular, whom she fell in love with.
“I expected us to marry. To come to America and settle down. Of course, I was just one of many Vietnamese girls with the same dream.” More nods from the audience. “It didn’t last, of course. He left and I haven’t seen him since. But the love of my life, my son, Đêm Nguyệt, was the wonderful result. He was born the night the American spacemen walked on the moon.”
She then talked about her father and how the idea of hard work had been instilled in her. When it was harvesttime, she was expected to stay home from school to help. She resented it, she said, but she did it. As a young woman, there were many situations she resented as the war dragged on, but she had to accept them. She had no choice. She had to provide for her son. “How I got here was pure luck. I was fortunate to know a South Vietnamese navy captain who arranged for us to board a ship that was part of the American rescue operation. Eventually, I landed in Chicago. In short, I grew up during the American War. I learned I was not so special, but if I worked hard, tried to be kind, and picked myself up after something bad happened, I might—just might—make it. That is my story.”
When Mai concluded, the burst of applause, loud and sustained, lasted at least thirty seconds. A short ceremony followed during which she was given a plaque that had her name engraved above the words “Entrepreneur of the Year.” Mai was surprised and thrilled. For one of the only times in her life since working at the Stardust, she felt safe and accepted. Part of a larger whole. Was this was what “home” felt like?
She was nibbling on a plate of food from the buffet when she spotted a woman in a corner of the room. The woman was lean, taller than Mai, and her hair was cut short like a boy’s. She squinted at the woman, whose plate was piled high with food, which she wolfed down like she had not eaten in days. Slowly, recognition dawned. “Chị Tâm?” she asked in a tremulous voice. “Is it really you? You are alive!”
Tâm looked up and stopped eating. Then she nodded. As she walked up to Mai, Mai noticed a limp.
“What are you doing here? How did you find me?”
“Someone from the Catholic school we attended heard you were here.”
“But—but, why are you not in Vietnam with the Communists? And why are you limping?”
Tâm raised a finger to her lips. “Please, Mai. If these people know, they will arrest me, put me in prison for treason. I am limping because of a skirmish with a crazy American they called a tunnel rat.”
“Is that why you never came back after you left the Saigon Café?”
A guilty look came over Tâm. She changed the subject. “I understand you have a son. I would like to meet him.”
Mai smiled. “He is the light of my life.”
Tâm returned it. “I loved your speech. I am so proud of you for everything you have accomplished.”
Mai remembered the harsh words they had spoken when they last saw each other. “Proud of me?” She spoke in a low voice. “That does not sound like the sister who told me I would be jailed, perhaps executed, for having been a bar girl.”
Tâm winced.
“Tâm, what do you want after all these years? Why are you here?”
“It is hard to know where to begin. I was—”
Mai cut her off. “Do you need money? A job?”
Tâm nodded.
“A place to live?”
She nodded again.
Mai studied Chị Tâm. Compared to some of the other Vietnamese refugees in the room, Chị Tâm had not prospered. She looked old beyond her years, her face wrinkled, her hands a mess, thin to the edge of gauntness. She wore old clothes, dirty sneakers, and a jacket totally unsuitable for a Chicago winter. She glanced around everywhere, but her gaze did not rest on anything. Whatever had happened to Chị Tâm had made her fearful, as if she was prepared to flee at any moment. A wave of compassion swept over Mai. They had switched places. Mai was now in a position to help her sister.
“You are going to need a warm winter coat,” Mai said. “I have an extra. I will give it to you.”
At that moment Witt came up to them with a plate of his own. Mai said, “Đêm Nguyệt, this is your auntie. My sister. The only member of my family still alive.”
The boy stood stock-still. Then: “Really?” When Mai nodded, he turned to Tâm. “You are my aunt?”
“I am.”
“You look like my mother.” Witt grinned.
“Your mother is beautiful. I am not.”
“Witt,” Mai said, “give us a minute, please.” When Witt left them alone, Mai said, “Tell me where you are staying.”
“I just arrived on the bus. It took five days. I do not have a place to stay.”
“I see,” Mai said.
“You are all business, aren’t you?” Tâm sounded abrasive, as if she was angry at Mai for her success. The old Tâm.
Mai eyed her sister. “Chị Tâm, I want to help, but I don’t know if I can bring you back into in my life. Đêm Nguyệt has been my only family for some time. You hurt me time after time. You said terrible things. How can I trust you?”
Tâm opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Even if I did,” Mai went on, “the risk that you might be targeted by South Vietnamese refugees if they discover your history is real.” A new thought occurred to her, and she raised her index finger. “Is that why you want me to take you in? Are you depending on my protection to keep you safe? Do you believe no one will touch you if they know you are my sister?”
Tâm recoiled as if Mai had slapped her. “Those thoughts never occurred to me. I—I want to make amends. I was harsh and rigid. I thought I knew what was best for both of us. I was wrong. I was hoping we could become a family again.” Tâm gazed at her sister with both longing and fear. Longing for a reconciliation. Fear that Mai wouldn’t accept it.
Mai bit her lip. Chị Tâm must have suffered greatly during the war. She seemed like a different person. Still. “I don’t know, Chị Tâm. It is safer here, much more than Vietnam, but the war is not over. Not here. Not yet. If anyone finds out who you really are and what you did during the war, it could be dangerous for all of us. What if something happens to Đêm Nguyệt? What if they use him to get to me so I’ll give you up? I have so much at stake now. My son. I can’t run the risk.” She hesitated, then said softly, “I am sorry, Chị Tâm, but choices have consequences. I cannot bring you into my life right now. But I will help you get situated.”
Tâm hung her head and nodded once, as if she felt shame for accepting her sister’s charity.