Quiet As They Come

Table of Contents

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

HUNGER

THE PUSSYCATS

EVERYTHING FORBIDDEN

QUIET AS THEY COME

A MAP BACK TO THE WORLD AND INTO YOUR HEART

SILVER GIRL

TAPS

THEY WERE DANGEROUS

ARCADE GAMES

IN THE SEASON OF MILK FRUIT

RELIEF

READING GUIDE QUESTIONS

Acknowledgements

Copyright Page

MORE PRAISE FOR QUIET AS THEY COME

“This deeply moving collection of stories hums and glows with the interconnected lives of an extended immigrant family from Vietnam. Chau navigates her characters’ lives—their tragedy and humor, longings and furies, vast losses and secret beauties—with grace, skill, and ferocious compassion. Quiet As They Come announces the arrival of an astonishing literary talent with a great deal to say about the intricacies of family life, coming of age, emigration, and—above all—the treasures buried in the human heart.”

—Carolina De Robertis, The Invisible Mountain

“What a rich and charming collection of stories this is. It offers an insider’s view of the immigrant experience: a world divided, one culture from another, past from present, parent from child.”

—Lynn Freed, The Curse of the Appropriate Man

“In stories that manage to be both playful and poignant, Angie Chau displays her exceptional gift for capturing the intricate interactions between parents and children, men and women, and Vietnamese and American cultures. There’s grit beneath the sparkle of her language. Chau’s intimate portrayal of characters who must navigate the uncertain terrain between what’s left behind and what lies ahead is revelatory.”—Leslie Larson, Breaking Out of Bedlam

“Chau’s characters bristle with life. They’re full of beauty and grit, love and cowardice, bravery and spite. Many of them are new to this country, and Chau’s gift for detailed observation made me see San Francisco again as though it were new to me. Gosh, this book practically has a heartbeat. A rare gift, indeed.”—Robin Romm,

The Mercy Papers

For my parents

Longing, we say, because desire is full of endless distances.

—Robert Hass, Meditation at Lagunitas

HUNGER

I live in a three-bedroom house with my mom and dad and little sister Michelle. We have the corner bedroom because my mom can’t sleep. Down the hall, the biggest bedroom goes to my uncle and aunt because they have three sons. The smallest room goes to my aunt Kim because it’s only her and Sophia and Marcel who don’t have a dad.

The house is big and old. There are lots of hidden closets and corners and secrets inside. Like how we’re not allowed to bring up Uncle Duc because he’s in jail in Vietnam. Or how we have to step over my dad when we go to the bathroom at night, but come morning we have to pretend he was never sleeping in the hallway. Or how we’re not supposed to hear Uncle Lam’s fists on Aunt Trang’s body. So when it’s the Fourth of July, and all our parents leave so they can work over-time, and they close all the curtains because they say it’ll keep the house cooler, I wonder if it’s to keep us a secret too.

It is dark inside the house because everything is wood and the windows are covered. It is loud because the boys are banging on the pots. It is hot because it’s the holiday that has to be warm enough for families to sit and watch fireworks in the night. I sit with a radio in the shadows of the living room floor. My name is Elle. It’s not my real name. That’s kind of a secret too.

No one at school knows it’s my fake name. My parents changed it so I would fit better. Sometimes I wonder if they’ll change my last name too. And if they do, what will become of the old me? The Vietnamese name with the two letters that match like your favorite pair of socks.

Everyone else got famous people names like Sophia Loren and Marcel, short for Marcello Mastroianni. The three boys are named after the Rat Pack, Uncle Lam’s favorite group. When I ask my mom why I didn’t get a cool famous name, she looks around to make sure nobody else is around and whispers, “I would never do that to you. It’s like announcing you still have salt behind your ears.”

My mom talks in riddles and poems. It’s her way of saying she doesn’t want everyone to know that we only arrived in America five months ago. It means she wouldn’t want the world to know that we had to escape here by boat. The way she talks and puts words together is different from the other adults. Maybe it’s because she studied theater when she was young. She can make you feel like you are the sun or just as quickly a speck of dirt. When she talks everyone snaps to attention. But maybe they just can’t help but look at her she is that beautiful. Everyone says she would have been a famous actress in Vietnam if we hadn’t left. I can imagine her name in lights.

If my parents want to change my last name, I will say, please, if I’m good can I choose it this time? And then I will say, doesn’t Estrada sound nice? And then they’ll think it’s because I’m in love with Erik Estrada. But really it’s because I’d have two Es for Elle Estrada the way I used to have two Ts for Thao Tran.

Erik Estrada is my favorite actor. I wear a shirt with him flat across my heart. I wear it every day until my mom peels it off and says, “Dirty girl, you should have been born a boy.”

The shirt has strings that tie behind my neck. It’s yellow, my favorite color because it looks like sunshine. The iron-on says Chips and he’s sitting on a motorcycle. He cradles his helmet in his arm like a baby. His shades are off so you can see his soft brown eyes. He has big white teeth and wavy black hair. He’s a policeman. Nobody would mess with me if we were together.

The man on the radio says, “San Francisco put away your frying pans. It’s so hot today you can cook an egg on the pavement!”

Sophia says, “I want eggs. I’m hungry.”

I say, “I wish we were still at the refugee camp.”

Frank, Dean, and Sammie in descending order watch from the sofa like monkeys in a banyan tree. Frank, the oldest, rolls his eyes and says, “That’s lame. You’d be dead if you were still there.” He is ten and only two years older than me but he acts like he’s already grown.

I say, “At least we went swimming there.”

In Malaysia, my dad would take all the kids to a swimming hole made entirely of black shells. He taught us how to swim. He taught us how to dig for clams. He taught us times tables. My dad’s a good teacher because he used to be one. One day, he taught us how to make paper kites out of yesterday’s newspaper and spoiled white rice for glue. The adults cheered when they saw the kite tails flapping in the wind. They said it looked like freedom.

The little kids jump up and down on the hardwood floors and raise their hands in the air. “I want to go swimming,” they say. “Me too, yay, me three!”

The boys pull the sofa-bed away from the wall and throw the cushions to the floor. Between the mattress folds and tangled sheets there are coins disguised as dust balls. The girls look in the kitchen. We find a lonely nickel behind the refrigerator. It’s no surprise. There’s never anything in our kitchen except the piled up government cartons of powdered milk and canned meats that our parents don’t know how to eat.

Frank is the oldest boy of the oldest man in the house so he gets to be the boss. He makes all of us sit in a straight line on the floor. We have to report what we put into the community pot. But when we get to Marcel, he just shrugs his shoulders.

Franks says, “You little cheap skate, you’re going into the phone booth.”

Marcel shoves his shiny red lock box under his t-shirt. His belly jingles filled with the coins.

Frank says, “Hand over your money or you’re going in.” He eyes the chipped paint of the closet door. Frank is like his father. He’s tall and handsome. He can be kind or cruel.

The hallway closet is called the phone booth because it has the magical power of transformation. Like when Superman goes inside and changes from a nerdy journalist into a superhero. Our parents keep their shared interview clothes in there. They go in looking fresh off the boat and come out looking like shiny Americans of the future. They don’t mind the smell of mothballs mixed with each other’s faded imposter cologne. They think it will bring them closer to the American Dream. On an interview day, they put on these costumes bought on layaway from Sears, and fly off with Mercedes dreams gleaming in their eyes like stars.

The phone booth is also where we go when we get punished. We have to kneel in the dark until our parents let us out. Uncle Lam makes the boys kneel on rice grains. Sometimes they’re in there until their knees bleed. My dad says it’s not right. My mom says it’s none of our business. I say the stink in there is bad enough.

Marcel says, “But I’m saving for when my dad comes.”

Frank says, “You’re a liar. You don’t have a dad. You’re a bastard.”

Sophia screams, “We do too have a dad!”

Sammie copies his older brother and chants, “You don’t have a da-ad. You don’t have a daad. You’re a bass-turd.”

Sophia starts crying. Marcel who is protective of his little sister grabs a fierce fistful of Sammie’s hair and yanks it.

Dean says, “Let go of my little brother,” and punches Marcel in the back.

Sophia kicks Dean in the shin. Frank pushes her off.

It’s the Rat Pack against the Italian movie stars and I don’t know where to look or what to do so I count the money. “Stop it! Stop it! Look, we have enough.”

Frank says, “Yeah, right. You’re just a girl. You don’t know how to do math.”

“Then you stay home smarty pants.” I stand up with my hand on my hip. I swivel and arch my back the way they do it in the Sergio Valente commercial. My sister Michelle and I have been practicing in front of the mirror. We flip our hair, swing our heads, and say, “We love you Sergio!” I stick my butt out and turn to them and and say, “I don’t know about you guys but I’m taking the clean towel.” Michelle who always copies me does the same and follows down the long dark hallway.

Outside, it’s so hot it feels like our eyelashes will get charred. The Avenues are empty. We live in the Sunset District where rows and rows of attached houses line the streets like soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, in waiting. Every now and then a car passes with floats and hula hoops and colored umbrellas poking out the windows like a carnival. I picture them going to the beach, playing tag, catching the sea breeze. They’re having a picnic. They’re eating fried chicken, and potato salad, and if they’re really lucky maybe their mom even made lettuce wraps with shrimp.

We are a family of dark-haired pigeons. We flit in the heat of the city streets, pecking at nothing but crumbs and cement. Frank is wearing his new black shades from Woolsworth’s and tries to keep a cool distance. He swaggers ahead, with his feathered hair and a comb sticking out of his back pocket. Behind him Dean and Marcel are buddies again. They kick at crumpled soda cans glinting in the gutter. Michelle chases after them. The little ones, Sophia and Sammie, waddle like ducks with orange floaties strapped to their arms. I anchor the flock.

They’re chirping, “Are we there yet?”

They’re twittering, “How much longer?”

They squawk, “It’s so hot. It’s so hot. It’s so hot.”

I say, “Don’t be such babies.” The sweat streams down my chest. I pull out my collar and blow down. Frank stops to watch.

He says, “Look, what a perv, she’s trying to check herself out.” The little kids laugh because they don’t know any better. Dean and Marcel are old enough to blush and turn away.

On Quintara Ave., there’s an old white man watering his plants. He’s wearing plaid shorts and a blue fishing hat and he’s the only person we’ve seen outside all day. Frank says, “Check out Humpty-Dumpty,” because the man is round as a ball. When we get closer, we see that his plants and bushes are shaped like animals. We gasp because it’s as if we’ve walked into a zoo. “How cool,” I say because it’s beautiful. The boys say, “That’s bad, blood,” because they want to sound tough.

At the man’s knees, the bush is in the shape of a big turtle. It has a leafless twig for a tail. The green hose sprays water on the turtle’s shell. There is also a bear, a dog, and a bunny! Little Sophia reaches for the pointy ears. It’s dotted with pretty purple flowers. I say, “Don’t even try.”

I don’t think he wants us kids to bother him until he turns, raises the sprayer to the sky, and showers us. We giggle beneath the umbrella of sprinkles. Above us, a rainbow stretches across the curtain of mist. We stand still, side by side, single file like we’ve been taught at school. “More, me more,” each one says because nobody wants to get passed up. He directs the water from left to right, back and forth. It rains down on us in big refreshing drops, splattering our faces. I open my mouth and soon the younger ones do the same. We chirp with our begging beaks lifted to the skies. And while we laugh with our throats bared and our eyes squinting against the sun, he lowers the nozzle and aims directly at our bodies. He presses the handle all the way. The water sprays an angry blast.

“Stop it,” I say, “it hurts.” After this, he aims only at me. The blast stings like being slapped again and again. The water pushes me off the curb.

“Sneaky rats, my brother marched at Bataan,” he says. I drink water and choke for air. My hair gags me. “C’mon ya dirty Japs, I’m goin’ wash you up.” The man is cursing so hard he’s spitting.

I turn my back and curl into a snail with my knees on the ground. The blast pounds my spine. It unravels the ribbon of my shirt. I wrap my arms around my chest to cover up. My cousins stand frozen until I yell, “Help!”

Frank grabs a chalk rock from the man’s rock garden and pegs him in the stomach. The man folds over and we all run. I am running and my shirt has fallen but I don’t care. From half a block away I throw a rock aiming at his head. It grazes his blue fishing hat and clangs off his garage door. He’s tugging the eagle wings of his belt buckle. It’s cinched so high, the eagle soars toward his chest. His other hand is waving above his head, beckoning, daring us to return.