“You seem to be doing really well, Mama.” He looked around. “This grand house, the bicycles, the pigs, piglets. . . .”

“Grandma works very hard,” I said.

“Didn’t imagine her teaching job would pay that much.” He drained another cup.

“Of course it didn’t. We would’ve been struggling now if I’d continued teaching.” Grandma grabbed the bottle, filling the cup. “That’s enough for today, Son.” She stood up.

“You what?” Uncle ??t was so shocked about Grandma quitting her job that he didn’t seem to notice her walking away with the bottle.

“I’ve become a con bu?n.” Grandma reached up, depositing the bottle into the kitchen cabinet. She closed the door.

“Hey, I need that,” my uncle protested, but Grandma was already returning to the table. She ladled vegetables into his bowl.

“Remember how you used to love this? Spinach cooked with dry shrimp.” Her voice sounded choked.

“Yeah, I remember. It’s delicious, thanks.” He bent his head. “So, you became a trader, huh? It’s brave of you.”

“It’s saving us.” Grandma scooped rice into his bowl.

“Grandma’s trading keeps me at school, Uncle. Many of my friends have had to drop out and work instead.”

My uncle nodded. “So, where do you trade, Mama?”

“Around the Old Quarter. I’ve done it for a few years now.”

“You’re a pro then.” He drained the cup. “Think you’ll hire an invalid as your assistant?”

“??t!”

“I’m serious, Mama. I need a job. Me, minus my two legs.” Uncle ??t’s voice quivered. But he cleared his throat and quickly gained his composure.

“I’m serious, too, Son.” Grandma caressed his hand. “You’re my life. I’ll take care of you. You’ll get a job, I promise.”

“Thanks.” My uncle picked up his chopsticks.

Grandma scooped more food into my bowl. “Now, tell me why it took you so long to get home. It’s October now. You could’ve been home six months ago.”

“It’s a long story. I don’t want to talk about it now. Please, can I have some more of that liquor?”

Grandma sighed. I thought she’d say no, but she stood up.

She put the bottle down. “Just finish your food and you can drink.”

GRANDMA SLEPT SOUNDLY next to me. My mind was alive with images: of my father dashing through jungles under the bombs, of butterflies and birds falling in a rain of Agent Orange, of my father crouching and chiseling the wooden bird, of his hand carving his message to me onto the bird’s base: “Daughter, you are the warm blood in my heart.”

The Land Reform

Ngh? An, 1955

Guava, one afternoon in March 1955, your grandfather came home, looking drunk. He leaned onto the doorframe, trying to take off his shoes.

“How many cups of rice liquor did your friends force on you, anh Hùng?” I asked, untying his shoes. Some of Hùng’s friends brewed their own liquor but he wasn’t a drinker. Not at all.

“No friends . . . I was called to a meeting.” Hùng struggled toward the bedroom. The way he talked, I knew the meeting wasn’t related to the school where he worked. It was to do with his political activities. Ten years earlier, after the Vi?t Minh saved us from the Great Hunger, Hùng had become an underground Vi?t Minh member, writing leaflets and documents, calling on our fellow citizens to unite in supporting the Vi?t Minh troops.

I followed Hùng into the bedroom and helped him settle into bed. He shivered under the blanket; his forehead burnt with a fever. If he hadn’t drunk, perhaps he’d been caught by some bad wind.

“What was the meeting about, anh?” I slid a softer pillow under his head.

“They challenged me about what I’d said. So I had to explain why we need democracy. Why multiple political parties should be allowed so that we could run real elections.”

Hùng hadn’t hidden his opinion from anyone. He was determined to help resurrect our homeland from the remnants of war. The Vi?t Minh had become popular by liberating the North and forcing Emperor B?o ??i to abdicate, and by then triumphing over the French in 1954, at the battle of ?i?n Biên Ph?. But Hùng wasn’t keen that the Vi?t Minh had followed the path of the Chinese and Russian Communists by ruling our North with a single political party. By that time, the Russian Communist leader, Stalin, had sent millions of Russians to labor camps. He killed millions of others to consolidate his power.

“I bet they didn’t like what you told them.” I frowned.

“They called me a traitor.” He clutched his stomach, curling up like a shrimp.

“Who did?”

He closed his eyes. “Doesn’t matter.”

I reached for his stomach. “What did you drink or eat, anh?”

“They served us homemade juice.” He winced. “I couldn’t tell what it was.”

I wished my brother was home, but he’d taken the children to visit our relatives. As I rushed to the kitchen to make ginger tea for Hùng, my feet felt as if they were tethered to boulders. Just last night, C?ng had reminded Hùng to be careful, but Hùng had knocked his fist against the table. “Brother,” he said, “only through democracy can we ensure that there’ll be no abuse of power.”