“In reality, your hero would never have had a chance to strike a pose like the actor in the movie,” Lloyd said quietly. “Our defensive fire would have turned his body into a pockmarked measles patient before he had a chance to climb onto a rock.”
Lloyd recalled hearing a noise one dark night in the rice paddy outside the concertina wire. “We didn’t want to take any chances, so we fired hundreds of rounds into the darkness. Then in the morning we discovered that the noise had been a water buffalo.” He paused before continuing, “We never knew who would be out there coming to hit us. We were unable to tell an ordinary peasant from a Vietcong sniper. One minute you saw individuals bent over planting rice, and the next moment someone was shooting and taking down our men. There was no one in sight but the peasants working in the rice paddies, and none of them seemed to have weapons.”
“Soldiers disguised as peasants was the only way to fight the Americans,” I said. “Ho Chi Minh learned guerrilla tactics from Mao.”
“Our hands were tied,” Lloyd went on. “We worried about accidentally harming the civilians. It was always too late by the time we identified the enemy.”
“There was no such thing as ‘civilians’ in Vietnam, or in China, if you would have dared to set foot on our soil,” I echoed. “No child didn’t want to be part of the force defending the homeland. Mao once said that if China didn’t have supplies, it had an endless supply of bodies.”
“There is no way America could have won,” Lloyd said.
“Are you six feet tall?” I asked.
“Six foot four.”
I remembered being yelled at by a drill instructor. “This is no dancing lesson, Comrade Min!” I was taught to thrust with a wooden bayonet at a dummy made of straw wearing a US soldier’s helmet. “The enemy will be six feet tall and strong like a lion! If you don’t take him down in a split second, he will kill you!” the drill instructor threatened.
I said to Lloyd, “I don’t think I’d be able to take you down the way I was taught.”
He smiled. “We could have met in battle. We could have killed each other.”
I told Lloyd that I loved the Broadway musical Miss Saigon and asked his opinion. “Was it really like that?” I asked. “The last days in Saigon?”
“The truth is uglier,” Lloyd said. “All we could afford to care about was our own escape and survival. We had to push people off the helicopters, abandoning our friends, the locals who had risked their lives to help us. We left them behind, threw them away to be tortured and killed. It was war. We had no options. I understand. But being called a baby killer back home really hurt. I could never forget the burned smell of my own flesh in Vietnam after a bullet nicked my ear.”
I looked at Lloyd. He paused and stared at the darkness outside the car.
“I was an innocent and naïve eighteen-year-old when I joined the marines,” he said quietly. “Four years later, I returned a different man. I drank heavily and had an explosive temper. I slept with guns and knives. The war taught me to trust no one. Although I wasn’t violent, I carried a knife with me to work. I didn’t feel safe otherwise. I had to be ready to defend myself at all times.”
Watching Lloyd’s eyes glitter in the dark, I pictured myself throwing a grenade at his bunker.
“Lucky that you didn’t get killed in Vietnam,” I said.
“I prayed to God to let me come home in one piece,” Lloyd said. “I promised the Lord that I’d do good with my life. I have kept that promise, earned a university degree and went into teaching.”
We sat and let the silence absorb us.
Lloyd reached over and held my hand.
I let him.
I wanted to know the reason Lloyd divorced twice. I let him know that I was aware of the term “habitual walker.”
“Well, I was a horny marine returned from Vietnam,” Lloyd said. “My libido was in charge. When I was a virgin and faced war, I often thought, This could be my last day! I could die tomorrow. How sad it would be if I never knew what it was like to make love to a woman. I guess I read too many books compared to my fellow marines. I was romantic, but there were only prostitutes in Vietnam. My parents taught me nothing about females and sex. My father was a union man and worked in construction. He was an alcoholic and did not believe in God. My mother, on the other hand, was a devout Christian who switched religions three times. They were typical American parents, I guess they did their best to provide, but they paid no attention to my education. They fed and clothed me until I turned eighteen, and then they threw me to the wolves.”
“Threw you to the wolves?”
“They told me to either pay rent or move out.”
“That’s hard to believe for a Chinese.”
Lloyd nodded. “Well, that was exactly my case. Because I had no source of income and had not developed any skills for a better-paying job, I figured my best choice was to join the military.”
“But why the marines? Why pick the toughest?”
“I had always wanted to prove myself. As a teen, I was sickly and a bookworm, you know. No girls would look at me.”
Lloyd confessed that he lost his virginity to a prostitute in Okinawa. “It was in a bar. I was drunk, and she was cute. I followed her to her place. I was attracted to her until she removed her wig. I couldn’t believe that her beautiful long hair was fake! But of course the whole situation was fake. I guess I was stupid for wanting to get to know her. She hurried me and I felt awful. She wanted to get the business over with and move on to the next customer. She kept asking, ‘You done yet?’ … It was terrible. Absolutely not worth it. What about you?”
“I was sent to the labor camp when I was seventeen,” I said. “In China, we didn’t belong to ourselves. We belonged to Chairman Mao and his Communist Party. Dating was not allowed until one reached ‘marriage age,’ around twenty-nine. Couples caught making love in the wheat fields were convicted as criminals. My best friend and I comforted each other by playing each other’s imaginary boyfriend. We kept our affair a secret. We dreamed of love while working like slaves. By the time I met Qigu, I was in my thirties and China had embraced capitalism and free love. I felt cheated—my youth was stolen.”
Lloyd told me that he got married at the age of twenty-three after he returned from Vietnam. “Looking back, I don’t fully understand how we became a couple. I was just back and still reeling from my experience. We stayed together for years, and it got so bad that I was seriously planning to shoot myself, because I was raised as a Catholic and divorce was not an option. I desperately wanted to escape. I was actually sitting on the couch with a loaded rifle. Then, suddenly, I thought, if I survived Vietnam, why would I now go and kill myself for an unworthy woman? I have legs. Why can’t I just walk out? So I did.”
Lloyd’s tone was flat but not unemotional. “My son sided with his mother and doesn’t want anything to do with me today.”
Lloyd never imagined that he would divorce a second time. “My second wife was an animal lover. When we met, she had two cats. By the time I left, she had thirty cats, two dogs, three horses, one donkey, and several tortoises. Our debt grew and grew.
“I believe in living below my means. I couldn’t afford my wife’s passion. Teaching did not make me a rich man.”
I asked Lloyd where he got the courage to pursue another relationship.
“I am an American male,” he said with a laugh. “We are taught that it is our right to pursue happiness. Nobody victimizes me unless I allow myself to be victimized.”
Half of Lloyd’s face was hidden in the dark. His profile reminded me of the sculpture of Alexander the Great, with the same curly hair, deep-set eyes, well-defined nose, and firm lips. I thought about his grin in the photo and giggled.
Lloyd turned back to me. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“The photos didn’t do you justice.”
“I am glad you didn’t judge me by the photo.”
“I did, in fact. It was the video that saved you. You didn’t ge
l your hair in the video. Why did you do that for the photos?”
“First of all, I never gelled my hair. I just asked my barber to do something to control my curls. I don’t like them sticking out in all directions. It makes me look like a madman.”
“But you didn’t prepare your hair the day you had the videotaping.”
“Well, I planned to get a haircut in the afternoon. I rushed home after school, and there was an accident on the freeway. I missed my hair appointment, though I made it to the taping. The cameraman had been waiting. His next customer had already arrived. I had no choice but to go in front of the camera.”
“Did you watch the video afterward?”
“No. I was offered a chance, but I was sure my hair made me look like a monster. Like I said, there was nothing I could do about it.”
The air was chilly when I followed Lloyd as he carried the sleeping Lauryann from the car to the house. I felt my heart singing a happy tune. Watching Lauryann’s legs dangling from Lloyd’s arms, I tried to stop my imagination from leaping ahead and picturing the three of us as a family.
In time, Lloyd introduced me to his friends and colleagues—some were former marines and Vietnam veterans. I was glad to see that Lloyd was respected and adored. I detected no ill temper or signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. Later, Lloyd confessed that he worked hard to control his temper. He had studied psychology and took self-help classes.
I was overwhelmed as I received love letters from Lloyd. They came daily. The pity was that I was unable to read his handwriting and was too embarrassed to tell him.
I turned to Lauryann for help, and she was happy to oblige. She interpreted the letters for me, but after a while concluded that Lloyd’s letters were “boring” and skipped lines.
Lauryann loved the Broadway musical Les Misérables, adapted from the French novel by Victor Hugo. She imagined herself as the little girl Cosette, who was abandoned by her birth father and later became an orphan after her mother died of an illness. Lauryann called Lloyd “Jean Valjean,” after the protagonist, an ex-convict, a good man forced into a bad situation. Lauryann assigned me the role of Fantine, Cosette’s mother, who had been left by her first lover. The part of the musical Lauryann loved the most was when Fantine lay dying and entrusted Cosette to Jean Valjean’s care. Lauryann felt that she had a special relationship with Lloyd, just as Cosette did with Jean Valjean. She started to call him Lloydee.
Lauryann and I made fun of Lloyd’s tears at movie theaters. We called him a “tissue box” after discovering that Lloyd would weep at any story about loyalty and love. It could be a children’s story—Snow White, for example. Lloyd wept as he watched the hunter, whom the evil queen employed to murder Snow White, let Snow White go at the last minute. “Such loyalty!” Lloyd cried as he blew his nose.
On one date, while sitting in the backseat of his car, Lauryann said, “Lloydee, I have read all of your love letters to Mommy. I know everything!”
It was too late for me to cover her mouth with my hand.
“Do you love my mommy, Lloydee?” Lauryann asked, leaning forward.
Lloyd’s face turned red.
“Do you?” Lauryann pressed.
Lloyd hesitated for a second and then replied, “I do.”
“Mom, what about you?” My daughter turned to me. “Do you love Lloydee?”
“Lauryann, I expect you to master the math tables tonight.”
“Come on, Mom. Do you love Lloydee? I want to know. Yes or no?”
“Well …”
“I am waiting, Mom.”
“I guess ‘yes.’ ”
“Then Lloydee, it’s time to propose! Don’t forget, I want a ring too.”
A Chinese saying goes, “Once bitten by a snake, for the next ten years one will be afraid of ropes.” The pain of my divorce and fear of making another mistake held me back. I didn’t feel that I could trust Lloyd until one day, a Friday, when Lloyd came to me from his school. He was glowing with excitement and kept saying, “He made my day! He really made my day!”
“He? Who?” I asked. “Who made your day?”
“A student in one of my classes.”
“What happened?”
“He moved.”
“Moved where?”
“He moved from an F to a C. The kid woke up!”
“Are you talking about his grades?”
“Yes!”
“From an F to a C?”
“Yes, from an F to a C!”
“Not an A? What’s the big deal?”
“Oh, I wish you could understand! It’s a huge deal to me! You have no idea how long I’ve been working on this kid. He has been a leader in a street gang and a troublemaker in my class since day one. He was every teacher’s nightmare. Everybody had quit on him, including his family. He was so disruptive that I almost gave up on him too. He was the devil himself. I dared not turn my back to even write on the board when he was in the room. I kept my eyes on him and kept telling my stories. I told him that I could have led the same life as my brother, who ran away from school and messed with the law. Instead of being a teacher, I could have been a prisoner. I made my choice, and my brother made his. This boy is not stupid, you know. He was intelligent enough to want to know his options. I ended up disarming him.” Lloyd started laughing. “He didn’t know who he was dealing with.”
“How did you reach him?” I asked.
“It wasn’t easy. I practically begged him to do the schoolwork. He didn’t think it was possible for him. But I convinced him that it was. I convinced him that he could earn the grade step by step and point by point. It wasn’t a gift, but there would be a reward in the end.” A wicked grin creased Lloyd’s face.
“So he earned a C?”
“Yeah, and it’s the best grade he has ever achieved in his sixteen years of life! Excuse me, I feel like singing. It’s worthy of a celebration. Would you and Lauryann like to go to dinner tonight? We’ll go to your favorite Chinese restaurant. You can order your ten-ingredient fried noodles. I’ll have the sesame tofu, and Lauryann can have the basil eggplant. We’ll follow the dinner with dessert, of course … Oh, I am so pleased. One kid out of hundreds and thousands. One kid!”
It was then that I decided to marry Lloyd Lofthouse. I had no more questions or doubts regarding the character of this man. He had just proved to me that he was capable of great kindness and love. I admired him and felt fortunate to know him.
Over the years, Lauryann and I would grow tired of Lloyd’s favorite stories about how those unlikely kids finally “woke up” to what made sense. “This Latino kid,” Lloyd would begin, “wanted to earn an A for a book report in my freshman English class, but he hated reading. We fought tooth and nail. Two years later, we ran into each other in the school hallway. He was a junior, a big boy. He stopped me, and with both hands hidden behind his back, he yelled loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘Mr. Lofthouse, I hate you!’
“I didn’t know what he was up to. I slipped into a better position to defend myself. I thought I’d better get ready just in case. Then he pulled out a book and flashed it in his hand. It was a big, thick book, a science fiction novel. With this big smile on his face, he called out, ‘Mr. Lofthouse, I hate you because you’ve got me addicted to reading!’ ”
Lloyd laughed at this punch line every time.
As Lloyd and I began to spend more time together, I learned his routine. Most of his after-work time was spent correcting student papers. He would start right after he returned from school at around 4:30 P.M. He would take a break for dinner, then resume his work until his head drew closer and closer to the papers and he finally dozed off. Ten minutes later, he would wake with a sore neck and continue to work. He would work into the night. Five hours was all he could afford to sleep. His alarm clock went off at 4:30 A.M. He would rise, shower, breakfast, and dress to leave for work again.
Lloyd resisted the temptation to download or copy his favorite movies from the Internet. He would not click the “go”
button. He would rather pay for those programs. This made me think of the night when my fellow students and I called China with a “free phone number.” The number was stolen and given to us by a worker on strike from a telephone company. We gathered at a roadside pay-phone booth and took turns calling home. Lloyd would refuse to take advantage of such an opportunity, I found myself thinking.
“The Night at the Well of Purity” was the best short story Lloyd wrote, in my opinion. It was based on his own experience in Vietnam. I had never read anything like it. It was so dark and complex, yet so human. The story was about a soldier who was obsessed with the idea of killing his sergeant. The main character in the story wanted to stop his sergeant from buying sex from a nine-year-old Vietnamese girl who had been abandoned by her American-soldier father and Vietnamese mother.
“Witnessing a grown man doing it to a nine-year-old drove me crazy,” Lloyd said. “Because she was too small to be fucked, she offered blow jobs only. She charged fifty cents per blow. But the sergeant wanted more. He wanted to fuck her. She was terrified. I saw him grab her, rip her clothes off. He took her to the brush outside the bunker and raped her. She screamed and screamed …”
Lloyd drew deep breaths as if his lungs were failing him. “My finger wanted to pull the trigger … I was ready to shoot the man. I had to fight myself. It was useless to try to convince myself that the little girl was worthless and that we were at war with Vietnam …”
We sat face-to-face on his sofa. The moonlight was bright in the room. “Afterward … after he was done with her, he kicked her out. He didn’t pay her. She climbed a hill near our bunker and we heard her crying and screaming for hours that night. The sergeant tried to shut her up. He took his weapon and shot at her but missed. It was too dark to see exactly where she was.”