Never Fall Down

  Daytime getting shorter every day now, cold at night, almost like Denmark. We get up very early in the morning now every day, 4 a.m., do chore, chop wood, work the ABC with Shirley. Then one day Peter say it time for us to go to school. Never I been to a real school before. Ravi and Sojeat, they been before, so they only a little scare; but me, I’m terrify. This school is call “high school.” All teenage kid, maybe five hundred. All white. We the only speck of brown in this big bowl of white rice. The teacher hold up a thing call globe, and point and say, “Cam-BO-de-ah. That where these kid from. Cam-BO-de-ah.”

  The kid, they stare at us, mouth open, then I hear a sound like bees buzzing. All this kid talking at once, all like giant cloud of bee. We wear our mall clothes—khaki pant, tie, and shirt—very proud; but these kid also wearing bad clothes, like jean, torn and patch, and the girl in tight shirt, and I wonder if maybe these kid poor, maybe we the only rich one. Also, in the hall I see them kissing. This private thing they do in public, and I look away, scare, like maybe these kid are bad, like prostitute.

  This high school building also confuse me very much. Lotta door everywhere, long hall, short hall, everything look the same. So I go by accident to the girl latrine. They scream and point at me like maybe I’m criminal. So I run out, very sweaty, and I see Sojeat watching and also laughing with these American kid. Why he didn’t help me? I have this angry feeling about Sojeat. And all day I hold it in. All day I also have to pee very bad, but I hold it till we get home.

  Next day the teacher, she assign one of the cool kid, football player, he call, to take care of me. Big kid, shoulder like mountain, to show me where to go. I feel relax finally with this big guy for protection, and I take his hand so he can show me the way. But quick he shake me off like my hand have shit on it. So I follow him, walk behind, bee voice buzzing everywhere; but no way I can keep up with his long leg. I look for Doug, maybe Kate, or Ravi, to show me the way but see only this guy’s mountain shoulder going down the hall away from me.

  One word I hear all the time: monkey. Sound of bees buzzing mostly, but always I hear this word monkey. I ask Doug one night what it mean, and he show me; he jump and scratch under his arm, go eek-eek, but I understand already. These kid at high school, they think I’m like animal.

  Inside my heart, a bad feeling grow. Like tiger growling, like a big anger, like I have when I was soldier, and I think: if they don’t stop, I will hurt these American kid. I will show them what animal is.

  Peter all the time obsess with Cambodia. Go to meeting all the time about it, tell us boy we now gonna speak about Cambodia to the United State. He give us a speech, make us learn it word by word, and one day say, “Okay, guys, no school today; we going on adventure.” We drive a long time in the Buick, Ravi and Sojeat in the back, reading school book, English book, me up front singing rock ’n’ roll on Peter radio. This is how I learn English. The other two, they read the book, get good grade in school; me, I sing along with American kid. “Copacabana,” “Betty Davis Eyes,” Bruce Springsteen—they my favorite.

  At this meeting we wear our stiff mall clothes and speak Peter speech, not really knowing what the word mean; and after, one little girl, she come up to me and give me a dollar. “For your country,” she says. This little girl, blond hair, curl, like painting in church Peter take us to, picture of angel; and I take her dollar and very careful I fold it in my pocket. To send to Runty.

  And we all smile, all teeth, big, big, big and get our picture in the paper.

  Couple days later, we in the newspaper again. This time bad news. Somebody setting fire in this New Hampshire, burning three barn, and the newspaper mention us, new kid from Cambodia, wonder if maybe we did it.

  That day at lunch, big football player kid and other kid, also very big shoulder, they make a circle around me, light match in my face, ask me if I like fire. All of them light match, flick lighter, and point at me; and I know they think I made this bad fire, and so I use the curse word Kate teach me. “You a fucker!” I tell them. And they laugh and laugh, a sound very high, very crazy; and I think now they the one that sound like monkey.

  Inside my head I talk to them. You don’t know what I can do. Before, I shoot guys like you. All my muscle, I need to hold back so I don’t do what this tiger in my heart is telling me to do: kill these kid.

  At night I fall asleep, dreaming I can’t find the bathroom. Running through the jungle, through the high school, looking everywhere for the bathroom, and now kid from high school in my Cambodia dream. Big football player, kid who light the match, he come into my dream. I make him kneel on the ground, hand tie behind; and I have ax in my hand, and now this ax is hitting over and over, hitting this kid till now his head like only hamburger on the ground.

  I try now to go back to sleep, think about all the good thing here in this good place, this rescue place call New Hampshire, United State, and think: after all the thing I been through, now being rescue is something I also have to survive.

  Special class for me now. ESL, it call. Special teacher. Pat her name. Every day the other kid go to class, even Sojeat and Ravi, they go to regular school. Sojeat tease me; he call me stupid. This ESL, it in a small room, like closet almost, room with only Pat and me. All day she try to teach me this English. Try to make my mouth work this strange way. Tire, my tongue is tire; my tongue like asleep at the end of one hour. But all the time she push hard, make me learn more word.

  Lotta word have this one sound I can’t make: th. Thanks, think, thunder. Also this sound in the middle of some word, some very important word, like bathroom. Very important sound, this th. But we don’t have this sound in Khmer. So my tongue can’t do it. But Pat, she say it over and over and over. Get close to my face, closer and closer she get; her tongue, she show it to me, pushing on her front teeth, like she gonna eat me. And I spit her. Right in the face, I spit.

  She jerk away from me, and I think: okay, now she gonna hit me; but she only leave the room, tear in her eye. And I think: why I spit at this person, only one trying to help me? Why I’m so bad? Why?

  Something call snow here. It fall from the sky like sugar, like tiny flake of sugar, this beautiful thing out the window; it make me very sad, so sad, I just walk out the school and walk all the way home. So quiet now in this snow, like pillow on the world, and every step I think of Mek, how he say paradise is the place where sugar fall from the sky and no kid is hungry; and this snow, it land on my eyelash, wet, like tear.

  One teacher here in short pant; he teach the kid to play game. Crazy. In America they have teacher for everything, even to teach kid to play. In Cambodia, kid know how to play, no grown-up to teach them. This game here, it’s soccer. I know this game; I know this from home. I even play it one time with Khmer Rouge. So I get the ball and I run and run—so little, I can go in out the big hairy leg of American kid—till I kick it hard, and it fly in the net. Like in volleyball, like spike, like anything I ever try to do, I do it to get attention, to get a little famous. Also I do it to show I can behave good and have something I can give. I can do it, kick the ball more hard than other kid, run faster than other kid, because maybe I want it more bad. And now I’m a little bit famous. This morning, I’m monkey; this afternoon, hero.

  Now the soccer teacher, he say I can be on the team; and on the bus on the way home from school, now the other kid are nice to me. Sojeat, he lean over and whisper to me. “They think you hero. But I know what you really are.”

  At lunch one day, big cafeteria, lotta noise, a ponytail teacher, music guy, he call my name, and I think: uh-oh, trouble now from this guy, too. “Arn,” he says, “I have a present for you.” And he hand me it. Small wooden flute. Song flute, like back in Cambodia.

  I don’t know how to play this thing, but I take it; and one night when the studying is too hard, I go out in the wood behind the house, and I try a little bit to get to know this flute. Another night I go down into the laundry and try. But, like magic, it know me. From my finger, from my mouth, the flute charm
out the song, the old song from Cambodia, song I know in my soul. Love song, ancient like the famous temple of Angkor Watt, they live inside me; and when I close my eyes, they come, a little bit of Cambodia, like smell of jasmine and lemongrass, ginger and cardamom, floating in the air, in this place, this New Hampshire.

  Getting a lot of attention now; Peter lotta time take me out of school to go to speak to church group, to government office, to see VIPs. Ravi and Sojeat say they don’t like this speeching. Sojeat, he say he only want to be in school every day so he can get good grade and be a doctor. And Ravi, he like America kid, not want to talk about bad thing, only fun thing. So Peter don’t make them speech.

  But I see they feel a little bit envy, because now all the time I get attention. I want to talk; they don’t. And Peter own kid—Doug, Kate, Donna—they don’t care about Cambodia, but I can see they have envy, too.

  But for me, performing is something I know like old shoe, like my family used to do; now I’m onstage also, and now people applause me and give us money for Cambodia. And I think: maybe this can be how I pure my heart from all the bad thing I do; maybe this is why I survive, to get money for Cambodia. And finally, this hunger I feel all the time when I see other people family, this hunger, finally I think it can get fed.

  One night, nice candle dinner. Dish and cloth and candle and pray. Peter out of town, meeting someplace; now all the time Peter goes to meeting, meeting, all for Cambodia, he says. And Shirley has a little sad in her eyes, a little lonely maybe for Peter, a little envy maybe he spend all his time on Cambodia. So I brag a little; I tell her how I score a goal again at soccer team so maybe she can be proud and not so sad, like how she smile when Sojeat, he shows her A+ on his paper.

  And Shirley, she smile and say good, very good, but a little distract, and look to the front door like maybe Peter will come in. And then Sojeat, he lean over to me and whisper in my ear. “You Khmer Rouge,” he say. “You Khmer Rouge; you kill my mother, my father.”

  And then inside me, like before, in battle, something goes electric. I jump to the table like flying, standing, my feet on this cloth, this dish, standing like giant, and all the plate crashing, the glass breaking, and the little sister, Kate, she screaming and crying. I hear this, but my mind now is a tunnel, all black. I see only Sojeat face, all the proud and conceit go out of it now; and he scare, like baby, like people at the mango grove waiting for the ax to crack, like first guy I ever shoot, so surprise still grinning, like old lady in the toy village right before I kill her.

  Then blood is everywhere, all over Sojeat face, his shirt, the white cloth on the table. I do it; I do something to make it come. I see blood on my sneaker, like maybe I kick him in the face; but I don’t know. And people crying, Kate saying, “Oh no, oh no.” But ah, blood, I remember blood: how it smell, how it spread, how it make you like drunk, like wanting more and more and more; and the tiger in my heart, it roar now, one taste of blood and it want more. So I grab Sojeat on the neck and he grab me and rip my shirt and we fall, all the dish crashing, breaking, and Kate crying, and I run into the kitchen to find a long knife, and I see my arm raise in the air—so strong, so beautiful—this arm, this knife now will speak all the thing I can’t say.

  And then the air, it all fly out of my body; something grab me so hard, something strong like jungle vine, it wrap around me and pull me down, down, down, more dish crashing, down to the carpet. On the ground next to me is Ravi, breathing hard and also crying, his arm around my waist. I look up and see all the family face looking down at me now from far away—Kate and Shirley, tear on the cheek, very scare, and Donna and Doug crying also. And I jump up and run out the door into the dark.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ONE SHOE GET CAUGHT IN THE DOOR WHEN I RUN, SO I KICK OFF the other and run. Wearing only my pant, my shirt, rip at the shoulder, and no shoe, only sock, make me very cold in this New Hampshire nighttime. Cold and cover in blood, my white shirt soak with blood. Sojeat blood, my blood. Sticky and smell like iron, blood on your skin is something that soak in and never get out.

  Peter family house on a mountain, no other house around, so where I run is all tree, very many, very close, like trapping you on every side. And now it rain, the raindrop hit the leaf like bullet, and the ground smell like rot. And now, to me, I’m in the jungle again.

  So I do what I know how: I walk. I walk and walk and walk and walk, branch grabbing at me, slashing my face, until finally, the jungle clear and now I’m on a road. Very dark now, black, like deep pond, no bottom, so only way to follow this road is to feel with my sock. Like trance to walk now on this straight, flat road, only sound is my heart pounding like gun in my chest. Only thought in my mind now is how bad I am, how never can I tame the tiger in my heart, how only thing I can do is get far away from all these people I know—people I hate, like mean kid at school; people I love, like Peter; people who try to help me, like the speech teacher—because me, I am poison; I hurt everything I touch.

  All a sudden I hear loud sound coming close on me from behind, and bright light, too, flash like bomb blast. I plunge myself sideway into the grass, and then a big wind roar by, so strong I think it will suck me inside. Then I understand. This wind, it’s a truck going by.

  But still only thing for me to do is walk. Walk on the highway and think what to do. No way I can ever go back to Peter house again after this bad thing I did. And no way to get back to Cambodia. No matter how hard I think, is no way out. Until, finally, I feel my mind hoping.

  Hoping for another truck to come. And hoping now to feel nothing anymore, no pain, no anger, no shame. No more kid teasing me at school, hive of bee calling me monkey; no more frustrate from a tongue that can’t say English, a tongue that can’t say what really in my heart. No more nightmare of corpse, of blood, of killing. Hoping only for truck, for feeling of tire, big fat truck tire, rolling over me, making me go away, disappear, no more Arn, only a black stain on this black road.

  Then I see ahead is small village, all dark, all window black, everyone sleeping, traffic light even it just blink the eye very slow; and I feel sleepy, sleepy and wish only for my soft pillow, my soft bed at Peter house. I keep walking into this town, thinking of all these New Hampshire people—so warm inside their house, wrap in blanket, dreaming in their bed, dreaming their American dream of mall and McDonald—and me outside, teeth chattering, no idea what to do.

  Flashing sign ahead says tv. This a word I know for sure. Sign also says free. This word I learn after the mall, so I know what’s for pay, what’s for free. Also a word I don’t know: motel. But I understand Free TV at this place, and my feet just go there. The door like magic, it open, slide apart, whoosh me inside. No TV, no people, only a counter and cash register like at the mall, but warm, warm like Cambodia, where air is like your own skin, so warm that I just lie down on the carpet and go to sleep.

  I don’t know what time it is, but I feel people step around me, business shoe go past my head, shiny, black, very hurry these shoes; and I wake up, startle, a man yelling, “Get out! Get out!” I jump up, see now with clear eye my white shirt cover in blood, and run out the magic door into the cold again. Cold and still a little dark, gray, like the whole world is shadow. And foggy, also, like big cloud floating on the ground so you can’t see in front of you.

  Into this cloud I step, my hand out in front so I can feel where to go, but I see only more fog, fog and shape of people. I see my sister, my little brother; I see people walking to the mango grove—the old music teacher, the prisoner with hands tied behind—people that been shot, people I kill, all ghost, floating, just floating by me.

  Sound of walkie-talkie now, crackle with voice talking, and I see in this fog a police car. Police now come to shoot me, to kill me for all these bad thing I done, and I think: when the bullet hit, will I look like all the other people, where the begging stop, the hope die in their eye, and the calm come, the waiting? I wonder what the bullet will feel like when it hit: like relief? like joy? like nothing?
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  But the police, he doesn’t see me; he look right at me, not seeing me, and drive by. I laugh a little at him, laugh out loud. Stupid police. How he can find me if he stay inside the car? To hunt someone you have to get close, smell their sweat, not hide inside your big American car.

  So now it my job to hunt him, to find him in this fog, to go to his gun, to call it to me, to bring the bullet into myself.

  I step out from this cloud, and not too far away I see a red light flashing; police car is stop up ahead, and the police, he’s shining a flashlight around. I walk to this light, fast, no stopping, no time for thinking. The police, this time he see me; he point his light right in my eye.

  “Don’t move,” he says.

  I keep walking.

  “Don’t move,” he put his hand on his gun. “Stop.”

  I don’t stop; I walk to him, straight to him, closer, closer, until finally I can smell him, smell the coffee, the leather of his belt, the hair oil. I put my arm around him, lean my head on his chest. “Take me home,” I say. “Please.”

  Peter, he wrap me in a blanket, crying. Shirley also crying, everyone crying except Sojeat; his face very swole, his eye still full of anger for me.