The Delta

Author: Aimee Phan

Trigger Warning: This document contains a brief reference to sexual assault.

The Delta

By Aimee Phan

From We Should Never Meet

THE CONVENT HADN'T ABSORBED her completely. Silky strands of dark hair escaped from underneath her black habit. The eyes, now burdened with heavy bags and shadows, nevertheless appeared bright and sharp. A deceptively diminutive gold cross lay between her heavily cloaked breasts. A clumsy, unabashed smile dominated her delicate face. The loveliest thing he'd ever looked at. Truc hadn't seen Phuong in twelve years.

You don't greet old friends? she asked, her deep voice unaltered, though now it seemed too flirtatious for a woman of the cloth to possess.

Truc stepped forward and dutifully kissed Phuong on the cheek, deliberately restraining himself from inhaling her scent. He didn't have to know if that remained the same or not.

How is your health? Truc asked. It was customary to inquire of one's well-being, though Truc had asked, not to be polite, but to make a point. There was a time when such formalities between them were unnecessary.

Fine. Her face softened into a more amused expression. And yours?

Truc shrugged. I have no complaints.

She stared at him hard, doubtfully. Then she took a step back, her eyes drifting to the dusty floor, once again the humble nun. Please come in.

Truc stepped in, enjoying the chill of the sweat coating his back. The insulation from the convent's cement walls was almost as invaluable as an electric fan during the Delta summers. Though open-air, the atrium was protected with large shade trees above. He looked around the room. Empty except for a thick wooden cross hanging in the afternoon shadows.

Was it a long drive? Phuong asked.

No. Your brother gave good directions.

We're still practically neighbors then. Her expression was sad, as though the knowledge that they still lived within a reasonable distance from each other but he never thought to visit was a rejection.

Come with me, Phuong said, walking through the atrium to another door.

Where are we going? Truc asked, peering over Phuong's

shoulder as he followed behind.

I want you to meet them first.

He didn't take the afternoon off to chat with the rest of the sisters. He was hoping they'd have a chance to catch up privately, give her an opportunity to explain the last twelve years.

But they weren't alone. Their two sets of footsteps echoing through the hall were soon joined by solemn murmurs, other footsteps, and, finally, crying. Individual wails of despair, anger, and naked panic. Babies.

I didn't realize this was also an orphanage. Truc stood behind Phuong in a large room crammed with wooden cribs. Several sisters hunched over beds where the loudest wails originated. There were four or five infants tangled in every crib. Smells of urine and feces mingled in the stale air.

It wasn't, Phuong said. A few years ago the Immaculate Souls orphanage grew overcrowded, so we volunteered to open up some empty rooms here. Now we shelter more infants than they do.

Truc should have realized. It was probably Phuong's idea. When they were children, she could hear her younger cousins crying from across the river.

She stepped forward to the nearest crib and gathered one of the babies in her arms. The little girl struggled to hold her head up, blinking away the flies surrounding her eyes and nose. A cloth diaper hung loosely on her. Harsh red boils overwhelmed her bony arms and legs. Truc fought the impulse to recoil.

This one we named Hanh because she came to us so delicate. Not that the others weren't either. Most are malnourished when they are brought here.

Truc thought of his nieces and nephews when they were first born, their chubby, petal-soft skin blushing with health and vigor. These babies burned red for another reason. Those without boils appeared transparent, disappearing-into the thin gray sheets they lay on. There were so many of them.

Hanh squirmed in Phuong's arms, wrinkled eyes and crumpled face, but nothing came forth, sound or matter, from her open mouth. Phuong laid her back down and pulled a formula bottle from the corner of the crib to fit between Hanh's shaking lips.

It's watered down. The more babies we get, the thinner we have to cut the milk and --

What is this? Truc said. Why did you bring me here?

Phuong breathed evenly, as if she expected this kind of reaction from him. My brother said your family had an automobile.

Truc nodded.

They'd bought it several years ago for transporting produce. Truc and his brother traveled to Saigon once a week to sell ducks and eggs at the Cholon market.

There's an orphanage in Saigon with more facilities and resources than we have here. They're willing to take ten of our infants. Truc waved away a fly. He should have expected this. You want a ride.

We lose children every day from infections. There were two epidemics of measles in the last year, and last month we lost twelve babies to chicken pox. We have a chance to save some of them.

The pungent air was overwhelming him. Truc tried to breathe through his mouth. He felt the floor beneath him slip a little, but was afraid of touching anything to regain balance. He thought of his science classes in high school. He thought of the germs.

You need to think about this, Phuong said, her voice as smooth as the patient expression on her face. I understand. If you decide you want to help us, you can tell my brother.

One of the babies started screeching above the others. Truc turned to leave. As he walked out, he saw Phuong lift the screaming infant to her chest. But instead of rocking the child back and forth or caressing its back, she simply pulled the baby's diaper away, realized it didn't need changing, and promptly returned it to the crib. Truc jolted in shock, but quickly tried to dismiss it. Stepping out of the door, he could hear the child's gulping screams bounce off the walls, lingering in his ears, until he reached the end of the hall, opened the heavy front door, and closed it behind him.

They first held hands when they were three years old. She was crying, and he wanted to know why.

It bit me, she said, pointing to a large suspicious duck nibbling at a grass weed in the pond. Her hair gleamed in the orange air of dusk, her tear-stained cheeks glowed pink.

Truc chased after the boorish bird, dodging the tall lime grass slapping in his face, determined to make it pay. The duck honked hysterically as it flapped away, alerting Truc's father. He ran toward the pond and picked up his incensed son, slightly amused at the boy's righteous anger.

It hurt Phuong, Truc said, still glaring over his father's shoulder at the guilty creature.

Their families laughed over this, recounted it again and again over suppers and holidays, Truc's heroic protection of Phuong at such a young age.

He loved her before he knew he was supposed to, Truc's mother had said, nodding in complete assurance.

Though their engagement wasn't official until after Phuong's fifteenth birthday—a large celebration also honoring Tet with half the village in attendance-both families knew their youngest children were intended for each other. Truc's family had been sending their ducks to feed in Phuong's family's rice paddies for years, a symbiotic relationship that nourished their birds while ridding the paddies of harmful insects. It seemed natural to merge the farms together through their children. They even joked that Phuong's mother had intentionally become pregnant after Truc's mother announced her expectancy. They all agreed: Phuong was created for Truc.

They're paying premium, Mother, Truc said. Some wedding banquet.

But only twenty-five birds? His mother fretted as Truc and several servants struggled to tie the birds' feet together for the trip. It was just after dawn, the land still quiet except for the occasional whispers of insects. Phuong had wanted to leave as early as possible to protect the babies from most of the day's heat. His mother clucked at the small number of ducks. Is the trip worth it?

It's good money. And I already promised the bride's father.

But Sao and Anh will be fine by themselves? On days Truc didn't regularly travel to Saigon they sold ducks and eggs in the local floating market in Can Tho.

They're loading the sampan as we speak. You know we can trust them.

She nodded, her lips still bunched together in doubt. I know, I know. What you think is best. Since his father's death and his older brothers' departures to join the liberation front, the farm had become Truc's responsibility. His mother helped out occasionally, but spent most of her time at the ancestors' altar burning incense for the unification of Vietnam and her sons' safe return home. She depended solely on Truc, supported almost every decision he made, except his stubborn determination to remain a bachelor. And that she protested in silence.

Truc angled the cages on top of each other, pushing them as far against the walls as possible. It would be crowded, but there was no choice. The birds had to come to avoid suspicion.

They were waiting for him in front of the convent. Not just Phuong and the chosen infants, but what seemed like the entire orphanage. Shuffling their feet in the dust and peering around like they were waiting to have their picture taken. It was an awkward reception. There were those who recognized Truc and avoided eye contact, unsure of his temperament. Those who didn't know Truc gazed upon him with gratitude. The children were of varying sizes, the older ones holding smaller infants, looking on him with a mixture of suspicion and longing.

Truc took his time getting out of the van, letting his feet sink into the muddy soil until he felt it stabilize. Several children encircled him. He didn't take any of their outstretched hands, waving his own high up in the air, trying to smile and not look terrified.

He unlatched the van doors. Feathers sailed out, drifted along the ground, luring a few young boys and girls to chase after them. The ducks flapped their wings as sunlight streamed in and started to quack at the children exclaiming over them. Phuong, holding a small baby swaddled tightly in a stained pink blanket, stared at the birds uncertainly.

Those are coming with us?

It'll be fine. I'll lock the cages.

Two sisters laid out several blankets on the van floor. Others carried wooden crates and cardboard boxes, makeshift cribs-into the van. The ducks stared at the tiny orphans with interest, tapping their yellow bills against the cages.

Phuong introduced Truc to each baby. She looked at him each time, perhaps expecting him to pick up their tiny grubby bodies and kiss them hello. The infants chosen to travel to Saigon had survived last month's chicken pox epidemic, but were still frail enough that their survival depended on better nutrition and more individual care. Several were Amerasian, bastards of the American soldiers, both black and white. Probably from rape. Truc tried to look at them with sympathy. It was not their fault. Just innocent babies. Phuong said their only chance was international adoption in America or Australia. They could never have a life here.

The orange streaks in the sky were brightening, chasing the morning mist away. Truc offered Phuong an old stool so she could sit in back with the babies, but she wanted to sit in front.

They'll be fine. If there's a problem, I'll just crawl back there.

With the cargo settled in, Truc started the motor. Phuong sat next to him only an arm's length away. Her feet as a child were always bare, but now they were cloaked in scuffed black shoes, crossed at the ankles. Her habit was smoothed straight behind her shoulders. Her hands folded neatly in her lap. Phuong looked tired, her eyes drifting closed until the van jotted over a bump, and they fluttered open again.

Usually Truc had one of the servants accompany him on the drive to Saigon and they'd chat about business or village gossip. But Phuong didn't seem in the mood to talk, and Truc didn't know what to say to her. He looked as far ahead as he could, his eyes drifting over the wood thatched huts along the road, the ancestral tombs dotting the rice paddies. He glanced in the side mirror at the children playing in the roadside dust they left behind. He noted the growing heat emanating through the automobile's metal roof and decided to roll the window open.

After realizing with relief how serene the ride had been so far, Truc jerked as one of the babies began to cry defiantly, provoking the ducks to react. Truc sternly quieted the birds. Phuong crawled to the back and after a few seconds, presumably after giving the child a bottle, returned to her seat. But the infant was still crying. Truc peered over at Phuong, who was facing out her window.

Phuong.

It'll be all right. She didn't turn around.

The child continued to cry. Truc tried to concentrate on driving, the ball of his foot gauging the pedals, his hands clenching the sweaty, slippery steering wheel.

Phuong.

Just wait a minute.

They did. Eventually, the baby offered a final pathetic howl and fell silent, waiting, then, nothing, presumably falling asleep again.

You have to do that, Phuong said, glancing over at him, smiling sleepily. You have to wait.

Truc nodded. These were not his children. It was not up to him to judge what was cruel or not.

A purr of contentment drifted from Phuong's side of the car.

Truc looked over to her window. What?

In the glass reflection, Phuong's eyes absorbed the banana palms along the burnt muddy waters of the river. She turned over to Truc's side to concentrate on the rich green rice paddies. We hardly have the opportunity to leave the grounds, she said. I still live here, but not really. I forgot how beautiful the Delta is.

Truc returned his eyes to the road. You don't visit home?

I haven't been back since I left. She shifted in her seat. You know that.

He did. He just wanted to hear her say it.

Truc was in bed for a week after Phuong broke their engagement, suffering from a phlegmy, bloody cough originating deep from within his chest. He'd been relatively healthy as a child, no serious illnesses or broken bones, but Phuong's departure seemed to inspire his immune system to abandon him also. For the next few months, he couldn't be seen out of his pajamas, since he was catching any virus or disease floating around the village. The illnesses were soon replaced with chronic insomnia, compelling Truc to take long walks on the farm at night with an oil lamp to guide him. He awoke the ducks with his soft steps, and they'd waddle from their unlocked wire cages, following behind, keeping him company.

He's worried about the government, his mother would tell her friends, slightly embarrassed at having a son who'd mourn a broken relationship for so long. He doesn't trust those Catholic brutes.

Initially the family indulged Truc's shattered heart and its strange manifestations. But they were getting complaints from the neighbors that the ducks were keeping them awake at night. He fell asleep at inopportune moments, during worshiping or supper. In the fall, Truc decided not to return to Saigon to finish his last year of school. He didn't know when he would be ready to complete his studies.

You need something to do, Truc's father said. You're going to work on the farm. The ducks already like you.

And they did. Truc became responsible for coaxing the ducklings out of their shells, and when he'd gathered them together for feeding time on the rice paddies, they'd prod his hands with their golden bills, smoothing their feathers along his pants. This worried Truc, especially when his father and older brothers demanded he learn to kill and gut the birds so he could help sell them at the open market.

One humid afternoon Truc's older brother Binh finally forced him to sit outside one of the cages and do it. One of the ducks calmly moved in front of them and settled near Truc's feet.

It's just a stupid bird. It was born to die. Now put your hands around its neck. Lock your fingers together. That's it. Now squeeze. See how their eyes pop from the sockets a bit? That's how you know it's working. Keep going. Harder, Truc. Do it fast, you just have to break it, it's easier that way. See how the eyes are getting glassy? See how you can tell by looking in their eyes?

Truc's grip held tight, his gaze locked onto the bird's. Like Phuong's eyes, so dark and wide and hard you wondered what thoughts cowered behind them.

The skinny two-lane road was growing crowded. Truc eased his foot on the brake and frowned. He rarely encountered traffic at this time. He cleared his throat from the idle car exhaust swelling in front of them. Now they sat at a standstill.

Poking his head out the window, Truc found the problem: three dark green military tanks encamped on the roadside with matching soldiers, unsmiling, hugging their

guns protectively against their chests. He settled back in his seat. Perfect. They stumbled upon a checkpoint. These routine inspections could take hours.

Every so often a car in the opposite lane would pass, and Truc wondered if he should just turn around and find an alternate route. But there was no room, and now there were soldiers dispersed evenly along the road. Truc waved at one of them until he finally walked over.

Are you closing this road?

The South Vietnamese soldier was a kid, probably no older than eighteen. Uh. He looked around for his superiors, but they were too far off to catch his pleading eyes. He looked back at Truc. Yes.

When were you going to tell us? Trục, Phuong whispered.

The boy looked stunned by the sudden disrespect and narrowed his eyes. We're following protocol.

You need to explain to each automobile one at a time that the road is closed?

This is protocol. Truc. Phuong's voice was stern this time, the model

It's stupid. Can I just turn around?

Um. The soldier bit his lip. No.

Why not?

What do you have back there? The soldier peered over Truc's shoulder.

Ducks and babies. The soldier held his gun up higher. Open the back, sir.

I've got a nun sitting next to me. Do you really think I'm VC?

Truc! Phuong glared at him. That's enough. Just do what he says.

Rolling his eyes, Truc stepped out of the van. I'd hardly think President Diem would have approved.

Once the soldiers inspected the van, Truc and Phuong were released, with a few snide remarks about selling ducks and babies, to turn the automobile around and leave. Truc impatiently pressed on the gas, the tires spinning briefly, trying to make up for the lost time. Since his usual route was closed, they'd have to take the ferry over. He hated the ferry.

Phuong's arms crossed in front of her chest. Tiny beads of sweat sprang in a row along her scalp, but she made no move to roll down her window. Truc suspected this silence was different from her earlier one, more deliberate and pointed against him.

What's wrong? Truc finally asked, resenting that nothing had really changed, that he'd once again succumbed to Phuong's sulky tantrum like he did when they were children.

Why did you have to bring up Diem? You knew they'd have to search the van.

I'm sorry. Did I offend your god by speaking badly of the late honorable president? Are you afraid I'm going to, what is it, hell? Eternal damnation?

Her exhale of breath lasted significantly, like she'd been holding it in most of the morning. Phuong looked at him with more annoyance than hurt. It isn't the Lord's fault.

Truc swerved to avoid an oblivious, possibly blind, dog wandering across the road. Your lord is tearing our country apart.

Phuong was staring at her feet, shaking her head. This was not the girl who was once his fiancée, the one who would never let him push her around so easily. Finally, she looked at him.

The Lord would not condone what has happened to our country, she said, her voice trying hard not to vibrate. No God would.

Did you know my father died?

Phuong hesitated. Yes. Her chin pointed to her chest, her gold cross. My brother told me.

Do you know why?

She took even longer to answer this one. He could barely hear her, like she could mollify the past with softness. He spoke out against the government.

Maybe you should have thought of that before asking me for this favor.

You were the only one I knew with an automobile. We were desperate. She closed her eyes. If it meant you could help these children, I was willing to let you hate me a little more.

As the youngest children of prosperous families, it would have been easy for Truc and Phuong to grow up as spoiled and sheltered as other landowners' children. But their families, who understood that wealth was a rare blessing in their country, refused to hide the war from them. They had long agreed that their children needed to understand the land they lived in and the poverty that most of their countrymen suffered. As soon as Truc and Phuong could walk steadily, they began tagging along with their grandmothers and older siblings to take leftover rice and duck meat to the poor in the village slums.

The first afternoon, Truc's grandmother urged him to knock on the doors of the small bamboo huts along the river, while she and the others stood behind him. Initially he was terrified, wanting only to hide behind his older brothers' legs. But the families took the sacks from True's arms gratefully, and after setting them aside, the women rubbed their hands and lips all over his face and hair, profusely expressing their appreciation. He endured these affectionate displays as best he could.

Phuong had been quiet for most of the afternoon, unusual for the girl who could never stop chatting or wiggling during worship in the pagoda. Truc realized the problem when they arrived at the shack of a widow. Several naked babies lay on the dirt floor, their misleadingly rotund stomachs full of emptiness, limbs as narrow as grass weed in the wind. They stared up at the strangers, too weak to vocalize any emotion.

She stood in the doorway, staring at those babies, as their families brushed past her. Truc touched her arm to help her inside, and she recoiled from him.

Don't do that, she said. What? Truc asked, confused.

Just don't. Her eyes moistened and Truc fearfully backed away.

Her older brothers and sister had tried to coax Phuong inside, but she howled in protest, screaming that she wanted to go home. When they finally agreed to head back, she couldn't even walk by herself. Her brother Ngo had to carry her.

Her parents remained adamant she continue the trips to the slums, hoping Phuong would grow out of this behavior. Phuong never got used to it. She couldn't look at an emaciated child without crying. Truc was so disturbed by her hysterical reactions that he attempted to hide those sickly babies from her whenever they were near, diverting her attention, standing in the way. But she eventually sought these children out, as though she was growing to enjoy the pain they caused her, an empathy she wasn't used to and realized she needed.

Their families believed her behavior a sign of Phuong's destined success for motherhood, and when their children grew older, often teased Truc and Phuong that they must wait until after the marriage ceremony to create babies. Then, Phuong's mother had said, her betel-blackened teeth peeking out from her sly, thin lips, you can have as many as you want, no complaints from me.

The road to the ferry was more neglected than the direct route to Saigon, constricted and bumpier, with sharp turns and sudden drops. True navigated through these obstacles with caution, fearing to provoke the babies awake. But even when the road had calmed to fine, damp dirt, the babies were still fussing. Initially there were only a few muted cries of frustration and discomfort, but soon nearly all the children were crying steadily, doggedly.

Eventually Phuong crawled back to stay with them. Still, their uneasiness would not abate. Several infants began screaming, their piercing cries bouncing off the van's metal walls, encouraging the ducks to join in, flapping hysterically.

Phuong returned to her seat. They're hungry. It's their nursing time.

Did you feed them? I gave them water. But they're hungry for milk.

You didn't bring any milk? Truc swerved the car to the right, achieving his impulse to also knock Phuong against her side door, which, fortunately, was locked. She pulled herself back in her seat shakily, her hands struggling to smooth out her habit, her composure. She looked behind to make sure the infants still lay in their cribs.

Why?

We couldn't afford to bring formula in case it spoiled, so we brought water instead. We fed them right before we left.

He shook his head, unable even to look at her. Maybe its a good thing we didn't marry and have children, Truc said as he put the car in reverse. You may be a servant of your Catholic god, but there is no compassion in you. Letting babies starve like this, you could never be a good mother.

She did not respond until she realized they had turned off the main road. Where are we going?

We're getting milk.

No one had thought much of Phuong's volunteer work at the new clinic. If anything, they found it noble, so typical of their sweet, concerned girl. It didn't seem important that the clinic was founded by an order of nuns who'd fled from the North after the Demarcation. Though aware of the many pagodas and communal houses in the Delta, the sisters still wanted to establish the clinic, which they felt was needed in a village with only two midwives. At least they're doing something good, many villagers had pointed out. No one else wanted to do it.

The nuns seemed polite and good-natured, wearing the classic black-and-white habits and wooden rosaries the villagers had seen at the cinema and associated with the Catholics. Their enthusiasm attracted an admiring following, including Phuong. She'd long been disappointed by the Buddhist monks in their village, who, Phuong believed, did little except remain cloistered in their pagodas to meditate.

They only come out to collect food donations for themselves and take away food from the poor, Phuong said. What are they doing to help the community?

They're worshiping for us while we work, Truc said. That's what they're called to do.

Phuong shook her head. It's a waste.

Truc liked that the nuns kept Phuong busy. She'd taken his departure to secondary school in Saigon very badly. She'd wanted to go away to school with him, but her parents believed that a higher education was a waste for a girl who already possessed her farm skills. She was needed on their rice paddies. Phuong couldn't be found the morning Truc left for his first year of school. She later confessed she'd stayed hidden on purpose.

I thought I could make you stay if you couldn't find me, Phuong said. They lay together in the spare room in the servants' quarters, where no one could disturb them. Because how could you leave without saying good-bye to me?

They had never before doubted their future together, but with Truc living in Saigon during the week, Phuong loudly expressed her worries. There were so many pretty, educated girls in the city. Truc tried to assure her his only thoughts in Saigon were of her and the war. They realized how petty some of their concerns were. Their countrymen were dying, steadily, and they worried only about each other.

The clinic posed as an ideal alternative for Phuong. She spoke often of the innovations—the sisters knew about vaccinations, proper hygiene, and prenatal care. She introduced Truc to the nuns, who innocently bowed to him and spoke of the pleasant weather. It seemed a harmless hobby to Truc. One that kept her busy and made her feel necessary. For this, Truc was appreciative of the nuns.

At the closest town, Truc stopped at the local open-air market and negotiated a trade for several bottles of rice milk. Grabbing one of the ducks from the cages, Truc swiftly broke its neck, and plucked and gutted the bird in front of Phuong and the street vendor. Wiping the blood on his pants, he shoved the bottles, sticky with sweat and entrails, into Phuong's hands. It was the first time he'd touched her all day.

Go pour them in the bottles.

Truc thought he must have surprised Phuong when he revealed he intended to help feed the babies. He knew there was no choice since they'd already lost so much time. They sat across from each other in the back of the van, pulling a baby into each of their laps.

There was a layer of fabric between him and the child. Truc reminded himself of this constantly when picking up the first one. The baby howled at first contact, like he could sense Truc's revulsion. He tried to nudge the boy's mouth open to suckle the plastic nipple, even impatiently reminding the child he was starving; but the baby refused to be fed, screaming every time the nipple tapped his lips.

He knows you don't want to do this, Phuong finally said, scooting to Truc's side. Here. She showed him how to cradle the infant and, with the thumb and index fingers pressing on the child's cheeks, prod the mouth open and fit the bottle in.

After the first few feedings, Truc relaxed into its natural rhythm, allowing it to calm him. He noted how each child delighted in receiving food, eagerly swallowing the milk and burping with satisfaction. He suddenly realized the magnitude of the babies' unease this day, stuffed in boxes or crates, enduring bumps in the road and the loud company of the ducks. He congratulated those who finished their bottles without much fuss. He even managed to caress their cheeks and soothe their cries with a low, assuring voice.

He lulled the last child to sleep, until it softly snored through its nostrils and closed-bud mouth. After he eased the infant back into the cardboard box, he turned and saw Phuong crouching in the corner of the van, staring at him. When she realized she had his attention, she looked away.

That one you were just holding, I found him on our doorstep. Phuong rested her head against the van wall. I answered the door that morning. The mother had run away.

But I thought I could feel her nearby, hiding and watching us. So I waited for her to come out. I wanted to give her a chance to see the people who she was giving her baby to.

He knew he wasn't supposed to say anything, so he didn't. He'd begun to regret some of the words he'd said. Resettling his legs into a more comfortable position, Truc

waited for her to speak again.

They drop them off every day, she said. Sometimes two in a day. Sometimes they hand us the baby, upset, even angry, and explain their situations. But most we never see. They just leave them at the door to cry.

Truc tried to meet her eyes; but she was determined not to let him, concentrating on something else, beyond him, the babies and the van. It frightened him how easily she could remove herself from his presence when they were together. It always had.

They never stop coming. They arrive sick, and most of them die with us. After a while, you can't bear holding them in your arms, knowing there's nothing you can do. It is possible to grieve too much. I never thought so before.

Her shoulders were shaking. Truc pulled himself to sit next to her and, hesitantly, awkwardly patted her shoulder, trying to remember how it felt to offer comfort.

No, don't. She pushed his hand away gently, turning her head to the wall. You can't feel sorry for me. I know what I did to you. I won't forget it.

The source of the Mekong River lay in Tibet and traveled over thousands of kilometers through China, Burma, Laos, and Cambodia before entering southern Vietnam. The river nourished the surrounding marshlands and forests, forming the Delta, the river's deposit of the lush soils of so many regions, lands, and people.

Their talks, as they walked along the Delta, often for miles, revolved around fanciful ideas of one day buying a hectare for themselves and creating a legacy apart from what their parents had planned. They prided themselves for having dreams so outrageously against tradition. But they secretly knew it was out of the question. Their families had already paid for a small house to be constructed between their properties, a modest home designed to allow rooms to be added on after children were born. This, they knew, was a generous and lavish wedding gift, since most newlyweds were expected to live in one of the parents' homes and learn to adapt to keeping a large house and caring for the elders. But since their older siblings were already successfully fulfilling those duties, it was decided that Truc and Phuong would be rewarded with their own home for officially uniting the

families.

There were some concerns of spending the money on a new house with the war threatening to push its way into the Delta. Truc’s father had become sympathetic to the intellectuals in the village who spoke eloquently of the South government's bowing to foreign nations' demands and the necessity of ridding their country of international influences.

We can't survive as two halves, his father often told his family at supper when they discussed political matters, which was becoming more often. Under a puppet government, the South will crumble. We need the North with us.

Though Truc offered to give up the new house, his father still wanted to build it. They will not infect our lives, he'd said. We're going to continue our future. Truc took a leave from school to supervise the house's construction. He'd expected Phuong to be pleased that they would be able to see each other every day for the first time in years, but she'd become busier at the clinic by then, assisting the nuns in birthing infants, and was unable to spend much time with Truc. Initially, he believed this fortuitous. The house would be more of a surprise for her. He devoted every minute he had to preparing the foundation of their new home, thinking, he later realized, foolishly little of his betrothed's increasing distance.

The embarkation zone was clogged with automobiles, bicycles, and people on foot, all struggling to squeeze through, not wanting to wait for the next ferry, which was not due to leave until evening. Truc had enough money to bribe an official for one of the vehicle passes, which supposedly had all been sold. They gingerly drove up the wobbly loading ramp, following the other automobiles onto the wooden ferry. On the main deck, the van was wedged so tightly between a chicken truck and a school bus that they couldn't open the side doors. Then the foot passengers boarded, a noisy cluster of conical hats weaving through the automobiles, congesting the deck further. This was why Truc avoided the ferries.

In the river's brown muddy water, fisherman cast out their nets frantically, hoping to catch the fish attracted to the ferry's motor in time before the boat's departure. A

slight breeze floated by, arousing noises of approval and smiles of relief from the ferry passengers. It soon absorbed and disappeared into the heavy, moist air.

The ferry's smokestack exhaled a thick curl of smog followed by a long whistle, indicating departure. Truc and Phuong rolled down their windows and opened the van's back doors to get as much air circulating for the babies as they could. Truc used the blankets the nuns had laid out to fan the infants. But the babies didn't seem to have as much difficulty with the heat as the adults-most of them remained either drowsy or in a contented sleep from their feeding,

Phuong removed her habit so that her arms and calves were bare. Her hair, once down to her waist as Truc last remembered, was now cut above her shoulders.

Don't tell anyone, she said when she caught him staring at her.

Do they know? Truc asked.

What?

That you haven't always been chaste?

It had the desired effect. With shaky hands, she turned away and put her habit back on. He returned to the driver's seat while she remained in the back.

Several street vendors tapped on their van selling baguette sandwiches, fruit, and sugarcane. Truc bought two pâté baguettes and a bag of mango slices. Phuong nibbled on her bread slowly at first, then, realizing her hunger, began tearing into it in large chunks.

From inside the van, they watched the Delta and its inhabitants change. More fishermen, tangled in their nets, arranging baskets of fresh sole, crabs and shrimp in their sampans. Farmers hunched over in rice fields and their children splashing nearby in the lily pads. Two teenage girls swung from a coconut tree, playfully threatening to smash a coconut onto the ferry.

A pair of saffron-shrouded monks waded knee deep in the Delta, splashing their arms and faces to cool off. They waved at the ferry as it passed, smiles as bright as their heads. So different from the photographs Truc saw of them in Saigon newspapers, burning themselves to protest the government's mistreatment of them.

Truc turned to Phuong, still engrossed in her baguette. Do you ever think anything of their suffering?

After following his gaze to the monks, she put down her food. Stop it.

What?

You have to stop blaming the Church for everything wrong. The hardness in her voice from earlier, when the kid soldier had interrogated them, reemerged. The Lord may be perfect, Phuong said, but not his followers. And they shouldn't claim to be either.

But some do.

And I cannot speak for all Catholics. Just me. She looked over to him, finally. And what do you think of their suffering? Or can you only pity the Buddhists? I showed you, Truc. I brought you into our orphanage and showed you what we do every day.

I thought you didn't want me to feel sorry for you.

I'm asking you to consider the other side.

The one you joined?

I do not work for the South Vietnamese. I work for the Lord. I'm not on either government's side.

Truc shook his head at her. Our country is divided. You must take sides.

No.

Do you think the North and South can survive without each other? Don't you want this country to be reunited?

If I thought that would end the suffering, I would. If I believed either of the sides was not corrupt or concerned with its own ambitions, I would take up arms. But they just want to hurt each other. Nothing good will come of this war, except for these babies. If I can help them, then that will be enough for me.

The blow of the ferry's whistle signaled the end of the journey. The captain spoke over the loudspeaker, announcing their impending arrival. Several of the babies awoke and began to cry, agitating the ducks. The van's chorus had returned, and, for the first time that day, Truc felt grateful.

He could feel it through his body, the chill trickling underneath his skin, when she told him they needed to speak privately in the morning, before their families awoke. He couldn't recall the last time she wanted to talk privately with him.

They'd been arguing for months. Truc would try to involve her in the building process, but she seemed uninterested. Then, when she discovered a detail she didn't approve of, she'd become upset, accusing him of creating their home, dictating their future, without her. He knew she argued often with her family about the wedding plans because Phuong's mother told his mother. Words like The Lord and His Mission slipped from her mouth with increasing frequency.

It's those nuns, his mother had said. I knew they'd eventually poison her.

Members of both sides kept pressuring Truc to find out what was wrong with her. Truc had always been the one who could reach her, her confidante, her solace.

She now thought differently. Everyone always assumes you know what I want and what I like, Phuong had said after one particularly bad argument about the distance growing between her and their families. You don't. We do not always like the same things. We never have.

In her family's rice paddies that morning, early enough for no servant to witness, she told him so bluntly and quickly he was convinced it couldn't possibly be her speaking. The words, so cruel and casual, seemed foreign coming from her mouth.

Though embarrassing to acknowledge years later, every plea and entreaty he used to try and change her mind remained as fresh to Truc as the memory of her hand's texture when he used to hold it, or their simultaneous laughter bursting from a silly joke. But while their union provided bittersweet sensations, her rejection was only painful, and his refusal to accept it even more wrenching.

You once thought we were one entity, Truc reminded her. Two persons created for one life.

No, Truc, she said, appearing insulted. It's my life. I choose to give it to the Lord.

Her decision traveled a devastating path. Enraged and humiliated, Truc's family immediately cut off ties with Phuong's family, including business, which soon crippled both houses' incomes. The supplies for the wedding house were used to build a partition between the farms. Truc recalled the ducks' confusion at being chased away from the rice paddies they'd long assumed belonged to them. Truc's father arranged for the ducks to feed at another neighboring rice farm.

People in the village were reluctant to take sides, fearful of having either influential family against them. But the town sentiment eventually turned in favor of Truc's family, especially after the clinic shut down. The sisters decided to move north of the Delta, taking Phuong and their medicine and supplies with them. Some villagers whispered of witchcraft. A few who'd accepted their vaccinations fled to the pagodas, begging for the Buddhist monks' meditations to help retrieve their souls.

Truc knew all of this. His walks through the village at night, the ducks behind him in a row, allowed him to hear much of the gossip and speculation, though he had nothing to say in response. His insomnia allowed him to rest in his room during the day, since his family presumed he was exhausted. Truc preferred this. He didn't know what else to say to his family except that he was sorry.

The orphanage in Saigon was an old French villa surrounded by high salmon-colored walls and a black iron gate that opened into a large courtyard with a broken fountain. It was run by an American organization that could afford to take in what appeared to be hundreds of orphans. Truc was curious if they planned to take all the children to America. He wondered how they could survive there.

Several American workers helped Truc and Phuong carry the makeshift cribs into the house, where others rushed over to coo before taking the infants away to be bathed and fed. In the living room, a Vietnamese worker named Hoa spoke with Phuong concerning the babies' medical histories. Truc sat awkwardly on one of the metal chairs, conscious of the various eyes on him.

Phuong would be staying. She'd help the babies adjust and help monitor their health for a week before returning to the Delta.

How will you get home? Truc asked.

I can take the bus. You've already done so much.

One of the workers carried in a freshly bathed infant, his hair damp and matted against his forehead. It took Truc a moment before realizing it was one of their orphans. He smiled when the infant grabbed for Truc's index finger, his impulsive grip soft and puffy.

Truc declined an invitation to stay for dinner. Their shoes clicked on the empty concrete courtyard. Phuong took Truc's hands in hers, undeterred by his initial instinct to resist, and squeezed them.

I will never forget what you've done.

And I won't forget what you've done. He didn't mean it to sound spiteful. He did not say anything else to fix it, but did not let go of her hands either.

How could you think I didn't know your father died?

I don't know, Truc said.

I did. I had to. I still need to know what happens in your life.

Truc let go of her hands, letting his own fall to his sides.

I wanted to see you after I heard about your father. I almost did. Phuong smiled sadly. Then I prayed that you would come to me.

They stood in silence for a long time. I can pick you up, Truc said. Take you home.

That's all right. I don't know exactly when I can return. The bus will be fine.

Okay. He turned to leave.

Good-bye, Truc.

Good-bye.

It was almost evening, the day's heat rising from the soil, warming the city in place of the departed sun. Traffic back to the Delta would be crowded any way he chose. The ducks chattered noisily in the back of the van, reminding Truc he needed to stop at the open-air market to get rid of them. But on the way, he decided to turn around. Realizing he didn't mind the birds' honking, actually appreciated their company, he decided they would all go home.

DMU Timestamp: April 15, 2021 22:58

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