Butterfly yellow, p.15
Butterfly Yellow, page 15
LeeRoy joins her blinks. They share slight smiles. When H takes a deep breath, so does he. When she releases one of her long sighs, he does too. He instinctively knows to keep quiet. He’s getting it now. Gets that he can’t push her to reveal herself any more than he can push away his gut need to be a cowboy. It will take time.
Some things you don’t poke at. Someday she might want to flesh out that rap poem to someone. And if he’s around, attentive, that someone might be him. He bets she’s been writing her poem for a long, long time. Never will he ask about them red lines on her skin. Someday she might need to tell that long story. And maybe . . .
She’s something to behold, this girl who’s staring into his eyeballs even though he’s got a good foot on her. Her hair a mess, her complexion pale green and goose-pimpled, her clothes soaked and shabby. But Lord, she dazzles.
It’s still not the right time for a hug. He bends down and fake punches her in one shoulder. She tilts her head to tame all manner of thought that must be clanging around in there. Then she balls up a fist and hooks it toward him. The punch lands on his bicep with just the right amount of weighty softness.
The sound of a truck. LeeRoy turns to see Cora and David waving and now honking.
LeeRoy bends and points to his back. To his surprise, H hops on. Even more of a surprise, she giggles as he slips and slides. Giggles something fierce, like she’s once again a little girl.
Part III
The Butterfly
Inside a Face
Hair damp, Hằng shivers as she sits in Co-ra’s kitchen. But she will not show displeasure. After all, following the hailstorm yesterday, Co-ra pampered her with a bath and pajamas. Then, to Hằng’s delight, Co-ra invited her into a room next to Linh and announced, “Let’s give your nose a break from Mr. Morgan’s couch.”
Twice, Hằng drifted from her bed and watched sleep envelop her brother, whose door stayed open. In the moonlight she saw faint traces of the boy who once adored her; his lips parted, a snore whistled, eyelashes light as hope napped on his cheekbones. She willed forth magical words that would lure Linh to their uncle’s. Nothing came to her. Bà would have known what to say.
“Sugar, you’re about to not recognize yourself,” Co-ra says from behind, clicking scissors. “What I wouldn’t give for more than your five choppy inches. Though you make it up in texture, that’s for sure, so soft and sleek and thick. I could bite you I’m so envious.”
Another talker. Hằng is grateful. Without releasing one word, she has a conversation. This one has her heartbeats accelerating, her eyes blinking.
“No need to be nervous, I’ve got gentle hands.”
Hằng wonders how long Co-ra’s generosity will last, wonders if she’s completing the final act by polishing Hằng into a shiny girl for the fair. Then what? The short question irritates her like gnats. Then what?
Co-ra comes around, leans down so they’re almost nose to nose. “A pixie cut is our best bet, sweetie.”
Their foreheads bump when Linh comes in and yells, “MaaaaMaaaa, why can’t I help load the cantaloupes? I crated them and got pelted with hail like everyone else, why can’t I, pleeeeease?”
“You hush up.” She shakes the scissors at him. “Your job right now is to get dressed and stay looking nice. Don’t go getting sweaty on me, it’s going to get over ninety today. You and this one here will become easy on the eyes even if I have to sit on the both of ya.”
“MaaaaaMaaaaa!”
“There’s ten dollars in it for you if you do what I ask and don’t annoy me for the rest of the morning. Now, git.”
Linh slumps away without once looking at his sister. He has to thaw at some point, Hằng tells herself. She’s the only one who looks like him around here. That has to matter.
Co-ra keeps talking as she yanks, cuts, and twists. A smelly paste is smeared over the entirety of Hằng’s head. Next, an attack on eyelashes, eyelids, eye rims, lips, lip rims, cheekbones, chin, and even throat.
“You have great bones, my girl. Wait till you see what else I’m capable of. Come now.”
Leading Hằng into the biggest bedroom, Co-ra smiles so huge the girl begins to panic. On the bed lie two sleeveless dresses, with see-through skin-color fabric sewn on to make long sleeves. Two pairs of skin-color socks that also cover undergarments. Hằng has heard her mother talk of such a thing but never seen one up close.
She touches the long socks. Smooth and stretchy, thin as breaths. Also there are two scarves, one green, one yellow, from fabric she knows is chiffon. Two pairs of boots await on the floor.
“I stayed up all night fashioning ways to show skin without showing skin, and not to toot my own horn, but I dare someone to come up with fancier outfits.” Co-ra takes off her robe and signals for Hằng to do the same. “Me and you, matching from head to toe. Won’t folks be tickled?”
Co-ra holds up a yellow dress and asks, “Recognize this?”
Of course, En-Di brought it for Hằng to wear in front of a judge. An exposed dress reconfigured into skin-hiding day wear. Hằng is so impressed with Co-ra’s ingenuity she mimics every one of Co-ra’s many, many steps in putting on one item after another.
“My mama, now, she never threw out a thing. She didn’t grow up with much so she took to saving, just in case. Look how smart she was. I’ve got a slip and hosiery and a bra and a belt for your tiny self.”
Hằng is distracted and forgets to shield the jumble of red lines coursing beneath her skin. It helps that Co-ra fails to react, as if such lines run beneath everybody’s skin.
Everything on, Co-ra steps back to inspect. “We are scrumptious. That cousin of yours has great taste. You do splendidly in a flouncy, floral summer dress that adds the illusion of a fuller figure and accentuates your waist. I do declare, at times I think I’ve missed my calling to become a hairdresser or a fashion designer.”
For the final touch, Cora glides something sweet on the girl’s lips. “Now, take a peek.”
At a full-length mirror, Hằng’s eyes burn. Her head shakes on its own, trying to erase a vision so unexpected she might as well have grown wings.
“What’s the matter? You look so pretty.”
Hằng can’t control her tears or her palms rising to scrub off colors and features that for the first time resemble her mother’s. “Nô, khen nót lúc bờ-rít-ti.”
She pulls at the stretchy skin on her arms, her legs. It won’t tear.
Co-ra yells for Linh. “David, go fetch LeeRoy, now.” With a soothing voice, she faces Hằng: “Come sit, it’s all right. You don’t have to wear anything you don’t want.”
Hằng runs into the bathroom. Her heart pounds inside her ears but soon Ly-Roi’s familiar buzzes claim attention from the other side of the locked door. Co-ra joins him, in speed and volume. They must think her shockingly rude. After all, Co-ra has lost sleep designing the dresses and is willing to stretch make-believe skin over her own arms and legs to soothe Hằng’s anticipated panic.
How will Hằng explain she wasn’t thinking, only reacting to an image that conflicted with Bà’s many warnings still palpitating inside Hằng’s skull.
Beauty brings danger. Outside our house, avert others’ eyes. Do not laugh, do not pout. You have reached the age. No longer show calves, thighs, arms. No one can protect you should your stare, your walk, flame attention, provoke interest. Remember, leave your hair short, leave your face plain, the more colorless, the better to hide.
No matter how she scrubs, traces of stubborn color cling to her face—glowy cheeks and pink lips, shiny soft hair, pupils so dark they ignite. Hằng keeps staring and can’t believe it. No one prepared her for resembling Mother while Father was alive. Back then Mother laughed, gossiped with customers who arrived until dusk to buy beauty potions.
Mother had brows lilted at mid length, lips glossy as if always eating fat, cheekbones infused with rushing blood, hair cascading in black blue. Hằng assumed she could never look like that. After the war, no one wanted to. Mother watered down her face, yet the outside world still brought the unwanted.
Hằng understands she’s no longer living after the war. And yet, is it safe to be pretty? Does she want to be pretty? Perhaps in this dry land that reminds her of nothing her past can be locked inside exactly that, the past. Here no one knows her, much less her mother, or her family, or her last six years. They see her and she looks like herself. Inside such a face she might have time to shuffle her history and reveal only her present, for as long as she needs.
A knock. “H?”
She tugs gently at the fabric under which red lines lie quiet. Ly-Roi will have questions.
“Can I see?” In his voice a lightness, as if requesting to see her is as simple as looking at the moon. “It can’t be that bad. Any dress at all has got to be better than them dirty pants that has been swallowing you whole.”
He laughs. Steady and pleasant as corn popping.
Hằng steps away from the mirror. From four steps back it’s difficult to tell where her real skin ends and the artificial one begins. From five back maybe Ly-Roi will forget what he saw.
He calls out, “Let me see you. Cora says you look darling.”
“Du gô.”
With him gone, she can marvel at arms, legs that haven’t been exposed to sunlight since grade school. She remembers the heat, the wind on her skin while in a school uniform of blue skirt and white blouse or while running in shorts and T-shirts. And she’s amazed at what’s on her feet. Her toes can’t wiggle, calves are heated, but Hằng is starting to understand why Ly-Roi yearns to be a cowboy. In such boots, she can stomp on almost anything, even miniature balls of spikes, and manage to retain beauty.
“H, what’s the point of making me go? I’m gonna see you soon enough at the fair, right?” He sounds hurt.
She softens her voice. “Du gô, Ai phó-lồ.”
A long pause before his boot steps fade.
Hằng opens the door. Co-ra stands ready to wipe, reapply, reflutter, refluff. The tube of sweetness gets put inside a purse, its strap crosses Hằng’s body. Hằng adds her small notebook and a pencil.
One last time Cora adjusts the handkerchief. “Not a thing is wrong with being pretty. When I was your age, I loved dressing up and drove my mama crazy with crimson lipstick. You clean up real nice, and boys are bound to notice. That’s fine as long as they’re respectful. Now then, you ready?”
“Ré-đi.” Hằng forces a smooth tone, even though her nerves are entangled knowing Ly-Roi awaits outside. She must keep five steps from his knowing eyes.
Bướm Vàng
On account of H, LeeRoy drops a whole crate of cantaloupes. Mr. Morgan comes running, surely hollering. LeeRoy hears none of it. His limbs might as well be dipped in tar, his eyes bulging like a Chihuahua’s.
H has been scrubbed into a bona fide pretty girl. Short hair smoothed around her face, and those shiny plump lips, who on earth thought to do that to him? A stirring starts in Wranglers that are loose on him now, thank God. For cover he picks up the crate and strategically places it below his waist. Not one melon has busted.
Mr. Morgan shakes his head, grabs hold of the crate. LeeRoy thinks of pus and mildew and mold. Surely one day his jeans won’t give him away every time he thinks a girl is pretty.
Mr. Morgan seems to be fighting between getting mad and calming down. “Not ruining my name selling mishandled goods.” A sigh, as if the boss man’s learning to accept one of life’s many irritations. “We’ll eat these, get another crate. Careful.”
LeeRoy walks away, not trusting the calm. First, he was able to dodge the bullet with H, then Mr. Morgan is all diplomatic like. Something is brewing, and he has a sinking feeling it will land like a Galveston hurricane.
At the fair, people flashing cash are already lined up at the booth. Mr. Morgan hurries with the banner, Magical Melons, and it’s cattle to Texas bluegrass. Cora and H stay clean and dry, playing smiley cashiers, while the three of them haul, unpack, and stack and sweat. LeeRoy, in his best cowboy getup, would surrender his brand-new hat if it meant standing around and nodding while folks gush about the sweetest, juiciest, firmest cantaloupes ever.
Nothing but grunt work. LeeRoy has a mind to join David’s foul mood. The boy has been brooding since seeing no other kid dressed up in khaki shorts and a blue pullover with a collar.
“Ma, you’ve turned me into a fool.”
She came right back. “Hush, other boys wish they look as good as you.”
LeeRoy’s not at all interested in the tug-of-war between mother and son. Though they do distract him from a full-on stare at H. The silver belt is a nice touch. The sun glows on her smooth arms. How did Cora get rid of all them red lines? Not that he would bring it up.
Just about every customer is paying thirty dollars for a whole crate, writing on their names for reclaiming later. Mr. Morgan arches his brows at LeeRoy. “Told you.”
“All right, all right, I was wrong.” It’s heating up now, making LeeRoy all the more sticky and grumpy. “If folks are willing to pay for sirloins and get melons, who am I to judge?”
Mr. Morgan looks too smug for his own good. “Mark my word, this won’t be the only time I say, ‘Told you.’”
“What else you gonna get us selling?” LeeRoy has had about enough of this ranch life. Red will go into the shop tomorrow, then it’ll be time to go. But where?
The question rattles him so much it’s easier to stand tall against Mr. Morgan, who spews one more warning. “You’re gonna wish what’s bound to descend on you is as simple as selling something, son.”
Spreading that mystery, and having whipped up an unusually tall pile of words, Mr. Morgan strips off his gloves and releases music into the world: “Run off.”
Cora puts in her bit. “Y’all stay together. David, I mean it, you can’t run off by yourself.”
“Mama, I’m eleven.”
“Exactly.” She hands him ten dollars. “Don’t spend it all on sweets. Remember how sick you got last year? And save room for my picnic.”
“Ma!”
Cora turns to LeeRoy. “Keep an eye on him, will ya? I know I don’t have to worry about her, she’ll be glued to her brother.”
Behind the booth, H smiles deep enough to show that right dimple. “Ré-đi?”
She’s asking her brother, but LeeRoy pipes up. “Ready.” He feels jittery for no reason.
David, running ahead, turns back toward them. “C’mon, I saw a sign for fried Snickers.” His blue shirt gets tossed.
They tag along, leg-length apart, as David zips from booth to booth gobbling up fried anything. Twinkie, HoHo, Rice Krispie, tamale, jalapeño, popcorn, pickle, licorice. That kid would chow down metal if it was fried. LeeRoy finds himself looking, but not looking, her way. Those lips of hers sparkle. For H’s part, she finds every little thing her brother does fascinating.
H gets close to witness the boy lick a fried cherry popsicle. When LeeRoy inches up, H steps back. He’s wondering if BO got ahold of him. Sniffs, nope, he’s good. Then what is her deal? Maybe being pretty makes her shy.
David looks up and shouts, “Ferris wheel! Broke down before I got a turn last year. Run y’all.”
H takes off too. LeeRoy has had enough exercise to get through fall and winter. When he catches up to them, H steps away. David is in line, pointing at a sign: $1 a ride. 12 and under FREE.
“It’s on me, H.” Heat rises up his neck. It’s not like they’re on a date. Just a gentlemanly thing to do. LeeRoy reaches for his wallet and finds nothing. His whole face catches on fire. “I must have left it in my work pants, sorry. David, I’ll pay you back, I swear.”
The boy holds out one sweaty dollar.
“You’ve done soaked up that much grease? Your belly is gonna have many regrets.” LeeRoy turns to H. She shakes her head and shows the inside of her purse. Nothing but a pink tube and her notebook.
LeeRoy has to cowboy up. “Y’all go on. I’ll watch from here.”
“No, you gotta ride.” David panics.
H points at her brother. “Hi gô, Ai gô.”
They’re at the front of the line. The ticket man seems friendly and reasonable enough.
“Mister, see, my wallet—” LeeRoy gets cut off.
“Two dollars, boy’s free.”
“We got but a one, let me owe you a dollar and I’ll bring you two right after. My wallet—”
The ticket man looks bored. “Next.”
LeeRoy points at H. “She’s twelve, all dressed up today but I swear she’s twelve.”
H tilts her head. The man lifts a brow. “You reckon he’s telling the truth?”
LeeRoy steps toward H. She backs up. He tries again. She backs up. He grabs her arm. “Will you stay put?” Then he notices the thin sleeve and pulls on it. “Cool.”
H, wide-eyed and still, looks to be bracing for something bad. He leans closer, nervous himself. “Your dress is pretty, really. C’mon, H, tell the man, ‘I reckon so.’”
H shakes her head. That about figures.
“You’ll charm him, a Vietnamese girl saying ‘reckon so,’ trust me, we’ll get a freebie out of this.”
“Du sây réc-cần.”
“It’s not cute if a good ol’ boy says it. Haven’t you heard of the element of surprise?”
H is having none of it, yanks her arm free.
The man sighs. “Folks are waiting. Move along now.”
H looks at her brother, who, bless him, mouths, “I reckon so.”
A Texas accent flies out her mouth. “Ai réc-cần sô.”
“Good ’nuff.” The man laughs and tips his hat. “Hell, all y’all get to ride.”
David dances around like they saved a hundred, instead of a dollar. Waiting to get on, he would not stand next to his sister, wanting LeeRoy in the middle. The girl puts herself in the middle. David slips to the other side of LeeRoy. They probably look like they all got ants in their pants.
