The Time in Between (8 page)

Jon took her hand and held it. He said it was late, they should sleep. He said that in three hours the sun would come up and then, maybe, everything would seem clearer. He went to the washroom and came back with a small pill and a bottle of water. “Take it,” he said. “It’ll help you sleep.”

“I’ve been drinking,” she said.

“Take it.” He placed the pill on her tongue and made her drink. Then he guided her to her bed, helped her undress, and pulled the sheet up. She watched him move about the room. He folded her jeans and top and went to the washroom, and when he returned he sat by the window and finished his drink. Her eyes closed and then opened and she saw him sitting at the desk, huddling under a pool of light. He was reading. She wanted to call for him but her tongue was thick and only a soft noise slipped out and then she slept.

WHEN SHE WOKE IT WAS AFTERNOON. SHADOWS ON THE FAR WALL, the sound of horns and motorcycles in the street below, the maid talking in the stairwell. She found Jon on the rooftop, tanning in his boxers. His legs and arms were thin, his chest narrow. He saw her and said, “Hi.”

“I hate sleeping late,” she said.

“Some boy’s been asking for you. He was down in the lobby this morning all dressed up and holding a birdcage. We talked for a bit. He told me he saw you last night and that you’ve talked before. His English is quite amazing, though sometimes he mixes things up. How old is he?”

“Too young for everybody, including you.” Ada pinned her hair up. Said she was going to find an American woman who knew their father. “Will you come?” she asked.

He said if she really wanted him.

“Come. Please.”

They found Yen squatting outside the hotel entrance. He pushed his hand at Jon’s and said, “Pleased to meet you.” The three of them walked down Bach Dang Street and then left to the Han Market and on down close to the Cham Museum, where Yen pointed out the school that he was supposed to be attending. “I will be in the eighth level,” he said. He was still holding the birdcage. It swung at his side. He corrected himself. “I would be. Is that better?” He looked up at Ada.

“Yes, it’s better.”

Yen held up his small wrist and adjusted a watch that looked very expensive and new. He called out the time and then grinned and said, “A gift from a woman named Irene, who is German.”

Ada shook her head.

“You do not believe me. Fine.”

“It’s none of my business,” Ada said.

“What is the truth is this: Irene is my lover.”

“What are you talking about?” Ada looked at Yen and then Jon, who seemed amused.

“Irene is staying at the Empire Hotel. I go to her and she loves me and then she pays me. See?” He held up his wrist again and showed them.

Ada said that this was something she did not need to know. Then she shook her head and said that Yen should be careful. He did not understand the worth of the watch.

Yen said that Ada didn’t have to worry. He wouldn’t steal from her. Ever. She was different. He said that she was much more beautiful than Irene. His gaze moved from her face to her chest and then back to her face. He hopped slightly and slipped the watch from his wrist into his pocket. Ada put her hand through Jon’s arm and drew him close. They turned down a narrow street, and Yen halted before a white stucco house of three stories. “Here,” he said, and knocked on the door.

From above them, on the balcony of the house, someone laughed. A child’s blond head peeked over the railing and called out, “Hello. Who are you?” A woman with dark hair appeared beside him.

Ada said her own name and the name of her brother. She said that they wanted to speak to Elaine Gouds.

The woman disappeared. When she returned she leaned out over the railing so that Ada could see her shoulders and chest. She said, “Hold on, Ai Ty is coming.”

Ada and Jon were let into the house by an older woman, who when she saw Yen, spoke to him with a hard tone.

Yen told Ada that he would wait across the street. “Not to worry,” he said. “I will be safe.”

Ada did not argue. The older woman sullenly led them up two flights of stairs and into a musty-smelling room that held a TV and a small daybed. The floor was scattered with children’s toys.

The woman who had called down to them was still standing out on the balcony. She turned and met them as they stepped outside. “I am Elaine Gouds,” she said. She did not shake their hands. She did not ask them to sit. She was angular, with a hard face, and her eyes lifted as she watched them, and this gave the impression of both doubt and hope, or weariness.

Ada said, “We’re looking for our father, Charles Boatman.” She stopped and breathed out quickly and said, “For three weeks now, we’ve been looking.” She turned to Jon, who was standing near the entrance as if waiting to leave.

Ada faced Elaine again and said, “Did you know him?”

Elaine lifted her hand to her narrow neck. “I saw Charles a few times. Like everything here in this country, our meeting was pure chance. We first met at Christy’s, an American bar on the harbor front. We played Scrabble once and another time he sat on this balcony and we drank wine. I haven’t seen him for over a month. Neither has my husband, Jack. I am telling you everything that I told Lieutenant Dat.”

“Lieutenant Dat was here talking to you?” Ada asked.

“Yes.” Elaine’s arms were folded across her chest. Her eyes looked tired and did not settle on either Jon’s or Ada’s face. She wore tight dark jeans that revealed her thinness. She was slightly bent at the shoulders and neck, and this made her appear worn down. She took a step forward, as if to say something else, but then she turned away and said, “Jack’s home. Perhaps he can tell you something.”

There was a shout from the entrance below and then the sound of stairs being taken two at a time, and a man with a narrow nose, who looked much too young to be married to Elaine Gouds, stepped out onto the balcony.

“Visitors,” he cried, and he held out a hand to Ada and said, “Jack Gouds.” He tilted his head at Ada and said, “You are?” She shook his hand and told him her name and he repeated it. Then he turned to Jon and said, “We’ve met. At the post office just the other day. I was mailing a letter and you asked how much stamps were to North America. Jon without the
h.
Nice to see you again.”

Ada looked over at Jon, who with the greeting took a step forward into the room.

Jack turned to Elaine. “Why aren’t we drinking?” He said to Ada, “Beer, orange juice, wine, water?” He clapped his hands and called for Ai Ty.

“Don’t, Jack,” Elaine said. “She’s with Sammy and Jane.”

“Okay, then. Okay. I’ll get us something.” He came back minutes later with a tray of glasses and open beer and a bottle of wine. He passed the glasses around and handed the beer bottles to Jon and Ada. He poured Elaine a glass of wine and said, “My wife is too refined for beer.” He placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Offer our visitors a seat, Jack.”

Jack brought several wicker chairs and placed them around the small table. Elaine lifted her glass of wine, studied it, and then she drank. She looked at Jack and said, “You didn’t tell me you’d met a new foreigner in town.” She turned to Ada. “One becomes very aware of any influx of strangers, especially if they’re interesting and more than tourists.” To Jack, she said, “Ada and Jon are looking for their father,
Charles
Boatman.”

Jack turned to Jon and said, “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

Jon said that Jack had no reason to know. Why would he have told him?

“I would have,” Ada said. “We’ve been all over town and nobody knows anything or if they do they aren’t talking. Just yesterday I heard that you knew our father. A little, anyway.” She looked at Elaine, who was looking down at her wineglass.

“More than a little,” Jack said. “Charles became a friend. Wouldn’t you say, Elaine?”

Elaine raised her head and smiled briefly. She nodded. “Yes. A friend.” Her eyes moved from Jack to Jon, who was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, an index finger tracing the moisture on his beer glass. She watched Jon carefully and then said that his father had been right about something. “When you find him you must tell him that.”

Jack placed his glass carefully on the table and said, “The few times we got together—and though they were few, they were good times—those times I saw that Charles was often elsewhere. Wouldn’t you say, Elaine? Not that he was unhappy.”

“Oh, he
was
unhappy,” Elaine said. She stood, said, “I’m sorry,” and left the balcony.

When she was gone Jack explained that this had nothing to do with them. Elaine was suffering a slight depression here in Vietnam. “She finds the climate difficult. And the people. And the language. And raising children here.” He laughed ruefully. “She misses home.” He shook his head. “But your father. I’m sure he’s gone away, south perhaps, and he’ll return. This country does strange things to people. But me, I love this place.”

The wind had begun to blow and a light rain fell onto the street below them. Jack said that this was typhoon season and he’d heard that Danang might be hit by a storm. “Just stay inside and away from windows and you’ll be safe. Another drink?”

Jon shifted and began to speak but Ada cut him off and said, “No, we have to get back.”

“Really? Jon?” Jack asked.

Jon shrugged and stood along with Ada. Jack reached out to touch Jon’s elbow. He said that sometimes he went up into the villages south of Danang, or he made trips to Quang Ngai, three hours from here, and maybe Jon and Ada would like to join him. Explore the countryside.

Ada saw his eyes, blue with small pupils, black and clear. A shadow of a beard on his narrow jaw. Whiteness at the base of his neck indicated a recent haircut. He took his hand from Jon’s elbow and spread out his arms as he described the moistness of the countryside.

Yen had disappeared. This was disconcerting for Ada. Jon said that it didn’t matter; the boy would come back, too soon. They were standing outside the gate to Jack and Elaine’s house. The wind came in gusts and blew Ada’s hair across her face. She pulled it back and said, “You know Jack, don’t you? It wasn’t just a meeting at the post office.”

Jon looked away. Then he faced Ada and said, “Yes, I know him.”

“He lied,” Ada said. “Right in front of everyone he made up a story about the stamps. And then he tells us, as if he knows, that Dad went south. What are you
doing
? The man’s married. He has children. You’re more interested in him than in finding your own father. Don’t you want to know what happened to Dad? You’re too scared, is that it?”

Jon walked away. The palm trees bent as the rain swirled. Ada caught up to him, but he pressed forward without speaking. Finally, rounding the corner onto the street that led to their hotel, he stopped and shouted, “
You
want to know, Ada. And because you’re so desperate you think I should want the same thing. Well, I don’t. Okay? I just don’t.”

In their room they dried off and Jon changed into jeans: his narrow thighs and the vulnerability at the backs of his knees, a hamstring moving, white legs disappearing as he straightened, his fingers dancing near his belt buckle, flesh and blood and bone.

They did not talk until Jon announced that he was going out. He wouldn’t be late, and if the wind continued, he’d come back early. Ada said that that was fine. He was a big boy. She had put on pajama bottoms and was sitting cross-legged on the bed. When Jon left she remained sitting and she let the darkness fall into the room and even after it was totally dark she did not turn on the light as she listened to the approaching storm.

A memory from the mountain came to her. She and Jon had been playing in the woods behind the house when they found a nest of baby birds set in the small crevasse of two rocks. The birds were very young, their beaks yawning soundlessly at the empty air. The mother was nearby; she had a broken wing and she scolded madly and spun in useless circles. Ada squatted and studied the babies. Jon stood off at a distance. Ada told him to come look. He said no. He said the birds would die. Yes, she said, but you can still come look. He shook his head and left her there. A few days later, when she went back alone to find the nest, the family was dead. The mother bird had managed to spin her way to the rocks below the nest. The babies were featherless and curled into one another. Their chests were translucent, like blue glass.

4

ONE SPRING YEARS LATER, SHORT OF MONEY, CHARLES BOATMAN was hired on at a truss factory in the Valley. He worked the night shift and returned as the sun was rising, and there was always immense hope in that moment, though it didn’t last. Sleeping in the daylight seemed to produce fewer dreams and for that he was thankful. One day after work he stopped at a travel agency and bought a ticket for Hanoi, through Bangkok. He didn’t tell anyone about this plan, and if he’d been asked he wouldn’t have been able to explain himself. He was feeling less and less connected to the world around him, and there were times when he would rise from his seat by the stove and say something just to hear the sound of a voice, and he would not recognize his own voice. Every so often he pulled out the airline ticket and studied it as if it were a precious relic, or as if it might offer him some revelation. Two days before the flight he cashed in the ticket and lost several hundred dollars on the transaction.

Sometimes he went down into the Valley and drank at a small bar close to the highway. One Saturday night he met a woman named Jill. They drank and danced and talked about nothing special and later she came up the mountain with him and spent the night. In the brightness of the morning he was sorry; all the noise of the previous night seemed excessive and false, and he supposed, based on her silence, she felt the same. He drove her down the mountain to her car, which sat in the bar’s parking lot. They didn’t speak, and he was amazed once again at how physical contact did not guarantee intimacy or even affection. He was glad to see her go, though he would recall, in later moments of lust, the tiny mole on her ankle and the manner she had of crouching over him and lowering her breasts into his mouth, as if she were feeding him.