‘No!’ his mother said. She turned to meet his eyes as he leaned forward from the backseat. ‘Never. You thoughtless son sometimes, won’t be doctor, won’t work in bakery, head full of stupid dreams, but in your heart you not bad boy, never bad boy.’
He was actually touched by what she had said. Over the years she had sparingly administered praise with an eyedropper; therefore, hearing her acknowledge that he was, although thoughtless, not truly an evil boy… well, this was like being fed a spoon, a cup, a bowl of motherly love.
‘Quy Trang Dai and other ladies, we play mahjongg.
We play cards. While we play, we talk. Talk about whose son join gang, whose husband faithless. Talk about what children doing, what cute thing grandchildren say. I talk about you, how you become so far from family, from who you are, losing roots, try to be American but never can, going to end up lost.’
‘I am an American,’ Tommy said.
‘Can never be,’ she assured him, and her eyes were full of love and fear for him.
Tommy was overcome by a terrible sadness. What his mother meant was that she could never feel herself to be a complete American, that she was lost. Her homeland had been taken from her, and she had been transplanted to a world in which she could never feel entirely native and welcome, even though it was such a glorious land of great plenty and hospitality and freedom. The American dream, which Tommy strove with such passion to experience to the fullest, was achievable for her only to a limited extent. He had arrived on these shores young enough to remake himself entirely; but she would forever hold within her heart the Old World, its pleasures and beauty amplified by time and distance, and this nostalgia was a melancholy spell from which she could never fully awaken. Because she could not become American in her soul, she found it difficult -if not impossible – to believe that her children could be so transformed, and she worried that their aspirations would lead only to disappointment and bitterness.
‘I am American,’ Tommy repeatedly softly.
‘Didn’t ask stupid Quy Trang Dai to make rag doll. Was her own idea to scare you. I hear about it only one, two hours ago.’
‘I believe you,’ Tommy assured her.
‘Good boy.’
He reached one hand into the front seat.
His mother gripped his hand and squeezed it.
‘Good thing I’m not as sentimental as my mother,’ Del said. ‘I’d be bawling so hard I couldn’t see to drive.’
The interior of the Jaguar was filled with the brightness of the headlights from the Peterbilt behind it.
The air horn blared, blared again, and the Jaguar vibrated under the sonic assault.
Tommy didn’t have the courage to look back. ‘Always worry about you,’ said Mrs. Phan, raising her voice over the airliner-loud roar of the truck engine. ‘Never see problem with Mai, sweet Mai, always so quiet, always so obedient. Now we die, and terrible magician in Vegas laugh at stupid old Vietnamese mother and make strange magician babies with ruined daughter.’
‘Too bad Norman Rockwell isn’t alive,’ Del said. ‘He could make such a wonderful painting out of this.’
‘I don’t like this woman,’ Mother Phan told Tommy.
‘I know, Mom.’
‘She bad news. You sure she total stranger?’
‘Only met her tonight.’
‘You not dating her?’
‘Never dated.’
‘Turn left next corner,’ Mother Phan told Del.
‘Are you joking?’ Del said.
‘Turn left next corner. We almost to house of Quy Trang Dai.’
‘I have to slow down to make the turn, and if I slow down, Mrs. Dai’s demon is going to run right over us.’
‘Drive better,’ Mother Phan advised.
Del glared at her. ‘Listen, lady, I’m a world-class race-car driver, competed all over the world. No one drives better than I do. Except maybe my mother.’
Holding out the cellular phone, Mother Phan said, ‘Then call mother, hear what she say to do.’
Grim-faced, Del said, ‘Brace yourselves.’
Tommy let go of his mother’s hand, slid backward in his seat, and fumbled for his safety belt. It was tangled.
Scootie took refuge on the floor in front of his seat, directly behind Del.