Booted

For Ruth Kelly de Rosier

When her brother got home, Chia told him to sit down at the kitchen table. The ledger was open. "You didn't pick me up from school yesterday," she said. "And you didn't return with my car, so I was late for work this morning." She felt tired. "I had to borrow uncle’s car."

He rolled his eyes. "Is this going to be another talk about getting a job?"

"Have you talked to Felix Kok?"

"I called him. He wasn't there, and he hasn't called me back."

It was five p.m. The kitchen was spacious and open with two windows that faced the back yard. The filmy curtain let in a light that buoyed Chia, despite the winter chill.

"I saw Mom's note about Mr. Kok's message taped to your door."

"I haven't called him back," he said

"Teng, this is how it's going to be. You'll call Mr. Kok and speak to him about a job tonight. If he's out, you'll call him tomorrow morning. If he doesn't need you, then you look elsewhere. You won't use my car again. If I have to report it as stolen, I will. I've been your meal ticket long enough and it's ending." She stared at him and he dropped his eyes.

The light over the table brightened the room. Chia had bought it as a housewarming gift for herself. Its candelabrum design of petal-enclosed bulbs, pastel-colored leaves, and larger blossoms played off each other's glow. She'd seen it in a lighting store and had hired an electrician to string it up.

This was the first room she'd decorated. So much light came through the windows that pale blue suited the walls. She bought paint and set to work, her first month in the house. Then she added the fixture and green plants. The floor needed updating but other things pressed. Like Teng's willful unemployment.

"Are you enjoying the heated house this winter?" she said. "We need a new furnace by fall. It'll run between two and four thousand dollars, if all the existing ductwork can be reused. And we need a new roof. Shingles will cost about four thousand dollars. My newspaper job is a steady stream of extra income that goes to home repairs. It's important. You'll never again interfere with my getting to work. You'll get a job in the next month and pay me rent, or you'll get out." She looked at the ledger's calendar. "To be clear about the date, you leave on April seventeenth."

"You have a teaching job."

"Listen to yourself. You sluggard." Her face burned with anger. She didn't want to raise her voice. It took too much energy. "You're twenty-three, and you contribute nothing."

"I can't help getting laid off."

"It's been three months. You haven't looked for work. Kok has handed you an opportunity, but you ignore it."

"I'm the man here." He spoke slowly, as if he didn't believe it himself."

"This is my house. I'm the head. You're not a man. Look up and down this block at the houses where responsible men work to support their families. Mature people attend to their responsibilities. Do that, then you're a man."

She was about to close the ledger. Instead she turned it to him. "Another six projects wait after the roof and furnace."

He looked down at the lines. Water pipes. Electrical work. Back door. Kitchen floor. He glanced at the cost column.

"How will you keep me out?"

She stared at him. He was tall and clean-shaven. She shook her head. "When you're working, if you want to come back, we"ll discuss rent." Chia closed the ledger, picked up her pen, and stood. “I wish you well, Teng."

*

Chia dashed toward the plant. Belle Tov was on her heels. They were on time, but after yesterday's debacle, because of Teng, they wanted to demonstrate good faith.

The square dock that spilled off the west end of the building was empty.

The young Hmong women passed through a line of heavy plastic strips, which overlapped each other to keep out the cold. It was mid-March in Minnesota.

The newspaper processing plant was cavernous, well-lit on concrete flooring. Beyond the flaps, two load-bearing struts rose to support the steel-bar joist construction that buttressed the roof.

Chia read the instructions—two parts today—written on a board siting on an easel. A dozen signs, tacked on the walls, reminded carriers to Deliver with Pride. A coffee pot stood on the end of the supervisors' station, near the easel. They hustled over to the narrow processing tables that were set up to the back wall, six rows across, ten deep arranged like classroom school desks. The space could house four classrooms.

Each table was organized in a cluster of four. A carrier processed newspapers, standing on one side of the table, while organizing across two. Belle faced Chia. The petite women dropped their coats onto the tables.

Chia hurried to the front for the day's instructions and to request some subscriber's letters. Massive wooden shelving hung on the wall behind the supervisors and was divided into a hundred mail boxes. Each route had a box. Chia reached for her route's paperwork to prep for the day.

"I need some subscriber's letters, five."

He handed them to her. "Take it easy out there."

"Maybe this will help." The letter requested that a subscriber shovel the designated property or delivery would stop.

Across the room, Belle grabbed a cart and pushed it into another line at the dock. The firsts were disbursed there once they arrived from the downtown presses.

Two parts made up a daily. The firsts were the time-sensitive news—global, national, local, sports, and business. Printed last, these arrived last. The seconds included more static information—Daily Life, My Cars, Eat!, Marketplace, My Home, Classifieds.

Belle returned to her seconds, hefting a 40-pound bundle from a nearby rack. Tall, narrow cages on wheels were scattered around the room designated by zip codes. Each 50-count, secured by a tight strip, was stacked inside.

Chia bent over her table, organizing the route. "We've got one-hundred eighty-five papers today," she called. "New subscriptions." She skimmed yesterday's error sheet to check for mistakes, a missed house, an improperly placed paper. None. She verified subscribers who wanted to begin, stop, or interrupt their service today.

"No truck yet. We're ahead of schedule," Belle said.

Chia perused a route map, assessing if they could cut their time. Then she lugged the seconds from the rack.

She had found Belle from an ad she'd put up at nearby universities. She'd done the job six months alone. It was hard and often scary. Belle, a court reporter, was looking for extra income. They'd worked together for eighteen months, delivering a long route, usually 180 papers daily, 200 on weekends. For Chia, an elementary teacher, this income was for home improvement.

Bill, their supervisor, walked by them and said hello. In the past, Chia had talked to him about her immigration from Laos and Thai, her dying father, and the family moving across town to her house. She'd even mentioned Teng, though she was still uncomfortable discussing family problems.

Yesterday, he'd told her that it would cost her the route if she was late again. "You're working two jobs," he said. "Tell your brother to get work, pay rent, or leave."

She sighed. "It isn't the Hmong way."

"Has that stopped you before? You see how well that Hmong way, coddling a loafer, is working here."

Now the room hummed. When the dock door rumbled open, Belle ran. Bill was already yanking the truck's door and pulling off racks, rolling them to the carriers. He tossed heavy bundles onto each cart, according to the number the carrier yelled out.

Belle was back with the firsts, hefting two bundles onto her table, stripping them open, taking her portion, and moving the rack to Chia. She grabbed and stacked and glanced at Belle. Her hands flew.

Chia pulled a first, slapped it down, and reached for a second, placing it on top. She folded the paper in thirds, so the masthead showed out to the reader, and slid the paper into the plastic bag. A sheath of bags hung on a hook in front of her station. She tore off the bag and tossed it into the cart to her right.

Twenty minutes later, Belle pulled on outerwear and headed to the exit. Chia followed, buttoning her red wool coat and sliding on mittens. She grabbed her lists. Most contractors were outside returning empty carts as she pushed through the plastic strips. She came upon the back of her car. The windows were down, and she threw papers fast, filling the back seat. Belle returned her cart. The bagged newspapers reached mid-seat height before they spilled into the foot wells. She rushed the cart inside.

The shoveled lot's snow scrim crunched against Chia's calf-high boots. Belle was driving today. She had the windows up, the heat on, and the car aimed toward the street by the time Chia returned. Street lights shone. Roads were clear of yesterday's snowfall.

"Did you talk to Teng last night?" Belle asked as she drove. She wore a kelly green beret at an angle. Her black hair hung long over her coat. Chia stuffed newspapers into a wheat-colored haversack.

"He told me he didn't have to work. Last night he said he was the head of the family. I corrected him of that idea."

"Too bad that other job ended."

"Layoffs can't be helped, but he does control his next search."

They reached the first house. Belle pulled onto the wrong side of the street and idled.

"You want the flashlight?"

Chia pulled it from the compartment and hustled out the door, hoisting the sack over her shoulder. The flashlight helped find a new address in the dark. She crisscrossed the street several times. Subscribers were few and distant on both sides.

Belle drove down four blocks to park beyond the apartment house. Chia skirted hedges and leaped over snow banks, trudged across unshoveled sidewalks. She and Belle had fallen several times. Some contractors had sustained painful injuries, for which the newspaper offered no insurance.

She ran from the second block to the third, gaining on the apartment by which she timed herself. Using the key, she worked the security door, She took the steps down and dropped papers at three units, heading up four flights of stairs. The lighting was bright, and the floors silent. Finished, she took the steps and burst from the building. Leaping over a hedge, she put new prints in the snow to circle the property. Two subscribers, back there, had their own entry. She ran to the car.

"Good time," said Belle, as she pulled onto the right side of the street.

Chia grabbed the address list and checked off the houses she’d served. The numbers had to jibe. She filled her sack again.

"I talked to Felix Kok," said Chia. "He's the Korean grocer on University. He'd speak to Teng if he'd call. Felix and his family work all week and he still needs help."

"And?"

"Teng just looked at me. He didn't say he'd call."

"Bill's got the right idea. You'll have to put him out."

Chia swung back into her seat, the bag in front of her. Belle slowed. Chia ran. Fourteen papers delivered. Belle made a U-turn at the corner and steered up a block to wait. Chia shot papers onto front porches.

*

She pulled up in front of her house and parked. Chia sighed, glad the school day was over. She turned to grab her gear and stared at her house and thought how it pleased her. Before she'd moved here, she'd commuted to her across-town teaching job for two years. She wanted to buy a house nearer the school. It had taken three years to save a down payment. Hmong women hadn't lived alone, traditionally; now young, educated women rented and bought. The idea of owning a home outside the Hmong community was thrilling, scary. Chia would no longer be the eldest daughter in her family's East Side home. She could disengage from suffocating Hmong practices—preferential treatment of males, excessive obeisance to elders, expected docility of women.

The two-story house in the West Seventh neighborhood came on the market. It sat centered on an irregular V-shaped corner lot. At 27, she bought it, and had been in it three years. She attended block meetings and improved its market value. Her dad died ten months ago. Things changed.

She picked up her purse and leather envelope, into which she stuffed school papers that needed grading overnight, and headed up the walk. She was tired and chilled. She changed and made a cup of tea and sat in her kitchen.

By five o'clock, her mother, a tailor at a University Avenue shop, was home and washing vegetables. Janel, her sister, was out running an errand, so there was privacy. Chia wanted her mother's ear. Teng frustrated her. Her mistake was letting him come here at all. The three had moved in after her dad's death. She'd coached her mom about keeping her house sale proceeds in an account for her next purchase, and received monthly rent from her. She didn't want her family here forever.

"You and Dad preached that every member works for the whole. In many families, in this family, that's not true."

Mrs. Sy peeled carrots, and Chia moved her head to watch.

"He's in my home now, and I won't tolerate this nonsense any longer."

Mrs. Sy sat down.

"You're getting upset." She reached across and placed her hand on her daughter's wrist. "Your Father and I made the best decisions we could. There was so much to learn, laws and language, money, food, getting jobs, educating children, keeping you safe. It's been a long road to fit in here. While we learned, some children needed more pushing than others. We didn't always see that or were too exhausted to act on it. Some things slipped. But you saw how hard we worked."

Chia slid her hand from under her mother's. She didn't want that intimacy with this discussion. This was business, not an emotional family problem. Then she chided herself, as if business decisions didn't get as sticky.

"Any people who come to America bring what they know. That's all we had. We were frightened; naturally, we clung to our ways. Hmong culture favors the male. That ethic isn't unusual. Life is better for women here. You're improving it further."

"I used to see how frustrated Dad got over authority and gender issues, how he felt at a loss. That pleased me. I wanted him to know what it felt like to be overburdened, as women are in our narrow culture.”

"He never stopped trying to learn, Chia."

“I’m glad some elders feel disempowered. They are finding a lesser opportunity here than they did in Laos to be breadwinner and so-called family head. That gives them a chance to grasp what they've done to women and girls whom they shut out of opportunities to grow and learn, simply because we were born female. I'm weary of soothing male egos and bowing to our traditional sexism. My house is not built on that foundation. Teng will pay his fair share or he's out."

"I understand, but I don't agree with sending him away."

"We master our thoughts, Ma. You've just heard old thoughts longer than you've heard mine. You're allowing him to be irresponsible. That won't help him make a life."

"I've seen how you've taken on new responsibilities and freedoms. That influences how Janel will be as a woman."

"It could work as well for Teng, if he chose. I have to deal with the boy you molded. I left the East Side to separate from these conflicts that I didn't initiate."

"I won't disparage your authority to the family. I've never experienced this, I don't know the repercussions. I've changed so much with America. Maybe this is the next change." Her mom got up to attend the stove.

Chia was silent. "That's another thing. Teng should be doing the shopping and preparing of meals. He doesn't do a thing around here. He'll have to do that living on his own." She leaned her head on her hand. It was nearly six p.m. She looked at the multiplication problems on the paper, and the numbers swam. Glancing out the window through the sheer, March's last day darkened to night. If it'd rain, it'd melt the snow, she thought.

Janel, a breezy fifth grader, returned and entered through the back door. She closed it quickly. "Brrrr," she said, smiling at her mom.

"Thanks, honey. Go earlier next time. I don't like you in the dark alone."

"Okay." She greeted her sister happily.

Janel wore a short, smart wedge. Few Hmong girls wore other than long, straight hair. But now the family lived here and perspectives had broadened. At five feet, Janel would soon be taller than Chia.

"Here, Mama," she said, handing over a bag. "Oh, I saw Mr. Kok. He hasn't heard from Teng."

*

The fall happened so fast that Chia never saw her feet in the air. She smashed onto the ice on her right thigh and slammed her back flat onto the sidewalk. Descending eight steps, she was focused on time rather than ice. Her list flew. She'd kept her head high, and it hadn't hit the coated concrete. For a moment, she imagined herself in the dark and cold, unconscious. Belle was down the street. She'd landed hard and throbbed. She lay still, looking up at the sky, taking in its inky glory, but only for a second. She felt vulnerable. It was four a.m. The night was silent and freezing. She rose. Wherever she glanced was slick, unreliable. A thin snow covered everything.

Wheels skidded, whirring against the ice. Belle was backing up half a block to get to her. Chia rolled right, crossing her left arm to the walk, and placed her hand on the ice, leaning her weight on her elbow. It slid out from under her. She nudged her body forward. Dropping her arm to lay her hand flat on the walk, she turned to her knees. On all fours, she scooted onto stable snow, pushed up, swept herself.

Belle opened the door.

"No, don't come. I'm okay. No point in both of us falling. Just move with me while I finish this block. Two papers to go." She searched for her list, and saw it on the lip of the bank. She shimmied across the ice and grabbed it, reaching for the sack nearby.

All carriers knew the season's hazards. Chia'd learned quickly to steel her body against winter, skimming her tread-booted feet across ice, shortening her stride, tightening her knee joints to prevent a fall. This street was parlous. The houses, situated on a high hill, had many steps to front doors and no railings. Some subscribers didn't shovel at all; others cleared only a shovel-width pathway. Spring was closing in on winter, slowly. The street lost its ice and snow faster, where traffic wore.

*

Midweek, Chia went to see her cousin, Nai Vang, at his office in the Hmong Cultural Center. It was a teacher's service day, so the kids weren't in class. When she arrived, Nai was engaged, speaking to a colleague in a museum-like room. The displays under glass featured traditional garb, adult games, hunt and food utensils, and ancient Hmong weaponry. Southeast Asia maps hung on the walls denoting the Hmong diaspora from China to Laos, Cambodia and Thai, across centuries.

Chia caught his eye and winked as she proceeded to his office. A moment later, he stuck his head in the doorway.

"How about Pho Ca Dao's? It's spring; let's walk." He looked down. "Wisely, you're booted."

A few blocks down University Avenue, they faced each other across a table. Pho Ca Dao was a multi-award winning, no-frills restaurant, where the noodle was king. She liked the Viet name, lauding the humble staple.

"No one can direct the heart and mind of another." Nai reminded Chia of her dad. "You want support to put Teng out. You've got mine. Doing it is the hard part." He shrugged. "You're breaking mores; that's not new for you. It's good for us to see someone push beyond unworkable traditions."

They ordered Pho Ga, chicken and rice noodles. Large bowls of steaming soup arrived. The restaurant promised hot, quick, and delicious, and it delivered.

"You're in a unique position, breadwinner, homeowner. You're not his parent, so he can't undercut your authority with nonsense about you owing him a living. That wasn't a sensible argument even in Laos. Elders aren't acting; someone's got to lead."

"What's their problem, Nai? I know you've had difficulties with them, too."

"They've seen more than we have and their acculturation was more difficult. They don't speak English. They're glad we've assimilated into the broader culture; that helps us all. They know we've a lesser Hmong identification. The usual shift between cultures creates family problems and adds to the communication gaps between generations." He turned out his hands, fingers splayed. The table's candle flame wiggled.

"We've been here thirty years."

"We'll get past this. Look what we've accomplished in twenty. We've got to trust ourselves and move forward, if traditions are lost, so be it." He shrugged. "Teng's a burden. What are you afraid of, Chia?"

"The emotional tearing. It's been engrained in women that we keep the family together. By sending Teng away, what does that do to my family?"

"Look at it this way. You moved out of your family home years ago. You were the first to do that. Did that change your family's relationship with you?"

"No."

"Maybe you're worrying too much. As teacher and businesswoman, you've made hard decisions to build your life. Teng's endangered your livelihood. If he weren't a brother, you wouldn't hesitate to fire him."

Chia lifted the soup spoon to her mouth. The flavor slid across her palate. She savored it, "Will you talk to him on the seventeenth?" He pulled a slim calendar from his breast pocket, "That's the day he's out then?" Nai looked up at her. "Okay, Chia. You're on. When you change the locks, he may smash a window. That's breaking and entering."

"Good to know. I don't think Teng'll cause damage."

"Do you have any support from neighbors?"

"Yes, next door. Frank Horton's home during the day. Family man, block booster. Teng likes Frank. I think he'll be embarrassed to cause trouble."

"Teng hasn't been pushed this hard. Why not ask Frank to show his face?"

"I will." Chia picked up the check. It was her turn.

*

Chia was in Tangletown. She opened a front door and threw a paper. The door made a quiet hiss. Cutting across the melting snow and patches of greening lawn, she passed a tall evergreen and moved toward her car. Belle was out of town at a funeral. The morning felt just as cold as last week, despite April's appearance. She reached to fill her sack. It was Sunday. Chia glanced at her watch. It was 3:45 a.m.

She heard a lever click midway down the avenue. She whirled around. It sounded like a fence gate, across the street two houses back. Someone must have come from a side door, she thought, looking in that direction. She couldn't see anyone. All the trees were dark where he stood. The sense that it was a man became stronger as she felt his stare. Chia moved faster, her whole body alert. Two houses to go. Then her mind screamed: "Run!"

She ran, leaping down six steps to the sidewalk and dashing to her car. From this vantage point she heard softening snow collapsing, fast, behind her. He was right there.

The car's back lights glowed softly, getting larger. The auto idled mid-street, door slightly ajar, two yards from her. She grabbed the handle, tossed her sack before her and hopped in, slamming the door. She clicked the locks down and gunned the motor, skidding and pulling away. He slapped her fender hard.

One, two blocks away, her heart pounded. She fumbled for her cell phone and tried to push in Bill's number. She hands shook, her breathing was erratic.

“Bill, Bill, it's Chia. I was nearly grabbed. I reached my car just in time." She relayed the tale.

I'm sending Josh out immediately. You want him to work with you awhile?"

"Yes." She gulped a breath to calm her tension. "Or maybe he can finish Tangletown."

"He's on his way. Keep your phone on, Chia."

"Bill, this job isn't worth being scared out of my wits or assaulted."

*

The morning of the 17th dawned with radiant brilliance. Chia wondered how sunny the day would be in her house. She'd headed out for school. Teng wasn't up.

She'd talked to Mr. Kok. He'd spoken to Teng last week. Kok had hired someone else, but he'd sent her brother to another grocer.

At dinner last night, she'd asked Teng, "Are you starting a new job tomorrow? If so, let's discuss rent tonight. Mr. Kok told me it was not at his place. Any other leads?"

Janel and Mrs. Sy were silent.

"No."

The four, seated around the circular dinner table, made a cozy scene. So anxious were the Sys for spring, they'd cracked open a window and its storm angled out.

"Tonight's your last dinner with us, Teng," she said, cutting into her pork chop. "I wish you well as you look for employment. Nai might have some ideas."

"You've talked to him, too?" He looked as if a secret had been exposed.

"Days ago," she said, shrugging.

"What are you going to do, Teng?" Mrs. Sy asked.

"Why the great interest?" He asked, as Janel's eyes swept from him to Chia.

"I'm always interested in your plans. You're able. You'll find something.”

*

Mrs. Sy came to Chia that night. “Don’t do it, Chia. Where will he go? What will he do?”

"He'll figure it out, Ma, as he should."

"Someday you may have a child, and you may respond with a less hard heart."

"I don't know, but I won't forget this. Maybe you'd prefer to buy a new house and invite him to live there. Soon, you'd weary of his irresponsibility, too, and end up in the same place."

*

She made an appointment with a locksmith and arranged to take a half-day off to meet him and get Teng's belongings out. Arriving at 1:30 p.m., no one was home. After she retrieved two serviceable suitcases from the attic, she went to Teng's room. She stripped his closet and bureau of clothing and packed neatly. She added books and mementos, tossing toiletries and toothbrush into a plastic bag.

An hour later, Chia carried the cases to the front entry. Pulling open an inside door led to an enclosed foyer, an ugly add-on, which Chia hoped to restore. She pushed through the front door, setting Teng's cases on the step.

Her eyes skimmed across the cut lawn and its edges trimmed under the chain-linked fence, which bordered her lot. The bushes were thickening nicely into a clipped curve she'd designed through previous seasons. The locksmith arrived. He came up the walkway and said, "Someone's leaving for somewhere."

She smiled and directed him to the heavy doors. Half an hour later, his truck pulled away. Chia locked each door. School papers waited in the kitchen.

Teng arrived at 3:30 p.m. The fence gate clanked open, and Chia was alerted. She imagined him putting his key in the lock. It was warm, and the kitchen window was up a few inches. The curtains ruffled in the breeze. She heard his footsteps on the concrete sidewalk installed last summer. He passed the window going to the back porch. The back door was covered with an aluminum storm, designed with two large rectangles of clear plastic. Teng worked the knob.

"Chia, let me in," he yelled.

The door shook in its framework. She sat breathless.

"I’Il get work. Just let me in." He banged and kicked the door. "Open up!” His voice rose. He came down the steps and around to the window. Only his head and neck showed through it. She stared at him.

"I'm furious. Let me in. You're a despicable Hmong woman."

Chia walked to the window and shut it. The other one, across the room, was open.

"Hi, Teng," Frank Horton called from his house. "What's going on?"

"Chia and I are arguing." Teng walked toward Frank.

She listened. Frank stood on his back steps.

"She changed the locks. You'll have to figure it out."

Frank's words might deflect Teng's anger. Soon, Frank's door clicked shut. A scuffing noise sounded above the birds' chirps. Teng must have walked back to the steps. He was quiet. She took a deep breath and felt her fingernails bite into her palms. She shook her hands out as she stood near the door. She jumped when he threw a rock against it. Nothing shattered. He'd forgotten the exterior storm door’s windows weren't glass.

"Damn," he said. "This isn't over between us, Chia."

Part of her balked at her rigidity, but her practical mind dismissed it. Still, she ran for the second floor bath, reaching the toilet, lifted the seat, and vomited. Her body shook. A wet washcloth cooled her face. She sat on the floor.

Half an hour later, the phone rang. It was Nai.

Her voice calm, Chia was at the kitchen table again. "He's come and gone. Whew! He'll be back for his grips. He's angry. Did you see him?"

"We talked. He asked to stow his gear here overnight, if he had to leave. He didn't discuss anything concrete, but seemed to have some ideas. Maybe a shelter.”

"Would one let him in?”

"They'll take anyone on a first-come, first-serve basis, as long as he obeys the rules. He can eat at Catholic Charities and sleep at Dorothy Day, if he's in time. He'll do a lot of thinking, if he goes to one. It's sobering. He may make sound decisions fast."

Later, her family came home and she told the story, silent about details, though they couldn't miss the splintered door.

"This is a worry, Chia," said Mrs. Sy, when they were alone, before dinner.

"Not for me, Mom." Chia was preparing the meal, but wasn't hungry.

"Now, we're three women alone."

"As are millions all over the globe. You're grieving Dad. Teng'll be fine. I seem to have more faith in him than you do. We'll all be fine."

"No one knows where Teng is?" Janel said, as they ate later.

"I've got a new key for you. No one shares theirs with Teng. If he returns and is allowed in because of you, I'll change the locks again. You won't get another."

Janel's eyes got big. "You'd send me away?"

"No," Chia said, "but there'd be consequences." Dinner ended in silence.

Chia was asleep by 8:30. Her alarm woke her at 1:00 a.m.

*

Three months after Teng's departure, Chia was driving on the Hamline University campus, looking for a parking space close to the library. She needed to do some research for her summer school class. Older, well-tended houses surrounded the college buildings. A man was mowing a wide yard in front of a restored two-story with distinctive sawn scroll work on its broad porch. She was taken by the house, also, by the man. Teng. She parked, got out and walked back.

"Hi," she yelled, about a foot from him. He started, then his eyes narrowed. "How are you? Congratulations on your job."

He reached to turn off the mower.

"What company are you working with?"

"I don't like the question, so I won't answer."

"Okay." She shrugged. "I'll tell Mom you're well and working. She'll be glad."

She waited, then started to walk away and turned. "I'm proud of you." After a few more steps toward the library, she glanced again at her brother. Teng bent to pull the mower's starter cord. He did so once, twice, it didn't respond. His body movements were quick and irritated, and Chia recognized his frustration. He yanked it again. Nothing. He tried again. The motor started.

Originally published in Big Muddy: A Journal of the Mississippi River Valley, Vol 13.2. 2013.