Part 6 (1/2)

Hattie stops waving.

”I came to see,” she says, in a burst of inspiration, ”whether any of you'd like to go up to the farmers' market.” She explains how it's all kinds of people selling all kinds of things, actually, not just farmers and farm products. ”If Mum ever gets around to baking her baguettes, for example, she could sell them up there.”

”Bag-?” Though Chhung has been understanding Hattie just fine, he looks to Sophy to translate-buying time to make a decision, Hattie guesses. For, as it happens, she knows that s.p.a.ce between languages very well-sees how Chhung barely listens, really, as Sophy translates, eyes on the ground. Sophy translates less haltingly for her father than she did for her mother, interestingly, although even now her Khmer is not as fluent as Sarun's; you can hear that she was born here, rather than in the camps. But finally, anyway, she's done. Her glance steals up, not to Chhung's face, but to Hattie's.

Hattie doesn't dare smile back. Instead, she receives Sophy's look, then looks up at the sky-focusing, not on the clouds, but on the s.h.i.+fting blue shapes between them. Something Carter taught her to do, way back when-to see the negative s.p.a.ces-a way of thinking outside the box. She takes her time.

”I can take you all there,” she offers, finally. ”If you'd like to check it out.”

”Sophy check it ow,” says Chhung.

”Would you or Mum like to come, too?”

Chhung considers. Sarun grips and regrips his shovel handle, but Hattie knows better, somehow, than to offer to take him along. She can see what's plain out of the question, as can he, apparently. He does not try to make eye contact.

”Sophy go.” Chhung turns away.

Sarun resumes digging until Chhung says something else. Then Sarun grasps the handles of the wheelbarrow and wheels it over to Hattie. He sets it down carefully, like a pilot showing off his landing skills.

”Oh, no,” she says. ”You can keep it. It's yours.”

Chhung looks surprised.

”I'm giving it to you. It's yours. A present.”

”Pres-en?”

”A present,” she insists. ”I don't need it.”

There's a pause; then Chhung smiles a broad, if crooked, smile. ”Cambodian say, You do good, good come back to you,” he says.

”That's beautiful.” Hattie gives a half-smile herself. ”Hope it's true.”

And not hogwash.

”True,” says Chhung, looking her steadily in the eye. He can only manage it for a moment, but he does. He smiles.

Sophy's normally swingy ponytail rests flat on the nape of her neck; she studies the ground as if she has a test coming up on it. Just when Hattie is beginning to think their trip a mistake, though, she catches Sophy glancing down the hill.

”They like cookies,” says Hattie.

”They do,” agrees Sophy.

”I bet Sarun eats like a horse.”

Sophy hesitates, but then says, ”He does, he eats, like, everything.” She wrinkles up her nose.

”He's that age,” Hattie says. ”My son, Josh, was the same way. The minute you slowed down on your meal, he'd lean in and say, 'You going to finish that?' ”

Sophy laughs, her ponytail hanging free now. She stops to read Hattie's b.u.mper stickers but doesn't ask what they mean, and climbs into the old Datsun naturally enough. Once they start driving, though, she stiffens, as if she needs to concentrate on her sitting.

Hattie pulls down her distance gla.s.ses. ”How do you people manage without a car?”

”Sarun used to have a car,” says Sophy. ”He just smashed it up.”

”In an accident?”

Sophy nods, sniffing. Up here at higher elevations, it's more clearly spring; even with the windows closed, the air smells of manure anywhere near the farms. ”He smashed up two, actually,” she says. Adding, ”They weren't his, exactly. He shared one with a friend and one with a bunch of guys.”

”Ah.”

”He was racing.”

”Was he. Well, if he ever borrows mine, I'll tell him no racing.” Hattie peers over the top of her gla.s.ses at Sophy, whose broad forehead is bright with light, like a second winds.h.i.+eld.

”There's n.o.body to race around here anyway,” she says.

”I see. Was anyone hurt? In these accidents?”

”Yeah, but not Sarun, he was lucky.”

”It sounds that way.”

The market field is sunny and un-buggy, and warm enough that a few intrepid people are in T-s.h.i.+rts. Their spring arms are about as appealing as dug-up roots, but never mind-they swing them happily. Only Sophy hugs herself as if worried about hypothermia. She rubs her arms through her jacket sleeves as Hattie tries to get her to pick out some vegetables.

”They're fresh,” Hattie says. ”Organic. I'll treat.”

But Sophy, it seems, likes her vegetables the way they have them in the supermarket.

”In plastic, you mean?”

”Organic means fifty cents a pound more, at least.” Sophy's arms open at last, her outrage flowing out to her fingertips.

”Do you help your mom with the shopping?”

Sophy folds back up. ”I'll be helping forever.”

”Because she doesn't speak English.”

”Because she is never going to speak English.”

”I see.” Hattie makes Sophy sniff some lilacs. ”Now aren't those something?”

”They smell like soap,” Sophy says.

A few stalls farther on they come, amazingly, upon some peonies-white with red flecks, festiva maxima. Most of them still in bud, but still-so early! It doesn't seem possible. Thanks to a south-facing stone wall, though, the stall owner's garden is a whole zone up from the rest of the area, maybe more.

”Can I buy you some?” Hattie asks. ”These are something special.”

Sophy shakes her head no. Still, when she makes a trip to the bathroom, Hattie, quick, nabs a bunch and stashes them on the pa.s.senger seat of the car. And when she finds them there, Sophy exclaims with delight. ”Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she says, sniffing them, then admiring them, then sniffing them some more. Her face opens as if blooming itself, and her smile is more than a matter of her mouth. The mounds of her cheeks rise up, her ears lift; the whole shape of her face changes. ”What kind of flowers are they?”