Part 38 (1/2)

”I quit.”

”Too busy cleaning, I guess.”

”I guess.”

”Why don't you start playing again? That would be an action.”

Sophy waggles her head.

”An action that might lead to more action,” says Hattie. ”That might increase your capacity for contributing to better days.”

Annie reappears and, when Sophy just looks at her, preoccupied, sits.

”Good girl!” Sophy pets her automatically, then has an orange slice. She spits out a pit.

Sarun goes to talk to Chhung after all. Hattie and Mum watch as best they can out the bedroom window, as does Sophy, leaving Gift to toddle around busily. If only Chhung would move his chair a little, they say. Why doesn't Sarun get him to move his chair? They draw a curtain against the worst of the glare; the lilac curtain s.h.i.+nes pink.

Finally Sarun returns. He reports first to his mother, tersely and quietly, in Khmer. She nods. Then he turns to Hattie and Sophy and, in a louder, more measured voice, gives his English report.

”I told him he was a great dad. I told him I was looking forward to Father's Day already. I told him I'd dig him the biggest pit he ever saw, if he wanted. I told him I'd dig night and day and that I wouldn't take a break until this place was the Sahara Desert.” He stares at the TV, though it's off. ”I told him I wasn't mad at him, and that I wished he'd come in. I invited him, in fact, to come in. f.u.c.king begged him. But, you know, he never even looked at me, the a.s.shole.”

Silence.

”Did you tell him you forgave him?” asks Hattie, finally.

”It just made him feel worse,” says Sarun.

”Bong,” says Sophy patiently. ”It can't have made him feel worse.”

”He was using me!” Sarun's face is contorted and red except for his scar. ”To make himself feel worse! I'm telling you, he was using me, my forgiveness, everything! To make himself feel f.u.c.king worse!”

No one thinks he can be right, but that night Chhung refuses to come in even to sleep. Sophy goes out to talk to him, then returns with the wheelbarrow.

”For blankets,” she says, throwing bedding down into it from the front door. She trundles back off, leaning hard into the handles; Hattie recognizes that squeak of the wheel.

It's a cold night.

And in the morning, when they find Chhung curled up at the bottom of the pit, Sophy wishes she hadn't encouraged him. ”His hair was iced up,” she cries.

”He would've stayed out there anyway, the a.s.shole,” says Sarun. ”Believe me. He would've stayed out there so he could freeze to death.”

Gift squeals at something on TV, but no one looks to see what it is.

”What would happen,” says Hattie, ”if you stopped bringing him cigarettes and alcohol?”

”Whatta you high?” Sarun bugs his eyes.

”It's just an idea.” Hattie proffers a chopstick.

Sarun takes it-his neck-but Sophy is outraged.

”That would be, like, starving him,” she says.

By day, Chhung mans his station. By night, he heads into the pit. Mum keeps him company, huddling beside him as he lies there, though he refuses to open his eyes or speak to her. He does, however, allow her to help him go to the bathroom, and thanks to his diabetes, Sophy says, he does pee and pee.

”Diabetes?” says Hattie.

It's the first she's heard about that-how worrisome. Although, yes. At least it gets him up. At least it gets him to drink. At least it gets him to let Mum stay with him. Mum prays and prays, her white shawl wrapped around her jacket; Sophy brings Mum blankets for the night, too, and warm drinks. Hats for both of them; the temperature at night is in the twenties now. And crates, to make it easier to climb in and out.

In the morning, Sophy brings Sarun and Gift along with her. Hattie watches, moved, as the whole family helps Chhung out of the pit for the day. Mum supports one arm, Sophy the other, as he steps slowly up the shaky crates; they pa.s.s him on to Sarun, who, awkward as he is in his collar, manages to help Chhung up onto solid ground. The family works together, too, to settle Chhung in his chair-Mum and Sophy on arm duty again, Sarun supporting his back. Even Gift grabs a leg, trying to help. And there-mission accomplished. Chhung is seated. Never mind that his hat is on funny, or that his jacket has hiked up, affording a bright glimpse of his brace. He's seated.

Father 'n' son braces!

Sophy runs off to get breakfast.

”We have to help him because of his back,” she says later. ”We don't want his back to get worse.” Elbows in the air, she gathers her hair at the nape of her neck as if getting ready to put it in a ponytail-having forgotten it's not long enough, it seems. ”I don't think starving him is going to help,” she adds, letting go.

Greta and Grace stop by the pit with doughnuts.

”Are you all right?” asks Grace, her hair blowing.

Mum looks to Hattie for translation though she should really understand this. Hattie suspects she is just being shy but, after a moment, translates.

”She's asking, How are you?”

”I'm fiyne,” Mum tells Grace.

”You're fine?” says Greta.

Mum nods enthusiastically, accepting a jelly roll. Then comes a puff of wind; confectioners' sugar powders her mouth and jacket. She looks down, horrified, and disappears into the trailer.

Greta and Grace knit their brows. Their hair flies sideways, aviator-style; Grace clamps hers down with a hand to either side of her face. She looks to be holding her head on. Greta, too, her braid notwithstanding, pulls strands out of her mouth.

”This can't go on,” she says. She gestures at Chhung, asleep in his folding chair at the other end of the pit. ”What can we do?”

Hattie tightens her jacket hood and thinks. Would it be too crazy to tell Chhung that Greta and Grace are from the Department of Social Services, and that a complaint has been filed against him? It would seem an unlikely way of helping, except that Sophy seems to think that if no one punishes her father, he'll punish himself. So maybe it's worth a try? Of course, the game will be up if Chhung recognizes anyone. But luckily, though Greta and Grace have both dropped food off at the trailer at times, they say it was always Mum who took the deliveries.

They turn now into the wind; Hattie wakes Chhung up.

”You have visitors,” she says.

He opens his eyes.

”We're from the Department of Social Services,” says Greta sternly. ”We've come to inform you of a complaint filed against you.”

”Declaring you an unfit parent.” Grace is trying to look stern, too, but it's like watching Santa Claus trying to play Hitler. ”We thought you'd want to know.”

Silence. Chhung's eyes are sunken and his pupils enlarged, his eyes and face as disconcerting as ever. He's only half awake; his chin is sprouting wires. And yet his backlit hair, blowing forward, frames his face in an oddly flattering way.