We moved to Houston, one of the largest population of Vietnamese people within the United States. Of course, I didn’t know that then. We lived in areas seemingly void of Asians, let alone Vietnamese people. Not sure how my parents picked where exactly we were to live. The only criteria they had was “affordable”, “very affordable”. The things about good schools, crime rate, distance to stores, flood hazards, etc. weren’t in the picture. We needed a place. And that place, or should I say places, were where my childhood and the craziness began.
I remember the first house in Texas more than the one in Baltimore. It was a rambler, single level house. White wooden house with a porch that spanned all of the front. There were about four steps of stairs leading up to to the porch and to the door flanked by two rectangular windows. It would have been symmetrical if it were decades younger and the foundation and mother nature treated it better. The white planks of wood skinning the house were stained and chip. A new paint job was well over due. The roof seemed to favor the right side of the house where all the weeds grew. The rest of the lawn was busy overtaking the sidewalk and walkway leading up to the house. So if you really needed metaphor to describe our house, I’d imagine it like someone took a scoop of rocky road ice cream and dropped it on the lawn under the blistering Texas heat. And that’s what went through my mind every time I came home. Not because it really looked like that, but because I liked, no, I loved ice cream and I dreamt about eating our house on day, like those kids in that story I had seen. That popular one. Makes you want to never run away or accept any hospitality from old wart faced ladies. That must have made me uneasy around old people. Thankfully, the oldest person in our family was Grandma. She and Uncle Diep stayed with us. The house had enough room, enough as in a room for her and a room for my mom and dad. For my brothers and I, yes, in retrospect it was messed up, but back then we had the biggest room of all. It’s what you’d call, the living room.
Grandma watched over us when my mom and dad went to work. It was great for my parents, but for grandma, it wasn’t ideal. She wanted to take classes and learn English. She bought into the American dream. And she was used to working hard back at the farm, bringing home the food and the money. Now it was cooking and making sure we didn’t get into any trouble. Not very challenging and the supervision, well, let’s say it was a valiant attempt.
The winter months in Texas could get cold. Once in a while it might dip to the thirties and there have been historical moments of snow flurries. Rare. Very rare. So with that sort of meteorological data, most houses were not built with heaters. Ours being one of them.
“Stay away,” my dad told us.
He had bought a floor heater and put it in the corner of the living room. It was cold, well not to me. My folks might not have been fully acclimated yet. Texas heat and humidity was nothing compared to tropical heat. And it wasn’t even winter yet.
“Wow,” Phong gawked kneeling in font of it, ignoring my dad’s warning after he left.
It was a small propane heater. It was about six inches tall and was as long as my body. Little flames stood next to each other forming a row of blue and yellow dancing, mesmerizing, lights. They looked alive. Pudgy blue bottom creatures with yellow heads, tempting us to play with them. But the heat and metal bars kept us away. That was, until Phong found a way.
I wanted to say we’d get in trouble, but what came out was, “Neat!”
He had stuck a wound up page of news paper through the jail bars and somehow freed one of them. The tiny dancing blue creatures. It danced on the tip and walked slowly toward his hand, leaving a trail of black ash with each step.
“What did I tell you,” yelled my dad, slapping Phong’s hand and stomping out the fire. “You don’t play with fire.”
Phong let out a shriek as he got slapped. I did the same, but not because I was hit, but because Dad had just killed our new friend.
We weren’t sent to our room, because as you may have guessed we were in it. My dad dad decided to take the heater away and give my brother a whipping. Only him. Tuan and I stood and watched. We were both guilty. I was an accomplice. My brother was the one that showed him what to do, weeks before, with the kitchen stove. We knew because that’s what Phong cried out when my dad asked why Phong would have such a stupid idea like that. At the time, I didn’t know why my dad wouldn’t stop. Phong answered all of my dad’s question, yet he was still getting beat. I couldn’t do anything, but cry.
The next day my brothers were dragged off. During our young years, it was punishment to go grocery shopping with family. It’s the worst situated a child could go through. Surrounded by tons of food, none of which you’re allowed to have. Any attempt to get something and put in the cart that’s not approved, not asked for, and most of all something you really like, would result in a hand slap followed by an order to put it back. Sometimes we wonder if our parents just like slapping us, because we did see them take the very thing we had put back. It made no sense. And to make things worse, the grocery store was in on the sadistic game as well. At the checkout line would be that wall of candy. Beckoning us down at our levels with rich milk chocolatey goodness. That was THE longest miracle mile for children. I dreaded the grocery store.
Back at the house, I was with my grandma. I don’t remember what I was doing. My mom had left for work already, so it must have meant I was about to drive my grandma crazy.
The heater was out in the living room again.
My grandma was cold and must have wanted some heat as she did chores. She was in the kitchen. If you were to talk into the house, in front of you and to your left would be my room, the living room. There was a door on the far wall leading into my parents room. On the right was a small dining area that lead into the narrow kitchen. The wall separating the kitchen and living room was about ten feet in. That was enough to have a view of the heater as Grandma prepared food for the kitchen.
I stared at the heater and at my grandma. She was busy chopping something up. I waited patiently. I decided to prepare. I found the newspaper on the dining room table. I climb up on the seat and read through it. Not really. I was doing what kids do and imitating. I found my favorite section though and decided.
“Marmaduke, you’re going to help me rescue those trapped animals.”
I rolled up that page as tight as I could. My elbows bent in awkward angles to turn the page into a firm crooked twig. I held up my creation and smiled. My grandma looked over and I dropped it. I kept my smile though. Folks always laughed or squeeze my cheeks when I did that. Fortunately, I was far away so I only expected a laugh.
“What are you up to?” Grandma laughed.
I watched her as I kicked my feet under my seat. Her hands were messy with strips of chicken fat. So was the big cleaver she was using. No matter how helpful people try to be with grandma, she never needed a hand. She was as healthy as an ox. The large cleaver went through the pieces of chicken at the mercy of her strength. You could hear the cutting board cough after each cut.
“It’s the mailman.” She looked pass me out the window.
“It’s my chance.”
She does the same thing every day. After the mailman comes, she walks out to the end of the lawn where the mailbox was and pulls out the mail. My grandma loves to pick up the mail. She loves getting mail even if it was just junk mail. Someone out there was addressing her and she’d take the time to try to read it. Especially when it had pictures of food, because those grocery ads were easy to read. All you needed to spot were the prices. Who cared what they were called, it it was cheap we’d buy it and try it out. This was my grandma’s daily English lesson. Associate words to the pictures. Eventually, this led her to do the grocery shopping. But for today, this led to a misfit’s bad idea.
I stared out and waited for her to sit on the steps, in the sunlight, and read.
I hopped down with my paper in hand and ran over to the heater. It was hot the closer I got to it. When I got close I slid down on my stomach. The hardwood floors felt cool. I lifted my shirt and let the floor cool my tummy. I squirmed around and lifted my torso and arms. The paper made it’s way through the bars shaking and bobbing. My tongue was hanging out the side of my lip. I was balancing myself on my stomach now. The end of the paper lit up a bright yellow and I pulled it out. I got up to my feet and stared closely at the end. It wasn’t as big and animated like my brothers. It was slow and barely moved down the paper. The yellow flamed wasn’t too impressive during the light of day. An idea popped into my head. I scurried over to the kitchen throwing a quick glance over my shoulder to my grandma outside. I opened the closet door next to the kitchen and went inside. It was pitch black except for my little yellow friend. It flickered. I was still small and lazy at the beginning, but then it stretched. And boy did it stretch. It doubled, then tripled in height. I shook the paper and noticed it was floating in front of me. Suspended and still growing. I opened the door and there it was. It was burning my dad’s jacket. The whole sleeve was getting engulfed in flames. With all the knowledge on what to do in case of emergency instilled in me by my parents, I did what any smart kids at my age does. I threw the paper into the closet, closed the door, ran outside, and sat next to my grandma.
“Anything for me?”
The question alone was odd on so many levels and my grandma knew I did something wrong. She grabbed my hands and inspected them. Turning them over and peering down every finger.
“Did you cut yourself?”
She felt horrible for leaving the kitchen without cleaning up. But that wasn’t the mess that was brewing back in the house. To make things worse, my grandma wasn’t around when my brother got in trouble last night. She was in her room and didn’t know why my brother was being punished. It wasn’t an uncommon thing.
“What’s that smell,” her head popped up. “Is something burning?”
I stared up at her and saw the trail of black smoke exiting the top of the door. It ran across the bottom of the roof and off into the sky.
Yet I still said, “No.”
I don’t think I convinced her. She went inside and saw the billowing smoke coming from the closet. She ran over. About ten years from then, Hollywood would title a movie on what I was about to see when my grandma opened the closet door and a huge fireball leapt out at her. Yes. Backdraft. I didn’t care for the movie cause it went over this like its some sort of unknown phenomenon. My grandma and I have just gotten a lesson on what fuels fire more than polyester suits, oxygen.
My grandma jumped back and threw a pot under the sink. She filled them up and started dousing the closet. Over and over she’d splash it. I could still see the flames reaching out from the closet. I was still sitting on the steps. I turned around and saw my uncle careening into the driveway. He bolted in. My brothers ran out.
“The house is fire?” Tuan asked peeking into the door.
Phong knew what happened. He was looking straight at me and knew exactly what I did and exactly what was going to happen. He was going to get whipped for this and it was because of me.
