Flashbacks: Echoes of Past Issues
end of his bayonet. That night, she cried herself to sleep and for many nights afterwards. Sokha wiped the cloth market bag across her foot to dry it and continued along the block. Ahead, a group of black men loitered in the street. They were talking in high voices, gesturing with their hands. One waved a whiskey bottle. She stopped. How should she move past them? She could not go through the dirt yard because cars were parked there in front of a twostory gray duplex. She would have to walk close to the duplex stoop, where an old man sat in a rusty metal chair. If she crossed to the other side, she risked offending the black men. She thought about the Fortune cards at the Temple a few weeks ago. She had held the first card above her head then lowered her bowing hands in front of the golden Buddha. When she looked at it, the card read, “Travel will be dangerous.” But Buddha allowed three chances, so she had pulled second card. This one said, “You will lose money in three days.” Holding her breath and praying, she selected her final card, which was the right one. “Good luck follows you.” Just as her father had believed. She left the Temple happy. Remembering the fortune card now gave her courage. She walked directly toward the black men. As she neared them, she bowed in the Khmer way, hands folded before her, speaking some of the few English words she knew. “Yes, I go. Thank you.” Laughing, one man stepped back, his response loud and in unintelligible English. He imitated her
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bow, though he was big and clumsy and staggered sideways. He held a brown bottle between both hands and bobbed it at her. The others moved back. She did not know what they were saying, so she smiled and kept nodding at the man bowing in front of her. He smelled like whiskey. But he let her pass. She was lucky. Buddha was with her. Relieved, she turned the corner onto Center Street. Mr. Franks’ store was half way down the block, set back from the street on an asphalt lot. She reached it quickly. Three black men stood in the yard, drinking beer. Sokha started for the door then stopped, gasping. Something was there. She looked past the men toward the store. A pickax and two shovels leaned against the outside wall. What could she do? Should she turn and run? Get home as quickly as she could? Come back later? She feared to move. Other men standing near the street were not drinking beer. They wore what seemed like uniforms, identical brown shirts with words embroidered on the pockets and on the back. She did not know what the words said. In her mind, she saw Youn Ban come around the corner, his bare feet kicking up dust. She watched him from the doorway. When he paused a few yards from the hut, she could hardly breathe. He started speaking before he turned in her direction but did not raise his eyes. Angka needs your husband, Comrade Sokha. For only a few hours. A special duty that will make Angka proud. You will see. She tried to cry out PHOTOGRAPH BY LIEN TRUONG
Seeping of a Ghost, 2015 (oil on arches oil paper, 22x60 diptych) by Lien Truong