slingshot tongue, I swear, it’s sharper than Ginzu knives. Tell you truly, I’d rather she re-slap me, no problemas. It’ s easier to take than her crying. I couldn’t bear it. I felt so hurt inside, like somebody was twisting a knife in my guts or pinching my heart with her long, gnarly nails. So I did what came naturally: I grabbed and hugged her, my Mamma, who once held tiny old me and Pammy in her arms when we sailed out to sea in that old stinking and crowded boat from Ben Tre a zillion nights ago, but who felt suddenly so small in my arms now, so frail, so bony, who suffered so much already. “Oh, Mommy, I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m so sorry,” and then Pammy came rushing to us for a team hug and we cried, the three of us, like we were in some weird choir practice. So everything—Les Miz, Les Vietnam-Miz or whatever—was happening right in front of U.S. And dude be acting like he was all tied up. He trembled like he was struggling to get out of some invisible rope until finally, his hairy arm slowly reached out like an elephant’s trunk toward me and Pammy and Mamma, trying to touch us maybe, but before he could accomplish his mission impossible I shot him my special Medusa laser ray stare and froze that ex-GI in his track. That was when Grandma T. came out of the kitchen with her ladle. She looked at us for a second or two. Then she sighed and shook her gray head like she’d seen it all before and she waved the ladle in the air like a magic wand. “Troi oi, troi!” She said, her voice low and throaty. “You people are worse than the monsoon. Please, enough with the crying already, my beef soup went sour back there because of your wailing.” We all started to giggle ‘cause Grandma T’s voice was raspy from years of smoking—she sounded like a Vietnamese Darth Vader or somebody cool like that—and her wrinkled up face was frowning like a sad old clown. U.S. laughed too, even though he probably didn’t get 90% of what she was saying, Mr. I’m Also Vietnamese. But Grandma T. was stern to him. She pointed the ladle toward the door and said, “Uncle Steve, you should go and handle baggage. Let us women folks take care of things.” U.S. stared at us like he wanted to say something but nothing came out. So he just looked at Grandma T’s ladle like he was really thinking real hard about something and then he nodded and left.
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Me, I was still bugging and thought dude got away easy. I don’t know, I kind of expected Grandma T. to like turn his sorry ass into a wart hog or something. U.S. did not come back the next day or the next. A week went by, then another. Soon every one started to wonder, including all the other regulars, whatever happened to Uncle Steve, the ex-GI who thought he was Vietnamese? Everyone but me, that is. I mean I didn’t care. U.S. was finally out of my hair? Good. Why ask why? It was like having a vacation. It was like it was raining for a week and then you woke up one day and the sun was out and the sky blue. It was, like, too good to be true. The dark clouds came back pretty quickly. After a month or so, just when I got used to the idea that U.S. was really, really gone, we got a post card from you know who. It showed this pretty Thai babe, a dancer in traditional costume with an intricate pointy headset. Her fingers were bent at an impossible angle, her head leaned to the side, and her eyes wide and flirty. And she had this smile on her like she was real happy but you could tell that she was just pretending. “Dear Mrs. Nguyen and family, If you all are wondering whatever happened to your Stephen, well don’t you worry. As you can tell from the post card, I am in Bangkok, on an extended vacation. I finally decided that I need to take a trip back to ‘Nam to look at the past. I am heading home in a few weeks after much needed r&r and then I’ll have a very, very precious gift for you and this time you can not possibly refuse, guarantee. Affectionately yours, Steve PS. Hello Pammy and Tammy, how are my favorite gals?” “What’s Uncle Steve saying Mamma?” Pammy asked after she was done reading the card out loud for Mamma. “Yeah,” I joined in, “what’s so precious that we can’t possibly refuse? Don’t we always refuse? Didn’t you say we don’t need any charity? We make our own living, right Mamma.” “No charity,” Mamma agreed. “Post cards, OK. Flowers ok, expensive gifts, not OK.” She studied the