either. I live near here. Do you know the Twilight?”
“Rough place.”
She laughed. “I own it. Well, my father does. I live above it. If you want, I can make more coffee.” She looked at him intently, willing him to come, not sure why she was so drawn to him.
“Sure.”
When they left, a winter chill blasted them and, almost involuntarily, she leaned toward him, nearly against his arm. They walked the twelve blocks or so to the Twilight. At some point, he grabbed her hand. It was an intimate gesture, holding hands tightly, as if they were a couple.
When they got to her building, she opened the door and they climbed the stairwell to her apartment. She unlocked the door and moved to the side to let him in.
Turning on lights, she said, “I’ll make some coffee.”
“To be honest, I’m all coffeed out. If I have any more, I’ll never get to sleep.”
“Okay. Would you like a soda? Water? Juice?”
“Nah.” He took off his jacket.
“Here, I’ll put it on the coatrack.” She took his jacket from him and hung it up, placing hers on the hook next to it.
She turned around and looked at him, feeling peaceful for the first time in days, but now nervous. He walked closer to her and put his hands on either side of her face. Without saying anything, he leaned down and kissed her gently. She kissed him back.
The next thing Maggie knew, they were moving toward the bedroom. She felt as though she wanted literally to pull him inside of her, as if she wanted to hide within him, to find refuge somehow in that calm voice of his. The sex between them, even though he was a stranger to her, was incredibly intense, leaving her breathless and holding onto him.
“I wish I knew why I…I never do this,” he said. “I just felt like I knew you.”
“Me, too,” she whispered. He was in no hurry to leave. An hour later, they were making love again, and he curled himself around her, holding her tight to him as they fell asleep. She slept without Valium. She slept without dreaming, which was the point, she guessed. Dreams were always scattered, uneasy images to her.
In the morning, she rolled over and watched him sleep. There was something angelic about him, innocent. It was something missing from her father’s face, from Danny’s. The minute Bobby opened his eyes, he grinned widely. “I was hoping I wasn’t dreaming about last night.”
They stayed in bed, made love, and had coffee and eggs and read the paper.
“This is kind of crazy,” he said, sliding under the covers after breakfast and clutching her to him, her head nestling perfectly against his shoulder. “Getting involved so fast. They tell you not to do that in AA.”
“Sometimes you just know.”
She never told him she was embarking on day four without alcohol. After that night, they rarely slept apart. And Maggie rarely craved alcohol after that. Bobby was her pacifier. He was the way the night made sense.
Chapter Four
Saigon, June 11, 1963
Mai Hanh’s mother grabbed her daughter’s hand and urged her along the crowded street near the opera house. They made the trek to Saigon once a year to shop for a few items and to visit Mai’s aunt, who had left their village with a Frenchman some years before and now lived in an apartment that Mai thought smelled of a strange mixture of clove cigarettes and dumplings.
The streets were filled with pedestrians, and Mai frequently bumped into people as her mother tugged and pulled, demanding her to walk faster than her ten-year-old legs could carry her.
Ahead of them, an enormous gathering of people stood, blocking the way, as they formed a circle. Mai couldn’t see what was going on, but she heard chanting.
“Ma, what is it?”
Her mother, who usually walked with her head bent forward and down, as if expecting to confront a strong wind, lifted her face. Mai noticed how tired her mother appeared. She was always tired when they visited Tante, as her aunt insisted Mai call her. Tante wore a silk dress the color of emeralds, stiletto heels and stockings with a black seam down the leg, red lipstick, her hair in intricate braids with tortoiseshell combs. Ma wore plain black pants and a loose top, both made of coarse cloth and flat black cloth shoes. Ma never wore lipstick, didn’t own lipstick, and the years of working in the fields had taken their toll on her hands and the skin on her face.
“I don’t know,” Ma said.
Mai craned her neck but saw nothing but the backs of the people in her way. Then she decided to crouch. From her new vantage point, she could glimpse the center of the circle. Crouching further still, she saw Buddhist monks and nuns. They were speaking about charity and compassion.
“What is it?” Ma asked, looking down at Mai.
“I don’t know. Monks.” Mai squinted as an elderly monk with a smooth face sat down, his saffron robes gleaming in the midday sun, his eyes serene and determined. The nuns and monks around him were speaking, reciting from books, but Mai couldn’t make out what they were saying. The sitting monk remained calm. Tranquil. Mai watched as they poured a liquid on his robes and then his head. Something was shouted from the crowd and she heard a scream.
The sitting monk set himself on fire. They had been pouring gasoline, Mai realized as the intense smell of burning flesh assaulted her nostrils.
“Ma!” She grabbed at her mother’s legs and clung to her, unable to look away from the image of the burning holy man, waves of nausea sweeping over her as her stomach fell and shuddered.
“What is it, Little Mai?”
“He’s on fire, Ma.”
Her mother quickly swooped Mai into her arms, though Mai was too big to be held like that anymore, and her spindly legs trailed down her mother’s body. Protectively, her mother pushed Mai’s face against her shoulder, forcing Mai to look away.
“Why, Ma?” Mai cried, tears rolling down her face.
Her mother shook her head. “Vietnam is like grain that the hens peck. First this one wants her, then that. France, America. Pecking at us. Pecking.”
The crowd had grown restless and angry over the immolation. Mai’s mother insistently pushed and maneuvered until they were down a side street, moving away from the commotion.
Later that night, Mai tried to sleep. But in the flames of the cooking fire, she kept seeing the monk. She wondered if Buddha had given him the courage. Because even as he’d burned to death, the monk her mother said was named Thich Quang Due had never flinched. He had burned alive without moving a muscle, without uttering a single cry of agony.
Chapter Five
Sometime near dawn, Maggie watched as her brother stirred. She crossed the room to his side and knelt down.
“Danny?”
