There was a Lady (Story Two, toç 'Voices out of Saigon'

There was a Lady (Story two, to ‘’Voices out of Saigon’)


Mrs. Caroline Abernathy paced slowly in her front yard, coming up from her back yard. In the hot afternoon the huge, square house, the premises seemed peaceful, tranquil, as it had for almost one-hundred and fifty years, the old mansion was part of her husband’s family heritage, Cole Abernathy, whose grandfather came to North Carolina and built it, gave it to his son, whom gave it to Cole. They, like Cole had died in it, in turn they had expected their son, Langdon to die in it too, but he had been buried now, he had died in a taxi in Saigon, a year ago to this very month, October, 1972.
So very tranquil was the tranquil women of Abernathy’s family tree.
Caroline crossed the front yard towards the wooden fence, she now remembered how a year ago, this month about this time in the day, her son, in his early twenties died, and brought so much grief to his father his heart gave out. She remembered how Langdon and Cole would be throwing the football to one another, treading on the grass to catch it, even running on the front porch to catch it, how old Josh ((Josh Jefferson Jr., born 1890) (died 1972: 82-years old)) the negro stable man, would help him up on the horse, he was like a grandson to him, he worked for Cole’s father, and his father as well back before the turn of the century Josh Washington Jefferson (Born 1853-1903), Josh’s father worked for the Abernathy’s for fifty-years, perhaps more. It’s the way it was, family to family, thus, the house had seen a lot of Langdon Abernathy, and expected him to carry on the family saga, in that very house.
But he was dead now, and there were no move males to take on the legacy, and Mrs. Abernathy was past her prime, and her husband had died, and old Josh Jr. had died, all in one year—all the men were gone: Josh, Cole and Langdon, up in the family graveyard too, where the other family members were on their one-hundred archer plantation, on the outskirts of Fayetteville, North Caroline.
So all that was left in this big house was Caroline, her sister, Betty Presley ((former: Hightower )(younger sister by tweilve-years to Caroline)) came up from New Orleans to stay with her, her younger sister by twelve years, but she never stayed long, her husband being in a wheelchair and all. She came up to the funerals three times in the past year, each time collecting cloths when she left, along with helping Caroline go through the hard times you might say. Thus, she lived in an unmanned house, at this point sleeping on the sofa, in a six bedroom mansion, and Betty tended to her needs for the last three months.
Caroline thought that was alright for her younger sister Betty to come and help, but felt she could take care of herself, looking out her big bay window, murmuring to herself,
“I really don’t need help.”
She was a strong woman for her short height, she being all of five-food four inches tall, only fifty-years old; her husband was sixty-one when he died, a year ago. He told Betty to take care of Caroline, Caroline heard him on the phone say that, she also heard him say:
“You know what caused her to go into this semi state of silence, this frozen anger state the psychologist so calls it, you know why, I don’t need to tell you, and who knows what she is thinking, and she will no longer go see Doctor Wright down in Fayetteville, says he’s a quack, along with this and that. She’s always busy, but I know Caroline, she’s thinking, and it is about young Langdon’s girlfriend over in Vietnam, that Vang girl, and that three year old, or is two and half year old boy, Josue, of his, if it is really his, take care of her if I die please.”

Caroline said, “I’m going down to the creek,” to Betty; Betty thought nothing of it, she did that almost every day, it was quiet and near the graveyard, there one could contemplate or listen to the water to calm themselves, she even did that when Cole was alive, it was not like she had not done it before, in her mind she said: I love you Betty but I don’t need you, not really, I know how to do what I got to do, and where I got to go to do it, and how I will get there, I got there before, I can do it again. She was going to do, what Cole knew she might do, what she was warning Betty about. He just thought it, and he knew she’d some day do it, Betty still unaware of what, her brain unprepared, without comment, and then Betty saw a letter on the table, dinning room table, it read:
“Don’t follow me, I am going to disappear for a while, I do not need you, but if you wish you and your husband can stay on the plantation, I’ll return in a month or so, I need to take this sudden journey, and it will be a sudden return I expect. I will miss the early the October and November breeze though.” (Signed, ‘Your sister, Caroline.’)


Saigon

Well, Betty read the letter Caroline left for her, and she said, perhaps what Caroline expected her sister to say: ‘It’s her business where she’s going, I’ll just head on back to New Orleans.’ That’s what she said, and that is what she did. Caroline went onto Saigon, Vietnam.

Mrs. Caroline had a picture of Vang and the boy, and she went from market to market looking and talking to the locals, with her guide, Yang, it was all of a month before Yang said to Mrs. Abernathy,
“We no can find this Vang girl, maybe back in Cam Ranh Bay!”
“I’m not leaving, I’m not going to leave this place now, I got here and I’m staying until I find her, that trash, city trash.”
And they did find her, and they went to the little house she had near the U.S. Military Air Base, where she worked part time, cleaning the rest rooms for the soldiers. Today she, Vang wasn’t working though, she was sitting at her table with her three kids, eating from rice from a bowel, rise with some greens, and to the side of her was a bowel of noodles—soup and chopsticks, and it looked like pork in the soup, but she remembered what her son said, it most likely was dog meant, and gave it a grin. There were a few old soiled military magazines, English, lying on the floor, reminders of her son, perhaps he gave them to her, so she thought.
Vang looked to the figures in her opened doorway, “What you do here,” she said, knowing who she was; she had seen pictures of her.
Now Yang stood inside the house by the opened window.
“I dont know’ya,” said Vang to Yang, as if to say: I don’t know Mrs. Abernathy, what do you want.
“My husband, he come back soon,” said Vang. Mrs. Abernathy grunted. The house was a low –ceiled house filled with an odd scent of spices. Sounds of the children, she didn’t understand. Outside the window was a busy street full of venders and people walking, and motor bikes whizzing by. Vang now sat erect wondering what to say. She stood up, and she stood to the shoulders of Mrs. Abernathy, who had a shawl of cashmere around her—no whiter than the rice Vang was eating. Caroline looked at Vang motionless, getting a profile of her face, and produced an interrogative expression.
“You killed my boy you know,” she said.
“No,” said Vang.
The aging woman looked stern at Vang, and the white boy beside her, “I don’t understand this all,” and she walked over towards the chair where the boy was standing.
“A right smart looking boy, he is,” commented Caroline, then gave Vang a cold and quiet look.
“You stop look at me like that, Mrs. Abernathy,” said Vang.
“I haven’t said anything yet, you see the truth in my face though,” Caroline said.
“Then you keep it to yourself, I don’t want to hear it, and leave my house, now!” Vang said.
Yang was looking out the window; taking in all the sights, avoiding the confrontation, the one that looked as if one was developing.


The Door

She walked quietly into the children’s bedroom; it was a little dark, passing the three beds, not a word coming from the two adults in the kitchen.
Josue, and the other two children stood close to Vang, they were talking in Vietnamese to her, Caroline could not understand; she walked around the room without a sound: touching the beds, her eyeballs holding back tears, she stopped by one bed, as if it had the scent of Josue on it, as if she knew it was his, or maybe it was her own sons scent she smelled from the blankets. Suddenly her eyes lit up, the depression it once had, vanished for a moment, and she chanted something like a lullaby, not loud, and then moved about again. That faint little solitary glow, lingered on for the moment, fading though, like a dying candle. Then she turned, walked to the entrance of the bedroom door, swift and silent steps to the next door, the outside door that led into the street, she stood in its archway, she saw, as she turned about, Jose, her boy’s boy, lean toward his mother, talking, whispering something. Caroline did not remark, just stood in the doorway, not touching the sides or the jamb on either side, she was silent, said not a word to anyone, not the boy, the mother, or even Yang, just stood there, and Yang said “You better come with me now, Mrs. Abernathy unless you have to do something else here…” and she said—no longer looking at the family behind her, “I reckon so,” and she and Yong walked promptly out of the house, and off the premises.