Free A Wedding Invitation by Alice J. Wisler
Authors: Alice J. Wisler
her words halted like Little’s. “Sit, eat.” She coaxes us toward the table.
A flashback zings though my mind to when she said the same thing when we were guests in her billet, scrunched around a coarsely built table as rain gushed down the alleyways and moths huddled for comfort around a single light bulb.
The man pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit. I oblige. Another chair is pulled out for Beanie.
I introduce her. “This is Beanie, my friend.” I then slowly give Huy’s name, pronouncing it as I learned so that it sounds like Who-ee . Motioning toward Lien, I say with emphasis, “And this is Lean .”
“Nice to meet you,” says Lien, her English sounding better than it ever did in my class.
They bring us each a bowl of hot noodles in a beef broth— pho . On a plate placed between us are four dainty fried spring rolls adorned with a few sprigs of mint and basil leaves. Little dishes of a pickled green substance arrive next.
“Thank you,” I say. The little Vietnamese I once knew evades me under these circumstances.
Chopsticks appear, and glasses are filled with ice and Pepsi.
I cringe when Lien and her mother start to argue. Huy brings their raised tones to a halt and then sheepishly offers, “They want to know if you would like iced coffee.”
Lien looks at me and says, “You don’t like, right?”
She glares at her mother until I tactfully say, “Well, I did like it when I drank it at your billet.” Then she frowns at me. I don’t want them to fight here like they often did in the Philippines. So, thinking quickly, I add, “But I prefer this soda.” I wrap my fingers around the frosty glass of Pepsi.
Huy translates, and when both women smile, I am grateful that he’s done his job to smooth over any potential argument.
Beanie guzzles her Pepsi, tries to stifle a burp, and then mutters, “Excuse me.”
I gesture to her to try a spring roll and then pick one up with my set of chopsticks.
Huy disappears into the kitchen and seconds later brings a shallow bowl. The smell tells me that it’s nuoc mam cham , the fish sauce my students liked and were always eager to have me try when I was invited to their billets for a meal.
The spring roll is delicious, and to please Huy, I dip the end of mine into the sauce. The aroma of the vermicelli noodles entices my senses and I draw the bowl closer to the edge of the table to take a slurp.
“You like?” Lien is at my elbow.
“Yes.” I pick out a slice of roasted pork with my chopsticks, chew, smile some more.
Huy tells me to add some fish sauce to my broth, so I take the spoon from the bowl and with it add a teaspoon to my broth.
Beanie tries one of the spring rolls, stabbing it with a lone chopstick.
I scan the restaurant. No one is here but us. “Where are your customers?”
Lien says, “We close on Sunday.”
“We’re at church every Sunday,” explains Huy. His English has improved, too.
“I learn about Jesus at church,” says Lien. “Forgiveness, and how do you say, grace?”
“Yes,” I say. “Grace.”
“And Grace is name of one of my friends from school, too,” she tells me with a giggle. “She helped me change my hair.”
Not understanding at first, I question, “You mean she helped you dye your hair.”
Confusion lines Lien’s face.
“Color,” I say. “Change the color of your hair.”
Lien laughs, lightly massaging the tips of her hair. “Yes, I use Clairol.”
“So, how is school?” I ask after a moment.
Huy explains that he’s in seventh grade, a bit behind where others his age are due to his “bad English.”
“Lien, and you?”
“I try but I take long time.”
She has to be twenty or older now. “Have you graduated high school?” The second the question slips from my lips, I want to take it back.
But there is no need for me to worry. Proudly, Lien replies, “Last year.”
“That’s great!” Years ago I never dreamed that this wayward child would ever complete anything but a
A flashback zings though my mind to when she said the same thing when we were guests in her billet, scrunched around a coarsely built table as rain gushed down the alleyways and moths huddled for comfort around a single light bulb.
The man pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit. I oblige. Another chair is pulled out for Beanie.
I introduce her. “This is Beanie, my friend.” I then slowly give Huy’s name, pronouncing it as I learned so that it sounds like Who-ee . Motioning toward Lien, I say with emphasis, “And this is Lean .”
“Nice to meet you,” says Lien, her English sounding better than it ever did in my class.
They bring us each a bowl of hot noodles in a beef broth— pho . On a plate placed between us are four dainty fried spring rolls adorned with a few sprigs of mint and basil leaves. Little dishes of a pickled green substance arrive next.
“Thank you,” I say. The little Vietnamese I once knew evades me under these circumstances.
Chopsticks appear, and glasses are filled with ice and Pepsi.
I cringe when Lien and her mother start to argue. Huy brings their raised tones to a halt and then sheepishly offers, “They want to know if you would like iced coffee.”
Lien looks at me and says, “You don’t like, right?”
She glares at her mother until I tactfully say, “Well, I did like it when I drank it at your billet.” Then she frowns at me. I don’t want them to fight here like they often did in the Philippines. So, thinking quickly, I add, “But I prefer this soda.” I wrap my fingers around the frosty glass of Pepsi.
Huy translates, and when both women smile, I am grateful that he’s done his job to smooth over any potential argument.
Beanie guzzles her Pepsi, tries to stifle a burp, and then mutters, “Excuse me.”
I gesture to her to try a spring roll and then pick one up with my set of chopsticks.
Huy disappears into the kitchen and seconds later brings a shallow bowl. The smell tells me that it’s nuoc mam cham , the fish sauce my students liked and were always eager to have me try when I was invited to their billets for a meal.
The spring roll is delicious, and to please Huy, I dip the end of mine into the sauce. The aroma of the vermicelli noodles entices my senses and I draw the bowl closer to the edge of the table to take a slurp.
“You like?” Lien is at my elbow.
“Yes.” I pick out a slice of roasted pork with my chopsticks, chew, smile some more.
Huy tells me to add some fish sauce to my broth, so I take the spoon from the bowl and with it add a teaspoon to my broth.
Beanie tries one of the spring rolls, stabbing it with a lone chopstick.
I scan the restaurant. No one is here but us. “Where are your customers?”
Lien says, “We close on Sunday.”
“We’re at church every Sunday,” explains Huy. His English has improved, too.
“I learn about Jesus at church,” says Lien. “Forgiveness, and how do you say, grace?”
“Yes,” I say. “Grace.”
“And Grace is name of one of my friends from school, too,” she tells me with a giggle. “She helped me change my hair.”
Not understanding at first, I question, “You mean she helped you dye your hair.”
Confusion lines Lien’s face.
“Color,” I say. “Change the color of your hair.”
Lien laughs, lightly massaging the tips of her hair. “Yes, I use Clairol.”
“So, how is school?” I ask after a moment.
Huy explains that he’s in seventh grade, a bit behind where others his age are due to his “bad English.”
“Lien, and you?”
“I try but I take long time.”
She has to be twenty or older now. “Have you graduated high school?” The second the question slips from my lips, I want to take it back.
But there is no need for me to worry. Proudly, Lien replies, “Last year.”
“That’s great!” Years ago I never dreamed that this wayward child would ever complete anything but a