Free World and Town by Gish Jen Page B

their feet, dancing and live.
    The baby’s name, it seems, is Gift.
    “Because my mom thought he was, like, a gift,” says Sophy.
    He? The baby is wearing another frilly shirt today, with green-and-pink pants. Dangling its—or rather, his—legs on either side of Mum’s hip, he is having a two-handed swig from the bottle, which really does look full of soda.
    “ Mehmehmehmme, ” he says.
    “Gift. What a lovely name,” says Hattie. “Is he a boy?”
    “Yes,” says Sophy. “He’s my brother.”
    “I see.” Hattie does not ask why he’s wearing girls’ clothes.
    Still, Sophy volunteers, “We dress him like that because somebody gave us that clothes.” She shrugs. “And we don’t care.”
    “Ah,” says Hattie. “And here I don’t care, either.”
    Sophy tilts her head, thinking about that. Mum murmurs.
    “She says Cambodians can make—what?” says Sophy.
    “Do-na,” says Mum herself then, suddenly. Softly, but bravely. And again—a bit more slowly: “Do. Na.” She holds her mouth open after the second syllable, like a singer drawing out her vowels. Lovely as she is, her bottom teeth do zigzag.
    “Oh, right, doughnuts.” Sophy’s teeth are better than her mother’s.
    “Ah.” Hattie smiles at Mum. “Very good.”
    “She’s never made them herself, but Cambodians make, like, all the doughnuts in California. So it’s definitely something Cambodians can do,” says Sophy.
    “Is that so,” says Hattie.
    Mum adds something quietly, from behind Gift, in Khmer, then lifts her chin in Hattie’s direction.
    “They also can make—what?” says Sophy.
    “Ba-geh,” says Mum.
    “This French thing,” says Sophy.
    “Baguettes?” says Hattie.
    An inspired guess. Mum nods and smiles, but with her lips pressed together, so that her smile is more a matter of her eyes than her mouth—a radiance.
    “Yeah. If anyone around here likes that,” says Sophy.
    “I’ll ask around.”
    Beside them, the pit yawns, dark and rough, all roots and rock.
    “She’s a great worker,” Sophy says again. “Like she’s fast, but she pays attention, too, you know? She doesn’t make mistakes.”
    “She’s accurate?” says Hattie.
    “Yeah, accurate.” Sophy nods, tilting her head. “She’s, like, accurate . Where she used to work they always gave the most complicated stuff to her. They weren’t ever things she’d want herself, if anyone gave her one of whatever it was she’d just give it to the monks at the temple. But she made them because she was supposed to—like it was her fate. She’s Buddhist.”
    Hattie looks at Mum—keeping her in the conversation. Not that paranoia is the human condition , as Lee used to maintain. But Mum might just understand more English than she speaks.
    “Is she observant?”
    “What does that mean?”
    “ ‘Observant’? It means, does she observe Buddhist rituals? Go to temple? Is she practicing?”
    “Oh, I get it.” Sophy nods. “Yeah, back in our old town, she went every week. Because she had to, like, bring the monks food so they could eat, to begin with. Like they’d leave this bowl out on the steps for people to put rice in, and my mom would always do that. Bring them stuff.” Her eyes go to Gift, who’s lost interest in the raisins; she pops what’s left of them into her mouth, licks her open palm, and wipes it on her jeans. “And there were, like, all these festivals. Like to remember the dead, even if no one can really do it right because they don’t have people’s ashes.” She licks her palm a second time—still sticky, apparently—and wipes it again. “But anyway, there’s no temple around here. I mean, that’s not full of hippies. And there aren’t any meditation groups, either. So I guess she’s not so observant anymore.”
    “Very good.”
    “Even if all she thinks about is kam , day and night, still. Is that what you mean?”
    “ Kam? ”
    “It means ‘karma.’ ”
    “Ah. Kam, ” Hattie repeats—the student, instead of