Free Dragon House by John Shors Page A

ached, and he wanted nothing more than to find a quiet place to have a drink, he followed them down the stairwell, which had been painted so as to make one feel as if he or she were climbing or descending a tree. As Noah studied a beautifully rendered green parrot, his prosthesis slipped from the edge of a step and he almost toppled into the women below. They glanced up at him, and he looked away, hiding his scar, his shame, his misery.
    Thien walked through the kitchen and a doorway that led outside. A large open space bordered this side of the center, which was opposite the main entrance. The square area was perhaps fifty feet across. The soil was hard and covered in tiny cement chips. A wooden fence had been erected around the area and painted so that it resembled distant rice fields. Propped against one side of the fence were scores of immense clay jars, which ran from one side of the area to the other.
    Thien lowered the bill of her baseball cap, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Your father, he enjoyed being out here.”
    “Is this the playground?” Iris asked, for she’d heard about his dream to add a park to the center.
    “Children used to work here, Miss Iris,” Thien replied. “In a shop where bicycles were repaired. The children were young. Sometimes less than ten years of age. One day your father bought the shop. And then he tore it down.” Thien led Iris to the clay jars, still holding her hand. “And another day he took three men and a truck, and we drove into the countryside. We filled all these jars with dirt.” Thien reached into her pocket, producing what looked to be a tangerine. “Are you hungry?”
    “You went with him?”
    Thien began to peel the fruit. “It was near my village, so far from here. A bomb from the war was there, not far from where children often played. Your father destroyed this bomb. Everyone was so happy. They helped us clean the dirt and fill the jars.” Thien looked into the distance, a smile dawning on her full lips. “Your father was a hero that day. I felt very lucky to be his assistant.”
    Iris reached into one of the jars and watched soil fall through her fingers. “He never got the chance to lay this dirt down, did he?”
    “He was so sick,” Thien said, shaking her head. “He went back to America to get better. But he never returned to Vietnam. He e-mailed me many times, telling me what to do next, what to work on. But he never came back. Even though he promised that he would.”
    Iris now understood why her father, on his deathbed, had asked her to scatter his ashes here, to bury him where children would someday play. She’d brought the urn with her, and thinking of scattering him over this soil, over the grass upon which children would run, brought tears to her eyes. He would be happy here. He’d hear the laughter of young voices, the patter of small feet, and maybe then he’d find her as he had promised.
    Not bothering to wipe her eyes, Iris continued to feel the dirt. Though the world around her remained foreign and incomprehensible, she felt powerfully connected to the earth that she now touched. Her father had failed her so many times. He’d broken her heart and her family. But she missed him, and he’d also touched this soil.
    “Your father, Miss Iris, he loved you so much,” Thien said, a gust of wind causing her ponytail to rise and fall. “He told me that. Many times. He showed me all of your newspaper stories, about books. He was so proud of you. And I am so, so happy that you are here.”
    “Why?”
    “Because his dream was good. And he tried so hard to make it real. And we can be friends. I can be your Vietnamese sister. Your little sister.”
    Iris stepped toward Thien. “Will you help me? Will you please help me?”
    Thien took Iris’s hands within her own. “Of course, Miss Iris. We will paint every wall, plant every seed. And your father, and the children, they will all be so very happy.”
     
     
    QUI CLOSED HER EYES AND