Free Stealing Buddha's Dinner by Bich Minh Nguyen Page A

visceral, plain as the view up Sycamore Street to 36th, where Jennifer and I were not supposed to walk. It drove Cal crazy that his immaculate property had to sit next to ours. Every few days his lawn mower cut a clear boundary between their emerald grass and our lazy thatch. The Vander Wals’ driveway was smooth, ending at a two-staller with a fiberglass automatic door. Our driveway was splotched with oil. When my stepmother’s ’71 Toyota—avocado-green, almost the exact shade of the vinyl siding on our house—died in the driveway, it stayed there for years. The garage was packed with boxes, tools, broken bicycles, all the junk my parents couldn’t bring themselves to throw away.
    Once in a while, after my father got home from his shift at North American Feather, he would drag out the old lawn mower that always took a dozen tries before it coughed to life. He would work shirtless, singing Vietnamese songs whose words I never learned.
    When I think of Jennifer, I think of cloudless afternoons ripening toward sunset and dinner. As the hour approached I would always ask what her mother was making. She would go to the kitchen to find out. “Shake ’n Bake,” she’d report. “Pot roast.” “Macaroni Helper.” Once I ducked under their dining room window to listen to the sounds of their dinnertime. They must have prayed before each meal, but I only remember the ting of forks against plates, the soft slur of a serving spoon carving out a heap of scalloped potatoes.
    Jennifer was afraid of Noi’s food. Pho, stewed beef and eggs, shrimp curry, noodle dishes with nuoc mam and coriander. “No, thank you,” was her polite reply every time Noi offered her something to eat. Jennifer kept her hands behind her back as she shook her head.
    One summer day she showed up in my backyard with two of her friends from vacation Bible school. I was playing on the swing set, which was the envy of the neighborhood. It was solid and sturdy like the ones on a playground, and if you were brave you could sail right out of your swing and try to land standing on the grass.
    Jennifer and her friends matched, all pleated shorts and flower barrettes, all various heads of blond, and I dared them to swing as high as they could and jump off. They refused. “My mom will kill me if I get my clothes dirty,” one of the girls said.
    â€œI got mud on my Sunday clothes and got in big trouble,” Jennifer put in.
    â€œBy the way, girls,” said the one with pink socks folded down at the ankle, “Aren’t you glad the Lord is always with us?”
    Quick as my father’s temper igniting, I said, “I don’t believe in the Lord.”
    She dropped to her knees, eyes closed, and clasped her hands together. The other girl pointed to the sky, whispering, “She’s praying to God for you.”
    A silence fell over us. At last the girl in the pink socks opened her eyes and stood.
    â€œI’m going to pray for you every night,” she promised.
    Solemnly the other girl asked me, “Were you baptized?”
    â€œNo, she wasn’t,” Jennifer answered, and that’s when I knew the whole scene had been orchestrated for my benefit. These girls hadn’t come to my yard to play; they had come to save me.
    I could see my grandmother checking on us through the window in the kitchen, where she must have been starting dinner. Maybe salty shrimp with scallions, my sister’s favorite. I said the only thing I could say, because now it was a matter of pride: “There is no God.”
    The girl who had prayed for me covered her face. “You can’t say that! You can’t say that!” And she began to cry.
    That summer Jennifer turned seven and her parents threw her a big birthday party. My sister and I showed up early and hung out in the backyard, where Cal Vander Wal’s rock and flower garden sloped down the hill to a patio set up for