Read When Heaven Fell for Free Online Page B

you’d like them,” Di said. “They’re bookends. For your books.”
    Ba examined his dragon, running a fingertip along the flat side.
    Anh Hai just held his, his thin mustache quivering.
    “You put one at one end of your books, the other at the other end,” Di explained.
    Books.
Binh frowned. Her family had no books. They had no shelf to even put books on. What would they do with these dragons?
    Certainly, there was no motorcycle for Anh Hai.
    She could feel everyone waiting for more from Di’s suitcase. But Di zipped up the pocket and began to drink from her glass.
    Binh clutched her blue heart in a sweaty hand. Wasn’t this gift, after all, better than nothing? Di had brought it all the way from America.
    Around her, she heard murmurs. Very low. Very polite. Binh knew that later they would say that these gifts had no value. And no use.
    Binh said to Ma, “Shall we give Di Thao
her
presents now?”
    Ma nodded, and Binh got the three gifts from the shelf by the back door. After Di Hai’s special paper, the newspaper wrapping looked shabby. As she walked back to Di, Binh forced herself to smile.
    After she handed Di the small packages, Binh pressed her palms together and bowed.
    Di smiled. “Thank you.”
    When Di opened the water buffalo, she held it up and said, “Oh, how handsome! My students will enjoy this,” then set it on the table in front of her.
    When she lifted the gold silk from its wrapping paper, she exclaimed over it —“Oh, what a color!”— and touched it to her cheek.
    Binh was suddenly aware of Cuc beside her. Cuc had sacrificed her bit of silk, but Di had brought her nothing. Binh glanced at Cuc’s red dress, the flowers a lighter shade than they once had been.
    Finally, Di opened the packet with the bracelet inside. She slid it on her wrist, the rainbows flashing in the sunlight.
    Everyone except Cuc laughed and clapped.
    The women began to bring the feast to the table: appetizers of sweet lotus seeds and winter melon strips, lemongrass beef, chicken wings in spicy sauce, corn on the cob, sweet potatoes, tiny dishes of fish sauce and chilies.
    “Help us, girls,” Ma called.
    Binh and Cuc carried stringy green vegetables with garlic, yam fritters, sticky rice cooked in sweet coconut milk, the fish that had swum in the pan, now cooked, its eyes glaring.
    Instead of eating, people urged the food on Di, even after her plate was piled high. Di had to keep saying no, sometimes a little loudly. Binh noticed that she set the uncooked vegetables aside and didn’t touch them.
    “The
Viet-kieu
are so picky about what they eat and drink,” Binh heard Fourth Aunt say.
    An argument broke out between Third Uncle, a northerner and a Communist, and Third Aunt, who’d always lived in the south and hated Communists.
    “I refuse to call that place Ho Chi Minh City. That’s its Communist name,” said Third Aunt. “For me, it will always be Saigon.”
    “That’s treason. The city was named for Uncle Ho, who helped us win the war against the occupying French and the invading Americans.”
    “I don’t want to pay any respect to this Uncle Ho of yours. Look at what the country is now because of him — a big mess, everyone poor.”
    The early afternoon sun shone hot, and Binh felt clammy all over. She struggled with a small headache and ate only fruit. She fingered her hair and wondered if Cuc could help her cut it short like Di Hai’s.
    Cuc swung by herself in the hammock.
    Fourth Aunt was picking at her food, and Third Uncle gazed off toward the river as though looking toward America, his cup of sweet coffee cooling. They all had more to digest than food.

W hen the feast had been eaten, Binh sat on the bench as the relatives drifted off, their motorcycles leaving behind a film of black smoke. She called to the ducks until they emerged from their box, quacking and searching the ground for food.
    As soon as the yard was clear, Ba backed the red truck out onto the highway while Anh Hai watched the