4. The saint and the sinner

This is the fifth chapter from Misfortune Cookie

Mother was a gambler. Father was not. And as the years went by, it became increasingly clearer that they were different people. Once, Mom showed me in her big book of fortune telling how they were ill-fated.

“You see,” she said, stabbing the drawing of the two interlaced dragons. “We were never meant to stay together.”

She’d also explained how I was located on a different dragon than herself and my brother. I nodded in agreement. This made sense as I often felt like the “black sheep” of the family. Then she’d mention how my father and I were on the same dragon. This made sense, too.

“He was old-fashioned,” she believed. “He always wanted me to go to bed when he did, but I wanted to stay up later! I wasn’t even tired yet.”

So after he fell asleep, she’d sneak downstairs, and watch TV. Then he’d wake up, look around, locate her in the living room, and tell her to come back to bed. In time though, we’d learn that he wasn’t simply old-fashioned, he was plagued by bad dreams. The kind of nightmares that sometimes made him cry.

He hated TDY (or temporary duty which forced him to travel) because he was alone at night. And if he saw a black cat while driving, he would stop, or turn away, and either go in a different direction, or head back home. Being superstitious herself, you’d think Mom would have been more understanding, but I guess he had different superstitions. She felt his behavior was absurd, and assumed Jean had coddled him too much.

It’s strange she never learned what exactly Dad was dreaming. What kind of terrors would make a grown man cry? She always asked me what I dreamt, but maybe that came after she regretted not paying better attention to him. As if we could go back in time and figure out the meaning behind his nightmares, that he feared an early death, and that his dreams would come true.

So, usually after one of his nights, she’d soothe him, tell him to go back to sleep, and reassure him they would talk about it in the morning, but they never did. Both of them were too embarrassed, her for him and him for himself. Instead, he looked for answers in books, through dream interpretations.

After he passed, I found his dream book, but I never got any closer to unlocking the mysteries of his nightmare sleeps. On the cover is a circle and within the sphere, night and day are divided up in a yin/yang sort of way. White stars against a dark blue sky inhabited one side, and the sun with the signs of the zodiac on the other. The title is Your Horoscope and Your Dreams. I used to look through it so much that I’ve had to tape it to hold the binding together. It’s the kind of book that smells old and cracks when you open it.

But for Mom, dreams were a way to predict the next Thai lottery numbers. They could foretell good and bad times, but mostly it was about the numbers. Even dreams of animals could hold the winning number. When a centipede made its way into the house, she consulted a worksheet, crib notes for the otherworldly with pictures of animals, and their corresponding numbers. Then she carefully chose her lotto numbers and wished for a lucky windfall.

And just like Dad, Mom had her own zodiac book, but it’s all in Thai. It could have been a big book of spells for all I knew. The drawings were also foreign to me, giants and spirits, chained emaciated men, and headless figures on a wheel of life. According to Buddhist mythology the giants or yaksha were supposed to be protective warriors, but I couldn’t tell you who the good or bad guys were as both were equally foreign and frightening. Whenever she opened this tome that looked like it weighed as much as Larry, I left the room.

One of my earliest memories of Dad was on Hickam Air Force Base. We lived in a house, but we parked our car across the street which we shared with the other townhomes.

I learned to ride a bicycle in front of these townhomes since it had a massive lawn where all of us could play and come together. Mom’s friend Aunty Thoy and Uncle Ron (the same Uncle Ron) lived there with their kids Angela and Terry.

I found my father in the open garages. The hood of the car was open and everything inside was thoughtfully outside, scattered around him on the concrete and asphalt.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Taking the engine apart and putting it back in.”

“Why?”

He paused before answering, “for fun.”

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As I got older, Mom’s big book of voodoo became a source of fascination. I’d ask her if a guy I liked was compatible, but then I stopped once I realized she was messing with the outcome depending on whether or not she liked him. Sometimes I’d watch her use a regular deck of cards to tell her fortune. I wanted to learn, but she found it too challenging to teach me.

Despite Thai culture being a Buddhist culture, Thai people are captivated by the concept of good and bad luck, and they search for the good stuff through amulets, gambling, and dreams. Of course, they “make merit” at temples, but often they’re not doing anything more than wishing for good luck and stuff they want like true love, or a brand new car, similar to how Christians pray for what they want.

Good luck or choke dee was having a thin white string tied around my wrist after temple visits. Good luck was giggling under a monk’s water blessing. Mom gently pushed us closer to the golden-robed man who was chanting while dipping his bamboo brush in a silver bowl full of candle wax drippings in water, flinging the brush out into the crowd. It was raining indoors, and whenever I asked Mom “what was that for?” Her answer was good luck.

This contrasted to Dad and his Christian upbringing. On his dog tags it said his name, social security number, religion, and blood type. Dog tags are a quick way for the military to identify casualties and there are two sets. It’s got all the essential information, but it had none of the answers I was looking for. Instead, I wondered why his said CATHOLIC. His family was Baptist. The only clue I received was that he changed religions frequently.

After Mom met her tribe of Thai military wives, she got bolder, no longer settling for late night TV. She sneaked out after bedtime to play cards with them.

They used a folded flat bed sheet as their “table” and they’d sit around the bed sheet on the floor. Their purses within arm’s reach, or somewhere else in the room. Their money tucked under the sheet in front of them, and they’d play their own version of Gin Rummy, Blackjack, or Texas Hold ‘Em.

I know this because Larry and I grew up in other Thai homes as much as our own. Even with a lot of money being shuffled around, it was boring to watch. After Mom let me ask a few questions and watch a few rounds, there was nothing else to do. We were there for the duration of game play. Sometimes all day. We’d play with the other kids, zone out in front of the TV, or sleep. Other children went to summer camp, I waited around for good luck.

Dad, on the other hand, took me to the rec center where I learned how to swim. I can’t remember if he taught me, or if I took classes or both, but I remember how he liked to sink to the bottom of the pool. How long could he hold his breath underwater? It was a game for him. He gave me his watch to hold while I waited at the pool’s edge looking down at him. He’d sink and cross his legs at the bottom like he was meditating. When he stopped blowing bubbles and was down there for too long, I panicked. I yelled at him. I thought he’d been down there too long, and I didn’t stop saying “daddy” until he swam back up.

Mom, Mrs. Early (most likely a babysitter), Dad, and me [1976, Wichita, Kansas]

Mom’s time was also up. When she sneaked out one too many times, she assumed she was getting away with it, but one late night she returned to find the kitchen light on.

She didn’t think much of it. Probably forgot. Her hand was on the switch ready to turn it off when she saw him. She let out a small yelp, but he acted as if she wasn’t there. Not even a hello.

There was a six pack of beer on the kitchen table. She noticed a few cans were empty. The sound of her beating heart flooded her ears as she stood stock still. Finally, he looked up at her, but he continued to clean his gun, various parts were already on the table. Never mind that there weren’t any bullets, or that John would never hurt her. Or that in Thailand she threatened him with a hatchet when he was heading to the bars.

They might have come from different countries, but they had their own ways of clear-cutting through any communication problems. Some couples slammed doors, had affairs, or yelling matches, but not my folks.

Instead, they took a good look around the house and contemplated everydays to get their point across. Practical, efficient, effective. A blade the size of your forearm with fine teeth says, You know what? I don’t need to go out drinking tonight. And a gun – well now – that easily lets everyone in the household know that sneaking out is not to be tolerated under this roof.