Gods Go Begging Read Online Free PDF Page B

companionship into the next world.
    “I’d walk into hell to get him back,” said Persephone. “As God is my witness, I’d walk into hell.”
    “I would go there with you,” murmured Mai.
    On the front porch of the Amazon Luncheonette was a small wooden table that, once a year, served as an altar. On the night of the full moon in the lunar month that corresponds with July, the tall white candles and the long rods of incense were lit. The table was covered with fresh fruit and pastries, newly baked moon cakes, and a bowl brimming with Creole pralines. Each year, Mai or Persephone would go downtown and buy a Monopoly game, remove the play money, and ceremoniously burn it on the front porch. Both women now observed Lê Cúng Cô Hôn, the traditional offering to the lonely dead and to deceased soldiers.
    “Ma‘am, can I buy a pot of sauce?”
    “Beg pardon, Miss Persephone, is the Amazon Luncheonette open for business?”
    When Mai looked up from her doorway in Saigon, and Persephone glanced sideways from her gate at Travis Air Force Base, they were startled to see a long line of hungry, expectant people, pots and jars in hand, waiting patiently at the door of their restaurant-to-be. The two lovers shook their heads clear of memories, smiled at each other, and went to work.

    “The wound path through the brain of Jane Doe 36 shows no deflection. It penetrates the skull and it travels without change of direction through the dura, the arachnoid, and the pia mater. Now I am cutting and sectioning into the brain itself, I find the path to be consistent through the midbrain and into the opposite lentiform nucleus. The bullet is visible now, resting against the skull behind the right ear. There is little deformation of this round. ”
    When the two huge pots were empty, Mai shut the front door and leaned wearily against the glass. A thin layer of sweat matted some of her hair to her forehead. Behind her the last customer was trudging off toward home with two warm jars of sauce in his arms. Persephone busied herself by scraping the pots before washing them. As usual, a single jar of sauce had been set aside for the local homeless man. Mai placed the jar, along with some French bread, on a wooden bench in the back-yard garden. After setting the hot food down, she cupped her tiny hands to form a megaphone and shouted the man’s name twice in two languages into the night sky.
    “Mr. Homeless, Ông Không Nhà! Mr. Homeless!”
    As always, the jar would be empty in the morning. It would be washed, rinsed, and upended on the bench to drain. Neither woman had ever caught more than a fleeting glimpse of Ông Không Nhà, but his presence was unmistakable. To pay for the food, he would weed and cultivate Persephone’s flower garden, repair the clothes-line, mend the fence, and wash the windows, among many other chores.
    Mai had once noticed an odd behavior in the man as she strained to see him in the dark. He seemed to be dodging and squatting as he moved about the garden. Only months later did she realize that this man was trying so hard not to damage the fragile, silken spiderwebs that adorned the entire garden.
    Sometimes they heard a strange, indecipherable mumbling—a singsong buzzing coming from the back yard—and knew that it had to be Ông Không Nhà. He was a man who always worked in the dark, and though Mai found his presence a bit unsettling, it somehow comforted her. The living shadow in her yard felt like a fond memory.
    “We sold over sixty quarts of sauce,” said Mai with a tired smile. “Not had, but we could’ve served almost two hundred dinners with that much sauce. With a green salad, pasta, and a drink, that would be a lot more money.” She sighed as she placed the night’s proceeds into a cigar box near the bed. “We’ll need to get a deep freezer so we can serve dessert. Scoops of cà rem dâu.” She laughed to herself at the word cà rem. It was obviously the French word crème that had been