The Rent Collector Read Online Free PDF Page B

to my son. Sopeap, I need to teach Nisay to read so that he can find a way out of this dump and into a better life.”
    “What’s wrong with the dump?” she asked, as if we lived in paradise.
    Was she serious? Could she not glance around? Were her eyes blind from the smoke? Was her nose dead from the smell? I couldn’t say for certain why this set me off, but it did, and my reply was not kind.
    “Are you out of your drunken mind?” I asked with disgust. I expected Sopeap to bolt. Instead, she paused, as if I were finally speaking her language. She rolled her thick lips inward but said nothing. I took the pause as an opportunity.
    “The only way my son will get better is if I get him out of Stung Meanchey.”
    “What is wrong with him?” she asked.
    “He’s not well. He has never been well. You’ve seen him. We have tried folk remedies, taken him to doctors—French, Cambodian, and American. They give us medicine, but as soon as it runs out, his diarrhea and fever return. I need to do something more to help him. I need to do something now. ”
    As Sopeap’s shoulders rose, her features wrinkled. “And you think that something is teaching him to read? Why, if medicines don’t work, do you believe reading will help?”
    How could I explain the illogical feelings swirling and swelling inside, forcing my action? “Sopeap,” I said, “I’m not replacing one with another. I don’t expect reading to make his body well. But I hope reading will give him something to look forward to, a reason to fight. I want to believe reading will fill him with courage.”
    I picked Nisay up from the floor and held him over my arm to calm his cries. Sopeap’s gaze shifted to the child, and for a moment it appeared as though perhaps my arguments were working. Her head bobbed as she watched him, as if memories pulled from her brain were causing it to lose balance.
    I continued, “I’ll keep taking him to doctors. I’ll keep searching for answers. I just don’t think anything will change until he has the desire to get better. I can’t rely on Grandfather’s luck any longer. So yes, as naive as it may sound, I believe reading will help Nisay. I want to think that reading will offer him hope.”
    In spite of my poorly phrased argument, my plea had at least been heartfelt—and for that I deserved some respect. I received none. The interest I thought I read in Sopeap’s face faded, and instead of showing sympathy, her response was swift and biting.
    “If you’re looking for hope,” she said, sarcasm hardening her voice, “you should know that it died at Stung Meanchey.”
    She didn’t flinch. I couldn’t tell if she was serious. There was no hint of amusement, no wry grin, and as her eyes stabbed deeply into mine, I realized how much I despised the woman. The longer we sat with our eyes locked in a silent battle, the harder I could feel my teeth grind.
    I blinked first. “Perhaps hope did die at Stung Meanchey,” I answered, as I scooted closer to be sure that she wouldn’t miss my point. “Or . . .” I gestured toward her with my finger, while lowering my head, as if a new idea had just arrived. I let the moment hang as I sharpened my remaining words. “. . . it could be that what died at Stung Meanchey was you! ”
    I took a step back. I was furious and expected fury in return.
    Instead Sopeap paused—and then she laughed. Not a chuckle, as though I’d said something funny. Nor was it a snicker, as if I’d done something stupid. Instead, it came from deep within her chest, and as it spilled out, it surprised her more than it did me. Her eyes then darted back and forth, as though she were watching a dog chase its tail. As I waited just inside my little three-walled shack with a tarp nailed on the front, I thought I also heard the ancestors laughing.
    And then everyone was silent.
    Sopeap turned to face me, as if she wanted to be sure there would be no misunderstanding.
    “I have conditions,” she announced.
    “I