Cây Thánh Giá Gỗ Mùa Giáng Sinh - The Wooden Cross in Christmas
Bà Tân, da bắt đầu lấm tấm những vết đồi mồi, dáng người mảnh khảnh, khuôn mặt thuôn, tóc cắt ngắn ngang vai, hơi xơ xác, lấm chấm điểm bạc. Gần đây con Hương mua lọ thuốc nhuộm burgundy black. Tóc con Hương nâu ngắn. Một lọ thuốc mua ở tiệm Walmart dư dùng cho hai người. Con Hương nhuộm luôn cho mẹ. Ban đầu bà hơi ngần ngại. Nhưng tiếc thuốc nhuộm đổ đi phí quá, bà cúi xuống cho con Hương nhuộm luôn. Tóc mầu burgundy black không nhận ra trong bóng râm. Nhưng ra ngoài nắng, tóc đen nhìn hung hung đỏ. Đi chợ hay mua sắm trong tiệm Mỹ, bà Tân tự nhiên thoải mái; nhưng nếu phải đi mua gạo, nước mắm, hay thức ăn Á Đông trong khu thương xá Việt Nam, bà e dè với mái tóc nhuộm. Nhưng soi gương, nhận ra những nét trẻ trung của mái tóc burgundy black, bà đâm ra thích. Thỉnh thoảng bà đưa tiền cho con Hương. Hai mẹ con cùng nhuộm.
Bà Tân chịu chơi, nhưng nghiêm khắc với con nhất là về vấn đề học vấn. Bà bắt mấy đứa con phải học hành đàng hoàng, có thời khóa biểu hẳn hoi. Ban tối bà cấm không cho đứa nào được lảng vảng trong phòng khách có màn ảnh TV khá lớn. 10 giờ đêm bà mới cho tụi nó coi TV. Đứa nào léng phéng cầm cái remote trước 10 giờ, bà cự cho tắt đài. Từ hồi mới qua Mỹ tới nay, ba năm rồi bà làm ở nhà hàng. Chạy bàn, nấu ăn, thái rau, lau nhà, rửa chén, tất cả mọi công việc trong tiệm bà không nề hà. Người quản lý nhà hàng Tây Đô nói gì, bà làm đó, làm gọn gàng, làm sạch sẽ. Chiều, 4 giờ, về tới nhà, bà nấu cơm cho ông chồng và năm đứa con. Hai đứa lớn đi làm. Con Hương làm móng tay. Thằng Dương làm chung với ông Tân trong hãng điện tử. Ba đứa còn lại, xe bus mầu vàng của trường trung học sáng đón đi, chiều chở về tới đầu ngõ. Chiều, 5 giờ, về tới nhà, con Hương phụ bà Tân nấu cơm. Thằng Dương ngồi học bài cho lớp tối tại trường đại học cộng đồng gần nhà. Ba đứa còn lại, hai thằng, đứa lớp Chín, thằng lớp Bẩy, lái xe đạp đi bỏ báo chiều; đứa con gái lớp Mười Một ngồi học trong phòng. Bà cấm không cho đứa nào đi chơi trước giờ ăn cơm kể cả con Hương với thằng Dương. 6 giờ, cả nhà ngồi ăn cơm tối trong căn phòng nhỏ. Sau bữa cơm, mấy đứa con, đứa rửa chén, đứa dọn dẹp bàn ăn, đứa hút bụi trong nhà. Làm xong việc, đứa nào muốn làm gì thì làm. 8 giờ tối, giờ giới nghiêm, cả đám lại phải học. Lâu lâu bà mở cửa phòng bất tử xem chúng nó học hay đang ôm phone nói chuyện. Bị mấy đứa con phản đối ầm ỹ, bà Tân nạt liền,
— Tụi bay là con tao. Tao là mẹ. Không có prai-vai-xi cái con khỉ khô gì hết.
10 giờ tối, giới nghiêm mới hết. Mấy đứa chạy ra phòng khách coi TV, phim Mỹ. Bà cấm phim Tàu,
— Mấy thằng mấy con Hồng Kông nhìn mặt đẹp nhưng tụi nó nói tiếng Việt giọng lơ lớ nghe như ngọng.
12 giờ đêm, cả nhà tắt đèn đi ngủ. Hết một ngày. Sáng, bà dậy sớm, pha cà-phê cho ông Tân và thằng Dương, rồi lái xe tới nhà hàng Tây Đô. Một ngày mới bắt đầu.
Hai đứa con lớn của bà, con Hương 30, thằng Dương 27. Mặt, mũi, tóc, và hình dáng của cả hai không lẫn lộn trong đám đông người Việt. Có tin đồn nói bà mua con lai. Có người đoán hai đứa con lai chính là con ruột của bà.
Bà Tân đi lễ Chúa Nhật thường xuyên. Ngày thường, sáng, 7:30, bà đi làm. Khi lái xe ngang qua ngôi thánh đường, bà làm dấu thánh giá đọc một câu kinh. Năm đứa con, từ con Hương cho tới thằng Út, đứa nào không chịu đi lễ, bà chửi cho tắt đèn,
— Tụi bay đừng có giở quẻ. Qua được tới đây rồi là õng ẹo, đòi quyền tự do. Tao nói cho mà biết, không có tự do với tự lực gì hết. Không đi lễ, tao tống cổ hết ra ngoài đường cho tụi bay tự do với đám hôm-lết.
Thời gian đầu tiên lễ Chúa Nhật bà và ông Tân cùng năm đứa con ngồi chung một ghế, hàng ghế cuối cùng. Đến khi ba đứa nhỏ vào ca đoàn của giáo xứ, phải tới nhà thờ sớm tập hát, bà mới thôi không bắt mấy đứa con ngồi chung. Con Hương tuy thế vẫn ngồi với mẹ và dượng ở hàng ghế cuối cùng. Thằng Dương ngồi một mình, trong thánh lễ mắt đảo lia lịa về phía mấy cô.
Bà Tân đóng góp cho nhà thờ khá mạnh tay. Những lúc nhà thờ quyên tiền hoặc cho giáo xứ hoặc cho nạn nhân bão lụt miền Trung, bà móc bóp thả vào rổ tờ giấy xanh lớn. Bà nói,
— Không nên tiếc tiền với Chúa, với người nghèo.
Là một giáo xứ nhỏ, nằm ở tiểu bang đèo heo hút gió không có nhiều người Việt, ông cha xứ kêu gọi các gia đình sau giờ lễ xuống hội trường ăn uống, chuyện trò, hát karaoke. Mỗi gia đình góp một món ăn nhỏ. Tất cả cộng lại thành một bữa tiệc lớn. Tuần nào bà Tân cũng nấu một món cho bữa ăn chung. Khi thì xôi, lúc bún canh, hoặc bánh cuốn nhân thịt. Trước giờ ăn, bà đứng sau quầy lấy thức ăn cho từng người. Sau giờ ăn, bà ở lại dọn dẹp, rửa chén. Lần nào cũng vậy đợi cho tất cả mọi người trong hội trường bắt đầu cầm đũa, bà Tân mới lấy cho riêng mình một đĩa. Bao giờ bà cũng là một trong những người cuối cùng lái xe rời bỏ sân đậu xe rộng thêng thang vắng vẻ của ngôi giáo đường vào một buổi chiều cuối tuần.
Thấy cha xứ không có bà bếp phải ăn thức ăn Mỹ, nóng, nổi mụn đầy mặt, bà nấu những món ăn Việt Nam, canh chua cá bông lau, khổ qua nhồi thịt heo, hoặc thịt heo với cá bông lau kho tộ. Gói ghém cẩn thận, bà lái xe, tự tay mang vào nhà xứ cho ông cha.
Hồi mới tới Mỹ trước giờ lễ, ông cha nói với ông bà Tân,
— Sau thánh lễ, tôi sẽ giới thiệu gia đình ông bà với mọi người nhé.
Bà Tân ngần ngại, từ chối liền,
— Thôi... Xin cha... Con xin cha bỏ qua phần giới thiệu.
— Ủa! Sao vậy?
— Con... Tụi con không quen. Cả gia đình được qua tới bên này là mừng rồi. Tụi con, thiệt tình tụi con không quen... Con xin cha miễn cho phần giới thiệu. Nhưng nếu cha cần gì, cứ nói con một tiếng.
Ông cha liếc nhìn con Hương và thằng Tân. Ông suy nghĩ, rồi đồng ý.
Sau thánh lễ của ngày hôm đó, cả gia đình kéo nhau ra bãi đậu xe. Trên đường bà thấy trăm con mắt nhìn ngó vào hai đứa con lớn của bà. Bà cúi xuống. Bà yên lặng. Khi người hàng xóm ngày xưa bên Việt Nam, từ Cali dọn sang mở tiệm móng tay, bà ta xác nhận với mọi người về mối liên hệ ruột thịt của hai đứa con lai với bà Tân. Bản tin rồi cũng tới tai bà. Bà Tân không phản ứng, không nói gì, nhưng trở nên yên lặng mặc dù vẫn sinh hoạt trong giáo xứ như xưa. Bà vẫn đi lễ. Bà vẫn đóng góp tiền bạc rộng tay cho giáo xứ. Bà vẫn đóng góp thức ăn vào bữa ăn chung hằng tuần. Bà vẫn thường xuyên nấu ăn, tự tay mang vào cho cha Nghi. Nhưng sau thánh lễ bà không làm gì nữa. Bà yên lặng ngồi ăn với ông chồng dưới hội trường, rồi yên lặng lái xe về nhà, khi với ông Tân, khi với mấy đứa con. Tối tối ông Tân nghe tiếng vợ thở dài, tiếng cục cựa lăn qua lăn lại cả đêm.
oOo
Tin ông Tân và thằng Dương bị xe đụng chết trên đường đi làm lan chuyền nhanh chóng trong giáo xứ. Bà Tân nhận được tin dữ trong khi đang đứng rửa chén trong tiệm ăn. Bà té xỉu! Người cảnh sát gọi xe cứu thương tới, nhưng bà đã tỉnh dậy. Ông quản lý của tiệm ăn chở bà tới nhà xác. Trên xe bà yên lặng, bà không khóc.
Hôm đám tang chôn cất, ba đứa nhỏ khóc như mưa, con Hương lăn lộn trước cỗ áo quan của thằng Dương. Riêng bà Tân, bà im lìm, mắt ráo khô, môi mím chặt nhìn hai khối gỗ mầu vàng sậm từ từ biến mất sau lớp cát. Theo lời kêu gọi của ông cha xứ, nghĩa tử là nghĩa tận, nhiều người giáo dân nghỉ làm, tham dự tang lễ tiễn chân hai người quá cố tới tận nghĩa trang.
Trong khi ông cha xứ đang cử hành những nghi thức tại nghĩa địa, trời nắng mùa thu hanh vàng dịu dàng buông xuống vùng đất thánh. Nhiều người giơ tay ngáp, cố gắng che miệng trong khi ông cha xứ đang giảng, một bài giảng dài ngoằng. Người đàn bà hàng xóm ngày xưa của bà Tân quay sang người bên cạnh,
— Chồng và thằng con lai chết cùng một lúc. Hai cái mặt nát bấy!
— Sao chị biết?
— Nghe thằng cha quản lý tiệm ăn Tây Đô nói. Mà mụ này cũng lỳ ghê. Suốt từ hôm đó cho tới bây giờ, con mẹ không buông một giọt nước mắt.
— Nghe nói ông này là chồng thứ ba rồi đó.
— Chồng thứ nhất chứ chồng thứ ba cái mốc xì. Hai thằng Mỹ trước đâu có đám cưới đám hỏi gì mà chồng với vợ. Hồi đó con mụ đi làm sở Mỹ, rồi vác cái bụng bầu. Ông bố cấm cửa không cho quay về nhà. Ông ấy nói nếu để ông thấy mặt, ông sẽ cạo đầu bôi vôi liền. Sau khi sanh ra con Hương, con mẹ thuê nhà trên Sài Gòn, mướn người vú em trông con. Mấy năm sau trước 75 mấy tháng, con mụ lại vác cái ba lô ngược. Lần này sinh ra thằng Dương. Con Hương với thằng Dương là hai chị em cùng mẹ khác cha. Ba đứa còn lại là con của ông Tân.
— Bà Tân gặp ông Tân lúc nào vậy?
— Hồi đó thằng cha đi bán xổ số, con mẹ bán cà-phê. Rổ rá cạp lại sinh ra ba đứa con. Rồi được đi Mỹ theo diện con lai.
Người hàng xóm thuở xưa tiếp tục,
— Bà có thấy con mẹ nhuộm tóc không? Tóc đỏ hung hung. Già rồi mà còn xí xọn... Làm như mình còn con gái nheo nhẻo.
Bà ta trề môi buông giọng,
— Me Mỹ mà. Làm sao giấu được tung tích của mình. Giấu đầu rồi cũng lại lòi đuôi.
Liếc nhìn ông cha xứ đang rẩy nước phép lên hai cỗ áo quan, bà che miệng, cố gắng nói nhỏ lại, giọng gần như thì thào vào tai người đàn bà đứng bên cạnh,
— Tôi thấy con mẹ thậm thụt đi tới đi lui vào phòng cha Nghi mấy lần rồi.
— Thật không? Đừng nói giỡn chơi!
— Tui thấy tận mắt mà. Con mẹ lái xe tới nhà xứ. Lấm lét đi tới đi lui, rồi gõ cửa phòng cha Nghi.
Nhặt chiếc lá vàng rơi bám trên mái tóc, người hàng xóm nói,
— Nghe nói, hồi mới tới Mỹ con mẹ đâu dám lên rước lễ. Bây giờ không hiểu sao dám thè lưỡi ra nhận bánh thánh. Mà ông cha Nghi cũng kỳ khôi. Biết con mẹ là gái bán bar, nhưng vẫn cho rước lễ. Chúa phạt là phải! Thằng chồng với thằng con lai chết tại chỗ. Còn ông cha Nghi, kỳ này cũng đau ốm liên miên.
Tối hôm đó trong căn phòng một mình một bóng, bà Tân mới chịu để nước mắt buông rơi. Thoạt tiên bà chỉ sụt sùi, sau cùng vỡ nghẹn trong tiếng nấc. Con Hương nằm với đứa em gái trong căn phòng bên cạnh. Mệt lả người sau mấy ngày tang của dượng và thằng em, nó đã thiu thiu ngủ. Những tiếng nấc nho nhỏ từ phòng bên cạnh đánh thức con Hương dậy. Nó lắng nghe. Nó rón rén đi ra, gõ nhẹ cửa phòng mẹ nó. Tiếng nấc ngừng hẳn, nhưng bà Tân không trả lời. Con Hương liều. Nó xoay nhẹ nắm cửa. Cửa không khóa. Trong làn ánh sáng mờ mờ của ánh đèn ngủ, con Hương thấy mẹ nó đang ngồi trên giường, hai tay ôm mặt. Nó bước tới, ngồi xuống cạnh mẹ. Bà Tân quay sang, ôm con. Những giọt nước mắt tuôn rơi thấm ướt bờ vai của đứa con đầu lòng,
— Hương ơi!... Chắc Chúa phạt mẹ!
(Xin xem tiếp trong tập truyện ÔNG GIÁO BÁN MẮM sắp xuất bản trong năm 2021).
chú thích
[1] 2 mét chiều dài, 1.5 mét chiều ngang
[2] Khoảng 27 ký
A Wooden Cross in Christmas
Translated by Anthony Duc Le
Mrs. Tan had gotten to the age where brown spots were appearing on her skin; her figure was now a bit frail, her face hollowed, and her thinning shoulder length hair had begun to show strands of silver. Recently, her daughter Huong had bought a bottle of burgundy black hair dye for her own short brown hair. A bottle of hair dye from Walmart was more than enough for two people, so Huong suggested using it on her mother as well. At first Mrs. Tan was reluctant, but she felt sorry to see perfectly good hair dye wasted, so she bent her head to let Huong do the work. It was difficult to see the burgundy tint indoors, but in sunlight, her black hair would reflect a subtle reddish shade. Going to the supermarket or doing other shopping at American stores, Mrs. Tan felt at ease, but if she needed to go buy rice, fish sauce, or other Asian food products in the Vietnamese shopping center, she would become self-conscious about her dyed hair. Still, when she stood in front of the mirror and noticed how the burgundy black hair made her look younger, she couldn't help but like what she saw. Occasionally, she gave Huong money to buy some more dye, for both of them.
Mrs. Tan was by no means prudish, but when it came to raising her children, she was strict, especially in matters concerning their education. She demanded that her children be earnest in their studying, with clear and specific schedules that were set and followed. In the evening, no one was allowed to loiter around the living room watching the large-screened television. The TV was not to be turned on until 10 p.m. If her children ever dared to pick up the remote control before that time, Mrs. Tan would never let them get away with it. During the three years that they had been in America, Mrs. Tan worked in a restaurant–clearing the tables, cooking, slicing vegetables, cleaning the floor, washing the dishes; she didn't mind any of the work. Whatever the manager of Tay Do restaurant told her to do, she did it efficiently and cleanly. Around 4 o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs. Tan would arrive home and begin to do the cooking for her husband and five children. The two older children went to work; Huong did nails, and Duong, the eldest son, worked with Mr. Tan at the electronics company. The rest of the children were picked up for school every morning by the yellow bus, and later dropped off every afternoon at the entrance to their home. Huong got home at 5 p.m. and helped Mrs. Tan in the kitchen, while Duong reviewed the material for his night classes at a local community college. The three younger children also had responsibilities—the 9th and 7th grade boys had paper routes; the 11th grade girl studied in the bedroom. Mrs. Tan prohibited them from going out before dinnertime, even Huong and Duong. At 6 p.m., the entire family sat down for dinner together in their small dining room. After the meal, the children each did their part in washing dishes, cleaning the table, and vacuuming the carpet. When all was done, the children were allowed to do whatever they wanted until 8 p.m. Then it was time to hit the books. Once in a while, Mrs. Tan would unexpectedly open their doors to check whether they were studying or wasting time on the phone. When they protested loudly, Mrs. Tan immediately retorted, “You are my children and I am your mother. There's none of that privacy around here.”
At 10 o'clock, the prohibition was lifted, and all the children headed for the TV in the living room, American movies only. No Chinese movies was allowed.
“Those Hong Kong actors and actresses look beautiful, but they speak Vietnamese like they have a speech impediment,” she told them.
By midnight, all lights in the house had been turned off and the day came to an end. Early in the morning, Mrs. Tan got up, made coffee for Mr. Tan and Duong, then drove to Tay Do restaurant. A new day began.
The two oldest children, 30-year-old Huong and 27-year-old Duong, had figures, facial features and hair that would never blend in with any Vietnamese crowd. There was gossip around town claiming that Mrs. Tan had bought Amerasians. Others said they were in fact her own flesh and blood.
Mrs. Tan attended Sunday Mass regularly. On weekdays, she drove to work at 7:30 a.m. Every time she passed the church, she made the sign of the cross and said a prayer. If any of her five children, from Huong down to the youngest, ever refused to go to Mass, she'd give them a piece of her mind: “Don't you dare play games with me. Don't think you can come over here and then slack off, wanting your independence. Let me tell you something: don't give me any of that freedom and independence talk. If you don't go to church, you’ll get kicked out of this house so you can be free, along with the rest of the homeless.”
The first time the Tan family attended Sunday Mass, everyone sat together in the last row. Not until the three youngest children joined the choir and had to go to church early for practice did she allow them to sit apart from the family. Still, Huong always sat with her mother and stepfather in the last row. Duong, on the other hand, sat by himself, his gaze ever drifting toward the girls in the congregation.
Mrs. Tan was enthusiastic in her contributions to the church. Every time there was a fundraising drive for the parish, or for flood victims in Central Vietnam, she took a big bill out of her purse and put it into the collection basket, saying: “We shouldn't be stingy with God and the poor.”
Because it was a small parish, in an out-of-the-way town with few Vietnamese people, the pastor encouraged all the families to gather in the auditorium for food and drinks, conversation and karaoke after Mass. Each family contributed a small dish, but with all the families together, it became a large party. Mrs. Tan always prepared food for the gathering. Sometimes, it was sticky rice or noodle soup; other times, it was rice rolls with meat filling. Before mealtime, she stood behind the buffet line and served the food, and afterward she stayed to clean up and wash the dishes. She always waited for everyone in the auditorium to pick up their chopsticks before she got herself a plate of food. And she was always among the last to leave the vast and empty church parking lot late Sunday afternoon.
When she learned that the pastor didn't have a cook and had to eat unhealthy American food that made his skin break out, Mrs. Tan prepared Vietnamese dishes for him—sour fish soups, bitter melon with pork filling, or pork and fish cooked in clay pots. After packing the food carefully into containers, she drove to the rectory and set the food out for the pastor.
After they came to America, the first time Mr. and Mrs. Tan attended Mass, the pastor said, “At the end of Mass, I will introduce your family to the parishioners.”
Hesitant, Mrs. Tan immediately refused: “Please Father, can’t you skip the introduction?”
“Oh! But why?”
“We...We are not used to introductions. It's good enough for us that we have arrived in America safely. We are not used to this...We would really appreciate it if you didn't introduce us. But if ever you need anything, just say the word.”
The pastor quickly glanced at Huong and Duong. He thought for a moment and then agreed.
After Mass that day, as the entire family made their way to the parking lot, Mrs. Tan could sense a hundred eyes looking at her two oldest children. She looked down at the ground and said nothing. When a neighbor they had known in Vietnam moved from California to their town to open a nail salon, she confirmed the blood relationship between Mrs. Tan and her two oldest children. When the news finally made its way to her ears, she didn't react, didn't say anything to confirm or deny the rumor. She continued to participate in parish activities as before. She still attended Mass. She still contributed money to the church. She made food for the weekly parish gathering and continued to bring meals to Fr. Nghi. But after Mass, she stopped doing the things she had done before. She sat down to eat silently with her husband, and then drove home with her family. Sometimes in the darkness, Mr. Tan could hear his wife’s heavy sighs, and he could feel her restlessly tossing and turning all through the night.
oOo
On the day of the funeral, the three youngest children wept ceaselessly. Huong broke down in front of Duong's coffin and had to be led away. However, Mrs. Tan remained silent; her eyes were dry and her lips were pursed tightly as she stared at the two mahogany caskets slowly disappearing below the layers of sand. The pastor insisted on sincere respect for the dead, so many parishioners had taken the day off to attend the funeral, say farewell and accompany the family to the cemetery.
As the pastor performed the burial ritual, light yellow autumn sunlight shone gently over the holy ground. Many began to yawn, placing their hands discretely over their mouths in response to the pastor’s long-winded homily. Mrs. Tan's old neighbor turned to the woman next to her: “Both husband and son died at the same time. Their faces were completely smashed.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard it from the manager of Tay Do restaurant. Can you even believe how the widow behaves? She hasn't shed a single tear.”
“I heard this was her third husband.”
“No such thing. This is her first. There were no marriage ceremonies with the two Americans before him. She used to work in an office with the Americans; then she got pregnant. Her father locked the door on her and forbade her to return home. He said if he ever saw her face, he'd shave her head and spread lime on it. After she got Huong, she rented a house in Saigon and hired a nurse. A few years later, just before ’75, she got knocked up again and had Duong. Huong and Duong are brother and sister--the same mother but different fathers. The other three children belong to Mr. Tan.”
“How did she meet Mr. Tan?”
“In those days, he was a lottery ticket vendor, and she was a waitress at a coffee shop. They got together and had three children. They got to come to America under the Amerasian program.”
The former neighbor continued,
“Do you see how that slut dyes her hair? It's red! At her age! As if she still thinks she's a teenager! Unbelievable.”
“What do you expect?” The other woman sneered, “She gets in bed with Americans. There's no way to hide her history. You try to hide the head, but the tail's going to be exposed.”
As the pastor sprinkled holy water onto the coffins, the neighbor covered her mouth and lowered her voice, whispering to the woman next to her, “You know, I saw her secretly going in and out of Fr. Nghi's room-- several times already.”
“Really? You're kidding!”
“I saw her with my own eyes. She drives over to the parish residence, walks secretively back and forth, then knocks on Fr. Nghi's door.”
Removing a yellow leaf from her hair, the neighbor continued, “I heard that when they first got to America, she didn't dare to go up for communion. I don't understand how she has the audacity to stick out her tongue for Eucharist. And that Fr. Nghi is strange too. He knows that she is a bar girl, and he still gives her communion. It's no wonder God cursed her! Both husband and son die at the exact same time. As for that Fr. Nghi, he's constantly sick these days.”
It wasn't until later that night when she was finally alone in her bedroom that Mrs. Tan allowed her tears to fall. At first it was just quiet weeping, but it eventually turned into wrenching sobs. Huong was lying in bed with her youngest sister in the next room. Exhausted after several days of burial preparations for her stepfather and brother, Huong had fallen into a light slumber, but the sobs coming from the room next door awakened her. She listened, then tiptoed out into the hallway. Gently, she knocked on her mother's bedroom door. The sobbing ceased abruptly, but Mrs. Tan didn't answer. Huong took a bold step and reached for the doorknob. It wasn't locked, so she quietly opened the door. In the dim light, Huong could make out the figure of Mrs. Tan sitting on the bed, her hands covering her face. When Huong walked forward and sat down next to her mother, Mrs. Tan turned and hugged her. Tears rolled down her cheeks onto the shoulder of her first born daughter.
“Oh, Huong! I think God is punishing me!”
oOo
The Christmas season was on the way, and snow covered the ground. This year, Fr. Nghi was planning a grand Christmas celebration. He decided to set up a large Nativity scene similar to those made in Vietnam. The Christmas Vigil would be celebrated at eight o'clock. Before the Eucharist, the choir would sing twelve Christmas carols. After the Mass, everyone would gather into the auditorium for a feast, and all children under twelve would receive presents. The evening’s entertainment would feature local talent, as well as two famous singers brought in from Little Saigon in Orange County, California.
At the beginning of December, Fr. Nghi called for his parishioners to come to the church on the weekends to help prepare for the celebration. The doors needed to be wiped down, the floors washed, and the pews polished. Volunteers were needed to build the Nativity scene and to secure the huge star to the top of the bell tower.
There were only a few days left before Christmas. All the tasks were nearly complete. Thanks to the hands of many parishioners, the church was spotless and shiny inside and out. The glittering Nativity scene took up an entire section of the left side of the sacristy. Surrounding the stable were many evergreen trees, all over six feet tall, and all decorated with numerous strings of twinkling white lights. When the lights were lit, they flickered brightly like silver stars in the night sky. The scent of the pine trees permeated the church. Up in the loft, the choir was hard at work rehearsing traditional Christmas carols for the Vigil. Down in the auditorium, a stage complete with a red velvet curtain was already set up. Atop the tower, the high wattage lamp inside the enormous white plastic star turned itself on automatically each evening as the sun began to set.
Snow was falling from the gray December sky. Frosty winds from the North blew through the white town. The Christmas spirit was an overwhelming presence in the small church belonging to the immigrant Vietnamese community.
And then, without warning, the enormous cross that hung over the sanctuary fell to the ground!
oOo
On the morning of December 22, when the pastor entered the church to prepare for the 7:30 Mass, he noticed that the small vigil candle from the tabernacle had gone out. Flicking on the light switch, he was completely taken aback by what he saw.
“My good God,” he exclaimed at the sight of the massive cross lying flat on the floor of the sanctuary. The figure of Christ crucified was face down. Looking up at the ceiling, he saw the four thick cables that had secured the cross swinging back and forth. He shivered as goose bumps appeared on his skin. Suddenly he was wide-awake. He walked calmly towards the cross and knelt down in front of it. With both hands, he attempted to lift the cross. It shifted only slightly. He took a deep breath, the way he did lifting weights at the gym. But this time, the cross didn’t budge, not even an inch! Fr. Nghi felt as if he were trying to move a mountain of rock.
There were only ten minutes left until Mass, and the faithful were beginning to arrive at the church. Everyone who came in was disturbed to see the cross lying face down on the floor. No one needed to say anything. Several men came forward to help lift it up, but the cross would not move. Next, a group of twenty people, both men and women, made a concerted effort to reposition it, yet still the cross rested heavily where it had fallen. The figure of the crucified Jesus continued to lie face down on the cold floor on that chilly December morning.
The news of the fallen cross spread throughout the entire community within an hour. Local radio and television stations broadcast live reports. Headlines declared, “Wooden Cross Falls Face Down! No One Able to Lift It!” All of a sudden, this humble, nameless church was in the spotlight. There were news reporters interviewing the parishioners who had attended the early mass and witnessed the sight. There were sounds of women praying, and the footsteps of reporters and cameramen hurrying back and forth as they attempted to capture pictures of the strange cross from all the various angles. The normally quiet church was now full of people coming and going. Fr. Nghi made a decision to close all of the doors except for the main portal, through which people could enter and attempt to lift the cross. As a result, there formed two lines of people, both Catholic and non-Catholic, running all the way around to the back of the church. But no matter who took his turn at the cross, it remained motionless.
Throughout that entire day, the parking lot of this small, quiet church was filled with countless automobiles belonging to the curiosity seekers who had stopped by to see the strange cross for themselves. In the courtyard of the church, small makeshift stalls were quickly set up by opportunists trying to cash in on the phenomenon by selling small haphazard imitations of the peculiar cross, and sweatshirts imprinted with images of the cross lying face down. By 11 p.m. after the church doors had already been securely closed, snow blanketed the streets entirely in white, but the church parking lot was still illuminated by headlights, and the traffic continued throughout the night. On the high bell tower, the Christmas star lit the way for travelers from afar hoping to find their way to the church.
That evening, CNN broadcast interviews with three individuals. First was the technician who had been given the responsibility of hanging the cross from the ceiling of the sanctuary. Second was a parishioner, one of the first to witness the strange phenomenon. The last person was the sculptor of the cross.
“You are the head technician, and your responsibility was to hang the cross up four years ago. In your opinion, what circumstances could cause the cross to fall down?”
The technician pondered the question, knitted his eyebrows, then adamantly shook his head. “There is no way for that cross to fall down...unless...unless there was someone who purposefully loosened the bolts that attached the four cables to the beam. Those cables were securely fastened to the horizontal section of the cross.”
The parishioner confirmed the statement of the technician: “This morning when I looked at those cables swinging above the sacristy, I guessed that someone had a hand in this incident. This person must have used a large pair of bolt-cutters to cut the cables because I clearly saw four short segments of the cut cable still attached to the cross.”
The reporter turned to the parishioner. “Do you have any idea who the culprit may be?”
“No, I have no idea. But in order to cut those huge cables, this person needed to have a very tall ladder.”
Turning to the sculptor, the reporter asked, “According to my information, the cross is made of wood.”
The sculptor nodded in agreement. “The cross is made of oak. It's 6.6 feet long and 4.9 feet wide. The figure of Christ was carved out of gypsum. The cross itself weighs 40 pounds. And the figure, I remember, only weighs about 20 pounds. In total, the entire cross weighs no more than 60 pounds...”
The reporter interrupted the sculptor. “If that's the case, then how come no one is able to lift it?”
“I don't know. It weighs no more than 60 pounds. An average man has more than enough strength to lift it up. There is something strange, however. The cross fell from high up and landed face down, but the gypsum Christ figure suffered no damage, not even a little chip.”
The morning of December 23rd arrived. Snow continued to fall. The new layer of soft snow covered the footsteps and the crisscross patterns of tire tracks from the previous day. New footprints had begun to appear. People continued to pour into the small church. Inside were sounds of praying coming from the elderly faithful, from middle aged visitors wearing scarves or neckties, and even teenagers with strange red and green hair styles, and rings hanging from their ears, nose, and lips.
As on the previous day, two lines of people formed, everyone waiting for a turn to lift a wooden cross weighing no more than 60 pounds. The solemn atmosphere in the church and the sight of the cross lying face down on the sanctuary floor made everyone present, both Catholics and non Catholics alike, more reserved. One by one, they respectfully bowed before the cross, clenched their jaws and used all the energy their bodies could muster; they took deep breaths and strained their bulging muscles—only to fail. In the end, they were forced to turn back toward the people kneeling and praying in the highly polished pews. They prayed fervently. A few wept quietly. Others sobbed breathlessly. Yet the wooden cross refused to move, regardless of any pair of hands!
On the front page of The New York Times, the headline read, “Humanity's Last Day Has Arrived?” The inside pages were filled with interviews of the parishioners. The websites of Yahoo, Netscape and AOL, as well as all the electronic news media, showed images of the cross lying face down onto the floor. Next to the images were captions such as “The Last Day?” or “A Hoax from Rome?” or “What is This Strange Sign?” The enormous headlines appeared either in dark or bright red. The CNN, ABC, FOX, PBS, and BBC networks continuously discussed the topic of the wooden cross. No one was able to fathom who would cut the cables, and why no one was able to move the 60-pound cross. Many predicted that this was a sign that the world was coming to its final days. Some people declared that they clearly saw the sun turning in circles. Others said they saw full moons appearing unexpectedly in the heavens, not yellow but bloody red. Some declared that right in the middle of the day they saw patches of fiery red clouds resembling the image of Satan with two pointed horns, floating ominously across the gray sky of late December. Some reported that the freezing water of the Mississippi River, which flowed through the small but now famous town, had suddenly turned the color of blood; fish from the river all died and floated up to the dark red surface. Some reported that in the parish, a brain-damaged boy who hadn't spoken a single word for the last three years suddenly opened his mouth and started talking away like nothing had ever happened. Some even reported that while preparing for morning Mass, the pastor of the church was hit by the wooden cross as it fell, explaining why no one had seen him for the past few days. Others maintained that after dark, packs of wolves would make their way out of the woods to the church and dance around it, howling eerily. Still others claimed that at night blood flowed out of the wounds of Jesus and ran onto the floor of the sanctuary; but as soon as morning arrived, the blood disappeared. Anyone who was able to get into the church at night and collect a drop of that blood would be saved; and anyone who touched those red drops of blood would have their diseases completely cured.
There was only one day left before December 24th. All the careful preparations for a festive Christmas season at the church had been made in vain, except for the high voltage light placed in the heart of the big star atop the tower. At night, it continued to shine bright rays of light far into the distance. As for the Nativity scene, no one bothered to turn it on; the tiny lights on the pine trees remained unlit. The church was dark except for the sanctuary, where the wooden cross lay in gloomy silence. Many reporters tried to get a hold of the pastor, but his door remained tightly closed with a “Please do not disturb” sign hung on it. All the affairs of the church were being managed by the head of the parish council, a pious man in his early forties.
The lines of people continued to be long, all trying to make the cross move. And one by one, they failed at the task. But even when the doors were locked, the people still remained, only to be dispersed after the police turned on their patrol lights and blew their sirens.
Snow continued to fall. Another day had passed.
oOo
At 7:30, the main door was opened by the head of the parish. The first people in the long line began to head for the sanctuary. Yet, despite the determined attempts of the first two lifters, the cross remained unmoved.
Then came the third, then the fourth, then the fifth, and still nothing happened. Then the attempt of the sixth.... People were taken completely aback; they looked towards the sanctuary in shock! A miracle.
The parish head himself rang the church bells. For the past three days, these bells had been silent. Now they awakened, with merry and jubilant sounds! Their music made its way high into the early morning air, mingling in a festive dance with the rays of glorious light pouring down from the heavens above. The bells joyously proclaimed the beginning of a new day.
At 8 in the morning, television screens filled with images of world events were suddenly interrupted by breaking news. The anchor on CNN appeared on the screen and made a special announcement:
“For nearly three days the wooden cross in the church did not budge under the efforts of countless hands. This morning at 7:45 the wooden cross was finally lifted. At the moment, we do not have the name of the person who managed to lift the cross. According to the people in the parish, this morning on the way to work, she stopped by the church. When she attempted to lift the 60-pound cross, it moved easily under her hands. Our reporter at the scene tells us that at the moment the cross is being restored to its former position by a group f parishioners. From information given to us, the husband and son of the woman who managed to lift the cross had recently died in an automobile accident this past October...”
Snow fell once more, gently making its way down to the ground. Within a short time, the church was again covered in a white blanket. The wind blew ice crystals onto the tower and frosted the branches of the pine trees around the church. The church bells continued to chime their joyous melody. The sounds of happiness and peace.
Peace filled the heart of every person on this blue planet called Earth during these last days of December. The season of peace once again visited each household, gently knocking on its door.
Michael Nguyen SVD
Comments
Post a Comment