No Good to Cry by Andrew Lanh Page A

both seemed to enhance her Vietnamese features. A charming package.
    I glanced at Hank who was blinking a little too wildly, his eyes riveted to the pretty girl. Awkwardly I kicked him under the table and startled, he yelled out.
    â€œOuch. Christ, Rick.”
    â€œSorry.”
    But he knew what I was doing. A sly grin covered his face as he sent a half-wave at Hazel Tran.
    Hazel mumbled something about not being hungry, studying to do, and fled upstairs. Lucy apologized for her. “The twins have just turned eighteen.” As though their newfound majority explained their behavior.
    For a while the business of this visit was avoided as we ritualistically enjoyed the mi ga . Lucy rushed back and forth into the kitchen, carrying out trays of bean sprouts, thin yellow noodles, chopped cilantro and lettuce, spices. Hot steaming broth, delicate slivers of glistening white chicken breast floating in a tantalizing broth. My brow got sweaty as I leaned into the succulent soup, using the chopsticks to stir the aromatic liquid. Delicious, one of the best, which I noted. Lucy beamed. Hank ate his soup so rapidly, slurping noisily, that Lucy snatched his bowl and refilled it. I sipped aromatic jasmine tea, strong, sweet. I sat back, happy.
    â€œ An nao!” Lucy said over and over. Enjoy yourself.
    Mike Tran cleared his throat. “I will talk of money now.”
    I held up my hand. “Mr. Tran, not yet. Could we talk about your boy first?”
    â€œMike. Call me Mike.”
    I nodded. He nodded. Lucy paused as she began lifting bowls from the table. In a low voice I barely understood, she said, “Simon.”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    In the kitchen Wilson coughed. I looked at him. He’d stopped reading, staring at us with an icy look, but then he returned to his textbook.
    Mike Tran cleared his throat again, confused. He looked at his wife who dropped back into her seat, interlocking her fingers, resting them on the table.
    Mike Tran glanced toward the kitchen. “Wilson, take your books up to your room.”
    The boy hesitated. “Pop.”
    â€œNow. We have family business.” He pointed to the stairwell.
    â€œI’m family.”
    â€œNow.”
    Reluctantly the boy cradled his textbook to his chest and climbed the stairs, but slowly, as though afraid he’d miss some conversation. No one spoke until he was out of sight. But from my chair at the end of the table, at angles to the hallway, I spotted the tips of his sneakers as he sat on the top stair, out of sight, listening.
    Lucy, fluttering, pointed to a family photo on the sideboard. “We are a good family. Hard working.”
    Mike grumbled. “You don’t need to say that, Lucy.”
    â€œI like saying it.”
    â€œNot now.” His look froze her.
    She was shaking her head as she reached for the picture. “I’m sorry. A good-looking family, no?” Her fingertips grazed each member. Mother and father in Sunday-best clothes. Mike in a stuffy ill-fitting suit. Lucy in a simple dress, a gold necklace around her neck. A goofy-looking Wilson with a bizarre cowlick, annoyed, his mouth open. Hazel in a model’s pose, her head tilted at angles to the camera, lips parted. A third boy, older. “Michael,” she noted. “Our oldest. At Trinity. A National Merit Fellow. Brilliant.” Tall, striking, with a long, angular face, his head turned away from the camera.
    Then her fingertip tapped the smallest boy tucked into the shoulder of his father. “Simon.” Her voice trembled at the word. “Our youngest.”
    â€œTell me about him.”
    Mike waited a moment, collected his words. He wasn’t happy doing this. “The youngest lives in the shadows of the others. Never a student, didn’t like books. But a bright boy, my Simon. Quick, sharp, funny. He…we could laugh .” A trace of pride in his words, though he looked down into his lap. When he looked back up and