including green nylon pants and a rust-and-white training jacket, as well as a straw hat with netting draped over it. The boy is wearing city clothes—no straw hat with netting for him. Instead, he wears a backward baseball cap over his ponytail, and to go with it a fat gold chain and earrings. A blue basketball jersey with some shine to it, and jeans so baggy they threaten to fall down. It’s a city fashion Hattie never could understand. How do you walk with your crotch at your knees? But never mind. He’s a handsome boy, with a chisel to his face and a slash to his brow—a boy who would break hearts, if there were any around to break. For now, he devastates the no-see-ums.
He and Chhung don’t stop work often, but when they do, the boy generally jabs his shovel into the dirt the way Chhung does, so that it stands straight up. Every now and then, though, when his father’s not looking, he stands it up on its point, steadies it with his palm, then lifts his hand free quick enough that the thing just thuds. Then he looks off. Relaxing the ciliary muscles of his eyes, Hattie guesses, not to say his back—and who could blame him? This is not an easy job, what with the soil so wet, and clay besides. Even uphill from the Chhungs’, Hattie’s had to lighten her soil, dig in some compost; roots rot on her all the time. Probably she’ll put sand in under her garden one day, the way Greta did, for drainage. But how about Chhung? Who’s going to tell Chhung how he should really try sand? Someone, she thinks, should tell Chhung.
The girl brings the baby over, and at first it just clings and clings. When she sits it down in a pile of dirt, though, it begins to play and pretty soon wants to investigate the hole. Chhung yells and swats at himself; the girl tries to distract her charge, which is dressed in a frilly blue blouse and some overlong red pants, one leg of which stays rolled up fine. The other, though, seems bent on showing off its fine bunchy length. Hecq! the girl cries, swatting at the flies. Hecq! Hecq! Hecq! Clapping her hands, so the baby’ll switch direction, which works. Everyone watches, relieved, as the child crawls on one knee and one foot, bottom high in the air, away from the pit.
Then it veers back toward it again.
Chhung throws a shovelful of dirt at the girl’s toes, making her back away. He jabs at the ground, comes up with another shovelful, and for a moment seems about to heave that load at the baby. But instead, he stops and looks up at the sky, which is a wash of whitish blue—streaky, as if someone’s just squeegeed it, and about as inspiring as a whiteboard, when you come right down to it. Still, Chhung sets his shovel aside, crosses a hump of dirt, and picks the baby up. The baby’s crying and arching its back with frustration, but Chhung swings it like a pendulum, its pant legs a-dangle, as he calls up to the trailer. The woman hurries out with a bottle. She’s a slip of a thing, in black pants and a white blouse; the blouse has puff sleeves. Her hair is shoulder-length and wavy, her skin darker and smoother than her husband’s, and her face a little rounder, with hooped cheekbones like the fairy wings of a child’s Halloween costume. A lovely woman, and yet not nearly as lovely in her features as in her movements—in that simple way she makes her way down onto the milk crate, for example, and then down again, watching where she steps. Careful even in her hurry. The earth is packed down at the bottom of the step now; it’s not the mud pool it was when Hattie first went calling. Still, the woman picks her way across it as if across the mud she is aware is not there. Quickly—not wanting to appear to be dawdling, it seems—and yet somehow with the grace—the steady but light concentration—of a dancer.
She reaches the pit as the girl swoopingly reclaims the baby from Chhung, standing it up on its feet. The baby stops crying and, its fists gripping the girl’s fingers, starts to
He and Chhung don’t stop work often, but when they do, the boy generally jabs his shovel into the dirt the way Chhung does, so that it stands straight up. Every now and then, though, when his father’s not looking, he stands it up on its point, steadies it with his palm, then lifts his hand free quick enough that the thing just thuds. Then he looks off. Relaxing the ciliary muscles of his eyes, Hattie guesses, not to say his back—and who could blame him? This is not an easy job, what with the soil so wet, and clay besides. Even uphill from the Chhungs’, Hattie’s had to lighten her soil, dig in some compost; roots rot on her all the time. Probably she’ll put sand in under her garden one day, the way Greta did, for drainage. But how about Chhung? Who’s going to tell Chhung how he should really try sand? Someone, she thinks, should tell Chhung.
The girl brings the baby over, and at first it just clings and clings. When she sits it down in a pile of dirt, though, it begins to play and pretty soon wants to investigate the hole. Chhung yells and swats at himself; the girl tries to distract her charge, which is dressed in a frilly blue blouse and some overlong red pants, one leg of which stays rolled up fine. The other, though, seems bent on showing off its fine bunchy length. Hecq! the girl cries, swatting at the flies. Hecq! Hecq! Hecq! Clapping her hands, so the baby’ll switch direction, which works. Everyone watches, relieved, as the child crawls on one knee and one foot, bottom high in the air, away from the pit.
Then it veers back toward it again.
Chhung throws a shovelful of dirt at the girl’s toes, making her back away. He jabs at the ground, comes up with another shovelful, and for a moment seems about to heave that load at the baby. But instead, he stops and looks up at the sky, which is a wash of whitish blue—streaky, as if someone’s just squeegeed it, and about as inspiring as a whiteboard, when you come right down to it. Still, Chhung sets his shovel aside, crosses a hump of dirt, and picks the baby up. The baby’s crying and arching its back with frustration, but Chhung swings it like a pendulum, its pant legs a-dangle, as he calls up to the trailer. The woman hurries out with a bottle. She’s a slip of a thing, in black pants and a white blouse; the blouse has puff sleeves. Her hair is shoulder-length and wavy, her skin darker and smoother than her husband’s, and her face a little rounder, with hooped cheekbones like the fairy wings of a child’s Halloween costume. A lovely woman, and yet not nearly as lovely in her features as in her movements—in that simple way she makes her way down onto the milk crate, for example, and then down again, watching where she steps. Careful even in her hurry. The earth is packed down at the bottom of the step now; it’s not the mud pool it was when Hattie first went calling. Still, the woman picks her way across it as if across the mud she is aware is not there. Quickly—not wanting to appear to be dawdling, it seems—and yet somehow with the grace—the steady but light concentration—of a dancer.
She reaches the pit as the girl swoopingly reclaims the baby from Chhung, standing it up on its feet. The baby stops crying and, its fists gripping the girl’s fingers, starts to
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