Inheritance

Rummaging through the attic, Christy wondered how she could know so little about her father. Twenty years before, she had summed up her her father to Nate, her husband. “Beau was a strong, Southern man who fought for his country, loved his daughter, but also loved Jack Daniels and the cards.” While there were huge gaps in her understanding of her father, she hadn’t thought he was especially mysterious, until now as she searched for clues in the debris he left behind in 1990.

“Hamburger Hill was hell on earth.“ As a child those six words ended any conversation Christy might have drawn out of her father about Vietnam. She idolized Beau and desperately wanted to know more, but the tight press of his lips meant the discussion was over. Eventually, she stopped trying, but only long after her mother had given up on him.

“That man is broken,” her mother would mutter. “He left his soul in the jungle, fighting that losing war. Such a shame.” Shaking her head, she crossed herself, sighed audibly and went on with whatever chore she was doing.

Like many of his brothers in arms Beau’s “brokenness” manifested in the bottle. When he returned home from Vietnam, Christy was too young to notice. By the time his drinking had consumed him, she was attending Wake Forest University, only an hour and a half away from her home in Charlotte, but far enough away from her disintegrating family. Her mother left Beau for her sister’s home in Orlando the fall of Christy’s sophomore year. With no family to provide even fragile guardrails, Beau spiraled quickly, spending weeks in Las Vegas, whose twilight existence suited his path to oblivion and cirrhosis.

Several years later, Christy received a call that Beau had been admitted into a hospice center in Charlotte. With the kind, certainty that only hospice staff have, the nurse informed her that Beau had 24 hours of consciousness left before he drifted off into an ammonia-induced coma, so Christy did her best to stay positive and distract him. She wheeled her father through the hallways of the facility, trying to offer him a change of scenery. Seeing a plaque recognizing the center’s benefactors, she commented on their generosity. Beau waved it off, grumbling, “There’s no such thing as real charity. Everyone is getting something out of every single thing they do. Trust me on this.”

Something about the cynicism of his words pointed to the waste he had made of the last years of his life and made her furious. “Oh really,” she blurted out. “So what did Mom get out of being with you?”

Beau craned his neck to look up and back at her. The sad resignation in his eyes made her wish she had kept her mouth shut. “Y’know, Christy, for the life of me, I have no fucking idea.”

She stood with an ache in her chest, the husk of her father looking at her with eyes that now bugged, milky yellow from their sockets. She pushed the wheelchair into his room, miserably silent, and attempted to change the subject.

“Dad, is there anything else, you’d like to talk about. Anything about the war, or Mom – just to get it off your chest?”

“No, but …” He grabbed her wrist and pointed at the chair next to the hospital bed. “Look in the bag. There’s a book. I want you to have it,” Beau nodded towards the crumpled plastic bag containing his meager belongings. She pulled out tube socks, a Vegas tshirt, and a pair of cargo shorts.

“Side pocket,” he motioned toward the shorts, grimacing with effort.

She pulled the Velcroed pocket open and fished out a small, weathered black leather book. The pages were stuck together and pocked from waterlog.

”It’s not much of an inheritance, but it’s something of me you can keep. Remember, I always told you - don’t spend it all in one place,” he said, managing a weak grin. “Now, I need my beauty rest.”

Christy helped her father into the bed and pulled the covers over his battered body. “Ok. Get some rest. Love you.”

He closed his eyes, and touched her hand with his. “See you later, sweet girl.”

That was 30 years ago. Christy hadn’t given the book much consideration back then. There was no money in it, not that she expected any. It held some names and numbers, many she recognized as Beau’s old buddies, and a few couples he and her mother had known when they still socialized. No one of interest to her. In his delirium state, poor Beau must have imagined there was something of value there. But her life got busier. A tenure-track position at UNC-Charlotte had brought her back to her hometown, but afforded travel to many countries. Now, 50 and comfortably established in her position and her marriage, Christy wanted to know more.

“I suppose it’s a mid-life crisis,” she explained to Nate, as she dug through warped cardboard boxes in the cramped attic. “I’m facing my own mortality.”

“Guess so,” Nate mumbled. “Wait, this must be it.” He pointed to a dust-covered Grey Goose box.

“Well, that’s fitting isn’t it?” Christy replied, reaching for the box. Nate’s raised eyebrow told her she was being harsh.

Christy had forgotten that she had saved her father’s clothes along with the little book. As she unfolded the t-shirt and the crumpled shorts, memories of that last day at the hospice center came rushing back. His wasted body, their awkward attempts at connection, the puzzling inheritance Beau offered her. Wiping away a tear, she pulled out the book and put it aside, handing the clothes to Nate.

“Will you put these in the wash? We might as well give them to Good Will. As Nate reached for the shorts, a small, yellowed card fell on the floor.

“It says 081-20109-4 Krug Thai Bank NTXAWM,” Nate read aloud. “Looks like an account name or something.”

Christy found the number to Krug Thai Bank online and waited until 9:00 p.m. to call when they opened at 9:00 a.m. Thailand time. Once she had provided Beau’s social security number and sent a scan of his death certificate, power of attorney and her passport, the bank staff was more than happy to help.

“Yes, I see the nine numbers are for an old account, opened in 1987,” Aroon, the young man on the other end of the phone explained.

“You mentioned numbers, but what about the letters?” Christy asked.

“No, we do not use letters to identify accounts. These particular letters are interesting, though.”

“Interesting how?”

“NTXAWM is a common Hmong name. It means youngest daughter.”

Surprise and urgency rose in her throat. This must be the inheritance.

“How can I find out who this girl is?” she asked frantically.

“Without another name to go with it, there is no way to know. No one has made a transaction since the account was opened, so I cannot imagine how you would find this person.”

“There has to be a way! The internet? Something?” Christy was shouting into the phone.

“I’m sorry I cannot be of more help to you. You could try some websites about Hmong people. But it is my understanding they are very difficult to track down.” Aroon paused. “Um Miss, do you not want to know how much is in the account?”

She had forgotten about the account. “Sure,” she said, knowing it wouldn’t be much.

“The account is for 605,000 Thai Baht. Based on the current exchange rate, that is around $20,000.”

“Good lord!” Christy exclaimed, startling Nate and the cat. “How in the hell did Beau get his hands on that much money? I’m sorry, is there any more information about where the money came from?”

“It appears to have been wired from Las Vegas, Nevada. Is that helpful?” he offered.

“Sin City,” Nate chuckled. “I guess your dad wasn’t wasting his time there after all.”

During the next few weeks, Christy pored over websites about Hmong names, history and culture, learning about their life in the mountains of Laos and Vietnam, their role helping the U.S. in the Vietnam Conflict, and the migration of many Hmong people to the United States and other countries after the war. Their history was fraught with struggle, injustice and suffering, but their culture was rich and intriguing. Wanting to learn more, Christy tracked down a colleague in the History Department at UNCC and shared her story with him.

“There are a couple of possibilities,” he explained. “She could be a friend he met during the war. It was not usual for Hmong, especially women, to have contact with U.S. soldiers, but there were some who served as nurses who might have helped out, especially in the region where your father served.”

He coughed nervously. “Another possibility is that there was a child, that he, well you know. It was not uncommon for U.S. servicemen to have relationships with women from the region. The problem is, Christy, I don’t see how you will ever really know. Either way, this person could have been sent to a refugee camp in Thailand, to the U.S., France or Canada, or she may have died during that terrible time. With only one name, and a common one at that, there’s no way of tracking her down.”

“I can’t accept that,” Christy insisted. “I need to know more. Plus, I have this money he left in a Thai bank account. I think he left the money there for her, and now I can’t give it to her.”

“Yes, that makes sense. Laotian banks are state-run and Vietnamese banks are not as reputable as Thai banks. I’m not surprised he sent money there.” He paused again, deep in thought. “I know you are frustrated that you can’t find out more about this mystery person, but maybe you could find out more about Hmong people here. There are many immigrant services organizations that could point you in the right direction.”

Reluctantly, Christy took his advice. She learned that the largest population of Hmong in North Carolina were in Hickory, just an hour north of Charlotte. The following week, she drove to The Hmong Community Center to meet the coordinator, Eve Pao.

When she arrived, Eve bounded out meet her. An animated, petite woman, she greeted Christy warmly. “Thank you for coming. I’m glad you are interested in our center.”

Eve lead Christy through an entryway into a large assembly hall that smelled stale as a church basement, but was decorated with cheerful embroidered cloths. Flowers brightened the assortment of rickety card tables. They walked through the kitchen and out to a small yard containing several small raised gardens.

Seeing Christy marvel at the produce, Eve explained, “We grow all sorts of things here. Our families get most of their food from these gardens and from donations from local farmers. Fresh produce is critical to the Hmong way of life. Farming is integral to our culture and history.”

“Just these few plots? Surely that’s not enough to feed all the families?” Christy asked.

Eve frowned slightly. “No, but land is too expensive. We can’t afford to buy the acreage we need, even though there is a lot of land available around here.”

“So, you need …”

“Seed money!” They laughed together.

The next time she saw Eve, both women were dressed to celebrate. Eve met her at the door again, and grabbed her hands excitedly. “Our members have made so much delicious food for the occasion. But first, you’ve got to see it.” She pointed Christy toward the garden area.

“I’ll give you a moment.” She patted Christy’s back and walked back to the festivities.

The rustic wooden plaque stood out against the institutional green on the hallway of the Hmong Cultural Center. NTXAWM’s garden. It’ll look better on the garden fence when it’s built. She smiled, remembering Beau’s admonition. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Sorry, Dad.”