Routes

Silky. That’s quite literally the only word I could conjure up to interpret the way the air felt on my way to Uncle Yip’s (he’s not actually my Uncle, but my older sister Jivani always called him uncle so of course, I did, too). I couldn’t think of any other words because the ride on my bike over was dreamy. So much so, I felt the calmness seep from my spine as the sun hit my face as I arrived at the top of the biggest hill on the route. In the little pause as I set the tip of my foot down to gain momentary balance I nearly drifted off. The sound of a couple local grandmas loudly chirping about the local market fish prices snapped me to.

I almost forgot what I was even on a bike ride for.

I have to deliver some food my mom made to Uncle Yip so he could sell it on his bike route. Mom always did that (every Sunday, actually, and guess who has to bike it over). I think it’s because Uncle Yip watched Jivani and I when we were younger, but mom gives everyone in the neighborhood food so I guess it really does take a whole village. After his wife passed away, he began selling food that he got up every morning at first light to labor over to support his only daughter who seemed to be perpetually studying abroad.

But, who am I to judge, I just do what my ma tells me or else it stresses her out and no one likes seeing my mom stressed out (she’s always stressed out).

A much different breeze hits my face as I descend the hill to the end of the street where Uncle Yip lives. The sun has moved over the mountain, so it’s already chilly here. Once I get down to his front gate, I strapped my bike to his lemon tree out front and strolled up to the front door.

I knock.

A few seconds pass by and it has officially entered an awkward silence so as always I start whistling.

Okay now even the whistling is awkward and my lips are tired.

“Hello?” I test the waters. I don’t usually enjoy speaking too much with any of the elders in town since I’d like to avoid a situation where I’d have to speak broken Vietnamese, so the hesitation in my voice is palpable.

No answer. I check the door and it’s unlocked. My introversion leads me to the conclusion that I could just walk quietly inside and leave it in his refrigerator or on his countertop. Yeah, that sounds like a fantastic idea, what could go wrong?

As I tiptoe into the kitchen, I could tell the air has been artificially cooled. What? That man hates AC. Uncle Yip always chastised my sister and I for not being able to handle the hot weather going on and on about how it was infinitely more hot and humid in Vietnam. I set the food on the counter and against my instincts, I walked towards his bedroom. Well, really there was nowhere else to go, it was a small house.

On second glance the door is cracked and I hear the TV on. Weird, not sure why I didn’t notice that before. It’s Spongebob. Makes sense, he always put that on for us because that’s what his daughter loved so he must just be reminiscing. I walk over and pop the door open.

A gunshot. Specifically, a 9mm round.

My spine elicited a feeling that made every other time I had been scared feel like a bold-faced lie. As I watched the blood pool at my feet, I realized that they were cemented into the ground. My hands had clenched with pure adrenaline and my eyes had gone without blinking for what seemed like minutes. All ambient sounds of the wind, the birds, and the TV had been drowned out by the most awful ringing that made me cramp because of how tense my shoulders were. As the ringing faded I felt blood in my hands from my nails digging into my palms. Everything in my vision lagged and I felt lightheaded. My feet being the only functional part of my body whisked me out of the room where I promptly vomited and cried instantaneously yet simultaneously.

Something came over me and told me to re-enter the room after I cleaned myself up. I went in and re-witnessed the scene with crystal clear vision. The only object other than the TV, the chair he was sitting on, the gun, and the smallest black, leather-clad notebook that somehow had missed the blood spatter.

I picked it up.

Then I biked home as fast as I could, the biting wind yelling at me the whole way home.

The next morning the cops had called me in for questioning. I had called them last night before I went to bed and in the morning I told them I ran from the scene because I had a panic attack as a result of PTSD, which was partially true (I’m fine, I swear). I served 4 years in Iraq and Afghanistan and I’ve been home helping Ma out with my dad’s Alzheimer’s. Back to the questioning. They asked me what I saw and I told them everything. Again, partially true.

When I opened the black notebook I noticed it was written in Vietnamese and couldn’t read a damn word. Now, obviously, I couldn’t go to my Ma, because she’ll know what happened and I can’t put that kind of stress on her (again, with the stress).

I took it to the library and hopped on a computer, it took me almost forever, but I de-coded the whole thing (yeah, ma and pa never taught me a lick of Vietnamese). This is crazy, but basically it’s a ledger. There’s information for a bank account and a list of people’s names, addresses, some notes about them, and get this, a dollar amount.

From the notes it seems like Uncle Yip kept tabs on what the people look like. The weirdest part? These are all white guy names. That’s extra weird because Uncle Yip barely spoke any english at all. He kept to the Viet community here in Houston and rode the same route delivering food every single day.

Why the hell would he have this?

I racked my brain a bit then went off of what I had. I looked up their names and addresses. Mostly found a profile on a business website here or a house listing there. It wasn’t until I got to the last guy, James O’Donnell. This guy had gone to jail for arson and manslaughter when he lit a church on fire on the west side. Sounds like a lovely guy. I went through the list again and didn’t find much else. Is this really all I have to go off of? Why am I so invested? Yes, and great question.

Without putting too much thought into it I grabbed my things and went to the prison James was being held at. When I got there, I asked for James O'Donnell, but when they brought James out I heard the guard call him Jimmy. Weird.

“Now, why in the hell would some chink come talk to little ‘ol me?” he said with swagger.

“Why the hell would an arsonist agree to come talk to me?” I spit back.

“All is fair in love and war.” He laughs borderline manically. “No really, what did you come here for some kind of retribution for your granddaddy?”

I stood up and walked away. That’s all I needed to hear. A ledger with white men’s names, dollar amounts kept by a Vietnamese man that only spoke his mother tongue and now Jimmy O’Donnell.

They were all Klu Klux Klan members. Every last one of them. Uncle Yip found out their identities after they went under the radar after the attacks back in the 80s. All of them left the Klan and started over to avoid public shame in the new age of closeted white supremacy, all except Jimmy O’Donnell.

I checked the ledger again. It all added up to $20,000 dollars. When I got to the back of the ledger I noticed a pocket I hadn’t noticed before. It was filled with photos. Awful horrific photos depicting what I presumed to be the men in the ledger committing crimes. Evidence. He blackmailed them into giving him money to support his daughter.

I went and withdrew the money. I sent over $19,750 to his daughter in France. I used the rest of the money for a plane ticket. The air at the airport was nice and cool. I went to a friend from the marines. He had a father who worked for a publishing agency and I told him about everything.

What came out of that conversation is this: a callout to those who think they can hide from their past deeds in the form of an article detailing the story of a man who kept to his routes, both in life and death.