Michael Malone - Weebly

Henry, with a large, frayed man's parka kept on over a
summer dress, sat down on the edge of a plasticcovered
chair in Judith Haig's family room.
Urged, she accepted a cup of tea—a package Mrs.
Haig found behind the spices in her new kitchen
cabinets.
Her English, Chin apologized, was very poor. (And,
of course, neither Mrs. Haig, nor anyone else in town,
spoke much Vietnamese, though it had not occurred to
them to ask Mrs. Henry's forgiveness.) Her arrival,
Chin apologized, was very much an intrusion, but she
hadn't found a phone, nor had she known the Haigs'
home was so far from her own home (trailer, rather) or
she would not have walked this late at night. Having
gone so far beyond the bridge, she had become very
confused. "Sorry I coming too late. Very dark.
No more houses here."
"No, there aren't. I'm sorry."
They tried to talk. They had to make do with very
few words.
Mrs. Maynard Henry spoke in intense frustration,
robbed of her language, left in such poverty when her