Opening

               "Ticket please."
               "What's a ticket?" Theyet remembered asking for the first time. To which Mister had formed a little rectangle with his fingers. "A piece of paper that lets you in."
               Theyet had nodded instantly at this. "And you don't have it, they shoot you?"
               "What, no!" Mister looked shocked at this suggestion. "They just don't let you in."
               Theyet became nervous with the memory. As though the date or time on her ticket was suddenly wrong, or somehow the teller's scanner would find it 'invalid'. Tonight was so special, something she had waited so long for-
               The gray-haired teller with coke-bottle glasses returned Theyet's stub unceremoniously. "Enjoy the show."
               "Thank you!' Theyet snatched it up in relief. "Oh, thank you!"
               The teller's brow furrowed at her bubbling excitement, but Theyet moved on, eager for the rest in her line to be admitted. The lines didn't end until they reached the autumn twilight on the steps of the theatre. Theyet had practically floated up them, not understanding why so many were needed... but also not caring. The doors beyond the tellers' booths pushed in and Theyet found herself walking across rose carpet and staring down a bolstered hallway where people chatted and sipped from wine glasses. Theyet looked subconsciously down, catching the glimmer of her painted nails, striding under the hem of her floor-length dress. The lace along the sleeves and neckline itched her skin, but it looked so beautiful, she couldn't not pick it to wear tonight.
               "I have a dress, Mister!" Theyet's chest puffed out proudly beneath the thin and stained frock she wore over jean shorts. Stripes of shade cast over her and Mister as they sat beneath a dying tree. It was part of the trenches outside the village; one of the few spots of relief from the sun. Nobody had asked them to be dug and many people complained. Theyet and her friends didn't; the American soldiers were cool.
               Mister was shaking his head. "It's not that kinda dress, Teeny. Look-"
               Theyet took in the shiny photo he held. It had been of a tall woman with ghostly skin, dark make up that made her eyes pop, and bright clothing... deep colors that Theyet couldn't believe were real. Like the earliest spring blooms. But, why didn't her skirt cover her legs?
             "It's a tutu." Mister had pointed, enunciating like he did. Theyet had pointed too. "Her underwear, Mister!"
               Mister had rolled his eyes and redirected her attention. "She's a dancer, Teeny, a ballerina. All ballerinas wear tutus. Now... read that."
               The command had been gentle, yet nonnegotiable. Mister was an army man and that was how he had given orders. Theyet still felt her squint at the letters above the woman. She recognized them; they made sounds... she needed to put the sounds together to read the words. "S-S...Swa-a..."
               "Swan Lake." Theyet mouthed the elegant title as she stood before a life-size poster. The pose, the woman, the clothes were different. But to Theyet, she wasn't in the lobby of a Paris theatre, where the marble floors gleamed and concessions jutted from ornately carved walls. She was outside her village, seated beside Mister and eyeing his gifts from home. The images where it all started, pulling her out of the heat and fields of her village, graduating with honors out of Hanoi.
              Theyet had been five when the soldiers started coming and digging the trenches. Set back from an enemy highway, their village was the perfect spot for what Mister had called 'recon'. His real name wasn't Mister, but Captain Percy Basille. Theyet had learned this years later, but hadn't cared back then. Mister, being so terrible with their language, ended up calling her Teeny, the closest thing to her name. She always responded with Mister and he never corrected her. Neither complained, becoming comfortable with it.
               So many faces, she didn't know why Mister's had stood out. Maybe because he was the first to answer her question, 'What you rea-ding?' Her pronunciation alone proved that she couldn't read, outside of road signs. Mister hadn't stood for that. Every day, in the trenches or in his tent, he used the dirt- damp with humidity- to teach Theyet her letters. For the words, he used his Bible. Theyet could still taste the first verse she ever read. "I am... the L-or-d... y-you-r-r G...od."
               The sensation of her mouth and brain connecting to the lines on Mister's pages... Theyet hadn't stopped smiling that entire week. From there, Mister led her through the Ten Commandments, before backtracking to Moses' childhood and the plagues over Egypt. Each one tasted like the milk and honey God promised the Israelites.
               Theyet moved past the poster and strolled into the lobby, anointed in the same colors, thus setting the theme for the evening's production. Yards of robin's blue wound the banisters leading to the balconies; pastels of purple and pink and gentle gray hung from the ceiling like feathers. Everything else, from the usher jackets to a great wreath staged between the twin staircases, was a frosty white to match the ballet's titular bird. Where everyone else scurried, chatted, and drank around her, Theyet had to stop. How could they act so oblivious? Theyet felt like she'd stepped inside a music box, just waiting for someone to wind the handle.
               "Miss?"
               Theyet turned to find a mustached usher addressing her. His chin was erect, with the most enduring grin on his face. Absently, Theyet held up her ticket. "It's my first time, sir."
               His eyes, brown and deep in wrinkles, sparkled as a child's. "Well then-"
               He crooked his arm. Theyet hesitated, uncertain of the gesture. The usher looped her arm gently with his. "Like so."
              "Like this, Teeny." Mister had urged, tracing his finger over the 'q' again. Only Theyet hadn't been interested in letters that day. "Show me the picture again, Mister?"
               "Finish your letters and maybe."
               Theyet had huffed, but listened. All while watching for Mister to take out the picture of the dancing woman again. Only he had pulled out a different ones she worked... the family photo he prayed over all the time. Not to the great elephants or to Buddha, but to God Almighty. That was the name Mister had used the most. He had showed Theyet, named his wife, his baby girl... his little brother and parents. The first time Theyet had studied these people, she still only wanted to see the ballerina. "They like ballet like you?"
                "I don't like ballet!" Mister had snatched the photo back. "My mother does. She's French and won't let me forget that I am also."
                Theyet watched his face, saying other things his mouth didn't. Her mother's face did that too, when she thought about where they used to live. Where they had to run away from, so as not to be killed. Theyet nodded. "You miss them."
               Mister had tucked the picture away. "Every day."
               Theyet had wrestled in that moment with a sadness. Sadness at Mister going back to his family someday. It would happen; her people wouldn't need the soldiers forever. Some of her elders felt they didn't need them now.
               "How about that 'q'?" Mister pulled himself closer to Theyet to study over her shoulder. "Well-"
               "Well now," the usher cleared his throat. The stairs had ended and he walked them through thick velvet curtains. Theyet's face was instantly illuminated by the sparkling chandelier hanging off a doomed ceiling. Embellished cour-de-fleurs and cornucopias seemed to dance out of its blinding light amidst clouds of blue, coral, and jade paint.
                "It has its own sky." Theyet whispered, mesmerized. The usher chuckled, as though he understood. He pointed down the narrow slant of stairs to their left, handing her ticket back. "Row F, seat 15."
               He faced Theyet then and gave the back of her hand a light kiss. "Dear girl, your journey awaits."
               "Don't wait!" Mister's voice sounded above the rapid fire of the guns. "Go! That's an order!"
               His harsh words and red face hadn't seemed natural, but Theyet had clung to him as he picked her up. She had been too afraid to move from her family's house. The commies were firing on their village; Mama and her cousins were down by the river. Theyet had wanted to search for them, but her eyes stayed shut against Mister's shoulders. She jostled as he ran, catching the sting of branches as he dove into the thick jungle. The trees that'd kept their village hidden... safe... 
               "It's ok, Teeny." He had breathed. "When we stop we'll look at that picture huh? You remember... what it says?" 
               Theyet remembered as she reached her row. She also remembered the sinking feeling in her stomach as Mister's body jerked, then fell on top of her. His pained breath ordering her to play dead. She had, long after the commies stopped firing, long after his blood had dried over her shirt and skin. She stayed still for hours, waiting for Mister to give her the okay. He didn't.
               American soldiers had taken Mister's body, but to Theyet, he was still in those trenches, vigilant over her village. Mama was still there, her grandparents and cousins. But Theyet had gotten out. She'd taken her skills and run with them, until books were a regular thing and English was second-hand. She had a job with the consulate in Ho Chi Minh over two years ago. That was where it had begun, her search for Mister's family. She needed to thank somebody, for teaching her to read, for giving her dreams... for letting her love ballet.
               Their faces when I told them, Theyet's mind had frozen that image of Mrs. Basille and Mister's daughter, Polly, now twenty-one. She had only been able to connect with them by phone at first, until Mister's mother- the original lover of ballet- had insisted that they needed to see her.
               Theyet was happy- relieved- that she had found them, met them, planned to know Mister's family. Her search however, had always been meant to end here... in a plush, cushioned seat, gazing upon a broad-lit stage, ticket clutched in her hand. The ticket and Mister's photo, wrinkled and yellowed, but folded so neatly in Theyet's purse. She collected her breath, smiling at the woman beside her to hold back the tears. The light dimmed, faces and voices fading as spotlights drew their attention to the curtains. A welcoming voice gave a few announcements, then quiet. Theyet felt the moment suspend, and she was eight again, in that plush theatre seat, eyes going wide as the curtains drew back.
               "Made it Mister," Theyet whispered as the orchestra strummed its first notes. "Made it."

THE END

~ To the men and women who died in uniform. 

Your sacrifice is felt, even decades later. 

By those within, and beyond our borders. ~