i

then early one morning, i

fed the horses

 

and drove to mount eden to
barrel taste cabs and pinots.

 

the ’90 cabernet, the third

on the left in the new

 

french oak, was stunning.

it took my

 

breath away. “i know this

wine,” i whispered.

 

“her name is jenny,

yes — jenny ku.”

 

ii

jenny’s parents were born in

the high plains mountains

 

between laos and cambodia.
jenny was born in a

 

chevy pick-up just outside

of woodland.

 

she was the absolutely

brightest-five-year-old

 

any of us’d ever met. but a

strange little girl, who

 

used to talk to the wind as

it blew across the sky

 

and write me poems about

all the wonderful places

 

she’d seen in waiting-room

copies of vogue —

 

paris and london and rome.

and i know her mom

 

must’ve said a hundred prayers

a day for her, begging

 

the gods to take her far, far

away to that special place

 

where all the men are rich and

white and all the women spend

 

their days lying quietly in the

sun, far away from depressing

 

little towns with names like

arbuckle, winters, and galt.

 

but jenny had her own little

dreams and her own little

 

prayers. she said she wanted

to have a band of her own

 

some day, like jimi hendrix, the

doors or the grateful dead.

 

and they’d all be boys she said.

well, you’ll have to go to

 

college first, i laughed and then

you can have any band you like.

 

which one? she asked. oh, radcliffe.

or maybe berkeley, vassar or mills

 

— any place that has a crew.

 

write them down, miss maddy,

she commanded. and so i took

 

out my pen, suddenly ashamed

to’ve joked with her the way

 

i always did. radcliffe, berkeley,

vassar, brown and mills.

 

when june came, i remember how

she walked out the door

 

one last time, with the book of

horses i’d bought for her, her

 

crayon box and a green plastic

mask of kermit-the-frog.

 

i remember how she walked out

that door without even turning

 

to say good-bye and how hurt i

was and how i sat at my desk,

 

cleaning out the drawers, and

crying. and i never

 

saw jenny at school again.

 

iii

it’s been nearly eighteen

years now. but this

 

morning, i read in the bee how

a valley girl had made good.

 

jenny dung ku of fresno, cali-

fornia had won a scholarship

 

to mills, coxed the varsity

eight, become a

 

kindergarten teacher

in oakland, and ,

 

tonight at ten, to the utter

dismay of all her family

 

and closest friends, she’ll be

playing with her very own

 

all-boy asian hip-hop world-beat

rock’n’roll band. so be there!

 

(‘all right, jen!’) wow!

 

iv

i drove back from mount eden

with the taste of that ’90 cab

 

still in my mouth, and stood in

the shadows of the cattle club,

 

behind her sound techs and a stack

of peavey speakers, watching her

 

tapping on the keyboard of her

monster roland, impatient,

 

as if waiting for a message,

or a sign. of course,

 

she’d changed. but to me, she

was still the same little girl

 

who probably hadn’t grown an

inch since the day

 

she turned ten, the same little

girl who still had that

 

passion in her eyes, the kind of

dazzling, triumphant light

 

that only comes from heaven

or the gods. “all right,

 

sacramento!” she screamed “are

you ready to rock and roll?”

 

v

and as i listened to her sing,

as i watched her slender

 

arms reaching up into the

streaming blue lights.

 

then downwards — her fingers

driving hammering

 

into those poor helpless keys

— i suddenly thought i

 

heard a music, lovely and strange,

a music no one’d ever heard

 

before — not in paris, london

or new york, not

 

in san francisco or laos

or cambodia

 

and then, i understood.
everything —

 

why she’d gone to mills,
why she’d become a

 

teacher, and why she hadn’t

said good-bye

 

when she left me that day

in june — with her book of

 

horses, her box of crayons,
and the broken green mask

 

her dying father had

bought for her —

 

at a christmas sale
at k-mart.