Ama’s Call Book

The cage came to Ama on her twelfth birthday, wrapped in a tea towel. It was brass, the size of a lunchbox, with a little handle that turned it round and a door just big enough for one wooden ball at a time. Her great-aunt had left it to her with a note: Every ball is a year. Look after them.

With it came a notebook with a soft red cover. Most of the pages were already full. Rows and rows of numbers, in handwriting that changed every few pages. Some were in pencil, some in blue ink, one page in green crayon.

“It’s a call book,” said Rima. Rima was nineteen and sang lô tô at the Tết fair every year, and she had come over to help. “Whoever turns the cage writes down every ball, in order. Every single one.”

“Why?” said Ama. “Everyone can hear the numbers.”

Rima only smiled. “You’ll see.”

That evening the whole family played. Ama turned the handle, the balls clattered, and the first one rolled out. “Fourteen,” she said, and wrote 14 in the book. Then 3. Then 57. Her cousin Tam leaned over her shoulder and read each one out to the table.

On the twentieth ball, two voices shouted at once.

“Line!” cried Uncle Duc.

“Line!” cried Grandma.

They both waved their cards. Then they both looked at Ama.

Ama’s stomach dropped. She could feel everyone waiting for her to decide, and she didn’t want to choose between her uncle and her grandma. Her face went hot.

Then she remembered the red book.

“Read me your line,” she said to Uncle Duc. “One number at a time.”

“Fourteen. Twenty-two. Thirty-nine. Fifty-seven. Sixty-one.”

Ama ran her finger down the page. Fourteen, yes. Twenty-two, yes. Thirty-nine, yes. Fifty-seven, yes. Sixty-one…

She looked twice. It wasn’t there. “Sixty-one hasn’t been called yet,” she said. “It was sixteen.”

Uncle Duc peered at his card, then laughed. “My glasses! Sixteen. You’re right.”

Grandma read hers out. Every number was in the book. “Grandma has the line,” said Ama, and this time her voice came out steady.

Nobody argued. Nobody needed to. The answer wasn’t Ama’s opinion. It was written down, in order, for anyone to see.

Afterwards Ama turned the old pages of the book. She found a page from a fair long ago where someone had written, in tiny letters next to a number, disputed — checked — fine. Another page had a little sketch of a tent. Every page was a game that had really happened.

“Now you see,” said Rima.

“The book isn’t just for remembering,” said Ama slowly. “It’s so nobody has to trust anyone’s memory. Not even mine.”

Rima nodded. “A good record is the fairest thing at the table. It doesn’t take sides.”

Ama wrote the date at the top of the next clean page and drew a small brass cage beside it. Tomorrow the cage would take them somewhere new, Rima said. Wherever it was, Ama would be writing every ball down, in order, one after another.