LITMIR.BIZ

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you’re back, Sensei,” Billy Bob says with a grin and a bow.

      “I missed you too,” I say, shaking my head at the smiling class. “Okay, switch partners and lets do the four-count dummy drill.”

      We’ve practiced this a lot, but for Nate’s purpose I demonstrate on Jackson Steele, a short, muscular brown belt, who is testing for his black in the next couple of months.

      “You will take turns hitting each other four times, not a flurry, but with half a second between each blow. Each time you hit your partner with a controlled shot, your partner will react as if really struck. For example …”

      I front kick Jackson in the abdomen and he snaps forward holding his stomach as if I’d hit him hard. I follow with a controlled round kick to his right leg and he sags to the right. My third hit is a controlled hammer fist to the back of his neck. He drops to one knee, his head hanging limply. When I follow with a knee strike to the side of his face, Jackson falls all the way over.

      “Now it’s your partner’s turn to hit you back, beginning from his last position. In this case, Jackson went all the way to the floor so he has to start from there.”

      The muscular brown belt thrusts a controlled sidekick into my knee, and I bend over sharply pretending to be in pain. Up on his knees now, he pretends to hit me with a palm-heel uppercut to jerk me nearly upright. He hops to his feet and snaps a controlled front-legged, lower shin kick to my groin, and I bend over with a theatrical grunt. He finishes with another slap kick to the same target, and I stumble back with a small whimper.

      “Oscar performance!” Billy Bob calls out. A few students applaud.

      “Okay,” I chuckle, waving them off. “Remember, the idea here is each time your partner reacts, you’re presented with a different silhouette. This is much more valuable than always striking at a stationary upright one. Okay? Have at it.”

      The class always has fun with this drill and Nate is fitting right in. He’s not smiling, but I can tell he’s enjoying himself, especially since his partner, Padre, overacts to each of his blows.

      Nate’s burden seems to have lifted once he began training, and I know well the feeling. While the martial arts have saved my cute behind on several occasions, it has saved my psyche more times than I can remember. Doc Kari, no doubt, has an explanation with lots of Latin words. I just think of training as blowing out negative carbon buildup.

      “Stop! Okay, looking good everyone. Whatever you’re doing on your own time, keep at it. Your extra practice is showing. Padre, up front.”

      “Yes, Sensei,” he says, scurrying up to me.

      “Let’s finish the class with basic reps: jabs, cross punches, backfists, and uppercuts. Then do front kicks, sides, rounds, and hooks. Two sets of fifteen reps each. Got it?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      I move through the rows to the back of the class and stand ready to throw reps with everyone.

      “Fighting positions,” Padre barks. “Backfists with a front-leg lunge. Ready. One!”

      Twenty minutes later, I resume my post at the front of the class. We’re all sweating hard and breathing hard.

      “Thanks, Padre, good job. I haven’t been able to train much lately, and it feels so good to be back. Okay, feet together, stand straight, and place your hands on your belly. Breathe in through your nose and feel your belly expand. Hold it, two, three, four. Blow it out slowly, two, three, four. Hold it, two, three, four. Breathe in, two, three, four.”

      Two more repetitions and everyone’s heartbeat and breathing and more importantly, energy, have returned to normal. It’s important to mellow everyone out before turning them loose on the highways and byways.

      “Thank you for teaching us!” Padre barks after calling the lines to attention.

      “Thank you for teaching me,” I reply. “Ready! Salute!”

      Left hands cover right fists, and both are thrust forward.

      Class over.

      * * *

      Mai laughs when I hold Chien up to the screen. The cat meows and touches the screen with her paw.

      “She looks so cute, Sam. Her hair is so white, so clean.”

      Mai looks tired, drained. Chien lies down next to the keyboard between us.

      Mai smiles at her. “You look good too, Sam. Did you work out?”

      “Taught two classes tonight and worked out a little with each. Not too much. Got to ease back in.”

      She’s wearing a beige tank top that shows off her beautiful shoulders and arms. Her raven black hair is slightly mussed, which looks amazing. Those green specked, brown eyes look heavy lidded as if it’s all she can do to keep from falling asleep.

      “You look exhausted.”

      “Oh, Sam, Mother is doing so bad. Father call doctor to the house this morning because she could not breathe good, and she was coughing blood more than before. The doctor is worried about the … strain? Yes, the strain on her heart. He says the TB is very advanced and the strain on her heart is worse.”

      “I’m so sorry, Mai. I wish I was there with you.”

      She nods for a long moment, looking directly at me. “I wish you were with me too. I am so scared.”

      “She’s a tough woman.”

      Mai wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Not …” She looks away, and I can see her take a deep breath before she turns back to look into the camera. “Not any longer.”

      I hear a soft knock. Mai looks to the side and speaks in Vietnamese. I can hear the sound of a door opening.

      “Come, Father, I am talking with Sam.”

      “Oh good,” I hear Father’s voice say. “May I say hello?”

      “Of course. Sam, Father is here.”

      “Hello, Father,” I say, as he kneels down so I can see him in the camera. Mai scoots her chair to her left so all I can see is her right shoulder.

      He looks trashed too. No surprise, considering he’s been battling coercion from the Vietnamese mafia, lost friends in ensuing firefights, and lost a beloved teacher. Now he is watching helplessly as his beloved wife of some thirty years slides quickly toward death.

      I grew up thinking my father had died in a North Vietnamese prison during the war. He, in fact, was in prison for several years, but fate led him to the unusual position of teaching martial arts to the prison commander. Through the training their friendship grew, and, as the story grows, my father fell in love with the commander’s beautiful daughter Kim. After the war ended, the commander helped my father remain in Vietnam, and my father married Kim two years later, fathered two daughters, and helped raise a stepdaughter. Over the years, the family built a thriving jewelry business, no mean feat given the confusion after the war, the anti-American sentiment, racism, and rampant corruption of government officials and law enforcement. It helped that my father has a charming personality, has tirelessly helped his community rebuild, and he speaks flawless Vietnamese. Interestingly, his slight physique and his Vietnamese-like mannerisms, have led many people to think he is indeed Asian or mixed race.

      “You look good, Son. Rested from the jet lag? Oh, there is Chien. Sleeping like always.”

      “I am, thank you. I’m so sorry about Kim.”

      “Yes, yes. Thank you.” He is looking into the camera but it’s obvious his mind is with Kim. After a moment, he says, “Thirty years ago we were newlyweds. Now we are oldie-weds. In between, the most precious years of my life.”

      “I wish I could have talked with her more while I was there. I found her to be a beautiful and wise woman.”

      She was so sick when I

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