Her son, Shouxi, was small everywhere – nose, eyes, head, arms, hands – and one would be hard pressed to spot any resemblance to his burly mother, who often sighed and said, “If the seed’s no good, fertile soil is wasted.” He worked the bellows while she pounded the steel into shape.
On this particular day, as the last scythe was tempered, she raised it to her nose, as if its smell could determine its quality. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders and said in a voice that revealed her exhaustion, “Serve dinner.”
Like a foot soldier receiving a general’s command, Shangguan Lu ran on tiny bound feet, back and forth, setting the table under the pear tree, where a single hanging lantern produced a murky yellow light and drew hordes of moths that flew noisily into the lantern shade. Shangguan Lu had prepared a platter of buns stuffed with ground-up pork bone and radish filling, a bowl of mung bean soup for each person, and a bunch of leeks and a paste to dip them in. She cast an uneasy look at her mother-in-law to gauge her reaction. If there was plenty of food, she’d pull a long face and complain about wastefulness; if it was a simple meal, she’d toss down her bowl and chopsticks and complain angrily that it was tasteless. Being her daughter-in-law was not easy. Steam rose from the buns and the rice porridge. This was the time that the family, deluged by the clang of metal on metal during the day, fell silent. Xuan’er’s mother-in-law sat in the center, her son on one side, husband on the other, while Xuan’er stood beside the table awaiting her mother-in-law’s instructions.
“Have you fed the animals?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Closed up the chicken coop?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Shangguan Lü bent down and slurped a mouthful of soup.
Shangguan Shouxi spat out a sliver of bone and grumbled, “Other people eat pork-filled buns, but all we get are the bones. Like dogs…”
His mother slammed down her chopsticks. “You,” she cursed, “what gives you the right to be picky about what you eat?”
“We’ve got all that wheat in the bin and plenty of money in the cupboard,” Shouxi said. “What are we saving it for?”
“He’s right,” his father pitched in. “We deserve a reward for all our hard work.”
“That wheat in the bin and money in the cupboard, who does it belong to?” Xuan’er’s mother-in-law asked. “When I finally stretch out my legs for the last time and journey to the Western Heaven, do you think I’m going to take it with me? No, I’m leaving it for you.”
Xuan’er hung her head and held her breath.
Shangguan Lü exploded to her feet and stormed off. “Listen to me,” she shouted from inside the house. “Tomorrow we’ll fry fritters, braise pork strips, hard-boil some eggs, kill a chicken, bake some flat-cakes, and make dumplings! Why spread it out? One of our ancestors must have done something to make us suffer. We bring a barren woman into the family, and all she can do is eat. Well, since our family line is coming to an end, who are we saving for? Let’s finish it all off and be done with it!”
Xuan’er covered her face with her hands and burst out crying.
“You should be goddamned ashamed of yourself, crying like that!” Shangguan Lü shouted. “You’ve eaten our food for three years and haven’t even presented us with a daughter, let alone a son! You’re eating us out of house and home! Tomorrow you can go back where you came from. I won’t let this family line die out all because of you!”
Not a minute passed that night when Xuan’er’s tears didn’t flow. When Shouxi wanted to have his way with her, she submitted weakly. “Nothing is wrong with me,” she said through her tears. “Maybe it’s you.”
Without climbing off, he growled, “A hen can’t lay an egg, so she blames it on the rooster!”
4
The harvest was in, and the rainy season was about to begin. Local custom demanded that new brides return to their parents’ home to pass the hottest days of the year. Most of those who had been married three years returned proudly holding the hand of one child, suckling a second, and carrying a third inside, plus a bundle filled with patterns for shoes to be made. Poor Xuan’er. All she brought home, besides her sadness, were scars and bruises bestowed upon her by her husband, the echoes of her mother-in-law’s curses, a pathetic little bundle, and eyes red and puffy from crying. Now, the most caring aunt is still no match for your own mother, so even though she returned with a bellyful of bitter complaints, she had to keep them to herself and put on the best face possible.
As soon as she stepped through the doorway, her keen-eyed aunt saw right through her. “Nothing yet, I see.”
That simple comment brought tears of pain gushing from Xuan’er’s eyes.
“Strange,” her aunt muttered. “You’d think three years would be long enough to produce something.”
At dinnertime that evening, Big Paw Yu spotted the bruises on Xuan’er’s arm. “That sort of wife-beating has no place in a modern republic,” he said angrily. “I’d like to burn that turtles’ nest of theirs to the ground!”
“I see that not even rice can stop up that foul mouth of yours!” her aunt said as she glared at her husband.
For a change, there was plenty of food in front of Xuan’er, but she forced herself not to overeat. Her uncle placed a large piece of fish in her bowl.
“You know,” her aunt said, “you can’t blame your in-laws. Why does anyone take a wife? To continue the family line.”
“You didn’t continue my family line,” her husband said, “and I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?”
“Who asked you? Get the donkey ready so you can take Xuan’er into town to see a woman’s doctor.”
Sitting astride the donkey, Xuan’er passed through the fields of Northeast Gaomi Township, which were crisscrossed with rivers and streams. The sun sent down blistering rays of heat, raising steam from the ground and drawing groans from the foliage around her. A pair of dragonflies, connected at the rear, darted past; a pair of swallows mated in the sky above. Baby frogs that had just shed their tails hopped across the roadway; locusts that had just emerged from eggs perched on the tips of roadside grass. A litter of newborn rabbits followed their mother in a hunt for food. Baby ducks paddled behind their mother, their tiny pink webbed feet sending ripples to the edge of a pond… rabbits and locusts can produce offspring, so why can’t I? She felt empty inside, and was reminded of the legend regarding a child-rearing bag that existed in the bellies of all women, all but hers, it seemed. Please, Matron of Sons, I beg you, give me a child…
Even though her uncle was nearly forty, he had not lost his playfulness. Instead of holding the donkey’s halter, he let the animal trot along on its own while he ran up and down the roadside picking wild-flowers, which he made into a wreath for Xuan’er – to keep out the sun, he said. After chasing birds until he was out of breath, he went deep into the field, where he found a fist-sized wild melon, which he handed to Xuan’er. “It’s sweet,” he said, but when she bit into it, it was so bitter it nearly paralyzed her tongue. Then he rolled up his pant cuffs and jumped into a pond, quickly catching a pair of insects the size of melon seeds and shaking them in his hand. “Change!” he shouted. Holding his closed hand up to Xuan’er’s nose, he asked her, “What do they smell like?” She shook her head and said she didn’t know. “Like watermelons,” he said. “They’re watermelon bugs. They come from watermelon seeds.”