She gently turned her son so I could see him. I pulled my son from my breast and lifted him so the babies were face-to-face. They were now seven and six months old. They say all babies are beautiful. My son was, but her boy, despite his thick black hair, was as thin as a river reed, with sickly yellow skin and features scrunched into a scowl. But of course I complimented her on him and she did the same to me.
As our bodies swayed, bumped, and lurched to the bearers’ gait, we talked about our new projects. She was weaving a piece of cloth that incorporated a line from a poem—a very difficult and taxing undertaking. I was learning how to make pickled birds—a relatively easy task except that it needed to be done correctly to prevent spoilage. But these were simple pleasantries; we had serious things to talk about. When I asked her how things were going, she did not hesitate for a moment.
“When I wake up in the morning, there is no joy except what I feel for my son,” she confessed, her eyes locked onto mine. “I like to sing when I wash the clothes or bring in the firewood, but my husband gets angry if he hears me. When he is displeased, he won’t permit me to cross over the threshold for anything other than my chores. If he is happy, in the evening he lets me sit outside on the platform where he kills his pigs. But when I’m there, I can only think of the animals that have died. When I fall asleep at night, I know I will rise again, but there will be no dawn, only darkness.”
I tried to reassure her. “You say these things because you are a new mother and it has been winter.” I had no right to compare my loneliness to hers, but even I was enveloped by melancholy on those occasions, when I missed my natal family or the cold shadows of the shortened days dampened my heart. “Spring is here,” I offered, both to her and myself. “We’ll be happier with the longer days.”
“My days are better when they are short,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Only when my husband and I go to bed do the complaints stop. I don’t hear my father-in-law grumble about the weakness of his tea, my mother-in-law chastise me for the softness of my heart, my sisters-in-law demand clean clothes, my husband order me to be less of an embarrassment in the village, or my son demand, demand, demand.”
I was appalled that my old same’s situation was this bad. She was miserable and I didn’t know what to say, though just a few days ago I’d promised myself that we would be more candid with each other. In my confusion and awkwardness I let myself be bound up by convention.
“I have tried to accommodate my husband and mother-in-law and it has made my life better,” I offered. “You should do the same. You suffer now, but one day your mother-in-law will die and you will be the lady of the household. All number-one wives who are mothers of sons conquer in the end.”
She smiled ruefully, and I thought over her complaint about her son. I truly didn’t understand it. A son was a woman’s life. It was her job and her fulfillment to meet his every demand.
“Soon your son will be walking,” I said. “You’ll be chasing him everywhere. You’ll be very happy.”
She tightened her arms around her baby. “I am already with child again.”
I beamed my congratulations, but my brain was in turmoil. This explained her swollen breasts and bulging stomach. She had to be pretty far along. But how could she have gotten pregnant so soon? Was this the pollution she had written about in her letter? Had she and her husband done bed business before the hundred days were complete? It had to be so.
“I wish you another son,” I managed to say.
“I hope so.” She sighed. “Because my husband says it is better to have a dog than a daughter.”
We all knew the truth of those words, but who would say that to his pregnant wife?
The feel of the palanquin setting down and the whoops of joy and greeting coming from my brothers saved me from trying to come up with an appropriate response. I was home.
How the household had changed! Elder Brother and his wife now had two children. She had gone back to her natal home for the Expel Birds Festival, but had left the youngsters for us to see. My younger brother had not yet married in, but preparations for his wedding were well under way. He was officially a man. Elder Sister had arrived with her two daughters and a son. She was growing old before our eyes, though I still thought of her as a girl in her hair-pinning days. Mama could not criticize me as easily, although she tried. Baba was proud, but even I could see the burden he felt by having so many mouths to feed for even these few days. Altogether, there were seven children aged six months to six years under our roof. The household rattled with the sounds of tiny footsteps running across the floor, pleas for attention, and songs to quiet. Aunt was happy with all the children about; a house full of children had been her lifelong dream. Still, every once in a while I saw her eyes tear up. If the world were fairer, Beautiful Moon would have been there with her children too.
We spent three days chatting, laughing, eating, and sleeping—none of us arguing, backbiting, condemning, or accusing. For Snow Flower and myself, the best times were at night in the upstairs chamber. We placed our sons on the bed between us. Seeing the two of them side by side, the differences between them were even more apparent. My son was fat with a shock of black hair that stood straight up like his father’s. He loved to nurse and gurgled at my breast until he was drunk with my milk, pausing only to look up at me and smile. Snow Flower’s son had a difficult time with his mother’s milk, spitting it out on her shoulder when she burped him. He was fussy in other respects as well—crying late in the afternoon, his face red with anger, his bottom pink and blistered with rash. But once the four of us snuggled beneath the quilt, both babies quieted, listening to our whispers.
“Do you like bed business?” Snow Flower asked, when she was sure everyone was asleep.
For so many years we had heard the bawdy jokes told by old women or the offhand remarks made by Aunt about the bed fun she and Uncle had. All of that had been very confusing, but now I understood that there was nothing confusing about it.
“My husband and I are like two mandarin ducks,” Snow Flower prompted, when I didn’t respond right away. “We find mutual felicity in soaring together.”
I was taken aback by what she said. Was she lying again, as she had for so many years? Into my bewildered silence, she spoke again.
“But as much as we both enjoy it,” Snow Flower went on, “I am disturbed that my husband doesn’t obey the rules about bed business after giving birth. He waited only twenty days.” She paused again, then admitted, “I don’t blame him. I agreed. I wanted it to happen.”
Though completely bewildered by her desire to do bed business, I was relieved. She had to be telling me the truth, because no one would lie to cover a worse truth. What could be more shameful than committing a polluted act?
“This is a bad thing,” I whispered back. “You must follow the rules.”
“Or what? I’ll become as polluted as my husband?”
This thought had already come to me, but I said, “I don’t want you to get sick or die.”
She laughed into the darkness. “No one gets sick from bed business. It only gives you pleasure. I work hard all day for my mother-in-law. Do I not deserve the delights of night? And, if I have another son, I will be happier still.”