Snow Flower’s face broke into a broad grin. “This is exactly what I thought. You and I had our eight characters matched so perfectly. Should we not only match our daughters’ eight characters but also match those eight characters to ours as much as possible? They could start their binding on the same day and at the same age as we did.”
I looked over at Snow Flower’s daughter. Spring Moon had her mother’s beauty at that age—silken skin and soft black hair—but her demeanor seemed resigned as she sat with her head down, squinting at her embroidery as she assiduously tried not to eavesdrop on her fate.
“They will be like a pair of mandarin ducks,” I said, relieved that we had come to such an easy agreement, though I’m sure we were both hoping that our matched characters would make up for the fact that the girls’ eight characters were not so perfectly in accord.
Snow Flower was truly lucky to have Spring Moon; otherwise she would have been left alone all day with her mother-in-law. Let me say this: That woman was still as biting and mean-spirited as I remembered. She had but one refrain: “Your oldest son is no better than a girl. He’s a weakling. How will he ever have the strength to slaughter a pig?” I thought something not befitting Lady Lu: Why couldn’t the spirits have taken her in the epidemic?
Our evening meal brought back tastes from my childhood before my dowry gifts began to arrive—preserved long beans, pigs’ feet in chili sauce, wok-fried slivers of pumpkin, and red rice. Every meal when I was in Jintian was the same in the sense that we always had some part of the pig. Pig fat in black beans, pig ears in a clay pot, flaming pig intestines, pig penis sauteed with garlic and chili. Snow Flower ate none of it, quietly eating her vegetables and rice.
After dinner, her mother-in-law retired for the night. Although tradition says that two old sames should share a bed when visiting—meaning the husband sleeps elsewhere—the butcher announced that he would not remove himself to other quarters. His excuse? “There is nothing so evil as a woman’s heart.” This was an old saying and probably true, but it was not a gracious thing to say to Lady Lu. Nevertheless, it was his house and we had to do what he said.
Snow Flower took me back upstairs to the women’s chamber, where she made a bed with some of her clean, though frayed, dowry quilts. On the cabinet she placed a low bowl filled with warm water for me to wash my face. Oh, how I wanted to dip a cloth into that water and wipe away the cares that played across my laotong‘s features. As I thought this, she brought out an outfit almost identical to hers—almost, because I remembered when she had pieced it together from one of her mother’s dowry treasures. Snow Flower leaned forward, kissed my cheek, and whispered in my ear, “Tomorrow we will have all day together. I will show you my embroidery and what I have done on our fan. We will talk and remember.” Then she left me alone.
I blew out the lantern and lay beneath the quilts. The moon was nearly full, and the blue light that came through the lattice window transported me back many years. I buried my face in the folds where Snow Flower’s scent was as fresh and delicate as when we had been in our hair-pinning years. The memory of low moans of pleasure filled my ears. Alone in that dark room I blushed at things perhaps best forgotten. But the sounds didn’t go away. I sat up. The noises were not in my head but coming up to me from Snow Flower’s room. My laotong and her husband were doing bed business! My laotong may have become a vegetarian, but she was no Wife Wang of the story. I covered my ears and tried to fall asleep, but it was hard. My good fortune had made me impatient and intolerant. The polluted and polluting nature of that place and the people who lived there rasped against my senses, my flesh, my soul.
The next morning, the butcher left for the day and his mother went back to her room. I helped Snow Flower wash and dry the dishes, bring in firewood, haul water, slice the vegetables for the midday meal, go to the shed where the sides of pork were kept to fetch meat, and attend to her daughter. Once all this was done, Snow Flower set water to heat that we could use for bathing. She carried the kettle back upstairs to the women’s chamber and shut the door. We had never had any inhibitions. Why would we now? The air in that little house was surprisingly warm even though it was the tenth month, but goose bumps rose on my skin behind the path of Snow Flower’s wet cloth.
But how do I say this without sounding like a husband? When I looked at her I saw that her pale skin—always so beautiful—had begun to thicken and darken. Her hands—always so smooth—felt rough on my skin. Lines were etched above her lip and at the corners of her eyes. Her hair was pinned back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Strands of gray threaded through it. She was my age—thirty-two. Women in our county often do not live beyond forty years, but I had just seen my mother-in-law go to the afterworld, and she had still looked very handsome for a woman who had reached the remarkable age of fifty-one.
That night, more pig for dinner.
I DIDN’T REALIZE it then, but the outer realm—that tumultuous world of men—was pushing its way into Snow Flower’s and my lives. During my second night at her house, we were awakened by terrible sounds. We met in the main room and huddled together, all of us, even the butcher, terrified. Smoke filled the room. A house—maybe a whole village—was burning somewhere. Dust and ash settled on our clothes. The clatter of clanging metal and the beat of horses’ hooves pounded into our heads. In the dark of night, we had no idea what was happening. Was it a catastrophe in just one village or was this something much worse?
A big disaster was coming. The people who lived in villages behind us began to flee, leaving their farms for the safety of the hills. From Snow Flower’s window the next morning, we saw them—men, women, and children—on hand-drawn or oxen-pulled carts, on foot, on ponies. The butcher ran to the edge of the village and shouted to the stream of refugees.
“What’s happened? Is it war?”
Voices called back.
“The Emperor has sent word to Yongming City that our government must take action against the Taipings!”
“Imperial troops have arrived to drive out the rebels!”
“There’s fighting everywhere!”
The butcher cupped his hands and yelled, “What should we do?”
“Run away!”
“The battle will be here soon!”
I was petrified, overwhelmed, and dazed with panic. Why didn’t my husband come for me? Again and again I berated myself for choosing this time—after all these years—to visit Snow Flower. But this is the nature of fate. You make choices that are good and sound, but the gods have other plans for you.
I helped Snow Flower assemble bags for her and the children. We went to the kitchen and gathered together a large sack of rice, tea, and liquor for drinking and to treat injuries. Finally, we rolled four of Snow Flower’s wedding quilts into tight bundles and set them by the door. When everything was ready, I dressed in my silk traveling outfit, went outside to stand on the platform, and waited for my husband, but he didn’t come. I looked up the road to Tongkou. A stream of people were leaving there too, only instead of going up into the hills behind the village they were crossing the fields, going toward Yongming City. The two trails of people—one going into the hills, the other going to town—confused me. Hadn’t Snow Flower always said that the hills were the arms that embraced us? If so, why were the people of Tongkou going the opposite direction?
In the late afternoon, I saw a palanquin leave the Tongkou group and veer toward Jintian. I knew it was coming for me, but the butcher refused to wait.
“It’s time to go!” he bellowed.
I wanted to remain behind and wait for my family to get me. The butcher said no.