Chu Ju's House Read online

“Chu Ju,” Nai Nai shouted. “Why are you crouching out there in the rain? Don’t you have the sense to come into the house? You are needed at once. Make tea for Auntie Tai. There is much to do here.”

  My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. If Nai Nai had been pleased with the baby, she would surely have made the tea for Auntie Tai. That the task should be left to a young girl was an insult to Auntie Tai.

  In an offended voice Auntie Tai said, “I will not stop for tea. They will be expecting me at my next house, where they are sure to have my tea waiting for me and sesame cakes as well.” There was no courteous zai-jian as she left.

  “Since you have brought us a girl,” Nai Nai called after her, “you would do well to find a place for her.”

  I crept into the small room in which my parents slept. Ma Ma was lying very still. Ba Ba was standing beside her looking down at a small bundle wrapped round and round with a cloth. There was deep disappointment on his face, but also a kind of wonder, the same look I had seen when he had gazed fondly at the green shoots in the cornfield. It was not a son, but it had lain like a tiny seed inside of Ma Ma, and it had grown and now here it was.

  Nai Nai saw the look as well and said in a brisk voice to Ba Ba, “Your patients will be waiting for you at your shop. You had better see to them. You are only in the way here.”

  Ba Ba reached down to touch the bundle but seemed to think better of it.

  As Ba Ba started for the door, Ma Ma pleaded, “You will have nothing done with the child?”

  “The sooner something is done, the better,” Nai Nai answered. “Are you to nurse and take care of her all day? You will get used to the child, and then what?”

  In a weak voice Ma Ma said, “Two girls are not the greatest evil that could befall us. Chu Ju is a good worker.”

  Nai Nai said, “How long will that last? She will marry, and you will never see her again.”

  “She is just fourteen,” Ma Ma said. “By the time she marries, her little sister will be there to help. Perhaps by then we will have a son.”

  “Talk of another child is foolishness,” Ba Ba said. “Some village tattletale would report to the government that we have three children, and the government would fine us so many yuan. We would have to sell everything we have to pay the fine. Or worse. You know that the officials knocked down Li’s house because he had a third child. You cannot have a son to carry on our family name until this girl baby is gone.”

  Ba Ba’s voice became less impatient. “We will wait a little,” he said.

  There were tears running down Ma Ma’s cheeks. Nai Nai thrust the baby into my arms. “See to her. Let your ma ma sleep.”

  Here was this bundle in my arms. It was no heavier than a sack of rice or a melon. I did not know whether to hold the bundle tightly so that nothing should happen to it, or loosely so that something so tender would not be crushed.

  I carried my sister into the other room and sat down upon a chair and peered at her. She looked small and helpless, like a fledgling that falls from a bird’s nest. She opened her eyes and I saw she was no fledgling bird, for there was nothing helpless in her eyes. They were shiny and black and crackled with life. She made little sucking sounds with her mouth and waved her tiny hands about. She was like a seedling that pushes up from the ground, bending this way and that until it gains more growth and can stand firm against the wind.

  The baby began to whimper. I smoothed down the cap of black hair that stood straight up on her head. I walked back and forth holding the bundle and speaking to it in whispers, telling it that Ba Ba had said, “We will wait a little,” so that there was no cause for whimpering.

  From that moment, except for the times Ma Ma nursed her, the baby’s care was given over to me. I remembered Nai Nai saying to Ma Ma, “You will get used to the child, and then what?”

  After a few days I asked, “What will you name her?”

  Nai Nai said, “There is no need for a name.”

  I trembled at Nai Nai’s words, for I knew if the baby had a name, it would place her a little more firmly in our family. In my head I named her Hua, Blossom, because she was born on the day the beans blossomed and their fragrance was sweet on the air.

  The days went by and Hua was still there. She was with me always. Nai Nai taught me how to wind a length of cloth to hold the baby on my back. When I went on an errand into the village she was with me. She slept beside me at night. Even if I was fast asleep, her softest cry awakened me. When I picked her up, the crying ceased. I was the first to hear the cooing noises she made like the call of the turtledoves that perched on the roof of our house.

  At first her eyes were like shining black pebbles rolling about. After a bit they settled first on one thing and then another. Often the black pebbles fastened on my face, looking and looking until I wondered what Hua saw, for my face was only a plain face.

  I thought of this baby like a puppy to be carried about with me, something to hold close to me and warm me and amuse me with her little tricks, a new one each day. Her smiles when they came were all for me.

  But there was much work to be done for the little creature. I was awakened at night by Hua’s cries and had to carry her to Ma Ma to be nursed. Again, early in the morning, I was awakened. All day long she had to be changed and cleaned. Sometimes there would be crying and I could find no reason for it. There was never a minute when I could wander to the village and spend time with a friend. So when Nai Nai argued day and night that something must be done with the baby, there were times when I did not care if my sister was sent away.

  One day I was hoeing a row of turnips in our pitiful plot. The day was hot, and though I had put Hua in the shade of the chestnut tree, she whined with the heat. I was thirsty and sick of the whining. I left Hua in her basket and went to the house for boiled water, in no hurry to get back to my work and Hua’s whining. I had drunk my water and was returning to take up the hoe when I saw a great black vulture settle on a branch of the chestnut tree just over Hua’s basket. It had an ugly bald head, a cruel yellow beak, and sharp talons. I ran at it screaming and threatening it with the hoe. Such vultures stole ducks and piglets and even grown dogs. What might it have done to Hua?

  My hands were shaking and my breath would not come. I sobbed with fright. Suppose through my fault I had let the vulture carry off my sister? After that everything changed. I would not let Hua out of my sight. When Nai Nai talked of how Hua must be sent away, how someone would come and take her, then Nai Nai became the vulture, ugly and cruel, and I hated her. When there was such talk, I held my sister close to me and hid with her in the fields.

  As the weeks went by and Hua grew, she fretted and seemed hungry after her nursing. I begged a little rice gruel for her.

  Nai Nai shook her head. “The milk is plenty. We have hardly enough rice for our own bowls.”

  When Nai Nai was not looking, I put a little of my rice aside to give to Hua and there was less crying.

  Ma Ma held Hua tenderly after the nursing was over, and Ba Ba smiled when Hua’s tiny hand curled around his finger, so I had a small hope that we might keep her after all, but one evening I found out that there was to be no keeping of Hua.

  We were all sitting together finishing our rice mixed with a bit of dried fish. Ba Ba announced, “A woman will come tomorrow to make arrangements for the taking of the girl baby.”

  In her soft voice Ma Ma begged, “Let us keep her. She is already a part of us. What will become of her if we send her away?”

  “That is not our worry,” Nai Nai said. “There are orphanages for such children.”

  I looked at Ba Ba, but he only got up and left the house. Later in the evening, when he returned, I heard Ma Ma’s voice and Ba Ba’s voice long into the night.

  I hardly slept for watching over Hua. The next morning, after Ba Ba left the house, the woman came. She was a big woman with small eyes, a tight mouth, and a mole on her cheek with a long black hair. She wore a large loose-fitting shirt and trousers and a shawl wrapped ab
out her shoulders. I thought she could snatch Hua and hide her in all that cloth.

  The woman looked closely at Hua as if she were counting her fingers and toes to see if they were all there. I was sure she had not noticed how bright Hua’s eyes were or how neat and clean I kept her.

  “An unremarkable girl baby,” she said. “It will be difficult to find a place for her.”

  She named a price, and Nai Nai, who had never bothered to look at Hua, now began to point out her fine complexion, her thick hair, and her strong limbs. “Just see how she looks about and notices everything around her,” Nai Nai said. “We are insulted by such a price. Twice the amount would be too little.”

  Hua gurgled and smiled at the horrible woman. When the woman and Nai Nai were busy with their haggling and not looking at Hua, I reached slyly under Hua’s shirt and pinched her hard. Immediately she began crying. I hoped the woman would not want a crying child.

  “There,” the woman said. “You are trying to sell me an ill-natured girl who will give everyone trouble.”

  I held my breath, hoping that the woman would not take her.

  Nai Nai scowled at Hua. “She cries because she is insulted that you hold her so cheaply.”

  All the while Ma Ma sat in a corner of the room, pale and silent. As the two women argued, Ma Ma began to cry. I had wondered why Nai Nai had not sent her into the other room. Now I understood, for Nai Nai said, “We will not sell her after all. See, her ma ma is not willing to let her go.” And indeed, Ma Ma was sobbing harder than ever; the sobs were not just show for the woman, but from Ma Ma’s heart.

  At this the woman offered more, for she could see that what Nai Nai said was true, that Ma Ma did not wish to part with Hua. What the woman did not understand was that Ma Ma had nothing to say in the matter.

  At last a price was agreed upon, and the woman said she would make inquiries as to where Hua was to be taken and return for Hua the following morning.

  Our meal that night was a silent one. Neither Ma Ma nor I could eat. Ba Ba kept his head down. Even Nai Nai held her tongue. When dinner was over and I had washed the bowls and scrubbed the wok, I took Hua out into the fields.

  The spring evening was as pleasant as the house had been bitter. The summer sky still held the light of day. The ripe guavas hung on the trees like unlit lanterns. There was a light wind that made the scarecrow’s shirtsleeves and trousers flutter. For a moment I feared it was moving toward me.

  I clung more tightly to Hua. I had heard stories in the village of babies being carried off and never seen again. In any village there will be stories to make a little excitement and send tongues wagging. I had thought such stories were only meant to scare us in a delicious way.

  Now I knew the stories of the babies being carried away were true. I looked down at Hua. She was asleep. Her long black eyelashes were a dark fringe on her cheeks. Her round pink mouth was a little open. Hua would be sent away so that the authorities would think our family had no more than one child. One day Ma Ma might have a son to please my nai nai and my ba ba.

  If my ma ma could not stop Hua from being sent away, how could I? I wished I could disappear so that there would be only one daughter. The word disappear sounded in my head like the tiny insects you hear but cannot see. Disappear, disappear, they buzzed. Then there will be just one child, Hua.

  But I was not a magician. I could not make myself disappear. Think of the map, the tiny insects buzzed. The map had stretched all the way across the wall of our schoolroom. The whole wall was China. At the bottom of the map was a scale that told how many kilometers the millimeters stood for. The length of my little finger was many kilometers on the map. You could travel thousands of kilometers and still be in China.

  When I was little, to escape my nai nai’s scolding I had hidden in the branches of a nearby banyan tree. If I tucked my legs under me and kept still, she could not find me. If I could hide so close to our house, why couldn’t I hide somewhere in the great map?

  At first I was pleased with the idea of disappearing. I thought of the excitement of starting out on such a journey. I thought of the wonders of China we had studied in school—the great wall in the north and the huge cities where many of the houses had a dian-shi and around every corner was a cinema.

  There were factories in the cities. Perhaps I could get a job, for I knew how to make silk flowers. In our village school our teacher had handed out silk petals to the children along with strands of wire and green tape. All week we worked at making silk flowers, arranging the petals, fastening them with a bit of glue and sticking them on the wire we had wrapped with the green tape. We made blue flowers and pink flowers and red flowers, flowers such as I had never seen. The teacher said such flowers would be sold in distant countries, and the money they brought would help our school.

  When he heard of the flower making, my ba ba complained that instead of studying, our time in class was taken up in making flowers for the school to sell; but the people at the school said such money was needed, for the school didn’t have enough desks and there was no blackboard, only the wall that had been covered with thick black paint. Some whispered that we were lucky. In one school the children had made fireworks. There was a dreadful explosion and the whole school blew up with many children killed. There could be no explosion with silk flowers.

  Why could I not disappear in a city, where I could make silk flowers and have a dian-shi, wear jeans, and go to the cinema? I thought again of the map and how far away such cities were. I remembered young men from our village who had gone to those cities and been sent to jail, for they went with no government permission and no proper government papers. I had heard stories—told in hushed voices by the village women—of young girls who traveled to the cities and were never heard from again. I did not think I would go to the city, even for a dian-shi.

  Hua was stirring in her sleep. When she was half awake, she made a small chirping noise like a little babbler bird. If I didn’t disapper, Hua would disappear. I knew it would be me and I knew it must be soon, before I lost my courage, and before the next morning when the woman would return.

  As I sat there in the dark, I made myself feel sad by thinking of what our house would be like without me and wondering whether I would be missed. I was sure my nai nai would not miss me. The only word she ever said to me was budui, wrong. She could not forgive me for being a girl.

  Ma Ma might miss me, for we sometimes worked shoulder to shoulder in our garden, exclaiming over a rabbit hopping among the peas or a mouse’s nest among the cornstalks. I wondered if my ba ba would miss me. When I was small, he would take me by the hand and we would go to see what had sprung out of the earth in the night. He knew one bean tendril from another and one spear of garlic from the other, and they were like so many children to him. Still, when he looked at me, there was always a bit of sadness on his face, as if his eyes had fallen on some misfortune.

  Against the leaving behind of my home and my ma ma and ba ba, I set the picture of Hua carried off, crying, her arms stretched out for me. The orphanages were so full of girl babies, there was hardly enough food for the babies to eat. Some of the babies were adopted by waiguoren, foreigners, but some were left hungry and uncared-for in crowded orphanages. There were even stories of selling girl babies to be raised as servants or laborers or worse. I would not let them take Hua. I would be the one to disappear.

  three

  I waited until everyone was asleep. When all was silent in my parents’ room and wheezing whistles came from Nai Nai, I hastily rolled up a change of clothes and took my pencil box, saved from my schooldays. In the days when my parents could afford to send me to school, I had carried the pencil box with me to class each day. I tied the roll with a bit of string. I had a little pile of yuan I was saving in case the day should come when Ba Ba would change his mind about blue jeans. I kissed Hua’s cheek lightly. She stirred in her sleep and I held my breath, but she did not awaken. On the courtyard table I placed a note I had written earlier. Only Ba Ba
would be able to read it. I had made it simple, for there were many characters Ba Ba did not know.

  Honored Parents,

  Now you have only one daughter. A son may yet come.

  Your miserable Chu Ju

  When I reached the edge of our courtyard, I stopped. In making my plans I had traveled no farther than this. As I stood there, uncertain of where to go, my ye ye’s words came back to me. “There is no end to where the river can take you.”

  I hurried along the moonlit path to the deserted village, where the stalls were shuttered like so many closed eyes. I kept to the shadows. A woman disappeared around a corner. A man on a bicycle passed me. Then I was alone. When there are many people about, you are safely hidden in the crowd. Now all the things I feared but could not put a name to were watching me.

  At last I came to the river, where a little gathering of fishing boats was tied to the shore. One of the boats had a lantern; the others were dark. Tied to the fishing boats were small boats, each with a heap of netting. At daybreak the boats would pull up their anchors and move up or down the river to a place of good fishing.

  I wished I might go with one of the fishermen, but surely he would have nothing to do with the taking of a strange girl onto his boat. I sat at the water’s edge listening to the current of the river rocking the fishing boats. The next moment I was creeping softly down the riverbank and climbing into one of the small boats. Little by little I worked my way under the netting. It was no easy task, for the netting was heavy and smelled so strongly of fish, my stomach turned over. I was as tangled in the heavy wet netting as any trapped fish. I would be discovered, but by then perhaps I would be in another place.

  As I crouched beneath the netting and the hours passed, I began to see what a foolish thing I had done. I thought of hurrying back, tearing up the note, and climbing into my bed beside Hua. I peeked out and saw along the edge of the dark sky the thin bright line of the coming morning. The next moment I heard a stirring in the fishing boat. A boy with his back to me was peeing over the edge into the water. Hastily I ducked back under the netting. Moments later the boats came alive. There was calling back and forth. I heard the thud of the anchor dropping. Suddenly the fishing boat—with the small boat attached, and me in it—began to move downstream.