Chinese Literature

to see who they were, but hurried into the narrow bedroom to the right of the main room. Her mother was lying on the bed.

The moment she entered, many people began noisily questioning her, demanding to know where she’d been. Chun-mei ignored them all, her gaze riveted on her mother’s face. Her mother was lying limply, her eyes closed. There was an ugly red welt on the right side of her neck. Her sharp bony face was bloodless, like a drab leaf.

All the way home, Chun-mei had been unable to restrain her tears. But the vicious words in the garden had dried them up.

“Ma!” she cried hoarsely. “Ma! How could you want to die? Let me die for you! Years of disaster we came through all right. What could be worse than those landlords and Kuomintang officials to make you do a thing like this!”

Her mother opened her lids a trifle. Her eyes moved, and two big teardrops rolled down her cheeks. Just then, someone gripped Chunmei by the shoulder. She turned to see a strong, dark-visaged woman standing behind her, holding a bowl. This was her aunt—Li-ho’s wifea very competent person. The aunt’s maiden name was Li, and after liberation she insisted on being called by that, rather than by her husband’s family name of Yang. She was a leader of the village women’s association.

“Child,” the aunt reproved, “your mother’s just quieted down, and you're upsetting her again!” Then, leaning over the bed, she urged, “Sister, drink a little brown sugar water and ginger.’

Several women helped the widow sit up. After two sips, she looked at her daughter, and her tears began to gush like popped beans. Chunmei dried her mother’s eyes with a face towel. In a small voice, she queried:

“Ma, after all, why did you do it?”

Aunt Li tapped Chun-mei on the arm and led her outside the back door. After looking around in the darkness, she scolded Chun-mei quietly.

“Stupid girl! Can’t you understand? How can your mother talk to you in front of all those people?”

Chun-mei’s right hand was clutching her forehead, her fingers kneading it fretfully.

“Ma was never willing to tell me anything. She kept it all in. There wasn’t a thing I could do about it!”

Aunt Li thought a moment. “You can’t blame her. You’re an unmarried girl and your mother is sensitive and timid. Even with me, she sometimes says only half of what’s on her mind.’

Voices were heard on the garden path, and Aunt Li stopped talking. By then, the pale sickle moon hung over the treetops, and the cocks had already crowed for the second time. People were beginning to go home.