“I can do these things for your little girl,” he confided to Baba, “but they will be money spent on a no-use cause.”
But the bad news of that day was not yet done. While we kowtowed to the doctor, he looked round the room and saw Grandmother under her quilts. He moved to her, touched her forehead, and listened to the secret pulses that measured her chi. He looked up at my father. “Your honored mother is very sick. Why did you not mention this before?”
How could Baba answer this and save face? He was a good son, but he was also a man, and this business fell within the inner realm. Still, Grandmother’s welfare was his most important filial duty. While he was downstairs smoking his pipe with his brother and waiting for winter to end, upstairs two people had fallen under the spell of ghost spirits.
Again, our whole family set to questioning. Was too much time spent on worthless girls that the one woman of value and esteem in our home was allowed to weaken? Had all that walking back and forth across the room with Third Sister stolen Grandmother’s storehouse of steps? Had Grandmother—tired of hearing Third Sister’s screams—closed down her chi to shut out the irksome racket? Had the ghost spirits who’d come to prey on Third Sister been tempted by the possibility of another victim?
After so much noise, and after all the attention that had been paid in recent weeks to Third Sister, all focus now shifted to Grandmother. My father and uncle left her side only to smoke, eat, or relieve themselves. Aunt assumed all the household duties, making meals for everyone, washing, and caring for all of us. I never saw Mama sleep. As the first daughter-in-law, she had two main purposes in life: to provide sons to carry on the family and to care for her husband’s mother. She should have watched Grandmother’s health more assiduously. Instead, she had allowed man-hope to enter her mind by shifting her attention to me and my good-luck future. Now, with the fierce determination born of her earlier neglectfulness, she performed all the prescribed rituals, preparing special offerings to the gods and to our ancestors, praying and chanting, even making soup from her own blood to rebuild Grandmother’s life force.
Since everyone was occupied with Grandmother, Beautiful Moon and I were assigned to watch over Third Sister. We were only seven and did not know the words or actions to comfort her. Her torment was great, but it was not the worst I would see in my lifetime. She died four days later, enduring more suffering and pain than was fair for such a short life. Grandmother died one day after that. No one saw her suffer. She just curled up smaller and smaller like a caterpillar under an autumnal blanket of leaves.
* * *
THE GROUND WAS too hard for burial to take place. Grandmother’s two remaining sworn sisters attended to her, sang mourning songs, wrapped her body in muslin, and dressed her for life in the afterworld. She was an old woman, who had lived a long life, so her eternity clothes had many layers. Third Sister was only six. She did not have a lifetime of clothing to keep her warm or many friends to meet her in the afterworld. She had her summer outfit and her winter outfit, and even these were things that Elder Sister and I had worn first. Grandmother and Third Sister spent the rest of winter under a shroud of snow.
I would say that between the time of Grandmother’s and Third Sister’s deaths and their burials much changed in the women’s chamber. Oh, we still did our rounds. We still bathed our feet every four days and changed into smaller shoes every two weeks. But now Mama and Aunt watched over us with great vigilance. And we were heedful too, never resisting or complaining. When it came time for bathing our feet, our eyes were as riveted to the pus and blood as Mama’s and Aunt’s. Each night after we girls were finally left alone, and every morning before our routine began again, Elder Sister checked our legs to make sure we were not growing serious infections.
I often think back on those first few months of our footbinding. I remember how Mama, Aunt, Grandmother, and even Elder Sister recited certain phrases to encourage us. One of these was “Marry a chicken, stay with a chicken; marry a rooster, stay with a rooster.” Like so much back then, I heard the words but didn’t understand the meaning. Foot size would determine how marriageable I was. My small feet would be offered as proof to my prospective in-laws of my personal discipline and my ability to endure the pain of childbirth, as well as whatever misfortunes might lie ahead. My small feet would show the world my obedience to my natal family, particularly to my mother, which would also make a good impression on my future mother-in-law. The shoes I embroidered would symbolize to my future in-laws my abilities at embroidery and thus other house learning. And, though I knew nothing of this at the time, my feet would be something that would hold my husband’s fascination during the most private and intimate moments between a man and a woman. His desire to see them and hold them in his hands never diminished during our lives together, not even after I had five children, not even after the rest of my body was no longer an enticement to do bed business.
The Fan
SIX MONTHS PASSED SINCE OUR FOOTBINDING, TWO MONTHS since Grandmother and Third Sister died. The snow melted, the earth softened, and Grandmother and Third Sister were prepared for burial. There are three events in Yao lives—no, all Chinese lives—on which the most money is spent: birth, marriage, and death. We all wish to be born well and marry well; we all wish to die well and be buried well. But fate and practical circumstance influence these three events like no others. Grandmother was the matriarch and had led an exemplary life; Third Sister had accomplished nothing. Baba and Uncle gathered together what money they had and paid a coffin maker in Shangjiangxu to construct a good coffin for Grandmother. Baba and Uncle made a small box for Third Sister. Grandmother’s sworn sisters came again, and at last we held the funeral.
Once again, I saw how poor we were. If we had more money, perhaps Baba would have built a widow arch to commemorate Grandmother’s life. Perhaps he would have used the diviner to find a propitious spot with the best feng shui elements for her burial or hired a palanquin to transport his daughter and niece, who still could not walk very far, to the grave site. These things were not possible. Mama carried me on her back, while Aunt carried Beautiful Moon. Our simple procession went to a place not far from the house, yet still on our leased land. Baba and Uncle kowtowed three times in succession, again and again. Mama lay on the burial mound and begged forgiveness. We burned paper money, but no gifts other than candy were given to the mourners who came.
Although Grandmother could not read nu shu, she still had the third-day wedding books that had been given to her at her marriage so many years before. These, along with a few other treasures, were gathered together by her two late-life sworn sisters and burned at her grave so the words would accompany her to the afterworld. They chanted together: “We hope you find our other sworn sisters. The three of you will be happy. Don’t forget us. The fibers between us are connected even if the lotus root is cut. Such is the strength and longevity of our relationship.” Nothing was said about Third Sister. Not even Elder Brother had any messages to give. Since she had no writing of her own, Mama, Aunt, and Elder Sister wrote messages in nu shu to introduce her to our ancestors, and then we burned them after the men left.