by C Pam Zhang
“I won’t go,” Lucy says to him. “I don’t want to live with those other chinks.”
Straightaway the taste of wrongness. Like the mud pies the boys shaped in the schoolyard, forcing Lucy to lick them. She deserves a slapping. Ba only looks at her sadly. The taste is hers to swallow.
“That’s no word for you to learn, Lucy girl. Maybe your ma’s right to take you from here. This is the right word.”
He tells them.
Lucy cups it on her tongue. Sam does the same. It tastes foreign. It tastes right. It tastes the way Ma said the food of home tastes: sour and sweet, bitter and spicy, all at once.
But they’re kids. Nine and eight. Uncareful with their toys, their knees, their elbows. They let the name for themselves drop down the cracks in their sleep, with a child’s trust that there is always more the next day: more love, more words, more time, more places to go with the shapes of their parents in the wagon seat, the sway and creak of travel lulling them to sleep.
Water
Lucy wakes dry-mouthed to the sound of water. A patter on tin, echoing: the season’s first rain has come. Her bladder throbs as she climbs down. The wet thickens to a suck and slap, as if the shack has flooded. The moon is thin and the end of the month nigh and the tin warps the light, so that shifting silver waves lap the walls. The house is an ocean. And the ship? She freezes on the bottom rung. The ship is a mattress and on it a sea creature, many-armed and terrible, with skin slick and wet. Her throat is too parched to scream. And then she sees: not one creature but two. Ma sits astride Ba, her belly crushing him. Her nightgown falls over them both, and her legs hook his, pressing him into the mattress. She’s hurting him. His breaths come quick and shuddering. —ets, Ma says. She rises up, bears down. Her weight makes him groan. Tickets. Ba puts a hand to her chest to stop her. Beauty is a weapon, Ma said, and Lucy thinks she may begin to understand. Ma’s power a nighttime power. Sweat gathers on Lucy, in those places where skin rubs skin: the crook of her elbows, the space between her thighs. A wet heat in the room; the rainy season is coming. Ba’s eyes roll back. And still Ma hurts him, till his head goes loose and a single word escapes him: Yes. Only then does Ma lift off. Lucy is aware of the sting of her own urine down her leg. Shamefaced she climbs upstairs. No need for the outhouse tonight.
Mud
Once, Ma guarded her trunk so fiercely. She rationed its contents and most of all she rationed its smell. Inside her trunk lives a musky perfume, bitter and sweet. A smell not of this land, diminished each time the lid lifted.
Now that same trunk gapes, dresses and medicines spilled free. No need to hoard when they mean to set out for the harbor next week, leaving the trunk behind. Ma, her belly big and the baby weeks away, says they won’t need extra weight. Soon they’ll be living where that smell is common.
“Hao mei,” Ma says, handing Lucy a pair of delicate white shoes, beaded, long-coveted. “They suit you.”
Lucy spins as Ma bids her, then slips the shoes off. She refuses to admire the beadwork. Runs barefoot into the rain.
“Don’t forget to thank him,” Ma calls.
There was a time when Ma’s praise quenched a thirst in Lucy. Now praise arrives like this season’s rain: too much, too early. The mine is flooding. More men are out of work. With the swirl of brown water rise rumors, and tempers. Last week the mine boss visited unannounced to collect rent. He burst inside, gaze darting. Lucy was glad, then, for how Ma had hid the pouches. Ba stood by his pistol, but Ma was undisturbed. She smiled at the boss and stepped over the puddle he left. Only said they’d best get used to wet before sailing.
* * *
—
Storm encroaches on the order of Teacher Leigh’s house too. His coyote brush is bedraggled, bent this way and that by wind. A puddle laps his porch. Nellie whickers uneasily, and Lucy stands stroking the mare’s nose. Practicing goodbyes.
The mood in the parlor is prickly, the light low. A shattered lamp sits in one corner, and there’s wood nailed over a broken windowpane. The other guests—the butcher and Miss Lila, whose return East was delayed by weather—sit discussing the latest mine accident. A flood swept away supports and collapsed three tunnels. Eight men are dead.
“There’s no worse year for rainfall on record,” the teacher says. “I’ve even had some miners approach me, asking for assistance.” He shakes his head mournfully. “I had to turn them away, of course.”
“Those poor miners,” Miss Lila says, heaping sugar into her tea. “I hear there are more trapped belowground. They say those walking above can hear screams. Imagine living like that, at fortune’s whim.” She turns to Lucy. “Your poor family!”
“We’re not miners,” Lucy says, Ba’s words leaping to her mouth.
“There’s no shame in it, child.” Miss Lila pats Lucy’s arm. “What else would your father do?”
They watch her, their kindness oppressive as the weather. Lucy wants to tell them about standing on that plateau, the nugget a small sun in her hand. She bites her lip, still pondering what to say as the mine boss enters the house and greets the teacher. Then the boss sees Lucy.
“You,” he says, striding over. “Aren’t your folks packed yet? Your mother told me you were on your way out any day now.”
“There must be some misunderstanding,” Teacher Leigh says, putting a protective arm in front of Lucy. “Lucy is my star pupil. She’s not going anywhere. I’m in contact with her mother.”
Swallowing, Lucy says, “Sir, I need to tell you something. In private, please.”
Ba swore them to secrecy, but Ma permitted Lucy to tell the teacher about their leaving next week, if not about their gold. Out on the porch, Lucy explains the ship as the teacher’s face pinches.
“I thought your mother would have more respect for your education. We’re accomplishing great deeds here, Lucy.”
“She says thank you.” Best not to repeat what Ma said about better schools across the ocean.
“One week isn’t near enough time to complete my research. You know how important this monograph is. Though perhaps, if your mother herself were to come, and lend her answers as well—”
Lucy shakes her head. Nothing can distract Ma from her vision of the land across the ocean. As the teacher rails against the rashness of this move, Lucy bites her lip. She agrees. But she can’t explain it properly without mentioning the gold.
“You may go,” the teacher says at last. “All the work we’ve done is useless now.” His voice is bitter. “You understand I’ll be removing you from the history—there’s no value in a half-finished chapter. And, Lucy? There’s no point in your coming to school this week, either. If you’re going, then go.”
* * *
—
All that week the shack eddies with preparation, as messy within as the world without. Clothes and medicines are strewn round, and Sam’s toys, Ba’s tools, blankets for the baby, cloth torn and resewn into diapers, the three worn storybooks Lucy fought to take though Ma said there would be new, and better, stories.
Ba comes stomping in with sacks of flour and potatoes. Supplies for their journey to the harbor, and then, after the baby is born there, supplies for the ship.
“Bu gou,” Ma says. “Where’s the salt pork?”
“We’ll get the rest at the coast. Prices have gone up. Some of those inland roads are flooding. Jim’s charging an arm and a leg.”
“We can afford a little more,” Ma says, putting both hands to her stomach. “What’s a few coins to us? The baby—”
“People are starting to ask questions.”
That stops her.
“I don’t know how,” Ba says, fingering his pistol. Too wet for hunting, yet he cleans the barrel nightly. Sometimes even twice a night, sitting by the door and pausing at every sound. “Someone today asked me where I was headed—”
“Xiao xin,” Ma says, laying a hand on his forear
m. She inclines her head toward Lucy and Sam. Ba quiets. Whispers move through the shack late that night, guttering along with the rain on the tin.
* * *
—
No trace of them is meant to remain. Their footprints in the dirt floor will be swept, their clotheslines taken down, their garden left to drown or rot. Another set of miners will be given this house, or maybe another flock of hens. It was never their house, or their land, to begin with. The wet season will wash away every imprint, shoe print, hair, fingernail, mark, chewed pencil, dented pan, drawn tiger, voice, story.
A fresh horror surges through Lucy as she listens to rain soften the land, swell the creeks, chill the air. A recurring image of the family tossed out like Ma’s pail of muddy brown dishwater. What proof will there be that they existed at all in these hills?
Surely she can leave something behind. Something that lasts.
And so Lucy sneaks out alone on the morning of their last day in town. A long day ahead: Ma and Lucy are to pack the rest of the house while Ba and Sam rake the gold field one final time. They’ll set out for the harbor that evening, under cover of dark. Safer this way, Ba said strangely, though the roads are treacherous and waterlogged.
Lucy heads to the place that’s secret from Ba and Sam—and secret, today, from Ma too. Something tight in her fist as she hurries over the swollen creek, up the teacher’s path. A bright fleck in this grayness. The smallest bit of gold.
It’s not stealing. She wants only to show it to her teacher. Anyhow he doesn’t care for riches—he chose to give up his family’s wealth. He’s a scholar who prizes evidence. She’ll gift him this bit of gold, along with new information for his monograph, a piece of the Western territory recorded in no other book. He can preserve the dead lake—and them—in ink.
At the top of the path, she stops. A field of poppies has sprung up overnight.
Golden, some call these poppies, but Lucy has seen the real thing and these flowers are richer by far. Sunset caught in the petals. She plucks one, another. She’ll bring a bouquet and watch the teacher praise her discernment. As she moves through the field, a figure slams out of Teacher Leigh’s house, its stiff-legged stride projecting fury—not the fair teacher but a dark-haired man, hat jammed low, maybe the mine boss or Jim, or even one of the miners come begging. Lucy hurries away, downslope, aiming for a patch of coyote brush that’ll keep her discreet. Her foot catches a rock hidden by the mass of flowers.
Slow, slow, and then fast—she’s falling. Downhill, tumbling, body pulled into a ball for poor protection. Mud slams into her, breathing suddenly a violence. She’s stopped. Her mouth, her chin, blaze pain. She rolls onto her back, vision wavering. Is the figure approaching? To help her up? The last thing she sees for certain is the petals waving, innocent, beside her cheek.
* * *
—
She comes to some time later. Taste of copper. Her chin and tongue gone numb. She turns her head left, right. Sees her own hand, outstretched.
Empty.
Lucy scrabbles through the poppies, heedless of how many roots and stems she upturns. The field is returned to mud by the time she sits back on her heels, panting. Blood drips off her hurt chin. Torn petals wink, but there is no gold. There is no gold. Surely she didn’t drop it. She clenched her fist so tight as she fell that there are marks from her fingernails on her palm. She didn’t drop it.
Unless it was taken.
Halting, dizzy, she drags herself to Teacher Leigh’s porch.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles when he opens the door. “I brought it—I did—for your research—I, I don’t know where it is. I know where it came from—the plateau. It has a history. We found it. The water. You can write about it—please. We’re leaving, and—and you can write about it.”
“What do you mean?” the teacher says. She’s half-fallen on him and he pulls back, horrified. Her blood on his clean white shirt. She gives a gurgling laugh. Sprays fresh pink. She was right. His clothes would never last on a trail.
“The gold,” she slurs. She hopes he understands through the mud and blood in her mouth. “I, I mean me. Us. You can write about it . . .”
Exhausted of words she holds her empty hand up to him, again and again, as if he could see on it the precious imprint.
* * *
—
She wakes again with the smell of Ma around her. The light’s changed. Outside the small window, the rain has stopped.
She’s on Ma’s mattress, face pressed into the pillow where Ma’s face usually rests. A stain spreads from Lucy’s mouth. Pink, now browning. Jackal hour, colors going blurred and dirty. Hard to tell what’s real and not. How did she get here? She recalls the teacher’s hands lifting her, gray hair, the warm column of Nellie’s neck—the teacher must have brought her home.
She hears his voice. Precise, cutting clean through the dim shack.
“. . . worried,” he says. “About all of you.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Ma says. Her arms are crossed, hands tucked into armpits. Hidden, her bare palms with their calluses and scars. She never leaves the house ungloved. “Staying with you would be an imposition. We’re safe enough on our own.”
“But what’s next?” Odd to hear Ma’s question in the teacher’s mouth. “You and Lucy deserve more than this.” He glances around—a quick glance, sufficient to take in the cramped room. “Lucy has told me how she was raised from nothing. I can read between the lines. Your influence is obvious. In all my years I’ve rarely met an individual of your moral fiber, especially among the fairer sex. Lucy may have told you about my monograph. I’ve made it my life’s work to study and record the extraordinary. Your daughter is impressive, but I suspect I may be focusing on the wrong primary subject.”
No, Lucy wants to say. Her mouth is swollen shut with pain.
“I’m nothing special,” Ma says. “I do it for my children. That’s why we need to leave before this next one comes.”
“Surely the roads aren’t safe. Stay a little longer. Assist me in my work. It requires no more than answering some questions. I can pay you a fee. Three more months, I should think. And if you ever feel unsafe—well, my doors are open to you. I’ve a spare room. Not for all of you, perhaps, that might not be quite comfortable, but you and maybe Lucy. And when the baby comes, I’m good friends with the doctor in town.”
The teacher steps closer, his eyes so earnest. Ma refuses his gaze. She looks around the shack as he did. Lingering not on the hidden gold but the leaking window, the blackened tin, the half-washed dishes. Lucy knows where Ma will look—the same spots Lucy looks to each time she returns from the neat schoolhouse, the sunny parlor. All their dark and dirty places. All their shame.
“You’re still very beautiful,” the teacher says. Ma’s eyes quit their roaming to fix on him. He clears his throat. He’s a man who insists on precision. “You are very beautiful.”
Lucy’s bloody mouth goes dry. She is aware of her thirst—not quite. A thirst, then, gathered in the damp house.
Is there color on Ma’s cheeks? Hard to tell in the dusk. “Thank you. I’ve a good deal of packing left, and I’m sure you’re a busy man. I appreciate your bringing Lucy here, but we’re not fit to entertain today. You see the state of things—”
Ma’s hands swing over their half-packed belongings, then freeze. The exposed blue flecks on her palms are like an animal’s strange spotting. She snatches her hands back and laughs a thin, nervous laugh Lucy has never heard.
“You must be wanting to get back,” Ma says, as the teacher says, “May I touch?”
Ma moves to open the door as the teacher reaches forward. A confusion of limbs. Over the teacher’s shoulder, Ma locks eyes at last with Lucy. Her mouth parts in surprise—whether at the teacher’s actions, or at the sight of Lucy awake, Lucy can’t tell. Hour of the jackal and shadows are confused, edges running together. It’
s Ma’s hand that the teacher touches, Lucy is almost certain, Ma’s hand on Ma’s belly—but for a moment it could be a different softness.
* * *
—
When the teacher has left, Ma comes with the washbasin and dabs at Lucy’s chin. Crusted blood loosens from the cut, mixes in with Lucy’s tears. Ma bends to wring the rag, and Lucy catches sight of herself in the mirror. Her unlovely face is even more misshapen.
Ma straightens and reappears as reflection. Her white neck, her sleek hair, a rebuke.
Lucy says, “The teacher likes you.”
“Guai,” Ma says, wiping a tear from Lucy’s cheek. “It’ll stop hurting soon.”
“He’s right. You are beautiful.” She looks nothing like Ma, or Sam. Them with their shine.
“You heard us?”
Lucy nods.
“He’s a kind man. He was frantic about you. Zhi yao make us feel welcome.”
But he sent Lucy away last week. “You mean he wants to make you feel welcome.”
“And who do you think is responsible for taking care of you? Ni de Ba?” A string of spittle flies from Ma’s mouth. “Fei hua. He’d have you girls starving alongside him while he digs your graves in the hills.”
“He found gold,” Lucy says, trying not to let her dismay show.
“Mei cuo. Can he keep it, though? Lucy girl, I care for your father, but luck isn’t something we have. Not in this land. I’ve known that for a long time.”
Ma’s eyes dart once more round the house, quick as the birds that sing out at sunset, so that you never see them—just the quivering grass where they alit. To the stovepipe with its pouch, the pallet with its pouch, the cupboard with its two pouches so small and thin they fit between the hinges. Last of all Ma looks down at herself. She squeezes something between her breasts: a pouch previously unknown to Lucy. It must hide a big piece, to judge by its size.
