I noticed a cloth rice sack in the corner next to some herbal medicine bottles, and folded clothes. “Why are you packing, Mom?”
“When they come for us, I want to be ready.” She led me to the stool and raked her hard-toothed comb through my hair.
As each stroke yanked my hair, pain shot through my lice-chewed scalp. I clenched my teeth, not wanting to cry out. Were we going to a labor camp? Before knowing that they kept Father in the jail nearby, I had wished they would send us to his camp, wherever it was. Now I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be here in case they ever brought him back to the hospital.
Something cold drizzled through my hair. Within a second, my scalp burned. “I hope this will kill the lice,” Mother whispered. Her ox-bone comb scraped against my raw scalp.
I couldn’t endure any more of the pain and the itching. “You are hurting me!” I shouted.
Mother stopped.
Stiffening my back, I waited for her to scold me for raising my voice and showing disrespect.
A moment later, she whispered, “Ling, your hair is too thick. The coal oil can’t kill all the lice.” She put down her comb and left the room.
Hadn’t she heard me shouting? What was she planning to do now?
Mother returned with a pair of scissors and Father’s razor. “We have to shave your head.”
I jumped off the chair. “No! There must be another way.”
She took a step back. “I don’t know what else to do, Ling. I used up this month’s ration. I even emptied the lamp. If I don’t cut your hair, the lice will spread throughout the apartment.” She tilted the blue oil cup, showing me it was empty. We received two cups of coal oil each month. Without the oil, we’d have to live in the dark for the rest of the month. I hated myself for being caught and for falling asleep on the dirty mattress.
Seeing sadness in her eyes, I knew she wouldn’t cut my hair if she could find another way. As far back as I could remember, she had told me that ladies should let their hair grow.
“Do what you must!” I was shaking, trying to hold my despair inside. I threw myself back into the chair. I didn’t care about being a lady. I wanted to be a mean dragon. More than anything, I wanted to stop the pain and itching. I thought of Jiang Qing’s ugly short hair.
Digging my nails into my thighs, I fixed my eyes on Mao’s smiling portrait. Are you happy that I’m suffering?
Mother took hold of a clump of my hair. I waited for the dreadful sound of cutting. Nothing happened. I turned and looked at her. The tears in her eyes spoke words that she could not.
I couldn’t bear to see her cry. This had to be done. Taking the scissors from her, I cut a lock of my hair on the side, close to my scalp. The long hair dropped on my legs, then landed on the newspapers. Glancing again at the rice sack, I told myself I’d have no need for hair in the labor camp.
Mother wiped her arm roughly against her face, smearing a short, dark streak of tears across her cheek. Taking the scissors from me, she cut the rest of my hair. Locks piled around me on the newspapers. I thought of Mrs. Wong’s hair falling on the leaves.
When there was no long hair left to cut, she picked up Father’s razor. As she shaved my head, I felt the drops of her tears raining on my scalp. I was trying hard not to cry out, but my own eyes had welled up like a dam about to burst.
After shaving my head, Mother emptied all three hot water thermoses into the wooden tub. Unlike other times, she set a new bar of soap on top of the scraps in the chipped bowl. Did she feel sorry for me? I used up half that bar scrubbing myself, cherishing the privilege. I stayed in the tub until the water turned cold and gray. By the time I got out, about twenty white lice floated on the surface. A couple seemed to swim toward me. Disgusted, I quickly turned away.
Looking into the small mirror on the wall, I remembered a patched doll I once saw. I stared at a stranger with bloodshot eyes and a goose-egg head covered with scrapes and red bumps. I used to think Jiang Qing was ugly, but at least she had hair. Now I believed anyone who saw me must think I was either an ugly boy or a mental patient.
I thought of the crazy lady who walked around our school telling anyone willing to listen that the Red Guards took her son to meet Chairman Mao. Gao and his gang often followed and threw rocks at her. They yelled that her son was dead. But when she stuck her two pinkies in her mouth, pulled her lips apart, and yowled like a wolf, they ran like scared dogs.
I stuck my pinkies in my mouth, pulled, and howled at the mirror. Mine wasn’t as scary as hers. I would get better with practice.
Mother ran in. “Are you all right? What was that noise?”
I answered her with a wolf smile.
I had already missed the morning lecture. As much as I hated school, I knew better than to miss the afternoon political studies. Would my enemies at school be surprised to see my shaved head after I fought with them over cutting my braids? My body tensed as I thought of their faces lighting up with laughter.
I grabbed my schoolbag, and Mother handed me a cold steamed bun. “Please don’t get into more trouble.”
I didn’t want to upset her, but I could not promise anything. I avoided her stare as I walked past her out the door.
The hot September sun scorched my shaven head as I walked down the alley. Itching all over, my head felt like it was stuffed with sticky rice glue. I felt a twinge of pain in my chest and my ears throbbed. I bit into the bun. It tasted like plaster. The surge of nausea came and I ran to the side of the street. I heaved again and again, but I couldn’t bring anything up.
From a block away, two women stopped and stared at me. I wasn’t sure if it was because of my shaved head or the horrible retching sounds I made. I forced myself to continue walking.
Noise from classrooms spilled out into the school courtyard. Gao and his gang stood in a knot inside the classroom window. For a moment, I wanted to turn and walk away. But then I thought, I can’t hide forever. I must show them I’m not afraid. I pulled the belt out of my bag. Lifting up my baggy blue shirt, I wrapped it around my waist, then clasped the cold metal buckle against my stomach. It gave me confidence and strength. Now I was ready for political studies.
The bell for the afternoon session had faded away by the time I entered the classroom. Gao stood in front of the class, behind the teacher’s desk. Our eyes locked in hate. This was the first time I had seen him since our fight. His oversized Mao’s hat made his pudgy face look small. The rest of the class remained at their desks, eyes fixed on me from all directions. Whispers buzzed around me like flies. I planned my strategy as I walked toward my seat near the rear window. If they attacked again, I could escape through the back door or jump out the window. Yet I would not let them drive me out easily.
Holding my head high, I glanced around. Whenever my eyes met theirs, they turned away.
Perhaps with my bald head, they didn’t know who I was, or they thought I had gone mad. I made my wolf smile at Gao. He ignored me and continued flipping through his red book.
I leaned back in my chair and pulled out my red book, waiting for my name to be called. Occasionally I could hear the math teacher’s hoarse voice from upstairs. It must be his turn to read for the teachers’ political studies. Outside, a little breeze stirred the leaves. Cicadas took a break in their song. A black cat sat on the windowsill for a minute, then jumped away.
As usual, Gao called on students one by one. He always assigned the long, hard passages for me to read. Even if I recited them flawlessly, he made up reasons to criticize me.
The day before our fight, he had assigned me to read Chairman Mao’s “Classes and Class Struggles.” As I was reading he had rudely interrupted me.
“Stop, you bourgeois bug!” He waved his hand. “Your voice showed no love to dear Chairman Mao.”
I swallowed my angry words, for again I remembered Mother pleading, “Ling, we can’t afford any more trouble.”
Now Gao took his turn, reading “On Youth.” I tried hard not to laugh as he chanted slowly,
his voice climbing to a high pitch, like a whining cat.
Next, Gao had Yu read “Kill the bourgeois bugs! Save the patient!” It was Gao’s favorite, but he never read it himself. Perhaps there were too many words in it that he couldn’t pronounce. I wondered if Mao knew he shouldn’t kill all the bugs. Father had told me that some bugs were good for people.
I followed the study session with half an ear. A pair of yellow butterflies danced outside the window near me. In the distance, a helicopter’s rotor ticked faintly. I propped up Mao’s book on the desk, folded my arms, and rested my head. I hoped that from the front of the classroom it still appeared as if I was reading along. By now I had lost track of the page Yu was reading. The first cool breeze in weeks came through the window, soothing my itchy body. It smelled of chrysanthemums. My mind flew thousands of miles away. Father had told me the air was always cool around the Golden Gate Bridge. My eyes slid shut.
Father and I walked along the Golden Gate Bridge. I counted ships as they passed below. The fog lifted at the far end of the bridge. A little girl in a red dress walked toward me. Behind her were colorful houses with green lawns. This must be paradise. I turned to tell Father, but he was gone. Someone was calling my name.
“Ling, Ling … .”
I jerked awake.
“Ling!” Gao yelled. “Your turn, Bald Head!”
The class broke into laughter.
I had no idea what I was supposed to read.
Whispers came around. “‘On Youth.’ ‘On Youth.’”
I thought Gao had just read that. Why would someone help me? Was this a trap? With no better choice, I blinked in surprise and quickly turned to the page. I read as fast as I could, expecting Gao to stop me at any time because I didn’t sound like a whining cat.
The world is yours,
As well as ours,
But in the last analysis, it is yours.
Underneath the desk, I clenched my fist and kneaded my aching stomach.
You young people,
Full of vigor and vitality,
Are in the bloom of life,
Like the sun at eight or nine in the morning.
Our hope is placed on you.
Gao’s hand crashed down on the teacher’s desk. “Stop! Daughter of the spy, you dare fall asleep during political studies?” he shouted. The visor of his hat slid to the side, covering his left ear.
It was a trap! I was reading the wrong passage.
As Gao stalked toward me I tensed, ready to leap from my desk. I undid the belt buckle under the table.
Clang! Clang! the school bell rang out. The PA system hummed to life. Everyone looked around in confusion; it was never used during political studies.
“Attention, comrades!” A woman announcer paused, sobbing. “With deep regret, we have to inform you that our beloved leader, Chairman Mao, died last night on September 9, 1976, at the age of eighty-two.” She wept again. Then the PA cut off. The news blasted inside me. I tried to keep still, but my heart felt like a bird about to be freed from its cage. I knew he was old, but every day millions of people shouted “Long live Chairman Mao!” I had thought he’d never die. Something wild leapt in my heart. Father!
My classmates shuffled out, murmuring and weeping. Gao stood frozen in front of my desk and hunched over, as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Soon, we were the only two left in the classroom. With one hand still holding the belt, I used the other hand to stuff Mao’s red book into my schoolbag.
Gao waved his clenched fist in front of my face and shouted, “I will kill you soon, bourgeois bug.” My naked scalp tightened and anger surged in me. Drawing the belt from under my shirt, I stood and whipped the buckle down on the desk between us. Bits of wood flew off the desk. I wanted to show him I was not a bug, but a fearless dragon.
Gao jumped back.
“Stay away from me or I will put you in the hospital right next to your father.” What I really wanted was to put him in a coffin next to Mao. With my back straight, I marched past him as he stood like a dead tree stump, his mouth hanging open, showing his rotting teeth.
Pig Fat
For six weeks, the loudspeakers around the city bellowed funeral music.
My life with Mother hadn’t changed as I’d hoped. We got no more news about Father or the Wongs, and I still hadn’t seen any ribs.
Coming home for lunch one afternoon, I smelled the scent of frying pig fat from our window. My mouth watered. I ran up the stairs two steps at a time.
Someone with a crutch under his left arm stood outside our door. He turned to face me. It was Niu. The two lower buttons of his blue jacket were missing. I hadn’t stood this close to him since the night he arrested Father. He was taller, and his skin darker. A thin, weedy mustache appeared above his lips. Words choked in my throat.
“Here!” He held out a white shirt. “It needs mending.”
It appeared to be one of Father’s shirts. “How did you get this?” I grabbed it from him.
Without answering, he turned and hobbled past me. I watched until his back disappeared down the stairs. I pressed the shirt close to my nose. It smelled like Father and the hospital.
“Who’s there?” Mother stepped out of the apartment.
I handed her the shirt. “Niu gave me this,” I whispered. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened a little.
She glanced toward Comrade Li’s door. It was closed. We hadn’t seen much of him since Mao’s death. When he did come home, he sang like a drunken sailor, filling the hallway with the pungent smell of rice wine. Mother pushed me inside and closed the door. I followed her to the kitchen.
Sitting on two low stools near the stove, we examined the yellowed shirt. It had neatly stitched patches on both elbows.
“Look at this, Mom.” I pointed to a patch under the armpit. It had bigger stitches.
“Your father is better at mending patients than shirts.” Mother tried to rip out the thread, but it was too strong. “He used surgical thread. This must be what he wants mended.” She broke the thread with her teeth. Three layers of old hospital sheet peeled off.
My heart raced with excitement. On the inside piece, in perfectly horizontal rows, were characters as small as ants written in blue fountain-pen ink. I grabbed the cloth and read quickly.
I am healthy, getting enough to eat. They let me treat prisoners and guards. Sell my watch to buy food.
Love and miss you both!
The last words were smudged. Tears from Father? My throat tightened. Had Father given Niu the shirt while he was treating him in the hospital? If so, how did Father know he could trust him? Tears ran down Mother’s face. Even though it was the only valuable item left in our home, Mother never had sold Father’s watch. I had seen her holding it many times, but she always put it back in the rice jar, its hiding place.
I reached out and hugged her. Mother stroked my head, as though she were rubbing memories back into me. I became very still. Her herbal medicine had long since healed the bites and scratches under my inch-long hair. And then her hand dropped and she stood up.
“Come help me.” She went over to the corner under the window, picked up a few pieces of coal shaped like Ping-Pong balls, and dropped them inside the slow-burning stove. It wasn’t until now that I noticed the small white pieces of half-cooked pig fat in the wok. Four bottles of herbal medicine sat around the stove.
“What are these for?” I asked.
“Gardener Zong told me this morning that your father will be operating on Comrade Sin again.” Mother sat down on the short stool next to the stove. “He offered to take something to him.” She put the wok on the stove.
I squatted next to her. “Did Gardener Zong tell you when?” I needed a plan. This time I would make sure they did not catch me.
Mother narrowed her eyes and looked at me suspiciously. “No, he didn’t. Ling, don’t do anything that will get us into more trouble.” She pressed the pig fat with a metal spatula. Oil spurted from beneath it.
“Why do
es Comrade Sin need another operation? Is he drinking again?” The way Gao treated me made me wish his father would never get better.
“No, he is bleeding inside. In his last operation, two Barefoot Doctors sewed him up while your father went to treat injured Red Guards.”
“Did they leave a scalpel inside him? Is he going to die, like Mao?” I asked hopefully.
Mother glared. “Don’t talk like that. Your father can fix him.”
“Why?” I couldn’t help but raise my voice. “Why does Father have to treat them? After what they have done to us, how can he forgive them?”
Mother stopped pressing the pig fat; her face turned serious. “Your father believes that a true doctor will treat each patient with care, even his enemy.”
I thought of the hidden calligraphy of the Physician’s Creed. Did the person who wrote it ever have to go to jail? If so, would he still think a great physician should treat his enemy with compassion? I wasn’t sure I could treat my enemy with care. I had imagined many different ways for Gao to suffer and die.
“Hurry! Empty the cough medicine into the big bowl. I have to deliver this to Gardener Zong before Aunt Wu comes for her acupuncture treatment.”
“What are you going to do with it?” I opened the plastic cover on the glass bottle.
“I’m rendering the lard for your father. If we mix the oil with it and then make them into balls, it will look and smell like herbal medicine. Hopefully the guards won’t take it.”
The medicine was a dark brown mixture of herbs and honey. When I had craved sweets, I used to spread it like jam on steamed bread. One time, I ate too much and had diarrhea for three days. I stirred the thick mixture with two chopsticks to loosen it and then poured it into the bowl.
Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party Page 12
