(2001) The Bonesetter's Daughter (16 page)

I want to die, she moaned to herself. Die, die, die. First she cried a lot in the bathroom, then sliced her wrist with a dinner knife. It left a row of plowed-up skin, no blood, and it hurt too much to cut any deeper. Later, in the backyard, she found a rusty tack in the dirt, poked her fingertip, and waited for blood poisoning to rise up her arm like liquid in a thermometer. That evening, still alive and miserable, she filled the tub and sat in it. As she sank under and was about to open her mouth wide, she remembered the water was now dirty with nasty stuff from her feet, her bottom, and the place between her legs. Still determined, she got out of the tub, dried off, and filled the sink, then lowered her face until it touched the water. She opened her mouth. How easy it was, drowning. It didn’t hurt at all. It was like drinking water, which, after a while, she realized was what she was doing. So she pushed her face lower into the water and opened her mouth again. She took a deep breath, welcoming death at last. Her whole body backfired in stinging protest. She began coughing in such a loud and hacking way that her mother rushed in without knocking and pounded her back, put her hand on her forehead, and murmured in Chinese that she was sick and should go to bed right away. Having her mother comfort her so lovingly only made Ruth feel worse.

The first person Ruth finally confessed her secret to was Wendy. She knew things, she always knew what to do. Ruth had to wait until she saw her at school, because there was no way she could talk about this on the party-line phone without having her mother or someone else overhear.

“You have to tell Lance,” Wendy said, then reached over and squeezed Ruth’s hand.

That made Ruth cry even harder. She shook her head. The cruel world and its impossibility swam in front of her. Lance didn’t love her. If she told him, he would hate her, Dottie would hate her. They would kick her mother and her out of the bungalow. The school would send Ruth to juvenile hall. And her life would be over.

“Well, if you don’t tell Lance, I will,” Wendy said.

“Don’t,” Ruth managed to choke out. “You can’t. I won’t let you.”

“If I don’t tell him, how else will he realize that he loves you?”

“He doesn’t love me.”

“Sure he does. Or he will. Lots of times it happens that way. The guy finds out a baby is coming, and them boom—love, marriage, baby carriage.”

Ruth tried to imagine it. “Yep, it’s yours,” Wendy would say to Lance. She pictured Lance looking like Rock Hudson when he learned Doris Day was going to have his baby. He would look stunned, but slowly he would begin to smile, then grin like a fool and race into the street, unmindful of traffic or people he bumped into, people who shouted back that he was nuts. And he would yell, “I
am
nuts, nuts about her!” Soon he was by her side, on his knees, telling her he loved her, had always loved her, and now wanted to marry her. As for Dottie, well, she would soon fall in love with the postman or someone. Everything would work out. Ruth sighed. It was possible.

That afternoon, Wendy went home with Ruth. LuLing worked the afternoon shift at a nursery school and would not be home for another two hours. At four, while they were outside, they saw Lance stride to his car, whistling and jingling his keys. Wendy broke away from Ruth, and Ruth ran to the other side of the bungalow, where she could both hide and watch. She could hardly breathe. Wendy was walking toward Lance. “Hello?” she called to him.

“Hey there, girlie,” he said. “What’s up?”

And then Wendy turned around and fled. Ruth started to cry and when Wendy came back, she consoled Ruth, telling her she had a better plan. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll think of something.” And she did. “Wait here,” she said, smiling, and ran up to the back porch of the cottage. Ruth dashed into the bungalow. Five minutes later, the back door to the cottage flew open and Dottie raced down the porch steps. Through the window, Ruth saw Wendy wave to her before walking away quickly. Then came pounding on the door to the bungalow, and when Ruth answered, Dottie was there, grabbing her by both hands. She stared into her eyes with a stricken face and whispered hoarsely in her milk-and-metal voice, “Are you really—?”

Ruth started bawling, and Dottie put her arm around her shoulders, soothing her, then squeezing her so hard Ruth thought her bones would pop out of their sockets. It hurt but also felt good. “That bastard, that dirty, filthy bastard,” Dottie kept saying through gritted teeth. Ruth was shocked to hear the
b
-word, but even more so to realize that Dottie was angry—not with her, but with Lance!

“Does your mommy know?” Dottie asked.

Ruth shook her head.

“All right. For now, we don’t need to tell her, not yet. First, let me think how we ‘re going to take care of this. Okay? It won’t be easy, but I’ll figure out what to do, don’t worry. Five years ago, the same thing happened to me.”

So that was why Lance had married her. But where was the baby?

“I know how you feel,” Dottie went on. “I really do.”

And Ruth cried even harder, bursting with more feelings than she ever thought a heart could hold. Someone was angry for her. Someone knew what to do.

That night, as her mother cooked with the windows cracked open, loud voices punctured the air above the sound of spitting oil. Ruth pretended to
read Jane Eyre.
Her ears were straining to hear the words from outside, but the only thing she could make out was Dottie’s high-pitched shriek: “You filthy bastard!” Lance’s voice was a low rumble, like the revving of his Pontiac.

Ruth went into the kitchen and reached under the sink. “I’m going to take out the garbage.” Her mother gave her a raised eyebrow but kept cooking. As Ruth approached the cans by the side of the cottage, she slowed down to listen.

“You think you’re so hot! How many others have you screwed? . . . You’re nothing but a thirty-second wonder—yeah, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am!”

“What makes you the goddamn expert, I’d like to know!”

“I do know! I know what a
real
man is! . . . Danny… yeah, him, and he was good, Danny is a
real man.
But you! You gotta stick it up little girls who don’t know any better.”

Lance’s voice rose and broke like a crying boy’s: “You goddamn fucking whore!”

When Ruth went back into the house, she was still shaking. She had not expected everything to be so crazy and ugly. Being careless could cause terrible trouble. You could be bad without even meaning to be.

“Those people
huli-hudu”
her mother muttered. She set the steaming food on the table. “Crazy, argue over nothing.” And then she closed the windows.

Hours later, as Ruth lay wide awake in bed, the muffled shouts and screams suddenly stopped. She listened for them to begin again, but all she detected were her mother’s snores. She arose in the pitch dark and went into the bathroom. She climbed on the toilet seat and looked out the window across the yard. The cottage lights were burning. What was going on? And then she saw Lance walk out with a duffel bag and hurl it into the trunk of his car. A moment later, he spun the tires on the gravel and took off with a roar. What did that mean? Had he told Dottie he was going to marry Ruth?

The next morning, Saturday, Ruth barely touched the rice porridge her mother had heated up. She waited anxiously for the Pontiac to return, but everything remained quiet. She slumped onto the sofa with her book. Her mother was putting dirty clothes, towels, and sheets into a bag draped over a cart. She counted out the quarters and dimes needed for the laundromat, then said to Ruth, “Let’s go. Wash-clothes time.”

“I don’t feel so good.”

“Ai-ya, sick?”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

Her mother fussed over her, taking her temperature, asking her what she had eaten, what her stools looked like. She made Ruth lie down on the sofa and placed a bucket nearby, in case she really did get sick. At last her mother departed for the laundromat; she would be gone for at least three hours. She always pushed the cart to a place twenty minutes away, because the washers there were a nickel cheaper than those at the closer places and the dryers didn’t burn the clothes.

Ruth put on a jacket and strayed outside. She slid into the chair on the porch, opened her book, and waited. Ten minutes later, Dottie opened the back door of the cottage, climbed down the four steps, and strode across the yard. Her eyes were puffy like a toad’s, and when she smiled at Ruth, the upper half of her face looked tragic.

“How ya doin’, kiddo?”

“Okay, I guess.”

Dottie sighed, sat down on the porch, and dropped her chin onto her knees. “He’s gone,” she said. “But he’s going to pay, don’t you worry.”

“I don’t want any money,” Ruth protested.

Dottie laughed once, then sniffed. “I mean he’s going to jail.”

Ruth was frightened. “Why?”

“Because of what he did to you, of course.”

“But he didn’t mean to. He just forgot—”

“Forgot you were only eleven? Jeez!”

“It was my fault too. I should have been more careful.”

“Honey, no, no, no! You don’t have to protect him. Really. It’s not your fault or the baby’s… . Now listen, you’re going to have to talk to the police—”

“No! No! I don’t want to!”

“I know you’re scared, but what he did was wrong. It’s called statutory rape, and he has to be punished for it… . Anyway, the police will probably ask you a lot of questions, and you just tell them the truth, what he did, where it happened… . Was it in the bedroom?”

“The bathroom.”

“Jeez!” Dottie nodded bitterly. “Yeah, he always did like it in there… . So he took you to the bathroom—”

“I went by myself.”

“All right, and then he followed you, and then what? Did he have his clothes on?”

Ruth was aghast. “He stayed in the living room, watching TV,” she said in a tiny voice. “I was in the bathroom by myself.”

“Then when did he do it?”

“Before me. He peed first, then I did.”

“Wait a second… . He
what?
”

“He peed.”

“On you?”

“On the toilet seat. Then I went in and sat on it.”

Dottie stood up, her face twisted with horror. “Oh no, oh my God!” She grabbed Ruth by the shoulders and shook her. “That’s
not
how babies are made. Pee on the toilet seat. How could you be so
stupid?
He has to stick his cock in you. He squirts sperm, not piss. Do you realize what you’ve done? You accused an innocent man of raping you.”

“I didn’t—” Ruth whispered.

“Yes, you did, and I believed you.” Dottie stomped off, cursing.

“I’m sorry,” Ruth cried after her. “I said I’m sorry.” She was still not certain what she had done.

Dottie turned around and sneered. “You have no idea what sorry really is.” Then she went inside and banged the door shut.

Though she was no longer pregnant, Ruth felt no relief. Everything was still awful, maybe even worse. When her mother returned from the laundromat, Ruth was lying under the covers in bed, pretending to be asleep. She felt stupid and scared. Would she go to jail? And though she knew now that she was not pregnant, she wanted to die more than ever. But how? She pictured herself lying under the wheels of the Pontiac, Lance starting the car and taking off, crushing her without even knowing it. If she died like her father, he would meet her in heaven. Or would he too think she was bad?

“Ah, good girl,” her mother murmured. “You sleep, feel better soon.”

Later that afternoon, Ruth heard the sounds of the Pontiac pulling into the driveway. She peeked out the window. Lance, grim-faced, carried out some boxes, two suitcases, and a cat from the cottage. Then Dottie came out, dabbing her nose with a tissue. She and Lance never looked at each other. And then they were gone. An hour later, the Pontiac returned, but only Lance got out. What had Dottie told Lance? Why did Dottie have to move out? Would Lance now march up to their door and tell her mother what Ruth had done and demand that they move out that same day as well? Lance hated her, Ruth was sure of that. She had thought being pregnant was the worst thing that could have happened to her. But this was far worse.

She stayed home from school on Monday. LuLing became increasingly fearful that a ghost was trying to take her daughter away. Why else was Ruth still sick? LuLing rambled about bony teeth from a monkey’s jaw. Precious Auntie would know, she kept saying. She knew about the curse. This was punishment for something the family had done a long time ago. She put the sand tray on a chair by Ruth’s twin bed, waiting. “Both us die,” she asked, “or only me?”

“No,” Ruth wrote, “all O.K.”

“What okay-okay? Then why she sick, no reason?”

On Tuesday, Ruth could not stand her mother’s fussing over her any longer. She said she was well enough to go to school. Before opening the door, she looked out the window, then down the driveway. Oh no, the Pontiac was still there. She was trembling so hard she feared her bones might break. After taking a deep breath, she darted out the door, scooted down the side of the driveway farther from the cottage, then edged past the Pontiac. She turned left, even though school was to the right.

“Hey, squirt! I’ve been waiting for you.” Lance was on the porch, smoking a cigarette. “We need to talk.” Ruth stood rooted to the sidewalk, unable to move. “I
said we
need to talk. Don’t you think you owe me that? . . . Come here.” He threw the burning cigarette onto the lawn.

Ruth’s legs moved shakily forward. The top half of her was still running away. When she reached the top of the porch, she was numb. She looked up. “I’m sorry,” she squeaked. The quiver in her chin shook open her mouth, and sobs burbled out.

“Hey, hey,” Lance said. He looked nervously down the street. “Come on, you don’t have to do that. I wanted to talk so we could have an understanding. I just don’t want this to ever happen again. Okay?”

Ruth sniffed and nodded.

“All right, then. So settle down. Don’t get all spooky on me.”

Ruth wiped at her teary face with her sweater sleeve. The worst was over. She started to go down the stairs.