Red Skies (The Tales of the Scavenger's Daughters) (15 page)

“
Xie xie
, Mari.”

“
Bu ke qi
. No thanks are needed. You’re my husband. I don’t mind doing things for you.”

He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “No, I don’t mean for the bath and haircut. I mean thank you for everything. You were the one who inspired me to try to be more, and you have been the only beacon of light in this long, drawn-out dark nightmare. I couldn’t ask for a better wife.”

She was speechless. His gratitude was overwhelming and unexpected.

He hesitated once more, looking around their small home then back at her. “Mari, I don’t think I’m strong enough to go out for a meal, but if you’ll go get it, I’ll make sure to be awake and ready to eat whatever you pick out—even if it’s meat.”

Mari laughed. She doubted he’d go that far. She stared at him for a minute, so glad to finally see him acting human. He looked so much better with his hair cut and his good clothes on. His face shone, and his eyes for once were bright and alert. Besides the husband she used to know, Mari recognized something else settling around her that she hadn’t felt in such a long while.

Hope.

The gathering clouds in the city-lit night sky hurried Mari along. The wind howled around her ears, and she pulled her sweater closer. She’d tried to talk Bolin into letting her cook for him, but he’d insisted it would be easier for her to buy dinner. She’d hated to leave him when he was finally talking to her again, but before she’d left, he had crossed the room and held her in a tight hug. Just a few seconds of his warm embrace, but enough to remind her he was still a man—and not just any man, but
her
man. She didn’t feel alone anymore. When she left the apartment, she’d sighed and felt the heaviness disappear. She’d practically floated down the stairs, feeling lighter than she had in months.

Ahead she saw a line of people in front of a small wheeled booth, stacked high with rows of bamboo steamers. The aroma of pork-stuffed
bāozi
reached Mari and made her stomach rumble. She closed the distance and waited her turn, eager for something hot and comforting to fill the emptiness in her body. In front of her, harried businessmen waited impatiently, tapping on their cell phones or smoking their cigarettes. Mari wondered if they were simply picking up a snack for the long commute home or if there were that many unmarried men eating street food for dinner. Or maybe like her, they hadn’t been able to resist the temptation. She’d get pork-filled buns for her, and a few with the bok choy that Bolin loved. They didn’t need anything fancy—she was sure he’d only eat a few bites anyway.

At the booth, a man and woman worked together to fill orders and take the money. Almost as if one, their movements were so in sync and graceful Mari knew they must have been together through many years. The woman was old enough to be Mari’s grandmother, but her lined face held a look of contentment, even as she worked in the crisp fall night. She wore a colorful scarf around her head, and a few gray hairs mingled in with the dark, proof of her earned wisdom. Mari watched, captivated. She enjoyed knowing a partnership like theirs existed, that it could happen even in a world of so much stress and pressure. But then, she’d known by her own baba and mama that love—real, true love—was possible. They’d both have been disappointed in her to know she had almost ruined her chance with her own marriage, that it had come close to a full-on failure. But at least now it was turning around.

Finally she made it to the counter, and the woman asked her what she wanted. Mari thought of the generous fee Max had paid her and decided to splurge, ordering a half dozen of each of the buns, her mouth already watering at the thought of what she knew would be spicy and juicy meat, something that normally Bolin would frown deeply upon in his obsession to prove he was nothing like his farming family.

The woman bagged the food and reached out to take Mari’s money. When their hands touched, a slight shock started in Mari’s fingers and shot up her arm. The woman dropped the bag, but clasped Mari’s hand and stared into her eyes.

“You’re about to go through a hardship that will make you question everything you think you are, but stay strong through the storm, and you’ll find your peace.”

Mari tried to pull away, but the woman held her hand firmly. “
Dui bu qi
, I don’t understand,” she apologized, still gently attempting to pull free. Was the woman some kind of gypsy?

“Ruyu, stop telling fortunes and get those customers taken care of,” the cook hollered out gruffly, but with an underlying affection that even Mari picked up.

The woman dropped her hand, then picked up the bag of buns and handed them to Mari. “Keep your money—you’ll need it more than I.”

With the bag of buns in her one hand and her money still in the other, Mari moved away. She wondered what the woman had meant, but then she almost laughed. There could be no greater hardship than the one she’d been living for the last few months with her husband out of work, addicted to pain-killers, and their only source of livelihood stolen out from under them. They might lose everything. Actually, it was starting to look fairly definite that, though her life had been close to crumbling just hours before, they might just make it.

Too late,
she felt like calling behind her to the gypsy woman.
I already lived that prediction,
and I’m coming out on the other side!
She moved faster, anxious to return to Bolin and move past this crisis once and for all.

She walked along the several blocks and marveled at how everything on the streets looked brighter, less depressing, now that she was in a better state of mind. On a whim she ducked into a small shop and looked at their selection of cheaper wines. She argued with herself for a few moments, debating whether to even buy wine, considering his problems with addiction; but finally the impatient store clerk pushed her to hurry, and she picked one and paid. She quickly tucked it under her arm, banishing the flush of guilt as she rushed out to the street again. Bolin would love it and tonight was a celebration.
A new start.

Finally she arrived at their building. She climbed the stairs to their apartment and barely felt winded. Her weariness had disappeared with Bolin’s transformation. Now she was so light on her feet she nearly skipped down the hall to their door. When she unlocked it and threw it open, she was disappointed to find the living room and kitchen empty.

“Bolin, I’m back. Sorry it took so long,” she called out as she took the bags to the kitchen, then wiggled out of her sweater and hung it on her peg just inside the door. If she hurried, she could surprise him before he came back out. She crossed the room and pulled her red linen tablecloth from the drawer under the television. She spread it over the small table.

From the coffee table, she picked up the two candles and put them at each end of the kitchen table, then grabbed Bolin’s lighter from the counter and lit them. Next, she pulled a large bowl from the cabinet and arranged the steamed buns in it, taking care to keep the meat-filled ones to one side. She pulled out two small plates and set the table, adding the ceramic chopsticks she’d received from Widow Zu for her wedding. The intricately painted tangled vines climbing the sticks like a trellis made them her favorite. That, along with the memory of Widow Zu’s blessing when she’d given them to her, made them more than just eating utensils. The old woman hadn’t wanted to see her go, but she’d promised Mari she’d look out for her mama and baba for as long as she could. Widow Zu might be old, but she was still holding on.

Mari brought the buns to the table and stood back, then remembered one more thing she needed to add.

Carefully, she reached into the cabinet over the sink and brought down their wedding glasses, then she set them at each place on the table. She didn’t have a wine holder, so she used the bottle itself as a centerpiece. Bolin would be surprised. They hadn’t had wine since the last New Year was brought in, and he so loved to believe they were of a class that could afford wine if they wanted—even though they both knew they weren’t. Anyway, Mari didn’t much care for it, but since he did, she’d act as though it was the best thing to ever touch her lips.

“Bolin?” she called. He was sure being quiet.

She went to the sink and washed her hands, then turned down the hall. She’d just go see what was taking him so long. She was sure he hadn’t gone to their bedroom to sleep. He hadn’t slept in there for months.

“Bolin? What are you doing?” She didn’t want to intrude on him in the bathroom, so she approached it slowly and waited on him to answer. When he didn’t, she pushed the door open and looked around.

He wasn’t there.

That meant he was in their bedroom. She felt her cheeks flush. Had he really made that much of a recovery? Maybe they wouldn’t need the wine after all. She went to the door and peered around it, fully expecting to see him stretched out on the bed that had lately become just her own.

All she saw was what appeared to be all his clothes, pulled from the closet and stacked over his pillow. Her heart fell. He was leaving her? What other explanation could there be? And where was he now? Her eyes were drawn to a piece of paper on the top of the pile. She picked it up and studied it.

The writing was in Bolin’s simple, barely legible characters. It read, ‘
Thank you for letting me hear your music
.’ One simple line—a few words that confused Mari even more. Thanking her sounded as though he was pleased with her.

But if so, why the clothes?

She walked over to the closet to see what was left, and she peeked in.