Red Skies (The Tales of the Scavenger's Daughters) (18 page)

“
Bushi, bushi
,” her father consoled.

“A few of your sisters will be here later today,” Max made out from the murmurings of Mari’s mother. He was impressed with his comprehension, but it was only because she spoke with a soft confidence, helping him to pick up the words.

He first felt a wave of relief that her people would be there to help her through this tragedy, then, as he slipped quietly out the door, he felt the loneliness stalking him, whispering that it was coming for him once again.

Chapter Sixteen

M
ari sat on the sofa, her mama beside her clutching and rubbing her hand. Mari wasn’t crying any longer—after days of tears, she was cried out and felt nothing but emptiness, her heart and soul hollow from the long hours of mourning. The verses the monk had chanted during the last two nights to ease Bolin’s passage into heaven still echoed in her mind, the words jumbled but they beat a hypnotic and welcome sound to fill the blankness that threatened to consume her. Her mama had caught her pinching herself, and now tried to keep her occupied. What Mari didn’t tell her was she was pinching only to see if everything was real—if
she
was real. Everything around her felt so bizarre.

Her baba had helped her more than anyone, solemnly reminding her that Lao Tzu taught that ‘life and death are simply one thread, the same line viewed from different sides’. If that was true, then her Bolin was only a breath’s distance away, and he could see her at this very instant. She would not disappoint him by questioning his choices any longer, or by wailing or pulling out her hair, or pleading with the gods to return him to her. What was done was done, and there was no undoing it. She’d simply sit and watch—and wait for the torturous process of saying good-bye to be over so she could be mercifully alone again.

Across the room, in the kitchen where the table once stood, was the coffin that held him. The simple pine box looked precarious, balanced only on the two wooden stools, but her baba had assured her it was fine. The table had been moved until it was at the head of the casket and now held photos, flowers, wreaths, and a pile of white envelopes. Mari didn’t know who’d placed any of it there, or who had covered all the mirrors in the house or even hung the appropriate death lanterns at the front door. She felt removed from it all, and the last few days had gone by in a haze of people coming and going. She kept it hidden, but the envelopes were a huge source of irritation for her, as she knew it was money offered to help her, the widow. She should be relieved, as she didn’t have the funds to pay for her own husband’s departure from the physical world, but still the thought of accepting charity from anyone made her cringe.

A man stepped through the door and to the casket, then bowed three times before he moved on to look at the table of mementos. He picked up a piece of candy from the dish and popped it in his mouth, loudly sucking on it—to wash away bitterness, as the legend went.

Mari had never seen him before. She assumed he was another neighbor—one of those faceless individuals who’d never reached out with a thoughtful word or help of any kind when she needed it, but who was now drawn into her life by morbid curiosity. She secretly wished they’d all just leave her alone, but her mama told her it was only proper to allow some sort of wake for Bolin, and Mari should prepare herself for Bolin’s parents to bring some of the old village traditions with them to put their son to rest.

Other people—more that Mari didn’t recognize—stood around the room. Some had spent the night in the parking lot, playing cards in the moonlight as a way to stay awake and guard the body against evil spirits. They’d even tied Bolin’s feet together, to make it harder for the corpse to move if it were possessed by ghosts. Mari thought they were too late on that one—as an evil spirit must have taken over Bolin before he died. The man she’d married had been a gentle, compassionate soul—not someone who would or even could do something so horrific to himself and his wife.

Mari pulled her hand away from her mother.

“
Nuer
, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mama. I just want to look at him again.” Both her mama and baba had been wonderful. They’d taken over and organized everything. Her baba was now down in the parking lot, making sure that those who lingered and burned paper offerings in the barrel set up for Bolin acted courteously and followed tradition. Neither of them had said anything negative about Bolin and how he’d died. They’d simply showed up and been there for her, making her eat and sleep and taking up her slack.

Her sisters Linnea and Daisy were there too. Mari was so glad to see them—especially Daisy, as they were closest in age. Daisy hadn’t changed at all since the last time Mari had seen her. She still flitted around like a carefree hummingbird, taking care of everyone. She was simply the same laid-back and forgiving person she always was—her eyes wide and knowing, void of any accusations and full of forgiveness.

Mari reached up and felt the silky waves of her hair. Daisy had tenderly braided it the night before after running her fingers through it, over and over, to soothe her to relax enough to finally fall asleep. For a moment, Mari had felt ashamed of the envy that had arisen when she’d learned Daisy was going to have a baby. With her naturally feathery touch and calming words, her sister deserved that position much more than she ever could.

It was nice to have family around her. While Daisy provided comfort to everyone, Linnea, always the more structured one, kept the small apartment neat and the banquet of food organized, arranging it accordingly and throwing out the scraps of food on dishes that had been picked over, while replacing them with each new dish that arrived. With her ingrained ability to organize, she also didn’t hesitate to move people around and out the door when needed, even convincing some of the neighborhood elders to do their crooning for the dead from down the hall instead of beside the body, minimizing the chaos in the room.

Mari was thankful for both of her sisters. She walked over to the casket, and two women she didn’t know, dressed in black and whispering to each other, moved over.

He looked serene. That was her first thought, then she wondered how the undertaker had managed to take his look of horror she’d found him with and transform it to this expression of peace. Mari had insisted that the red shirt be removed, as red symbolized happiness, and now Bolin wore white silk pants and a shirt—longevity clothes, as they called them in the old days. She knew Bolin’s father was a traditional man, and it wasn’t so much to please him, but instead a means to try not to offend when he would already be reeling from the disgrace of his son’s suicide. Even in a city as big as Beijing, they’d be observing Bolin’s death as much like a village would as they possibly could. A gesture for his family, for it mattered not at all to Mari.

The door opened again, and Mari turned, ready to ask them to go away and give her a moment with her husband, but then she saw Max.

“You came,” she said quietly as he closed the door behind him.

He nodded. “You asked me to. That’s all you needed to do.”

She gestured toward Bolin. “Well, he looks better than the last time you saw him.”

Silence settled around them as she let Max take in the scene, knowing it was all unfamiliar to him. She assumed he’d never been a part of a death in China.

He looked at Mari, a spark of panic in his eyes. “Mari, I’m so sorry.” His eyes darted to the couch where her mama now sat talking to another elderly lady, someone else Mari didn’t know. “And I can’t stay long. I just don’t know what to do here, and I don’t want to embarrass you in any way.”

Mari smiled a little. He was trying so hard, and he’d shown up—the only foreigner in the place. She had to give him credit for that. “You don’t have to go. I’ll talk you through it.”

He looked relieved. And she was glad to have something to do, other than sit or stand around, accepting empty condolences.

“Stand at his head and bow three times for respect,” she said.

Max followed her instructions, pausing to gaze down at Bolin before he bowed. Mari appreciated that he looked genuinely sad, even though they’d never met.

“Now go to the table and eat a piece of candy,” Mari said.

He looked so confused, but he did as he was told. He stood at the table, sucking on the candy as he studied the long white ribbons attached to the wreaths. He picked up one ribbon and squinted at the Chinese characters written along it.

“Those are condolences,” Mari said.

“How long will the mourning last?”

“In the old times, it could be well over forty days. Now it’s more like a week.”

Max turned to her, his eyes wide with surprise.

“But in Bolin’s case—because of the circumstances—we’ll only mourn for another day before his body is processed, then his bones will be given to his parents.”

“What will they do with them?”

Outside in the hall, a woman wailed loudly, making Mari turn quickly toward the noise. The howling was so heartfelt and agonized at the same time that Mari knew instantly who it was.

Bolin’s parents had arrived.

For the first time that day, Mari felt some emotion. But it wasn’t sadness—it was foreboding that came creeping down on her and settled around her shoulders. It was time to face his parents, and other than a firing squad, Mari couldn’t imagine what could be worse.

Chapter Seventeen

M
ax followed the procession down the street. Somewhere, they’d picked up at least fifty or more mourners who waited outside the building that held the incinerator, and now they emerged as one, most wearing white paper hats that Bolin’s mother had brought with her from her village and handed out. At the front of the line, walking beside her husband, the woman now clutched a small red fabric bag that carried her son’s bones. When Mari had gone over the entire protocol and what would happen with him the day before, she was just explaining to him that Bolin’s bones would be buried on his family’s land. Their conversation had been cut short because that was just before his parents had made their dramatic appearance, and things had gotten tense for a few moments.

Max had seen Mari visibly wince at the screams of her mother-in-law as she’d gotten closer and closer to the apartment. She’d stood there, frozen in place, watching the door as if she expected the devil himself to bust through it. Max had felt uncomfortable, but he’d stayed rooted to the spot, unwilling to leave her when she looked so frightened.

Mari had jumped as the door opened, and a man and woman stood there. The woman, still wailing, looked around her husband at the casket, then shrieked and fell to the floor. The man—her husband, obviously—had left her there and came to stand over his son.

“Lao Yhong.” Mari had acknowledged him with a slight bow, then she’d gone to help the woman. Mari’s mother also came from the couch, and the two of them lifted her up and led her to a chair, her head turning back to keep her eyes on her son. Max had watched them as they’d interacted around the coffin, and he could see they were avoiding touching their son. The mother had reached out only once, but her husband pushed her back, barking at her in a dialect that Max couldn’t understand. He assumed because it was not a natural death, they probably had some sort of cultural rule that their son couldn’t be touched. Max wished again that his language skills were better—he’d have loved to understand everything that was happening. He’d also thought that maybe this subject—the high rate of suicide in China and the impact on the survivors—could possibly be the story his boss wanted him to write. However, the idea had quickly left his thoughts when he’d looked up at the ravaged face of Mari standing over her husband’s body; he couldn’t prey on her tragedy. Mari had asked him to come as her friend, and he wouldn’t sully that gesture, even if they never met again.

Now he walked slowly in the procession, just behind the four men who carried the three-foot-high paper palanquin balanced on four poles. He struggled to keep his eye on Mari as she weaved around pedestrians and obstacles on their march back to her home. Max was glad that she was surrounded by her family, her parents on either side of her and her sisters directly behind. He watched her walk, her arms clutching the small wooden box of her husband’s ashes, her eyes fixed on the pavement in front of her. She was suffering—he hoped that was clear to her husband’s family and they’d stop their indifferent treatment and offer her the condolences she deserved. Yes, it was their son—but he’d been Mari’s husband for more than a decade. Couldn’t they drum up an ounce of compassion for their son’s widow? Something told him that after the services were over, Mari would never see or hear from her husband’s people again.

He continued with them and, as they passed various small shops and businesses, people emerged from the buildings and stood silently, watching them. Small children ran in and out of the procession, thinking it some sort of parade, most not understanding the somber atmosphere. Many curious bystanders stopped short when they spotted Max in the crowd of mourners, staring or pointing at him in their confusion or shock that a foreigner would be a part of such an event. Max kept a humble but reassuring expression fixed on his face, avoiding eye contact, for he didn’t want to take any of the attention off the dead; he just wanted to blend in to show his support to Mari.

As they neared the parking lot of the apartment building, Max jumped when a series of fireworks were launched behind him. Ahead he could see the small fire that had been kept going for days was now being teased even higher, the flames flicking hungrily. The procession moved in closer, wrapping two or three deep around the barrel as they watched first the paper palanquin being tossed in and burned, then other paper offerings of fake money and household goods—even a paper-cut car was tossed in and shriveled into ashes. Max had heard about the tradition and knew the offerings were sent up to help the deceased in the afterworld, yet he was surprised that so many people cared what happened to the young man who’d taken his own life.

Max felt a wave of sadness, but it didn’t have much to do with Mari’s husband’s passing. He didn’t know the man, and yes, it was disheartening that life hadn’t gone his way, but Max also thought it cowardly for him to leave such a mess for Mari to sort out. When she’d called to ask him to come today, she’d told him that her parents had talked her into going home with them for a while, at least until she could figure out what to do next. She would be leaving with them the next evening on the night train, and he didn’t even know whether he’d get to say good-bye to her or not.

He strained to see her through the crowd, but too many people stood between them, and Max didn’t feel comfortable moving in any closer. So with hands stuffed into his jacket to ward off the cold, he waited, hoping for a chance to talk to Mari for a moment to show her he’d come.

When everyone was finally in the parking lot, Mari’s father-in-law held the lit joss stick high in the air, signaling for silence. His grim face and hunched shoulders made him appear as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He walked to the barrel and tossed the stick in. When a flurry of sparks shot up, the crowd erupted into a loud blend of voices and more exploding fireworks.

The father stared stone-faced at the ground for a moment longer, shaking his head, then turned and went inside the building. His wife followed, then Mari and her family. Everyone else dispersed slowly, until Max found himself standing alone.

Again.