“You are lucky, Lily,” Snow Flower said one day. “I have seen this Lu boy. He is my cousin twice removed. His hair is the blue-black of night. He is kind to girls. He once shared a moon cake with me. He didn’t have to do that.” She told me that my future husband was born in the year of the tiger, a sign that is as spirited as mine, which made us perfectly suited. She told me things I would need to know to fit into the Lu family. “It is a busy household,” she explained. “As the headman, Master Lu receives numerous visitors from inside and outside the village. Beyond this, many people live in the house. There are no daughters, but daughters-in-law will marry in. You will be daughter-in-law number one. Your ranking will be high to start. If you have a son first, your ranking will hold true forever. This does not mean you won’t have the same sorts of problems as Yuxiu, the emperor’s concubine. Even though Master Lu’s wife has given him four sons, he has three concubines. He must have them, because he is the headman. They help show the people his strength.”
I should have worried more about this. After all, if the father took concubines, the son probably would as well. But I was so young and innocent, this didn’t cross my mind. And even if it had, I wouldn’t have known the conflicts that could arise. My world was still just Mama and Baba, Aunt and Uncle—simple, simple.
Snow Flower turned to Beautiful Moon, who, as always, attended to us quietly, waiting for us to include her. Snow Flower said, “Beautiful Moon, I am happy for you. I know this Lu family very well. Your future husband, as you know, was born in the year of the boar. His characteristics are to be sturdy, gallant, and thoughtful, while your sheep nature will cause you to dote on him. This is another perfectly suited match.”
“What about my mother-in-law?” Beautiful Moon inquired tentatively.
“This Madame Lu visits my mother every day. She has a kind heart, kinder than I could ever tell you.”
Tears suddenly welled in Snow Flower’s eyes. It was so strange that Beautiful Moon and I giggled, thinking it was some sort of joke. My laotong blinked quickly.
“A ghost got in my eyes!” Snow Flower exclaimed, before joining in our laughter. Then she picked up where she left off. “Beautiful Moon, you will be very content. They will love you wholeheartedly. And the best part is every day you will be able to walk to Lily’s house. That’s how close you will be to each other.”
Snow Flower cast her eyes back to me. “Your mother-in-law is very traditional,” she said. “She follows all the women’s rules. She is careful in what she says. She is well attired. And when guests come, hot tea is always at the ready.” Since Snow Flower had been teaching me to do these things, I was not afraid of making a mistake. “There are more servants in the house than I have had in my family,” Snow Flower continued. “You will not have to cook, except to make special dishes for Lady Lu. You will not have to nurse your baby unless you want to.”
When she told me these things, I thought she was crazy.
I questioned her further about my husband’s father. She thought for a minute and answered, “Master Lu is generous and compassionate, but he is also smart, which is why he is the headman. Everyone respects him. Everyone will respect his son and his wife too.” She looked at me with those penetrating eyes of hers and repeated, “You are so lucky.”
With Snow Flower’s word pictures how could I not imagine myself in Tongkou with my loving husband and perfect sons?
MY KNOWLEDGE BEGAN
to extend well beyond my own village. Snow Flower and I had now gone to the Temple of Gupo in Shexia five times. Each year we climbed the stairs to the temple, placed our offerings on the altar, and lit incense. Then we walked to the marketplace, where we bought embroidery thread and paper. We always ended the day with a visit to Old Man Zou to have his burnt-sugar taro. Going to and fro, we peeked outside the palanquin when Madame Wang slept. We saw little pathways leading off the main road to other villages. We saw rivers and canals. From our bearers we learned that these waters gave our county contact with the rest of the nation. In our upstairs chamber, we saw only four walls, but the men of our county were not so isolated. If they wanted, they could travel almost anywhere by boat.
All during this time, Madame Wang and Madame Gao were in and out of our house like a pair of busy hens. What? Do you think, because our engagements were set, that those two would leave us alone? They had to watch and wait and conspire and cajole, protecting and securing their investments. Anything could go wrong. Obviously they were apprehensive about four marriages in one household and whether Baba would come through with the promised bride-price for Elder Brother’s wife, adequate dowries for the three girls, and, most important, the matchmaking fees. But in my thirteenth summer, the battle between the two matchmakers suddenly escalated.
It started simply enough. We were in the upstairs chamber when Madame Gao began complaining that local families were not paying their fees in a timely manner, implying that our family was one of them.
“A peasant uprising in the hills is making things difficult for all of us,” Madame Gao opined. “No products come in and no products go out. No one has cash. I have heard that some girls have had to give up their betrothals because their families can no longer provide dowries. Those girls will now become little daughters-in-law.”
That things had become so difficult in our county was not news, but what Madame Gao said next surprised us all.
“Even Little Miss Snow Flower is not safe. It’s not too late for me to look for someone more appropriate.”
I was glad that Snow Flower was not here to hear this insinuation.
“You are speaking of a family that is among the best in the county,” Madame Wang countered, her voice sounding not like oil but like rocks rubbing together.
“Perhaps, Old Auntie, you mean was. That master has seen too much gambling and too many concubines.”
“He has done only what is right for his position. You, on the other hand, must be forgiven your ignorance. High station is foreign to you.”
“Ha! You make me laugh. You tell lies like they are truth. The whole county knows what’s happening to that family. Take trouble in the hills and combine it with bad crops and inattention, and nothing can be expected but that a weak man will take to the pipe—”
My mother rose abruptly. “Madame Gao, I am grateful for the things you have done for my children, but they are children and should not hear this. I will see you to the threshold, for you have others to visit, I’m sure.”
Mama practically lifted Madame Gao out of her chair and nearly dragged her to the stairs. As soon as they were gone from sight, my aunt poured tea for Madame Wang, who sat very still, deep in thought, her eyes far away. Then she blinked three times, looked around the room, and called me to her. I was thirteen and still afraid of her. I had learned to call her Auntie to her face, but in my mind she was always the intimidating Madame Wang. When I neared, she yanked me close, held me between her thighs, and grabbed my arms like she did the first time we’d met.
“Never, never repeat what you’ve heard here to Snow Flower. She is an innocent girl. She does not need that woman’s filth rotting her mind.”
“Yes, Auntie.”
She shook me once very hard. “Never!”
“I promise.”
At the time I didn’t understand half of what was said. Even if I had, why would I have repeated that evil gossip to Snow Flower? I loved Snow Flower. I would never hurt her by repeating Madame Gao’s venomous remarks.
I will only add this: Mama must have said something to Baba, because Madame Gao was never allowed inside our house again. All further business with her was conducted on stools outside our threshold. That is how much Mama and Baba cared for Snow Flower. She was my laotong, but they loved her as much as they loved me.
THE TENTH MONTH
of my thirteenth year arrived. Outside the lattice window the white-hot sky of summer eased into the deep blue of autumn. Only one month remained until Elder Sister’s wedding. The groom’s family delivered
the last round of gifts. Elder Sister’s sworn sisters sold one of their twenty-five jin of rice, and gifts were bought. The girls came to stay with us for Sitting and Singing in the Upstairs Chamber. Other village women visited to socialize, give advice, and commiserate. For twenty-eight days, we sang songs and told stories. The sworn sisters helped Elder Sister with the last of her quilts and with wrapping the shoes she’d made for the members of her new family. Together we all worked on the third-day wedding books that would be given to Elder Sister. These would introduce her to the women in her new family, and we all struggled with the right words to describe her best attributes and characteristics.
Three days before Elder Sister went to her new home, we had the Day of Sorrow and Worry. Mama sat on the fourth step to the upstairs chamber with her feet on the third step and began a lament.
“Elder Daughter, you were a pearl in my hand,” she chanted. “My eyes doubly flood with tears. Twin streams pour down my face. Soon there will be an empty space.”
Elder Sister, her sworn sisters, and the village women began to weep upon hearing my mother’s sadness. Ku, ku, ku.
Aunt sang next, following the rhythm my mother had set. As always, Aunt tried to be optimistic in the midst of sorrow. “I am ugly and not so smart, but I have always tried to have a good nature. I have loved my husband and he has loved me. We are a pair of ugly and not so smart mandarin ducks. We have had much bed fun. I hope you will too.”
When my turn came, I lifted my voice. “Elder Sister, my heart cries to lose you. If we had been sons, we would not be torn apart. We would always be together like Baba and Uncle, Elder Brother and Second Brother. Our family is sad. The upstairs chamber will be lonely without you.”
Wanting to give her the best gift I could, I sang the knowledge I had learned from Snow Flower. “Everyone needs clothing—no matter how cool it is in summer or how warm it is in winter—so make clothes for others without being asked. Even if the table is plentiful, let your in-laws eat first. Work hard and remember three things: Be good to your in-laws and always show respect, be good to your husband and always weave for him, be good to your children and always be a model of decorum to them. If you do these things, your new family will treat you kindly. In that fine home, be calm of heart.”
The sworn sisters followed me. They had loved their sworn sister. She was talented and considerate. When the last girl married out, their treasured sworn sisterhood would dissolve. They would only have memories of embroidering and weaving together. They would only have the words in their third-day wedding books to console them in the years to come. When one of them died, they vowed that the remaining sisters would come to the funeral and burn their writings so the words would travel to the afterworld with her. Even as the sisters were filled with anguish at her departure, they hoped she would be happy.
After everyone had sung and many tears had been shed, Snow Flower made a special presentation. “I will not sing for you,” she said. “Instead, I will share the way that your sister and I have found to keep you with us always.” From her sleeve, she pulled out our fan, whipped it open, and read the simple couplet we had written together: “Elder Sister and good friend, quiet and kind. You are a happy memory.” Then Snow Flower pointed out the little pink flower that she had painted in our growing garland at the top of the fan to represent Elder Sister forever and ever.
The next day, everyone gathered bamboo leaves and filled buckets with water. When Elder Sister’s new family arrived, we showered them with the leaves as a symbol that the love of the newlyweds would be as eternally fresh as the bamboo; then we tossed the water to tell the groom’s family that she was as pure as that clear and vital liquid. Much laughing and good cheer accompanied these pranks.
More hours passed with meals and laments. The dowry was displayed and everyone commented on the quality of Elder Sister’s handiwork. All through the day and night, she looked beautiful with her tear-stained eyes. The next morning, she entered the palanquin to go to her new family. People tossed more water and called out, “Marrying a daughter is just like throwing out water!” We all walked to the edge of the village and watched as the procession crossed the bridge and left Puwei. Three days later, a delivery to Elder Sister’s new village was made of glutinous rice cakes, gifts, and all our third-day wedding books, which would be read aloud in her new upstairs chamber. The day after that, as custom required, Elder Brother took the family cart, picked up Elder Sister, and brought her home. Except for conjugal visits a few times a year, she would continue to live with us until the end of her first pregnancy.
Of all the events of Elder Sister’s marriage, what I remember most is when she returned after a nuptial visit to her husband’s home the following spring. She was usually so peaceful—sitting on her stool in a corner, quietly working with her needle, never causing an argument, always obedient—but now she knelt on the floor with her face buried in Mama’s lap, weeping her woes. Her mother-in-law was abusive, always complaining and criticizing. Her husband was unknowledgeable and rough. Her in-laws expected her to haul water and wash clothes for the entire family. See how raw her knuckles were from yesterday’s chores? These people did not like to feed her and talked ill of our family for not sending enough food for her when she visited.
Beautiful Moon, Snow Flower, and I huddled together, making clucking sounds of commiseration, but inside, although we were sorry for Elder Sister, we believed this kind of thing would never happen to us. Mama smoothed Elder Sister’s hair and patted her trembling form. I expected Mama to tell her not to worry, that these were just temporary problems, but no words came. With helplessness in her eyes, Mama looked to Aunt for guidance.
“I am thirty-eight years old,” Aunt said, not with sympathy but with resignation. “I have lived a miserable life. My family was a good one, but my feet and my face made my destiny. Even a woman like me—who is not so smart or beautiful or is deformed or mute—will find a husband, because even a retarded man can make a son. Only a vessel is needed. My father married me to the best family he could find to take me. I cried like you do now. Fate was crueler still. I could not have sons. I was a burden to my in-laws. I wish I could have a son and a happy life. I wish my daughter would never marry out so that I would have her to hear my sorrows. But this is how it is for women. You can’t avoid your fate. It is predestined.”
These sentiments coming from my aunt—the one person in our household who could always be counted on to say something funny, who always talked about how happy she and Uncle were with their bed fun, who always guided us in our studies with good cheer—were a shock. Beautiful Moon reached over and squeezed my hand. Her eyes filled with tears at this truth, which had not been spoken aloud in the women’s chamber until now. Never before had I thought about how hard life had been for Aunt, but now my mind raced over the past years and how she had always put a smiling face on what had clearly been a disappointing life.
Needless to say, these words did not comfort Elder Sister. She sobbed harder, putting her hands over her ears. Mama had to speak, but when she did the words that came out of her mouth slithered from the deepest part of the yin—negative, dark, and female.
“You married out,” Mama said, in a way that seemed oddly detached. “You go to another village. Your mother-in-law is cruel. Your husband doesn’t care for you. We wish you would never leave, but every daughter marries away. Everyone agrees. Everyone goes along with it. You can cry and beg to come home, we can grieve that you have gone, but you—and we—have no choice. The old saying makes this very clear: ‘If a daughter doesn’t marry out, she’s not valuable; if fire doesn’t raze the mountain, the land will not be fertile.’ ”
Catching Cool Breezes
SNOW FLOWER AND I TURNED FIFTEEN. OUR HAIR WAS PINNED
up in the style of phoenixes as symbols that we were soon to be married. We worked on our dowries in earnest. We spoke in soft voices. We walked on our lily feet in a graceful manner. We were fully literate in nu shu, and when we were apart we wro
te each other almost daily. We bled each month. We helped around the house, sweeping, picking vegetables from the house garden, preparing meals, washing dishes and clothes, weaving, and sewing. We were considered women, but we didn’t have the responsibilities of married women. We still had the freedom to visit when we wanted and spend hours in the upstairs chamber, our heads bent together as we whispered and embroidered. We loved each other in the way I had longed for as a little girl.
That year, Snow Flower came to stay with us for all of Catching Cool Breezes Festival, which takes place during the hottest time of year when the stores from the previous harvest are nearly gone and the new harvest is not yet ready. This means that married-in women, the lowest in any household, are sent back to their natal homes for days or sometimes weeks. We call it a festival, but it is really a series of days that remove unwanted eaters from their in-laws’ tables.
Elder Sister had just moved into her husband’s home permanently. Her first child was about to be born and there was nowhere else she could possibly be. Mama was visiting her family and had taken Second Brother with her. Aunt had also gone to her natal home, while Beautiful Moon was staying with her sworn sisters across the village. Elder Brother’s wife and baby daughter were Catching Cool Breezes with her natal family. Baba, Uncle, and Elder Brother were happy to be left alone. They wanted nothing from Snow Flower and me except hot tea, tobacco, and sliced watermelon. So for three days and nights of the weeks-long Catching Cool Breezes Festival, Snow Flower and I were alone in the upstairs chamber.