Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [186]
It was obvious to them all that these words were meant for Mrs. Mak’s ears; since she was blind, she could not see which dish had been broken.
Mrs. Mak smiled scornfully and beckoned Kam Sau to her side. “Yes, Granny?” Mrs. Mak took the little girl’s hand in hers. “Stay away from her,” she said. “She’s got it in for our ancestors.” There was an embarrassed silence; the “she” must surely mean Six Fingers. But to everyone’s surprise, Mrs. Mak went on: “Huh! That mole’s an evil omen … blood-soaked it is.…” The mole was on Ah-Yuet’s chin, and indeed, it was bright red.
Six Fingers went to her. “Mum,” she said shakily, “can you see Ah-Yuet’s mole, really?” Mrs. Mak did not reply. Instead, she looked Six Fingers up and down. “Can’t you find something nicer to put on to honour the ancestors? Hasn’t Ah-Fat bought you anything?” Six Fingers had not had time to change out of her plain grey, black-trimmed cotton tunic.
When they had recovered from their astonishment, there were cries of “The old Missus can see! She can see!” Kam Sau stretched out two fingers. “How many fingers is that, Granny?” she asked. “Don’t you make fun of me, you little madam! With my heavenly eye, none of you can ever hoodwink me!”
Six Fingers shot a glance at Mak Dau and they left the room. Making sure no one was following them, Six Fingers wiped the sweat from her face and said to him: “Things are not looking good for the old Missus. Get her burial shoes from the funeral shop and be quick!”
Mrs. Mak died at noon that day, still clutching a half-eaten bean paste dumpling in one hand.
She had lived for seventy-four years.
For the last twenty of them, she had been alternately lucid and confused. One last drop of oil kept the lamp of her days alight for a long time before it went out. In the end, she exhausted not only her own reserves but her daughter-in-law’s as well. When Six Fingers sent Mrs. Mak on her way to the next life with the most ostentatious funeral that Spur-On Village had ever seen, she was forty-five years old.
When the wake was over, and the last of the guests had been seen out of the diulau, Six Fingers bolted the iron door and went upstairs. She sat on her bed and gently wiped the dust from the dressing table mirror. In a piece of clear glass the size of a palm-leaf fan, she looked at her face. She wore no powder. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes and cheekbones were puffy with tears. The white flower she wore in her bun hung crooked. She pulled it out, then put it back in again straight. She would have to wear the white flower of mourning for some time yet, but she did not mind. It made the grey hairs less obvious.
“Twenty-eight years ago, you promised that I would join you in Gold Mountain, Ah-Fat. Now, finally, you can fulfill that promise,” Six Fingers murmured to herself.
Year twelve of the Republic (1923), Vancouver, British Columbia
When Mr. Henderson pushed open the garden gate, Jenny was standing on tiptoe under a tree, talking to a robin that sat in the branches.
“Do you go to sleep with your eyes shut or open?”
The bird gave a tweet, which might have meant yes or no. Jenny was annoyed and screwed up her nose: “Hasn’t your mother taught you to speak properly?”
Mr. Henderson burst out laughing and went over to his daughter. He was about to give her a bear hug, but thought better of it, and instead stroked her face. Jenny had been ill almost continuously this year, with measles and a cold that led to bronchitis. She had a long-festering infection where she had fallen and hurt herself, too. Her body seemed as frail as tissue paper. Just touching it would make a hole. They had made progress though; the dribbling had stopped and she no longer wore the bib, but kept it in her apron pocket.
He took her hand and they went to the front door. It was locked and he had to use his key to open it. He almost had it open when Kam Ho came running out of the kitchen, looking flustered. Mr.