The Book of Salt - Monique Truong [79]
"Don't worry," said the matchmaker, though his wrinkled face said, You should worry! Those earrings are hardly enough for a dowry.
She returned to her brother-in-law's house and wept. Her daughter slept beside her as she had done since her father was wrapped in a sheet of white. Their life continued in this way for another two years. Every few months or so, the mother would hear of another matchmaker who was passing through their village in search of a good deal on a bride. "I want to see my husband again," she finally told one of them. "Desperately," she added as she locked onto the man's eyes, forcing him to see what she wanted to do. "Desperately," she repeated. The matchmaker, a man with a heart, rare for someone of his profession, said that he would see what he could do. He returned a month later and reported the good news. A young man, a Catholic educated by the holy fathers, was willing to take her daughter for a bride. But first, the young man wanted to know three things. One, has the girl started to bleed? Two, is there a history of infertility in the family? Three, when was the mother planning to "see" her husband? The mother immediately answered, "Yes, no, and right after the wedding." The matter was then settled as the matchmaker had been instructed to accept the deal, if those were the exact responses.
"Worship" is a strong word. Especially when spoken as a command, worship should not to be used carelessly or lightly. My mother was taught the meaning of this word, the unblinking force of it, even before she could say "Má" and "Cha." Before she even knew what to call them, what their blood relationship to her was, she knew that their word was absolute, above law, equal to religion. She was told that in their death she would worship them, and in their life she must obey them. From the very beginning, "worship" was for my mother synonymous with "obey," and so she never thought to run, to stand up and let her bare feet carry her beyond the marshes surrounding her uncle's house. She sat still while her mother heated the needle and bled her earlobes. She sat still while her mother took the jade from her stretched lobes and placed them in hers. She sat still and received from her mother a rare gift of tenderness, which for the girl would always mean pain. This was her last memory of her mother. The next morning the girl awoke with no one by her side. She had been instructed by her mother the night before about what route to take, and how to send word through the matchmaker once the wedding had taken place. The girl touched her ears. She kissed the mat that they slept on because there was nothing else to bid good-bye.
The girl heard of her mother's death from the matchmaker. He always brings me bad news, she thought. The pounding through to the other side continued until she began to show. Her swollen belly brought with it a reprieve. The cycle continued two more times. Three boys. Her husband was lucky, indeed, she was told. After the first one, he was certainly flushed with pride. He built for her a larger kitchen at the back of his house. He wanted a room where she and the baby, who would not stop crying, could go when there was business to be done in the main part of the house. As she sat inside the addition, nursing his firstborn, she heard mumbled prayers and the clicking of coins coming from the central rooms. She heard strange men's voices, sometimes weeping and other times taut with ecstasy, all saying aloud "Amen." This "Amen" must be a powerful Catholic god, she thought.
In her second act of defiance—her first was her vow never to step back inside Father Vincente's church—she set up a