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By Root 263 0

had had a first wife in the village, but he took a second wife in Singapore, where he had gone to make his gold. Big Wife suffered during the Revolution. “The Communists will kill me,” she wrote to her husband, “and you’re having fun in Singapore.” Little Wife felt so sorry for her, she reminded her husband that he owed it to Big Wife to get her out of China before it was too late. Little Wife saved the passage fare and did the paper work. But when Big Wife came, she chased Little Wife out of the house. There was nothing for their husband to do but build a second house, one for each wife and the children of each wife. They did get together, however, for yearly family portraits. Their sons’ first and second wives were also in the pictures, first wives next to the husbands and second wives standing among the children. “Copy our sister-in-law,” Brave Orchid instructed. “Make life unbearable for the second wife, and she’ll leave. He’ll have to build her a second house.”

“I wouldn’t mind if she stays,” said Moon Orchid. “She can comb my hair and keep house. She can wash the dishes and serve our meals. And she can take care of the little boys.” Moon Orchid laughed. Again it occurred to Brave Orchid that her sister wasn’t very bright, and she had not gotten any smarter in the last thirty years.

“You must make it plain to your husband right at the start what you expect of him. That is what a wife is for—to scold her husband into becoming a good man. Tell him there will be no third wife. Tell him you may go visiting anytime you please. And I, the big sister, may visit your house for as long as I please. Let him know exactly how much money you expect for allowance.”

“Should I ask for more or less money now that I’m here?”

“More, of course. Food costs more here. Tell him that your daughter, who is the oldest, must inherit his property. You have to establish these things at the start. Don’t begin meek.”

Sometimes Moon Orchid seemed to listen too readily—as if her sister were only talking-story. “Have you seen him in all these years?” she asked Brave Orchid.

“No. The last time I saw him was in China—with you. What a terrible, ugly man he must be not to send for you. I’ll bet he’s hoping you’d be satisfied with his money. How evil he is. You’ve had to live like a widow for thirty years. You’re lucky he didn’t have his second wife write you telling you he’s dead.”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t do that.”

“Of course not. He would be afraid of cursing himself.”

“But if he is so ugly and mean, maybe I shouldn’t bother with him.”

“I remember him,” said her daughter. “He wrote me a nice letter.”

“You can’t remember him,” said her mother. “You were an infant when he left. He never writes letters; he only sends money orders.”

Moon Orchid hoped that the summer would wear away while her sister talked, that Brave Orchid would then find autumn too cold for travel. Brave Orchid did not enjoy travelling. She found it so nauseating that she was still recovering from the trip to San Francisco. Many of the children were home for the summer, and Moon Orchid tried to figure out which one was which. Brave Orchid had written about them in her letters, and Moon Orchid tried to match them up with the descriptions. There was indeed an oldest girl who was absent-minded and messy. She had an American name that sounded like “Ink” in Chinese. “Ink!” Moon Orchid called out; sure enough, a girl smeared with ink said, “Yes?” Then Brave Orchid worried over a daughter who had the mark of an unlucky woman; yes, there was certainly a girl with an upper lip as curled as Brigitte Bardot’s. Moon Orchid rubbed this niece’s hands and cold feet. There was a boy Brave Orchid said was thick headed. She had written that when he crawled as a baby his head was so heavy he kept dropping it on the floor. Moon Orchid did indeed see a boy whose head was big, his curls enlarging it, his eyebrows thick and slanted like an opera warrior’s. Moon Orchid could not tell whether he was any less quick than the others. None of them were articulate or friendly. Brave Orchid had written about