In the Lap of the Gods

by Li Miao Lovett

  “Have you seen him since?”

  “Why, no. Seen some old geezers selling trinkets and fortune-telling books. That’s about it.”

  Mei Ling swallowed hard. Her husband had been reduced to begging, because she had been coldhearted toward him; she had chased happiness only to bring misery upon them both. She glanced wildly at the stands of squatting vendors, the gleaming storefronts, the silhouette of high-rises on the hill.

  Every trace of Mei Ling’s life in Wushan had disappeared.

  Except for the church. She was unworthy, she knew. But Father Chong would offer up her prayers, and her repentance. Her mind had been clouded by desire. Her body had fallen to lusting for another man. It was painful, but she had to face the truth now. She felt the weight of her sins, a heavy coat that had robbed her of dignity. She was ready to give it up and start anew.

  “The Lord bears witness, and the Lord forgives,” Father Chong would say across the dark curtain of the confessional.

  When Mei Ling arrived at the Catholic Church, a nun greeted her in the hallway. Mei Ling almost did not recognize Sister Liang, despite the familiar gray blouse and skirt. She asked to see Father Chong. “It’s rather urgent,” Mei Ling added.

  “I’m afraid Father Chong won’t be back for several days. He is attending a convention in Wanzhou,” Sister Liang replied.

  Mei Ling stared past her at the vacant office. She raised her trembling hands to her lips, as if to suppress a scream. The puzzled look in the nun’s eyes pierced into her flesh, and she turned and ran down the stairs, her heels clanking against polished stone. She skittered down the winding street, unable to escape the thunderous voices in her head. Perhaps she did not deserve forgiveness. She had strayed too far. Soon her feet gave out, and she collapsed against a lamppost. A motorcyclist stopped, eyeing her tailored dress and heels, and offered her a ride.

  When they reached a quiet section of the waterfront, Mei Ling asked to be let off. The motorcyclist seemed puzzled by her request, but he pocketed the money and drove away.

  A concrete ramp sloped down to the water’s edge, where peasant rafts stopped to pick up their cargo and passengers. It was late in the afternoon, and the place was deserted. Mei Ling took off her heels, squirming at the gravel beneath her feet. She tiptoed to the edge of the ramp.

  A thick belt of fog bathed the Yangtze, swallowing the two bridges in its midst. In the near distance, a cruise ship sailed languorously with the current. A passenger ferry signaled its arrival at the main dock. Small flies alighted on Mei Ling’s feet. She descended down the uneven surface of the ramp, ridged like sandbag mounds. A distant hum, clear as church bells, sounded from the hill above.

  Her toes touched water, and the flies buzzed away. She stopped for a moment.

  It would be so easy, she thought.

  She took another step. The water was quite cold, soothing to her sore ankle.

  A car rattled along the gravel road behind her. Mei Ling crouched low to avoid being seen. When it passed, she straightened her limbs and sank deeper into water, the pleats of her dress billowing in the wind.

  WHEN THE FERRYBOAT DOCKED AT FENGJIE, LIU AND ROSE disembarked with the swarm of passengers returning home for spring festival. Shoppers scuttled past with bags of fruits and meat to prepare for their loved ones at home, both living and deceased. Red lanterns adorned the shops to welcome the lunar New Year. Merchants hawked their wares from open-air stalls, their sing-song chants ending on an operatic lilt. “Oranges, eight jiao a kilo! A buck and a half for two!”

  Liu stood on the sidewalk, holding Rose by the hand, watching the passengers climb into sedans and minibuses. The taxi drivers swarmed around the others, but left him alone. He was a pauper reduced to begging for their ship fare to Fengjie. He could smell the sour odor of his sweat beneath the jacket of lumpy cotton bat-ting. But little Rose, with her red wool cap, appeared to be a bright flower against his withered stalk, lighting up the women’s faces as they passed by.

  This was my old home, Liu thought. And then he remembered it was his home in name only. Old Fengjie lay downriver beneath the Yangtze, enshrouded in a layer of silt. A fleeting image of Fei Fei flitted through his mind—Fei Fei, dressed in crimson with blossoms in her hair—but the din of spring festival activity tamped down his thoughts.

  On the street, car tires screeched and turned in a fitful dance with wayward pedestrians. Summoning his courage, Liu tried to flag down a minibus just as the first drumbeats of an oncoming parade echoed through the streets. BAH-ba-da-DUM. BAH-ba-da-DUM. The band strutted past in bright regalia, young men in satin pants, young women with a swirl of red and white ribbons wriggling about them like water snakes. And then the fiery golden dragon appeared, its bulbous head rising and falling in time with the drums, its eight human legs shuffling in centipede fashion through the crowd. The ears dropped, two bulging orbs blinked, and the massive jaws opened as shreds of lettuce sailed through the air and fell into its trap.

  Rose shrieked, clapping her hands, stirred by the rhythm of the blaring drums. And then the firecrackers blazed in a mad string of explosions. Sparks of light flickered and danced around the tangle of legs. The dragon writhed and snarled. The little girl launched into cries of terror as her father muffled her ears with his bony hands.

  “Little monkey, this is a good day, a happy day. The firecrackers keep the monsters away.”

  But little Rose continued to cry.The dragon continued its spirited dance, and the monsters did not go away.

  THE WATER LAPPED AGAINST MEI LING’S CALVES, SENDING shivers up the back of her legs into her spine. It calmed her, and drew her toward the frothy swells that licked against the concrete embankment. She moved forward in a trancelike state, one sluggish step after another, until a holler punctuated the silence.

  “Lady, you all right?” a man called out from a peasant raft. The wind billowed against his loose cotton shirt, and his motor idled like a growling mastiff.

  The waves swirled around her knees. The peasant’s gruff voice warbled in the wind. She could be underwater. The world could be underwater. Still, she was breathing, and the cool air assaulted her nostrils and lips. She felt an impulse to jump, then to turn and run. But Mei Ling did neither. She merely stood there until the boatman pulled ashore and asked her again. “You need a hand, lady?”

  “No,” Mei Ling mumbled. “I’m okay.”

  He stared at her with kindly eyes. Her legs were shivering. “You must be cold.” He reached into his cabin and handed her a nylon jacket. “Sure you don’t need a hand?”

  Mei Ling shook her head, and the man throttled his engine, aiming the prow upriver, and sailed away.

  When the boat disappeared into the Yangtze, Mei Ling stumbled toward the gravel road where her shoes lay. With the jacket draped around her, she sank to the ground, watching as the fog swallowed the boats sailing beneath Longmen Bridge. It was the Dragon’s Gate, and the mist was the dragon’s breath, which had pulled her in and expelled her in the course of an afternoon.

  That evening, in the dim light of a noodle shop, Mei Ling hesitated before calling her mother at the hospital. What would she say? That she couldn’t do it? That she had to break the curse? That God had showed His mercy after all she’d done?

  Mei Ling took a deep breath. She told her mother the truth about Sun Daimen and her decision to leave her husband, about Liu’s disappearance. Mei Ling waited for her mother’s reproach, but the judgment did not come.

  “Mei Ling, you didn’t know it would all happen like that. How could you possibly know?”

  “But Ma, I’ve wasted my life. I’ve done everything wrong, everything that I could to ruin my chances for happiness. And I’ve disappointed you.”

  Chen Weijin’s voice fluttered with infirmity like brittle autumn leaves. “When I learned that I was sick, at first I resisted. I fought so hard to deny it. I am a poor woman, and perhaps if I had been wealthy, if I had gold ingots instead of mud bricks, there would be another chance at life. But even the
rich cannot escape their fate. And even if I had all the riches in the world, I would not be happy if my children were miserable.”

  Her mother’s words trailed away. The surge of blood rumbling inside Mei Ling’s temples drowned out that parchment-thin voice. “Ma, I almost couldn’t go on. I could see nothing, feel nothing but the weight of my mistakes, and what they’d done to Liu. He was forced out to the streets. And heaven knows where he is now.”

  “He is a grown man. He can fend for himself. And what’s happened lies in the past. All the times your father lost his temper; that’s in the past, too. He has been good to me, now that he knows my time here is limited.”

  “Ma, you are better than me. I don’t know that I can forgive myself any more than I can forgive my father. Or my grandfather. You know what it did to Po Po, the shame of being ravaged by a man. She couldn’t go on. She couldn’t live with the shame.”

  Chen Weijin sighed. “No, she didn’t have a choice. But you do, Mei Ling.You must carry on for me.”

  Her words, although meant to comfort, aroused Mei Ling’s worries. “You’re getting better, aren’t you, Ma? Surely the doctors are wrong. And Father’s just being an old pessimist?”

  “No, I’m afraid it is God’s will.”

  “Then I will come home, Ma.You must wait for me.” Mei Ling bit her lip. She held back her tears; she would be strong, so that her dear mother might find comfort in her last days.

  Chen Weijin spluttered, her cough rattling like loose stones. It sapped her strength, and she could not speak further. The wretched sound tore at Mei Ling’s heart, and she merely whispered a hasty good-bye, with promises of a quick return.

  She would return home to a village where she’d never lived, a dialect she could not speak, a mother who was dying, and a father who had changed his ways, whom she no longer knew. His newfound attentiveness toward her mother could not make up for all those years, and it frightened her as much as his old angry self.

  Mei Ling would not call the place her parents lived her niang jia. Her home, where her maiden self had lived, no longer existed. It had been carried away by the swollen river of summertime, and the torrent that ground dreams to dust.

  She would go home for her mother’s sake. And when her weary heart regained its strength, she would go on again.

  IN THE EVENING, LIU SANK HIS TIRED FRAME INTO THE PLUSH vinyl couch with Rose beside him. Wang Ma offered him a cigarette, and his lips quivered as he lit up. It had been a wild ride, from the dank mud floor of a hovel to Wushan’s streets, from a cramped berth rolling on the Yangtze to the creature comforts of his friend’s home.

  He had bathed earlier, then sat Rose in the small plastic tub, ladling steamy water around her ears and down her back. How quickly the smell of musty soil and the cloying fumes of the city had evaporated from their skin. And yet, in the warmth of this man’s home, the bitter taste of homelessness lingered.

  He sucked on his cigarette, the smoke curling around him like mist, insulating him from the blare of the television, the restless tap-tap of his daughter’s foot against his thighs. His friend was lost in the dazzle of beauties that paraded across the screen, the shimmer of their dresses under the stage lights. They leaned into the microphone with moist lips, their lusty voices bolstered by the cheering of the crowd.

  He remembered how Mei Ling’s voice soared to the heavens in church. How it lifted him, for the moment, to the realm of possibilities. Liu wondered if she had returned to Wushan. Her last words had been hasty, uttered in the cover of darkness. “Take care of yourself, Liu.” It was her declaration of freedom.

  He had seen pity in her eyes, and also a glimmer of relief. He clenched his teeth, tasting the bitterness of tobacco. All his life, he had tried to escape the clutches of poverty. Perhaps she had been doing the same, and had finally succeeded.

  Liu stared at his hands. The thick calluses formed over years of hard labor were now cut by deep cracks. He could not fault Mei Ling for wanting more. Perhaps, in this lifetime, he could never do enough to please a woman like Mei Ling. But he had a daughter to provide for, and this gave him the impetus to do better. If it were not for Rose, he might have languished in the abandoned stone house at the edge of old Wushan, until the rising tide swallowed him, much as it had swallowed Fei Fei years ago.

  He ran his fingers through the wispy strands of Rose’s hair. Like Wang Ma, she was caught up in the glitter of bodies that crooned and swayed to the upbeat tempo. She was perched against Liu’s breast, with one thumb cradled in her mouth and the other playing against the butterfly clasps of her little jacket.

  He could not promise that she would never again suffer from the cold. And yet, Liu knew that he would do everything in his power to seek higher ground. He would work hard again, not to bolster the pride of a man once and again defeated, but for his daughter’s sake. She was the nymph spirit that had kept him from giving up.

  32

  LIU CELEBRATED HIS DAUGHTER’S THIRD BIRTHDAY, WHICH was really the anniversary of her rescue, with a trip to Fengjie from their village. He brought along extra money to treat Rose to an excursion on the river. She donned a pair of leather shoes adorned with sparkling stones and bells, a gift from the shoemaker whose small enterprise had provided Liu with a modest but reliable income for the past year and a half.

  Along the bustling commercial strip, the dishes of blue carp for sale, the fleeting passage of birds, the slate-colored statue of Buddha on a widow ledge reminded Liu of his former life with a woman who had loved him without question or expectation. Time had tempered his grief around Fei Fei’s death, and the old misgivings had given way to an acceptance that what was could never be again.

  And yet, his flight from Wushan and the unresolved matter of his second wife nagged at him. It distracted him, drawing his fingers too close to the sharp needle of the sewing machine punching through tough leather. It made him cough—the chain-smoking irritated his lungs as never before—when a stranger asked about the child’s mother. With the passage of seasons the sting of Mei Ling’s rejection had dulled, but curiosity and longing did not loosen their grip. As they waited beneath an awning where the steam of wonton soup wafted forth, he shifted his weight from one restless foot to the other. He felt compelled to go back and find her.

  “Rose, how about we take a trip to our old home down the river?” He knelt down, grasped his daughter’s fingers, a pleading, almost demanding look in his eyes.

  The little girl leapt up in her rubber-soled shoes. “Where is the old home?”

  “That way.” Liu pointed beyond the canopy of fruit and deli stands toward the river. “We’ll get there before evening.”

  He hoisted her up against the rough hemp of his shirt and joined the gaggle of passengers alighting on the dock.

  DUSK FELL ON THE TERRACED CITY OF WUSHAN AS THEIR FERRY approached. Liu gazed past the concrete flanks of high-rises to seek out that familiar steeple, but it eluded him now. In the minibus, Rose squirmed in his lap, each sharp curve of the road throwing her toward a stony-eyed passenger or the sack of oranges at their feet.

  “Ba Ba!” she whined, fingering her nose. “I don’t like this. When do we get off?”

  “Soon, little monkey.” Liu tried to hush her, but she batted his hand away with an angry flick. Her simian fingers recoiled when he reached out to grab them. He took a deep breath, knowing he’d have to resort to a bribe.

  “A big bowl of chao shou for supper, if you keep hush a little longer.”

  “No!” she cried.

  “And a buggy ride in the square.”

  The little girl’s eyes glistened, issuing her consent. The bus lurched to a stop across the street from the Catholic Church, whose bell tower lit the rain-streaked night in soft golden hues. Liu led his daughter toward its imposing edifice, his heart thumping softly.

  A woman in a gray jacket and skirt introduced herself as Sister Liang. Her movements were spare, her manner austere, but she doled a generous smile on Rose, who fidgeted and wrappe
d her arms around Liu’s quivering thigh.

  Liu hesitated, scrunching his toes against the smooth granite. “I’m here to look for someone. She’s a loyal member of your church, a woman by the name of Mei Ling. Chang Mei Ling.”

  “Why, yes, she used to come to Mass every Sunday. It’s been a while now since we’ve seen her.”

  His heart sank. She would not forsake the church, certainly not if she had returned to Wushan. A more lucrative life must have led her back to the big city, to her lover. He bristled at the thought. His voice quavered. “She ... she was my wife. A string of unfortunate events pulled us apart. Do you know if she’s stayed on in Chongqing?”

  “No, the last I heard she is living with her parents in Guangdong.”

  “Really? I didn’t think she got along with her father.” He winced. He had said too much, but Sister Liang did not seem bothered.

  “She did come by the church. Twice, as I recall. She seemed quite perturbed the first time. Wanted to talk to Father Chong. When she came again a few days later, the minister had not returned, and she took me aside to relay her news.”

  Liu sensed that Sister Liang was weighing what she would reveal to him. He did not want to appear too eager, but he had waited all this time, battling the ruminations.

  Sister Liang gestured toward a narrow hallway, and led him up the stairs into the belfry.The silhouette of Wushan’s edifices rippled in the gilded light. Liu counted seven long chimes of the bells suspended above them. Sister Liang spoke softly, her words alighting like doves before the wind carried them away.

  “Your wife was kind to make a donation to the church before she left. She was sorry that she had not found a community in Chongqing, said she had fallen out of the graces of the Lord.” The nun cleared her throat, as if she had spoken too much this time.