The Vine Basket

by Josanne La Valley

  Lali shrugged.

  “San, si, wu, liu, qi, ba, jiu,” Mehrigul said, placing more against the pile.

  Lali scurried away. Picked up more. “Shi, shiyi, shier,” she sang out.

  The game went on. That is what it was. For a while there was almost joy in running around with her sister, seeing who could pick up the most stalks and count the fastest.

  “Sanbai, three hundred!” Lali’s voice was triumphant. She’d run a distance with her one stalk to say the big number.

  “There’re more out there. Let’s each get two more armloads. Then we’ll start picking up husks.”

  “No,” Lali groaned, sinking to the ground. “I’m tired. You said I should be a teacher. What good is it to know how to do this?”

  Mehrigul hunched down next to Lali. She took the naan from her pocket. Broke off half and gave it to her. “We do this because it brings us money, and money is needed to buy your books and other things.”

  Lali with a crumpled face was so sweet, and so sad. “Why are you looking at me like that, Mehrigul?”

  “Because, when you pout, you’re adorable.” Mehrigul put her arms around her sister, hugged her close.

  “No,” Lali said, trying to break away. “I mean it. I don’t want to work anymore.”

  “It has to be done, and I don’t want to do it alone. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  Lali shook her head. “I guess so.”

  “Enough rest, then,” Mehrigul said. “Two more armfuls of stalks. Then we’ll use sacks to collect the husks—the big one for me, the small one for you—and start way back in the peach orchard. Husks fly like birds with the wind behind them.”

  And Lali became a bird, swooping and flapping across the stubble of the cornfield, gliding under the branches of the peach trees.

  When they returned, dragging their bags across the field, Ana was picking up husks near the house. Lali ran ahead, opening her bag to show Ana all she’d collected. From the movement of Lali’s arms and body, Mehrigul knew she was telling Ana how husks could fly.

  Ana was still holding Lali close when Mehrigul reached them. She tried to bring back a memory of a time when Ana had held her. None came. Mehrigul had been a disappointment. Ata had hoped for another boy. She knew from Memet that Ata blamed Ana for having a girl. That, and she was certain she’d never been as cute and lovable as Lali. Even Ata seemed to like Lali and let her get away with things.

  Mehrigul worked at the far ends of the corn stubble. Ana and Lali stayed closer to the pile, picking husks at a slower pace, both looking out toward the road whenever they straightened up. Soon Mehrigul did it, too—watched for Ata to come down the road. Listened for the rumble of the truck.

  The longer they waited for Ata’s return, the more Ana wandered about, forgetting to pick up husks. Slipping further and further into that place she went, that lifeless place where she could escape the realities of her world.

  “Take Ana into the house, Lali,” Mehrigul said at last. “Help her prepare food. Ata will want to eat when he comes home.”

  After collecting another full bag, Mehrigul took the emptied sacks to the shed. She’d done enough, and knew no reason why she must wait around for Ata’s return when she could be making a basket. She went to Chong Ata for a moment. Watched him weave. She didn’t speak to him about her failure. Nor did she allow herself to think she might fail again.

  “Chong Ata, may I borrow your knife?” It was lying on the ground in front of him. She knew he wouldn’t need it for a while. “I need to cut more vines,” she said.

  He nodded. “Use it well, Granddaughter. It is now our knife.” He reached for it and placed it in Mehrigul’s hands.

  Mehrigul knew that her grandfather believed she could make a good basket—expected her to.

  She was careful to choose branches that were straight and slender, that bent easily around her fist. She was patient with herself as she stripped the vines. With an ample supply, she picked up the bundle and walked to her hidden spot in the bamboo grove.

  Alone and sheltered, Mehrigul crossed her hands over her heart and bowed her head. She had never been inside a mosque to pray, or heard other women, even her mother, pray aloud. Yet she always felt at peace when she was beside Chong Ata while he prayed. She sought that peace, that stillness for her mind and body, though she knew no special words to help her. As her eyes opened, she saw her token, the piece of white cloth she had tied to the bamboo culm. That seemed so long ago, she’d almost forgotten. The white cotton had become gray with settled dust and sand. She touched it now. Wanting so much to believe there was enough power left to bring the knowledge of beauty to her fingers once again.

  Her mind was soon planning the basket she would make. Something worth one hundred yuan. But the thought of money, the idea that her work would warrant that large amount, overwhelmed her. There was so much she didn’t know. What kind of baskets did other people make? She had no books, no place to go to learn. How had she thought she could make more baskets Mrs. Chazen would like?

  “Stop!” she shouted. Angry. Angry at herself. “You made three baskets. You can do it again.” It was easier to believe, saying it out loud. “You learned at Chong Ata’s side. Your fingers know how to work.”

  She’d wasted precious time. Yet she forced herself to work slowly. Deliberately. She chose the best vines to use for rods and began.

  It was late but she worked on. The core secure, she picked a long, thin vine and started weaving the bottom of the cone.

  Then she heard it. The sound they’d listened for all day. And knew she had to be there to meet Ata the minute he got out of the truck. The look in his eyes would tell her if he’d taken her baskets. She had to know.

  Mehrigul sprinted across the fields, careful to stay out of sight of the road. She could outrun the sputtering, broken-down truck. The louder the noise, the faster she ran. What would she see when Ata stepped down from the truck?

  She broke into a smile. What if Ata hadn’t been able to sell her baskets and had brought the useless things home?

  The door on the passenger side of the truck opened before the dust it had stirred up settled. Ata lurched out, balanced himself, squared his shoulders, and walked around to the driver’s side.

  Mehrigul couldn’t hear what was said from where she stood, leaning against the house. The exchange was brief. There was no handshake. Ata did not address Osman’s sons, who sat with their legs hanging over the end of the truck bed. When Ata turned, the taller one jumped down and took his place beside his father. The other son stayed in back.

  Ata carried nothing with him as he walked slowly, unsteadily, toward the house. Nothing. Not even the emptied sacks they needed for their work on the farm.

  Lali ran from the house to greet him.

  Mehrigul flinched when she saw Lali cover her nose and move away as Ata reached his arms toward her. There was little doubt that he had spent money on wine.

  With dogged and unfaltering steps, Mehrigul narrowed her eyes and closed in on him. She didn’t want Lali there, but that wasn’t enough to stop her.

  Ata saw her—and looked away. But Mehrigul had seen all she needed to see.

  “How much did you sell my baskets for?”

  Ata’s shoulders jerked up and down. Finally, he faced her. Spit on the ground. “Those worthless things.” He swiped his hand across his face. “Huh. They sold for less than Chong Ata’s baskets. Nobody wanted them.”

  “Why didn’t you bring them back? The American lady might have paid a good price for them.” Mehrigul struggled to keep calm as she unleashed the words.

  She could hear her sister’s whimpers as Lali huddled against her. Mehrigul put her arm around Lali’s shoulders but kept her eyes on Ata. Bands of steel seemed to tighten around her head as she fought to control herself.

  “Crybabies,” Ata muttered.

  He started to move around them. Pulling Lali with her, Mehrigul blocked the way.

  Ata glared at Mehrigul with empty black eyes. �
�Stop your dreaming and do some real work,” he said. “I told you. Your American lady won’t come back.”

  Nineteen

  WEAR YOUR BEST CLOTHES today, Lali. That will help make you happy.” Mehrigul held out Lali’s red leggings. “Red is a good color for you.”

  Lali had been no more than an inch away from Mehrigul since Ata’s return the day before. It was Monday. She had to go to school. “Don’t dawdle. Plaid skirt, red sweater. Then I’ll braid your hair,” Mehrigul said.

  She was fixing breakfast when the door flung open. Ata stormed in, brandishing a hoe, and lashed out at Mehrigul. “The field—it’s not planted. What have you been doing, girl? Making more useless baskets?”

  Mehrigul straightened, ready to lash back. Narrowed her eyes as she held in her breath, searching for the right answer—until the room began to spin. She felt dizzy. As if in a daze. “I’ve been trying to,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  Ata pounded the hoe on the earthen floor. “We live on a farm. Remember?” he yelled.

  Slowly, Chong Ata rose from the rug where he was sitting, having his morning tea. “I will go to the field,” he said. “There are things I can do to help.”

  Mehrigul stifled the cry that tore at her throat. She’d made this happen. It was her fault, and she couldn’t do anything to change that now.

  “Not you, Chong Ata,” Ata said. “These other lazy things will work until it’s done. Get moving, Mehrigul. And you, Aynisa. You can work today.”

  Ana stood as cowed as Mehrigul. Didn’t Ata know that having her in the field was as pointless as sowing seeds in the desert? Even so, Mehrigul was relieved Ana would be there. She didn’t want to be alone with Ata.

  Ata headed toward Lali, who had crouched against the wall, trying to hide. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Get out of those fancy clothes. You can help, too. It’s time you learned. You don’t need school today.”

  “Lali will not work in the field. She’ll go to school.” Suddenly, Mehrigul was standing in front of Lali, shielding her. Chong Ata had tried to protect her. She would protect Lali.

  Ata raised the hoe in warning as Lali screamed and flung her arms around Mehrigul’s back. Mehrigul held her stand, as deep-rooted in the earthen floor beneath her feet as a tamarisk in the desert. Bend, she told herself, but do not break. She was young; she had that strength. And Chong Ata’s love.

  Ata’s face twisted. Finally, he stood aside, still gripping the hoe, as Mehrigul led Lali outside.

  When Mehrigul returned to the house, Ata and Ana had left for the field. Chong Ata still knelt on the rug, his bowl of tea and the naan in front of him untouched. Mehrigul poured warm tea into bowls and knelt beside Chong Ata, putting aside his bowl that had grown cold.

  “We must eat, Chong Ata. We need our strength.”

  Chong Ata’s eyes were fixed on the intricate pattern in the rug, though Mehrigul doubted he was seeing it.

  “It’s all right. Really,” Mehrigul said. “I should have done what Ata asked. I knew he’d be angry—and I let it happen.” She found her own eyes directed toward the rug. “I didn’t mean to get everyone else involved.”

  “Have you prepared more baskets to take to the American lady?”

  Mehrigul didn’t want to tell Chong Ata the truth. But she wouldn’t lie. “No. I . . . seem to be having trouble making one. I have one started, though,” she added quickly. “I’d hoped to have many.” She sat back on her haunches. “I’m not certain it matters. Maybe Ata’s right. He’s sure the American lady will not come back.”

  For a moment, Chong Ata and Mehrigul sat in silence. Then Chong Ata picked up his tea. “We should drink our tea while it is warm,” he said. He drank from his bowl, then dipped naan into his tea and ate it.

  Mehrigul knew to be patient. Chong Ata would have a purpose for his silence. She dipped naan into her tea, forcing down the food.

  Chong Ata placed his bowl on the eating cloth. He studied her, his eyes searching her face. She knew what he was looking for, that he wouldn’t speak until he thought her mind was free. How could she not be anxious about having a basket ready for Mrs. Chazen with just two days left? How could she not be afraid of Ata striking her with his hoe? She no longer knew the man she called her ata.

  It was more. While her eyes burned with resentment of Ata, her mind could only find disappointment in her own failure to achieve what she so deeply desired. And Chong Ata knew.

  Mehrigul lowered her head. She didn’t want him to see any more. She could not find within herself the inner peace he sought. “I will go, Chong Ata, and do what I have to do. I’ll work in the field. I cannot be at one with myself until the task I left undone is completed.”

  She slung the hoe that had been left by the door over her shoulder and headed for the field.

  Ata and Ana had started at the far end. Mehrigul was left with the uneven rows she’d carelessly turned a few days ago. They were of no use now. She stomped over them, flattening the ground, and began again. Digging deeper this time to find moistened earth that would help to nurture the seeds. Careful to furrow neat, even rows. She stopped at the end of each row to take seeds from Ana and do the planting, too. Ana was already struggling to keep up with Ata. As angry as Mehrigul was at everyone, she saw no use in letting Ana slow them down.

  High noon passed and still the job was unfinished. Both Mehrigul’s half and Ata’s, for he’d slipped away early on. Mehrigul wondered why he’d bothered to come to the field at all. It was clearly her job to plant the field whether he was here or not. And she would, even though the pain from the blisters on her hands grew more intense with each row. Splinters from the rough wooden handle gouged her flesh, yet she worked on.

  When Ana could no longer stand, she sat at the edge of the field, holding the seed bag. Mehrigul took it from her after each new row had been prepared.

  “It’s about time for Lali to come home,” Mehrigul said finally. “Go, Ana. Stay with her. Tell her she must not come to me. That I’ll be home shortly.” Mehrigul’s words lacked compassion, for she felt none. Ana had to take care of Lali.

  Ana nodded and left.

  Though it was late when Mehrigul finished, she headed for the bamboo grove, gently stretching her hands in front of her, trying to ease the pain that shot through them. The unfinished basket lay there. If Ata had come again to steal her work, he had found it unworthy of being taken.

  She squatted in front of the basket, deciding what length she’d make it, the width at the top. She regretted not having Chong Ata’s knife. She wouldn’t be able to finish the border. It would have been nice, too, to have water to soak the weavers, to make them softer, easier to work. She’d do without both.

  Mehrigul willed herself to feel no pain as she picked up a weaver. This one would be hard to work. The rods near the bottom were so close together. The work so fine. She held her breath and pushed the vine through. It would be easier as she got nearer the top. It had to be.

  Her fingers, always quick and sure, were almost impossible to move. Her hands were bleeding. There’d be blood on the basket.

  It would be stained with her blood.

  Mehrigul fell onto her side. She licked her fingers. Licked away the blood, but it kept coming back. She folded her hands inside her shirt and lay there.

  Cold.

  Defeated.

  Mehrigul held her hands under the spigot. The cool water soothed them, and she might have stayed there, wasting water and not caring, if Lali had not spotted her and run outside, flung her arms around Mehrigul.

  “My hands are wet; I can’t hug you back right now,” Mehrigul said. “But I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Um-hum, but I’m glad you’re back. No one inside is talking. Not to me. Not to anyone.” Lali tightened her embrace. “Ata came home,” she whispered. “He ate and went to bed. He smelled awful again.”

  Mehrigul bent down and nuzzled her head against Lali. “It’s good he went to sleep,” she whispered into Lali’s ear.
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  She wanted to hold this moment forever, wrapped close together with her sister, protecting her. How long would she be here to do that? Mehrigul had no answer. But she’d do everything within her power to keep Lali in school.

  “Have you done your homework?” she asked as they walked through the yard.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Did you help Ana with supper?”

  “Yes, and everyone has eaten but us. Ana said I could wait for you.”

  For once, Mehrigul welcomed the dim light inside the house. Low moans and raspy snores came from Ata. Chong Ata knelt on a platform, perhaps asleep, she couldn’t tell. Ana busied herself by the food shelf, washing bowls. She didn’t acknowledge them.

  Lali scooted to a place on the rug and motioned for Mehrigul to come beside her.

  “Please fill a bowl for me,” Mehrigul said softly, which Lali did with no fuss, spooning polo into it and putting it in her sister’s lap. Mehrigul leaned over the bowl and for a moment ate greedily, scooping up the rice until the salt stung the raw tips of her fingers and she could not go on.

  “You eat the rest of mine,” she whispered to her sister. “It’ll be good for you.”

  This time when Mehrigul licked her fingers, it made them feel worse. She forced herself to stay until Lali finished. “You get ready for bed,” she said. “I need to go outside.”

  “I do too. I’m coming with you.”

  After they’d peed into the hole at the edge of the yard, Mehrigul shooed Lali toward the door. “You go in. My hands are sore,” she said. “I must let some water run over them. I’ll be right here, Lali, if you need me.”

  There was little comfort this time from the chill of the water.

  When Mehrigul went back inside, Lali was already on their platform, her head nestled on her pillow. Ana, too, had lain down. It was Chong Ata who sat, awake, on the side of a platform.