Wind blows down the slopes, a change-smell in the air. By the moon’s keen light, Sam readies the site for burial.
Around the tiger, Sam lays a circle of stones. Home, Sam calls this. To one side of the circle, their pot and pan and ladle and knife and spoons. Kitchen, Sam calls this. To the other, their blankets. Bedroom, Sam calls this. At the edge, branches stuck upright. Walls, Sam calls this. Over the branches, woven grass mats. Roof, Sam calls this.
The center Sam keeps empty till last.
It’s close to dawn by the time Sam finishes. The grass ceiling is clumsy and gaping1, the pan still clumped2 with oats. Sam is a poor housekeeper3 on account of having no practice. All the same, Sam shooed Lucy’s help away. Now Sam walks to the tiger skull4 and holds the shovel5 aloft. Does Sam’s hand quiver as the blade sinks into dirt?
Sam stops. The quivering continues. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Maybe something else. Sam’s face is dry. Sam stares at the skull as if expecting an answer.
Lucy comes up and takes Sam’s hand. Today she encounters no protest as she lays Sam down and tucks the blanket beneath that trembling chin. There’s no hurry now. They’ll bury come daybreak. Till then, Lucy offers to sit vigil.
—
And all the rest of that night the wind blows with particular fierceness. Blows Sam’s house down, blows straight through Lucy’s threadbare dress and blanket, down her throat and into her hollows so that she’s cold from the inside. A slapping wind. Quick gusts6 against her cheeks. It means the rainy season is coming.
Though coming’s too strong a word, unless it’s meant as Ba meant it, saying I’ll come home tonightand meaning the next morning, the next night, the next Monday, red-eyed and fuming7 with whiskey. Rain’s coming in the way Ba was and was not coming: a far-off, brooding cloud. While Sam sleeps, the wind blows loud enough to keep Lucy awake. A wind unlike the daytime wind, a wind like a voice, low and blustering8 through the grass. Aaa, the wind says. And sometimes, Uoooo. And sometimes iiiiiiiin, sometimes aaaaaaan, ben daaaaaan. Can’t sass wind or beg wind, so Lucy does what she’s learned to do: keep quiet. She lets the wind batter10 her and sting her eyes. She lets the wind blow gifts from far-off places. Withered11 leaves it brings, long-fingered as hands. Fine dirt that yellows her hair. Gifts or warnings? Smells of wet and rot. Cicada husks, which on first reckoning she mistakes for fingers and toes, which on third, fourth, fifth reckoning she takes for the ghosts of fingers and toes. The haunting comes in the way the wind blows down her throat with vengeful force, fills her ears with words she won’t dare remember by day. Aaaa, the wind screams, claiming her with coldness. Eeeeeer, the wind screams. Nu eeeeeer.Wind’s blowing up and as Sam sleeps, Lucy sits and listens. Listens. Listens.
—
And then it is day.
Sam has the shovel,
Lucy the ladle.
Burial zhi shi another recipe, Ma said.
“Ready?” Sam says.
Aaaaaard, the wind says.
And Lucy says, to herself, Remember? How he taught us to prospect12. Remember? How his wrists were spotted13 with oil burns. Remember? His stories. Remember? His nails bitten to the quick. Remember? How he snored when he drank. Remember? His white hairs. Remember? His bluster9. Remember? How he loved pork cooked with peppers. Remember? The smell of him.
They dig a hole. The size of a pistol. They dig. The size of a dead baby. They dig. The size of a dog. They dig. The size of a girl who wants only to lie down and rest. They dig though there’s soon space enough for a rucksack, two rucksacks, four. They dig and the grave takes on a shape like the one inside Lucy, a hollow filled with the smell of loam14 and morning breath. They dig until sun crawls down the backs of the hills, drops shadow over the lip of the grave.
Cowaaaaaaard, the wind says sadly.
Lucy knows better than to talk back.
Sam opens the sack.
Ba falls in a jumble15. No hope of straightening him. Already the soil, so dry and so thirsty, is drinking him up. He sinks. Where will he go? Down to mix in a common murk alongside Ma’s bones, in the grave Lucy never saw?
Sam reaches into a pocket. For a moment the bulge16 of fist recalls the bulge of the gun Sam drew in the bank. They gave up so much for these two pieces of silver—she hopes this grave was worth their thieving.
Remember? How he taught you to ride. Remember? His boots that held the shape of his feet when empty. Remember? The smell of him, not after he quit washing, not after the drink, but the smell before.
And still Lucy doesn’t speak. As Sam doesn’t move. Sam holds those pieces of silver till Lucy realizes: Sam wants her gone.
As she did on many nights, Lucy leaves Sam and Ba alone together. She doesn’t see what passes at last between father and daughter, father and false son.
Around the tiger, Sam lays a circle of stones. Home, Sam calls this. To one side of the circle, their pot and pan and ladle and knife and spoons. Kitchen, Sam calls this. To the other, their blankets. Bedroom, Sam calls this. At the edge, branches stuck upright. Walls, Sam calls this. Over the branches, woven grass mats. Roof, Sam calls this.
The center Sam keeps empty till last.
It’s close to dawn by the time Sam finishes. The grass ceiling is clumsy and gaping1, the pan still clumped2 with oats. Sam is a poor housekeeper3 on account of having no practice. All the same, Sam shooed Lucy’s help away. Now Sam walks to the tiger skull4 and holds the shovel5 aloft. Does Sam’s hand quiver as the blade sinks into dirt?
Sam stops. The quivering continues. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Maybe something else. Sam’s face is dry. Sam stares at the skull as if expecting an answer.
Lucy comes up and takes Sam’s hand. Today she encounters no protest as she lays Sam down and tucks the blanket beneath that trembling chin. There’s no hurry now. They’ll bury come daybreak. Till then, Lucy offers to sit vigil.
—
And all the rest of that night the wind blows with particular fierceness. Blows Sam’s house down, blows straight through Lucy’s threadbare dress and blanket, down her throat and into her hollows so that she’s cold from the inside. A slapping wind. Quick gusts6 against her cheeks. It means the rainy season is coming.
Though coming’s too strong a word, unless it’s meant as Ba meant it, saying I’ll come home tonightand meaning the next morning, the next night, the next Monday, red-eyed and fuming7 with whiskey. Rain’s coming in the way Ba was and was not coming: a far-off, brooding cloud. While Sam sleeps, the wind blows loud enough to keep Lucy awake. A wind unlike the daytime wind, a wind like a voice, low and blustering8 through the grass. Aaa, the wind says. And sometimes, Uoooo. And sometimes iiiiiiiin, sometimes aaaaaaan, ben daaaaaan. Can’t sass wind or beg wind, so Lucy does what she’s learned to do: keep quiet. She lets the wind batter10 her and sting her eyes. She lets the wind blow gifts from far-off places. Withered11 leaves it brings, long-fingered as hands. Fine dirt that yellows her hair. Gifts or warnings? Smells of wet and rot. Cicada husks, which on first reckoning she mistakes for fingers and toes, which on third, fourth, fifth reckoning she takes for the ghosts of fingers and toes. The haunting comes in the way the wind blows down her throat with vengeful force, fills her ears with words she won’t dare remember by day. Aaaa, the wind screams, claiming her with coldness. Eeeeeer, the wind screams. Nu eeeeeer.Wind’s blowing up and as Sam sleeps, Lucy sits and listens. Listens. Listens.
—
And then it is day.
Sam has the shovel,
Lucy the ladle.
Burial zhi shi another recipe, Ma said.
“Ready?” Sam says.
Aaaaaard, the wind says.
And Lucy says, to herself, Remember? How he taught us to prospect12. Remember? How his wrists were spotted13 with oil burns. Remember? His stories. Remember? His nails bitten to the quick. Remember? How he snored when he drank. Remember? His white hairs. Remember? His bluster9. Remember? How he loved pork cooked with peppers. Remember? The smell of him.
They dig a hole. The size of a pistol. They dig. The size of a dead baby. They dig. The size of a dog. They dig. The size of a girl who wants only to lie down and rest. They dig though there’s soon space enough for a rucksack, two rucksacks, four. They dig and the grave takes on a shape like the one inside Lucy, a hollow filled with the smell of loam14 and morning breath. They dig until sun crawls down the backs of the hills, drops shadow over the lip of the grave.
Cowaaaaaaard, the wind says sadly.
Lucy knows better than to talk back.
Sam opens the sack.
Ba falls in a jumble15. No hope of straightening him. Already the soil, so dry and so thirsty, is drinking him up. He sinks. Where will he go? Down to mix in a common murk alongside Ma’s bones, in the grave Lucy never saw?
Sam reaches into a pocket. For a moment the bulge16 of fist recalls the bulge of the gun Sam drew in the bank. They gave up so much for these two pieces of silver—she hopes this grave was worth their thieving.
Remember? How he taught you to ride. Remember? His boots that held the shape of his feet when empty. Remember? The smell of him, not after he quit washing, not after the drink, but the smell before.
And still Lucy doesn’t speak. As Sam doesn’t move. Sam holds those pieces of silver till Lucy realizes: Sam wants her gone.
As she did on many nights, Lucy leaves Sam and Ba alone together. She doesn’t see what passes at last between father and daughter, father and false son.
