Dreams of Joy: A Novel (22 page)

“In Shanghai—”

“Right, Shanghai. Well, I’ve been there. I prefer Green Dragon Village.”

“You mean the Dandelion Number Eight People’s Commune,” she corrects me, but to what end? Then, “Your skin has always been as translucent as rice milk. Do you want to ruin your fortune?”

Is she speaking for May when she asks that question? I don’t know, but I answer, “I was here before, and my skin was fine.”

“You’re still young, and you were here only a few weeks. Think what a year, a lifetime, will do to you. An inch of gold won’t buy an inch of time.”

“I don’t care about things like that. I’m not Auntie May.”

“But you’re as stubborn as she is,” she responds. “If you stay here, you’ll be living from dirt to mouth.”

“You’ve always been prejudiced against country people and the countryside.”

My mother doesn’t deny that.

“What about the special coupons you collect as an Overseas Chinese?” she asks. “And the special treatment you’ve received as Z.G.’s daughter?”

“I don’t want special treatment,” I respond. “I want to be a real Chinese, not an Overseas Chinese. And I don’t need special coupons either. I’ll have all the food I could ever want. We grow it here.”

“The only reason Tao wants to marry you is that he yearns to leave the village,” Z.G. suddenly injects. “He may look like a bumpkin, but he’s ambitious. He wants to go to Shanghai, to Peking. But that’s not going to work.”

“I know. You told me yourself that he can’t leave the village, and neither can I, if I marry him. What you don’t understand is that I
want
to stay here. I love Tao.”

My mother leans forward. A small, knowing—all right, I’ll say it, malicious—smile plays on her lips. “Isn’t the real problem that you’re pregnant?”

Pearl

RIDING A FLOWERED PALANQUIN

I SHOULDN’T HAVE
said that. I told myself I was going to be different on this trip. I told myself that coming out here was an opportunity to reclaim my daughter and to spend time with Z.G. I told myself I would be agreeable, not pick any arguments, and show Joy that I could see her side and give whatever she’s looking for a chance. I know all the things I
should
and
shouldn’t
have done, but those words just popped out of my mouth, because what Joy wants to do is unacceptable. I’ve tried hard these past few days—no, these past months—to be alert and vigilant when speaking to my daughter so I wouldn’t hurt her feelings or drive her away. Just now I tried to guide her with questions to help her see her mistake. I never should have let her glimpse what I really thought or felt. Like all mothers, I needed to hide my sadness, anger, and grief, but what I thought—she must have gotten pregnant (
just like her mother
)—sneaked right out of my mouth.

“Of course I’m not pregnant,” Joy says, her eyes flashing. “How could I be pregnant? We’ve only been here a week.”

“A woman can know—”

“But I haven’t done anything like that!”

That’s something anyway
, I think but don’t say. Instead, I ask, “But marriage, Joy? Why?”

“Because we love each other.”

And she does love him. I see it in her eyes. I hear it in her voice. In fact, I’ve known since the first time she said Tao’s name back in Shanghai, but that doesn’t mean marriage is a good idea. My life has been filled with bad choices, and I’ve been living with the consequences for too long. I can’t bear another heartbreak, and I burn with the shame of having failed as a mother. I take a deep breath, hoping that an angel will sit on my shoulder and settle me into the mother I should be. Z.G. isn’t helping, that’s for sure. I guess that’s to be expected. Yes, it’s been nice having him sleep in the room next to mine. I’ve been comforted hearing the weight of his footsteps, his whistling when he thinks no one is listening, his deep sighs, the sloughing and dropping of his clothes as he gets undressed, and his belching and other man sounds, but I know that a Rabbit will never go all out for you, defend you, or do battle for you. On top of that, Z.G. honestly and truly doesn’t know what it means to be a parent. What would Sam say to Joy?

I clear my throat. “Your father believed in perfect matches,” I begin. “My mother believed in them too. So did Yen-yen and Grandpa Louie. Your father and I were very happy, even though an Ox and a Dragon aren’t a perfect match. Still, a Dragon and an Ox have great respect for each other. They work together for common goals. Even I, as a Dragon, could never complain about an Ox’s worthiness. You’re a Tiger. You’ve never mentioned what sign rules Tao.”

“He’s a Dog,” Joy replies.

“Of course,” I respond. “A Dog is the most likable of all the signs.” Joy smiles at that, but she shouldn’t be so sure of my sentiments; I’m not done. “A Dog can put on a smiling face, but by nature he’s a pessimist. He doesn’t care about money—”

“And neither do I,” Joy exclaims.

“A Dog can be violent—”

“Not Tao—”

“Is he the kind of Dog you can trust and love, or will he bite you? Is he a lazy Dog, who likes to lie by the fire and do nothing?”

“You’re listing only negative attributes,” Joy says. “You say these things because you’re a Dragon. A Dog will never bow to your self-importance.”

“Your auntie May would say that a Dog and a Tiger always act on impulse—”

“Auntie May is a Sheep,” Joy cuts me off. “Tao would be too practical to indulge her selfish views.” She seems desperate as she appeals to Z.G., trying to get him on her side. “Tell her that the Dog and the Tiger are among the best matches possible. We believe in strong bonds with other people. That means we both share in our love of the masses and what’s happening here in the commune.”

“Yes, you’re both motivated by idealism,” Z.G. agrees. “These are hallmarks of both your signs.”

God, but men—fathers—can be weak and sentimental.

“Fine, but this isn’t a good idea,” I say to him. “You know that. You just said it was out of the question.”

“I know, but think how much sorrow would have been prevented if May and I had followed our hearts,” he says.

Will I forever feel like I was the one betrayed? Will he ever understand that things would have been very different if he had followed
my
heart?

“But you and May loved each other.” (How it hurts me to say that, even after all these years.) “Joy can’t possibly love Tao. Sympathy is often mistaken for love. It snares people into unhappy marriages and lives. How do we know Tao isn’t a blind Dog, who just stumbled on a good meal by accident?”

“Is that how you felt about your husband?” Z.G. asks. Before I have a chance to respond, he adds, “In any case, Joy doesn’t feel sympathy for Tao.” He turns to Joy. “Do you?”

“I love him,” she says, and I still can’t help being reminded of May at that age—stubborn, dumb, and romantic.

Z.G. once again addresses me. “A woman is like a vine. She can’t survive without the support of a tree. Isn’t that what you had in your marriage?”

“Tao is not a tree,” I snap, but Z.G.’s words are hard on me. I thought Sam was so sturdy. I thought he could support me, Joy, all of us, forever.

“Besides,” Z.G. goes on, “Joy admires Tao as an artist.”

That stuns me. “You said he isn’t very good.”

“He’s still an artist,” Z.G. says with a shrug.

That’s such an egotistical comment, and so like Z.G., but his earlier words about my marriage still sting. Who am I to say how the heart works? Sam was just a rickshaw puller when we first met, and I loved him deeply.

I realize I can’t win the fight against this marriage, but I try to delay things by suggesting we hold a proper wedding in Shanghai. “I’ll hire a flowered palanquin to carry you to the ceremony. I’ll arrange a banquet with all the best dishes. You can have the wedding I didn’t have.”

“Mom, I don’t want that kind of wedding. We’re in the New China. You fill out some forms and you’re married. That’s all.”

“You won’t be able to leave here. You’ll be stuck,” I say, repeating what I consider the greatest reason against this match.

“I don’t want to go back to Shanghai,” Joy insists.

“Honey, you aren’t from Shanghai, but you don’t belong in Green Dragon Village either. You’re from Los Angeles,” I remind her. “That’s your home.”

That’s greeted by sighs from Z.G. and Joy. Apparently, mothers of the bride know absolutely nothing.

AS A GIRL
, I dreamed of my wedding—the dress, the veil, the banquet, the gifts—and none of it turned out the way I imagined. As a mother, I’ve dreamed of my daughter’s wedding—a ceremony in the Methodist church in Chinatown attended by all our friends, Joy’s dress, my dress, the flowers, the reception at Soochow Restaurant—but this is nothing like that either. Joy was right that there isn’t supposed to be any kind of ceremony or celebration, but as a stranger and as someone who has some money to spend, I can bend the rules. Brigade Leader Lai is more than happy to take a bribe—some of my special Overseas Chinese certificates, worth less than twenty dollars—so I can give my daughter a wedding that pays homage to the past and is still true to the New China.

The ceremony takes place two days later at dusk on a hillside overlooking Green Dragon’s verdant fields. Scent from tea bushes planted on terraces wafts on the breeze. The bride is in wedding red—an outfit Yong found in a dowry chest in the villa. She wears the pouch May gave her, and I wear mine—symbols of the ways that Joy is linked to my sister and me and the three of us to my mother. Joy’s hair, which has grown a good six inches this year, hangs in two braids just past her shoulders. Strips of red wool have been woven through the plaits and are tied in heavy bows. Her cheeks shine with happiness and the heat. Her nails have been stained a reddish color with balsam juice. The groom is as dressed up as I’ve ever seen him—a blue tunic, loose blue pants, and sandals. His hair has been combed and he looks clean.

Brigade Leader Lai says a few words: “Communism is paradise. The people’s communes will take us to it. Tao and Joy—comrades first and always—will help the country climb to the highest heights. If Tao sails the seas, then Joy will row in the same boat. If Joy climbs a mountain, then Tao will be at her heels.”

Z.G. takes my hand. His touch—his kindness—at this moment makes me want to weep. Until now, I had thought that my daughter had made the greatest mistake possible in coming to China, but that was nothing compared with this marriage. Mothers suffer; children do what they want. I look over at Tao’s family. They don’t look particularly happy either. The mother must be about my age, although she looks closer to sixty or even older. That happens when you have nine living children, who knows how many dead children, and are as poor as can be. The father is just an older version of his son—thin, wiry, but as dried out and wrinkled as my father-in-law was just before the cancer took him.

Brigade Leader Lai comes to the end of the ceremony. Tao turns to everyone and announces, “Comrades, I am happy.”

“I too am happy,” Joy echoes.

“In hard times, we will share the same piece of pickled turnip,” Tao promises.

“We will drink from the same cup,” Joy adds. “I will work by my husband’s side in the commune. I will work with all of you.”

I take a few snapshots of the wedding couple while Tao’s young male friends set off strings of firecrackers. Then we walk to the canteen. Big wedding banquets aren’t allowed in the New China—even the ceremony was more than what is considered acceptable—but if I look hard I can find ingredients with fortuitous meanings in our meal. We’re served chicken, which symbolizes a good marriage and family unity, but we receive no chicken feet or lobster, which are typically served together to represent the dragon and phoenix. Instead of the many-tiered, Western-style wedding cake I’d always wanted for Joy, one of the servers brings out a plate of sliced pomelo for abundance, prosperity, and having many children. After dinner—and we can’t linger or dance because other members of the commune still need to eat—we head to Joy’s new home. More firecrackers pop and crack. In olden days, firecrackers scared off fox spirits, ghosts, and demons. In the New China, where we aren’t supposed to have superstitious beliefs, the firecrackers symbolize good luck.

Joy’s new home—which with her arrival will house twelve people—is a crude two-room shack made from mud and straw. It faces north. Everyone—except my daughter apparently—understands that only the poorest of the poor build their houses in places where they can’t be heated by the sun in winter. Piles of bedding lie stacked to the left of the door. Tao’s parents and all those brothers and sisters must be planning on sleeping either outside or in the main room tonight.

People celebrate around me, making toasts with rice wine, but I can barely breathe because in entering the room I’ve been tossed back in time to a shack outside Shanghai on the way to the Grand Canal. My sister is hiding in the other room, and my mother and I are being repeatedly raped and beaten by Japanese soldiers. I tremble, and my breath comes out in shallow pants. The smell of the firecrackers and all those scraggly, dirty little brothers and sisters is making me physically ill.

I step outside to get some fresh air. My chest feels heavy, and my heart feels like it’s breaking apart. Even when I was a little girl, long before the rape and my mother’s death, I hated the countryside. When my father sent May and me to summer camp in Kuling, I saw evil in the way paths and dirt roads wove through the land like slithering snakes. I’ve never seen the charm of squalor, filth, or poverty either. Now the countryside is dealing me another cruel blow.

Joy steps outside to find me. Her cheeks are flushed with triumph and elation. Her words come out like frothy bubbles. “Mom, don’t you want to be inside with everyone?”

My daughter and I truly are like
yin
and
yang
—one dark, sad, and closed, the other bright, happy, and open to her new life. But no matter how dejected I am at what’s happened, I still love her very much.

“Of course I want to be a part of the celebration,” I say. “I just wanted to take a minute to look at the beautiful night. Look at it, Joy. The sky, the moon, the fireflies. Remember it always.”

Joy hugs me. I hold her tight, trying to memorize the warmth of her body, the beat of her heart, the crush of her young breasts against mine. “I know I haven’t always been the mother you wanted—”

“Don’t say that—”

“And I know I’ve handled this badly, but I hope you know that all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

“Oh, Mom.” She gives me another hug.

I should tell Joy what to expect on the wedding night, but all I have time to do is whisper, “Always show the greatest kindness to the ones you like the least. If you show kindness to your mother-in-law, who like all women has been bred to hate her daughter-in-law, then you will create an obligation she will never be able to repay.”