Throwaway Daughter (8 page)

The elegantly dressed Mr. Wang wept when he was introduced to Father. He held my father’s hands for a long time before letting them go, choking on his words as he described how his own beloved father had missed the salted duck eggs. Wang had searched all over Hong Kong for eggs that would meet his father’s taste, but the old man was never satisfied.

The meeting with Wang was the first time in my life that I saw my father given respect and praise in public. What a wonderful yet strange feeling that was! Before his departure, Mr.
Wang persuaded my father to go into business with his company, to make salted duck eggs again, in the old way.

Although all the lights of bureaucracy turned green, the business, as expected, had a very slow start. After three decades of concentration on grain crops, it was hard to find duck eggs in quantity. Even a kid can tell you that with no eggs there will be no ducks, and without ducks, no eggs. A few weeks before my wedding, about eight months after Mr. Wang’s visit, the first truckload of duck eggs arrived in our village.

Secretary Chen must have got wind of Mr. Wang’s visit and figured out that the wheel of my family’s fortune was about to turn. Loyal confirmed my suspicion. Although I appreciated his honesty, I couldn’t help tasting bitterness. Even worse was something else Loyal told me. His father had favoured me over other young women because my mother had given birth to three boys and only one girl. Secretary Chen assumed I was like my mama, inclined to bear male children. He was so much under the control of this ridiculous stupidity that he brushed aside the gossip whispered in the village that I had a rebellious streak.

“Once married,” Loyal mimicked his father, “headstrong or not, your wife will have to defer to me and to you, and later to her son.”

I was aware of the theory of bloodlines, which says that the dragon’s son is a dragon and the offspring of a mouse is born with the talent to dig holes. But Loyal’s father was way off line on this nonsense, and the tradition dictating that my marriage to Loyal would absorb me into his family did nothing to dissolve my sadness and resentment. My father-in-law chose me for possible business connections and breeding, the way he might select a farm animal.

The news that I was “bearing happiness” swooped through the Liuhe Village as if it had wings. It was what Loyal’s family, my father-in-law in particular, had anxiously awaited since the wedding two months before. The humming and buzzing reminded me once again of the stern reality that the Chen family’s continuation required a son of a son. And my duty was to meet the demand. Every single eye in the village would be on my swelling belly, and my head already felt heavy with worry.

“I have only one son.” It was one of my father-in-law’s frequent laments over cups of
warmed rice wine, when he was inside the walls of his house. “Who will pass on my family’s spirit if I don’t have a grandson?”

Loyal may be the head of the family in many ways since his father’s retirement, but when it came to the child I am bearing, my husband lost his voice right then and there. True, Loyal treated me with respect. But if I had hoped to be the moon to his sun, my expectation turned to bubbles when he mentioned to me one night that he owed his loyalty first to his father, second to his mother, then to the memory of his two sisters. I came fourth. Secretary Chen has raised his son well.

One fine spring evening, when the sun had almost vanished below the horizon, illuminating the western sky with golden rays, I was reminded yet again that my life and body were no longer my own. After we sat down for supper, my father-in-law said to Loyal, “I went to see Old Fu this morning. He has agreed to examine your wife tonight.”

I blushed, quickly lowering my head, putting down my chopsticks. I stared at my bowl of rice, my fingers linked together on my lap, the knuckles turning white. I began to tremble.

“Yes, Father,” Loyal answered, his mouth
jammed full, his jaws moving determinedly, his eyes avoiding me. “We’ll go to Lao Fu straight after the meal.”

“We must know,” my father-in-law mumbled again, filling up his wine cup. “Chairman Mao taught us that to go into a war unprepared was to be defeated.”

“Know what?” I heard myself ask. I had always recognized the significance of my baby’s gender, but I had never expected the birth to be compared to a war. What kind of battle was he talking about? And who was his enemy? I sat dumbfounded, hardly touching my food as the others consumed theirs in silence.

As the night deepened, we left the village. I followed Loyal across the dry paddy dikes, over a stone bridge, along a hard-packed dirt road, heading to the Fu Family village where Lao Fu—Old Fu, Wicked Fu, or “Mr. Wind and Water”—lived. I had never met Fu in person but had heard plenty about him in the past few years after he resumed his old practice. His business, inspired by his so-called talent, or heaven-given gifts as he boasted, ranged from selecting appropriate burial sites for the dead to determining the most auspicious location of new buildings. Like many old habits and traditions that had been
condemned by the government as spreading superstition, Fu’s services were in great demand. But I had no idea that Wicked Fu had acquired a new skill, forecasting the gender of fetuses.

If I had had no grudge against him, Fu would have appeared to be a grandfatherly-looking man. He had a broad face, and round eyes that were sharp and alert despite puffiness and wrinkles. His thin white hair was combed back but refused to stay in that position long. He shook hands with Loyal, nodding and smiling politely in my direction. He looked me over carefully but avoided my eyes.

Wicked Fu offered us tea. He didn’t insist after Loyal shook his head and said no. Loyal and I had been travelling in silence ever since we left home. His no-discussion attitude filled me with sadness. I would have loved a cup of tea to ease my nerves.

“I’m honoured that your father has entrusted me with his own son although my poor skills may be inadequate,” Fu said to Loyal with accustomed false humility. The old man might have wasted no time catching up with the new trend of making money, but he seemed to have failed to update himself that false modesty was also on the way out as changes rushed in.

No wonder Loyal frowned. He seemed about to say something but decided against it.

“Perhaps your esteemed wife would lie down here,” Fu went on, pointing to a raised brick platform that took up a corner of the small room: an old-fashioned, peasant-style bed. No one was talking to me, so I had a chance to look around. Apart from a three-legged desk beside the bed, the room was bare of furniture. A stack of bricks had been used to replace the missing leg. On the wall beside the desk was a small medicine cabinet with a red cross painted on the door, which reminded me of the village clinic where my pregnancy had been confirmed.

I walked to the brick bed, which was covered by a thin, grey quilt, as uninviting as the rest of the place, and lay down on it. The bed was cold and hard against my back, as if I was lying in a grave.

“When I was in the city last year, I heard of this method people use in the West,” Fu said to Loyal. “I was skeptical at first, but after I tried it a few times, I am pleased to tell you that the method is foolproof. Now, if your wife will kindly bare her abdomen.”

With a tenderness that was unusual for him, Loyal unbuttoned my shirt a few inches from the
hem to reveal my stomach. When he reached to undo my trousers I grabbed his hands.

“A palm-width below the navel will suffice,” Fu instructed, stern faced. “This is no time for her to be modest.”

I watched Loyal move away, until I could no longer see him. I then clamped shut my eyes but quickly opened them again. I took a deep breath, drawing into my lungs the stale odours around me—cooking oil, coal smoke, and dampness. Beside me, the old man stood, leaning on the edge of the bed, threading a needle with his bony fingers.

“It’s as simple as it is accurate.” He turned to Loyal, clearing his throat noisily. “If the needle rotates to the right, it’s a boy; if to the left”—he shrugged—“then your esteemed wife may have to pay a visit to the clinic. Now—” he paused for a second, “let’s see.”

Pinching one end of the cotton thread between the thumb and finger of his right hand, Old Fu held the needle above my lower abdomen. I lifted my head as far as I could while trying to keep my body still, and watched him clasp the thin thread with the thumb and index finger of his left hand, drawing downward to the needle to steady it before he let it go.

Three pairs of eyes locked on the tiny needle. It hung motionless for a second, then slowly began to rotate.

“The needle has turned right! It’s a male!” Loyal exclaimed, joy in every word. “Isn’t that so?”

“Yes. Yes,” the Wind and Water man responded, winding the thread around his finger. “Your father will be pleased.”

“And generous, too, Old Fu,” Loyal added. “Your service to our family will be rewarded.”

Fu showed us out, an unctuous smile plastered across his face.

As we made our way home, Loyal chattered cheerfully on, as if a heavy load had been suddenly lifted off his shoulders. “I am going to have a son, a grandson for my father. All the sacrifices have finally paid off.”

My mind, meanwhile, was miles away. From where I had lain I had had a clear view of the old man’s hand. Just as he released the needle he had almost imperceptibly turned it to the left, ensuring the hoped-for sign.

Listening to Loyal talk on and on about the past and future, I didn’t have the stomach to tell him what I had seen. Revealing Fu’s stunt would cause turmoil, and I wanted peace.

PART THREE
Milford, Ontario

F
riday is usually Kevin’s day to mow the grass. He comes home a bit early—there isn’t much insurance business on Fridays—and puts on his work clothes, does the lawns, and putters about in the garden until dinner. That way the outside chores are done and his weekend is free. He hasn’t gone into the office on a Saturday for years.

So when I called the girls to the table for a supper of barbecued veggie burgers, chicken breasts, and roast corn on the cob, Kevin was relaxed and refreshed after a hot shower and enjoying a pre-dinner cocktail on the patio. Megan was in a grouchy mood, having spent a beautiful afternoon working frantically on an
English essay, which was, if I knew her, late; and Dong-mei was chirpy, since it was her weekend to command the television.

As soon as we sat down the phone rang. As usual, Kevin suggested we let the answering machine pick it up, and as usual we ignored him. Dong-mei jumped to her feet and grabbed the phone.

“Oh, hi, Grandpa,” she said cheerily as a sour look passed over her face. “Hold on. Mom’s right here.” And she tossed the cordless phone to me as if it was a hot iron.

Neither of my daughters liked to talk to my father on the phone. Megan and Dong-mei enjoyed Dad’s company and his stories, but they tried to avoid one-on-one occasions with him, when, they complained, the librarian in him shuffled out of its cave. He meant well, but sometimes he turned the conversation into an interrogation about school, unsatisfied with vague answers like “okay” or “fine.” He would ask Megan what she was reading, then quiz her about the book. He questioned Dong-mei about books he had bought for her or loaned her. Poor Dong-mei. At eight she had no sophistication to fend him off gently. She would admit that she forgot where she had left the unread books.

Dad’s call was abrupt for him. “Turn on the TV,” he said. “Right away. It’s about China. Talk to you later.” I got up from the table and went into the family room with the phone still in my hand.

“Mom,” Dong-mei yelled from the table. “Supper’s not over yet.”

She couldn’t resist the jab. Our firm rule was, no TV until supper was finished and the dishes cleared away. Kevin says I have a thing about families that eat in front of the TV, or don’t have meals together at all—and he’s right.

On the TV screen was a photo of a cityscape.

“That’s Beijing,” Kevin said, leaning against the door jamb. “Tiananmen Square.”