To me, a duck egg was too good to eat. That egg could have become a duckling. That duckling could have become a duck. That duck could have fed twenty people in Thistle Mountain. And in Thistle Mountain, we rarely ate a duck. If I ate an egg—and sometimes I did—I could see twenty hungry people. So how could I feel full? If I hungered to eat one, but saved it instead, this satisfied me, a girl who once had nothing. I was thrifty, not greedy. As I said, every now and then I gave an egg to Ermei, to Lao Lu as well.
Lao Lu saved his eggs too. He buried them under the bed in the gatehouse, where he slept. That way, he said, he could dream about tasting them one day. He was like me, waiting for the best time to eat those eggs. We didn’t know the best time would later be the worst.
ON SUNDAYS
, the Jesus Worshippers always ate a big morning meal. This was the custom: long prayer, then chicken eggs, thick slices of salty pork, corn cakes, watermelon, cold water from the well, then another long prayer. The foreigners liked to eat cold and hot things together, very unhealthy. The day that I’m now talking about, General Cape ate plenty. Then he stood up from the table, made an ugly face, and announced he had a sour stomach, too bad he couldn’t visit God’s House that morning. That’s what Yiban told us.
So we went to the Jesus meeting, and while I was sitting on the bench, I noticed Miss Banner could not stop tapping her foot. She seemed anxious and happy. As soon as the service was over, she picked up her music box and went to her room.
During the noonday meal of cold leftovers, General Cape didn’t come to the dining room. Neither did Miss Banner. The foreigners looked at his empty chair, then hers. They said nothing, but I knew what they were thinking, mm-hmm. Then the foreigners went to their rooms for the midday nap. Lying on my straw mat, I heard the music box playing that song I had grown to hate so much. I heard Miss Banner’s door open, then close. I put my hands over my ears. But in my mind I could see her rubbing Cape’s sour stomach. Finally, the song stopped.
I awoke hearing the stableman shout as he ran along the passageway: “The mule, the buffalo, the cart! They’re gone.” We all came out of our rooms. Then Ermei ran from the kitchen and cried: “A smoked pork leg and a sack of rice.” The Jesus Worshippers were confused, shouting for Miss Banner to come and change the Chinese words into English. But her door stayed closed. So Yiban told the foreigners what the stableman and the cook had said. Then all the Jesus Worshippers flew to their rooms. Miss Mouse came out, crying and pulling at her neck; she had lost her locket with the hair of her dead sweetheart. Dr. Too Late couldn’t find his medicine bag. For Pastor and Mrs. Amen, it was a silver comb, a golden cross, and all the mission money for the next six months. Who had done such a thing? The foreigners stood like statues, unable to speak or move. Maybe they were wondering why God let this happen on the day they worshipped him.
By this time, Lao Lu was banging on General Cape’s door. No answer. He opened the door, looked in, then said one word: Gone! He knocked on Miss Banner’s door. Same thing, gone.
Everyone began to talk all at once. I think the foreigners were trying to decide what to do, where to look for those two thieves. But now they had no mule, no buffalo cow, no cart. Even if they did have them, how would they know where to look? Which way did Cape and Miss Banner go? To the south into Annam? To the east along the river to Canton? To Guizhou Province, where wild people lived? The nearest
yamen
for reporting big crimes was in Jintian, many hours’ walking distance from Changmian. And what would the
yamen
official do when he heard that the foreigners had been robbed by their own kind? Laugh ha-ha-ha.
That evening, during the hour of insects, I sat in the courtyard, watching the bats as they chased after mosquitoes. I refused to let Miss Banner float into my mind. I was saying to myself, “Nunumu, why should you waste one thought on Miss Banner, a woman who favors a traitor over a loyal friend? Nunumu, you remember from now on, foreigners cannot be trusted.” Later I lay in my room, still not thinking about Miss Banner, refusing to give her one piece of my worry or anger or sadness. Yet something leaked out anyway, I don’t know how. I felt a twist in my stomach, a burning in my chest, an ache in my bones, feelings that ran up and down my body, trying to escape.
The next morning was the first day of the week, time to wash clothes. While the Jesus Worshippers were having a special meeting in God’s House, I went into their rooms to gather their dirty clothes. Of course, I didn’t bother with Miss Banner’s room. I walked right past it. But then my feet started walking backward and I opened her door. The first thing I saw was the music box. I was surprised. Must be she thought it was too heavy for her to carry. Lazy girl. I saw her dirty clothes lying in the basket. I looked in her wardrobe closet. Her Sunday dress and shoes were gone, also her prettiest hat, two pairs of gloves, the necklace with a woman’s face carved on orange stone. Her stockings with the hole in one heel, they were still there.
And then I had a bad thought and a good plan. I wrapped a dirty blouse around the music box and put it in the basket of clothes. I carried this down the passageway, through the kitchen, then along the hall to the open alleyway. I walked through the gate into the Ghost Merchant’s garden. Along the northwest wall, where I kept my duck eggs, that’s where I dug another hole and buried the box and all memories of Miss Banner.
As I was patting dirt over this musical grave, I heard a low sound, like a frog: “Wa-
ren
! Wa-
ren
!” I walked along the path, and above the crunch-crunch of leaves I heard the sound again, only now I knew it was Miss Banner’s voice. I hid behind a bush and looked up at the pavilion. Wah! There was Miss Banner’s ghost! Her hair, that’s what made me think this, it was wild-looking, flowing to her waist. I was so scared I fell against the bush, and she heard my noise.
“Wa-
ren
? Wa-
ren
?” she called, as she ran down the pathway with a wild, lost look on her face. I was crawling away as fast as I could. But then I saw her Sunday shoes in front of me. I looked up. I knew right away she wasn’t a ghost. She had many mosquito bites on her face, her neck, her hands. If there had also been
ghost
mosquitoes out there, they might have done that. But I didn’t think of that until just now. Anyway, she was carrying her leather bag for running away. She scratched at her itchy face, asked me in a hopeful voice: “The general—has he come back for me?”
So then I knew what had happened. She had been waiting in the pavilion since the day before, listening for every small sound. I shook my head. And I felt both glad and guilty to see misery crawl over her face. She collapsed to the ground, then laughed and cried. I stared at the back of her neck, the bumpy leftovers where mosquitoes had feasted, the proof that her hope had lasted all night long. I felt sorry for her, but also I was angry.
“Where did he go?” I asked. “Did he tell you?”
“He said Canton. . . . I don’t know. Maybe he lied about that as well.” Her voice was dull, like a bell that is struck but doesn’t ring.
“You know he stole food, money, lots of treasures?”
She nodded.
“And still you wanted to go with him?”
She moaned to herself in English. I didn’t know what she was saying, but it sounded as if she was pitying herself, sorry she was not with that terrible man. She looked up at me. “Miss Moo, whatever should I do?”
“You didn’t respect my opinion before. Why ask me now?”
“The others, they must think I’m a fool.”
I nodded. “Also a thief.”
She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, “Perhaps I should hang myself—Miss Moo, what do you think?” She began laughing like a crazy person. Then she picked up a rock and placed this in my lap. “Miss Moo, please do me the favor of smashing my head in. Tell the Jesus Worshippers that the devil Cape killed me. Let me be pitied instead of despised.” She threw herself on the dirt, crying, “Kill me, please kill me. They’ll wish me dead anyway.”
“Miss Banner,” I said, “you are asking me to be a murderer?”
And she answered: “If you are my loyal friend, you would do me this favor.”
Loyal friend! Like a slap in the face! I said to myself, “Who is she to talk about being a loyal friend?” Kill me, Miss Moo! Hnh! I knew what she really wanted—for me to soothe her, tell her how the Jesus Worshippers would not be angry, how they would understand that she’d been fooled by a bad man.
“Miss Banner,” I said, choosing my words very carefully, “don’t be an even bigger fool. You don’t really want me to smash your head. You’re pretending.”
She answered: “Yes, yes, kill me! I want to die!” She beat her fist on the ground.
I was supposed to persuade her against this idea at least one or two more times, arguing until she agreed, with much reluctance, to live. But instead I said, “Hm. The others will hate you, this is true. Maybe they will even kick you out. Then where will you go?”
She stared at me. Kick her out? I could see this idea running through her mind.
“Let me think about this,” I said. After a few moments, I announced in a firm voice: “Miss Banner, I’ve decided to be your loyal friend.”
Her eyes were two dark holes swimming with confusion.
“Sit with your back against this tree,” I told her. She didn’t move. So I grabbed her arm and dragged her to the tree and pushed her down. “Come, Miss Banner, I’m only trying to help you.” I put the hem of her Sunday dress between my teeth and ripped it off.
“What are you doing!” she cried.
“What does it matter?” I said. “Soon you’ll be dead anyway.” I tore her hem into three pieces of cloth. I used one strip to tie her hands behind the skinny tree trunk. By now she was trembling a lot.
“Miss Moo, please let me explain—” she started to say, but then I tied another strip around her mouth. “Now, even if you must scream,” I said, “no one will hear you.” She was mumbling uh-uh-uh. I wrapped the other strip over her eyes. “Now you can’t see the terrible thing I must do.” She began to kick her feet. I warned her: “Ah, Miss Banner, if you struggle like this, I may miss, and smash only your eye or nose. Then I would have to do it again. . . .”
She was making muffled cries, wagging her head and bouncing on her bottom.
“Are you ready, Miss Banner?”
She was making the uh-uh-uh sounds and shaking her head, her whole body, the tree, shaking so hard the leaves started to fall as if it were autumn. “Farewell,” I said, then touched her head lightly with my fist. Just as I thought she would, she fainted right away.
What I had done was mean but not terrible. What I did next was kind but a lie. I walked over to a flowering bush. I broke off a thorn and pricked my thumb. I squeezed and dribbled blood onto the front of her dress, along her brow and nose. And then I ran to get the Jesus Worshippers. Oh, how they praised and comforted her. Brave Miss Banner!—tried to stop the General from stealing the mule. Poor Miss Banner!—beaten, then left to die. Dr. Too Late apologized that he had no medicine to put on the bumps on her face. Miss Mouse said it was so sad that Miss Banner had lost her music box. Mrs. Amen made her invalid soup.
When she and I were alone in her room, Miss Banner said, “Thank you, Miss Moo. I don’t deserve such a loyal friend.” Those were her words, I remember, because I was very proud. She also said, “From now on, I’ll always believe you.” Just then Yiban entered the room without knocking. He threw a leather bag on the floor. Miss Banner gasped. It was her bag of clothes for running away. Now her secret had been discovered. All my meanness and kindness were for nothing.
“I found this in the pavilion,” he said. “I believe it belongs to you. It contains your hat, also some gloves, a necklace, a lady’s hairbrush.” Yiban and Miss Banner stared at each other a long time. Finally he said, “Lucky for you, the General forgot to take it with him.” That’s how he let her know that he too would keep her pitiful secret.
All that week as I did my work, I asked myself, Why did Yiban save Miss Banner from disgrace? She had never been his friend, not like me. I thought about that time I pulled Miss Banner from the river. When you save a person’s life, that person becomes a part of you. Why is that? And then I remembered that Yiban and I had the same kind of lonely heart. We both wanted someone to belong to us.
Soon Yiban and Miss Banner were spending many long hours together. Mostly they spoke in English, so I had to ask Miss Banner what they said. Oh, she told me, nothing very important: their life in America, their life in China, what was different, what was better. I felt jealous, knowing she and I had never talked about these not very important things.
“What is better?” I asked.
She frowned and searched her mind. I guessed she was trying to decide which of the many Chinese things she loved should be mentioned first. “Chinese people are more polite,” she said, then thought some more. “Not so greedy.”
I waited for her to continue. I was sure she would say that China was more beautiful, that our thinking was better, our people more refined. But she did not say these things. “Is there anything better in America?” I asked.
She thought a little bit. “Oh . . . comfort and cleanliness, stores and schools, walkways and roadways, houses and beds, candies and cakes, games and toys, tea parties and birthdays, oh, and big loud parades, lovely picnics on the grass, rowing a boat, putting a flower in your hat, wearing pretty dresses, reading books, and writing letters to friends . . .” On and on she went, until I felt myself growing small and dirty, ugly, dumb, and poor. Often I have not liked my situation. But this was the first time I had this feeling of not liking myself. I was sick with envy— not for the American things she mentioned, but that she could tell Yiban what she missed and he could understand her old desires. He belonged to her in ways that I could not.
“Miss Banner,” I asked her, “you feel something for Yiban Johnson, ah?”
“Feel? Yes, perhaps. But just as a friend, though not as good a friend as you. Oh! And not with the feeling between a man and woman—no, no,
no!
After all, he’s Chinese, well, not completely, but half, which is almost worse. . . . Well, in our country, an American woman can’t possibly . . . What I mean is, such romantic friendships would
never
be allowed.”