The Brooch

The author is a fourth-year medical student at the University of California, Davis.

I WAS THIRTEEN when I came to my grandparents at the foot of the mountains. There was to be a great wedding, a wedding between my uncle and a woman whose bride price was high even when she had brought with her a child. A boy she doted on, suckling on his thumb until he cried. And she cooing, there, there, lamb, there, there.

She made noodles, combed through the dough several times, and the dough became fine ribbons bouncing between her fingers. She cooked them with pork liver, scallions, in water she bailed from the stream.

The stream came from the mountains, crept on his toes like a little man between huts and houses. By his banks everyone would come and go, with buckets filled, hanging from the ends of a pole balanced on the right shoulder. The locals were very good at this. They walked straight even with the load and sometimes the older women would move along singing songs. At dusk when the sun and the moon were together side by side, the women did their washing, like sisters together by the stream. Plop, plop, their sticks pounding against garments laid flat.

Dark garments they wore because that was propriety but they must wash quickly, the sky would become darker and darker. Soon when everything else was dark, and only fireflies lit the winding roads, the women would scurry home on winding narrow mountain roads, patter, patter, their bare feet on cool ground, walking fast with the chorus of crickets around them.

Home, homeward to the husbands rolling tobacco, very carefully rolling them into small squares of aged yellow paper so that nothing was spilled. Past them out to friends and their boys in the courtyard watching lanterns burn, the boys from time to time reaching into a jug for soft grease to keep them burning.

The quiet boy at the corner I had my eyes on listened with his head cocked to one side, to my grandfather saying that five pigs have grown so fat he must send them to the slaughter house in the morning. Then we all listened with our heads cocked to one side: footsteps against the cool ground, patter, patter, patter with a chorus of crickets.

Good night everyone, now say goodnight to everyone; Pouch, you didn't say goodnight to EVERYone. She gave me a cruel shove, I stood in front of the brown boy his skin hot. Good night I whispered as they blew out the lanterns.

I slept next to my grandmother inside a tall net that draped onto the floor. Her breasts were old and long, hanging and reaching to her womb. I counted her lines, most of them she had on her face; her body, some parts of it were like mine, young without lines. We didn't speak but she rested her chin on my shoulders. At first I was uncomfortable, then I got used to it and sometimes would put mine on her bony shoulders to make her smile.

Lilypad, my uncle's bride-her name was Lilypad-said that I ought to have slept with her, instead of old Er-Ma, because young people have more in common. We could talk about girlie things like your pretty shoes with the ballerina criss-cross straps, let me try them on, oh can I try them on?

She put them on and looked at her legs long like the willow. She stood up in them, walked in small circles around the dandelions at first, then for an instant when I looked away, broke into a small run towards the mountains.

My pretty shoes my father bought me, my father who gave you the gold watches around your wrists, why are you running away with my shoes, Lilypad? She stopped just long enough to turn around, her lips twisted into a cruel red smile, Pouchie, they look so much better on me.

Running hard I tried to overtake her, reached out with my hands, leapt into the air to grab her calves like the underbelly of a fish cool and slippery. She got away, wild hair flying behind her as she ran nymph-like towards the mountains in my ballerina shoes.

She came back in time for the wedding, with a pestle crushed her roses from the mountains until they became a paste that was dark red. Some she put on her lips red like wild berries, the rest on her nails and mine. We heard little Benshi crying, Lilypad cooed, there, there, lamb, so I went outside to help Er-Ma with roasting the piglets. When I sat next to her, Er-Ma reached into the fire, felt the piglet up and down with her bony fingers for a tender section. People around us eyeing piglets roasting with red-brown skin, began to demand that we start the festivities.

The bride, the bride, she is still inside, my uncle called out at the threshold. Lilypad, Lilypad! No answer, then the older boys called out too, Lilypad, Lilypad! Heard her laughing. We saw the curtain rise and fall and Lilypad tall like a willow leaning dramatically against the threshold, I never since saw a lovelier bride: Lilypad in all her insolence, her bold eyes-flashing, dark hair interwoven with roses from the wild, long arms bared. She smiled red and full. What is everyone waiting for? We said eagerly, yes, yes, let's get on with it.

The piglets were brought out, one for each table, on large plates decked with sweet honeysuckle, guavas, bunches over bunches of grapes, apples, pears, melons, lychee and wild berries pressed closely together. The smaller dishes followed, wild mushrooms, bamboo shoots, shellfish and eels and oysters, and small crabs we caught in the morning arranged in straight rolls, yellow creamy eggs from inside the shells we picked out with our fingers. And the noodles Lilypad made very, very long to symbolize the longevity of a good marriage.

I sat with the other girls. After we ate our shirt fronts were stained with food. The boys were staring, so we left quietly.

We found some sweet roots by the stream, broke them into small pieces to put under our tongues. For a while we made fun of one another, you chewed like a cow, moo, moo, smell my breath, then we agreed that the water looked very nice. We waded in wearing all our clothes because that was propriety, until the water came to out shoulders.

A tree close by shed flowers, white petals falling, falling like small rain. A layer of white flowers drifted by. I lay on top of the flowers, closed my eyes, look, look, I am Elaine who died for Lancelot. They laughed, but someone said, I can see your nipples, you better cover them, so I rolled off the flowers quickly and adjusted my shirt.

In a circle we stood together while the stream washed our shirt fronts. Talked about Lilypad's wedding. I said, she certainly looked very beautiful. All agreed, but Felicity shook her head left to right, because her sister, Faith, was sixteen and was very much sought after, we made ribbons for our Faith, for our Faith's pretty hair, Mother said our Faith is Prettier by far, and our Faith, Mother said her bride price is that much higher. Having said that, she opened her arms to take in the sky. We didn't believe her. That much higher? We shook our heads. Yes, yes, she said eagerly, straining to open her arms wider. We can see your nipples, Felicity, you better cover them.

On our way back, we ran into the boys. They said they were going to cool off in the stream. We told them we had done that already, and walking up to him I put my cool hands on his face, cold?

The boys walked away laughing at him, he didn't seem to mind, glanced back with the corner of his eyes. But Felicity, coming up from behind, pinched me until I cried for her to stop. She let go, smirked as I rubbed my arms, then happily she ran to the front of the group and held Buttercup's hand the rest of the way.

Came back to the courtyard where Lilypad was walking barefoot behind Benshi, the baby crawling, and crawling very fast for his age. A pair of arms picked him up, little Benshi gurgling in mid-air. How delightful, the voice of the old wicked woman was pleasant, soothing and pleasant as though she wanted something. How delightful, she said again, and a hush fell over everyone. Er-Ma ran to where I was standing to hide me behind her.

Lilypad in front of the old wicked woman was shaking. With effort she reached out, Benshi? The boy started to lean forward but the wicked woman held him back. She had a pleasant face, and smiling to show us her teeth sharp and pointed, she said, mine, the boy is mine. Lilypad said no, you must be mistaken, her arms still extended, Benshi?

Behind Lilypad some people mumbled yes, yes, you must be mistaken, but the wicked old woman stopped them with her yellow eyes. Turning back to Lilypad she smiled again, ran her forefinger slowly along Lilypad's long brown arms, I'll buy him from you. She reached inside her clothes, her fingers now fumbling underneath her clothes, dark clothes because that was propriety. Lilypad impatient, my boy not for sale, her arms in front of her almost touching the child, she called out again, Benshi?

At last the wicked old woman found her trinket. Bauble for the pretty bride, her palm opened wide for us all to see. Oh, such a delightful bauble it was! A brooch, a brooch lined with large pearls and opals. The clasp burnished gold, more gold than from the sky, where the sun, setting, glowed a paler yellow.

For a long time Lilypad looked at the brooch. Then she was happy, a cruel red smile, lips red like wild berries. She took back her outstretched hands, took them back without looking at the child, Alright, she cupped her palms without looking at the child, alright, let me have the brooch.

And the wicked old woman laughed, laughed so much her old, scaly skin dug into the child. And the child was crying, crying so sadly his body shook and shook and wouldn't stop shaking.

yliao@ucdavis.edu