The rain had stopped, and the sun glared through wide sycamore leaves. The air was hot and humid.
I didn’t want to go home. Mother would already be back from her night shift. Wandering down Big Liberation Road—the main road of the city—I thought about all the wrongs done to me.
My braids had come loose, and a few locks of long hair danced around my face in the soft breeze. The rubber bands must have been pulled off during the attack.
People dressed in dark blue and white rushed east and west on the sidewalks. A lazy snake of cars, bicycles, trucks, and rickshaws crawled slowly along the wide street. I felt the summer heat in the air. It smelled of diesel fumes and dust. I stopped in front of
the Workers & Parents Department Store. A big red sign that read CLOSED FOR POLITICAL STUDIES hung on the door. Ripping a small strip from the bottom of my torn jacket, I tied my hair into a ponytail. Mother’s worried face came to mind. What would happen to us after Gao told his father about today?
Since Father’s arrest, I hadn’t walked down Big Liberation Road. Mother said it wasn’t safe. The Red Guards had split into two gangs, the Rights and the Lefts, who constantly fought each other. When Mother and I went out, we stayed on the back roads. But today, after the fight at school, nothing frightened me. The next time they ganged up on me, I might not be able to get away, but I decided I would at least get in a few punches and draw blood.
Someone shouted, “Get away! Get out of the way!” Rickshaws and bicycles crowded up onto the narrow sidewalk. A few people fell off their bicycles. I dashed aside to avoid being crushed. A green police jeep with a red flag roared by. A young worker with a paint-spattered uniform cursed at the jeep before getting back on his bike.
Like those around me, I elbowed my way into the
crowd. Father always had me walk closely behind him when we were in a crowd while he did the “elbow swimming.”
The city jail stood one block from the department store. It was the only building with thick iron bars outside its windows. Two soldiers armed with machine guns guarded the iron gates. A group of people stood quietly outside the entrance, each hugging a small cloth bag. I envied them for knowing that their family member was inside. Day and night I wondered where they had taken my father.
Half a block from the jail was the bookstore. A huge portrait of Mao hung from the second floor of the building. He smiled and waved his big hand.
“Stop! Stop, or we’ll kill you!” The voices came from behind me.
I froze. People around me parted.
Two Red Guards ran past me, closely chased by four more.
I jumped behind a big tree trunk.
About twenty yards away, the four caught up with the two.
“The Rights are going to beat up the Lefts this time,” said a skinny young woman in a green post office uniform.
“What’s the difference?” asked a middle-aged woman with gray hair. “Aren’t they all Red Guards?”
“Oh, who knows. Each side thinks they follow Chairman Mao closer than the other. See how they wear their armbands?” The young woman moved closer to the fight. Some people on the sidewalk hurried on without looking; others watched from a distance.
The two Red Guards, who wore red armbands on their left arms, began swinging their belts. As they cut the air, the metal clasps and buckles made angry buzzing sounds. The four with red bands on their right arms backed off a few steps. I recognized Short Legs and Pimple Face among them.
Suddenly there was a sound like a cleaver hitting a slab of raw beef. Short Legs gave out a loud scream. Blood spurted from above his eye. The two Lefts broke from the circle and ran past the bookstore. Pimple Face and two other Rights chased them for a few steps and then ran back to Short Legs. “We will get them later!” Pimple Face gasped.
He lifted up Short Legs from behind. The other two carried his legs. They ran toward the hospital. As they passed me, I saw that Short Legs’s face was covered with blood and his eyes were closed. A few kids followed behind. The crowd slowly broke up.
I had never seen a metal buckle crack open a head. How many stitches would it take to sew him up? Maybe he would die.
I would not be sorry if that happened. It had been seventeen months since they took Father away, but it still felt as recent as yesterday.
Something lay on the ground. It was the belt, the heavy buckle stained red. I hesitated, then walked over, picked it up, and tucked it into my schoolbag.
Tomorrow—tomorrow at school, if they humiliated me again, they would find out how far I would go to protect myself.
I zigzagged between people and bicycles toward Six-Port Revolutionary Road, which led to the Han River. The sun glowed on the sandy shore. I walked down the stone steps to the riverbank. A tugboat was pulling a huge barge loaded with lumber across the river. Birds sang in nearby trees. I plopped down
where I used to sit with Father. Cupping my chin in my hands, I watched the river flow by. My mind flew in all directions.
Where was Father? Was it painful to drown oneself? When a person dies, does the spirit go to paradise? If so, was the Golden Gate Bridge along the way? No, no! I chased that thought away. I wanted to wear a red dress, eat ice cream, and walk on a green lawn. I wanted to live, to live for the day I could go to the Golden Gate Bridge with Father. But was he still alive? My eyes stung. I squeezed them shut.
The breeze became cooler as the day grew dark. My stomach groaned when I caught the scents of garlic fish and jasmine rice rising from the small boats. Mother should have left for her night shift by now. I walked toward home. Cars honked as they glided down Big Liberation Road. A full moon lit the busy sidewalk.
From inside our courtyard, I saw dim light flickering through our window. Mother was still home? I tiptoed upstairs and took a deep breath before cracking open the door.
A small oil lamp stood lit on the dinner table.
Mother sat on a low stool next to it, both hands wrapped around her knees. She stared into the darkness outside the window, looking small and helpless.
She didn’t notice me until I walked over and touched her shoulder gently. “Momma, I’m home.”
She looked up, her eyes red and puffy. “Do you know what you have done, Ling?”
“He called Father an American spy.” I was too proud to tell her that Gao had spit on my face.
“But, Ling, don’t you know who that boy’s father is, and what he can do to us?” Mother paused. “They accused me of sending you to murder a young revolutionary.” Mother rose from the stool. “Either you apologize or they’ll make an example of us.” She walked to where her nurse’s uniform hung behind the door.
Anger burned inside me. I squeezed out each word between my teeth. “Apologize? No! Never!”
With her white uniform in hand, Mother turned toward me. “I know what they’ve been doing to you at school. You haven’t done anything wrong. But I can’t take it anymore—the fear, not knowing what happened to your father, and watching you suffer. I
wish you would just bend a little, like a bamboo in the wind. If they send us to a labor camp, we will be treated worse than animals.”
Words choked in my throat. Mother sighed and walked out. I ran to the window in my bedroom and watched her drag her skinny body through the courtyard. For a moment, I pictured myself apologizing to Gao. But the thought of his ugly face wearing a victory smile made me decide that I would rather die.
I sat down on my bed and took the belt out of my bag. Using a corner of my shirt, I buffed off the dark blood. With each stroke I felt more determined to fight.
My thoughts drifted from my fights with Gao at school to the baby doctor underneath the blue sheet and finally to the rope that had been under Mother’s mattress. What would they do to Mother and me if I refused to apologize?
At last, my eyelids grew heavy. I collapsed into bed. I prayed that a fairy godmother would take me to the Golden Gate Bridge. More than anything else, I prayed that she could bring Father home safely.
But that night, I didn’t dream.