Red Skies (The Tales of the Scavenger's Daughters) (6 page)

And she’d almost gotten him to talk about things he hadn’t been able to before. He’d come close—even straddled the line of spilling it all—but thankfully, he’d stopped himself before she could see what a weak man he really was.

He grabbed his bag and threw it over his shoulder, then walked along the street, taking care to give way to the passing pedestrians. It was nearing the dinner hour, and people had more pep in their step, probably heading to their homes—a safe place away from strangers and a reason to feel optimistic about the future. He’d had that once, then lost it. But he still marveled that he was finally in Asia. Getting to travel to China on assignment was bittersweet, but he knew it was the right thing to do. He’d been pulled there by a force that felt almost not of this world, a force he’d finally caved to, then made the calls to make the trip happen.

But hovering beneath his determination to journal about the icons of history, combining words and his photographs, he couldn’t shake the deep sense of loss that followed him with each step. This wasn’t his dream—and he wasn’t the one supposed to be doing the discovering. Yes, he was here—
she’d
led him to this place, and so far, he loved it more than he’d thought possible—but even that thought made the reason for him coming even sadder. Made the fact that he was alone more heartbreaking, if that was even possible.

He started then stopped suddenly. A crushing burden of guilt smothered the bit of relief he felt at avoiding the memory of her face—the crinkle of her nose, and the sound of her laughter. He’d left it hidden in that deep void of his heart, but only for a moment.

He made his way home to his small and dark temporary apartment. He’d allowed himself a brief reprieve from his self-penance of being alone, but now it was time to go back in his shell. Tonight, he would get some work done. He’d sit there, and his fingers would connect with his brain—pecking out the details of the last few days. If he willed it so, maybe it would happen. But what if he couldn’t? What if his night ended just like every other night had for months? Would he be strong enough to keep it away?

Doubt started creeping in, causing his hands to shake and his mouth to water, craving the taste of oblivion. As he’d sat across from Mari, he’d not felt the usual yearning. He’d only thought about the petite woman with the almond-shaped eyes that, like his, hid a hurt that couldn’t be touched or healed easily. And that laugh. Her laugh came as a close second to one of the most melodious laughs he’d ever heard.

But it wasn’t enough. The monster awaited him—waited to consume him. There’d be no more reprieve. He walked as fast as he could back to his apartment and the bottle that had owned him since the day his life had crumbled.

Chapter Five

M
ari climbed the stairs quickly, anxious to get up to their apartment and check on Bolin. She was only an hour and a half late, but he’d be angry if he was awake and waiting on his medication.
The medication I’ve possibly lost.
She stepped a little faster as she prayed the bottle was lying on the floor or possibly even the kitchen counter. For a little while, she’d allowed herself to relax and forget about her troubles at home, but now she felt guilty. Bolin needed her, and if he found out about Max—even though he was just a customer she’d had a conversation with and nothing more—he’d be livid.

Out of breath, she finally reached their floor and jogged down the hall toward their door, the last apartment. Many of the other residents left their doors standing open until after dinner, giving her a glimpse of family life the way others lived it. When she saw them, it never ceased to amaze her how different they were than the neighbors she’d grown up with. Here, in the city, no one bothered to get to know anyone else or even to lend a helping hand. In her hometown, neighbors were like family—and when someone was down, they rallied.

She passed the Zhao home and saw their daughter sitting at the small table, hunched over what was probably homework while her mother stood at the kitchen, tossing something in a steaming wok. The girl reminded her of An Ni, and Mari felt another streak of guilt. She should’ve been back over there sooner to check on the girl. But this girl didn’t live like An Ni—that was for sure. On the couch behind her, the girl’s father relaxed with the remote control in his hand, his feet crossed and resting on their small coffee table. Music played from somewhere in their home, and the scene brought a lump to Mari’s throat. They were what she and Bolin had planned to be but had never reached. She looked away and continued on to her own, much less comforting, life.

At the door she dug in her bag and found her key, then quickly entered, looking straight at the couch to see if Bolin was there.

He wasn’t.

She pushed back the first stirrings of alarm. Bolin was always on the couch. She dropped her bag and went to their small bedroom. He wasn’t there either. She backed out and went to the bathroom, peeking around the open door.

“Where the hell have you been?” Bolin looked up from the floor where he squatted over the toilet hole.

Mari backed away, giving him some privacy. She leaned against the wall in the hallway and took a deep breath. Her first lie to her husband was about to leave her lips, and she didn’t feel good about it. She paused, then diverted the line of questioning.

“Bolin, your pills weren’t in my purse today, and I’m sure I put them there. Do you have them?”

He answered with a grunt.

She heard him moving around, then listened as the sound of water running drowned out his mumbling. Finally he emerged, shoving past her as he headed back to the couch. Mari was taken aback when she caught a whiff of his body odor. She wondered how many days it had been since he’d showered.

“I didn’t hear you,” she said. “Do you have the pills?”

He reached the couch and stretched out, turning his face to the wall. “
Shi de
, I have them. They’re mine, Mari, and I’m not a child. I can keep up with my own medication.”

She felt a flash of relief that she hadn’t lost the pills. They wouldn’t have been able to replace them this week. It was hard enough finding a doctor that would let them leave with medication, as most of them demanded the patient shuttle back and forth to the hospital to get their drugs given intravenously. But she’d pleaded with the doctor, telling him how hard it was for Bolin to move around and walk, until he’d finally relented. He’d never believe they’d lost a bottle of the expensive drugs and would probably think they sold them.

“The doctor told me to keep them, and you know that. When you’re sedated, you don’t remember how many you’ve taken. I want them back, Bolin.” Mari went to the kitchen and opened their small refrigerator, leaning in to take inventory of the few supplies they had left for the week. She took out a head of cabbage and a carrot, then pulled an onion and ginger root from the wire basket hanging over their sink. She wished for a nice, thick slab of pork. Just once she’d like to cook something she wanted and not have to cater to Bolin—especially when he barely touched what she worked so hard to make.

She sighed. She was being petty, and she knew it. He was sick—and they couldn’t afford pork anyway. So what did it matter? After plugging in the rice cooker, she grabbed the soy sauce and pulled the cutting board from the nail on the wall, rinsed and threw down the first vegetable and started chopping.

“How’s Chu Chu doing?” Bolin mumbled from the couch.

Mari looked up. Bolin was showing interest in something other than sleeping. That was progress. She went to a cupboard and pulled out a small bag of rice, measured some out and poured it into the rice cooker. After adding the appropriate amount of water, she placed the lid on and locked it down, then returned to her cutting board.

“He’s okay. Still stubborn as can be. The man who brings the hay didn’t show up for two days but I gave Chu Chu some cheap fish I got from the market, and he was happy.”

She wanted to talk about Bolin, and his health, and their future. But even talking about the camel was preferable to his usual silence. She plugged in the wok and poured in some peanut oil, then went back to chopping.

“He likes dates, if you can find some,” Bolin said, and Mari thought she heard a touch of sadness in his voice.
He misses Chu Chu
.

And that was good news, that he still felt connected to something, even if it wasn’t her. She wouldn’t ruin the moment by telling him they couldn’t afford dates. And truth be told, she’d been giving Chu Chu all kinds of things to eat when she couldn’t even pay the hay farmer. He’d had plants, grass, and even a few bushes she’d found along the highway and pulled up for him. The stubborn animal had one redeeming quality—he wasn’t finicky when he was hungry.

“Okay, I’ll try to pick some up from the market. Say, Bolin, do you think you’d want to sit up and watch some television after dinner? There might be something good on the Hong Kong channel,” Mari said as she threw everything into the sizzling oil. She hoped they’d get to spend some time as a couple. She really needed his touch—any touch—to make her feel anchored. Lately she almost felt like a ghost moving through life, pushed aside and ignored by everyone.

He didn’t answer.

Mari put her spatula down and walked over to the couch. Bolin was sound asleep, his hand curled around his pill bottle. Gently, she pried his fingers off and took the bottle, tucking it into her pocket. She bent and kissed the top of his head, then pulled the coverlet from the top of the couch and spread it over him.

She stood staring down at him, her arms crossed as she examined his profile. He’d aged, she could see that, and the deep grooves that had appeared between his eyebrows showed his constant irritation with his new reality. Even in his sleep, they no longer disappeared—they were a permanent part of this person who had taken control of her husband and buried him underneath a new being who reeked of addiction and depression.

On the table she spotted their engagement book and picked it up. The first page showed them dressed up and posed at the garden park. While they hadn’t been able to afford a fancy wedding, her baba had splurged and paid for the day of photo taking. She and Bolin had laughed, and they’d had so much fun that day. Her smile disappeared as she looked closer.

The faces on the pages of the book were like strangers to her now. Where was that joy? Sapped out of them by real life, she supposed. Now they couldn’t even afford to waste a day at the park, much less have a photography session there. She’d be lucky to pull enough money together that month just to cover their living expenses and have anything to eat. She closed the cover on the book and set it down. Seeing how they used to be—and confronting the truth of how much they’d changed—made her so sad.

She just had to get them back to where they were before. But until then, it was up to her to keep them afloat. She remembered that she still had Max’s card in her bag. She could call him. But should she leave Chu Chu and do something different? Maybe earn some better money? It was tempting, but she knew Bolin wouldn’t approve of her working with a foreigner.

A plume of smoke from the kitchen reminded her of their dinner cooking, and that once again, Mari would be eating alone. She sighed and slowly made her way back there to finish up, so that she too could shut out the world by letting sleep overtake her.

Chapter Six

T
he flames licked at his face as Max huddled low to the ground, breathing shallowly to filter his air. It was hot. Hotter than anything he’d ever felt. So hot that he just knew it was comparable to the pit of fire only spoken about in pulpits and bedtime prayers. The heat burned his nose, and the hairs on his arm stood tall, guarding against the scorching they knew was to come.

But he kept going—inching closer. Why couldn’t he move faster? His legs felt as if they were encased with concrete, and the harder he pulled, the heavier they got. He stopped, dropped to his knees and coughed.

Then coughed again, this time so hard he felt his lungs straining to burst.

He was losing his breath—and taking in nothing but black smoke. Finally, he reached the side of a fire truck and crawled past it. He didn’t have much further to go now. He looked up, and through the haze of smoke and flames, there she was.

She screamed for him, and he lunged.

He awoke. Drenched in sweat, his body burned from the heat he’d created with his thrashing. Max looked around the small dismal room, trying to figure out where he was. The clock on the bedside table flashed four fifteen—morning time.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, propping his arms on his knees as he held his throbbing head. He didn’t even remember lying down the night before, nor did he remember how much of the tall bottle of Chinese liquor he’d downed before he’d succumbed to the welcome black void.
Bai jiu
, they’d called it and laughed at him when he’d handed over his money. The words translated to
white wine
, but Max thought it should be called firewater, like the Indians used to say. The stuff was harsh, but it had at least put him out of his misery and into a deep, silent sleep—but only for a while, because it never stayed silent or empty. His demons always chased him until they found him, then haunted him until his mind could take no more and he woke in a frenzied state from one nightmare or another. Fires, drowning, car crashes—always a tragedy he was trying to avoid but never quite succeeded.

He eyed his laptop sitting on the table across the room. He remembered being infuriated with it when once again he’d been unable to string together enough sentences to make him worthy of being called a journalist.
Writer’s block
. It was relentless. If it didn’t yield soon, no one would give him any more opportunities, and he’d be officially washed up. Emotionally and professionally.

On that thought, he stood. He needed a shower. He knew it was only his imagination, but the stench of smoke and fear surrounded his body like a cloud, overpowering what should have been a reminder of the booze he’d consumed.

He went to the bathroom and turned on the water and used it to try to rub away the fatigue. The man in the mirror stared back at him, a look of contempt stretched across his face.

A new day.

Another twenty-four hours to carry the pain and regret of his past. Another chance to redeem himself before he knew he would flounder again, and try to find peace in the bottom of a bottle.

He cursed at himself, then looked up at the ceiling and glared, pointing a finger at what he couldn’t see. He didn’t know what he believed anymore, other than the fact that a merciful God would’ve put him out of his misery long ago.

Five hours later, Max sat at the window of the small noodle shop, sipping his green tea as he waited for Mari. The bald-headed owner was getting to know him quite well now—after more than a half dozen visits—and had greeted him like an old friend, causing the locals to stare and mumble at his tall frame and pale hair. Max was getting used to the staring. But with the convincingly genuine greeting, for just a moment, he’d almost felt like he belonged in the small community. But the feeling disappeared too soon, and the reality hit him square in the gut—he no longer belonged anywhere.

“
Zao, peng you
!” The old man called out as Max headed to his usual table. It was interesting what a bit of respect and a generous tip would do for a person. The man had smiled at him through gaps in his teeth, then waved at the waitress to bring tea and a bowl of congee, and to hurry with it. Max nodded his approval. He didn’t like or dislike the locally favored breakfast of bland rice porridge, but since he was trying to make an effort to feed his system more than a bottle of spirits each day, he’d swallow it down.

He looked at his watch. Ten minutes, and she should be there.
If she doesn’t back out
. For weeks he’d stumbled around Beijing on his own, looking for a story—struggling with the language and finding his way. So he was glad she’d called him and agreed to take him around.

She’d sounded sad on the phone and almost a bit desperate. So perhaps this deal would be good for both of them. Moving around the city would be easier with a guide, and though he could’ve hired any number of young men or women trained to do the job, he’d not felt the need until he’d met Mari and realized she’d be good company. And he’d need that company. Today would be hard, but it would knock one more place off his list. He brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag, then held his breath to keep from choking. He didn’t want anyone around him to know the Chinese brand was harsher than his own American ones. He could probably go to the upper side of town and shop in the expat markets, pay twice or three times the usual price and get the comforts from home, but he didn’t want to do that. He was here to really
feel
China—to become a part of it and, in turn, let it consume him until he’d finished what he came to do. That was the promise he’d made, after all. And if nothing else, he was a man of his word. Today might squeeze his already broken heart a little tighter, but he’d found out by experience that the heavy sadness wouldn’t kill him.

He looked up from his cup just as Mari came through the door. Today she’d dressed less flamboyantly, but even with the darker—more common—outfit of slacks and a sweater, her wavy hair and the sparkle in her eyes lit up the small shop.

She quickly crossed the room and settled herself across from him, dropping her bag on the floor at her feet. “Good morning.”

Max smiled. “
Z
a
o shàng h
a
o
.”

Mari nodded, and her first smile of the day found its place. “Very good. Your tones are getting much better.”

He found a bit of courage. “
Chī le ma
?”

Mari let out a laugh, and Max felt a burst of happiness at the sound, then felt ridiculous for it.

“No, I haven’t eaten. Have you?” Mari answered.

Max shook his head. “That’s all I got for now—it’s exhausting to think in Chinese. But I think the old man has sent for some congee. You want a bowl?”

As if on cue, the old man approached their table, and he and Mari began a conversation too fast for Max to keep up with. The man bowed, nodded, then backed away and headed for the kitchen.

“That’s an awful lot of talking to ask for a bowl of congee,” Max said.

“I told him to forget your order and bring us some something different.”

“And that is…?” Max was usually open to trying anything, but with his stomach so sensitive lately, he thought he’d better ask.

“Just wait. You’ll love it. We call it
yóutiáo
. The owner said it’s his treat today because you’ve become a regular here.”

Max’s couldn’t help it, he felt something wasn’t exactly right about that. He hadn’t known too many Chinese to just give anything for free.

His expression must have shown his reluctance because Mari chuckled. “You’re right to be suspicious. The truth is that he assumes you only know how to ask for congee, so he wants to introduce you to a more expensive breakfast. If you like
yóutiáo
, he’ll make more money later when you return for it each morning. He’s not making a whole lot on your simple breakfast of congee and tea.”

Max nodded. Now that made more sense. And if he did like it, he’d ask for it again because, to be honest, the thought of more congee didn’t do much to tempt his waning appetite.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

He looked away then back at her. “Well enough.” And that was true. He didn’t deserve to sleep any better.

“So are you ready to tell me where you want to go today?” Mari took out a small book and started flipping through it. “I bought a Beijing tourist guide. We can choose something popular from here if you like.”

“I want to see a hutong,” Max answered.

Mari continued to look through the book. “
Hao le
, a hutong. They have listed several historically preserved ones in here. Let me see—”

Max reached across the table and put his hand on hers to stop her from flipping more pages. “No, I don’t want to go to one set up for tourists. I know which one I want to see.”

She stopped moving and closed the book. “Oh, okay. Which one?”

Max wanted to maintain eye contact, but he couldn’t. He looked over her head and watched the people scurrying by on their way to their next life moment as if they were losing precious seconds. And if they only knew what he knew, they’d know they were.