Big Breasts & Wipe Hips: A Novel

little Eighth Sister held on to Mother’s coat and stumbled along behind her. Laidi, vacillating between clarity and confusion, walked ahead, leaning forward as she pulled the family cart with a strap over her shoulder, like a willing oxen. The sound of the creaking wheels grated on our ears. The three little ones in the cart kept looking at all the commotion around them. I could hear the crunching of my feet on the alkali ground and could smell its pungent odor. At first it seemed like fun, but after a few miles, my legs began to ache and my head grew heavy; my strength was ebbing and sweat dripped from my underarms. My little white milk goat, which was strong as an ox, trotted respectfully behind me. She knew what we were doing, so there was no need to tether her.
    Strong winds from the north sliced painfully into our ears that day. Little clouds of white dust jumped up in the boundless wilderness all around us. Formed of alkali, salt, and saltpeter, the dust stung our eyes, burned our skin, and fouled our mouths. People forged ahead into the wind, their eyes mere slits. The porters’ shirts were sweat-soaked and covered with alkali, turning them white from head to toe. Once we entered the marshy lowland, keeping the cart’s wheels turning became a real problem. First Sister struggled mightily, the strap digging deeply into her shoulder. Her labored breathing was like a death rattle. And Mother? Tears flowed from her melancholy eyes, merging with the sweat on her face and creating a patchwork of purple ravines. Eighth Sister hung on to Mother, rolling around like a heavy bundle as our cart dug ruts in the road. But they were quickly trampled and torn up by carts, pack animals, and the people behind us. There were refugees everywhere, a great mass of faces — some familiar, others not. The going was treacherous — for the people, for the horses, and for the donkeys. The only ones having a relatively easy time were the chickens in old women’s arms and my goat, which pranced along, even stopping from time to time to nibble on the dead leaves of reeds.
    The sunlight raised a painful glare on the alkali ground cover, so bright we had to close our eyes. The glare shimmered along the ground like quicksilver. Wilderness that spread out before us seemed like the legendary Northern Sea.
    At noon, as if in the grips of an epidemic, the people began sitting down in groups without being told to do so. Deprived of water, their throats were smoky and their tongues were so thick and brackish they no longer functioned properly. Hot air spurted from their nostrils, but their backs and bellies were cold; the northern winds tore through sweaty clothes, turning them hard and stiff.
    As she sat on a cart handle, Mother reached into one of the baskets and took out some windblown steamed buns, which she broke into pieces and handed to us. First Sister took a single bite and her lip split, oozing blood that stained the bun. The little ones in the cart, with their dusty faces and dirty hands, looked to be seven parts temple demon and three parts human. Hanging their heads, they refused the food. Eighth Sister nibbled on one of the dry buns with her dainty white teeth. “For all this you can thank your daddies and mommies,”
    Mother said with a sigh. “Let’s go home, Grandma,” Sha Zaohua pleaded. Without answering, Mother looked up at the crowds of people on the hill and sighed once more. Then she looked at me. “Jintong,” she said, “you’re going to start eating differently from today on.” She reached into her bundle and took out an enamel mug stamped with a red star. Then she walked over to my goat, bent down, and cleaned the dirt off of one of its teats. When the goat balked, Mother told me to hold it. After wrapping my arms around its cold head, I watched her squeeze the animal’s teat until a white liquid began dripping into the mug. I could tell that the goat was not comfortable, for it was used to having me lie down and drink directly from its teats. It kept moving its head and arching its back like a cobra. All this time, Mother muttered a terrifying phrase over and over: “Jintong, when will you start eating regular food?” In days past, I’d tried a variety of foods, but even the best of them gave me a stomachache, after which I’d start vomiting until all that came up was a yellow liquid. I looked at Mother with shame in my eyes and launched a severe self-criticism. Because of my eccentric behavior,