Big Breasts & Wipe Hips: A Novel

Sister dragged him outside. Even though she was exhausted, Mother wanted to give thanks for the food, so she knelt on the frozen ground and, using the soldier’s bayonet, dug a shallow hole to bury his head. A little dugout like that meant next to nothing to a bunch of rats who survived by digging holes, but it brought comfort to Mother.
    The hut was barely big enough to accommodate our little family and its goat. We blocked the door with our cart, with Mother sitting closest to the door, armed with the soldier’s brain-spattered rifle. As night fell, clusters of people tried to squeeze into our little hut; there were plenty of thieves and no-accounts among them, but Mother frightened them all away with her rifle. One man with a big mouth and malevolent eyes challenged her: “You know how to shoot that?” he said as he tried to force his way in. Mother poked at him with the rifle. She didn’t know how to shoot it. So Laidi took it away from her, pulled back the bolt, ejecting a spent cartridge, then pushed the bolt forward, sending a bullet into the chamber. Then she aimed the rifle above the man’s head and pulled the trigger. A column of smoke rose to the ceiling. Watching the way Laidi handled the weapon made me think of her glorious history as she followed Sha Yueliang from battlefield to battlefield. The big-mouthed man crawled away like a whipped dog. Mother looked at Laidi with gratitude in her eyes, before getting up and moving inside so the new guard could take her place.
    That night I slept like a baby, not waking up until red sunbeams had lit up the snowy white world. I wanted to get down on my knees and beg Mother to let us stay in this ghostly little hut, stay here next to this towering cemetery, stay in this snow-covered pine grove. “Let’s not leave this happy spot, this lucky spot.” But she picked up the handles of her cart and led us back on the road. The rifle lay alongside Shengli, under our tattered quilt.
    There was half a foot of snow on the road; it crunched beneath our feet and the wheels of our cart. No longer falling as often, we were able to make pretty good time. The glare of the sun was blinding, making us look especially dark by contrast, no matter what we were wearing. Mother w r as bolder than usual that day, maybe because of the presence of the rifle in the basket and Laidi’s ability to use it. She turned into a bit of a tyrant at around noon, when a retreating soldier, a straggler from the south, the sling around his arm giving the illusion that he was wounded, decided he’d search our cart. Mother slapped him so hard his gray cap flew off. He took off running without even stopping to retrieve his cap, which Mother picked up and clapped onto the head of my goat. The goat wore its new cap proudly; the cold, hungry refugees around us parted their lips and, with what energy they had left, managed an array of laughter that actually sounded worse than weeping and wailing.
    Early the next day, after my morning meal of goat’s milk, my spirits soared; my thoughts were lively and my perceptions keen. As I looked around, I discovered the county government’s printing machine and the document-filled metal cases lying abandoned by the side of the road. Where were the porters? No way of knowing. And the mule company? Gone too.
    There was plenty of activity on the road, as columns of stretcher bearers headed south with their moaning cargo of wounded soldiers. The bearers panted from exhaustion, their faces bathed in sweat; they kicked snow into the air with their ragged movements. A woman in white was staggering along behind the stretcher bearers when one of them stumbled and fell, dumping the shrieking soldier he was carrying onto the ground. The man’s head was swathed in bandages, leaving only the black holes of his nostrils and his pale lips visible. A soldier carrying a leather case on her back rushed up to curse the careless porter and console the wounded soldier. I recognized her at once: it was the woman named Tang, Pandi’s comrade-in-arms. She cursed the militiamen in the coarsest language and spoke gently to the wounded soldiers. I saw deep wrinkles on her forehead and crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes; a once vivacious young soldier had turned into a haggard, matronly woman. But she didn’t even look at us, and Mother didn’t seem to recognize her.
    The line of stretchers seemed never-ending. We hugged the side of the road so as not to slow down their