Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

far away. I was foolish. I don’t know why I didn’t agree to what you wanted back then. . . .”
    “Big Sister . . .” Chunmiao was weeping bitterly. “It’s all my fault.”
    “It’s nobody’s fault,” Hezuo said. “Everything is determined by fate, and there’s no way anyone can escape it.”
    “Don’t give up, Hezuo,” I said. “We’ll get you to a hospital and find a good doctor.”
    She managed a sad smile.
    “Jiefang, you and I were husband and wife, and after I die, I want you to take good care of her . . . she’s a good person. Women who stay with you are not blessed with good fortune ... all I ask is that you look after Kaifang. He’s suffered a lot because of us. . . .”
    I heard Kaifang blow his nose out in the yard.
    Hezuo died three days later.
    After the funeral my son wrapped his arms around the old dog’s neck and sat in front of his mother’s grave from noon to sunset, without crying and without moving.
    Like my father, Huang Tong and his wife refused to see me. I got down on my knees at their door and kowtowed three times, banging my head loudly enough for them to hear.
    Two months later Huang Tong was dead.
    On the night of his death, Wu Qiuxiang hanged herself from a dead branch on the apricot tree in the middle of the yard.
    Once the funerals for my father-in-law and mother-in-law were over, Chunmiao and I moved into the Ximen family compound. The two rooms Mother and Hezuo had occupied now became our living quarters, separated from Father only by that thin wall. As before, he never went out in the daytime, but if we looked out our window at night we sometimes saw his crooked back along with the old dog, who never left his side.
    In accordance with Qiuxiang’s wishes, we buried her to the right of Ximen Nao and Ximen Bai. Ximen Nao and his women were now all united in the ground. Huang Tong? We buried him in the Ximen Village public cemetery, no more than two yards from where Hong Taiyue lay.
    On October 5, 1998, the fifteenth day of the eight month by the lunar calendar, the Mid-Autumn Festival, there was a reunion of all who had lived in the Ximen family compound. Kaifang returned on his motorcycle from the county town, his sidecar filled with two boxes of moon cakes and a watermelon. Baofeng and Ma Gaige were there. Gaige, who had worked for a private cottonseed-processing factory, had lost his left arm in a cutting machine; his sleeve hung empty at his side. You wanted to express your condolences to this nephew of yours, it seemed, but no words emerged when your lips moved. That was also the day that you, Lan Jiefang, and Pang Chunmiao received formal permission to marry. After years of hardship, your lover finally became your wife, and even an old dog like me was happy for you. You kneeled outside your father’s window. In a supplicating tone, you said:
    “Dad . . . we’re married, we are a legally married couple, and will no longer bring you shame. . . . Dad . . . open your door and let your son and your daughter-in-law pay their respects to you. . . .”
    Finally your father’s dilapidated door swung open, and you went up to it on your knees; there you held the marriage certificate high over your head. “Father,” you said.
    “Father . . . ,” Chunmiao greeted him.
    He rested his hand on the door frame. His blue face twitched, his blue beard quivered, blue tears fell from his blue eyes. The Mid-Autumn moon sent down blue rays of light.
    “Get up,” your father said in a voice that trembled. “At last you’ve put yourselves in the proper roles . . . my heart is free of concerns.”
    The Mid-Autumn banquet was held under the apricot tree, with moon cakes, watermelon, and a variety of fine dishes arrayed on the table. Your father sat at the north end, with me crouched beside him. You and Chunmiao sat to the east, opposite Baofeng and Gaige. Kaifang and Huzhu sat to the south. The moon, perfectly round, sent its rays down on the Ximen family compound. The old tree had all but died years earlier, but in lunar August, a few new leaves appeared on some of the branches. Your father flung a glassful of liquor up toward the moon, which shuddered; the beams suddenly darkened, as if a layer of mist had shrouded the face of the moon. But only for a moment; the new light was brighter, warmer, and cleaner than before. Everything in the compound — the buildings, the trees, the people, and the dog — seemed to be steeped in a bath of light blue ink.
    Your father