The Garlic Ballads

down,” she said wearily. The uneaten half of her steamed bun lay on the gray stand beside her. Green bottleneck flies had settled on it.
    “These are made from stale flour,” Fourth Aunt said as she ate her bun. “They taste like mildew. But they’re still better than grainy flatcakes.”
    Her cellmate said nothing as she lay motionless on her cot, staring at the ceiling.
    After swallowing the last of her bun and slurping down the garlic broth, Fourth Aunt stared at the uneaten half of the other woman’s steamed bun, which was still feeding flies on the gray table. “Sister-in-Law,” she said bashfully, “I’ve still got some drops of oil in my bowl here, and it’d be a shame not to sop them up. What do you say I use a little of the skin from your bun?”
    The woman nodded. “You can have the whole thing, Auntie.”
    “I can’t take food out of your mouth,” Fourth Aunt demurred.
    “I’m not going to eat it, so you go ahead.”
    “Well, if you say so.” She climbed down off her cot, edged over to the table, and snatched up the fly-specked bun. “It’s not important who eats it,” Fourth Aunt said, “so long as it isn’t wasted.”
    The woman nodded. Then, without warning, two yellow tears slipped from the corners of her gray eyes and down her cheeks.
    “What’s bothering you, Sister-in-Law?” Fourth Aunt said.
    No response; just more tears.
    “Whatever it is, don’t let it get you down.” Even Fourth Aunt was crying now. “Life’s hard enough already. Sometimes I think dogs are better off than we are. People feed them when they’re hungry, and as a last resort, they can survive on human waste. And since they’ve got furry bodies, they don’t have to worry about clothing. But we have to feed and clothe our families, and that keeps us hopping till we’re too old to take care of ourselves. Then, if we’re lucky, our children will take care of us. If not, we’re abused till the day we die.” Fourth Aunt reached up to dry her aging eyes.
    The middle-aged woman rolled over and buried her face in her blanket, crying so bitterly her shoulders heaved. So Fourth Aunt climbed unsteadily off her cot, went over and sat down beside her. “Sister-in-Law,” she said softly, patting her back, “don’t do this to yourself. Try to see things as they are. The world wasn’t made for people like us. We must accept our fate. Some people are born to be ministers and generals, others to be slaves and lackeys, and there’s nothing anybody can do about it. The old man upstairs decided that you and I would share this cell. It’s not so bad. We’ve got a cot and a blanket, and free food. If the window was a little bigger, maybe it wouldn’t be so stuffy … but don’t let it get you down. And if you really can’t go on, then you have to find a way to end it all.”
    The sounds of crying intensified, drawing the attention of the guard. “Number Forty-six, stop that crying!” she ordered, banging the bars with her fist. “Did you hear me? I said stop crying!”
    The order had the desired effect on the sounds but did nothing to lessen the spasms wracking the poor woman’s body.
    Fourth Aunt went back to her own cot, where she removed her shoes and sat with her legs under her. Swarms of flies buzzed around the cell, loud one moment, softer the next. Feeling an itch under her waistband, Fourth Aunt reached down and plucked out something fat and meaty. It was a louse, gray in color and very big. She squeezed it between her thumbnails until it was no more than a crusty shell. Since her home was louse-free, this one must have come from the bedding. She held up her gray blanket and, sure enough, the folds were teeming with the squirming insects. “Sister-in-Law,” she blurted out, “there are lice in our blankets!” Gaining no response, she ignored her cellmate and brought the blanket up close to subject it to a careful search. Soon realizing that squeezing each one between her thumbnails slowed down the process, she began flipping them into her mouth and popping them with her molars—she lacked teeth up front to do the job—then spitting out the shells. They had a light syrupy taste, so addictive that she soon forgot her suffering.

2.

    Fourth Aunt listened with alarm to the sound of the middle-aged woman retching. She rubbed her eyes, grown tired from her louse hunt, and wiped the remnants of shells from her lips; those that stuck to the back of her hand she scraped off on the wall.
    Her