FMT 20

Chapter 20 His Eyes

That night, the man at the window did not slip out of the house as before. He sat at the window in meditation.

In the middle of the night, Liandan woke once, changed Xiaodan’s diaper, and tidied up briefly.

Passing the window, he looked at the man sitting there with closed eyes, and the corners of his lips unconsciously curved into a smile.

Back in bed, after lying for a while and turning over a few times, Liandan quietly got up again.

He pulled out from under the blanket the dark memorial tablet he had hugged every night. Staring down at it for a while, he seemed to come to a decision. He tiptoed out of the inner room and went to the outer room.

Now that the weather was cool, the fire in the stove outside burned low through the night without going out.

Holding the tablet, Liandan moved to push it into the stove to burn it, just as his mother-in-law had demanded.

But when one end of the tablet touched the fire, his hand suddenly pulled back instinctively.

His heartbeat quickened. He quickly used his sleeve to pat out the sparks that had caught on the top of the tablet.

Staring blankly at the tablet that had almost been burned, Liandan dazed for a while before quietly returning to the inner room.

Sitting at the edge of the bed hugging the tablet, he thought for a long time. Then he glanced at the man by the window, gritted his teeth, and wrapped the tablet in coarse cloth he took from the cabinet. He went out the door leading to the back garden.

The door creaked open, creaked shut, and his thin figure disappeared beyond it.

The young man meditating by the window slowly opened his eyes, gazing into the dark toward that door.

About the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, he shut his eyes again.

The door creaked softly open, and the thin figure returned empty-handed. He scraped the mud off his shoes on the threshold before entering.

Once the door closed, he looked at the child sleeping soundly on the bed, then at the figure by the window who had not moved. Only then did he quietly wash his hands, dry them, and return to bed.

Liandan lay on his side facing the window, eyes blinking. He felt at ease, and slowly closed his eyes and fell asleep.

At the same time, the man at the window opened his eyes again.

Chen Shuangning looked at the frail youth asleep on the bed. Again and again in his mind appeared the look in those eyes when the lamp went out and he had given his answer. He could not calm himself.

….

Their mother had taught Lianye and Liandan, a child must follow his father at home, and after marriage follow his husband.

A husband was the sky and the ground for a wife, holding up their whole life.

Their father would grow violent when drunk, and their mother never complained, nor allowed them to resent him, because the father was the pillar of the family.

When Liandan married into the Chen family, with a husband who was a dead ghost, he was left with no anchor, living every day in fear.

Now his husband had returned, and only then did he feel secure, with something to hope for.

By the end of the eighth month, the crops in the fields were ready to harvest, and every household grew busy.

Chen Shuangning no longer went to town for work but stayed home to harvest with Liandan.

The beans and melons had already been picked earlier in the heat, leaving only withered vines. Those beans and melons spoiled quickly, so once picked they were sold to peddlers pushing carts. The price was lower than selling it themselves, but if they hauled it to town they would need to borrow a cart, owe favors, and bring gifts. Selling themselves meant losing a whole day and labor too.

Counting it out, it was better to sell to peddlers.

What remained in the fields was corn, sorghum, and soybeans.

Corn was easy, just pick and haul it home together with others. After peeling, tie the cobs and hang them under the eaves. That work went fast.

Sorghum and soybeans were more troublesome. After bringing them back, they needed drying, shelling, and sifting. Not much yield, but several days’ labor.

But they were young and not afraid of hard work. They did it efficiently, and after those days the yard was tidied neat and straight.

Farming was hard, but sorghum filled the stomach, and soybeans pressed for oil could last the year if they were frugal, as the Chen family usually was.

After the busy days, Chen Shuangning planned to go out again for day labor. But Liandan persuaded him not to.

These days, he had heard Chen Shuangning coughing again.

He had fetched a prescription from the village doctor and boiled the medicine.

Before dinner, Liandan spoke to him seriously.

“Taking that pill every day, is it really enough? Can you not eat food, or do you just not want to?”

Chen Shuangning lowered his eyes and slowly said, “I do not need it.”

Liandan understood. “So you can eat?”

Chen Shuangning gave a hum in reply.

Liandan put on a stern face. “If you never eat, how can your body stay well? The weather isn’t even that cold yet, and I keep hearing you cough. When winter really comes, how will you endure it?”

Chen Shuangning said, “I’m fine.”

Liandan looked at him, firm. “No. From now on, you have to eat.”

Liandan was different now. Since that night, he had been slowly changing. Before, he never asked such questions.

Chen Shuangning glanced at him. “As you wish.”

Liandan smiled.

That night, he deliberately fried a plate of eggs and, for once, steamed shiny, plump rice.

He had bought two taels of pork at the butcher, sliced it, and stir-fried it with cucumber slices.

Chen Shuangning sat at the table waiting. Liandan filled a large bowl of rice for him. Before setting it down, he thought for a moment, scooped out half, and muttered, “Since you usually don’t eat, don’t suddenly eat too much.”

Chen Shuangning had no opinion on the portion.

Xiaodan sat in his little chair, gnawing half a cucumber with his toothless mouth. After Liandan wiped the baby’s drool and scraps with a soft cloth, he also sat down at the table.

His eyes shifted from Xiaodan to Chen Shuangning across the table. In them was the same look as the night before.

Chen Shuangning wondered what that gaze meant. He could not figure it out.

“Eat,” Liandan said.

Chen Shuangning hummed and picked up his chopsticks. Under Liandan’s expectant eyes, he took a piece of egg and ate it.

Liandan asked cautiously, “How does it taste?”

Chen Shuangning looked up at him. “Good.”

Liandan smiled contentedly and began to eat too.

Three or four years earlier, Chen Shuangning had been poisoned multiple times. One time nearly killed him. Since then, to avoid it happening again, he stopped eating meals altogether, surviving only on fasting pills Xueming made for him, three a day.

After long years, appetite had become irrelevant.

Liandan, who had hardly eaten meat growing up, knew nothing of fine cooking. His meals were the simple fare of farmers, far inferior to the refined dishes Chen Shuangning had once eaten at inns.

But when he said “good,” it was sincere.

Chen Shuangning ate slowly, one bite after another.

Fading memories resurfaced, of sitting around a table with others, noise, laughter, warmth, like a mirage.

He quietly finished half a bowl of rice.

Liandan had been watching all along. He saw the other eat with refinement, mannered. He neither stretched his arm rudely for food nor picked through dishes.

When finished, the bowl was clean, not a grain left, no broth remaining.

The chopsticks were placed neatly to the side.

After dinner, Liandan brought over the herbal medicine kept warm in the pot and had him drink it.

This time, he persuaded: “It’s to stop coughing and ease the lungs. Drinking it is better than not.”

Chen Shuangning looked at him, took the bowl, and drank it all in one breath.

When the bowl was taken away, a preserved fruit appeared before him.

Smiling, Liandan popped it into his mouth and walked off with the bowl.

Chen Shuangning lowered his eyes, dark light flickering in them. He seemed to feel the soft touch of fingertips brushing his lips, but perhaps it was only an illusion.

That night, the lamp was lit. One sat on a chair, the other on the bed edge. One taught, one learned.

Chen Shuangning deliberately wrote each character slowly, carefully. Liandan tilted his head, watching attentively.

“Here, use hanging-needle vertical, not dripping-dew. Remember?”

When Chen Shuangning heard no answer, he looked up and met the other’s eyes.

Liandan was staring at him, dazed, the same gaze as when he admitted to being his husband.

Chen Shuangning wanted to understand what it meant. But Liandan came back to himself, embarrassed, turned his eyes away, and lowered his head.

Chen Shuangning felt something inexplicable.

….

The next day, while cooking, Liandan saw the soy sauce was almost gone. He sent Chen Shuangning to the village soy sauce shop.

Carrying an empty bowl, Chen Shuangning left. From a distance, he saw a tall man and a slim youth coming out of a courtyard.

He recognized the youth. It was Tang Hua, who often came to visit. Beside him was his husband, Li Fu.

Li Fu was holding their baby daughter, swaddled so only her little face showed, and speaking with his husband.

Tang Hua carried a thin blanket, tilted his head at his husband, and gave his arm a playful tap, saying something half teasing, half affectionate.

The couple walked slowly along the roadside, talking.

Chen Shuangning stopped. That look Tang Hua had just given Li Fu was achingly familiar. It was almost the same as the looks Liandan had been giving him these days.

Only now did he understand what kind of gaze it was.

It was a gaze full of joy, shyness, and contentment, and also complete trust and reliance of a spouse upon his husband.