In 1965, at the military family compound in Yangcheng District,
Florence Mercer was squatting on the main room floor, carefully packing osmanthus cakes into a pastry tin.
She had asked someone to queue at an old famous bakery to buy them. This weekend, she planned to take Stella to visit Director Feng from the song and dance troupe. Her daughter had been preparing for this assessment for more than half a year. Whether she could get in smoothly or not depended on whether this visit worked out.
On the chair nearby lay a newly made dress, pink-and-white plaid, meant as a gift for Stella Mercer’s sixteenth birthday.
“Mrs. Mercer! Urgent telegram!”
The shout of the messenger came from outside the yard gate. Florence’s heart skipped hard, and she hurried up to take it.
The telegram slip was thin, with only six short words on it: Grandma passed. Clara Mercer.
Florence’s fingers tightened at once around the paper. She stood there turning in place twice, her thoughts in a complete mess.
By the time Harold Mercer came home from work in full uniform, what he saw was her standing there gripping the telegram and staring blankly.
“What happened?” He took the telegram, glanced over it, and his face darkened in an instant.
“Mingzhi, this...” Florence lowered her voice. “Even if we leave tonight, it’ll take three days by train just to reach the county seat, then another half day or more into the mountains. By the time we get back, Mother’s funeral... we definitely won’t make it.”
Harold walked to the window and stood there with his back to her for a long time.
“That was my mother.” His voice came out rough. “The one who gave birth to me and raised me is gone. I have to go back and see her off one last time.”
“I’m not saying you can’t go!” Florence grew anxious and stepped closer, speaking in a hushed rush. “But you were only promoted to regimental commander half a month ago! The political commissar has his eye on you right now. If you ask for seven or eight days of funeral leave at a time like this, what are people going to say behind your back? That you’re using a funeral to dodge responsibility? How are you supposed to carry out work later on?”
“Funeral leave is in the army regulations.” Harold turned around, his expression grim as storm clouds. “Who doesn’t have elders? When someone’s elder dies, who doesn’t go home for the funeral? If I, Harold Mercer, don’t even show my face when my own mother is buried, then what face do I have left wearing this uniform?”
“But what about Stella?” Florence clenched her teeth and brought out the matter she cared about most. “Director Feng already asked us to come by this weekend. I only managed to make this connection after calling in favors through three layers of contacts! Stella’s assessment is next month. If we leave now, who’s going to smooth things over? The child has prepared for half a year. We can’t ruin her future over this, can we?”
Harold’s brows twisted into a knot. He said nothing.
Seeing his expression soften a little, Florence gentled her tone. “And Clara too. That girl’s always been steady since she was little, far more sensible than children her age. Besides, there are uncles and aunties in the clan looking after her. Nothing serious will happen. Once Stella finishes her assessment, we can go back and hold a memorial service for Mother. It’ll be the same.”
“The same? How can that be the same!” Harold suddenly slapped the windowsill, anger rising in his voice. “Once Mother’s gone, who in the clan is really going to protect a fifteen-year-old girl? Back then, wasn’t it because you kept going on about how grain was tight in the city and another child meant more expense that Clara was sent back to the mountains to stay with Mother? Now Mother’s dead, and if we don’t even show our faces, how is Clara supposed to hold up on her own?”
“When did I ever keep going on about that!” Florence’s eyes reddened, full of grievance. “When we sent her back, didn’t you agree too? You said your mother could watch over her in the countryside, and she could even learn medicine there. Better than squeezing into that cramped apartment with us in the city! And now somehow it’s all my fault?”
“That’s enough.” Harold waved her off impatiently, leaving no room at all for discussion. “Go pack now. I’m going to the school to call Victor back. We’re taking the earliest train tomorrow morning. We have to go.”
—
The rain in western Hunan came hard and sudden, hammering against the green roof tiles with sharp crackling sounds, soaking all of Yunwu Village in cold, wet mist.