A Map for the Missing(15)

Yitian, frowning, quickly brought his head back down to his notes.

“You wouldn’t believe how desperate some of the men were. There were days when they would have given up their whole monthly stipend just to see a woman. We’d run across a wild pig and they’d think even she had double eyelids!” His father laughed uproariously with the guests, even Old Seven. They were all drunk, Yitian thought.

He was hopeful when, after dinner, they settled into a silence over their cards. His father instinctively calculated a winner and loser in every situation—because every instance of life was just so black and white—and thus playing cards was one of his favorite activities. He liked this feeling of perching on the lip of luck, the oil of alcohol smoothing the edge of belief, making any outcome possible. Yitian did not think this was a trivial skill—he himself did not like to play cards, for how often he lost. Winning required an intelligence different from the kind that he and his grandfather valued. He’d never believed his father to be unintelligent, it was only that his father’s thinking seemed to be diverted to a place Yitian never cared to look. His father could remember the precise pattern in which different rice formations were to be planted depending on the year’s earlier weather, or predict within a few seconds the moment a rainstorm would start.

After some time, Second Uncle asked, “So you’re back for good?”

“This leg,” his father replied. “What could I do out there, or even in the fields? At least it’s lucky I have this son.”

Yitian was surprised to hear his father complimenting him in such a way. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the guests, or the years—but something had at last expanded his father’s understanding of him, as he’d long hoped for.

He looked up to see the table grinning at Yishou—of course. How could he have been so silly, to suppose even for a moment, that he was the object of his father’s praise? It had always been this way. Yishou was the preferred son, powerful and useful, just as their father himself was. Yitian, on the other hand, was lanky and thin and, until very recently, too short to do much good work. Instead of contributing to the family’s work points as a good son should have, he read books and recited poems as if there were money in them.

“Look at this,” he said. He grabbed Yishou’s bicep and lifted it up in the air with his free hand. “He’s been getting adult work points since he was a teenager. He has his father’s strong blood. He’ll take care of me into my old age. There’s nothing to worry about with him.” He paused to throw peanuts into his mouth and crunched loudly down. “Not like that one.”

Yitian blushed and looked back down.

“Now, now,” Old Seven said.

“I want to see what he’s up to, over there with his head down,” his father said.

Yitian heard his father’s steps toward him, the hiccuping cadence of that new gait. A half step, the shhh of the rolling dust across the floor, then a shuffle.

Yitian’s hands were shaking. He wasn’t sure why he was so afraid. It had been years since his father had last beaten him for making some clumsy mistake, and that was unlikely with guests around. Besides, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet, now that his grandfather was gone, he felt that some raw part of him was exposed to his father’s whim.

His father picked up a piece of paper from the bench beside Yitian, running his index finger under the text. His eyes focused and then unfocused upon the words. “Your characters are thin and run together, just like your grandfather’s. He used to brag about how nicely he could write. Nothing like my ugly characters,” he murmured.

When his father squatted down until he was at eye level, Yitian wondered how the hurt leg could handle such pressure.

“You’re just like him in many ways, you know that? These words and your strengths . . . both small.” He took Yitian’s shoulders within his large hands and squeezed. Yitian felt his body shrinking under the pressure.

“Look at you, always studying. For what?”

Yitian was silent. His father rose to his feet, wincing.

“For what, I asked! I asked you a question.”

Yitian regretted not leaving the room as soon as his father had come home. It had been an awful idea, to think he could stay in his father’s presence while he was drinking.

“I’m studying for the gaokao,” he murmured.

“Yes, so your brother has told me. He says you have this plan to take the gaokao, to go to college.” He waved his hand, as if swatting a buzzing fly. “Let’s talk reasonably, like two men. Who will pay for you to go to university?”

“The tuition is provided by the government, I’ve heard . . .” Yitian mumbled.

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” His father barked out a laugh, not at all joyful this time. The sound tumbled, low and harsh, down to Yitian’s ears.

His father turned to Yishou and said, “You’ve all given him his way too often, while I’ve been away. That’s why he’s like this. I’ve seen him around the house—he doesn’t even do chores. Your mother and grandfather just let him read books all day while I’ve been gone.”

“That’s not true. I do help Ma.” Sometimes Yitian couldn’t help himself when his father spoke against him, and that was always when the beatings had come. He didn’t know why he was this way; both Yishou and his grandfather had cautioned him against speaking back to his father, saying it was of no use.