In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson: January–March

Only the aged were considered wise. Even the opinion of her father, the youngest son of the Patriarch, did not matter.

Soon the coals in the brazier were dying, and suddenly the room was cold. The cousins scrambled under the covers. The cousins scrambled under the covers.

Bandit brushed her hand away. “It’s nothing but crockery. No Ming urn!”

Grandmother was the Matriarch of the House of Wong. What she ordered was always done.

Quickly, Bandit got out of bed, used what was left in Fourth Cousin’s water urn to wash, dressed, plaited her hair and then began seriously to clean the room.

That was another of Grandmother’s dictums.

She heard him muttering as he clicked the beads on his abacus, figuring out new ways to pocket a cent.

No matter how she screamed and schemed, her husband refused to loosen his purse strings. Unlike Father he never squandered money for gifts. But he seldom reaped joy either.

No matter how she screamed and schemed, her husband refused to loosen his purse strings. Unlike Father he never squandered money for gifts. But he seldom reaped joy either.

Holding Precious Coins even tighter, Bandit inched toward the carved ebony chair in the center of the room.

The lofty Hall of Ancestors was festooned with holiday banners and graced with clansmen from near and far.

The lofty Hall of Ancestors was festooned with holiday banners and graced with clansmen from near and far.

Everyone’s gown was of bright silk or brocade, and many were embroidered with gold and silver threads and lined in fur, or stitched with sequins and pearls.

Gamblers seated at a dozen tables chatted and cheered as they vied at mah-jongg, cards and rhyming couplets, while would-be singing warriors and courtesans tagged after the tunes the musicians played and the servants, spinning like tops, circled the floor with drinks and delicacies.

Gamblers seated at a dozen tables chatted and cheered as they vied at mah-jongg, cards and rhyming couplets, while would-be singing warriors and courtesans tagged after the tunes the musicians played and the servants, spinning like tops, circled the floor with drinks and delicacies.

Gamblers seated at a dozen tables chatted and cheered as they vied at mah-jongg, cards and rhyming couplets, while would-be singing warriors and courtesans tagged after the tunes the musicians played and the servants, spinning like tops, circled the floor with drinks and delicacies.

Before the altar, which was laden with offerings for the ancestors, Grandfather sat, telling stories to the very old and the very young.

Both the old artist and the former beauty had long forgotten his misdeed. The date of it, however, was enshrined in memory, and dubbed “Foul Friday.”

Both the old artist and the former beauty had long forgotten his misdeed. The date of it, however, was enshrined in memory, and dubbed “Foul Friday.”

Perhaps, in the beginning, the wife might have relented. Then it became unthinkable.

Grand-grand Uncle delighted in painting Grand-grand Auntie’s portrait. Sometimes with warts. Sometimes with big feet or donkey grins. Always fanciful.

The sea was not calm, nor deep green like jade. It writhed like a fierce, black dragon with chili peppers up its snout.

As giant waves sent slippers, suitcases, tables and the chair she sat in slithering to and fro across the floor, she knit on, unperturbed.

All the inspectors seemed bewitched by the lovely, slim Chinese woman who was in such a hurry.

Outside, there was a torrential rain. Somehow Mother found a taxi and it delivered them to the station not a minute too soon.

Leaping off the train, she ran to the dapper man in a bow tie.

Now and then she waved, even though the streets, as wide and as straight as the airstrip in Chungking, were empty. Where were the bicycles and rickshaws, the mules and the carts?

How did people market? There were no peddlers or farmers’ stalls.

Mother stepped backward, but Shirley, anxious to prove her mettle, leaned forward an inch.

The new arrivals nodded uncertainly as he dumped a cupful of blue powder into the water. Then, with a flourish, he plugged the attached wire into the wall.

He looked toward Mother, who gave a quick but emphatic shake of the head.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Looking up, she saw Father. He offered his hand, but not a word of rebuke. Silently they walked, hand in hand.

For a fleeting moment she wondered if Mother would consider buying an ambassador a pair of high-heeled shoes.

Yet she commanded respect, for no student talked out of turn. Or was it the long mean pole that hung on the wall behind the desk that commanded respect? It dwarfed the bamboo cane the teacher in Chungking had used to punish Four Hands whenever he stole a trifle from another.

But when she was back in her seat, waiting for Mrs. Rappaport to enter the classroom, Shirley’s knees shook. What if the teacher found out about her escapade?