Chapter 393: Sitting in the House

On the morning of May 10th, the ground in the alley was still wet. He Xiufen swept the three steps at the door from bottom to top, the broom scraping across the concrete, water running along the step edges into the alley. An electric scooter plowed through a puddle, flinging droplets against the roll-up shutter door, leaving a film of spray.

The second-floor window was open. The exhaust fan hadn't started up yet.

Li Huilan carried a thermos upstairs. First she gave the table by the window a shake, then pulled a palm-sized scrap of plywood from her cloth bag. Squatting down, she slid it under the leg that was half an inch short. When she stood again, she gave the table another wiggle.

"Wedged it good this time." She straightened up and pressed down on the tabletop. "The board under the stove got its corner chewed by mice. This one I sawed at home."

Shen Zhixia pushed the water glass over to her.

"Sawed just right."

"Fix your own table legs yourself." Li Huilan poured half a glass of water, then took the case files out stack by stack, arranging them into three piles.

At 10:30, the desk phone rang.

"Attorney Shen? This is the Chengxi District Court, working with Judge Teng. The Ge Xiaoyu case."

"Hello."

"The complaint copy went out by court express delivery on May 6th. The defendant signed for it today at 9:40 a.m. The signature line has the company's receipt-and-dispatch seal."

She clicked her pen open.

"The answer period is fifteen days, counting from the date of service."

"So it expires on the 25th."

"Correct." Papers rustled on the other end. "Judge Teng asked me to pass along that once the defendant submits their statement of defense, the court will forward a copy to you."

"Before the defense, is there anything else?"

"What specifically are you asking about?"

"Jurisdiction."

The other end paused. "I can't say about that. If they file something, it goes to the judge." And then nothing more, not a word extra.

She thanked him and set the receiver down. In her notebook she wrote one line: May 10, complaint served, defendant signed at 9:40, answer period fifteen days, expires the 25th, handling judge Teng.

[Thud. Fifteen-day answer period. Whether the defendant files or not, the case moves forward.]

Lu Jibai sat in the inner room writing out the Qinghe forms, pen never stopping. "Judge Teng's case?"

"The copy was served today."

"When's the answer deadline?"

"The 25th."

"If they raise jurisdiction in the next few days," he said, flipping his pencil around, "a jurisdictional dismissal can be appealed once. That pushes things back two months."

She wrote that line down too: Jurisdiction, two months. After writing it, she paused with the pen tip over "two months," crossed it out, and rewrote it as "around two months" — she couldn't count the days in that judge's hands with any precision.

A little past eleven, she flipped the case file to the Ge Xiaoyu page and filled "defendant served" into the procedure column. When she finished, she glanced at the next empty column: Statement of Defense. The one after that: Hearing.

Li Huilan twisted the thermos cap off, then on again. "In your case, the defendant's a factory. Factories answer slow."

"Slow still has to answer."

"Responding to people is their job. Keeping the dates straight is yours." Li Huilan pulled the thinnest of the three case-file piles out and slid it half an inch toward the center of the table. "Three o'clock this afternoon, I'll lay this one out for you."

At 3:00 p.m., the sun slanted onto the window frame, half of it falling across Li Huilan's stack of paper.

She spread the items out one by one: the engagement agreement signed December 19th, two photocopied pages from a household register, a photocopy of a passbook, and a piece of paper torn from a calendar, its back covered edge to edge with ballpoint tally marks.

"Tomorrow, 9:30, the mediation room at the district court." She said. "The son called back yesterday. He said he's coming."

Shen Zhixia picked up the calendar paper. The marks were dense, one horizontal stroke after another. In places the ballpoint had run dry, leaving only a white indent, which someone had traced over with a different pen.

"His mother drew these?"

"She drew them herself. One trip, one mark." Li Huilan tapped the paper twice. "Last year, seven. The year before, twelve."

"This year?"

"Up to now, two. One on the second day of the lunar new year. One after her fall at the end of February."

The passbook photocopy lay flat. The most recent entries all read the same: Old-Age Benefit, 164 yuan.

"That's her monthly income." Li Huilan said. "Three hundred yuan. More than she lives on herself."

"She's not asking for much with that three hundred."

"She cares about the money. She cares more about the visit." Li Huilan capped her pen. "I asked her once — money or a visit, which matters more. She said the money she's saving, hasn't decided yet who for; when someone comes, there's sound in the house."

Shen Zhixia turned the contract to its last page. The signature on her line pressed deep, the strokes showing through on the back.

"In March she was hospitalized for six days." Li Huilan said. "He found out. Someone brought over two hundred yuan for him. The money arrived; he didn't. Those two hundred she tucked under her pillow. Not one note spent."

"When she told you about it, did she cry?"

"Didn't cry. She was picking vegetables while she talked." Li Huilan mimed the motion with two fingers. "A small bunch of scallions, picked clean. Not one yellow leaf left."

"She lives alone?"

"Third floor. No elevator." Li Huilan said. "Last winter the water line froze once. She hauled water in a bucket, up and down, did it for a solid month. The neighbors noticed coming and going and told me. She never said a word herself."

A car passed outside, its horn sounding twice, short.

"What can go into the mediation order?" Shen Zhixia asked.

"The money's easy to write down. How much per month, what date it's due by, which passbook it goes into, what happens if payment's late. You can write all of it, line by line." Li Huilan placed the calendar paper on top. "The visits can be written down too — one visit per month."

"If it's written but he doesn't come, what then?"

"Then nothing." Li Huilan squared the three piles. "The court can't fine him for not coming to see his mother. In the enforcement column, what can be garnished is the money. What can't be touched is the visit. Money can reach a passbook. A person can't be made to reach a doorstep."

Shen Zhixia pushed the calendar paper back. She pushed it gently, the corner of the paper whispering against the desktop.

"I'll be there by 8:50 tomorrow." Li Huilan gathered up the case files, heading toward her own desk. After two steps she looked back. "That bench in the hallway — I'll talk to the bailiff first, have it moved to the stairwell."

"It can be moved."

"It can. Court benches aren't nailed to the floor."

May 11th. Lu Jibai left at 8:45, saying a form at Qinghe needed to be verified in person and he might not be back by noon.

By 9:40, she was alone on the second floor. She spread the Ge Xiaoyu file open again and counted the blank days in the fifteen-day answer period, top to bottom, stopping at the box for the 25th. Her pencil tapped it once.

Noon. Footsteps on the stairs, one step at a time, unhurried.

Li Huilan came up still carrying the case files, the thermos swinging from her wrist. She set the files on the windowsill, sat down, and knocked the heels of her shoes against the step, shaking off dried mud.

"Done."

"What time did they go in?"

"Nine-thirty, into the mediation room. He was early — got there at 9:20. Got there before she did, stood in the hallway." Li Huilan wiped her hands on her pants. "I moved the bench away. He stood a while, then pushed the door open himself."

She pulled the mediation order from the file. One copy, the paper still stiff.

"The judge read it through line by line. Three hundred a month, due by the 15th, deposited into the passbook. When they got to 'one visit per month,' he asked: Why write that down? I'm not saying I won't come. The judge said: If it's written down, you'll have to remember it."

"He signed?"

"Signed. When he finished he set the pen down, tip facing out." Li Huilan turned the order to the last page to show her: two rows of signatures, one fingerprint. "His mother signed slowly, stroke by stroke. When she finished, she looked up and asked the judge: Will this piece of paper keep him in line?"

"What did the judge say?"

"The judge said: The money can be held to it. The rest — that's on him." Li Huilan smoothed the paper. "She understood. She folded it up and tucked it into her bag, then pressed it down once for good measure."

"She didn't cry."

"Didn't cry. She asked whether they'd be home for lunch."

Shen Zhixia looked at the two lines of signatures.

"The man came. Sat in the room. Not out in the hallway." Li Huilan said.

"His mother brought a thermos." Li Huilan unscrewed her own thermos and poured water. "Carried it from home. Soup she'd stewed that morning. He glanced at it when he came in, didn't open it. When they came out, she tried to press it on him at the courthouse door. He pushed it back, said he had things to do."

"So he just left."

"At the bottom of the steps he turned around and asked me: Is she still taking her medicine?" Li Huilan took a drink. "I said I don't know. If you want to ask, go ask her. He stood there, didn't move. Then he went down the steps and was gone."

"And his mother?"

"Stood at the door watching, until he turned the corner. The thermos in her hand, held steady."

Shen Zhixia closed the mediation order and pushed it back.

"The three hundred a month — tomorrow I'll add a reminder on the passbook." Li Huilan straightened the papers and tucked them into the file. "On the 15th I'll make a call. If it doesn't come, I'll note it. If it does, I'll note it too."

"Why keep a record of that?"

"Next time something comes up, it helps to have it in writing."

Footsteps on the stairs again, quick this time. He Xiufen came up carrying a tray with three bowls of noodles. Scallion floated on the broth, the oil shivering in the draft.

"The broth's been going since morning." She set one bowl at the far edge of Shen Zhixia's desk, one by Li Huilan's hand, and kept one for herself on an empty spot of the windowsill.

"What time is it?" Li Huilan asked.

"12:20." He Xiufen lifted a bite of noodles and blew on it. Then, abruptly: "Did the son eat?"

Li Huilan set her chopsticks down. "No. His mother carried soup from home, and he wouldn't take it."

"So the soup went home with her."

"It did."

He Xiufen stayed standing, bowl in hand, looking down at the floor below as if she could see through it.

"Next time he comes, bring him upstairs for a bowl." She said. "Noodles are free."

"Director He."

"It's not for him." He Xiufen set her bowl down carefully on the windowsill. "It's so that pot of soup has somewhere to go."

Li Huilan laughed, short.

Shen Zhixia lowered her head and ate. When she lifted her chopsticks, the palm of her left hand pressed down on the desk calendar, covering that one box. On that box was a line written in pencil, thin strokes, and with her palm resting against it, the paper began to show a faint dampness.

Half the noodles gone, her hand still there.

He Xiufen ate by the window. Halfway through, she said: "You're eating slow today."

"Noodles are hot."

"You said they were hot last time, too." He Xiufen lifted the last strand from her bowl, asked nothing further, and carried her empty bowl downstairs.

Li Huilan gathered the three piles into one, strapped them with a rubber band, and carried the bundle back to her own desk.

At 12:40, the exhaust fan downstairs whirred to life, the sound rising through the floorboards, a fine vibration trembling across the windowpane.

She lifted her hand off the calendar. The pencil writing in that box was still there, un-smudged.

Two days left.