Chapter 421: The Second Bus

At six forty, seven or eight people stood in front of the ticket gate at Chengxi Bus Station. A small blackboard hung from the iron railing. Chalk read 6:50. The place-name after it had been erased twice; only the word "Town" was still legible.

He Xiufen had arrived earlier than her. The cloth sack sat by her feet, the paper wrapping of the dried noodles poking out of the top. She bent down and tucked it back in. "Just one bundle. I already left the last one on his stone. If I bring more, he'll start keeping count."

"Did you bring the flatbread?"

"I did." He Xiufen looped the drawstring twice. "You brought water. When we get there, don't knock first. I'll knock."

The bus was an old minibus, a row of inspection stickers pasted across the lower right corner of the windshield. Not many people got on: an old woman cradling a chicken, two vegetable baskets stacked in the aisle, a young man in work overalls in the back row, head against the window, asleep. He Xiufen sat by the window, the cloth sack held on her lap.

Not long after leaving the city, the old woman with the chicken leaned over. "Going to Baixi to visit family?"

"Visiting family," He Xiufen said. "Going to see an old man."

The old woman said it was cool in the mountains, ought to wear two layers in the morning. He Xiufen gave a small grunt and pulled the sack closer. The chicken thrashed once inside its woven bag. No one else spoke.

Forty minutes out of the city, the road began to climb. On the first ridge, the fog hadn't cleared. The drainage ditch at the base of the hill flashed bright, then dark. He Xiufen stared out the window. "Your father took this bus."

"Yeah."

"What did he bring with him?"

"I don't know." She slipped her water bottle into the side pocket of her bag. "I never went with him."

He Xiufen didn't respond. She pressed her forehead to the glass and dozed for a while.

Nine twenty, they arrived in town. The station was two single-story rooms, a concrete apron out front, three three-wheeled carts parked by the bridge.

"Fifteen to the village."

"Twelve." He Xiufen set the cloth sack in the cargo bed and swung herself up.

The skinny driver glanced at the white paper showing from the sack and smiled, didn't argue. The canvas canopy smelled of diesel. A chunk of foam poked through the seat cover. The dirt road had been freshly gravelled; the cart climbed, corn leaves brushing the canvas with a steady rasp.

Nine fifty, the cart stopped under the old locust tree at the village entrance.

She had walked this road once before. The man at the convenience store was chopping pigweed at his door. He looked up, said nothing. The village committee's two-story building with white tile facing had its doors shut. A new notice was posted in the glass bulletin board, the edge of the paper curling up. The row of single-story houses behind it looked the same as always, bricks holding down the asbestos roof sheets.

In front of the third house, the stone stool was empty.

Dust covered the stool. In the center, a clean square, exact and even—where the sack of dried noodles had once sat.

He Xiufen stood looking at it for a moment. "He took it."

"Did he eat it?"

"Whether he ate it, I can't say. He took it, and that means he noted it." She lifted the cloth sack. "The paper wrapping was tucked in. If he'd thrown it out, the paper would be showing. He's alone in that house all day. If he threw it, that's his own affair."

He Xiufen walked up and knocked—three times, neither too hard nor too soft.

No sound from inside. She knocked three more times and spoke through the crack of the door: "Uncle, I'm the one who left the noodles last time. My surname is He."

The latch rattled.

The door opened halfway. The old man wore the same blue cloth jacket, his hair cropped extremely short, white with a bluish cast. The enamel mug in his hand was steady. His eyes did not go to her first.

He was looking at He Xiufen.

"The noodles. You left them."

"I did." He Xiufen said. "Boil them three rolls before they soften. Don't rush it—two rolls and the middle stays hard."

The old man grunted and pulled the door inward a little.

"Come in."

He Xiufen entered. Shen Zhixia followed. At the threshold, the old man glanced at her once: he neither blocked her nor waved her through. She scraped the mud off her shoes on the threshold and went in.

The room was cooler than outside. A square table, two long benches. On the table sat the enamel mug and a white porcelain teapot. In the corner, two woven poly sacks, filled with corn. The stove was in the inner room, a bowl upside down on the pot lid. A nail was driven into the inner doorframe, a ring of keys hanging from it—the outermost one rusted into a solid clump. The old man took down the teapot and poured two bowls of water: one pushed toward He Xiufen, one set in the middle of the table.

"Tap water. They ran the line the year before last."

He Xiufen picked it up and drank half. "Cold."

"Don't dare drink the well water anymore." He sat down on the bench. "It went harsh back then. Took a drink and your throat would seize up—you'd think it was just heat. The whole village thought it was heat."

He finished the half mug he'd had, smacked his lips. "This water, no taste."

He didn't look at them. His eyes rested on a knife scar in the tabletop.

"The pump house draws twice a day. Five in the morning, seven at night. The gate valve is in my hands. If a family had no water, they'd stand behind the wall and shout, 'Old Pang,' and I'd go open it. The pipes are old, rusty. The first draw comes up yellow. Have to let it run."

Shen Zhixia set her bag on her lap, the notebook in her hand, unopened.

"How many locks?" He Xiufen asked.

"One. Iron padlock. The key's hung on my belt for years now."

"There's moss on the pump house steps."

"Yep. Step the middle, not the edges." The old man said, "You know it too?"

"I fell once."

The old man lifted his head to look at her. The creases at the corners of his eyes shifted.

"Lawyer Shen came three times," he said.

Shen Zhixia's fingers stopped on the strap of her bag.

"The first time, he stood at the door and asked me about the water. Second time, he brought a notebook. Squatted on the pump house steps and copied things all morning, then stood up, legs gone numb."

He paused.

"Thinner every time. That last time—his shirt hung on him. The wind moved it."

"The third time..." He let the sentence hang. "He asked me one question. I didn't dare answer."

"What was it?" He Xiufen asked.

The old man slid the enamel mug over; it scraped against the tabletop. "Not today. There's still half a pot of noodles inside."

He Xiufen dropped it. She finished the water in her bowl, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "He copied materials for three years back then—for me."

The old man raised his head.

"I'd just opened the firm. Couldn't keep the books straight. He didn't charge me. After he finished copying he'd circle the wrong characters, told me the way I wrote the 'fen' in my name was all spread out, said it had grown feet." He Xiufen said, "He'd sit at the desk downstairs from me all afternoon, his hands smelling of ink."

The old man rested both hands on his knees. The backs were covered with age spots. Only after a while did he speak: "That handwriting of his, I'd recognize it. The village committee posted a notice once—water hours, who drew when, written out clear. After he wrote it, he read it aloud to me and asked if I could read it. I said no. He said it doesn't matter if you can't read it—just remember the hours."

He stopped, then said, "After that, he came knocking twice more. I didn't open the door."

He Xiufen picked up her bowl, drank, set it down. She didn't answer that.

Shen Zhixia lowered her head. In his last two years, her father had to brace his right hand with his left to write, stroke by stroke, still perfectly straight.

The old man glanced down at her hands, at the notebook, paused.

She put the notebook back in her bag and zipped it shut. Only then did the old man go on—how the pump house gate valve had broken one spring, and he'd bound it with wire, three loops; how the village had sealed two wells, kept one for watering the vegetables, and the leaves all came up yellow.

When she stood up, she glanced toward the stove. A pair of chopsticks rested against the pot lid. Two dried drops of broth clung to the rim. He Xiufen saw them too and said nothing. She only straightened a pair of cloth shoes by the threshold.

Sunlight fell across the doorsill. The old man stood and pushed the door open a little wider.

"You people in the city—how many buses a day?"

"This one coming in. Last one back leaves at four thirty," He Xiufen said.

"Come at this hour next time too."

He Xiufen glanced at Shen Zhixia, then turned back. "Uncle, we wanted to ask about that night—"

"Not today." The old man's voice was soft, and left no gap. "Not today."

He Xiufen nodded. "Then we won't."

They walked to the door. The three of them stood at the threshold. The old man gripped the doorframe with one hand and looked out at the row of houses for a while. "My son was on the day shift on the first."

"We'll come earlier on the first."

"Earlier," he said. "What time does the bus get in?"

"Nine fifty."

"About then. Don't force it earlier—the road's rough." He pulled the door shut. The latch fell more softly than last time.

[Thud. Third visit—he picked the day himself.]

The two of them walked along the base of the wall. At the village committee corner, He Xiufen finally spoke: "Half of what he said today was meant for me."

"I know."

"He recognizes me. Not you." She switched the cloth sack to her other hand. "Your father's business is settled at the bottom of him, hasn't made it to his mouth yet. Don't rush to pry it open. Open it, and what can't hold together is him."

While they waited for a three-wheeled cart at the village entrance, Shen Zhixia opened her notebook against the courtyard wall and wrote: June 27, second visit. The door opened. He recognized He Xiufen first. The noodles were taken. Lawyer Shen came three times, thinner each time. The third time he asked a question. The old man didn't dare answer.

She closed it, touched pen to paper once, and added nothing more.

The four thirty bus from town reached Chengxi Bus Station at seven. He Xiufen slept on the way, the cloth sack hugged against her, a small sliver of white paper showing at the top.

June 28, eleven o'clock. Second floor of Zhengping Firm.

Li Huilan came upstairs holding a kraft envelope, the court's name printed in the upper left corner. She set it on Shen Zhixia's desk without opening it.

"The courier was calling from downstairs. I signed for you." Li Huilan said, "It's your mail. You open it."

Inside the envelope was a single page, Intermediate Court letterhead. The petition had been filed for review; the handling officer was Judge Zhuo of the Trial Supervision Division. A decision would be made within three months, no later than six. The date at the bottom was June 24.

She read it twice, matched the date against her own count in silence, then folded the paper back along its original crease and slipped it into her bag.

Li Huilan sat across from her, flipping through a case file. She turned a page before speaking. "Letters from the court, one after another—that's a good thing. Don't hoard them."

"Yeah."

That evening, back home, she put the page into the paper bag under the bed, clipped together with the Petition for Review and the materials list.

June 29, noon. The noodle shop.

Downstairs the smell of scallion oil was heavy; He Xiufen was at the stove. Shen Zhixia sat down at the table by the door. He Xiufen lifted her eyes from the pot and lowered her voice: "If he asks, don't take it."

"Mm."

He Xiufen scooped the noodles into a bowl, sprinkled scallions, wiped the rim, then pushed it over.

Lu Jibai came down from upstairs in a white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and went to the pot to serve himself noodles. He turned with the bowl in his hands just as He Xiufen was chopping scallions.

"Director He, I haven't seen you at the firm these last two days."

"In the mountains," He Xiufen said.

The water was boiling. He stood by the stove with his bowl, not moving away.

Shen Zhixia lowered her head and ate, not looking up. The sound of a chair moving came through the ceiling from upstairs.

He Xiufen sprinkled scallions into her bowl and glanced up at him. "Your noodles are getting soggy."

Only then did he go back to his own table.