Quan Barry - She Weeps Each Time You're Born

None of them noticed the shiny black car parked across the alley, its windows tinted, the great wooden doors leading into the courtyard reflected in the car’s glossy paint, the strange car the color of night. None of them gave it any thought as they arrived home, the car simply melting into the landscape.

Viet pulled up out front. The wooden doors looked darker than usual. Sometimes the doors still seemed like they were part of a living tree. On occasion the wood sprouted burls, grew new knots, an occasional twig forking out of the grain, the twig often topped with a small green leaf. Each morning the guard on duty checked the doors for growths, taking out a pocketknife to prune any.

Qui slid the van door open and climbed out, her white hair briefly scraping the ground. She fished the iron key out of her pocket and unlocked the gate. Linh finished putting her shoes on and jumped out of the front seat. Qui gave her a look. Linh sighed and turned to bow to Viet, placing one hand in the palm of the other. Uncle, she said. Thank you for expanding my knowledge of the world. He nodded. Yes, thank you, said Rabbit. Before climbing out of the van, she reached forward and patted his shoulder. For an instant she flashed on a woman in horrible pain, a body stuck inside another body, the pelvis starting to crack, Viet with both hands up in the darkness all the way past the wrist. Quickly Rabbit pulled her hand away. Thank you, she said again, then climbed out.

In the courtyard the parakeets began to caw the few words they spoke to everyone. Xin chao , said the female. Hello, said Linh. She reached her hand out, and the bird landed on her finger. Where is the other lady, said the male, the one named Apple? Rabbit looked around. Already she could hear the van motoring back down the street. She ran out through the wooden doors and looked in all directions. There was just the old woman on the corner with her small fire going. Rabbit rubbed her eyes. Tao was nowhere to be seen, though the faint smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air.

Rabbit closed the doors behind her, the sound like joints filled with water. Isn’t that how you prefer it, said the male bird, no word of thanks, no gratitude? Rabbit nodded. No, you’re right, she said, as if trying to convince herself.

Linh pointed to something in the sky. Is that the North Star? Rabbit and Qui both looked. They were surprised to see anything at all, the thing faintly purple and twinkling. No, it’s a satellite, Rabbit said. There’s too much light here for stars. Qui clapped her hands. It’s bedtime, said Rabbit. The three of them walked into the house. I never see anything, said Linh petulantly, her fatigue obvious. The three of them climbed the stairs. Be thankful for that, said Rabbit.

Even before she entered her own room, Rabbit could see a long shadow quivering on the floor. Not tonight, she thought, but there he was, the scratch rivering down his cheek. He was sitting on her bed, his legs knotted in the lotus position. His hands were in the fear-not position, both palms facing her, his right pointed to the sky, his left straight down. In the moonlight everything took on the same silvery hue as the room inside her head. You may never see me again, Son said flatly. Rabbit’s heart went cold. He never lied.

Quietly she closed the door. Tell me what to do, she said. He got up off the bed. Life will decide, he said. He turned to her and smiled. She was twenty-four years old. He was still a child. She went to him and got down on her knees. He put his arms around her. Outside the moon had slipped behind a bank of clouds, but the room was still strangely bright. It took her a moment to realize. The light was coming from him.

Rabbit closed her eyes. Gently Son kissed her on the forehead, on each cheek, then on the mouth. With his fingers he traced a path through her freckles. For the second time in a lifetime, Rabbit’s heart flooding.

What she will always remember long after the moment is over: the image of his hands in the fear-not mudra as he sat on her bed. The hand position derived from the story of the Buddha’s stroking the head of an elephant sent to kill Him, the elephant maddened by alcohol, but the great beast falling to its knees at the feet of the Buddha because of the Enlightened One’s radiance, His right palm open toward the sky signaling there is nothing to fear, His left lowered to pet the fallen head of His killer.

When she opened her eyes, Son was gone. The sliding door leading out to the balcony was open. There was just the taste of honey on her lips.

Qui knocked on the door and poked her head in. The female parakeet was sitting on her shoulder. The bird’s color looked startling in contrast to the white of Qui’s hair. Lady, said the parakeet. Are you all right? Yes, said Rabbit. She was still down on her knees. Tell the truth, said the bird. When Rabbit didn’t answer, Qui entered the room. She closed the sliding door, untied the mosquito net hanging from the ceiling, and draped it around the bed, then helped Rabbit up off the floor, undressing her before tucking her in and pulling the sheet up to her knees. Close your eyes, said the bird softly. Qui began stroking her hair. After a few minutes Rabbit reached for her. Light from the darkness. Comfort beyond anything imaginable, the sweetness erasing any bitterness she’d felt. The bird began to sing:

Beloved, stay with me. Do not go home!

Your leaving makes me weep inside

And the collar of my dress is wet with tears as if it has rained .

Oh my beloved, stay. Do not go home!

When Rabbit gets out of the van, she can hear bells ringing. In the distance the night sky is lit up with fireworks, the sky softly purple like a bruise. They are ten miles south of the City of Peace in the hamlet of My Kan. As they move about there is the feeling of walking through water, everything slow and deliberate, the earth spongy under one’s feet. Look at me, says Linh. She holds her arms out like a tightrope walker and tiptoes around as if she weighs nothing at all.

So, says Tao. Her voice is casual as if they have come all this way on a whim. In the sky a full moon sits at twelve o’clock with a halo around it, the halo so sharp and clear one could mistake it for a second moon. What happens next? The smoke billows in and out of her face without end, though she doesn’t appear to be holding a cigarette. Shhh, says Rabbit. She is already turning and walking out into the middle of the field. Overhead the dual moons shine like a double-yolked egg.

Rabbit stops and twirls around three-hundred and sixty degrees. Flatness in every direction. A small creek gurgles by the roadside. Nothing. No landmarks. No houses. No animals. Something is wrong with the earth and everything smells scorched. She twirls around again only faster. This time as she moves she catches glimpses of figures slipping over the horizon. The sound of fireworks intensifies. The burning smell gets closer. She twirls faster. The field fills with voices. Anger and fear. She is spinning so fast the world is a blur. Something swoops down out of the sky. Rabbit stops. Through the dizziness she can see the ruins of a building in the purple light. When she regains her equilibrium, she begins to walk toward it.

It’s a Catholic church. She can tell by the broken steeple lying on its side, the roof mostly missing, exposed ceiling beams running crosswise. Bowls of dried grass lie in piles where things have nested. Other pieces of the building are scattered in the tall weeds. An iron bell sleeps hidden in the brush. When she raps it with her knuckles, the metal rings as expected. Tap it twice, the metal doesn’t sound at all.

Rabbit picks her way inside. The wooden floor is cracked and furred with plant growth and animal droppings. By the door is a marble font filled with debris and a single plastic shoe. Nothing is left inside. The windows are all missing, just one shard of blue glass hanging in an alcove over the altar. Probably the remnant of someone’s holy robe or maybe the ocean somebody walked on.