Short Stories
"Wait until we are married," was Ah Kim's invariable re-
ply, "and then, O Moon Lily, will I tell you."
Two years later, one afternoon, more like a water-melon
seed in configuration than ever, Ah Kim returned home from a
meeting of the Chinese Protective Association, to find his
mother dead on her couch. Narrower and more unrelenting
than ever were the forehead and the brushed-back hair. But on
her face was a withered smile. The gods had been kind. She
had passed without pain.
He telephoned first of all to Li Faa's number but did not
find her until he called up Mrs. Chang Lucy. The news given,
the marriage was dated ahead with ten times the brevity of the
old-line Chinese custom. And if there be anything analogous
to a bridesmaid in a Chinese wedding, Mrs. Chang Lucy was
just that.
"Why," Li Faa asked Ah Kim when alone with him on their
wedding night, "why did you cry when your mother beat you
that day in the store? You were so foolish. She was not even
hurting you."
"That is why I cried," answered Ah Kim.
Li Faa looked up at him without understanding.
"I cried," he explained, "because I suddenly knew that my
mother was nearing her end. There was no weight, no hurt, in
her blows. I cried because I knew she no longer had the strength
to hurt me. That is why I cried, my Flower of Serenity, my Per-
fect Rest. That is the only reason why I cried."
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