The Scavenger's Daughters (Tales of the Scavenger's Daughters, Book One) (3 page)

At least three hours later, much longer than it should have taken him, Benfu found himself on the outskirts of town. He took a break and dropped to his knees, using his hands to skim just a tiny bit of water from the top of the mud in a pothole. It tasted oily and salty, but it was gloriously wet. With that small reward he felt he could keep moving a bit farther. As he stood, the rumbling and lights of a large truck came around the corner and Benfu stumbled to the high grass and hid as it went by. He figured it was the delivery truck coming from his commune, taking most of their day’s crop intake on to Shanghai. No one cared there wasn’t enough left behind to feed the people; their only directive was to bring it on to Mao’s troops.

Still shaking from the close call, he stayed away from the main roads, choosing to skirt down the country roads until he came to one of the
hutongs,
the residential lanes that ran parallel to the major roads. He thought maybe he could find an old shed or barn to hide in while he rested. If he could get just a few hours of sleep, then he would set off again.

As he staggered down one quiet lane, he saw a small home with the gate open. The house beckoned to him and since his gut instinct had not failed him yet, Benfu quietly slipped through the gate. He looked at the front window and saw only a very faint light, and he hoped the homeowners were asleep as they should be at this time of night. First listening for noise from the inside and hearing nothing, he crept around the house toward the small utility shed. He wished it had windows as he could hardly make himself go back into such tight, airless quarters, but alas, he had no choice if he wanted to remain hidden. He hoped he could find space in it to stretch out for a few hours.

Spotting an old rusty water pump on the side of the house, he stood there, uncertain for a moment. He could take a chance and try to clean
himself up a bit and get some fresh drinking water to refill his canteen, or he could wait. He shifted from foot to foot. He didn’t want to get caught but he was so thirsty that his tongue felt swollen and rough like fabric in his mouth. If he didn’t get water, he felt he would just die. He was dizzy and weak, and so thirsty that if he succumbed to his painful hunger and ate one of his last remaining rice balls, he might even choke on it. What a cruel fate to finally have food in his pocket but know his throat was too parched to get it down.

With precious moments wasting before daylight came upon him, Benfu made a choice. He had to drink. He only prayed the old pump would not moan and carry on, waking the family inside. With his ribs now in such intense pain he could barely walk, Benfu struggled over to the pump. He slowly and carefully lifted the handle and flinched when the old pipes began to rumble. Carefully he dropped to his knees. He’d be quick, just one drink. Turning his head to the side to catch the stream in his mouth, he heard someone behind him.

The quick movement to see who had caught him made his head spin and a wave of dizziness completely overtook him. As everything went black around him, he focused on the face of a girl about his own age. His last thoughts before he hit the ground were of how pretty and clean she looked as she stood there with her hands on her hips, a scolding frown making its way across her heart-shaped mouth.

Then all was dark and Benfu welcomed the curtain that fell across his vision and smothered the smell of his fear.

“
If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole lives would change.
”

—Buddha

Beitang City, Wuxi, China, 2010

O
n a cloudy day in early January, Benfu stood outside his house and held the red pail under the spigot, waiting for it to fill. Today was a good day; when he pumped the handle, the old pipes didn’t moan and rattle too much before deciding to cooperate. But he didn’t mind it so much either way—like him, the piece of iron was ancient but stubbornly kept going. And anyway, they had a history together, and if a man could feel affection for a thing, then Benfu absolutely did. A silly fondness, but there all the same, for it was the very same temperamental water spigot that had been the matchmaker that brought him and his precious Calli together so many years before.

When the water reached the top, he pushed the pump handle down and carried the pail across the street to the old widow’s house. Quickly he filled the tins for her chickens and used the last of the water on her pot of herbs hanging in her window box. He looked at the chicken droppings and considered cleaning them up, but that was a task Widow Zu usually took on and he didn’t want to deprive her of that joy. And anyway, nothing was worse than the smell of chicken dung on a man’s hands.

Chuckling, he returned to his yard across the street, got on his bike, and headed out for the day. Twenty minutes later, he pushed his rusted three-wheeled bicycle slowly up the steep hill and turned the corner. Around him the streets were coming alive. Morning vendors were opening their stalls and stacking displays of fruits and vegetables, sweepers cleaned the sidewalks, and
early commuters bustled to work. As he strained to push the bike, the cars, electric scooters, and other bicycles rushed past him. Most paid him no attention, for he was just one of many laborers out at the crack of dawn trying to get an early start to the day. With his weathered brown face and deep wrinkles, he blended in, but unlike some of the men his age he passed who were doing their morning
Qigong
exercises or sitting at makeshift tables while playing cards, Benfu still had a job to do. Even though he had lived on earth for over six decades, he could not retire.

He struggled the last few feet, listening to his water canteen bumping against the metal bar it was tied to and thought about how much the city had changed over the years. At least his side of Beitang City—Old Town Wuxi as some called it—still kept some of the old charm, while new Wuxi had grown with businesses and even many foreigners coming in to make their mark. Benfu was a transplant—he’d been sent to Wuxi as a teenager by his parents to escape the danger of Shanghai during the Cultural Revolution. It was for his protection, they’d told him as they cried and bid him good-bye. What they had thought would be a better life for him was an unforgettable time of trauma and hardship. And though he’d never intended to stay for so long, fate had intervened and Wuxi had become his home. But that was long ago and he’d survived many more hard times since then—times that were better left unspoken of, times that made a day like today feel like child’s play.

At the top of the hill, Benfu mounted the bike again and with shoulders bent over the handlebars to add more weight, he pedaled slowly. He was already tired and that irritated him. He’d always been known to be bigger and stronger than most, but for the last year he just couldn’t shake the cough and heavy feeling that had enveloped him. Passing the line of street breakfast stands, he winced at the sudden squeaking from the rusty back wheel of his bicycle. As it began to bump and turn haphazardly, he hoped it would last the day, at least until he could ask his daughter to take a look to see if she could repair it. If she could, that would save him some valuable coins that he could avoid paying the local repairman. He was lucky to have the transportation, and the three-wheeled bike was fitted with a
makeshift cart on the back, allowing him a way to haul things home without carrying them in a basket on his back as he’d done for years before.

Benfu passed the cigarette store and for a moment he fought the sudden craving that overtook his thoughts. His wife had finally got her way when he’d stopped smoking a few years before, but there were days he could almost taste the sweet tobacco, he wanted it so badly. It was a welcome distraction to hear his friend call his name from where she perched on the next front stoop, peeling peanuts. His mouth watered at the sight of the treats in her bowl. He would have liked to be able to bring some peanuts home to add to their own simple dinner. Occasionally the woman saved a small bag behind her to hand over to him, but not today. He had many friends in the neighborhood and one had even complimented him long ago by telling him he was a big man with an even bigger presence. He didn’t quite know how he had a big presence but it had sounded nice. Always known as soft-spoken and wise with his words, he found that when he had something to say, others usually listened.

“
Zao,
Benfu. Cold day, eh?”

Benfu raised his hand to the woman and smiled. “Good morning to you, too, Lao Gu. Yes, very cold. But don’t worry, spring is coming soon!”

These days he was so used to being cold that he no longer thought much about it. At least there hadn’t been any snow this season—saving him the trouble of carrying his load when he couldn’t get the cart through. Sure his cough was worse in the cold, his old joints ached, and his gnarled hands cramped from the hours spent wrapped around the handles, but instead of dwelling on it, he chose to focus on other matters—matters like finding enough discarded items to earn enough for a day of meals for his family and if he was lucky, enough to put some savings toward their monthly rent bill. But first, his self-imposed obligation needed to be fulfilled for the day.

“
Zhu ni haoyun,
Benfu.” She wished him luck and went back to peeling. No small talk was needed because there wasn’t anything new to discuss. They’d been passing each other for the last fifteen years and only stopped to catch up every month or so, unless either of them had news worth interrupting
their chores. The woman was widowed and Benfu had known her husband back in the hard days. But those were times they didn’t talk about.

Benfu continued with his cart and hoped his morning would be uneventful. He didn’t wish to find anything out of the ordinary as he turned past the block of buildings. He really didn’t. He always wished to find nothing except trash. But sometimes something other than trash found him.

Now in the alley between two buildings, he guided his bike around soiled refuse bags and a line of jumbled bicycles, then heard the first mewl coming from a pile of boxes. He hoped it was nothing but a new kitten, strayed from its mother. That would be the best scenario, for Benfu could help it find the rest of the litter and then go on with his day as usual. But the closer he got to the huge pile of trash, the more that hope faded. He’d heard this same sound before and he scolded himself; he should have known the difference from the start.

Sighing, he stopped the bicycle and climbed down. He walked over to the pile of cardboard boxes. Lifting them carefully and tossing them aside one by one, he dug down until he finally found the right one. As he paused to look at the labeling on the side of the cardboard, a couple at the end of the alley stopped and pointed at him, then moved along.

Gently he picked up the box and carried it to his cart. He carefully set it on top of the pile of trash he had collected on the way over. Opening the two flaps, he peered into the box and immediately connected with tiny dark eyes.

“Aiya,”
he muttered softly, so as not to scare her. The baby was very young—maybe only a few hours or possibly a few days old. She lay in the box fully unclothed save for a scrap of a red shirt with frog ties and a few balled-up newspapers scattered around her. Benfu wrinkled his nose as the smell of urine wafted up from the soaked box. He noticed her umbilical cord still hung from her tiny button, already turning dark from the lack of sustenance running through it. From the weak sound of her mewling and the mottled color of her skin, she didn’t have much time left.