Chapter 4

On my way through the living room, I laid my hand on the armrest of that rosewood sofa set. Old rosewood, dating back to the Republican era, part of the dowry my mother-in-law's mother had handed down to her. Decades of sweat from human hands and coats of walnut oil had rubbed the armrest to a dark, glossy black, the grain floating in that deep sheen like rings of a tree soaked in oil.

She oiled it three times a day. Once at six-thirty in the morning, once after her afternoon nap, and once when she came home from her evening dance in the square. She used an old pure-cotton handkerchief for it, said to be something her mother had left behind, sweeping it from one end of the armrest to the other, her touch so light it looked less like housework than like bathing an infant.

The year my son was three, he once spilled orange juice on the armrest by accident. The orange liquid seeped along the grain and left a faint stain. She slapped him without a second's pause.

Three years old. One slap, five red finger marks on that little face. That night, wiping the sofa, she said this was an heirloom, that ten children put together couldn't pay for it if they damaged it.

I had a huge fight with her over it. Jesse pulled me into the bedroom, pressed my hand down, and said, "This is the one thing my mom has held on to her whole life. Just give in to her a little."

"But she hit your son."

"He's still her grandson. Old people just flare up for a moment. She didn't really mean to hit him."

I watched his mouth opening and closing.

Back in the bedroom. The nightstand was bare where the bracelet used to sit. The handkerchief was still there, the embroidered lilies pressed with the round imprint the bracelet had left. I felt underneath the handkerchief. Cold.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Outside, half the moon was blocked by the neighboring building's air-conditioning unit, the other half a silver hook hanging in the night mist.