Later, when people talked about the accident in our family, they all blamed it on the lunatic, saying that man was a nutjob to begin with, and my parents were just unlucky to run into something like that.
I’ve said before that Peng County is like a mirror to Neng County, similar in many ways. But the difference is that Peng County is a third poorer. Life here is tough, people are simple-minded, stepping into the new society without having time to shake off those old traditional standards. In short, they believe in God, and God exists in all sorts of forms. If you go to someone’s house and don’t see a statue of Guanyin or Maitreya right at the entrance, you’ll definitely spot a cross in the bedroom—and as for the Hui people, you can tell from afar that they all live in the same area. In any case, all three religions and nine schools of thought converge in our Peng County, everyone worshiping their own gods.
It was like all the gods had held a meeting and come up with a common doctrine: to make believers do good deeds.
Each god seemed to have a ledger, recording everyone’s daily life. This person did so many good deeds, that one committed so many evils, and based on each person’s fate, they mete out fitting rewards and punishments. If this life sucks, no worries—every faith has its heaven and hell, clear-cut rewards and punishments, encouraging everyone to be good people. See a bad guy enjoying life? Ha, no problem, his suffering days are coming later!
My parents’ deaths brought all the uncles and aunties from the church to console me, saying God saw their good deeds, that they suffered on earth, and He took them early to paradise above. We’re just travelers on earth; the world isn’t our permanent home.
Even though in some ways I understood the various laws and doctrines better than them, and I knew about the trials of saints not recorded in the scriptures, after reading so much doctrine, when it hit me personally, the burden was just too heavy.
Everyone told me the story of Job.
There was a man named Job who did good deeds and accumulated virtue, blessed abundantly by God with many children and vast herds of livestock. But then the devil slandered him before God, saying that as soon as You stop blessing him, this Job will betray You right away. So God permitted it, and the devil came to wreak havoc: Job’s children died while drinking happily, all his livestock died, Job broke out in boils all over, and he sat in ashes scraping his body with a potsherd. Then Job’s friends came to comfort him, but Job, already in full emo mode, started ranting. Finally, God stepped in and debated personally with these mortals, Job came to his senses, and God blessed him again with even more children, servants, and livestock—better than before. After giving this example, everyone believed that someone as spiritually insightful as me would surely understand the lesson God wanted to teach me through my parents’ tragic deaths, and that I’d be compensated by God like Job, getting something even better.
If my resentment was only three parts before, it became a hundred after hearing that. I’d underline it viciously in red pen on my paper, questioning: They took my parents—can They give me another pair? If this is God’s test for me, why encourage that evil man to kill my parents? Why not take my legs, gouge out my eyes—that wouldn’t make me appreciate life more?
Suffering was a poison tailored precisely for me. Others saw my calm face and offered painless comforts.
In the end, that lunatic wasn’t sentenced because he was a mental patient. He was stark raving mad; his parents locked him up. The last time I saw him, he was in his thirties or forties, still wearing split-crotch pants, walking down the street. His hair and beard matted together, his whole face like a lump of cow dung covered in dandelions, shuffling aimlessly until someone chased him home with a stick.
I had every reason to lure him to some dangerous spot and egg him on to tumble down to a gruesome death. His death would relieve his parents too, and it’d vent my hatred. Lu Jinshi said, “Do your parents’ spirits in heaven want to see you do that? They only hope you’ll live well.” He talked me out of it. From then on, I left Peng County, sold our family’s orchard, bought a house in Jiaxing Residential Area in Neng County, and lived there until now.
That was nearly ten years ago.
Anger, injustice—they can never be erased. Bringing it up still makes my chest tight, my head ache, my lungs filled with rage that smolders like dead ashes in normal times.
So, the moment Gan Ling promised by the tracks to give up revenge, I felt like she was a great saint. I didn’t know if her words were true or false, but her letting go was like deflating, one push strong, then weakening, fading. Anger internalizes into silence—what comes after silence, I didn’t know.
To make sure Gan Ling wouldn’t say one thing and do another, tricking me into relaxing then launching Plan B and ending up in jail as she said, that day I deliberately detoured to Jiaxing Supermarket. I went all in on the act, writing a shopping list: toilet paper, conditioner, instant noodles, canned lunch meat.
Jiaxing Supermarket was bustling with noise. A single vegetable leaf fell pitifully and got trampled from one end to the other under countless feet, cleverly dodging the cleaning staff.
Gan Ling hooked it with her toe, leaning against a stack of drinks, and with a whoosh kicked the leaf into the dustpan by the trash bin.
Goal!
I watched excitedly from the side, and excitement betrayed my position. Gan Ling spotted me amid a pile of discarded Laotan Pickled Cabbage Noodles and cucumber-flavored chips, waved me over like calling a little dog.
No one around; other staff were either greeting customers or chatting together while the manager was away. Only Gan Ling brazenly broke the rules by playing on her phone right out in the open. When she saw me, she casually pocketed it.
I walked over, ready to buy a case of cola to back her up.
Gan Ling rubbed the supermarket vest, flipped up the little hat on her pocket, and dug out a pack of hawthorn slices to hand me.
“What’s this for?” I glanced at the hawthorn slices and fruit leather display. Gan Ling patted her other pocket and pulled out a pack of scallion-flavored crackers.
I took the two snacks and looked at Gan Ling. She waved me off like shooing me away.
I walked out two steps, then circled back, touching the yellow price tag on the cola: “I… uh, wanna stock up on some cola.”
“Get lost.” Gan Ling scoffed like I’d said I was gonna drink booze, waving me off.
Treating a customer like that—I stood by watching. A young couple pushed their cart past; Gan Ling muttered at her phone, “Coke’s not as good as Pepsi, right? Tsk tsk…”
The young guy whipped around; the girl grabbed a pack of zero-sugar Coke: “Hey, looks like the cola’s running low. Let’s stock up.”
Gan Ling drawled listlessly, “Pepsi’s better.”
Young guy: “No normal person drinks Pepsi. You don’t get it—Coke’s got more fizz.”
Gan Ling plastered on a fake smile: “Pepsi sells better here. Wonder why.”
Young guy: “Heh, Coke’s just better anyway.”
Gan Ling: “Fine, I can’t move these. Take more—this pack’s small and light, gone in one gulp, doesn’t take up space.”
Once they left, she leaned back on her phone again. She sold casually but kept eyes and ears everywhere. When the manager passed, she’d pocket the phone without much panic, just putting on a show.
Gan Ling’s expression was the same as ever—gloomy and unapproachable, standing out from the friendly-faced staff. I finished shopping at Jiaxing Supermarket and wandered aimlessly. An old lady stole something and denied it; the manager, hands on hips, wailed aggrievedly, “If you’re having a hard time, just say so—don’t steal, it’s so embarrassing!” Then he called her kids. The kids showed up, said the old lady had lost face, and they cursed each other out for not taking care of their mom.
I waited for the aftermath, lingering too long in the supermarket until the cashiers were clocking out. I hurried to checkout, stuffed everything into a big bag, and asked an inside stocker what time they got off.
“Eight-thirty.”
“Oh, thanks.” I checked the time—half an hour to wait—so I went out and loaded the stuff onto my electric bike.
The parking uncle seemed to recognize me now; he bought a serving of cool jelly from the roadside and handed it to me. I thanked him profusely. When Gan Ling came out, I was wiping chili oil splattered on my chest with a napkin.
She’d been proper all day at work, but came out looking half-dead, eyes downcast with a cold smirk. She ignored me when she saw me; I hurried after, tripping left foot over right. The toilet paper I’d put on the seat tipped and fell.
I picked up the roll and tailed Gan Ling openly and boldly. She hadn’t crossed the street yet; the light dragged slowly, cars crawling by. Gan Ling turned, saw me hauling the Vinda toilet paper roll, snorted indifferently through her nose, came over, took the toilet paper, and headed to my electric bike.
“You’re off work, haha, perfect timing, I haven’t left yet…”
“You believe that yourself? And you’re a teacher…”
Gan Ling always threw out “and you’re a teacher” to mock me, like teachers should be impervious to blades, logically airtight, honest, trustworthy, possessing all human society’s virtues and qualities. I opened my mouth but couldn’t retort. Gan Ling hung the toilet paper on my rear seat, wedged it in tight, and patted it like slapping a horse’s butt to shoo me off.
No one could have imagined that karma turns like a wheel; now I’ve become the one haunting her relentlessly. Gan Ling seemed to find this a bit of dark humor too, and proactively gave me an out: “Are you looking for me for something?”
“Yeah, Michelle Yeoh’s Everything Everywhere All at Once has been super popular lately, and you look a lot like her… I… uh, wanna watch the movie?”
“Not watching TV would be boring, huh?” Gan Ling built another ramp for me, and I slid right down it: “Yeah, ever since vacation started, I’ve been waiting for you to knock. I’m not used to you not coming over.”
Gan Ling nodded: “Okay.”
Neither of us dared mention Zheng Ningning, the murderer, or Plum Kindergarten—it was like it was just Gan Ling and me, two kindred spirits.
I drew the curtains, turned on the TV, cast from my phone, curled up in my spot on the sofa, cradling a cup of honey water as I watched. Gan Ling turned off the lights, leaving just a shadow; she kicked off her shoes, sat in her usual spot, drew her legs in—a little more casual than she’d seemed in the photos.
She undid her ponytail, ran her fingers through it messily, shook it down onto her shoulders. The new growth had less gray—like the snowline shifting lower, temperatures dropping, Mount Everest freezing over again. Gan Ling noticed me staring and shot me a side-eye, a third of her eyeball glancing over.
I looked away, back to the TV. In the movie, the daughter kisses her girlfriend; Michelle Yeoh tears her hair out over the overwhelming tax forms. I gradually got into it—then suddenly the husband, who looks like Jackie Chan, turns into a total badass. I burst out laughing. Gan Ling poked my shoulder. I turned, and she handed me a pack of scallion crackers.
Crunch crunch—we chewed in silence, Michelle Yeoh shuttling through multiverses, lights and shadows swirling, until she and her daughter become two stones teetering on cliff edges.
