Divorce Day

“Let’s talk about love again,” Gordon Mayer said.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Olivia rolled her eyes at him. The divorce hall had quieted a little; it was four in the afternoon, and the early arrivals had been waiting so long their hunger had eaten the fight out of them. Even the newcomers, still fresh with patience, weren’t yet ready to start fresh quarrels. Gordon Mayer wasn’t hungry, only bored out of his skull. He needed someone to talk to, and Olivia was the only someone there. He preferred topics on which they were guaranteed to disagree; disagreement widens a conversation. Best of all were subjects no one would be held accountable for later. At this particular moment, love was the perfect one.

“B34 to Window 1. B34 to Window 1,” the loudspeaker announced, the red numerals flashing in agreement.

They scrambled up and hurried over.

Two padded chairs waited in front of the glass. The black vinyl was cracked and worn thin by a thousand restless behinds; the exposed sponge beneath had gone the color of old coffee grounds. The floor was littered with torn scraps: promises ripped up by people furious over the division of spoils, or by those who had suddenly repented the whole idea of divorce and shredded the agreement in a childish fit. Most of the second kind had been moved to remorse by the clerks behind the glass.

Gordon Mayer took the left chair; Olivia chose the less ravaged one and laid a napkin (smaller than her own hips) on the seat before lowering herself.

“Your thirty-day cooling-off period is over,” the fat woman behind the glass said, eyeing them sideways. “Still not cool enough?”

She held their papers in her left hand, clicking the mouse with her right, signing and scrolling. The cuffs of her navy uniform were frayed black, one seam split clear through.

Neither answered.

She rattled the papers (their divorce statements, the property settlement, the custody agreement for Spring Mayer, all countersigned by Lawyer Wang) and changed her face the way a person changes masks in a village play.

“I just don’t get it,” she said, mouth smacking, features collapsing inward around her nose like a teacher leaning over a child’s hopeless homework. “What is it you two can’t calm down about?”

Olivia glanced at Gordon Mayer. Gordon Mayer glanced at the woman. The woman waited. Olivia waited. Gordon Mayer waited for something he could not name.

“Let’s review,” the woman said, pointing a thick finger at Gordon Mayer and waggling it in the air. “After you stopped speaking in junior high, how exactly did you find each other again?”

He had meant to refuse. He sat up straight, swallowed once, hard. But if he refused, nothing would move forward. And the story had to begin with Yilia Cyrus.

The winter of ninth-grade midterms, Cousin Nancy Jackson stayed home only a few days before Aunt Jane packed her off again. After that, no one ever mentioned her name, as though a secret had been weighted with lead and dropped into the cold sea, gone forever into trenches no hand could reach.

A few days later it snowed. They say auspicious snow promises a bountiful year; farmers pray for heavy falls to kill the pests in the soil and soak the spring planting. People who have nothing to do with crops pray for snow anyway (white washes the darkness inside you, bleaches old defeats). Snow is like love that way: at first everyone begs for more, more; then it piles so deep you can’t open the door and suddenly everyone curses the excess. Love begins with taking and taking; later come the quarrels, and the pain outweighs the joy by a mile.

The day before exams, Cousin Gordon’s grandmother died. The sullen winter sky cleared as though swept clean; the drizzle of the Yun-Gui plateau tucked itself away. The day after the funeral his mother arrived in a flurry, offered brief condolences, and fled again before nightfall. She heard Aunt Jane’s plans for Little Walnut and did not ask where he would sleep. In fact he slept at Jimmy’s house, where the family discipline was iron; he was in bed before the stars came out.

The exams themselves were not torture. Little Walnut was calm with certainty. Two days slid past. When they were over, Yilia Cyrus found him. They walked the playground discussing the final history question (he had written about politics and social progress, citing the Northern Song’s “favor civil over martial” policy as an advance in civilization). She said his answers always astonished her, that even ordinary things he saw from an angle no one else thought to turn toward. A rare gift, she called it.

“Friend,” she said, though she looked tired, the glow in her face dimmed, yet never the grace (still the fairy drifting an inch above the ground), “I’m going back to the city soon. I came to tell you.”

“You’re not invigilating anymore?”

“Someone’s covering for me. I have private matters.”

“Good. I was afraid of your health…”

She laughed softly. “Health isn’t everything.”

“What is, then?” He stopped walking. “The night before last my great-grandmother died. For the first time I really thought about how fragile life is. People have dreams they want to chase; before the dreams come true, they have to keep the body safe.”

“That makes sense.”

“Miss Cyrus, what are your dreams? You can tell me.”

“Of course I have dreams. I studied journalism in normal school. I wanted to be an editor after graduation.”

“Is teaching one of your dreams?”

“No. It was my father’s.”

“My mother’s dream was for me to go down the coal mine.”

“Why didn’t you?” She laughed and patted his back.

“Because it wasn’t my dream.” He lifted his chin, breathed deeply. Students passing gave them strange looks. Most boys nursed a secret goddess in their hearts; for nearly all of them it was Miss Cyrus. Little Walnut could guess their thoughts: How had this nobody gotten so close to her?

They had reached the teachers’ apartments. The little path beside the building was the quickest way to the main street; on fine days it was crowded. Abby Wees appeared just then.

“Miss Cyrus!” She ran up, shy and smiling.

“Miss Cyrus, Abby likes writing too,” Little Walnut said, trying to lighten the air.

“Miss Cyrus? I thought you called her ‘sister’ in private, since she’s like your real sister?” Abby stared at him.

“Sister?” Miss Cyrus echoed.

“Well…” Little Walnut began.

She burst out laughing. “I call you friend every day and you’re too thick to figure it out. I’m done talking nonsense; I have a bus to catch. See you next year.” She took two steps, turned back, and pointed at him. “Next time call me Sister, got it?” Then she really did float away on a cloud toward the street and the bus.

When the second semester of ninth grade began, Yilia Cyrus was still teaching, but she brought Little Walnut another chance: contributor status at the city newspaper. After several tries he received actual payment. He was grateful from the marrow out. Weekends were precious, yet they flew. One Monday the sky looked like moldy white cloth, clouds layered thick but no rain fell all morning (the kind of weather that makes the heart ache for no reason). Miss Cyrus had no early classes; still, during the break after second period she came looking for him.

They walked the playground.

“Little brother,” she said after half a lap, eyes on her shoes, “I came to say goodbye.”

“Sister—are you leaving Tianqing Middle School?”

“Yes.”

“So sudden?”

“I decided this weekend.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“Of course—if you want to.”

“I do.”

She kicked the air like a happy child. “Best thing I’ve heard all day.”

“What happened this weekend, Sister?”

“I can tell you. I broke up with my boyfriend. My father wants me to be a teacher forever. My boyfriend wanted me to stay home, have babies, and cook. But I want to be an editor. Actually, your life gave me courage. Only we ourselves are responsible for our lives. They won’t take responsibility for mine.” She laid a hand on his shoulder; by now she was only half a head taller.

“I want you to be happy. I’ll miss seeing you, that’s all.”

“We’ll meet again.”

“I only have two real families left—my sister Hannah and you. When you go it feels like another piece dies.” His eyes stung.

“Don’t be sad, little brother. I’ll come find you, or you find me. I’m going after my dream too.”

“What will you do next?”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you—I got the job. Assistant editor at the newspaper.”

“Really?” He turned, eyes wide.

“Really. The editor who accepted your pieces was my old teacher. He needed an assistant and gave me the chance.”

“I’m so happy for you.” Relief flooded him; at least one of his precious people would live brighter.

“I’ll give you my home address and the newspaper’s mailing address. Write to me from the post office. Keep sending pieces—I’ll handle them and mail your fees back. We’ll stay connected, in feeling and in work.” She bent so their eyes were level.

“Yes.” Joy (recovered after thinking it was lost) made him grin.

“I’ll go pack after we part. Miss Jean will take my classes and explain. Promise me, little brother—no matter what, study hard. Only through study can you reach the things you want.”

“I understand. Hannah told me the same.” Thinking of Hannah comforted him; his other sister was doing well now.

“Then I’m going. Back to class.”

“Sister—can I have a hug?” Tears brimmed. The dawn Hannah left, she had hugged him too.

She wrapped him close, no childish cooing, just steady arms and a few pats on the back. Then they stepped apart.

“Goodbye, Sister.” She turned and strode off the grounds, disappearing down the road beyond the gate.

Little Walnut walked to class clutching the twice-folded notepaper with her addresses. His soul felt as if a small corner had been torn away when she left. He sat at his desk, head down, until the ache in his cheeks slowly eased. He remembered something he had read: if you truly love someone, let them go to wider, farther worlds; don’t chain them to the small, worn-out one you know.

“How does any of this explain how you two got back together?” the fat clerk interrupted, impatient.

“You’ll see,” Olivia answered, smiling.

Three days after the last exam, Little Walnut wandered the campus alone, trying to drink in every brick, every leaf, so that when he went to some strange new place the garden inside him might stay bright and various. Summer evenings were full of surprises; the sun set the clouds ablaze until the sky was a furnace of red. He remembered telling Olivia once: we are all prisoners of time, none of us ever signed the confession, yet we all serve the sentence. When time lets us meet, we should love everything; when time tears us apart, we should practice endurance in living. That day might come early or late; no one knew.

Results were posted two days later (the first day’s papers had been marked overnight; the second day was for compiling school-wide ranks). Little Walnut woke early. This exam mattered more than any other. Top twenty in the grade meant five hundred yuan from the school and a thousand from the foundation (money he already had plans for). He paced Aunt Jane’s room, glancing at the wall calendar, the old VHS covers, the people passing in the courtyard below—old folks hurrying, young ones slow as snails.

At school he stood outside the office forever. Every second of waiting felt like a lifetime. The crowd thinned; soon only a few stragglers remained. He went in. Teachers called students class by class, handed out report cards, and announced rankings. Some students were absent; their cards would be carried home by neighbors.

Little Walnut took his seat. Names were called; students fetched their envelopes, returning whispering. The ones who did well shook with silent laughter; the ones who failed stared at the floor. His heart was a sealed pressure cooker left three hours on the flame, waiting for someone to twist the valve.

When Miss Icey finally announced the top three, centuries seemed to have passed. Little Walnut had lived through geocentric theory, heliocentric theory, watched Newton’s apple fall and freeze on winter ground, watched spring melt it, nourish the seed, watched seasons turn until the countryside became primeval forest. Fat bees built honeycombs in the branches, squirrels gnawed ripe fruit, cuckoos laid eggs in other birds’ nests and quarreled when discovered. The forest was hot, oxygen thick; each breath was cool mint flooding his brain, yet the excess heat could not escape; his ears and hands burned.

In the haze he heard his name: first in Class Thirteen, inside the grade’s top twenty (inside the world he had dreamed of breaking into). On stage he tried to look calm, but inside he was already leaping. He had won money. The chances of his dream coming true had just grown wings. A smile tugged at his mouth.

“Gordon Mayer, come get your report card and prize.”

The envelope of money worked the strings; he rose like a marionette. Miss Icey announced loudly: fifth in the entire grade. One thousand five hundred yuan in a pale-yellow envelope. Pssht—the pressure valve blew. All the steam escaped at once; his body went limp. Thank heaven Miss Icey did not ask for a speech; an owl had already carried off his tongue. When she told him to return to his seat every muscle locked. His throat spasmed; he could not swallow. He walked, turned, sat, clutching the envelope and card so tightly he could not let go until the room emptied and human feeling slowly returned.

From the ashes love leaves behind, not only parting rises—sometimes a new life.

A week after results, all that remained was to wait for the city high-school admission letter. Summer break had emptied the school. Only locals like Abby Wees and Jimmy were left; the outsiders had gone home. Edwin too. Little Walnut had no one to talk to and no wish to talk.

He cooked himself a late breakfast that was also lunch: rice spread on the plate, fried egg golden on top, bright red tomatoes, thirty-six gleaming green peas along the rim. His stomach roared, yet his tongue refused to taste anything. A person is iron, rice is steel—he knew the saying. Eat anyway. In summer he liked going barefoot; he hooked his left foot on the bench rung, pressed the right against his left calf, and when boredom struck slid both feet back and forth. He stirred everything together, added hot water, and forced it down.

He washed the plate four times, uneasy leaving himself alone in the house—it might drive him mad. He scrubbed himself clean, locked the door, and went out where people were.

To reach Red Flag Primary he took the long plane-tree avenue he had always loved—walking it slowly, talking to himself inside. The huge trees had lived many years; in summer their round leaves rippled like sunlight on water when the wind passed. He buried himself in memory but always emerged. Beside the primary school grew enormous kapok trees, trunks straight as if whittled and driven into the earth, covered in natural armor of thorns, leaves shaped like chicken feet.

The days were indeed boring—or lonely. He circled the primary-school flowerbeds, kicked at a raised stone until he was sure it wouldn’t fall, hugged a young maple his own height, rubbed most of its leaves between thumb and finger—no revelation. On the other side of the wall the retired teachers kept two small parrots. Books said parrots could talk. He taught them “hello” through the wall. Half an hour later the stupid birds still hadn’t learned. He decided it was hopeless and walked to the post office.

The post office sat below street level; five or six steps down from the sidewalk. The iron gate’s olive paint had faded; the lower parts were rubbed to raw gray. Inside, the hall was empty. On the left wall hung the Great Leader’s portrait above a wooden bench long enough for three or five. On the right, five service windows: pickup, mailing, savings, book orders, mooncake orders. Except on Sunday market days when each had a uniformed clerk, there was only ever the old man.

Little Walnut wandered in. The book-subscription posters were ancient; someone had angrily circled items in pen (evidence of arguments between customer and clerk).

“Looking for a letter?” the old man asked, shoveling rice from a tin box into his mouth.

“Yes.” Little Walnut stared at the small mountain of unclaimed mail.

“Where from?”

“The city, I guess.”

“Ah.” The old man squinted through thick glasses, face wise and slow as an old turtle.

“Anything for me?”

“Don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“Wait.” The old man stopped him as he turned away. That morning the mail truck had brought a few letters not yet sorted. He rummaged and yes—one from Miss Cyrus. Little Walnut took it; suddenly the day was not doomed to utter loneliness.

Her letter said work was going well; she could choose and edit pieces herself, the pressure was nothing like teaching, and she loved writing her own column. If he was bored over the summer he should come to the city; a huge new Xinhua bookstore had opened—he might like it. He had always longed for a real bookstore, but now even that stirred no interest. Everything reminded him of Olivia. Missing her was a flock of barefoot, obnoxious roosters goose-stepping across his heart, then about-facing, trampling until he wanted to scream. Calm returned for a moment, then wham-wham-wham the regular beating started again. Inside his sweaty body a giant clock ticked; the second hand lunged forward, stopped dead, lunged again, until he thought he would fly apart.

He left the post office. The sun was growing fierce; tropical winds seemed to stretch summer longer. The pavement radiated warmth through his thick rubber soles. Children fresh from bed wailed; older ones quarreled with parents; doors slammed; old people coughed up phlegm that would not come. All the noises of morning. He had been wandering forever and it was only ten o’clock. A day no longer had three parts—morning, noon, night—but twenty-four separate torments. Ten o’clock survived; eleven still waited.

He walked toward the center of town. The thickest utility pole stood there, base ringed with trash. Every hour the sanitation cart came. Sometimes children or idle men set the cardboard alight; the lower half of the pole was charred black. Beside it was the stop for the city bus. The morning bus had gone; the afternoon one, filthy as ever, would appear around three. He stood a while, discovered nothing worth discovering, and turned back.

He decided on action—any action. He walked faster and faster. First thing when he got home: write. The subject didn’t matter. Parrots that repeat words, one-eyed stray cats, flocks of pigeons wheeling in the sky, suffocating longing—what else? What else? He ransacked his brain for material. His pace quickened; the friction between soles and earth grew hot. Blisters threatened. Sweat gathered under his arms, ran tickling down the hairs, leaving trails that made him want to scratch until the skin came off.

He locked the iron gate again, climbed the cement stairs, turned the key ninety degrees to the right; the spring snapped back. He pushed the door open and hunted for pen and paper—tools of production. Wait and see: by three o’clock the notebook would hold twenty elegant, profound prose poems that would sing comfort to anyone who read them.

He lifted his right foot; the shoe left the floor, heel ready to land first—then something in the room triggered. A wave of sorrow and loneliness crashed over him, mixed with the morning’s trapped heat, nearly knocking him down. He clenched his fists, pressed them hard against his waist, then raised them to rub his temples until he could walk again.

He spread the blank paper. The silver pen hovered closer, closer. One stroke, one touch of nib to page, and the rest would flow by itself. But not this time. The tip merely pierced the first sheet, then the next, and still no mark worth keeping. His head was full of one phrase—“get out of here”—crawling like ants. He drew a deep breath, pulled the pen free, twisted his ankles together, and tried to lift himself toward the ceiling, toward anywhere new.

On the windowsill a skinny spider was spinning. It shot out long anchor threads, built the radial frame, then circled tirelessly filling the spaces. In no time the web was finished; the spider rested in the center. Watching it complete its work, Little Walnut grew frantic. He stood and paced the two square meters of floor, regular steps, then wild ones, faster, faster, heart and mind in greater chaos. He punched the air, trying to shatter the loneliness—whoosh whoosh whoosh—until exhaustion dropped him flat on the narrow bed. The ceiling was blank, empty of clues. He hated its emptiness and sprang up again.

“No. I have to leave.”

A long journey—what to bring? He packed clothes, books, a face towel, filled the schoolbag until it bulged—this was everything he owned. He worried: city streets, buses, pickpockets, robbers. Two o’clock—he should start. First find the police station, ask the way to Miss Cyrus’s address: Hecheng District, Jianshe Road, Chuanyin Apartments Building 2, 5th floor, door 501. Only police could be trusted; the city was full of villains. One wrong person and he could be robbed the moment he turned away.

He reached the street. By miracle the city bus was already loading. The ticket seller shouted “Two more and we go!” Little Walnut jumped aboard the tin box, heart hammering with first-time nerves, and took a window seat near the middle.

His mind would not stop: fragments, not whole thoughts—childhood memories, then scenes of being robbed in the city. You had to understand: in those years Guizhou was no peaceful place; poverty had driven people half mad. He clutched his bag tighter. More passengers climbed in. The seller told the driver to go. The engine coughed alive. He was just growing used to the vibration under his seat when the bus rolled out of town.

“So how exactly did you two meet again?” the fat clerk broke in, patience evaporating, pasting a sarcastic smile on her mouth. “Don’t tell me she came running after the bus shouting ‘Driver, wait!’ and that’s how you found each other. Pure television drama.”

“Only TV dramas dare to be that corny,” Gordon Mayer answered, laughing. He twisted open his water bottle, drank, and the old days rose slowly to the surface again.