Chapter 16: The Lane Moves the Stall

By the second morning my mother had stopped speaking.

She stood at the foot of East Bridge with her hands on her hips and looked at the stall her husband had built.

"Twenty-two years," she said at last. "Where does a stall go?"

"Somewhere with a lane in front of it," I said.

"The salt merchant owns every foot between here and the canal."

"Then we go somewhere he doesn't."

"Where?"

"My gate," said Madam Lu.

We both turned.

She had come down the lane in her dark blue robe with her hands folded in her sleeves.

She was looking at the stall, not at either of us.

"The wall in front of my gate is mine," she said.

"The deed is in my husband's name and then my son's."

"It is wide enough for the board and the benches."

"The lane passes it twice a day."

My mother's mouth opened and shut again.

"It is a bigger favor than I can pay," she said.

"I have not asked you to pay." Madam Lu's chin came up a little.

"Your daughter carried my son through a winter."

"The least I can do is give you a wall."

I could not speak at all.

We were still standing there, the three of us, when I heard the noise of a crowd.

They came down Willow Lane in a line.

The cobbler's wife carried the long bench.

The cobbler came behind her with a roll of oilcloth on his shoulder and a hammer in his belt.

The three aunties from the dumpling stall had the counter board between them, arguing about who had the heavy end.

Two of the lane boys walked behind with the copper pot on a carrying pole, one at each end.

They were the same boys who had jeered at my wedding.

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