Drawn Up From Deep Places

She didn’t approve of Maudgalyayana’s choices, Ba said, his eyes on Ah-Ma’s scrupulously turned back, where she stood at the till sorting money. So because she was stingy and unforgiving, the gods condemned her to Hell, where she turned into a hungry ghost.

The sutra says her skin was like that of a golden pheasant when its feathers have been plucked, Ah-Ma seemed unable to resist adding, without turning around. Her bones like round stones, placed one beside the other. Her head was big as a ball, her neck thin as a thread, and because her throat was too narrow to eat or drink, her belly swelled out in front of her as though she was pregnant. So she went terribly hungry, but when her son tried to feed her, the rice and water he gave her caught fire inside her, and choked her throat with smoke . . .

That’s the story, anyways, ah bee, Ba put in, quickly. And that’s why we spend Hungry Ghost Month being nice not just to our ancestors—we’re nice to THEM all year ‘round—but to HUNGRY ghosts, ghosts of people we maybe don’t even know, they’re the ones with no one left to take care of them, wandering between earth and heaven. So we pray for them and leave them food, put on shows for them, burn Hell money to help them buy a happier life in the afterworld—

So they won’t stay up here, and make trouble, Ah-Ma said. So they won’t scare us, and feed off our fear.

So they’ll be at peace, Ba corrected. So they can—

Ah-Ma snapped the drawer back in, with a sharp rattle of change. Saying, as she did—

So they’ll leave us alone. Everything else is—

(A quick glance at the shop’s front display, here—two whole tiers of magical fengshui items arranged to best advantage, under hot lights and gaily-painted banners. Male and female Fu dog pairs, Seven Stars Swords and Elliptical Coins, the Universal Cosmic Tortoise with a Buddhist mandala stenciled on its back, a whole dish full of Hum pendants strung on neon “silk” thread. Images of Kwan Kung standing at fierce attention, pointed towards the front door—once a mere human general, now simultaneous Taoist God of War and Wealth. At his side, more deities: La Zha, most potent of all the gods. Chung Kwei, the “ghost catcher,” festooned with bats, as symbols of abundant good luck and great continued happiness . . . )

—“window dressing,” Ah-Ma concluded, finally. Nothing more. Or less.

Whatever that was supposed to mean.

But maybe, Jin mused, as she paused to wait for the crosswalk to change—maybe what it meant was that ghosts (hungry or otherwise) didn’t have to look like that guy’s mom in the story, after all. Maybe it meant they could look like whatever they wanted to . . . like anything. Anyone.

Which meant, in turn, that half the “people” she saw every day could not be people at all, and she wouldn’t even know: that crazy dude on the other side, crab-walking along, arguing out loud with himself. That little girl with the massive Hello Kitty plushie, trailing along behind a couple who might be her parents, but pointedly not holding either of their hands. Jin’s own wavery reflection in the Bank of Macau’s frosted window, rendered suddenly sketchy enough to seem eyeless, alien.

&

nbsp; (Ah, no. I am far worse than that.)

(mei mei)

***

“Ma. What’s worse than a ghost?”

“What?” Ma looked up from her last few finishing touches on the Po family’s Hell house, blinking short-sightedly; as ever, she’d taken her glasses off for the close work. Claimed they made her eyes cross. “Did you get the paste Ah-Ma sent you out for?”

“Right here.” Jin sat down next to Ma. “What I meant was . . . if somebody said something was worse than being a ghost, what would they be talking about?”

Ma’s voice dropped, conspiratorially. “You know I don’t believe in ghosts, ah bee.”

“You better not say that where Ah-Ma can hear you.”

“I know. She thinks we’d lose half our customers.” Ma smiled, wearily. “It’s good to see you, Jin. Ah-Ma gives you long hours, doesn’t she?”

Jin shrugged. “I don’t mind. Want me to paint anything?”

“Hmm . . . no, I think everything’s done, actually. Just in time, too.”

“In time for what?”

Ah-Ma gave a disapproving sniff, from somewhere near the workshop door—how long had she been there, anyways? “Don’t you listen, Jin-ah? Po family getai is tonight—they need this Hell house for their daughter, dry and ready to burn.” She stepped in, wiping her hands on her skirt, eyes skipping over Ma like she was something hot. “Why are you so late back, huh?”

“I, uh, got held up.” Adding, reluctantly, as Ah-Ma’s raised eyebrows made it clear she wouldn’t take vague for an answer: “Talking . . . at the Empress’ Noodle. To Mrs. Yau.”

“You spoke to Yau Yan-er? Ai-yaaah! What did I tell you, girl?”

Jin flushed resentfully, thinking: Uh, get good grades . . . don’t talk to boys . . . gweilo may run the world right now, but that won’t last, and they don’t know everything, either. They’re all just long-nosed barbarians, at heart . . .

“Always be polite to older people if you can, because they’re closer to the ancestors?” she ventured, at last.