At five in the morning, Feng Yulan awoke to the sound of a running stream. Zhang Shumin's breathing was light and even. The old scar on her knee, which she tucked up when sleeping on her side, glowed a faint pink in the morning light.
She got out of bed quietly and took out two eggs from the floral cloth bag that Sister Hong had given her - these were the eggs that Sister Hong had forced upon her yesterday, saying that they were laid by her own chickens.
The kitchen was on the west side of the hut, and Sister Hong had built a simple stove for them. Feng Yulan struck a match, and as the blue flame licked the bottom of the pot, she suddenly remembered frying eggs for Zhang Shuo in the textile factory dormitory when she was young.
At that time, she always fried the eggs until they were burnt black, but Zhang Shuo ate them with great relish, saying as he ate, "My wife will definitely be a good wife and mother in the future."
The iron pan was hot, and she poured in half a spoonful of lard. The oil sizzled, but her hand was steady as she cracked the egg.
The golden egg was bubbling in the oil. She gently flipped it over with a wooden spatula. The edges of the egg white were slightly crispy and the yolk was still trembling.
There were footsteps behind me. Zhang Shumin was standing at the door in her coat, with a corner of the bandage sticking out from her collar.
"Did I wake you?" Feng Yulan hurriedly turned off the stove. "Sister Hong said something warm would be good for your health."
Zhang Shumin didn't say anything. She stared at the eggs in the pot for a while, then turned around and took out two coarse porcelain bowls from the cupboard.
As the soft-boiled eggs swayed in the bowl, creating golden ripples, she suddenly spoke: "When your father was alive, he loved the soft-boiled eggs I fried the most."
Feng Yulan's hands trembled, and she nearly dropped the bowl. In ten years of marriage, this was the first time her mother-in-law had mentioned her late husband.
Zhang Shumin had already sat down at the square table. The morning light slanted across the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, making the scar look softer.
The two finished their breakfast in silence. As Feng Yulan was washing the dishes, she heard Zhang Shumin whisper behind her, "It's cooked well."
The grocery store opened at 7:00. When Feng Yulan arrived, Sister Hong was cleaning the windows.
She was wearing a light blue Dacron shirt, her curly hair tied up with a floral headscarf. Seeing Feng Yulan, she immediately smiled with two dimples: "Xiaofang, come and try my freshly baked peach cakes!"
There was a coarse pottery plate on the wooden counter, with peach cakes cracked in neat lines, and the aroma of butter mixed with the burnt aroma of walnut kernels.
Feng Yulan was about to refuse when Sister Hong stuffed a piece into her hand: "Don't be polite, you've saved me so much trouble!"
Since Feng Yulan came, the account books have become clear. Even the unsold snow cream was moved to the shelf opposite the door by her, and sales increased by 30%.
"Sister Hong, this month's income is two hundred yuan more than last month." Feng Yulan opened the account book and her fingertips ran across the neat Arabic numerals.
Sister Hong came over, shaking the silver locket on her chest: "My dear aunt, please don't tell others that we earn so much!"
The two smiled at each other, and Sister Hong suddenly lowered her voice: "Did your mother-in-law's injury...come from a fall?"
Feng Yulan's smile froze on her face.
This was the question she dreaded being asked the most. Last night, she had deliberately used blue ink to draw a "scratch" on Zhang Shumin's shoulder. Now, she could only bite the bullet and nod: "The road was slippery downhill, and I fell on a rock."
"Alas, it's not easy for a woman to be away from home." Sister Hong sighed and took out an oil-paper package from under the counter. "Make her some black chicken soup to nourish her. I killed an old hen yesterday."
When Feng Yulan stuffed the paper bag into her hands, she felt the calluses on Sister Hong's palms - those were the hard calluses from years of holding kitchen knives.
After closing at noon, Feng Yulan walked home, carrying her oil-paper bag. The bluestone pavement was scorching from the sun. An old man selling rice cakes passed by with his cart, and a sweet fragrance wafted from under the bamboo curtains.
She remembered that Zhang Shumin always said that things outside were dirty, and she couldn't help but quicken her pace.
The door to the hut was locked. Feng Yulan's heart tightened. She pushed it open and saw Zhang Shumin sitting by the window, holding a well-read copy of "Popular Medicine" in her hand.
"Where have you been?" she asked, putting down the oil-paper bag.
"Drying quilts in the backyard." Zhang Shumin closed the book and rubbed the yellowed cover of Chairman Mao's Quotations with her fingertips. "This family ran a medicine shop before liberation."
Only then did Feng Yulan notice the carved wooden box in the corner, its brass lock inscribed with the words "Tong Ren Tang." She squatted down and opened it. Inside, neatly stacked medicine jars filled the air, the mingled scent of dried tangerine peel and angelica sinensis bringing an inexplicable sense of peace.
"Sister Hong said she'd come over for dinner tonight." She took out a piece of clean gauze. "Time to change the dressing."
When Zhang Shumin rolled up her sleeves, Feng Yulan saw new bruises on her forearms.
"Going to climb trees again?" She frowned and took out the Yunnan Baiyao she brought with her.
Since discovering a public telephone booth at the west end of the town last week, Zhang Shumin has been going to investigate nearby every morning, saying it's to "stretch her muscles."
"The old locust tree to the west gives you a view of the second floor of the post office." Zhang Shumin bit down on one end of the gauze as Feng Yulan changed her dressing. "Yesterday I heard someone on the phone mention 'mountain products' and 'Old Gold'."
Feng Yulan's hand shook violently, and the iodine swab left a dark mark on the bandage.
Zhang Shumin held her wrist and said, "Don't panic, it might be a coincidence."
In the evening, Sister Hong arrived with a basket of vegetables. The basket contained freshly picked beans, a handful of green onions, and braised beef wrapped in lotus leaves.
"Old Li loves the braised beef in soy sauce that I make the most," she said, lifting the lotus leaf. The aroma of soy sauce mixed with the flavor of star anise hit her face. "Would you like to try it?"
Zhang Shumin sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes warily fixed on the package of beef. Feng Yulan quickly took the basket and said, "Sister Hong is such a great cook! We were just thinking of making some chicken soup."
She deliberately mentioned the black chicken soup, and sure enough, she saw Sister Hong's face break into a proud smile: "I've raised that old hen for three years, and the soup is the richest!"
The aroma soon filled the kitchen. Feng Yulan was cooking, and Sister Hong was helping her, occasionally stuffing a piece of braised beef into her hands.
Zhang Shumin sat on the doorstep, picking beans. The setting sun stretched her shadow long. Sister Hong suddenly pointed at her hands and laughed: "Auntie Wang's nails are so neatly trimmed. Much better than my wife's!"
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