Little Brat

Wen Yiqian had no good answer for the little girl. After a moment’s thought, he put on a grave expression. “Because I’m sick. If I infected a kid like you, I’d get arrested and thrown in jail.”

He glared at her. “So don’t touch me no matter what. Understood?”

Xiangxiang gave him the look of someone dealing with a particularly slow adult, her face full of weary patience. “Alright, alright,” she said, in the tone one might use to calm a fretful child. “I really don’t know what to do with you.”

Wen Yiqian’s eye twitched. He decided, after a brief internal debate, not to argue with a five-year-old.

The two of them went downstairs. They had barely stepped out of the residential complex when Xiangxiang stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Wen Yiqian turned around.

“Tired.” She stretched both arms up toward him. “Carry me.”

“I’m tired too. Where would I find the strength to carry you? Walk on your own.” Wen Yiqian shook his head.

“My legs won’t carry me.” Xiangxiang’s expression turned very serious. “If you carry me, I’ll tell you a secret.”

“Not interested.” Wen Yiqian scoffed.

What secret could a child this age possibly have? Probably where she’d hidden a few pieces of candy.

Xiangxiang’s face crumpled. Her lower lip pushed out. Her eyes went glassy.

Wen Yiqian exhaled, scooped her up, and headed toward the bus stop.

“Have you never held a girl before?”

The question, delivered from directly beside his ear, nearly made him choke.

“What’s it to you?” he said irritably.

“You’re holding me in a way that’s really uncomfortable. A man who holds girls often wouldn’t do it like this.” Xiangxiang squirmed in his arms.

“I just don’t know how to hold a child!” Wen Yiqian protested.

“I really don’t know what to do with you.” Xiangxiang shook her head with the air of someone twice her age, wrapped her arms around his neck, and settled her head on his shoulder.

With the small creature finally still, Wen Yiqian breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He made it to the bus stop and waited.

“My dad used to hold me like this too,” Xiangxiang said softly, her cheek against his shoulder.

Wen Yiqian thought of the man who had been dismembered and packed into a refrigerator. He let out a quiet breath and said nothing.

“Grandma told me Dad went somewhere far away.” Xiangxiang’s voice was low. “But I’ve known for a long time. Dad died.”

Wen Yiqian glanced down at her. “Who told you that?”

“Do you still want to hear the secret?” she asked, as if he hadn’t spoken.

“What secret?” He looked puzzled.

“Dad didn’t work on Fridays or Saturdays, and Mom only had Saturdays and Sundays off. So every Friday, Dad was the one who picked me up from kindergarten.” Xiangxiang spoke in a calm, even voice, like someone reciting something they had gone over many times. “One Friday, he came with a woman.”

A short pause.

“That woman really liked me. She held me. I smelled her perfume. It was very fragrant.”

Another pause.

“After that, Dad often had that same scent on him.”

Wen Yiqian raised an eyebrow. “Did you ever tell your mom?”

“I did. She didn’t believe me.” Xiangxiang shook her head.

Of course she hadn’t. No one wanted to believe their husband would bring his mistress along to pick up their daughter from school. They would put it down to a child’s imagination.

Then again, maybe Xu Xuanmei simply hadn’t wanted to believe it. Hadn’t wanted to look at it directly.

But the longer something like that is pressed down, the worse the eruption when it finally comes.

“Then what?” Wen Yiqian asked.

“Every Friday, Dad came home smelling of her.” Xiangxiang traced small circles on his back with one finger, unhurried. “So that Friday, I asked my teacher Jingjing to call Mom for me.”

She paused.

“I told Mom I saw Dad doing things he shouldn’t with a woman at home.”

“How did you know they were at home?” Wen Yiqian asked, caught off guard.

“Because every Friday I could smell her on the bed, the sofa, even in the kitchen,” Xiangxiang said. “Mom always says my nose is sharper than a dog’s. I can smell things she can’t.”

Her voice went quiet. “I’m a bad kid, aren’t I.”

It wasn’t really a question.

Wen Yiqian felt a chill he couldn’t entirely account for and didn’t know what to say.

That phone call from a child might have been all it took to light the fuse. But the fuse had been laid long before that. For a husband and his mistress to be that brazen, Xu Xuanmei couldn’t have been entirely in the dark. She had endured it, for the family, for the child, pressing it down each time until there was nowhere left for it to go.

Then her daughter called.

She had gone home without hesitation. Found them there. And everything that had been compressed for so long came apart at once.

Two dead. One broken.

Wen Yiqian looked down at the small girl in his arms, his expression complicated.

A child this age, reasoning through all of that with this much clarity and calm. It didn’t inspire admiration. It was just frightening.

“This isn’t your fault,” he said, and gently touched the top of her head.

“Don’t pat my head. It stunts growth.” Xiangxiang huffed. “And unlike you, I don’t cry.”

Wen Yiqian felt his face go slightly warm. He couldn’t really argue. This child, with her father dead and her mother gone and only a frail grandmother left, was holding herself together considerably better than he would have managed.

The bus arrived. He carried her on.

It was nearly rush hour. No empty seats, a handful of people standing. Wen Yiqian found a space, held Xiangxiang with one arm, and gripped the overhead rail with the other.

An elderly man nearby stood and gestured for him to take the seat.

Wen Yiqian was genuinely touched. He declined politely and kept declining until the old man, looking slightly put-upon, finally sat back down.

“Wen Yiqian,” Xiangxiang murmured against his shoulder, “why was only one person willing to give up their seat for you?”

“Because everyone else is tired,” he said, not particularly bothered by her use of his name.

“But you’re drenched in sweat. You’re tired too.”

“If you know I’m tired, why don’t you get down and stand for a while?”

“I’m tired too,” Xiangxiang said, and held on tighter.

Wen Yiqian sighed.

The bus swayed. Passengers came and went. Xiangxiang dozed against his shoulder, eyes half-closed.

Then she lifted her head. Sniffed. Her brow furrowed.

“Wen Yiqian.” Her voice was very quiet. “I smell something bad.”

“Bad how?” Wen Yiqian sniffed but caught nothing.

“Blood,” Xiangxiang said, her expression entirely serious.

Wen Yiqian’s chest tightened.

(End of Chapter)