Free The Vine Basket by Josanne La Valley Page A

preparations.
    Still, there was dignity in the way Chong Ata rose, his eyes old and soft above his almost pure-white beard.
    The thickset older man reached Chong Ata first.
“Assalam alaykum,”
he said. “Peace be unto you.” His right hand rose to his chest, palm open. He gave a slight bow.
    Chong Ata offered the same gesture.
“Wa alaykum assalam.
And unto you peace,” he said, his gaze steady.
    The driver, the younger man, repeated the greeting and the raising of his hand, as did Chong Ata.
    â€œThis is Osman . . . and his son,” Ata said, his voice curt and jarring after the gentleness of the greetings that had just taken place. “His other son is in the truck, tending the sheep they’ll deliver on the way to the mountain.”
    As Ata introduced the men to Chong Ata, he stepped in front of Mehrigul, excluding her.
    Anger flooded through Mehrigul, and she inched backwards. His rudeness embarrassed her. The bitterness in his voice stung. Was he slighting her because Memet was not there—had left Ata without a son at his side? Or to remind her of her place? A thankless girl he’d had to feed and raise, who’d then go off and marry and work in someone else’s household.
    Should Mehrigul dissolve into the earth because she’d not been born a boy?
    She slipped away and watched unobserved from the doorway. It pleased her to hear the words of respect Osman spoke to her chong ata, to see the regard he held for his elder cross his rough, leathered face. He seemed to know that her grandfather carried with him the history of the Uyghur’s struggles in this unforgiving oasis. That he was in the presence of someone who knew both the pride and the hardships of his people.
    â€œMehrigul,” Ata called, his strident tone reminding her she was far from special. “Bring the goods in the house to the truck.”
    â€œYes, Ata,” she said, in as cold a voice as she could find within her. She went to the kitchen to gather the bags she’d filled with walnuts and dried peaches from their precious store, the bag of naan she’d baked, and the raisins that Ata would take to eat on his journey.
    When Mehrigul emerged from the house, she collided with Ata, coming from Chong Ata’s workroom. Two bags were slung over his shoulder. She’d packed all the baskets into one bag. Why had he repacked them?
    â€œWhat are you staring at?” Ata shot the words at Mehrigul as he shoved her out of the way with his elbow.
    Mehrigul stumbled backwards, struggling to keep a hold on the heavy bags she carried. Why was he being so hurtful to her? Whatever she’d done, Mehrigul would take care not to anger him further. She headed for the truck, feeling oddly comforted by the presence of strangers.
    Osman took the bags from her. He gave no greeting. If Ata hadn’t acknowledged her as a beloved daughter, surely he had no obligation.
    After Ata placed his bags in the truck bed, everything was fastened down. Both of Osman’s sons now crouched next to the bleating sheep. Ata tied Osman’s door on the driver’s side and took the passenger seat.
    They drove away.
    There was no wave goodbye or instructions to take good care of Ana. No warnings about being lazy. No reminders to do chores on time.
    Chong Ata was still beside the house when Mehrigul returned from the road. He held out his open palms as Mehrigul approached. She laid her hands in his, and the strength and comfort of his gnarled fingers began to calm her.
    â€œI think my father was overcome with sorrow to see a man with two sons. Don’t you, Chong Ata? That Memet was not here beside him was more than he could bear. Wasn’t it?” She squeezed Chong Ata’s hands. “Do you think that’s why he acted so strangely toward me, that it’s really Memet who has angered him?”
    Chong Ata’s eyes were so moist with caring, she thought her heart would break open.