As she spoke, she lunged toward the door.
“Olympia!” Luther grabbed her arm, gripping tight, like he was afraid something precious might shatter.
When he turned to look at me, his eyes went cold.
“Look at her, then look at yourself! Isabella, when did you become so selfish and heartless? If Olympia stays here, her whole life is ruined! You're healthy, you're strong, you pull full work-points on the brigade. What's one more year? I'll fight to get you another transfer slot next year, I promise. Isn't that enough?”
Healthy.
I looked down at my hands, covered in chilblains, and laughed. It came out raw and ugly.
For that transfer slot, I had worked like a mule for six months straight.
Dead of winter, repairing the river levee. To prove my dedication, I was the first to jump into the frozen water to drive pilings.
Even on my period I didn't dare rest. I hauled sacks weighing over a hundred pounds through the rain, hiking more than ten miles of mountain road.
The day I got back, I started bleeding. It was a fully formed boy.
I swallowed every drop of blood and tears alone so Luther wouldn't lose focus, so nothing would hurt his chances at the model secretary award. The next morning I was back in the fields.
And where was he?
He was on Olympia's roof, patching her leaks. He was at her door, handing her a fresh bowl of hot ginger tea.
And now he was telling me I was healthy.
“Luther,” I braced my hand against the ground and pushed myself to my feet, staring at him with hollow eyes.
“If you care about her that much, why don't you give her your transfer slot?”
Luther froze for a second, then flushed with anger：
“My slot was assigned by the organization! I'm the party secretary. If I leave, who runs things here? Besides, I'm a man. My career……”
“Your career matters, and I'm just a stepping stone?”
I cut him off. My voice was so hoarse it sounded like I'd swallowed charcoal.
Luther took a deep breath. He seemed to decide that reasoning with me was pointless, and put on his official face：
“This is already done. The papers are burned, the name's been submitted. Throwing a fit won't change anything. Isabella, be sensible. Don't make a fool of yourself.”
Be sensible.
Those two words were nails hammered into the lid of my coffin.
“Fine.”
I looked at the basin where the ashes still trailed a thin ribbon of smoke, and said it quietly.
“I'll be sensible.”
Luther clearly hadn't expected me to give in so fast. Relief crossed his face, even a flicker of approval, the kind that said “I knew you'd understand.”
“There you go. I'll have your sister-in-law make dumplings tonight. Stop being upset.”
He turned to Olympia, his voice going soft：
“Olympia, it's all settled. Go on back and pack your things. The truck leaves first thing tomorrow morning.”
Olympia glanced at me, timid on the surface. A sliver of triumph flashed in her eyes, but her mouth still played sweet：
“Thank you, Luther. Thank you, Isabella. I'll repay you both someday, I promise.”
She turned and left, her steps light and quick, like a mouse that had just gotten into the oil.
Luther reached for my hand. I shifted away.
His hand hung in the air. Displeasure tightened his jaw：
“Still sulking?”
I didn't look at him. I walked into the back room and dug through the bottom of the storage chest on the bed platform until I found a battered little wooden box.
“I'm not sulking.”
I said it calmly.
Because there was nothing left to sulk about. Not for someone already dead inside.
This time around, since he had burned my way out, I would burn the only bridge left between us.
That evening, Luther did make dumplings.
Cabbage and pork filling, barely any pork, mostly cabbage stalks.
Even so, in an era when oil and salt were luxuries, it passed for a holiday meal.
