Grandpa Demands Dawn Greetings, Girlfriend's New Rules Break Him

After watching that old-money family drama ninety-nine times, Grandpa became convinced he was the grand patriarch himself, the Old Master, and that his rules stood higher than heaven.

He demanded the whole family line up at six every morning, the daughter-in-law kneeling with the cup raised to her brow to serve him his eyesight tea.

I thought my girlfriend would fight it. Instead, to my shock, she knelt down meek as anything and lifted the teacup above her head.

Grandpa stroked his goatee, pleased. "This new bride knows the rules."

Then, in the same breath, she flipped her hand over and produced a scroll: the household code of an old-money Master.

"Grandpa, if we're going to have proper order, then we do the whole thing by the book."

"By the rules, the Master isn't allowed to watch television, isn't allowed to eat meat, and after supper he must shut his door and reflect on his own faults."

One phone call from her, and a few workmen carried in a wooden virtue plaque.

"This is the honor monument I had made for you. From today on, you'll keep watch beneath it."

Grandpa shot up from his grand armchair, his goatee trembling with rage.

"What do you think you're doing? This is open rebellion!"

My father's face had gone ugly too. He pointed at the plaque, stammering.

"Janice Henson, don't make trouble. Who erects an honor monument for a living man? Isn't that the same as cursing your grandfather?"

Janice rose to her feet, unhurried, brushed the dust from her knees, and turned a bright smile on my father.

"Uncle, have you ever watched that old-money drama?"

"In the show, the ancestors of the great house had their monument erected. That's what it means to set an example for future generations."

"Since Grandpa is the Old Master himself, he ought to enjoy the highest honors there are."

She flicked her wrist, and the scroll snapped open across the floor, a good two meters of it.

"Grandpa, I studied that whole drama again just for this, and I looked into how the great families of the old days ran their households."

"Since you're the Old Master of this family, then the rules go up in full. All of them."

Janice pointed at the dense little characters crowding the scroll and read them out, crisp and clear.

"For the great patriarch past the age of eighty: he must cleanse his heart and curb his desires, fast to nurture his spirit, and abstain from all meat and greasy food."

Grandpa slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair.

"Nonsense. I'm the head of this family. Eating meat and drinking tea are my privileges, and everyone here answers to me."

Janice didn't even look at him. She turned instead toward the kitchen and called out.

"Auntie, throw out that braised pork in the kitchen. From today on, Grandpa eats only plain porridge and simple sides."

I stood off to the side watching them go at it, my chest tight, a sour ache underneath it.

The way I heard it, after Grandpa retired from the instrument factory, he'd gotten hooked on that old-money drama when it first aired.

And by pure chance he shared a name with the lead, both of them named Oscar Bishop, and from then on he carried himself as the Old Master.

He was a firm believer that tea sharpened the eyes, and he made my mother serve him a cup every morning at dawn.

A minute late, and he'd needle her with snide remarks the whole day.

And the moment my mother let slip so much as a complaint, my father would sidle up in that pushover tone of his to smooth it over.

"The old man's got no other joys left. Just think of it as playing along with him, humoring him a little."

That one word, humoring, ground my mother down to a nervous wreck, terrified every night that she'd oversleep.

Her hair came out in handfuls, and her knees were worn out of shape from kneeling, so bad she walked with a limp.

This morning she'd started up out of habit again, fighting through the pain in her legs to go boil the water, and it was Janice who pressed her back down.

"Mom, sleep a while longer. The new bride serves the tea today."

My mother's tears came right then, and she clung to Janice's hand and wouldn't let go.

At the time I didn't understand any of it. I only saw Janice turn around and wink at me.

And it clicked all at once. This clever little devil had it all planned from the start.

Now my father came sidling up again with that pushover look, dropping his voice.

"Janice, Grandpa can't stand a meal without meat. He'll never last without it. Let's just humor him a bit."

But Janice turned and cut him off, cold.

"Uncle, what real old master of a great house sits there gnawing on a pork hock every single day?"

"Word gets out, and won't people laugh at the Bishops? Say Grandpa's a fraud, not the real Old Master at all?"

While my father stood there choking on his answer, Janice waved decisively at the workmen.

Two young men came forward with chains, and with a snap they locked down the living room television and the old transistor radio.

Janice explained it with a sunny smile.

"These foreign contraptions and clever little trinkets have to go too. The Old Master reads only the books of the sages."

"These vulgar worldly things aren't worthy of you. Wouldn't you agree?"

The words left Grandpa so stopped up he couldn't find a single thing to argue back, and all he could squeeze out was one line.

"Hmph. Cleanse the heart and curb desire, then. Fine."

He batted away my father's hand when he moved to help him up, dropped back into the grand armchair, and held the pose, jaw clenched, propping up his dignity by sheer will.

"Back when I was sent down to the countryside, I got through it on husks and weeds. What's a little thing like this?"

Janice nodded, her smile all sweet obedience.

"Grandpa really is the Old Master through and through. That bearing, that backbone. The reputation's well earned."

With that she slowly rolled the scroll back up, glanced over her shoulder at me, and gave me a small smile, her eyes steady with certainty.

That was when I understood. This war had only just begun.

The next morning, at dawn.

Grandfather sat squared in his grand armchair, both hands resting on the arms, and cleared his throat twice.

It was the same gesture he'd used for decades, his way of telling the whole family that it was time to serve tea.

The moment my mother heard it, she came out of the kitchen on reflex.

She was already bending at the knees when Janice caught her by the arm and steered her instead into the empty grand armchair beside them.

Grandfather's face went black in an instant. He leaned forward, his eyes full of disbelief.

"I'm not dead yet. Since when does a daughter-in-law get to sit as my equal in this house?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but Janice got there first.

"You're absolutely right, Grandfather. A great household lives by its rules. There has to be a clear order, high and low, who ranks above whom."

He grunted, waiting for her to haul my mother up and put her on her knees.

"So a serious matter like paying respects and serving tea to an elder has to be done by the most dignified man of the house."

"Making a woman kneel to hold up the tea, that's the way of small, no-name families with no proper rules."

"Look at Old Master Bishop's sons. Which of them isn't standing outside the old man's door before daybreak, minding the rules?"

"Since we're a great house, we can't let that standard slip."

She said it unhurried, every link of the logic locked tight.

Grandfather froze for a moment.

Janice pressed the advantage, turned to my father, and beamed at him.

"Uncle, it's your turn to show your devotion. Lift the cup level with your brow and offer it up, please."

My father was drinking from his enamel mug when he heard it. His hand jerked and the water spilled all down his trousers.

"What? Me? I've got work later. Any later and I'll miss the bus."

"What young master of a great house ever had an excuse to skip paying respects?"

Janice tilted her head at Grandfather. "Grandfather, tell us, isn't that the rule?"

Grandfather had been boxed in by Janice for a good while now, still hot with anger, and already cornered on pride.

If he said forget it, no need, then he'd be admitting that all these years of rules were worth nothing.

He hesitated a moment, then, unbelievably, spoke in a low, heavy voice.

"Sherman. Kneel."

My father went red to the roots of his neck, shuffled over in small steps, and slowly bent his knees down to the floor.

The instant he knelt, he turned his head and stared straight at my mother, threatening her.

"This is all your fault. You gave me a son who's nothing but trouble, and now he's dragged home a wife who'll wreck this family too."

"Wait till I get back tonight. I'll deal with you then."

My mother shrank her neck down, her fingers twisting together without thinking, the rims of her eyes going red at once.

I clenched my fists and stepped forward, but Janice raised a hand to stop me and gave me a small shake of the head.

She turned to the cabinet and lifted out an old porcelain lidded cup, its walls thin enough that light came through, and set it on the tea table.

Then, in front of everyone, she picked up the kettle and, glug after glug, filled the cup to the brim with water at a rolling boil.

"Uncle, the rules have to be done the original way. A great household doesn't serve tea in one of those cups with a handle."

"You use this one. Cradle the bottom in both hands, lift it above your head, and wait for Grandfather to take it."

My father looked at the cup steaming in front of him and went pale.

"That hot? How am I supposed to hold that?"

"Auntie's held it at exactly this temperature for decades. Whether your devotion's sincere, well, we'll see it in whether your hands tremble."

My father swallowed and stretched out both hands, shaking.

But the second his fingertips touched the wall of the cup he snatched them back, grimacing, and pinched his ears fast to cool his fingers.

He tried again and again, back and forth, until he finally wore Grandfather's patience thin.

"Are you serving it or not?"

My father shut his eyes, as if he'd made some kind of decision, and grabbed the cup up over his head in one go.

Grandfather sat in his grand armchair, watching his precious son kneel on the floor and suck in his breath from the burn.

The look on his face was hard to read, somewhere between hurting for him and squirming.

He took the tea, sipped a small mouthful, forced himself to swallow it, then dabbed a little of the tea on his eyelids.

"Tea's good for the eyes."

"All right. Everyone, off you go."

I watched my father kneeling there, both hands flushed red, and it would be a lie to say it didn't twist something in me.

But what hurt me more were my mother's two legs, knelt on for decades, that would never straighten again.

Only Grandfather still didn't seem to sense anything was wrong. He kept his face dark and said nothing, like a man working something out.

After a few days of nothing but vegetables, Grandpa's face had lost its old greasy shine and turned a healthy pink instead.

But he kept feeling like something was missing from every bite, nothing looked right to him, and his temper got worse by the day.

The trouble was, he couldn't find a reason to blow up at Janice. She had reason and rules on her side, every single move by the book.

So he took it out on my mother.

That day, Janice and I had gone out to run some errands.

Grandpa spotted my mother hanging laundry on the balcony, hobbled over on his cane, and kicked the drying rack flat.

"You call this washing? Yellow collar, pilled cuffs. A pig's cleaner than you."

My mother didn't dare explain that she'd worn that shirt for years. She just quietly gathered the clothes off the floor.

The more he cursed, the more worked up he got, pacing back and forth in the living room. Then he stopped at the coffee table.

On it sat a broken jade bracelet, the green mottled and worthless, a crack running through it.

But it was the one thing Grandma had left my mother before she died.

Every so often my mother would take it out to bathe it in moonlight, soak it in purified water, keep the color deep and alive.

Grandpa glanced at it, decided it was in his way, and swept it off the table with the back of his hand.

Green shards scattered across the floor.

When Janice and I got back, we saw my mother rushing in from the balcony and dropping to the floor to gather the pieces.

A shard sliced her fingertip, and blood welled up at once.

"Dad, that's the only thing my mother ever left me."

Grandpa rolled his eyes.

"What are you wailing about? No manners left in you at all. A worthless rock, and you're howling over it?"

"In the big households, which daughter-in-law didn't take her grievances and still smile through them?"

"Behave like this in the Bishop family compound and you'd have been dealt with by household law long ago."

With that he grunted, turned, went back to his room, and slammed the door.

I hurried to find a bandage and wrapped my mother's finger.

Then I folded the shards into a tissue, put the little bundle in her hands, held her, and let her cry without a sound.

Janice crouched down too, gently took the bundle of broken jade from my mother's hands, and slipped it into her own pocket.

"Auntie, let me hold on to this. I'll take it to be repaired."

"Even broken, it can be pieced back together. I promise it'll look better than before."

My mother lifted her head to look at her, and through her tears she nodded.

Not long after, my father came home from work.

He passed through the entryway, stepped on a small chip of jade, then glanced at the blood on the living room floor.

He said nothing. He just tossed the sausage in his hand toward the kitchen.

"Slice this up and plate it. Warm some liquor for Dad tonight. And quit the crying, it kills the mood."

Blood rushed straight to my head and I wanted to charge at him, but Janice caught my arm.

"Wyatt, hold it in. If you don't hold back now, all of this is for nothing."

At dinner, Grandpa came out of his room, saw the fatty sausage on the table, and his eyes lit up.

He was reaching for it with his chopsticks when Janice, all smiles, set a bowl of bitter herbal soup in front of him to block the way.

"Grandpa, this is tonight's wellness soup. Clears the liver, brightens the eyes."

"Aren't you the one who swears tea sharpens the eyes? This herb is even better than tea."

"I'm not drinking that garbage. I want meat."

Janice sighed, picked up the sausage, and tucked it into the fridge.

"You've forgotten, Grandpa. No meat, no grease. That's the way the great families keep their health, and it can't be broken."

She turned, opened the fridge, and set the two fatty sausages inside.

"You're the Old Master Bishop, so you have to carry yourself like one and set the example for the younger ones."

Grandpa watched the meat get carried off, swallowing over and over, but with his pride on the line he never did say a word.

At nine sharp, Janice turned off the lights.

"Lights out for the whole house after nine. Behind closed doors, we reflect on our own faults. Grandpa, time to rest."

The whole apartment sank into darkness.

I lay in bed with my eyes shut, and all I could see was my mother on her knees, gathering up the broken bracelet.

Janice leaned against my shoulder and murmured to me.

"Don't sleep too deep tonight. Just wait. There'll be a show soon enough."

Sure enough, deep in the night, a soft rustling came from the kitchen.

Janice and I looked at each other in the dark.

She nodded at me: "Now."

Janice and I padded out of the bedroom barefoot.

Moonlight spilled through the window, and our eyes, already used to the dark, could see it all clearly now.

The fridge door hung open in the kitchen, its light throwing Grandpa's shape into the room.

He was crouched in front of it, dripping sweat, both hands wrapped around that sausage, wolfing it down.

My hand found the switch on the wall.

Janice pressed my wrist and mouthed, "Wait."

Then she pulled out her phone and sent a message.

Not long after, a scramble of footsteps sounded outside the door.

She crept toward the entrance and gave me a little jerk of her chin.

Every light in the kitchen and the living room snapped on at once.

Grandpa shuddered all over, meat smeared at the corner of his mouth, frozen there in front of the open fridge.

He turned his head slowly and found not just the two of us standing at the door, but five or six people pouring in behind us.

"Sorry to bother you so late. Emergency fire-exit inspection."

Leading them was Director Lawrence from the neighborhood association, a heavyset woman in her fifties with a voice that could carry through walls.

A few neighbors trailed behind her, two of them already holding up their phones, filming.

Janice stepped up to meet them in a few quick strides, her face full of grief, her voice edged with worry.

"Director Lawrence, I'm so sorry you had to see this. My grandfather insists on running the house like the old master of some grand old family."

"And here he is, middle of the night, hunched over the fridge sneaking cold sausage."

"We younger ones tried to stop him, we really did. What if the cold food makes him sick?"

Director Lawrence bit back a laugh, the corner of her mouth twitching.

The neighbor lady beside her wasn't nearly so polite.

"Old man Bishop, don't you always go on about your rules being higher than the sky, making your daughter-in-law kneel to serve you tea?"

"And you can't even heat the meat up before you gnaw on it? Is that how the master of your grand old house does things?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Real high-and-mighty airs, all right."

Another woman leaned in close with her phone.

"I got it all on video. I'll post it in the residents' group in a bit so everyone can learn some proper manners."

My father came bolting out of the bedroom in his long johns, saw the room full of people, and nearly fainted from fright.

"Director Lawrence, it's the middle of the night, what's all this? Ladies, please, stop filming for a second."

Grandpa's lips trembled like he wanted to argue his way out of it, but that ring of grease around his mouth made a liar of him.

His eyes rolled back, and with a heavy thud he dropped straight to the floor.

"My heart, I'm done for."

The color drained from my father's face. He threw himself down, feeling for Grandpa's breath, shouting with shaking hands.

"Dad, what's wrong? Don't just stand there, call 911, quick!"

Just as everyone scrambled, ready to dial.

Janice cut in sharply: "Nobody move."

That one shout froze them all in place.

She strode over to Grandpa, crouched down, checked his eyelids, then said in a cold voice.

"By the rules of a grand old house, you don't call an ambulance for a fit of temper. That would shame the family."

"You do it the way the ancestors handed down. Prick the spot under the nose with a needle, draw a little blood, and he'll come right around."

As she spoke, Janice took a two-inch steel needle from her pocket, flicked a lighter, and ran the tip through the flame a few times.

Then, without a flicker of expression, she brought the point toward the spot under Grandpa's nose.

"Hold still. One prick and you'll be fine."