Songs of Willow Frost

by Jamie Ford

  “What did she look like?” Charlotte asked. She sat back and crossed her legs, covering them with her dress, dusting off her hands. “The woman you saw on the movie screen. What did she look like? I mean, how did you know it was her? Was she stunning, like you?” she joked.

  William shrugged, oblivious to Charlotte’s flirtations, and pawed through the loose pieces. “She looked … Chinese.” Then he realized that Charlotte had no idea what a Chinese person looked like, or a black person, or Indian, or Italian—she didn’t even know her own skin color.

  “She had bright eyes, with long eyelashes and shoulder-length hair that was curled at the ends. And she looked … rich. But my mother was poor.” We were poor, William recalled, even before the Crash and all the jobs went away. “My own mother had … long fingers, with wrinkly knuckles that made her hands look much older than the rest of her.” He looked at his own fingers, which were the same way. “And when she’d fall asleep on the sofa, I used to sit and watch her breathe, her chest rising and falling—just to make sure she was still alive. She looked so peaceful, but she was the only family I had. I was always afraid of losing her. I hated the thought of being alone. But the lady today, it was her voice that I recognized most. Her singing voice.”

  “Did your mother sing to you?”

  William nodded, slowly. “Sometimes. At bedtime she’d sing Chinese lullabies that I barely understood, or a British tune that went: ‘Isn’t this precious darling of ours / Sweeter than dates and cinnamon flowers.’ I can hum the rest, but I don’t remember the words. It was a long, long time ago …”

  “You’re lucky. I hardly remember my mother at all. I used to try and remember what her voice sounded like. Like mine, I guess, but wiser.”

  He knew that Charlotte’s mother had died a few years after she’d been born. And like William, she never mentioned her father. He wanted to ask more, but he’d learned that, in the orphanage, it was better not to pry about things not freely spoken.

  As Amos ’n Andy ended, he looked up at Sister Briganti, expecting her to begin shooing them off to bed, but she’d fallen asleep. Her head slumped back and her Franciscan habit draped over the chair like a pile of brown laundry. As he exchanged glances with Sunny, who was in the corner playing tiddlywinks with Dante Grimaldi, and the other kids in the room, the unspoken sentiment was Play on.

  William continued to sort puzzle pieces as the radio announcer introduced the local businesses that would be sponsoring tonight’s episode of One Man’s Family.

  Sister Briganti snorted twice but didn’t wake up, even as thunder rolled in the distance and the electricity flickered off and on, causing a few of the kids to gasp and squeal, while Sunny made ghostly booing sounds.

  “But before we begin”—the announcer spoke in a droll, monotone voice, fading in and out with the encroaching storm—“I’d like to introduce tonight’s very special in-studio guest, an up-and-comer who’s come home to the Great Northwest with Hollywood glitter on her shoes. Not since Bing Crosby and the Rhythm Boys left Tacoma have we had such local talent hit the big time.”

  William froze, staring at the radio, a puzzle piece dangling from his fingertips.

  “And now she’s back for a limited series of engagements, on loan to us from the Fox Movietone Follies. Ladies and gentlemen, here’s the China doll to top them all, the Asian sensation from Seattle, Weepin’ Willow Frost.”

  I don’t believe it, William thought, as he sat spellbound while Willow and the announcer exchanged pleasantries.

  “Now, Miss Frost …”

  “Please, just call me Willow.”

  “Ah, Willow it is,” the announcer said. “I’m curious about your ‘Weeping’ moniker. I wonder if you might be able to share with us the story behind that.”

  “Oh, I dread that nickname,” she said in a modest, polite way that barely masked how tired she seemed of this question. “It makes me sound like such a sorrowful person all the time. But the truth is, an old friend …” She hesitated. “An acquaintance of mine gave me that name after a walk-on appearance. I had just learned some unpleasant news and forgot my lines for a moment. My eyes welled up, and by the time I remembered my part, I was crying. I sobbed my way through the script—luckily, it was a sad scene. I ended up getting discovered afterward—that was my first film.”

  “Some would call that fate,” the announcer said. “Or was it just good acting?”

  There was an awkward pause. William wasn’t sure if the weather was affecting the broadcast or if she really was uncomfortable talking about her big break.

  “It was just luck. Pure and simple,” she said quietly. “A year later I was on a set in Studio City trading lines with Ronald Colman and Tetsu Komai in Bulldog Drummond. And here I am now …”

  “And here you are, and we are delighted to have you.” The announcer brightened and introduced Willow and the station’s call letters once again.

  “That’s her,” William whispered to Charlotte. Then he looked across the room to Sunny, who stared back and gave him a thumbs-up as a piano played on the radio and Willow began singing “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”

  “This is so booooring,” a boy said from across the room. “Somebody get up and change the station to KJR.”

  “Yeah, let’s listen to The Shadow,” someone else chimed.

  “The Shadow knows this is boring,” another boy teased.

  “Don’t touch the radio,” William blurted. “Please!”

  “Hey, you heard this already this afternoon …”

  “I want to hear her too,” Charlotte said, waving her cane.

  Dante was about to touch the dial when William leapt to his feet, his heart racing as he shoved him out of the way. Dante tripped over a footstool and tumbled noisily to the floor. Some of the boys laughed, a few of the girls too.

  “Hey!” Dante wailed as tears welled in his eyes. “What’d’cha do that for?”

  William stood in front of the speaker, listening intently, his heart pounding.

  “William Eng!”

  He didn’t need to turn around. He recognized Sister Briganti’s voice immediately. She must have stirred awake in all the commotion. William glanced over his shoulder and saw her looking at her wristwatch, then at everyone who hadn’t yet gone to bed.

  “William—come here!” she snapped. “The rest of you—upstairs.”

  He felt her pinch his elbow as she dragged him away from Charlotte, away from the radio to the foyer. Sister Briganti opened the door to the cloakroom, smacked him on the head, and shoved him inside.

  “If you can’t behave, we’ll have to separate you from the rest …”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” he protested. “I just wanted to listen to the radio a little bit longer—you have to let me hear the radio.” I need to hear Willow Frost.

  Sister Briganti paused and rubbed her forehead as though considering his plea, but then she slammed the door. William stared down at the sliver of light beneath the door and at the glimmer from the keyhole. It too went dark as he heard a key being inserted and turned, locking him in for the night. He felt for the back wall, found it, and slumped down, coming to rest on a pile of old shoes and galoshes. The entire closet smelled of wool coats, wet leather, and mothballs. He banged his head against the wall until he heard the radio fading in and out as the announcer was interviewing Willow again.

  “And so you grew up just north of here,” the announcer said.

  “I did, I grew up in Washington—in Seattle’s Chinatown, but I left years ago,” she said. “I never thought I’d go back, not in a million years.”

  “And why is that?”

  William strained to listen as she paused. He waited in the darkness, eyes wide open, his ear to the door, hearing the tatter of rain lashing the building.

  “I … I didn’t have any reason to, I guess. I didn’t have a reason to stay.”

  The volume faded as Sister Briganti turned the radio off with a disappointing click, then the lights. Willi
am heard footsteps in the dark as she trudged upstairs.

  Alone Together

  (1934)

  Like most of the boys, William had spent a night or two in the cloakroom. Sometimes it was warranted, like the time Sister Briganti caught him pitching pennies in the chapel. Other times it was merely a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But as far as punishments went, spending a night in the closet wasn’t as bad as being locked in the boiler room, which was hot, even in winter, and redolent of the fiery, sulfuric Hell the sisters warned everyone about. And the place was so noisy that no one could hear you cry or scream. William remembered that Sunny had once been caught fighting and spent three days locked up down there. Sunny never threw another punch, not even when the two boys were working on an old crystal radio kit donated by the Boy Scouts and Dante walked by, flipped the box over, and said, “I’ve got a new name for you: Sunny Mess-maker.” Dante laughed as the pieces—wires, tuning knobs—scattered and the delicate cat’s-whisker receiver was broken. Without that fine-tipped wire, the homemade radio would never work. One of the girls expected a fight and ran to get a teacher, but Sunny didn’t say a cross word, he just stared out the window as black coal smoke belched into the sky.

  But like so many orphans, William most feared being alone. It’s just one night, he reasoned. After five years of sleeping in the same room with two dozen other boys, the absence of snoring, giggling, whispering, even the squeaking of old bedsprings, left nothing but the sound of the timbers shifting, pipes groaning, and the storm winds rattling the windowpanes. The unsettling sounds of emptiness, the chords of solitude, caused William to feel a rise of panic as the echoes of a grandfather clock chiming somewhere two stories above reminded him just how long that night would be.

  I didn’t have a reason to stay. Willow’s words echoed in his mind.

  In the darkness he shoved aside the shoes and boots. He pulled down two woolen coats and, like some feral creature, tried to create a makeshift bed. But the tinkling of metal hangers and the swaying shapes in the dark kept him awake. Plus he thought he heard footsteps, or light tapping. It’s just the creaking of floorboards, William thought. This building is new and still settling. He knew it was doubtful that Sister Briganti had changed her mind about his punishment—if anything, she’d forget about him until someone needed a raincoat or until he wet the floor, whichever came first the next day.

  He pulled down another coat and was using it as a blanket when he heard the unmistakable sound of a key rattling in the lock. He reached up and felt the doorknob turn, then jumped back.

  “William,” a girl’s voice whispered as the door cracked open.

  “Charlotte?” he asked the shape in the dark. Then he felt her hand touch his arm as she crawled in next to him, sitting with her back against the wall, her knees up, her cane in front of her. He poked his head out into the blackened hallway. A faint glow came from down the corridor. A night-light flickered off and on as the rain pounded and lightning flashed. He heard a loud rumble in the distance as he closed the door. “What are you doing here? How did you …?”

  “Sister B leaves the key in the candle drawer in the hallway, I always hear her put it away,” Charlotte said, her voice quavering. “I … I don’t like nights like this, especially in my cottage. Sometimes I come down here and hide when the weather is this bad.” She sniffled and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her long flannel nightgown.

  “It’s … just a thunderstorm,” William said. “We’re in a big building. It’s completely safe. Even if the power goes out …”

  Lightning flashed beneath the door, illuminating Charlotte as she pulled her knees tighter against her chest and thunder rattled the building. He wrapped a coat around her even as she flinched.

  “Would it be better if I left you alone?” he asked, unsure of where he might go.

  She shook her head. “Please stay.”

  “Are you afraid of the dark? It’s okay if you are …” As soon as he said it he realized what a ridiculous statement that was. He was about to apologize …

  “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

  “The storm will pass, I promise …”

  “I’m not afraid of the storm either.”

  William sat in the darkness, confused, but relieved to have her company—anyone’s company. Charlotte had been his best friend and, until Sunny arrived, his only friend. He scooted over and sat next to her. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Then she reached up, hung her cane from the rack overhead, and offered him part of the coat. He wrapped it around the two of them as her shoulders shook. She was wet, trembling and shivering.

  “What are you so afraid of?” Besides the storm, the teachers, the whippings …

  Silence. He felt her slowly shake her head and inhale deeply, exhaling as though she were completely fatigued, exhausted.

  “My mother used to light candles and sing whenever the power went out,” he said. “She told me the thunder was applause, the lightning, Heaven’s spotlight. I would climb into bed next to her and she’d wrap her arms around me until I fell asleep.”

  “You’re so lucky, William.”

  For a moment he actually felt that way, then, and now, to no longer be so alone.

  “After my mother died,” Charlotte whispered, “it was just my father—he always came into my room on stormy nights—‘just to make sure I was okay.’ He hardly said a word. I couldn’t see him, of course, but I knew who it was.”

  William paused, not fully comprehending what she was saying. He had always wondered what happened to her father. Before he could ask, she changed the subject.

  “I have to leave this place—soon.”

  “Why? You’ve been here longer than I have …” And who would take you?

  “They’re going to send me away,” she said. “They say I don’t belong here anymore. They’re going to send me to a special school for people like me. Sister B says it’s time I was with my own kind.”

  William swallowed and chewed his lip. He remembered the past few summers, when farmers from the Yakima Valley would come to Sacred Heart and adopt the strongest boys or, occasionally, the prettiest girls. William knew then that no one would ever adopt a blind girl, no matter how comely she might be.

  “But, where would you go?” he asked. “Maybe the special school isn’t so bad. They could teach you how to read with your fingers …”

  He felt her shaking her head.

  “I know all about that place. My father used to threaten to send me there if I didn’t do as I was told or if I said anything bad about him. They have you sit in a room and make brooms all day. That’s all they ever do, until you’re too old to do anything else. And if you refuse or complain they send you to a lockup.”

  That was the one good thing about Sacred Heart. Despite children’s worst indiscretions, Sister Briganti would rarely cast them out. William had heard rumors that the state paid the school a fixed amount per child, so to the sisters a crowded orphanage wasn’t a complete tragedy.

  William didn’t know what words he could offer that might comfort Charlotte. If the sisters thought that a special school would be better for her, their decision would be irrefutable. And where else could she go? She didn’t have any other options.

  Charlotte drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I want to go with you,” she said.

  “And where am I going?” he asked, though he had a vague idea—a wistful dream, a hope, an unmade plan.

  “I want to go with you to find her.”

  “Willow?” William asked as he caught the scent of Charlotte’s floral shampoo, a welcome respite from the dank-smelling closet. After living in the boys’ sweaty dormitory for so long, he was suddenly aware of how much he missed the comforting smell of perfume, the fragrances of home.

  “Your mother.”

  “I don’t even know who that woman really is. Sister Briganti might be right, I could just be letting my imagination get the better of me.” This
mirage probably happens to everyone at some point, William thought. The joyful dreams of sad, lonely children are difficult to wake up from.

  Charlotte pulled down another coat and draped it over them. She leaned into him as he listened to the rain and her breathing until he thought she’d drifted to sleep.

  Then she stirred, just for a moment. “Think about it, Willie. We both have nothing, and nobody wants us,” she murmured. “So that just means we have nothing to lose.”

  William stared into the darkness, wondering if this was how Charlotte perceived the world. Then he realized she probably didn’t see anything. So instead, she saw the world through her imagination—which had to be better than real life.

  He listened to her breathing until she fell into a restless sleep, twitching and occasionally crying out, softly.

  Pigs Get Fed

  (1934)

  When William woke, Charlotte was gone, like his mother, leaving him to wonder if she’d ever been there at all. A janitor let him out, and William stretched his tired legs, then limped back to his dormitory, his back aching as he went about his day.

  That night he was grateful to sleep once again in his own bed, where all week long he dreamt of the Movietone Follies and each sunrise he woke up, torpidly searching for the sad melodies of songs with long-forgotten lyrics. As he counted the rain-soaked days and his mornings with dry sheets, inching closer on the calendar to when Willow Frost (he couldn’t quite call her his mother) would be performing, he thought about Charlotte’s desire to run away. There is nothing here. And no one is coming for us, no one at all. He knew she was right, but still, he hesitated.

  When he rolled over in bed he stared at Willow’s picture; then he sat upright, scratching his head as the others brushed their teeth and got dressed. Some of the boys had regal, sepia-toned portraits of themselves with their parents displayed prominently on their night-stands. But all William had was the dog-eared photo from the handbill that he’d placed near his bed in a frame crafted from Popsicle sticks and rubber cement. Looking at the photo, he was convinced they had the same eyes, the same chin. In his memory, his ah-ma’s nose had rounded slightly to the left. He couldn’t tell from the head shot because Willow was showing her good side, backlit Hollywoodstyle, but he remembered that unmistakable bend. And in turn, he wondered what she would remember about him. He was little and remembered less. She was a mother. How could a mother forget? he wondered. How could a mother leave her child behind?