Songs of Willow Frost

by Jamie Ford

  LIU SONG LEFT work early that night. She didn’t even care that she still had names on her dance card. She couldn’t put her mind at ease until she saw William. She ran home as fast as she could in high heels, almost slipping on the wet, oily pavement. She bolted up the stairs and burst into her apartment, much to Mildred’s surprise.

  Her friend had fallen asleep reading a copy of Picture Play magazine. Mildred blinked and stretched as she sat up, fixing her hair and looking at the clock. “You’re home early. Slow night, or did you forget something? Something bad happen?”

  “Nothing happened,” Liu Song lied. “I just had a strange feeling …”

  “I told you I wouldn’t bring any boyfriends over,” Mildred said, yawning. “And this time I really meant it. I promised …”

  Liu Song walked past Mildred to the bedroom, where she found William sleeping soundly in his crib, half-covered by a blanket. He looked so peaceful, without a care or a worry in the world. She watched him breathe as she touched his cheek, which felt soft and warm, comforting.

  She exhaled a weary sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, William.”

  He snored gently and pursed his lips as though dreaming.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be here all the time. But I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

  Dance Card

  (1924)

  It took Liu Song months to stop worrying about Uncle Leo on a daily basis—to stop having paralyzing dreams each night. For weeks she slept with William at her side and looked over her shoulder everywhere they went. And her next few shifts at the club had been tense, nervous affairs. But her stepfather had never returned, at least not on the nights she had worked. Maybe he’d channeled his misfortune elsewhere, Liu Song thought. Or perhaps he’d been too busy with his laundry business—who knew? She’d seen him again on the street but managed to turn and walk the other way before he noticed. She was grateful for his absence, because even if she never saw his face again, a part of him would always be close by. How she could hold William, bathe him, sing to him, love him in every way and not allow nightmares from the past to occupy her waking hours had been a miracle—William had been a miracle. His gentle temperament, his sparkling eyes, his tiny spirit had a way of returning all the love she had for him tenfold. The more she adored him, the more she felt adored. She wondered if that was how her ah-ma felt about her lou dou. Then she thought of her ah-ma marrying Uncle Leo, how she had sacrificed herself upon the altar of marriage a second time, as a second wife. She did it all for me, Liu Song thought, as eddies of guilt and gratitude pooled in the corners of her eyes. That’s what love is. Not the gushing, eye-rolling high drama of movie stars, but the real, heartbreaking, unconditional kind—like the love she had for William.

  Liu Song smiled as she felt his tiny, mittened hand in hers. She’d cut a hole in his other mitten, and he’d put it to good use. She smiled as he bumbled along, sucking his thumb while they walked to the market, a tuft of black hair sticking out from beneath his cap. She’d left the carriage at home, hoping the added exercise would wear him out. The long walk on his tiny legs was the best way to ensure he’d sleep through the night—or at least slumber through the first hour. Mildred had a big date and wouldn’t be able to come over until later. Liu Song didn’t like the arrangement, but she had no choice. She would have to put William to bed and leave him alone until Mildred arrived.

  Liu Song dreaded the thought of leaving him, but she’d left him alone once before when Mildred had called and said she was running a few minutes behind. And besides, the Wah Mee was only a block away, and her neighbor, a solemn, grandmotherly widow, said she would call the club if William woke up and wouldn’t settle himself back to sleep. Liu Song would have asked her to watch her son for the hour, but the old woman was a bit touched in the head.

  So as the fat moon rose above the waters of Puget Sound, Liu Song fought against her guilt and her worry as she put William to bed. She removed curlers from her hair and did her makeup and then left with her regrets. She lingered in the hallway, expecting to hear him calling her name from behind the locked door, but the only sound she heard was a rush of water through the exposed plumbing as someone upstairs flushed a toilet. She waited a minute longer, searching the silence, then sighed and walked to the club.

  “Sweet Willow, you’re popular tonight,” the doorman said. “A gentleman booked you for the whole evening.”

  She paused and peered into the dimly lit club, which was packed with Chinese men and women, even a few Japanese couples, plus a few Korean drinkers and gamblers. The tables and bars were crowded. “One of the regulars?” she asked as she touched the pearl buttons on her blouse.

  “Someone called in advance.” The doorman shrugged. “He said that he wanted to fill your entire dance card. I told him it would cost a pretty penny—he said okay.”

  Despite working in a speakeasy that sold illegal booze and offered fan-tan, faro, blackjack, and birdcage, the Wah Mee’s owners prided themselves on running a straight club. Dancers caught offering a little “something on the side” were immediately fired. Though Liu Song knew that those types of girls quickly found steady work elsewhere.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “He was very specific,” the doorman told her. “And he had a strange accent but seemed harmless enough. He’s sitting at the bar right now, see for yourself.”

  Liu Song looked up, scanning the Wah Mee for Uncle Leo, remembering his thick Cantonese accent, searching her mind for an excuse to tell her boss why she had to flee the club—she’d quit if she had to. But as she looked through the haze of cigar smoke, she recognized the gentleman. He was dressed for the occasion, in a black shirt, white tie, and canvas spats, and his hair was slightly longer. She was overwhelmed with relief to see Colin’s wide smile. Her heart soared with delight and then sank with embarrassment. She’d avoided the local movie theaters and even the new China Gate Opera House for fear of crossing paths with him. She felt ashamed for having left so many things unspoken, unresolved. And she felt so awkward and unsure of how she could explain the secret she had waiting for her back home, a secret that wore tiny footie pajamas and called her ah-ma.

  But as Colin waved and seemed genuinely happy to see her, the awkwardness subsided, leaving her with the ringing echo of doubt—and impending disaster. It was as though she were standing aboard a yacht on a sunny day but feeling water lapping at her feet as the ship begins to sink beneath the waves. She tried not to chew her lip as he sauntered toward her. She hated the thought of letting him down again, but when she took the job at the club she’d expected such strange reunions would happen sooner or later. Chinatown was a small place—a tiny village within a city. She’d been lucky to hide in the shadows this long.

  “I keep going to the movies week after week, expecting to see your face smiling back at me,” Colin said. “It’s been a long time. I thought you left town. Mr. Butterfield said you went to California for a while.”

  Hardly, she thought. “I thought the same of you. I’ve been … here,” she confessed sadly, pointing about the room. “I’ve had some changes in my life …” Liu Song couldn’t continue. She fidgeted, struggling to find the words.

  “Congratulations,” Colin said, gently touching her arm as though to alleviate the worry that must have been evident on her face. “I saw you on the street last week, through a storefront window. You were like the beautiful ghost of your ah-ma, pushing a carriage. At first I thought you might have been hired as someone’s nanny, but then I saw the way you held that baby.” He took her hand in his. “I know true love when I see it.”

  Liu Song could barely breathe.

  Someone cranked up the Victrola behind the bar, and an old song, a lazy two-step, began to play amid the sound of tumbling dice, the clinking of stemmed glassware, and the chatter of men and women in various languages, tongues, and dialects. Their exclamations roared with each turn of luck, some good, some bad. She was grateful for t
he noise, which drowned out the ringing in her ears.

  “I was sad at first,” Colin said. Then he sipped his drink. “But at least I understood why you disappeared. Though I never see a husband …”

  “I’m not …” Liu Song hesitated. “I’m not married—never was.”

  “It’s okay, I understand—believe me. Life is complicated. I know …”

  “I wanted to tell you, but I just couldn’t figure out how.” Liu Song gushed her apology as though it would be less painful to get it all out at once. “I went and saw you that night at the Empress, when you were appearing in A Chinese Honeymoon. I was so sick, and so saddened. There really isn’t any proper way to explain it …”

  “You don’t have to, Liu Song. Or is it Willow? That would make a terrific screen name, by the way.” He ordered another Bronx martini and a grape soda for her. “I just wanted to see you again. I’ve been in Vancouver and Idaho, taking walk-on rolls as a half-breed in a pair of Nell Shipman films. She’s opened her own studio over near Coeur d’Alene, which is quite impressive. And I also got a job in a Streamliner called Balto’s Race to Nome. The movie is supposed to be set in Alaska, but we shot it near Mount Rainier and I’m supposed to be an Inupiat Eskimo. Close enough for the silver screen, I guess. It’s all quite exciting.”

  Liu Song sat at the bar, her knees touching his as they talked. When her manager cruised by, Colin handed him Liu Song’s dance card and a ten-dollar bill. Colin smiled and told her about his hopes and joys. They talked for an hour and two more drinks, until a trio of musicians arrived and began playing a homespun version of ragtime. Colin led her to the dance floor, and Liu Song delighted in doing the fox-trot with someone other than a total stranger or a sailor on leave, or a rich man who liked to talk about himself and his money. She didn’t have to force herself into the pit of polite conversation. She didn’t have to pretend like an actress onstage or on the screen. She danced until her feet hurt. Then Colin removed her shoes and held them behind her as she wrapped her arm around his waist and leaned into his chest, feeling him carry her weight and all of her burdens. They slowly circled the crowded dance floor, even as the band played something faster. She could almost have slept in that position, surrounded, enveloped. She understood how William felt being gently, lovingly rocked to sleep, and she understood now why he slept so soundly, so utterly content. She’d never felt so safe, so protected, so wanted. Though a part of her wondered why Colin didn’t ask about William.

  After the band’s first set, Colin suggested they get some fresh air, so they hung out in the alley as men and women came and went from the club, some laughing and smiling, others tripping and staggering away.

  “It’s a nice night. We could go for a drive,” Colin suggested. “Unless …”

  Liu Song looked around the club.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Is there someone else—”

  “No,” Liu Song interrupted. “Not at all. It’s just that my shift …”

  “I paid for all of your dances. You can leave anytime.”

  Liu Song glanced at the doorman, whose nod confirmed Colin’s statement.

  Colin offered to drive her home in his new enclosed Chrysler even though she lived only a stone’s throw away. “We’ll take the scenic route,” he said as he opened the door for her and wrapped a motor robe around her shoulders to ward off the chill, despite the fact that the car had a built-in heater. He drove away from Chinatown, past the Aiko Photographic Studio and Ceasare Galleti’s Boot and Shoe Repair. She looked back as the neon faded. Mildred would be with William by now, so Liu Song relaxed as they drove north, circling Green Lake, cruising by fine neighborhoods of newly built Tudor homes. They drove as though they were in a parade and he were proudly showing her off, the grand marshal and the Narcissus Queen. She felt such joy, but also worry. She’d never been this far away from William.

  She asked him to turn back, and so they drove toward downtown, past the grand Coliseum Theatre. “This is the first theater built exclusively for movies. I’d like to take you sometime. It’s incredible,” he said casually. “One day you’ll be up on that screen. Breaking hearts with just a glance—of that I have no doubt.”

  She tried to be coy at first, aloof, but could resist only so long before she surrendered to the shower of his praise. But as they returned to Chinatown, she grew nervous, expectant, as though this time together was a social contract and she would be obliged to fulfill it all night long. And she grew more hesitant, block by block, street by street, because she knew in that moment that she would do anything if he asked. But when they arrived at the Bush Hotel, he didn’t ask anything at all.

  As he came around and opened her door, she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, thanking him for the ride home and the splendid evening. He didn’t push, or grab, or hint, or suggest, he merely smiled in the street light as revelers staggered by and music played from the dozens of clubs that were still open, the sounds pouring out in all directions amid the perfumed air. He pointed to the waning moon that peeked from behind the top of the Smith Tower, which rose above the Seattle skyline like an obelisk.

  “I’d like to take you there sometime.”

  “The moon?”

  “The observatory at the top of the building.” He laughed. “I’ve never been, but I hear the view is extraordinary. Would you like to go? Not just you, but you and …”

  “William,” she said proudly. “My son’s name is William. He’s two—almost two and a half now. He’s walking … talking …”

  “Would you and William like to join me?”

  Liu Song was somewhat confused. Was this a date? Was this a strange gesture of friendship? Most single men of Colin’s age and stature wanted nothing to do with a woman burdened by a fatherless child.

  “You’re a package deal. I don’t see how I could possibly invite one without the other. I’d like to meet him. If that’s okay with you?”

  Liu Song wanted to cry. She felt so much emotion and adoration that it surprised even her. Her cheeks were flushed and hot. She smiled and nodded, trying not to burst with joy and excitement. She’d sworn she’d keep William away from any men she dated, but suddenly she couldn’t remember why. “I’d love to.”

  “How about next Saturday? I’ll pick you up at noon.”

  She watched as he tipped his hat and drove off, wondering why she’d avoided him for so long, her heart quietly breaking as she wished she could go back and reclaim the years they’d been apart.

  The Wishing Chair

  (1924)

  On Saturday, Liu Song gave William a sudsy bath in the kitchen sink. She washed his hair with baby shampoo and taught him to blow bubbles, which drifted on the tide of warm air from the radiator, then popped on the cold glass of their living room window, leaving behind round, soapy rainbows. She couldn’t help but smile as William splashed and laughed whenever another soap bubble popped.

  She dried him off and kissed his tiny, perfect feet as she sang an old Chinese lullaby. She barely remembered the lyrics, which was fine with William, who made up his own words as he tried to sing along. Then she dressed him in his nicest outfit, navy blue coveralls and a white shirt, and leather baby shoes with double-knotted laces. Oddly enough, she was more concerned with William’s appearance than with her own, though she had tossed and turned the night before with curlers in her hair. She hoped to make a good impression outside the club, but she was even more concerned that William be presentable. She wanted to be taken seriously as a proud, responsible parent—an attempt to avoid her misgivings about being an unwed mother and shed the yoke of degradation that came with such perceived failings. Liu Song had grown accustomed to the stigma of being a performer—she’d been prepared her whole life for that strange mix of adoration and blatant disrespect. But being an unwed mother was a shame not easily hidden or erased. And Liu Song had not discussed the details of William’s paternity with anyone. Not Mr. Butterfield and not even Mildred.

  Liu Song looked in the mirror and pinc
hed her cheeks, smiling as she heard a knock, and William began to chatter and call her name. She lifted him in her arms, resting his plump bottom on her hip. She looked into the mirror one last time and then opened the door. Colin stood hidden behind a bouquet of morning glories.

  “I saw your father give flowers just like these to your mother, after her big performance. I think they were her favorite.”

  Liu Song nodded. “You’re so thoughtful. Moonflowers like these were a joke between my parents. When they met as apprentices they had so little money—they’d pick water spinach and eat it for dinner nearly every night. Those swamp cabbage flowers look the same, but these smell so much better.”

  “I’ll trade you.” Colin smiled as he handed her the flowers and took William from her arms, who seemed to marvel at the stranger. She brought the sweet-smelling petals to her nose and found a vase as she watched Colin put his hat on her son. His tiny head disappeared beneath the felt of the wide brim as his smile peeked out from below.

  When they stepped outside Colin explained that he’d driven from his rented home on Beacon Hill, but the weather was nice and warm and suitable for walking, so he gallantly pushed the carriage as they walked down the street. Liu Song couldn’t help but notice their reflections in the shop windows. At a glance they looked like a perfect family. She had chosen to wear her mother’s jade ring on her right hand, and in the glass the mirror image looked as though she were a virtuous, married woman.