Songs of Willow Frost

by Jamie Ford

  Liu Song wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and saw how pale she looked. Her hands were wet and clammy, and her eyes welled up with hot tears, but she refused to cry in front of this woman; she didn’t want to be pitied and she didn’t want to beg.

  “I think we’re done here. I have all I need,” Mrs. Peterson said as she donned her gloves and stood up. “I wish you the very best of luck. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear back from Mr. Eng. But, considering the circumstances, I don’t think he’d want the child. Most men don’t—at least until the diapers are done with.”

  But Uncle Leo wasn’t like most men. Liu Song thanked her and picked up William, who waved goodbye. “But what if he does?”

  “Then I would offer a suggestion, Miss Eng, the same one I offer to all girls in your situation, though usually I do it right after the child is born.” Mrs. Peterson paused at the door. She looked down at her ledger and then at Liu Song. “It’s an unfair world, filled with vile men and hapless women, but none of that matters to me at this point. I just want whatever is best for the child, and in this case, your son is still very young.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means a child doesn’t always have to know who his mother is—but a boy needs a father,” Mrs. Peterson said bluntly. “You’ve made your bed. I suppose you’ll just have to lie in it. But William doesn’t have to lie there with you. Good day.”

  The Eyes of the Totem

  (1924)

  Chinatown had always been a place of comfort for Liu Song, despite her detours around Uncle Leo’s laundry and the gaming halls where she feared his shadow. But now that fear had an aspect of inevitability. He would know about William. Liu Song shuddered. He won’t want anything to do with us, she’d reassured herself. He was a superstitious fool, and her mother’s ghost had scared him away. But in broad daylight she felt less certain. She had tried not to panic. Instead, she took Colin’s encouragement to heart and followed him to every casting call, every audition, every chance possible, from films for the Communist Workers’ Theatre to government-sponsored shorts like Fit to Fight that warned soldiers about the perils of venereal disease. She lingered with Colin outside local studios hoping to be seen and suffered through bullpens of extras hoping for a few dollars for a day’s work. She hoped to find work that would take her and William away from this city. And with each outing she gave serious consideration to changing her name. Not creating a stage name. The name she found herself desperately pining for was Liu Song Kwan. She thought the name had a magical ring to it, and if Collin married her, he could adopt William. But she also knew that as much as he cared for her, and she for him, marriage could present other problems. How long could he stay in this country under the pretense of being a merchant? And when he left, she and William would have to go with him. But even that was better than losing her son.

  She tried not to think those thoughts as she walked along, holding William’s hand while he stumbled over cracks in the sidewalk. But each morning she dreaded going to work. Butterfield’s was a steady source of income and safer than dancing at the Wah Mee, but the music store was the one place Uncle Leo would know to find her.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she found Colin waiting for her at Butterfield’s. She’d shied away from having him stop by in the past because his presence while she performed made her nervous—more timorous than singing before a busload of tourists. Yet here he stood in a linen suit, hat in hand, chatting amiably with her employer, much to her surprise and slight embarrassment. In the crook of his arm, Colin held another bouquet of bright blue flowers. That’s what a wish fulfilled looks like, Liu Song thought as she walked in and said hello; the two men smiled, beaming conspiratorially at the sight of her and then at each other.

  “Good morning, Willow,” Mr. Butterfield said. “Master Colin was just telling me about your stage name. I think it’s wonderful—simply marvelous. Much easier for the locals and tourists to understand. We should use it here at the store, don’t you think?”

  Colin nodded in agreement. “He does have a point.”

  She set William down, and he went to plunk away on a tiny piano. “I didn’t know that I needed a stage name.”

  “You do now.” Colin winked. “I finally did it. I got you a part in a movie. It’s a small part, but it’s a huge production, called The Eyes of the Totem. It’s starring Wanda Hawley—she’s as big as Gloria Swanson. And best of all, we’ll appear on-screen together. I was just working out the details—”

  “Your beau here …” Mr. Butterfield cheerfully interrupted, almost blushing.

  Liu Song’s imagination tripped over the word beau, which sounded official—committed. The word carried with it a sense of belonging, of possession. She thoroughly enjoyed the sound of that word.

  Mr. Butterfield kept yammering, waving his hands as he spoke. “Master Colin wanted to make sure you were available for the days they need you on the set. I thought it was a fabulous idea. This is great publicity for the store. And who knows, dear, this could be the start of something—something big.”

  Liu Song suspected a polite form of collusion between her boss and her beau as she watched the men glance at each other knowingly.

  “Well, I’ll leave you two alone,” Mr. Butterfield said as he stubbed out his cigarillo and disappeared into the storeroom, humming a cheerful tune.

  Colin handed her the flowers. “How did your meeting go?”

  “Fine.” She hated lying but couldn’t bear to tell Colin about Uncle Leo. She didn’t want to scare him away, burden him with her shame, or lure him into something more than he was capable of. But she didn’t stop hoping.

  “I’m sorry. What’s this about a movie?” she asked, changing the subject. “And how did you convince Mr. Butterfield …”

  Colin confirmed what Liu Song already knew—that her boss had earned much at her expense. She was the songbird that kept laying golden eggs. As much as she worried about losing her job, Mr. Butterfield was much more concerned about her leaving him, especially with radio sales booming and music sales on the decline. She wondered if Butterfield’s could even sell a player piano these days without her promised performance as the kicker. Having her around was more than just a point of pride—it kept the store going. She had more power than she realized—more freedom and more opportunities. Why not make the most of them? Why not try new venues? She didn’t have to hide anymore. Leo would find out about her sooner rather than later.

  “The entire production is being filmed in Tacoma,” Colin explained. “Most of the scenes have already been shot at the new H. C. Weaver Studios. They spent fifty thousand dollars building that place—you should see it; there are fifteen star dressing rooms, separate greenrooms for extras, a projection room; it’s quite amazing. I went to the dedication earlier in the year. But the best news is that part of the movie takes place at a Chinese cabaret. I pulled a few strings at the China Gate Theatre, offering props, silk costumes, and set pieces to the studio in exchange for a minor role. That’s where we come in. I’m on-screen for most of the scene, but there’s a great opportunity for you as well. More than a stand-in, more than an extra. We have a scene together. It’s a small part, but it could be the start of something greater.” He smiled. “And since Mr. Butterfield is your employer and your second-biggest fan, I thought it was only proper form to make his acquaintance and ask for his blessing.”

  “Blessing?”

  “I’m sorry,” Colin said. “Perhaps it’s my English. I wanted to ask for his permission. Is that how you say it?” Liu Song furrowed her brow, smiling.

  Colin switched to Chinese. “I have something important to ask you.”

  Liu Song suddenly felt underdressed, unprepared. She knew that Colin was a modern fellow, but tradition and convention called for some sort of gesture—a proposal, perhaps? She tried not to hope, but her thoughts ran away with her.

  She imagined standing in the dark, behind a ve
lvet curtain, listening as a packed house falls silent when the orchestra begins playing a rousing overture. She can almost feel the breeze on her bare shoulders as she envisions the curtains parting.

  Liu Song held her breath as she watched Colin fumble with something in his suit pocket. He looked nervous and flustered.

  From the stage all she sees are the footlights as her eyes adjust to the gloaming.

  Colin paused and took a deep breath.

  She feels the warmth of the spotlight, brighter than the noonday sun.

  Colin held up a telegram from Western Union. “My father is coming next week.”

  Suddenly Liu Song is standing alone onstage as the houselights come on. She hears the solemn clapping of a single man, a janitor, wedded to his broom.

  Liu Song tried not to look crestfallen as she regarded the paper. She’d lingered on the periphery of his affection, his attention, their shared passions, lost in the hopeless decorum, waiting for Colin to declare his intentions, which seemed plainly, painfully obvious. Yet they had been perpetually unstated.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this moment,” Colin said as he took her hands in his. They felt warm, soft, gentle. “I’ve waited to speak with my father, for him to see what I’ve become, and for him to see what’s possible. I want to introduce you as well. This is the start of something big for both of us, in every way possible.”

  “But what about your … duties …”

  Liu Song watched his every gesture, trying to decipher meaning from every word, every pause, seeking answers to questions her pride wouldn’t allow her to ask.

  Colin hesitated as though he were considering his past obligations for the first time. It was as if he’d been so engaged in his career that the possibility of failure, of rejection, had never once been considered. “I’m sure he’ll have some critical things to say, but when he sees me on the set, when he sees me with you—I know he’ll come around. He’s always wanted me to take the reins of the family business, to settle down and give him grandchildren. This is as close as I can get. Please tell me you’ll be there.”

  Liu Song hesitated. She was a young girl in a city of lonely men—outnumbered ten, twenty, one hundred to one. She knew that even as a single mother she could find a suitor if she really tried. But she also knew that she didn’t want any of them. She didn’t want to be the wife of a cabdriver, the mother of a laundry runner, the stepmother of grown children who would regard her as a maid and a short-order cook. She had William’s unconditional love—she wanted more but refused to settle for the warmth of some strange man’s bed. She didn’t want to be a subservient wife, a silent prisoner. If there was anything she had learned from her mother, it was the painful understanding that cages come in all sizes—some even have white picket fences, four walls, and a front door. Liu Song loved performing—that was her true self. The lonely girl who danced with strangers was the actress. Deep inside her bruised and battered heart she knew that she wanted what her mother wanted, what her father dreamt, what they sacrificed for. She wanted to perform, not just onstage but in the arms of someone who would truly love her. She didn’t care what she had to endure. She only cared whom she’d be sharing that spotlight with.

  “Please tell me you want this as much as me,” he asked.

  She looked at Colin, wondering where her hesitation had gone. “I do.”

  IF COLIN WAS nervous about seeing his father for the first time in nearly five years, Liu Song couldn’t tell. She wasn’t sure if his optimism was a by-product of his uncanny acting ability or a reckless brand of fearlessness—the kind she suspected she would need to succeed in this business. Her mother had possessed that kind of courage, before illness stole her resolve, along with her husband, her dignity, and her dreams. Or was that courage all an act too? Liu Song wondered how flexible the truth must be to performers who were always pretending to be someone else.

  She felt Colin’s arm around her as he bought two tickets for the Puget Sound Electric Railway’s trolley to Tacoma. She felt warm and safe as she leaned into him. She reached up and straightened his tie, wondering how long it would be until he kissed her. She was certain that meeting Colin’s father was some sort of vetting process. But she also suspected that she was a buffer between the two men. They were meeting on location, in a public place, where the condemning eyes of a disappointed, angered father might be distracted by the grandiose spectacle of filmmaking, where his stern voice might be softened by Liu Song’s polite smile. If all goes well, Liu Song thought, there will be nothing between Colin and me. And sweet William will have the father he deserves.

  As they traveled the southern spur of the interurban line, Liu Song counted the minutes and the miles, growing more anxious. She took deep breaths, exhaling slowly, relaxing her shoulders and calming her mind—the way her father had shown her once before he took the stage. She was so excited about being on the set of a major production, but still worried about meeting Colin’s father. She knew so little about the man, but she expected him to be a traditional Chinese father, more entrenched in old-world customs than her uncle Leo. She imagined Mr. Kwan as the opposite of her own father in every possible way, which left her perplexed as to how Colin could be so hopeful. Then again, she thought, maybe Colin isn’t hoping for reconciliation—for acceptance. Maybe this would be Colin’s last goodbye—a cutting of the cords, where he’d declare the two great loves of his life. Three if he counted William. She hoped. She indulged her imagination. She dreamt shamelessly.

  She was still daydreaming as they stepped off the train at Tacoma’s Union Station. Colin led her across the busy street and around the corner, past ticket scalpers working the alley by the sparkling Pantages Theatre. Two blocks up the steep hill she saw a line of people outside the Rialto, waiting for the evening show. But by far the largest crowd had amassed in the street to the north.

  “Most of the filming will take place at Weaver’s big studio near Titlow Beach,” Colin said. “But tonight they’re shooting at the Grand Winthrop Hotel.”

  Together they waded through the throng of people—hundreds of onlookers hoping to catch a glimpse of Wanda Hawley. Liu Song recognized the starlet immediately. She was hard to miss as she stood on the front steps of the hotel, wearing an enormous fur coat, flanked by two stout policemen, who kept the horde of autograph seekers at bay. The uniformed officers had to shout to be heard over the thrumming of a generator truck parked in the alley. Long cables snaked up and through a pair of open second-story windows. Enormous movie lights stood like sentinels, illuminating the lobby of the hotel. Liu Song marveled at the elaborately constructed façade, which had transformed the stately hotel into the Golden Dragon—a palace of indulgence, a den of temptation, where they’d be performing alongside dozens of other actors and Chinese extras. The setting was daunting.

  “Now I know why you told your father to meet you here,” Liu Song said as they showed their IDs to a production assistant who kept track of actors and scenes on a blackboard. The man directed them to where parts of the hotel had been repurposed as staging areas for crew members and makeup artists, and a storage pen for assorted props.

  “My father is a rich man,” Colin said. “But still, how can he not be impressed by all of this? They hired the scene painters from the World’s Fair.” Colin paused as they saw the main set, where the hotel’s grand ballroom had been turned into a glittering Oriental nightclub, complete with fine linens, bamboo trees, hanging lanterns, and tuxedoed waiters. “Weaver’s studio is the third largest motion picture production stage in the United States. The other two are in Hollywood. This business is no trifle—no passing fancy. I’m not an opera singer traveling from town to town hoping for a free meal.” He smiled at Liu Song. “And how can he not be impressed by you?”

  Liu Song tried not to take his words as a slight toward her father. She knew Colin was merely excited—lost in the moment. She wished she shared his confidence. And as a seamstress guided her to the ladies’ dressing room in the basement and Liu
Song was fitted with an elaborate ball gown, she felt emboldened by the dress, by the part, by the memory of her parents. She thought about Mildred and William sitting at home—she wished they could see her now, but then she remembered that they’d be able to. One day she’d take them to the nearest movie house and she’d surprise them.

  Liu Song studied her part as a makeup artist dusted her face, complimented her smooth skin, and outlined her eyes with thick, black eyeliner. Their scene was simple the way Colin had explained it on the ride down from Seattle. He was the dashing young proprietor of the club, and she was his wife. She’d flit about the scene, speaking with Colin and other guests before being sent away for her protection as the stars of the film made their grand entrance and Colin was subsequently arrested. Liu Song knew that her part was small, but she found comfort in that. She preferred to dip her toe into the tepid pool of cinema instead of plunging in headfirst.

  Then the waiting began.

  “This is all part of the process,” Colin said, as he looked at his wristwatch and glanced at the door. “We wait and wait and wait …”

  Liu Song nodded. She’d learned to associate Colin with the virtue of patience. She watched as he was called to the set on three different occasions. Each time he took his scenes in stride. She stared spellbound as he reacted to the lights, the camera, even the other big-name stars like Tom Santschi and Violet Palmer, who seemed beyond the reach of the rest. He fits in. He belongs here. He’s born for this. Surely his father will see this. Such talent is obvious.

  Then she heard her name called. She didn’t even recognize it at first.

  “Willa Eng,” a man said. “Is there a Willa Eng on the set?”

  “It’s Willow,” Liu Song called out, grimacing at the sound of her last name. She stepped into her heels and found her place beneath the lights. The last time she and Colin had done this it had been a silly affair—all in nonsensical fun, playacting, like charades. But now the cameras would roll on them.