Tipton and Adora bent against the biting wind, Tipton wishing for the hundredth time that money arrived on the stinging sleet. She thought about money often. She dreamed about it—had almost every night since they'd arrived in Shasta City.
She'd hoped the brass tacks would carry them through the winter, but that dream had flitted away like a snowflake on her tongue. “Gold is worth sixteen dollars an ounce at the exchange in Sacramento. But only fourteen at these diggings,” the assayer told the women as they stood hopefully with their pound of tacks.
“What does that mean?” Adora asked.
“A reduction of value,” Lura told her. “Can't buy as much up here as we could in Sacramento or San Francisco. Gold is worth more in the city.”
“It's pretty fluid there, too,” the assayer said. “You ladies should know this country is unstable in ways. Not like back in the States where prices get set and seem to stay that way. Gold makes things shift and makes some people shifty.”
“So this isn't the paradise Seth implied,” Mazy had said.
“Just why running a business is the thing to do,” Lura said. She smoked her pipe, but when Mariah scowled at her, she snuffed it out.
“It's not all easy being a shopkeeper,” the man told them. “For instance, you got to order what's needed now, but it won't get shipped for weeks, maybe months around the horn or down from Vancouver. If your ship arrives, and doesn't sink, and if it gets unloaded first and it's carrying what everyone's been waiting for, well then you've got a gold spoon in your hand. If it gets unloaded last, or you know what's on it is no longer of interest, it may hardly be worth unloading. But still you got to pay and hand over the tax in coinage—not gold dust—or nobody unloads anything.”
“People are that fickle with what they want to buy?” Lura asked.
“Yes ma'am. Your gold dust could buy lots or nothing. It just depends. As they say, it's a golden spoon or a wooden leg in California.”
“So our little pound or so of carpet tacks brings us less than three hundred dollars,” Jason noted.
“So it seems,” Lura told him.
“We divide by eleven, then,” Jason said. “I guess its just you women?”
Tipton did the figures in her head. With flour at forty dollars a pound, that's about all they could buy with their share. A pound of flour.
“Don't count mother and me in,” Mazy'd said.
“We should share and share alike,” Sister Esther said. “You have contributed your tacks as did everyone else.”
“Yes, but we have resources some of you don't have.”
“They might not be yours, didn't you say?” the sister persisted.
“I may have to repay it with interest come next year. But for now, the money will help all of us survive. So divide the tack money by nine, ason.
With that division, Tipton and her mother had eaten for two weeks and contributed to the “surprise” for Suzanne, though it cost them dear.
“I think we could ask Mazy Mother. Repay her when we're onto our feet a bit.”
“Truth be known, your father would have wanted us to do it on our own,” Adora said. “He was proud that way.”
“Then one of us must find work! Or we sell the mules. We can't afford to feed them through the winter, Mother,” Tipton told her. “Please, couldn't we?”
“Ruth'll look after them. She owes us that much, giving two of them away to those Indians way back when. No, we'll hang on to the ones we have until the market improves. Come spring.”
They'd found an abandoned shack that overlooked another, pigs rooting about both. Tipton took some pleasure in hanging the tent against the wall to hold out some of the cold near the bed. She planned to paint the interior when she could afford to. For now, her white shawl adorned the mattress, and the women sat on two stumps close to the barrel stove that heated their tea and potato soup. It looked…homey. If only her mother would stop complaining about her bad tooth, the cold, or whatever, Tipton might even have felt proud at their meager fare.
“Elizabeths always got bread at the end of the day,” Adora noted, and from then on, they “happened” to be near the Kossuth Bakery just as Elizabeth brushed her apron of the last crumbs.
Tiptond put on a prosperous face and made up stories about her mother finding some currency. “Wasn't that lucky?” she told Mazy. “After all this time of worry over money. We'll be fine.”
But they weren't fine, if truth be known. And on December twelfth, Tipton had put aside flirting with the young miners she passed in the street, stopped giving them promises with her eyes she didn't intend to keep. On that day, with the flour run out, with her dreaming now of food instead of money, with no woman needed anywhere except for banking or…unmentionable things, with snow drifting through the cracks of the abandoned shack they'd moved into, hoping the owner wouldn't come back, on that day, Tipton knew she would have to do something, or she and her mother would starve.
Perhaps if they'd arrived in the spring they'd have had more choices. Perhaps if there hadn't been so many of them, all needing shelter, or if the snow hadn't come so soon, maybe they would have…what? Looking back just didn't help.
On that December morning, a light dusting of snow covered the floor near the bed when she awoke. She shivered, cuddled closer to her mother for warmth. She'd have to scrounge wood in the snowdrifts. Most of all, she had to do something differently Either admit how much they needed help or see if she could sell the mules and suffer her mother's displeasure.
“Remember the center of the wheel,” Tyrell had told her. “That's what holds everything together so you can get down the trail.” He'd been telling her about having faith, with God as the hub of that wheel. Today that faith seemed far away.
She wasn't much of a seamstress or mender. The miners all had their own needles anyway. Maybe she should consider what Lura was doing, banking in one of the gambling houses.
“You could do it for the interest of it,” Lura told her. “People are fascinating creatures to watch. And so far the most dangerous thing is trying to suck in a good breath that ain't inflamed with exhaled whisky or cigarettes. The men pretty much leave me alone. I sass them right back if they try anything.”
“I didn't think smoke would bother you,” Tipton told her.
“I quit the pipe,” Lura said. “Mariah didn't like it. Besides, I smoke just breathing now. You know, I figure every breath that's ever been breathed is still floating around? Got nowhere else to go. Ain't that a thought?”
“That I'm breathing the air my brother exhaled, yes. That is a vile thought.”
She could ask again at Romans Bookstore, just opened, but she'd had no luck with the others. Not the market, not the land office, none had need of a young woman—which was how she thought of herself now—for honest labor. She had even asked about cleaning stalls at the livery, but there were scruffy looking boys there who did that. And she had inquired about sweeping business establishments, but she'd been told either that their customers didn't care if things were less than tidy or that they could get Indian help to do it. She'd actually considered panning for gold. But that would have to wait until spring.
And always, lurking in the background were those women who wore pretty dresses, had plenty to eat and smelled sweet when she passed by them on the street. They didn't look hungry. They didn't look hungry at all. She shivered when she realized what she was considering. She could never sink so low.
Tipton shook her head. Think of the center of the wheel Then the spokes will hold well together.
12
Mei-Ling bathed in sandalwood perfume, sent to her by her future husband. Seth could smell the fine scent from where he stood next to Sister Esther and Naomi, the only fan qui—foreign devil—in attendance at the wedding. Mei-Ling had insisted, and in the end her husband had agreed to let Seth come at least for part of the ceremony. Mei-Ling wore red, a dress of silk with tiny gold buttons and the swirl of a dragon embroidered in green down the front. Her husband-to-be had
it sent over for the occasion. Seth thought she shivered, but he couldn't be sure it was the occasion or the December cold.
Naomi told him what all the different colors meant, all the trappings of a Chinese wedding. Seth nodded politely, though he knew he wouldn't likely remember. He did well with figures and numbers but not details like what a headdress meant with all its height and beads and bangles. But the women would ask him when he got back, he was sure of that. And they'd probably wonder what had taken so long. Esther'd been busy with all the negotiations, giving him time for games of chance most days, and every night. Sacramento boomed.
Mei-Ling's skin looked as pale as the dried grass nodding beside the Joss House, where the marriage was held. He knew it was rice powder pressed onto her face. This was what she'd come across the country for, this marrying up, but he felt sad for her anyway. She looked white as death. Cymbals and tiny bells rang through the scent of burned incense.
“She happy,” Naomi whispered to him.
“Fooled me,” he whispered back.
“She give great gift to family, to new husband, to Mei-Ling. Now she go be wife. Very generous. Make very happy. Bees home all time now.”
One of those little poems he never planned for popped into his head:
Mei-Lings a wife now.
Her bees have found a home.
She begins a new life.
No bnger all ahne.
He shook his head.
“You say no?” Naomi asked.
“Just thinking a dumb poem,” he said.
“Ah,” Naomi said, nodding.
He watched as A-He, Mei-Lings husband, took her hand when they finished saying the words he couldn't understand. They came out around a divider, stepped through a small opening, up over a step, and out the front door, all meant to fool the bad spirits, Naomi told him, who couldn't go around corners or up and over things and only traveled in straight lines.
Sister Esther sniffled. Seth wondered if she cried for losing a daughter, or that they were marrying in a Joss House and not in a church. He thought Esther said the husbands were supposed to be “poor but worthy Christian men.” A-He didn't look to fit two of those slots.
Once outside on the porch painted red, the new husband handed Mei-Ling a white chrysanthemum he pulled out of his wide sleeve. “I wonder how he's kept that alive,” Seth said. Naomi held her finger to her lips to shush him. He watched Mei-Ling take the blossom in her hand, bury her face in it, and inhale. She looked up with tears in her eyes and a smile across her porcelain face, and Seth said, “You're right, Naomi. She looks contented.”
After the ceremony, Mei-Ling stepped over in her quick-quick way and pressed a red envelope into Seths hands. “For help teach English,” she said. “Husband very happy I speak.”
“I think the custom here is for me to be giving you a gift,” he said.
“No, no. You give gift by take this,” she said and bowed, her hands together. “Someday come visit bees.”
Inside the envelope, he found a golden eagle coin and something written in Chinese. “For give…crisis,” she said, lowering her eyes.
“Crisis? What kind of crisis did I give you?”
She looked confused, motioned for her husband to come forward, spoke rapidly in Cantonese, showed him the characters she'd written. A-He bowed to Seth. “Wife say you help bring her through crisis. Word in Chinese formed by two characters: danger and opportunity. You help take from danger to opportunity. Help through crisis.”
Mei-Ling had tears spilling from her almond eyes. “You and women. All together. My heart is empty for them already.” She stood as tall as she could to pull him to her, her lips just brushing his cheek while he held her gift in his hands.
“There, there,” Seth said, patting her thin back. “I just did what I could.” He felt like a father, the idea passing through him with an ache.
“Looks to me like she's in good hands,” Seth said later as they sat at the plank table of the boardinghouse Esther had located in Sacramento. Naomi had retired, and the other boarders were already asleep. Usually, he headed to the gambling houses to fatten his purse, but tonight that idea didn't satisfy as much as taking tea with Esther. “You did well, Esther. A-He's garden must be pretty lucrative. Looked like a man of some wealth.”
“He sells to the hotels and such,” she said. “He seems well respected among the Chinese here. And not disliked by the residents.”
“Get Naomi married off as well and you can pat yourself on your back just fine and rest a bit.”
Esther sipped her tea. “Naomi's husband has not responded to my inquiry, even after all this time,” she said. “That's worrisome.”
“Is he Chinese? Or some Californian who ordered up a bride, a miner or rancher living up in the hills?”
“I have to say,” she said, straightening, “that those we hired to check these people out did a poorer job than I or my brothers would have done, given half the chance. I'm more than a little concerned that we undertook a cross-country journey with such poor information. A-He was the name given for Zilah's suitor. Yes,” she said, nodding to Seth's raised eyebrows. “Mei-Ling's husband was a man of the soil, but he had found another wife, an Indian, I believe. He wished his money back, and Mei-Ling had no husband. It was a gift from God that A-He bought Mei-Ling's contract. Fortunately, both were men of the soil.” She sighed. “Still, I must pay back the advance.”
“Too bad Naomi cant stay with you. Once she goes, you'll be all alone.”
“Don't wish another failure on me,” Esther said. “It will be many years of my effort to pay back Zilah's contract. I don't want to have to pay back Naomi's, too.”
“I'm gonna miss ‘em,” Seth said. “Been something soothing in this process.”
“An obligation to be met, a promise needing to be kept. We usually are more at peace, we humans, with a commitment of some importance waiting for us. I suspect you'll find that out someday.” She smiled.
He didn't smile back.
Ruth heard them whispering, probably about her. Scurrying sounds followed by silence. She should turn over, face them. They'd be joining Mazy and Lura and all the rest for Christmas dinner. A “family meal,” Elizabeth called it. She wondered again why she'd agreed to go. Mariah joined her mother this Christmas, so Ruth needed to get up, stoke the fire. She grunted, prepared to push back the quilt, dress, and tend the horses and Mazy's cows. Sarah called out to her before she could leave.
“Auntie! Wake up!”
What now? Ruth thought.
She turned and was met with a crush of children pressing against her, pushing her down with Jessie scrambling behind her. “What are you—?”
“Time to get up,” Jason said, taking one hand then and pulling her to sitting. Ned grabbed her other while Jessie slipped a ribbon over her face. “My eyes…”
“I wont hurt you,” Jessie said. “You can't see your surprise.”
They pulled at her until her bare toes felt the cold floor. Maybe not as cold as usual, as she felt heat shed into the room as they led her. She smelled something fragrant with lemon, felt Jessie's fingers against her back. Their touches tugged at her heart. Jason settled her onto something that felt rough against her flannel gown. A cold tin arrived in her hands. Then Jessie unfurled the ribbon.
“Oh,” Ruth said, gazing. “When did you…how…?
“We been planning it for weeks,” Ned said. “Do you like it?”
“I made the chair. From an old stump,” Jason said. “Filed away the axe marks best I could.”
“I folded the flowers. From paper. ‘Lisbeth showed me,” Jessie said holding up the rose on the tray Ruth held.
“Do you like the food?” Sarah said. “Its called Angel Pie. ‘Lisbeth said we could have sweets for breakfast on Christmas morning. We did extra chores for Mazy so's we could get the lemons.”
“I wrote you a song,” Ned said. “I didn't write the music part. That's ‘Morning Has Broken.’ Suzanne told me the tune. We need you, dear Aunti
e, to make us our home. We need you, dear Auntie, so were not alone. The words are mine. Well, all of us like the words.”
“I love it,” Ruth said, feeling a smile break onto her face, tears catch in her throat.
Zane could see if Suzanne was home by watching her house through his telescoping glass. He'd complained to the owner of the St. Charles Hotel that he wanted the same cot beneath the same window in the huge open-spaced second floor every evening and was willing to pay more than the usual five dollars a night for the privilege. Finally the little German had agreed. He even insisted that the Chinese laundry mark the sheets with a character indicating that they were his. Two hundred and fifty cots were set up nightly. Zane liked the anonymity of the numbers, something a boardinghouse with eight or ten curious bodies hovering close could never provide.
From his place at the St. Charles, he had a view out the small side window. He couldn't actually see Suzanne's door. The heavy pines shaded it. But he could see the gate and who came and went and when a horse was tied there. He knew whenever she was alone. He knew when she shuffled out with the children and the dog. That's when he would enter her home and leave things for her.
Once, she'd returned with him still there. The day he brought her the table. The dog had growled low.
He liked watching her for that moment when she knew something was wrong, liked staring as her perfect teeth pressed hard against her full lip, the rise of her chest as her breathing increased, her hand fluttered at her throat. It kept him in practice, this watching. When he'd had his fill of gazing, he'd tempered her fear by calling her name and leading her to the table, placing his hands over hers when she felt the smooth top.
“Oh,” Suzanne had said, her fingers reaching for her throat. “You had me frightened.”
She asked him not to do that again, not to come in when she wasn't there.
“It…it violates me,” she said. “My home is my sanctuary. An extension of me. Your coming in uninvited…crosses a boundary.”
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