by Holly Baxter
“My, my, I’m impressed.” Sal was obviously not impressed at all. “Opera, yet.”
“Good night, ladies.” Drew doffed his hat. “I hate to leave you now.”
“The hell you do,” Sal said. She turned to Elodie, who was gathering up her papers. She had begun to carry a handbag almost as big as Sal’s, necessary because of all the bits of script and notes they accumulated each day. “Can you type that up over the weekend? Or will you be at the library all day?”
“Yes, I’ll type it up, or maybe my sister will if I ask her nicely. As for the library, I have no idea how long I’ll need to be there. Stealing ideas from other people takes time, you know.” She grinned at Sal, who grinned back, not entirely sincerely.
“So does learning Chinese. Am I right or am I right?”
“Oh, Sal…”
Sal gave her a long level look. “Get it out of your system, Ellie. I need you here Monday. All of you, brains included.”
“Maybe there’s a script idea in it,” Elodie said, feebly.
“And maybe Caesar wore galoshes. See you Monday, kid.” And she went out, leaving Elodie staring at the door.
When she left their room she crossed Reception and went down to the offices of Lee Enterprises.
Still closed.
Still locked.
Still a mystery.
***
Mei Mei Chen was very cross. She stamped her little foot and waved a finger under her husband’s nose. “You did a bad thing. You made them mad at that poor girl. Who knows what they will do?”
Wei Ching was defensive. “I didn’t say her name. I don’t know her name. Cousin Ping said her companion was a policeman.”
“And does that mean you should betray him?”
Wei Ching looked guilty but not contrite. “Policemen can look after themselves.”
“This is not Canton. Denouncing is not the American way. That is what you came to America to get away from. You will not be a good American until you think like an American.”
Wei Ching flared. “Just because you were born here does not stop you being Chinese in your heart.”
Mei Mei, who was normally most demure, actually shouted. “It stops me being an idiot! Why draw attention to yourself? To me?”
Wei Ching hung his head. “I thought if I was helpful to them, they would remember it and…”
“And not murder us like the others?” Mei Mei was becoming distraught. “You are a wonderful husband, Ching, you work hard, you send money back to your brother and parents, but you are a fool.” She paced around the little room they shared over the restaurant. A whole room to themselves was a luxury and was due solely to Wang’s love for his daughter. “We must move away.”
Wei Ching was stunned. “Move away?”
“Yes.” Mei Mei drew herself up. “It is the only way.”
“But your father, the restaurant…”
She eyed him carefully. “Did you mention the restaurant? My father?”
“N…no. I just said I overheard a girl and a policeman talking.”
“That is something, anyway.”
“But where would we go?” Wei Ching was stunned by this change in his dear wife. Women in China were never disrespectful to their husbands, nor did they give orders.
“To San Francisco. My mother’s people are there, we should be safe with them.”
“Your father—”
“My father will agree. My mother will make him agree. I will be surprised if he does not cast us out, anyway. What you did was wrong. We are an American family now. We try to live by the things Father learned when he was becoming a citizen, and what I learned in school. I love you, Wei Ching, but I am ashamed of what you have done.”
Ching felt his heart twist in his chest. “I am a fool.”
Mei Mei’s expression softened. “You thought you were doing right.”
He looked at her in despair. “Becoming an American is very difficult.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He considered. “In China family comes first, always.”
“Family is important in America, too. Not everyone in this city is bad, but those who are bad are strong. I promise you it isn’t so in other places. Other cities can be good and fine places to live. Small towns and villages also. There is more to America than Chicago. Do you understand?”
“I only know Chicago.” He had come into America through Mexico and been taken by train right across the country to the job that was waiting for him.
“Then it is good that we leave as quickly as possible.” Mei Mei drew herself up proudly. “I am an American girl. I will show you what America can be.”
“You were not like this before we married.” It was not so much a complaint as an expression of wonder. Who was this Mei Mei who stood before him now?
“Ah, no,” Mei Mei agreed. “I wanted you to love me.”
Ching slumped in his chair. “I am so confused.”
Mei Mei was sorry for him. America was home to her, she had gone to American schools and had American friends. She loved her country. But to her husband it was strange and frightening. She knelt beside him. “You are strong,” she said, softly. “You will learn.”
Chapter Twelve
Saturday began with rain. Elodie slept late because much of her night had been spent tossing and turning and trying to avoid more nightmares. Just before dawn she fell into a deep and grateful trough of darkness that obliterated everything, but she awoke feeling heavy and drugged. When she got downstairs Alyce was sitting with her head on the arm of her chair, listening to “The Children’s Hour” and singing softly along with the theme.
“Oh, we just roll along, havin’ our ups, havin’ our downs—”
“Where did the White Rabbit Line go today?” Elodie asked.
Alyce didn’t raise her head. “Lots of places,” she said, dreamily. “Have you ever heard of Kachaturian?”
Elodie smiled to herself. “Didn’t he run a restaurant over on Randolf Street?” she asked.
Alyce sat up. There was an imprint of the upholstery on her cheek. “No!” she said, and then had to laugh. “Very funny, Ellie.”
“Gotcha.” Elodie gently tugged one of Alyce’s pigtails, then headed into the kitchen. Marie was there, rolling out pastry for a pie. She put down her rolling pin and started for the ice box.
“I only have eggs left,” she said.
“I don’t want anything but coffee and toast.” Elodie wondered if this was what a hangover felt like. If so, how could Drew stand it every day?
“That’s not a very good start to the day.” Marie thought Ellie was too thin and was always trying to “build her up.”
Mrs. Browne came in, carrying a basket of apples from the storeroom in the basement. “Good afternoon, Ellie,” she said, reprovingly.
“Sorry I slept so late,” Elodie said. “I didn’t have a very good night.”
Mrs. Browne put down the basket of apples and felt Elodie’s forehead. “No fever,” she pronounced.
“I feel perfectly fine.” Elodie covered the lie by going over to pour out some tepid coffee from the pot on the stove.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Marie said, exasperated. “Let me make some fresh—that’s hours old.”
“Where is everybody?” Elodie sank onto one of the kitchen chairs and leaned her head on one hand while sneaking a little corner of raw pastry from the other side of the table. It was sweet and slightly grainy.
“Maybelle has gone shopping for her boss,” Mrs. Browne said. “Everybody else is right here as you can plainly see.”
“I was hoping she would do some typing for me.” Elodie snagged another bit of pastry, and Marie affectionately batted her hand away. “I have to go out.”
“Where?” Mrs. Browne wanted to know, sitting down next to her. “It looks to me like you’re coming down with something, young lady. I don’t think you should go out in the rain.”
“I�
�m fine, Mumma, I’m just tired—it’s hard work writing scripts.”
“All the more reason to stay home and rest on the weekend.” Marie put a fresh cup of steaming coffee in front of her sister and another before her mother.
“Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Browne, reaching for the pitcher of fresh milk that sat at the end of the table near the window. “Marie is right, Ellie. You have shadows under your eyes.” She poured the rich milk generously into both cups. Mr. Jacobs from the farm must have come by this morning, Elodie thought. It always tastes best on the first day. Mrs. Browne could have had milk from one of the new commercial dairies, but she kept to her old favorites. Nobody could match the milk from Mr. Jacob’s cows.
“She looks like a raccoon,” said Alyce, coming in. “Can I have some coffee, too?”
“Plenty of milk, not too strong.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mumma, I’m nearly sixteen.” Alyce was exasperated by Mrs. Browne’s constant insistence on her health and well-being. “I think I can drink regular coffee now.”
“Well,” Mrs. Browne conceded. “All right, but no more after lunch. You’ll never get your sleep.” She turned to Elodie. “Probably what’s wrong with you, my girl. Too much coffee.”
“Maybe,” Elodie agreed. “Sal makes really strong stuff, and we always run out of milk by three o’clock and have to toss for who goes out to get more.”
“Well, there you are, then.” Marie folded the pastry over the rolling pin and lifted it over into the pie dish. She pressed it gently down and left the edges overhanging while she started peeling the apples Mrs. Browne had brought up. “Everybody knows there’s caffeine in coffee and that’s a stimulant.”
“My, my.” Mrs. Browne spoke with fond indulgence. “You’ve been listening to Betty Crocker on the radio again.” Marie smiled but said nothing. She handed a long strip of peel to Alyce.
“Throw this over your shoulder, let’s see who you’re going to marry,” she said. Alyce complied, then twisted around to look down at the red and white linoleum.
“His name begins with W,” she said, horrified. “Oh, no, not Willie Straybuck, he’s awful! All spots.”
“Now, now,” soothed Mrs. Browne. “It could be a last name, you know. What about that nice Gerry Watts down the street?”
Alyce considered. “He’s not too bad, I guess.” She grabbed an apple from the basket and went back into the sitting room.
Spots, Elodie thought, munching on the toast Marie had made for her. Harry Lee had spots, and was a Communist. Elodie had met a few half-hearted Communists while at college—they were always wanting money for posters and things. And parties—they were very fond of parties, as she recalled. But their kind of parties weren’t much fun, mostly people giving speeches or reading bad poems and drinking wine until they threw up. And they never seemed to wash. No wonder Harry Lee had spots, if he was like that.
She finished her toast and coffee and stood up. “I’m going to the university library.”
“What on earth for?” demanded Mrs. Browne.
“Information.” Elodie started to explain, stopped, then went on. “For the show. I need to know stuff about architecture and elevators and plumbing. Sal wants to put a secret passage in the hotel basement, but Drew doesn’t think the building is old enough. From slave times, you see. The Underground Railway,” she improvised. Although thinking about it…
“Couldn’t you make the building old enough?” Marie asked. “Plenty of old buildings in this town, still.”
“That’s what I think, but Drew says no, so I have to get some facts. It’s all part of the work, you see. Not nine to five anymore.”
“They are certainly making you work hard for your money,” Mrs. Browne said, with a degree of disapproval. She was very protective of her girls, as she was of her students. “Although the extra is welcome.”
“I don’t mind, I love it. It’s not like work to me. It’s fun.” It occurred to Elodie she was protesting too much.
“I’d believe you more if you didn’t look like a raccoon, as Alyce said.” Mrs. Browne would say no more. She could see Ellie was enthusiastic, and she was never one to daunt any kind of enthusiasm in anyone. It was part of being a good teacher and a good parent, as Mr. Browne had always said. He had been a teacher, too, at the University. She sighed, missing him as always.
Elodie kissed her mother’s forehead, waved to Marie, and went into the living room to get her coat and hat.
“Better take an umbrella,” Alyce said, from her accustomed spot by the big radio. “They just announced it would be raining all day long.”
***
The late Mr. Browne had been a lay teacher at DePaul University, and Elodie had gone there for two years until the money ran thin. Even with help from the University, thanks to Mr. Browne’s employment there, she couldn’t in all conscience use up any more of the education fund her parents had so carefully set aside. There was Alyce to consider. Another wage was needed if Alyce was to attend DePaul, too. So Elodie had left and worked in several different places until she found the copywriting job at Adcock and Ash.
Now, as she took a streetcar to the campus, she was glad she had retained her student identity card. It would give her access to one of the best libraries in the city, and one she knew well.
She loved the library, the smell of bindings and oak shelves and furniture polish, the way the light slanted down from the high windows with swirls of bookdust within. Many of her student hours had been spent there, and she felt right at home the minute she walked in. While it was easy to locate the section that dealt with foreign languages, following through to Chinese was less successful. She walked past it twice before she realized where it was. The librarian in charge of Language and Linguistics was doubtful he could help her at all. “What exactly do you need?”
“I want to find out the meaning of a Chinese word,” Elodie said.
The librarian raised an eyebrow. “Is that Mandarin or Cantonese?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
He sighed. He was a small, bald man with a scrawny neck and a habit of twisting his head sideways and pulling at his collar between sentences. “There are two languages—actually there are hundreds but only one written language—in China. Can you spell the word for me?”
“I’ve only heard it spoken aloud,” Elodie said.
“Ah. Here in Chicago?”
“Yes.” Well, where else, she thought. Do I look like a world traveler? “It sounded like ‘mingdow’.”
“It is probably Cantonese,” he said, with some satisfaction. “Almost all of the Chinese community here in Chicago are from the Canton province. Let us see.” He bustled away and disappeared between two ceiling-high lines of stacks. Elodie followed.
He was reaching up to a fairly high shelf and finally succeeded in bringing down a thick and rather dusty volume. “This should be a big help. And God Bless the missionary who wrote it over fifty years ago.”
“What is it?” Elodie asked, following him again as he took the book to a large table in the corner and laid it down.
“A dictionary of Cantonese written in English—but written in two ways, spelled and spoken equivalents. So different, you see. So different.” He opened the book. “Now, say the word again.”
“It might be two words,” Elodie pointed out.
He drew himself up a little, obviously proud of his knowledge. “I am quite aware of that. I have studied a little with Father Anselm myself, as it happens. Languages are my passion, you see,” he added, rather shyly, as if imparting a great secret. She liked him the better for it.
“Father Anselm?”
“Our great orientalist,” the librarian said. “He was a missionary in China for twenty years as a young man. Now he teaches here at DePaul. We are lucky to have him.” He leaned a little forward. “The Oriental Institute keeps trying to poach him, you see. They don’t have much in the way of far eastern expertise, just near east
ern.” He sniffed. Apparently there was a hierarchy of “eastern” in his view. “Mummies,” he added, under his breath. “I ask you.” He was thumbing through the book, pausing at a page, then moving on. “This is very difficult.”
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” Elodie said. “I do know saying the word aloud to a Chinese person gets quite a reaction.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. After a minute, he pointed to a word and raised his head. “Here’s ‘ming’. It can mean brilliant, shining, radiant…depending on the pronunciation.”
“And the rest of it?”
That took another five minutes. Then the little librarian straightened up. “Well, I can’t imagine why you would be so interested in this,” he said. “Ming means brilliant or gleaming or shining. Dao could be sword, among other things. Ming dao could mean shining sword therefore. Or not. Most Chinese words have two or three meanings. It’s a tonal language, you see, so much depends on inflection.”
“Is that all?” Elodie asked, startled. “Just shining sword?”
“To the best of my knowledge, which I humbly admit is limited. It may be that when combined they have another meaning entirely, that sometimes happens. Especially if it is some kind of local slang or dialect. May I ask where you heard it spoken?”
Elodie could hardly say by a dead man. “At a party,” she said, truthfully.
“Ah.” The librarian nodded. He knew all about student parties. “Well, I expect someone was teasing you,” he said. “Is it for a game? A dare of some kind? To find it out, I mean? I haven’t had any other enquiries about it.”
“Yes, that’s it. A bet between me and another girl,” Elodie said, quickly. “She’s Chinese, you see. And she bet me I couldn’t find out what it meant without asking another Chinese person.”
“Great gamblers, the Chinese. Well, you can tell her you asked me. My name is Evans, and you asked me. I am definitely not Chinese.” He suddenly smiled, and Elodie was reminded of an elf or gremlin, for his mouth was wide and his teeth very large and white. He only lacked the pointed ears, she thought.
“I am very grateful,” she said.
“Not at all, not at all. I love a challenging question,” Mr. Evans said, twisting his head to the side again. She wondered if his laundry put too much starch in his collars. He began to walk back to the stacks.