China Dolls

by Lisa See

  Or the kids at the Sky Room might throw a party, and we’d all go to that. (No one brewed bad blood about which club was more popular or classier.) Some nights everyone came over to Ruby’s and my apartment. Oh, maybe fifty people in the living room, sometimes more. I played an upright piano while others sang. Pretty soon, the guys were bringing their ukuleles and their guitars. Or we’d put on a record and dance until we couldn’t breathe.

  We took the newspaper boys to an all-night coffee shop that served Chinese dishes and American food like custard pie.

  “What about stage-door Johnnies?” the reporter asked Ruby as the photographer snapped a few more shots. “Are they a nuisance?”

  Ruby laughed so long that I stepped in.

  “You’ve got it wrong, mister,” I said. “They bring her flowers and chocolates. They write fan letters—”

  “And love letters,” Ruby added. “Those boys are so sweet. I treasure them all.”

  Yes, Princess Tai had plenty of beaus, and she enjoyed their company. All except for one fella named Ray Boiler, an Occidental short-order cook twice her age, from Visalia, who visited once a month after he received his paycheck. “Something isn’t right about him,” she told me one night after he’d followed us home. “He gives me a bad feeling even when he smiles at me. Especially when he smiles at me!” But, as she pointed out, we worked in a nightclub, where the mix of men like Ray Boiler, booze, and scantily clad women was inherently dangerous. She didn’t tell any of that to the Associated Press fellas. She just smiled and laughed and flirted. That’s what made her Princess Tai.

  NOTHING WITH RUBY would have worked if things hadn’t gone well between Joe and me. He didn’t come back to the club for a month after my return to San Francisco. By then, I’d stopped searching for him in the audience. I was on my way to have drinks between shows with a couple of cattle brokers from Omaha when I bumped into him. He blushed, sheepish. No wonder. The last time I’d seen him, I’d seen a lot of him. Only I could put that behind us. I gave him a friendly hug, and he instantly began to loosen up. He pulled out a chair and I sat down. (So much for the cattle brokers.) He talked at me a mile a minute—still nervous, of course. I looked great … I was still the best dancer in the line … He’d missed me … He had so much he wanted to tell me … When his speech finally slowed and he gave me that lopsided grin I so loved, I was relieved. It seemed he could forget that embarrassing night, if I could, and be the person he’d always been. When he invited me to lunch, I readily accepted.

  The following Sunday, he took me to a little Italian place in North Beach. “I hope we can take walks together, like we used to,” he told me, and we did. “We’ll talk, like we used to,” he said, and we did. He said he was sorry that I’d seen him making love to Ruby, because I was “just a kid” and shouldn’t have had to see something like that. I reminded him that on Treasure Island he’d told me I was too young for him; now I saw that he was too young for me. He laughed and laughed. He apologized for running out that night instead of sticking around and explaining things to me. “Water under the bridge,” I said, and we made it so.

  He started coming to the club on weekends regularly again, and we fell into a pattern—one almost identical to what we’d followed on Treasure Island: I kept Joe amused, while Ruby—naked—entertained other men. He still liked her, and she kept him on a string—meeting with him sometimes before the club opened, dancing close to his table, even having an after-hours meal with him on occasion. They were strangely locked together, but from day one I’d been the third corner of the triangle. Many nights, as soon as I finished putting on my makeup and applying Ruby’s powder, I’d go out front and talk to him. Or later—after the last show—I’d quickly change and go sit with him. But I wasn’t some stray pup nosing around for attention anymore. We spent time together because we liked each other’s company. I often told him things I’d never tell the girls, and he confided in me. He’d graduated the previous year and was now at Boalt Hall at Cal, studying law. His dad had offered him a job once he passed the bar, but Joe wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to Illinois or be a lawyer. Flying was still his passion, he said, and he’d talked to the folks at Pan American to see what it would take to fly a Clipper ship. Mainly, though, I listened when he got wistful about Ruby.

  “She was my first love,” he told me. I could sympathize with that. “Did she love me as much as I loved her?”

  “Of course she did,” I answered steadfastly.

  “Our relationship never would have lasted anyway,” he admitted one night as the busboys cleared the last of the tables in the club. “We don’t have miscegenation laws in Illinois, but marriage to Ruby would have been impossible. There’s prejudice, and then there’s prejudice. A bubble dancer is”—he struggled to find the right words before settling on—“a different kettle of fish.”

  “But you always knew she performed bare,” I pointed out.

  “No one in Winnetka would have known about that,” he responded. “But the cover of Life changed everything. I mean, look at her. If you had a brother and he brought her home, what would your parents say?”

  I didn’t have a brother, but if I returned home and my father knew what I was doing, he would have beaten me to death. Pure and simple.

  “What about someone like me?” I asked. “I’m a dancer. I’ve had my photo in lots of Sunday supplements thanks to the Associated Press story. I was in that newsreel. What if you brought home someone like me?”

  “You don’t dance buck naked,” he said. Just then Ruby approached our table. Joe patted my hand. “Don’t worry, hon. One of these days there’ll be someone like me waiting for you.”

  He didn’t love me like I loved him, but I preferred to be his friend rather than not have him in my life.

  HELEN NEVER GOT very big. She was Chinese, she performed every day, and she was one of those blasted gals who’s blessed with not looking all that pregnant. Still, in May, six months into her pregnancy, her stomach popped out. After that, Helen stayed home, and I took her place. The customers loved Eddie and me. We may have looked great, but his melancholy had deepened since our return to San Francisco, and he ironed it out with drink. Helen had never complained about it, but I did. If he had a martini between the first and second shows, I pestered him. If he bought a round for everyone in the bar between the second and third shows, I hounded him something fierce, because he’d been boozing too.

  “I don’t want your breath in my face.” I seethed indignantly when we performed. “You reek of liquor down to your shoes.”

  “Am I making any mistakes?” he asked as he tipped me back for the dip over his thigh. And of course he didn’t, because he was a flawless entertainer.

  On September 8, 1941, Helen got want she wanted: a son, born in the early evening when the rest of us were at the club. The baby was full term, although he arrived just seven months after Helen and Eddie’s wedding. The Fongs went ahead and threw a huge one-month banquet for their new grandchild at Shanghai Low. (Anything to save face.) Helen’s father even invited Ruby. As a leader in Chinatown and a member of the Chinese Six Companies, he was showing how important he was to have the “Chinese princess” featured on the cover of Life attend his party. Ruby, wearing a day dress in emerald shantung with navy trim and a matching hat with a net veil coming down over her eyes, handled it all like a star—shaking hands, posing for photographs, and smiling, smiling, smiling.

  Bowls of dyed red eggs symbolized happiness and the renewal of life. Ginger added a touch of yang—heat—to the nutritional needs of the new mother, who was tired and weak after giving birth. The infant didn’t yet look like much of anything one way or the other, which was a good thing. Mr. Fong announced his newest grandchild’s name publicly for the first time—Thomas Bo Yu Wu. The baby’s milk name, Bo Yu, meant firstborn fish. Helen said she’d call him Tommy, which wasn’t all that far off from Tim for those of us in the know. The banquet? The very best, with bird’s nest soup and every delicacy imaginable.
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br />   After the party, Helen invited Ruby and me back to the Fong family compound. When I told Helen she handled Tommy like a pro, she laughed lightly. “Have you seen how many little nieces and nephews I have?” I stared down into his face, searching his unformed features, touching the tiny wisps of fuzz—not brown, not black—on top of his head. He seemed like every other baby to me, but Helen was besotted, adoring him with eyes of love. “One joy shatters a hundred griefs,” she recited, and I nodded like I understood what she was talking about.

  Ruby tired of the baby-staring party first. “I thought you and Eddie wanted to get your own place.”

  “It’s better to be in the compound,” Helen responded. “We’ll be safer here.”

  “Safer?”

  “The four walls. The family. The …” Helen gestured around her at the implied wealth.

  “What about Eddie?”

  Helen looked startled by the question, and she adjusted the baby in her arms. “What about him? He’s never around.”

  Ruby tilted her head, considering. “He leaves right after the last show—”

  “And he doesn’t come home,” Helen finished, but she didn’t seem perturbed. “He stays out all night. He won’t tell me where he goes or what he does.”

  “You need to come back to the club,” Ruby suggested. “Keep an eye on him.”

  “I know, and I’ll do it,” Helen said.

  She tightened her arms around the baby, and he greedily took her breast. She appeared content. At peace, in a strange way. But when I looked ahead at Tommy’s future, I couldn’t imagine how he, as a half-and-half child, would be treated in Chinatown, outside Chinatown, or any place he went. It would have to be far worse than what I’d experienced in Plain City. I saw that each of us, and now Tommy too, was cursed—not in the Chinese manner of bad fate or inauspicious destiny, but in the very Western way of being weighed down by the blood that ran in our veins, the secrets we kept and the lies we told, and the things that we, with our American know-how, had the greatest capacity to deny to ourselves and others. But at this moment, as Helen stared into her baby’s face, she glowed—blissful, a heavenly mother.

  WHEN TOMMY WAS three months old, Helen reluctantly returned to the club to be part of a new holiday show. It had a novelty number for the chorus girls in which we carried kittens in net muffs. (Those little fluff balls would pop their heads out of the muffs and the entire audience would ooh and aah.) Naturally, Helen brought the baby with her. She was crazy about the kid and couldn’t go anywhere without him. She hated to be parted from Tommy for more than the few minutes it took the Chinese Dancing Sweethearts to do their routine. And, from the moment of her return, she bickered with Eddie nonstop. They danced beautifully, though, and I was colossally jealous. Helen was in the spotlight again. Her breasts were large and creamy with milk, which made her more luscious than ever, while I was, once again, a pony.

  RUBY

  The Jimjams

  Grace and I could sleep through just about anything, but not the neighbor’s brats running up and down the hall, banging on everyone’s doors, and shouting, “Turn on the radio! Turn on the radio!” I rolled over and squinted at the clock. It wasn’t even noon yet, and a Sunday to boot. I’d give those kids what for later. I closed my eyes, letting darkness suck me back into slumber. The sound of someone thudding across the room upstairs jolted me awake again. Through the walls, I heard panicked voices. I forced myself out of bed—only five hours’ sleep—and shuffled out to the living room, where I found Grace, tousled and groggy, leaning against her doorjamb.

  “I’m going to kill those kids,” she muttered sourly.

  The room was littered with empty glasses that oozed the smells of brown liquor and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts left from the party the night before. A wave of nausea swept over me. I can’t speak for Grace, but I may have had one drink too many. I steadied myself and turned on the radio. I heard President Roosevelt’s voice. The Japanese aggressors had just bombed Pearl Harbor in a surprise attack. Ships were sinking or on fire. Hundreds, maybe thousands, were dead. I started to shake. Grace grabbed me, and we staggered to the couch. We held hands, bent our heads together, and cinched our shoulders. Grace was trembling as badly as I was.

  “What does it mean?” Grace whispered, terrified.

  “War,” I answered numbly. “We’ll be going to war.”

  “Do you think my mother’s heard yet? Should I call her? My father … Could the Japs reach Ohio?”

  Under my skin, my muscles rearranged themselves until my face was mask tight. I’d never heard her use that word before.

  “My parents and my brothers live in Honolulu.” My words shot from my mouth like iced bullets. “I’m a little more worried about what might have happened to them than I am for people who live thousands of miles away from the attack. And what about me? I’m Japanese.”

  Grace recoiled. She’s a Jap. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  “Oh, Ruby. I’m so sorry,” Grace managed with some effort. “What can I do? What can we do?”

  I called the Chinese Telephone Exchange and asked to put a call through to Hawaii, but already the lines were clogged. With each unsuccessful attempt, I became increasingly frantic. The radio was no help either. News of civilian casualties and the extent of the damage—whether in the harbor or in Honolulu—trickled out impossibly slowly. Each passing hour brought more frightening news: the FBI had been watching “certain Japanese nationals” around the country for a year, and now rounded them up. In Nashville, the Department of Conservation put in a requisition for six million licenses to “hunt Japs” at a fee of two dollars each. The purchasing department vetoed the requisition with a note: “Open season on Japs—no license required.” Every tear that fell from my eyes, rolled down my cheeks, and dripped off my chin was a physical reminder of the love—and fear—I felt for my mother, father, and two brothers. Were they all right? I dialed the telephone exchange again.

  “We’ll put the call through to you as soon as we get a connection,” the operator told me tersely.

  In the afternoon, we heard someone in the hall, banging on doors again. Chilling terror. What now? We opened the door to find Jack Mak announcing to all our neighbors that Charlie had canceled the show for the night. Around eight, Grace heated a can of soup. We stayed glued to the radio. I called the telephone exchange every fifteen minutes, with no result. At midnight, Grace and I crawled into bed. We slept together, hanging on to each other, believing that somehow the warmth of our flesh huddled in a cocoon would save us from our drowning fear.

  The next morning, we immediately turned on the radio. President Roosevelt announced that we had declared war on Japan. All members of the armed forces in the area were called to duty and sent to battle stations.

  Around noon, Joe arrived, wanting to check on us. He looked just as unsettled as we felt: This is bad, very, very bad.

  “If the Japs could strike Pearl Harbor, could they hit San Francisco too?” I asked. The inside of my head was ringing. I’d succumbed to the same apprehensions as Grace, and I’d crossed a line by uttering the word Jap. “Is that possible?”

  “No way,” Joe answered staunchly.

  “Why can’t they come here?” Then I repeated something I’d heard a commentator warn on the radio. “Submarines could be submerged just offshore.”

  “Do you think New Yorkers are worried that Germany, which is only three thousand or so miles away from them, will mount an assault?” He spoke in his college voice—determined, smart, and encouraging. He answered his own question. “Of course not. So we shouldn’t be worried that San Francisco—or any city on the West Coast for that matter—will be attacked by Japan five thousand miles away.”

  That boy was full of more shit than a Christmas goose, because the United States wasn’t at war with Germany, nor had the Nazis mounted a sneak attack on us.

  At 8:00 that night, the lights in our apartment went out. We were plunged into darkness. This is it
!

  “Grace, are you there?” My voice shook.

  “I’m here,” she answered, sounding as if that father of hers had his hands gripped around her throat.

  “Joe?”

  “Do you have candles?” he asked. Never before had I heard a man sound so petrified.

  Peeking out the windows, we could see that our neighbors in Chinatown—and maybe the whole city—had also lost electricity. We had no idea about what had happened or what was about to happen. Maybe we had only minutes to live. We stayed inside, too afraid even to go into the hall. The entire building was silent with people preparing to die. When the lights came on three hours later, I burst into tears. Grace tried to comfort me, but I was in too much turmoil—worried about my parents, and afraid of what could happen tomorrow or the day after that. I stared at Joe, wishing he would do something, but there was nothing he could do. We stayed together in the living room. None of us slept. The entire city had a bad case of the sweats and the jimjams.

  Joe went home at dawn. Not long after he left, the radio reported that the previous evening two squadrons of fifteen enemy planes had left a carrier off the coast and entered U.S. airspace above San Jose. From there, some flew north and some flew south. After midnight, they returned. Just before dawn, they came again. We were scared out of our pants, especially when Lieutenant General DeWitt, who was in charge at the Presidio, declared, “You people do not seem to realize we are at war. So get this: last night there were planes over this community! They were enemy planes! I mean Japanese planes!” His panic increased our panic. In response to the sortie, over one thousand households in Santa Cruz, Monterey, and Carmel were evacuated and moved inland. Some reporters claimed that the planes flew too high to have dropped bombs. The Japanese aggressors must have been on a reconnaissance mission. Other reporters dismissed the whole thing as a hoax, calling the citywide blackout and the stories that had swirled around it an example of “invasion fever,” to which DeWitt angrily responded that the planes had been tracked out to sea. “You think it was a hoax?” he demanded. “It is damned nonsense for sensible people to assume the Army and the Navy would practice a hoax on San Francisco.” And still, I hadn’t reached my parents.