I write the envelope in care of the Nelson-Atkins Museum with no return address, stamp it, and walk it to the mailbox before I lose my nerve. Spies and undercover agents and even nuns who plot adoptions must feel the way I do now—just walking down the sidewalk, all nonchalant and simple on the surface.
I listen to the note slide and hit the other letters. Out of my hands it instantly grows to dragon size, exhaling smoke through the slot.
* * *
“Where are we going?” I ask Elliot in the car on Friday night.
“Art room.”
He must sleep there, shave, and take baths in the sink.
I have not seen him since our kitchen table encounter. He has picked me up at the bus stop down the block. We follow his flashlight beam from the side street by school to the building. Mist swirls in the cone of light. He shoves the clunky door open. No key needed. It’s cold. The light sweeps over a table with lots of candles. Elliot lights a match, lights them, flips though a big newsprint pad, and pulls out a drawing slid between the pages. He smooths it onto the table. Shines his flashlight. I lean down.
It’s a cartoon, a takeoff on Neil Bradford’s political cartoon. Now I know why Elliot had me pose, pretending to walk with my fist raised. It’s drawn in the Chinese style—simple ink strokes on paper. It shows a girl who looks like me in a crosswalk. There’s a tank about to smash her. But instead of demon Chinese soldiers, this tank is packed with kids who are labeled “Wilson High School.” They point machine guns at me. But instead of spraying bullets, the guns spray words—chink, monkey girl, Jap, slant-eye, ching-chong, rice girl, commie . . .
The caption is: “War casualties at home.”
One of Elliot’s ink strokes jumps out at me. It is the one that forms my backbone—straighten your spine, Lily, twist a little, hold up the Coke bottle—a strong, perfect upward sweep of ink. Other lines capture the swing of my arm and my hair flying back as I march ahead. My other fist is raised as if I hold an invisible victory banner.
It’s ingenious. He’s twisted the old defeat into a triumph, my triumph, with just a few ink marks. I can’t talk. I wipe my eyes—afraid they’ll drip and smear the drawing. I can’t look at Elliot.
“You like it?” he asks, scrutinizing his work. “It took practice to get the feeling, the force of you right. You could use it for your current event—you know, twist it on them. . . . It’d take guts to do it.”
I stare at the Lily in the cartoon. Elliot has captured that flame in me—the feeling I had walking out of class that day and when I touched fingers with the bodhisattva and when I adopted Joy.
“It’s amazing,” I whisper.
“Here’s the old cartoon.” Elliot stuffs into my coat pocket a copy of the original newspaper cutout—or as Mr. Howard now calls it, the cartoon that was the catalyst for my new career as a real person.
He’s right. It was the starting point for everything—my detention, my acquaintance with The Thinker and the Girl before a Mirror and Mr. Howard and Elliot and the bodhisattva and the Chows and Evangeline and even the phantom.
Hmm . . . We stand silent, watching the crosswalk girl lifting her self-respect like a torch.
“If you want to understand a tricky situation—draw it. Right?” Elliot says. He reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear. “Do you know that you are a golden-tea color and your hair is iridescent in this light?” Jitters. I look away. “In case you were wondering . . . you’re brave and also smart and funny.” His cheeks are splotchy pink. I can almost hear Mr. Howard coaching him.
He puts his hands on my shoulders. “So here we are in the third dimension, which some humans prefer to other, more uncomfortable dimensions such as: un-, first, and second. It’s easier to move around in the third dimension.”
I smile. So does Elliot.
“By the way, I think the undimension is a point, a starting point, a beginning. Every artwork starts with one.”
Hmm . . .
He takes his scarf off, wraps it around me, and pulls me closer. It feels as though he’s re-creating the mythological lovers sculpture. Elliot sighs, looks down. “Okay. Try reaching out and holding my arms.”
I follow his instructions by cupping his elbows in my hands. His coat is scratchy. Elliot leans down and kisses me. Our coat buttons clack on each other. I hear the scarf fall on the floor. He takes a deep breath and repeats the kiss, puts his arms around me. Gives me another kiss and pulls back.
I bite my lip, look down.
Elliot runs both hands through his hair.
“Kiss me back, Lily.”
. . . Kiss back?
My face is 1,000 degrees. “I guess I don’t . . . I . . . I’m not very good at . . .” I stare at the floor.
“What’s the matter?”
Wobbly world. Scary territory. “The cartoon is perfect, Elliot, but I’ve gotta go now.” I stop short of saying I’ll walk. I want to run.
Elliot grabs his scarf and car keys. “Okay. Fine! ”
There’s not a word between us in the car, just Elliot and the gutless, golden-tea-colored girl with the iridescent hair he liked until she froze.
Elliot stops in front of my house. I wipe my eyes and climb out. He grips the gearshift like he can’t wait to get going.
“I’m . . . sorry, Elliot.”
“Me too.”
* * *
I stand in my bedroom panting, my new current event in hand, staring down at my shadow—a motionless bar of gray locked onto the carpet. It reminds me of Mother. I acted just like her. I abandoned the golden girl in Elliot’s cartoon crosswalk.
I flip the light off, go to my window, and look down. My stomach drops. Elliot’s still parked down there and I’m parked up here—both of us in the dark.
Gone Mom struts into my mind. I need her help right now. I have no doubt what she would do. You’d race right back down there and fix this with Elliot, wouldn’t you? But then, you’d never be in this spot. You knew how to kiss back. . . .
And I don’t.
Chapter 31
On April 13 at 3:45 p.m., two people sit in the Chinese Temple: the bodhisattva on its lotus throne and me on a hard wooden bench. There may be three if the phantom actually received my letter and cares enough to come.
It’s good to have Evangeline downstairs at the information desk, sitting in her blue tweed jacket and skirt as if she’s about to have her portrait painted. We waved. She must wonder why I’m here.
Shadows surround the golden bodhisattva. I have rehearsed and re-rehearsed what I will and will not do. I will check his ring finger first. I will not look him in the face. I will receive the box and walk out. I have a nicely starched wall built around me today, Dr. Michael Benton, and you are on the outside.
The dragon pearl appears to spin, although it can’t really be. There is no air moving in here, unless the bodhisattva’s breathing. I know I’m not.
Footsteps approach from the Main Chinese Gallery. If I had Mother’s lost compact I could angle it for a view around the gates.
Michael Benton appears, carrying two wooden posts on stands. He positions them on either side of the opening with a velvet rope stretched between that blocks the entry.
“Hello, Lillian,” he says softly. “I thought we might need privacy.” He glances toward the bodhisattva, bows, and hands me my box. “I put my slipper back in the display case of ming qi—objects placed in ancient tombs to be used by the spirit in the afterlife. Ming qi assure immortality.” He gestures out to the Main Chinese Gallery. “That’s where it had been all these years, until I removed it for our meeting in Conservation.”
I study my shoes.
Dr. Benton sits on the floor in front of me, looks up. “May we talk for a minute?”
I turn and study the hidden door across the room. I cannot look at his ring finger.
“There’s an ancient Sanskrit term called rasa,” he says. “It refers to the feelings an object evokes. The bodhisattva is made of wood and paint, but it can tap real ur
ges in us of compassion and understanding. I am so glad you picked to meet here today.”
Dr. Benton must know I don’t know Sanskrit, but I understand the idea. “I used to come in here with Gone Mom . . . to look at the dragon pearl,” I say before I can stop it. “I thought it was a memory from Chinatown in San Francisco but it wasn’t.”
I look down. I do not know why I broke my rule—why I am talking to him. Illumination through the carved gates casts petals of light across the floor. I follow the pattern toward the bodhisattva, let my eyes adjust, and out of the deep shadows a pair of shoes appears—women’s shoes with straps, shoes on the floor, attached to ankles, attached to a person sitting on the far bench.
A strangled shriek whips out of my mouth. I rock back. “Mamá?”
Dr. Benton leans forward, grabs my arm. “No! Lillian, it’s not Lien . . . it’s my wife.” He takes a deep breath, another, breathing for both of us.
“Your wife?” I grab my box and try to get up, but Dr. Benton holds on.
“Yes. Her name is Iris. Iris Benton.” His tone is like a soft sash encircling her.
I shrink down to no one. Nowhere. I set the slipper on the bench, afraid I’ll drop it. I cover my face with my hands.
“She knows all about Lien,” he says. “She knew before we got married.”
Fear and panic knock these words out of me. “So . . .” I whisper through my fingers. “She has already told people about me, hasn’t she?” I shiver. “She’ll tell everybody and . . . and . . .”
“I assure you she has not.”
Silence. The silence before the storm. I imagine her disgust at me—the evil spirit who is ruining her life. And her rage at him, slapped flat by the shame of it all. I glance over. A few feet in front of Iris Benton’s dim profile are the bodhisattva’s elegant, polished fingers, lighted from above. I follow them up the palm and wrist and arm to its shoulder and face. The crystal eyes seem illuminated. They return my gaze. They dissolve the panic in me.
After a moment Mrs. Benton stands, walks over. She is tall and moves quietly on the floor. “Hello, Lillian. I do not want to upset you, but I must admit I wanted to see you. I have heard so much about Lien and her talent, of her importance in my husband’s life, his love for her and his pain at losing her.”
She sits on the other end of the bench. Dr. Benton looks up at us as if he is witnessing a miracle. “Michael and I met in Chicago,” she says after a minute. “I was a graduate student at the university there. He was consulting at the art institute. We married in 1936 in Kansas City. I grew up in Atchison, Kansas but I have extended family here.”
I can tell she has memorized and rehearsed these lines. Iris Benton doesn’t seem crazy or angry or shattered. She’s not throwing things or clamming up. She is beautiful, actually, with creamy skin, wavy brown hair, and deep, greenish-gold eyes.
“I have my own reality to face about this,” she says, turning to him. “But I am not upset with anyone.”
Dr. Benton says, “Since we last met, Lillian, I researched Lien’s U.S. entrance records and learned she came through Angel Island in July 1934, several months after I left China, a whole year before we had planned. I imagine her father’s influence facilitated her quick departure. But she did not enroll in art school. She entered a Christian mission house for unwed mothers in San Francisco. She did not contact me. I had no idea she was here. I suppose she did not want to be found. I think I now understand her reason.”
Me.
“So why did she come?” I ask.
“I believe when Lien discovered she was expecting a baby, she left China immediately, so you would be born in America. So you would have a chance. In China”—he shakes his head—“neither Lien nor you—a baby of mixed race—would have had a prayer.”
I knot my fingers.
He glances at Iris and continues. “Lien adored her father. He educated her, showed her the world. As a little girl she lived with him for a time in Washington, D.C., when he consulted there.”
“She didn’t contact you because of me. I ruined your chance to be together,” I say.
Dr. Benton looks so sad, lost in his scattered past. “After many years and no contact, I met Iris, or rather she captivated me, and she still does.” He takes her hand; his voice is husky and unashamed. He turns to me. I look back, eye to eye. In his expression I read how much I must look like Lien.
“She must have learned of my marriage and, since she had to return to China, placed you with the Sisters of Mercy. Knowing Chinese custom, and knowing Lien, she was determined to go back. A daughter’s duty would be to return if her father is ill or dying, to pick parent over child.”
“Why would she come to Kansas City at all?” I ask.
“Our bodhisattva project, no doubt. She thought I would be here.”
“So she left me the pictures and cloud slipper hoping I might find you.”
He tilts his head. “Yes. Probably. It’s not all logical . . . life isn’t.”
“I was told you were an unknown man who lived in China. All along I thought I was looking for her.”
“Yes. I understand that now. Lien knew the power of objects to motivate us and the importance of provenance.” Dr. Benton starts to say something more, but his face crumples. He lowers his head and starts crying. Sobbing. Shaking. Iris puts her hand on his shoulder. I can tell she will sit here until he is through. So I do too. It feels like Gone Mom is here. At this moment I understand her and Michael Benton and Iris and even myself a little.
Dr. Benton heaves a huge sigh. “There is something else, Lillian.” He looks from his wife to me. “Iris and I have a daughter. Her name is Julia.”
Julia.
“She’s nine.”
Julia Benton. My half sister. My mind darts to Evangeline and her lost half brother. “Does she know about me?” I whisper.
“No.”
“Are you going to tell her the truth?” I look away. Bite my lip, feel the heat crawl up my neck. The enemy and the innocent daughter.
“We needed to tell you first while we had the chance.”
“Is she here?” I ask.
“No, she’s at home in Chicago.”
Home. Julia’s home. The Benton family home.
I picture it. I picture the ballerina prints on Julia’s bedroom wall and her bookshelves filled with stuffed animals and her Cinderella birthday cake with nine candles. I wave it all away. I can’t think. I am a scattered pile of pieces from different puzzles.
We look up at the dragon pearl. Gone Mom’s gift to me. I don’t move. None of us does. I know why. Because when we separate, it will be for good.
Chapter 32
A whole week has passed. Even though Michael and Iris Benton are back at home in Chicago, the truth about them is a growing pressure in me, like held breath. I sit outside by The Thinker after a long visit with Atalanta and Meleager in the museum. The real-life Meleager is avoiding me totally, not that I blame Elliot one bit. He’s probably started dating Catty. Kissing a partially phony, partially real person like her is much better than kissing me.
The mythical Atalanta has such a creamy, marble complexion. No ink mustache, just polished perfection, so completely different from The Thinker’s bronze skin, which holds Rodin’s fingerprints—the trails of his touch. I remember Elliot explaining that artists can turn anything into skin—paper and chalk, marble, wood, glass, paint, charcoal, crayons, clay, granite. Oil-painted skin is a maze of layered colors. Watercolor skin, he says, always has the texture of the paper.
I imagine that the Bentons’ daughter Julia’s complexion is creamy like Atalanta’s. What if she someday stumbles upon the existence of me? Will she feel permanently betrayed, the way I do by my parents?
I sit back, sigh. And what about Ralph? If I don’t tell him, he will eventually discover it anyway. He will feel betrayed by me. If I keep the truth hidden, I am also betraying myself.
An unused backbone gets weak.
The Girl before a Mirror and Jesus
would definitely vote for the whole truth.
The Thinker would too—If you don’t tell them the truth, Lily, it will be impossible to kiss back and have it mean anything, because your heart will always feel clammed up and phony. You need to go further than Gone Mom, who never did reveal her secret to the people who mattered most.
“But I am terrified to tell the truth.”
Tell your brother. Try it out on Ralph. See how it goes.
“Okay, I will tell Ralph about Michael Benton. I will try out the truth on Ralphie and see how it goes.”
* * *
Ralph and I assemble his early birthday present—a dragon kite—in his room on Saturday morning. I got myself one too so we could spend the day together. No one on earth has worse knot-tying fingernails than my brother. They are chewed down to nothing and dirty.
It’s a warm day. No coats. Blue sky with a few clouds whipped by the breeze. Sun. My kite trips across the Sculpture Park lawn—lift, crash, lift. But Ralph’s kite carries the blessing of “auspicious good luck” that Mrs. Chow bestowed when I bought it. Ralph twists and runs like an authority on kite loft and trajectory with dog doo on his shoes and pink jug ears. He gets both kites airborne.
Mud patches, tree roots, and buckled sidewalks do not stop our kite runs. With the controls in our hands, they dip and soar, chains of color smacking the wind.
Ralph is full of pointers. There’s a trace of Dad in his voice. He’s going to change so fast, so soon. It’s already started. But for now he is set with the Boy Scouts, his school buddies, his pigeons, and his brains. He’s winning the Clue game of his life.
“Your pick,” I say when our kites are exhausted.
“Chocolate Coke,” he says. Ralph also picks the huge corner booth in the drugstore, the Cupcake Corral. It’s also the booth old guys use for their morning coffee talk. “You can keep both kites,” I say.
Ralph looks up with his straw in his mouth. His eyes narrow. “Okay, what’re you buttering me up for? This is weird. My birthday is not until summer.”
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