Dreams of the Red Phoenix

by Virginia Pye

  Caleb let the tears come now. He swallowed them down, and his lungs, which were already dangerously compromised, filled again, which led to another choking fit. Each time this happened, Cook appeared at his side. The old fellow was at a loss to soothe him. Caleb wished his Chinese servant would no longer rescue him but, instead, that the earth would rise up and drown him in a sea of sorrowful memories—sorrowful precisely because they were so happy. More and more often, Caleb could imagine the dreadful satisfaction of choking to death on one’s own tears.

  Eleven

  Shirley and Captain Hsu stood at the bedside of a young lady, a girl, really, who had been raped who could guess how many times and remained unconscious. They whispered, though it was unclear whether the patient could even hear them.

  “We must be prepared for more wounded from the countryside. We will need this bed for my men. Please see to it, Nurse Carson.”

  “What would you have me do with her? I can’t toss her out into the courtyard as if she was bathwater.”

  “If you are unable to do this,” Captain Hsu said, “I will take care of it.”

  She had noticed over their weeks of working side by side that the captain wasn’t a callous man, just straightforward and no-nonsense. But she also recalled that in China, the birth of a daughter was sometimes met with condolences; it wasn’t unheard of for baby girls to be drowned or left to die. Shirley felt determined to protect this damaged girl, even from the captain, because in all likelihood she had never been protected before.

  “No,” she said, “leave it to me.” Then she called over a pair of young men she assumed to be soldiers whom Captain Hsu had assigned to help her. “Please carry this young lady upstairs to my bedroom,” she told them. “Be very careful with her. Do you understand?”

  She looked about for Lian and found her across the hall, bandaging a broken arm. Lian had proved indispensable in the clinic and had taught Shirley a trick or two from her country ways: simple though surprising treatments such as how to create poultices for burns out of rhubarb, herbs, and dung, something Shirley had never dreamed of before. Shirley then noticed Dao-Ming seated cross-legged in the corner, rocking over a pad of paper and scribbling with the nib of pencil she must have found in Charles’s school things. The poor creature, she thought.

  “Dao-Ming,” she called.

  The girl did not look up. Shirley took off her apron, hung it on the coat stand, went over, and gazed down at her. Her chubby feet were covered in crusted yellow mud. Her hands appeared to be rubbed raw, the fingernails and cuticles bitten to the nibs. She had nasty-looking bites up and down her arms, no doubt from fleas. Dao-Ming continued to rock, now with her eyes shut, and let out an occasionally hoarse and phlegmy cough.

  “Dao-Ming?” she asked again in a calm voice so as not to startle her.

  Nevertheless, it did. The girl scrambled clumsily to her feet, pawing at the air. She scampered into the corner with her thick arms up over her eyes.

  “It’s all right,” Shirley said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Dao-Ming panted, and her brow furrowed into anxious ridges. Shirley glanced around for Lian again, and when she turned back, she saw that Dao-Ming had been looking for her, too.

  “Lian is busy, but we’ll be all right without her, won’t we?”

  The girl whimpered.

  Shirley crouched so they were eye to eye. Dao-Ming’s black, straight hair fell in ragged bangs over her eyes. When Shirley brushed them aside, the girl flinched. Her breathing sounded troubled, a fraught wheezing. In addition to her other challenges in life, Shirley realized, she must have asthma.

  “Do you see that young lady over there?” Shirley pointed to the unconscious girl. “She needs someone to take care of her, to sit beside her bed, stroke her hand, and speak to her.”

  Dao-Ming’s narrow eyes narrowed further.

  “Or,” Shirley corrected herself, “if not actually speak to her, then communicate. You may squeeze her hand or comb her hair. Do you think you can do that?”

  Dao-Ming nodded, and her bangs flung forward and back.

  “Grand,” Shirley said and stood again. “Go along, then, and help the young men get her settled in my bedroom.”

  Shirley started to step away, but Dao-Ming tugged on her skirt.

  “What is it?”

  Dao-Ming pointed upstairs with a worried expression.

  “I know, I don’t usually allow strangers onto the second floor, but this will be our little secret, all right?”

  Dao-Ming mouthed the word as if she had heard it before and relished the sounds.

  Shirley stepped outside for a smoke. On the verandah, Tupan Feng reclined in one of the rocking chairs, his eyes half closed. Since the arrival of the Chinese into her home, Shirley had seen the old warlord shuffling about more often, using his cane to point their visitors in the proper direction and telling them what to do. He seemed to enjoy his new role, although it appeared to have also exhausted him.

  At the bottom of the steps, Captain Hsu was conferring with several men. When they left, he joined Shirley on the top step as she lit up.

  “I don’t know how you manage so much,” she said to him. “Yet you never seem hurried. It’s as if you had all the time in the world.”

  “Time is not an issue if you believe in what you do.”

  Shirley dusted a stray thread of tobacco from her lip and wondered if that was true. She had certainly never experienced it. She hitched herself up to sit on the railing and inhaled slowly. “You’d be surprised how many Americans race about, forever feeling they don’t have enough time.”

  “They lack conviction,” he said matter-of-factly. “That is their problem.”

  She let out a long stream of smoke.

  “What did you do in America, Mrs. Carson?”

  Her life back home seemed strangely distant and faded now, especially compared with the vivid, all-consuming days in the clinic. “I was a student, of course, and good at it. I might have liked to go on and study further.”

  “A society needs its scholars,” the captain said as he started to pace before her. “But for most, being a student is just a phase. We must step forward into life. Your decision to become a nurse is for the good of society. A wise choice.”

  “I suppose so,” she said. “But I dropped it as quickly as I could when I married Caleb. I didn’t feel like working anymore.”

  Captain Hsu stopped and stared at her. Shirley thought he could have done better at hiding his disappointment. Perhaps his frankness was a sign of their deepening friendship, though she suspected it was more an indication that he was starting to fray at the edges from working so hard.

  “Captain,” she said, “why don’t you have a seat here beside me? Rest a moment.”

  “I must get back to my duties,” he said. “I don’t have time to discuss decadent American lives.”

  She let out a laugh. “Is that what I was describing, my decadent life?” She flicked her dying cigarette onto the hard soil.

  “You felt like quitting as a nurse, so you did—just like that.” He snapped his fingers in the air.

  He must be joking, she thought, but when she looked at him, his stern expression startled her. His knuckles whitened around his leather belt, and he said, “I think I will leave the Eighth Route Army today because I feel like it. Yes, that is what is best for me. I quit!”

  “Oh, come, now, Captain.”

  He pressed on, his face reddening. “Capitalism convinces you that you are lucky to make this choice. You call it freedom. But think of the waste of human potential!” He slapped the railing with his palm. “All those American lives with no purpose. We fight for a new China to free not only ourselves but our brothers, too, from poverty and lives like yours of no purpose. We do not choose to sit on the sidelines because it is more comfortable to do so. We do not quit because we feel like it!” He pushed off from the railing and headed to the steps. “I can’t understand how you and your people are not ashamed of yourselv
es.”

  He bowed abruptly and wished her good day. Before Shirley had a chance to stop him, Captain Hsu was making his way through the crowds camped on the grounds. A high, light cackle came from the seat behind her, and Shirley turned to see Tupan Feng’s shoulders shaking.

  “What are you laughing at?” she asked.

  “Captain is correct,” Tupan Feng said. “Americans are lazy!” He shifted in the rocker and tipped too far forward, then scrambled to right himself. “But so are the people of my province. Hsu thinks they will work hard for the good of the country. They will not work hard for anything! Believe me, I tried to make them work.” He started to cough and couldn’t stop.

  “Don’t get yourself too riled up,” she said and patted his back.

  As his coughing fit subsided, he sputtered, “Revolution is all well and good, but they should keep the old system in place, too. Bring back the warlords, I say!” He swung his cane in the air, and Shirley sidestepped it. “I will lead their revolution!”

  “There’s an idea,” she said. “Why don’t you suggest that the next time you see Captain Hsu?”

  Tupan Feng set down the cane. She lifted the tartan throw from where it had fallen at his feet and tucked it around his neck. As she headed into the clinic again, the captain’s words settled slowly over her, coating her thoughts like the dust that slipped under closed doors and changed every surface in summer in North China. She watched the dozen Chinese nursing assistants busy at their patients’ bedsides or cleaning and restocking the storage shelves. They knew the tasks required of them and coordinated their efforts well. She wondered if she had ever felt more purposeful than now, working alongside these women and men. Perhaps the captain was right: she had had to leave America behind and come all this way to a distant outpost in a foreign land to fully experience a genuine sense of conviction.

  She tied on her apron and went to the nursing station to check the patients’ charts, and just as she was choosing the next bed to visit, Kathryn appeared at her elbow. Shirley set down the rough-hewn clipboard and offered her friend a hug. Kathryn responded with limp arms and stepped away quickly.

  “How do you like it?” Shirley asked.

  Kathryn studied her up and down.

  “No, not me,” Shirley said, spreading her arms toward the clinic. “The setup here. Look at all we’ve done since you were last here. We’re going full guns. A total of thirty beds and various other triage spots around the house. My assistants are remarkable. Very quick learners, the Chinese. And Captain Hsu says we’re making a genuine difference. Our patients leave with their bodies at least somewhat restored and their morale boosted. Isn’t that something?”

  Kathryn peeled back the white kid gloves that she usually saved for Sunday service or visiting Chinese matrons. She adjusted her little cloche hat, also usually reserved for special occasions. Was Kathryn trying to impress her with her stylish appearance? Shirley patted down her own hair and couldn’t recall if she had brushed it that day.

  “You are something,” Kathryn said.

  “Oh, it isn’t me. I’ve never met such resilient, hardworking, decent people. Caleb used to say as much, but I hardly listened to him. The truth is, they deserve better than the lousy hands they’ve been dealt in life. I just wish we could do more.”

  “Who do you mean by ‘we’?” Kathryn asked.

  “Captain Hsu and I and the others.”

  Kathryn did not smile.

  “You’re welcome to join us anytime. I would love to be comrades with you.”

  Kathryn bristled at the suggestion.

  “I didn’t mean ‘comrades,’” Shirley said. “I just meant—”

  “I think the good captain has been filling your head with propaganda,” Kathryn said.

  Shirley could feel her face going hot.

  “You know we’re not supposed to be supporting the Reds. It isn’t policy. It’s fine that you’ve been helping the injured, but I think you should consider closing up shop here and joining Doc Sturgis and the other Americans at the infirmary. I’ve been assisting over there, and he’s really quite crackerjack at what he does.”

  “That’s wonderful, but I’ve been doing perfectly well over here, too.”

  “He’s a doctor, Shirley. Have you forgotten that you’re not?”

  Shirley let out a shocked laugh, but Kathryn continued. “I know he would love to have a real nurse at his side and not poor imitations like me. The two of you would make an excellent team. That’s the team you should be crowing about.”

  “I’ve trained a fine staff of Chinese to assist me.”

  Kathryn gestured to the crowded rooms. “So I see. Chinese everywhere you look.”

  “Shouldn’t there be Chinese everywhere? It is their country, after all.”

  “But this is our mission. This is neutral territory. We are not at war with the Japanese. We are Americans, not Chinese. We need to remain in charge.”

  “I am in charge!” Shirley threw up her hands.

  “Clearly,” Kathryn said, as she yanked back on her gloves, “you have chosen to work with the Chinese precisely so you can be in charge. Over at the infirmary, you’d have to give that up. You’d have to play second fiddle.”

  “I don’t think that’s the issue at all. I’m doing what Captain Hsu has asked of me. I’m joining the cause like everyone else.”

  “Well, hurrah for the revolution and all that!”

  Shirley took a step back. “Kathryn, you’re not making any sense. First you accuse me of only doing this so that I can be at the top of the heap. And then you seem to worry that I’m joining in with the ranks of the masses. You can’t have it both ways, my dear.”

  Kathryn bowed her head. Her shoulders rose and fell as she gathered her breath. Then she reached out and took Shirley’s hands. “I’m just so worried about you. I don’t know what you’re up to, and it makes me nervous.” She squeezed Shirley’s fingers for emphasis.

  “Just before you arrived, I was thinking that I’ve never felt more purposeful in my life. But of course, I miss you terribly. I can’t offer you tea in the parlor any longer.” She gave a weary smile as she glanced at the changed room. “But you are always welcome. I mean it.”

  Kathryn slipped her hands from Shirley’s and started to step away.

  “Give my best to Doc Sturgis,” Shirley added.

  Kathryn flung open the screen door and marched down the porch steps.

  Shirley stood in the center of her front hallway and looked about. Kathryn was right: Chinese surrounded her. She wished she’d spoken up to her friend and said, “Why, yes, you’re right, hurrah for the revolution!” She wanted to shout it now.

  Instead, she headed for the piano, which had stood untouched for weeks. She pushed open the cover, sat heavily on the bench, and, after a long pause, threw herself into playing. The dark, romantic riffs soothed her and stirred her and reminded her of the universality of life’s tragedies. She played with as much vigor as her sleep-deprived and hungry self could muster. She swayed and shut her eyes and tried to block out everything else. When she opened her eyes again, Dao-Ming was at her side, and for once, the girl didn’t startle Shirley. Instead, her thick, sweaty palm on Shirley’s forearm gave a sense that they were all in this together. The music had brought the unfortunate Dao-Ming to her, and Shirley could offer these chords as a gift in return.

  Then the child pinched her with those dirty little fingernails, and Shirley stopped playing. “Damn it, child,” she said in English. “Don’t do that!”

  Shirley had not cursed in a long time. Caleb couldn’t abide it, and so she had changed her habits years ago, but it felt awfully good now. Then she noticed Dao-Ming’s eyes filling up. She patted the girl’s back and tried to soothe her.

  “I’m so sorry, love,” she said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Was the music too much for you?”

  Dao-Ming nodded.

  “I hope I didn’t bother the patient upstairs? How is she doing?”

  Da
o-Ming mouthed a word. They all knew that the girl understood language but seemed unable to use it either for physical or emotional reasons—Shirley had never bothered to consider the cause. But now she leaned forward and put her ear to the girl’s lips. Sound began to issue forth surprisingly smoothly, perhaps coaxed out of her by the inspiring music. Shirley hoped that was the case. She listened with great concentration, not wanting to misunderstand the Chinese syllables. But Dao-Ming spoke without trouble, and the word she said was “Dead.”

  Twelve

  Charles thrust the broom into the chimney pipe, and soot bloomed everywhere. His khakis and button-down shirt were streaked with ashes, his face and hands gone gray. He pushed back the Chinese Army cap, and his hair became dusted with it, too. He knew he had no business being up on the patched and splintered bamboo roof. But he plunged the chimney one more time, then made his way back down the ladder, whistling as he went. That he’d brought his own ladder seemed to him a heroic gesture, but the girl had hardly acknowledged it when he’d come up the alley with it teetering on his shoulder. He hopped from the bottom rung, and the billowing ash made him sneeze. She finally looked up from where she sat on the stone bench and giggled. Charles wiped his nose, which only seemed to amuse her more.

  “You’re funny,” she said.

  That wasn’t his intention, but he tried to make the best of it. At least her grandmother wasn’t around to spoil things with her sour tongue. The old woman’s snores floated out from the shack, offering a rather lousy soundtrack, Charles thought. In the movies, the leading man nonchalantly leans against something and looks down at the girl, who gazes up at him with adoring eyes while romantic music swells. Charles leaned against the wall of the mud shack now and looked down at this girl, who in turn looked down at her lap. He joined her on the bench and asked her name.