Water Ghosts

by Shawna Yang Ryan

  I found berries, Sai Fung says. In her outstretched palm, bruised blackberries and pink stains. Little seeds speckle her teeth.

  We can make a pie, Corlissa says. Then to So Wai: A letter for you came. I think it’s in english.

  So Wai blinks at the Christ. Read it, please.

  Corlissa nicks the corner, under the flap, with her fingernail and peels the top of the envelope. When the tear is a bit wider, she rips it open in jagged intervals. She wishes Howar were here. The letter is addressed to him; it would be his responsibility.

  Dear Sir,

  Regarding Yee Wei-fan; he arrived in May of 1923 in San Francisco and was employed, as of November 1927, at the Smith farm near Stockton. On November 22 of last year, Mr. Yee succumbed to tuberculosis and was buried in the Chinamen’s cemetery. We are very sorry to inform you of this news.

  So Wai does not move. Corlissa refolds the letter and puts it back in the envelope.

  Completely futile, So Wai says. Sai Fung curls her fingers around the berries. Juice bleeds into her knuckles. She touches So Wai’s shoulder. Corlissa tenses. She waits for panicked breath, a collapse to the ground, a warbling mourner’s scream.

  He’s in a better place, she says. Don’t feel ashamed to cry, Corlissa urges.

  So Wai takes the letter and presses it between her palms. Not knowing was worse than this.

  Sai Fung sets the berries on a seat and clasps So Wai’s hands between her own.

  Corlissa rolls the berries into her hand, rubs her finger over a spot. She’s embarrassed to watch the grief and comforting.

  She shrugs past them. Just a couple of bites, not enough for a pie. Still warm from the vine. If she lost Howar, she’d drown herself.

  CORLISSA HATES THE feeling of walking back home in the heat. The town is quiet, most people drawing into their homes for dinner, a few small children racing tricycles around a neighbor’s truck. The dogs are too tired to rise and merely follow the action with their eyes.

  This is the feeling of death.

  The thought startles Corlissa and gives her goose bumps. She opens the front door and steps into the living room. The curtains are drawn and the windows are closed. She’s filled with such sadness, such a hunger for sunshine and open windows. The air feels warm and sad and Corlissa’s sure that it comes from outside herself. For a moment, she hears So Wai’s scream, like a fox being torn apart by hounds.

  Corlissa drops the berries on Howar’s desk, claws her way out of the muffled room, and climbs the stairs. The clinging sadness has not left her, even beyond the reach of the living room. Corlissa lies down on the bed to cry.

  34

  RICHARD HEARS THE kitchen floor squeak. She’s up already, in the dawn light. He stretches his arms and legs across the bed, reveling in the space. He hears the clang of a pot, the whisper of water. He runs the back of his hand across his nose. A trail of moisture shines on his skin. He wipes his nose again, with the sheet.

  He will not work today. They’d sent him home from the Lucky Fortune just a few days ago, after he’d gone upstairs to the guard’s quarters and fallen asleep on the thin mattress. He had told them he was going upstairs to check up on things, but the heat in the little room had made him sleepy. He had writhed on the sheets, searching for cool spots. He shifted each time his body warmed the sheets and looked for another cool, untouched part of the bed. Finally, he’d fallen into a nap, breathing mustiness and lulled by the blurred roar below. When he stumbled downstairs, they tactfully ignored the redness in his eyes, the wetness that lined his nostrils, and suggested that he go home.

  A breeze whistles in around the window border. Richard pulls the top sheet over his shoulder. More sounds from the kitchen—scraping, a tinkle of light glass, shuffling. Ming Wai has insomnia. He knows she often lies awake long after he has drifted into sleep. She gets up before him and rackets around the apartment as if she wants to be sure her presence is noticed. on occasion, he has opened his eyes and found her watching him. She sits in the small chair in the corner. When he asks what she is doing, she quickly faces the floor and says she has lost something. What? he asks. She doesn’t answer.

  But she has not done that in a while. Richard reaches out and pulls the curtain aside. He doesn’t know what he expects to find; the view is the same every day—the brown wall of the building next door. Stained mattress propped on the landing. Gray sky beyond the lines of the roof. She’s singing now. He would shout for her to be quiet, but it is his favorite lullaby—a song his mother used to sing to him about a baby kidnapped by spirits to be raised in the mountains. The baby came down the mountain as a man to search for his old mother. He found the end of a tapestry and followed miles of brilliant woolen color to her hut. Ten feet woven for every day of his absence. It flowed through the door, across the garden, around the house, along the river, and to the mountain. At the doorway of the hut, the man looked in on his mother. She wove with squinting eyes, hand shaking at the loom.

  His mouth feels sticky, his lips coated with film. He runs two fingers over his teeth and gums. He wipes his mouth on the sheet again. He should get up. The blurriness of his unremembered dreams is gone; the traces of sleep have been stretched out of his body. He hasn’t left the apartment since he came home from the Lucky Fortune. He sits up and opens the window. The air is cold and fresh.

  He moans a little as he pulls himself from bed. Through the doorway, across the living room, and into the kitchen. Vegetable crates and crumpled newspaper surround Ming Wai. She stands on a chair, reaching her small arms into the cabinet. She pulls down glasses, steps carefully from the chair with a gasp, and sets them next to the other dishes hidden in paper.

  What are you doing?

  She pours some hot water into a mug. Drink some. Sit down.

  What are you doing? She’s flushed from the work and her hair is falling loose from its braid.

  I don’t want these things anymore. Look, I bought these instead. She pries open a box and takes out a blue dish from curls of packing straw.

  The money?

  This place isn’t so big. I found where you keep it. They delivered these this morning. Here, new linens. And this music box. She cranks the key. A little girl and boy, holding hands, spin around to the music.

  But these are my things.

  If he wasn’t so weak, he’d pack them up again, demand that she return them, perhaps break one to prove his outrage.

  She sits on the floor and wraps the glasses in newspaper. Richard sits at the table and sips the water. But these are my things, he says again.

  After you left, Siu Dai’s wife made all the decisions.

  Siu Dai’s wife?

  Yes. She unfolds a napkin. Pretty?

  Sure, sure. Why didn’t you write to me?

  And run to you like a big brother? How could anyone respect me then? I still don’t understand why you have an icebox and they have an electric one. America is funny.

  Tell me more.

  She wipes down her new plates and carefully stacks them.

  I have nothing to say.

  Where did you sleep? Did you have a servant?

  Sometimes with the children, mostly in your old room. A servant, yes.

  I worked in the pear orchard, he says. His life had been harder, he wants her to know. She would like him to feel guilty for leaving her to the mercy of his brother and his wife, but his life had been harder.

  I slept in a room full of men, some of them had no beds, and we worked sunup to sundown, in weather hotter than this. Weather so hot, every breath was a curse. They say that a man died and went to hell, then had the opportunity to be reborn in Sacramento. Well, he pleaded to be sent back to hell, because Sacramento was too damn hot. every day in that weather.

  You were uncomfortable. She sets the music box on the counter and turns the key. A tinny, unrecognizable song whimpers out.

  Tired to the bone. Hot. Sunburnt. Hungry sometimes too.

  All easily remedied, she says. Hungry? Eat. Hot? Step into the
shade. Tired? Go to sleep. You came by choice.

  I came for us. An old line, repeated before he left, then in his letters.

  I lost a husband. I lost face. How do you remedy that, Fong Man Gum? She opens the icebox. The shelves are bare and wiped down.

  35

  THE POSTMASTER RUNS a little bank out of a safe behind the counter. Someone stealthy has click-clicked the lock open and removed a thousand dollars. Only the postmaster has the combination. It would have taken a careful ear and steady, light fingers to sense the tiny catches where the magic numbers are revealed. A bit of dirt on the floor in front of the safe where the thief crouched, but no shoe print. The postmaster is not a sleuth, but he has a hunch. It is just past dawn; he may be able to retrieve the money.

  The sack lies on the preacher’s stoop, too big for its contents, sagging from empty space. The postmaster thrusts his hand inside, finds the neatly banded stacks of money. The thief is stupid too—he’s attached a note with his name. His wealth is not just boasting and here’s the proof. No one is stirring yet. The postmaster’s heart begins to pound. Is it unethical what he does? He tears the note from the twine. With the pencil that is perpetually tucked behind his ear and a slip of paper from his breast pocket, he scribbles something new. His name. His wealth is not just boasting and here’s the proof.

  36

  POPPY LOOKS ACROSS the street and sees something she has never seen before. Women, dressed up and laughing, walk into the Lucky Fortune. She pushes up the window and leans out. Yes, women, dressed up like the dreams of Hollywood in spangles and feathers. They’re having a party and she has not been invited.

  Even children arrive, holding their mothers’ hands. She sniffs. There are the delicate scents of cakes and soda pop and perfume and shaving cream. The smell of freshly brushed teeth. Something good and wholesome is happening in the gambling hall.

  TODAY IS THE day that the Weaving Maiden and the Ox Herd join across a river of stars. After the two fell in love and neglected their jobs—spiders overtook the loom and the oxen roamed hungry—angry gods separated them and forbade them to meet, save for on this one night, when Vega and Altair cross the Milky Way. It is a day for reunited lovers.

  In the doorway of the Lucky Fortune, Richard greets guests. It’s a monumental day in the gambling hall’s history—the first time women have been allowed to enter. The party celebrates Richard’s return to work, Ming Wai’s arrival, and the Festival of the Weaving Maiden. All the respectable families in town have been invited. Richard is tired of dusty floors and wet spittoons. He has covered the gaming tables with pretty cloths, laid out flowers and cookies, even bottles of wine.

  He’s weaker than ever. He has had to hammer out new notches in his belt and his shirt hangs loose in an unbecoming style. The tenderness in his feet gives him ginger steps. But his heart feels stronger. He had left China not quite in love with his wife. He has grown older here going about his life without her. But he has felt her here and not here, and he knows what choice he would make, over and over. She stands across the room talking to the other boat-women. The three of them stand under a lantern, their faces tight with interest. Ming Wai looks vibrant. Her hair is glossy and her eyes shine back every light in the room. Over there is the preacher, his whitewife, and their daughter; there, the owner of the haberdashery up the street; there, the butcher; and so forth. A few laborers have come as well, friends of Richard’s, those on a midweek break or out of work. As always, the men outnumber the women.

  THE PREACHER WOULD like to expand the church and its role in town. With his hands, he indicates the current layout of the north end of Second Street. His pinched thumb and fingers—a hand curving into a teardrop—bounce from here to there to represent buildings. The polish of a palm on an imaginary surface draws an invisible street. He pushes up his glasses. one listener falters, turns and fiddles with lighting a cigar. The preacher’s pause is a brief hiccup before he sweeps back into his gesturing and deep-night plans. The man with the cigar turns away to take some cookies. He eats as he watches the preacher talk. Crumbs fall on his shirt. He fans them away with his free hand. Hunger relieved, he renews his gaze on this newcomer who takes Bible learning as civic intelligence, who funnels a planner’s dreams and a founder’s pride into plans discussed under the Coleman lanterns of a minor gambling hall in a small Delta town.

  THE AUBURN-HAIRED GIRL stands against a table, sipping at a small cup of coffee. The other teenagers stand near a different table, giggling over glasses of soda. She watches them with a blank expression. She takes another sip and winces. She looks to see if anyone is watching. She scratches her nose. She looks again at the other girls. With her free hand, she tugs at her dress, slides an untied ribbon through her fingers again and again. When one of the girls glances over, relief breaks over her face. She smiles.

  THE WHITEWOMAN IS at the edge of a circle of women. She nods with every emphatic word spoken by the others.

  When the attention turns to her, her posture does not falter, though she reddens a little beneath her freckles. She speaks, and the others lean forward. Then they nod, and the conversation returns to the squat woman with the wild gestures. The whitewoman stands very still, her hands clasped before her, a crumpled napkin held between them.

  THREE WOMEN HUDDLE near a wall. They are blue-hazed, lighting up the corner. The youngest chatters for a bit, then falls silent, and no one answers, not the long-absent wife or the new widow. The one in mourning steps away and backs to the wall. The other two join her. They all have long black hair twisted into buns and eyes that flash and burn with dead light.

  RICHARD HOLDS HIS hand up for attention and says in english, excuse me, excuse me. The hush travels unevenly around the room, silence emerging from pockets of people until the Lucky Fortune goes quiet.

  He coughs. Thank you for coming. I hope all ladies and gentlemen will pause for a moment and enjoy a song. My wife and her friends arrived nearly two months ago. They would like to play something to express their thanks for your hospitality.

  The women begin as a chorus, together like the shudder of goose wings. Two voices fall away. So Wai sings alone. Her voice rises and collapses, whimpers and soars. The listeners who can’t tease out the words think of the last embers of a campfire doused with sand, or an old woman in the throes of death calling for her mother. The hairs on Richard’s arm rise.

  Those who came as couples seek each other’s hands for the comfort of skin. The women think of their husbands, the men they loved before their husbands, and the girlhood friends they’d loved before the men. The men think of dreams discarded, the wives left behind, or the wives still to be found. And the children try to wrap their minds around a future not yet imagined.

  Nothing flickers, not an eye nor a flame.

  There is the girl across the street. Sofia imagines her leaning over her sill, straining for this song like a girl longing for the moon. And the paper moon, flimsy and faking the real deal, yearns right back for her. Sofia can’t think her way to the future promised by the song when the present, twenty steps away, is held at bay.

  Corlissa finds herself waist-deep in the accumulation of the years. Her love building color like layers of paint. Devotion another plane intersecting with time and space. She looks across the room and catches Richard’s eye. He quickly looks away.

  Song, like scent, is a wrist-flick to the past. Richard is there and there and there. He doesn’t just think of Ming Wai, but of the family he has not seen for a decade. In every minute, in the million decisions he has made to come from there to here, a decade has passed. on his family’s side too, a million decisions, a divergence wider than this ocean. The word that Ming Wai has not yet dared to whisper: abandonment.

  The song ends. Women gather their coats and their children. The men put on their hats. No one can bring themselves to utter a word of good night or thanks and they trudge silently to their homes. The laborers forget the wine and the brothels and disperse to the fields, each making love with a fi
st. The husbands and wives shut their doors behind themselves. Their hearts skip with the click of the latch.

  POPPY STEPS THROUGH the open door of the Lucky Fortune. The whole place is deserted but the lanterns burn brightly. Food lies half eaten on the tables, cups half empty. She walks through, touching every warm seat, every fingerprinted glass. She dips her finger into the punch bowl and licks it. She presses cake crumbs to her tongue. She hears the song still resonating. It hides under tables, edges itself into corners, and waits. When she touches the wall, she feels the warmth of Richard’s hand on her pregnant stomach. She feels the ghost of a never-been baby turn inside her. She steps backward to the front of the Lucky Fortune and quietly closes the door.

  37

  The Never-Been Baby (1927)

  THOUGH THE DOCTOR had said Poppy See would never have children, every night for a month she had dreamt of babies. A baby arriving. But there was never the moment of its arrival—one moment it was not there; then, simply, it was. A shock of black hair, rolls of biscuity fat, and when it turned its eyes to her, the startle of blue eyes. All babies have blue eyes when they’re born, she told herself. Some nights, she woke from these dreams when it was still dark, stretched her hand for the lamp, and clicked it on. The room came up pink. She stared at the red and gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper for a few moments, until Richard muttered, What is it?

  Another baby dream.

  If you stop thinking of babies, you’ll stop dreaming of them. Shut off the light. Richard pressed his face into the pillow.

  Poppy clicked the lamp off and her hand drifted to her stomach. She rubbed and massaged, feeling for a swell, or the faintness of a heartbeat. All she felt was her pulse and the movement of her own breath.