Where The Stars Rise: Asian Science Fiction and Fantasy

by Law, Lucas K.

  “Why are you crying, Mama?”

  “It’s so beautiful,” Mama said, smiling.

  Rose turned back toward the horizon. Fiery hues were slowly turning grey-blue.

  “It’s almost over,” Rose said.

  “That is why I weep.”

  Mama pulled her close. Rose leaned her head on Mama’s shoulder trying to understand.

  Rose wished she could spend one more day with Mama, staring at a sunset such as this. Now, here with Papa, that rickety dock seemed so far away.

  She cleared her throat. “Hasagawa-san said he could get you to unload the trucks. He would pay us two dollars—”

  “Quiet.”

  “Or I could help you make tofu. Mama showed me—”

  “I said quiet!”

  Papa reached in the half-full bucket, pulled out a misshapen tofu block and showed it to her. It broke apart in his hand. Rose stared at the bulbous clump of bean curd, avoiding her father’s eyes.

  “This is living. No one will give you living. Everything comes with a cost. We—I have to make it for us.” He threw the tofu over the fence. It broke into pieces in the air. “No charity.”

  Rose gripped the wagon’s rope, her knuckles as white as snow. She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. They could have eaten that tofu. What a waste. He wouldn’t have listened anyway. Maybe that was the problem. How could she convince others of her usefulness if Papa wouldn’t even believe? She had to make him.

  “It’s not fair. Mama’s gone. Why won’t you let me—”

  “Enough!” Papa’s voice echoed through the swaying trees, scaring the geese.

  They walked in silence the rest of the way home. Rose’s stomach gurgled as they walked down Powell Street and through the chilly breezeway toward their lane house behind the Hori-zen grocery store. Rose wanted to apologize for her outburst; she didn’t know what came over her. But she knew Papa would only grunt and continue walking.

  Rose shivered as Papa stepped on the narrow porch in front of their lane house. He removed his shoes and placed them, as always, on the straw mat beside Mama’s leather buckled t-strap shoes. Rose put hers on the opposite side and followed her father in. By the time she put on her slippers and hung her jacket on the wooden coat rack, Papa had already lit the oil lamp on the kitchen table.

  Long shadows flickered over buckets of milky liquid, half a dozen homemade tofu presses with moist cloths tumbling over their edges. An old copper pot gazed at her from atop the potbelly stove. Mama’s favourite pot.

  Rose breathed deeply, imagining the tantalizing aroma of shoyu and mirin mingling into a thick teriyaki, or chicken broth fragranced with ginger root and onion. But the pot just stared back, cold and empty, the scent vanishing from memory, replaced by the lingering odour of stale soy milk, bean curds, and lye. Why won’t he let her help? He needed her. He just didn’t know it.

  Mama’s urn sat atop a chest of drawers surrounded by two burned-out wax candles, a bowl filled with dry rice covered in ash from three spent sticks of foul-smelling red incense, and a small plate of mandarin oranges. They couldn’t afford a proper butsudan, so the chest, with its white flaky paint, became her makeshift shrine.

  Buried behind the urn rested a small black and white photograph with Mama’s placid face staring at her.

  It wasn’t fair. Mama always smiled. She was the bright centre in a crowded room. Rose could still see her laughing and dancing around the kitchen even as Papa chided Mama like a scowling samurai for acting so un-Japanese. This photograph wasn’t her. It was a death mask, beckoning them to join her.

  Not if she could do something about it.

  Papa took the urn from atop the cabinet, pulled it to his chest, and disappeared without a word through the curtained French door leading to the one-cot bedroom in the back. The door rattled shut.

  Rose sighed. She wouldn’t see him until after sunrise, maybe not before noon. By then, she would be gone.

  Rose flopped onto the threadbare red velvet chair near the door and pulled Dr. Trask’s calling card from under a thin pillow. He was hakujin, but if she was to be as much help for Papa as Mama ever was, she had to pay him a visit. Papa would never approve. She wasn’t going to give him a choice.

  Rose melted into the high-backed, dark leather chair in Dr. Trask’s brightly lit consulting office, marvelling at the white and glass cabinets filled with flasks of red and green, stainless steel and glass syringes, and small cardboard boxes no doubt filled with the most advanced medicine. The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol and formaldehyde stung her eyes like the white pickling vinegar Mama used to make meboshi. This was a place of science. Real medicine, not the greasy ointments and bitter medicinal soups from that Chinese pharmacy on East Hastings.

  But it was the red and gold kimono framed under glass and hanging on the dark, wooden wall that caught her attention.

  “I want an arm.” Rose pointed at Dr. Trask’s mechanical hand. “Just like yours.”

  Dr. Trask leaned back in his chair, deep in thought as if contemplating the gravity and enormity of the request. “How old are you, Miss Rose? Ten? Eleven?”

  “Thirteen,” she said. “Old enough.”

  “Not for some decisions,” Dr. Trask said. “Does your father know you’re here?”

  Rose shook her head. “He would not approve.”

  “Have you thought about the consequences?”

  Again, Rose shook her head.

  Dr. Trask removed his lab coat, rolled up his sleeve and put his mechanical arm on the table. He pressed a button hidden near his elbow. Gears wheezed and clicked and ground to a halt. With a snap, Dr. Trask twisted the arm off and placed it on the table in front of her. A rounded brass socket was connected to the stub of flesh and bone that was his upper arm.

  “Sometimes, Miss Rose, flesh is better than metal.”

  But Rose wasn’t listening. She leaned in, staring at the lustrous arm laying only inches in front of her.

  “The grafting process,” continued Dr. Trask, “permanently adheres the socket to your body. It cannot be undone without great injury. Though some minor allowances can be made for growth, the socket should be attached when you are mature.”

  A knot formed in the pit of Rose’s stomach. She felt dizzy. Was he trying to scare her?

  Dr. Trask picked up the arm and rotated it to give Rose a better look. “The arm itself is custom fitted and fabricated with the finest in German manufacturing before it is assembled and imported by airship. It requires regular maintenance and repairs that can only be completed by a qualified nurse technician, all of whom are expensive.” He leaned across the desk, his eyes locking on hers. “Can you pay, Miss Rose?”

  Rose shook her head again.

  “Then there is nothin’ more to say.”

  Rose gulped. She glanced at a small mirror on Dr. Trask’s desk. Had she made a mistake coming here? The world revolved around money and she had nothing to barter with. They sold everything, including Mama’s prize sewing machine, to pay for food and soybeans. The well had run dry. It would take years, decades, to afford such a wonder. How could she ever expect to pay for it working in Maikawa as a clerk or stock girl?

  Her thoughts turned to Mang, who begged for money to pay for the expensive repairs and upgrades to his goggle-sized mechanical eyes, his real ones traded in, the price for some nameless benefit long since forgotten. One of the many Chinese who crossed the Pacific to build airship stations atop the Rockies. Papa called him foolish. “Body is all you have,” he said. “Trade your body, lose your soul.” After giving away all your possessions, what more do you have to bargain with?

  Rose gritted her teeth. No, she hadn’t made a mistake. Papa needed—she needed—that arm.

  “You said you would help us,” said Rose as Dr. Trask latched the brassy limb back onto the socket. The arm whirred to life. “You said that if there was anything we needed—”

  “This is not what I intended, Miss Rose.”

  “You offer he
lp and then turn me away. Do you do this to everyone or just Japanese?”

  “Now you’re not bein’ fair, young lady—”

  The office door creaked open and a stern, grey-haired nurse peeked in.

  “Is everything okay, Herr Doktor?”

  He gazed at Rose and then nodded. “Everythin’ is fine.”

  The nurse glared at Rose before closing the door.

  “Name your price, Dr. Trask,” said Rose. “I will pay whatever it takes.”

  He leaned back in his chair, steepling his flesh and metal fingers.

  “There is, perhaps, one thing you can do, Miss Rose,” said Dr. Trask. “Now before you say no, hear me out.” He gestured toward the kimono hanging on the wall. “I have an appreciation for the Oriental much more than average. And so do many of my patients.” He looked at her, their gazes locking.

  “Has anyone told you how exquisite your eyes are?”

  Long shadows hung over the lane house as Rose approached the screen door, removed her shoes, and placed them beside Mama’s shoes. Papa’s boots sat on the other side. Rose swept the dust off Mama’s shoes before opening the creaky screen door, her heart pounding through her bright yellow cotton dress.

  Papa slouched on the velvet-covered chair, staring at the kitchen table, the remnants of the previous day’s tofu-making strewn about the kitchen table. The sour odour of spoiled soy milk hung in the air.

  “You came home, eh?” said Papa, his gaze still fixed toward the kitchen, refusing to turn toward her.

  Rose smiled as she slid into her slippers.

  “Yes, Papa. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I woke up to find a cold floor and you already gone.”

  She winced. Since Mama died, Papa expected her to put wood in their potbelly stove to warm their home before he rose, a duty she neglected that morning.

  “Sorry, Papa,” she said quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

  “And where did you go so early? Did you go to school?”

  “No.”

  “Did you watch the baseball game?”

  “No.”

  “Or—” he said. The chair creaked as he turned his gaze toward her. “Perhaps you went to visit Dr. Trask.”

  Her eyes widened. He knew. How?

  “No. I—Papa, I can explain—”

  “Enough,” he said, his voice rumbling. He rose from the chair and loomed over her. “I went to Maikawa for more soybeans and Mrs. Hasegawa said she saw you enter his office. A hakujin’s office. What were you thinking?”

  “I thought he could help. He offered—”

  “What? What did you hope to get? A job?”

  “No. I . . .”

  He glanced at her right side, where her arm should have been. “An arm. You wanted to get an arm like his.”

  Rose nodded. “Yes. For us. For you. With an arm, I could get a job. I could help you make tofu. We could eat.”

  “How much?” he said. “Hakujin do nothing for free.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “How much?”

  Rose jumped. Papa’s voice always boomed in her ears, whether it was saying good night or whether it was punishing her. But he had never raised it like this before. The hobos down by the rail cars could probably hear him bellow.

  “My eyes. If I give him my eyes, he will give me an arm.”

  “So you would be blind? Nonsense.”

  Rose shook her head. “No. Dr. Trask would replace them with mechanical eyes. I’d still be able to see.”

  “You pay to see when mechanical eyes break.”

  Like Mang, thought Rose. Would she end up begging in the street just to see through broken eyes?

  “The poor pay with their bodies,” Papa said, shaking his head. “I won’t allow it.”

  No. That was his answer. That was always his answer. Even before the accident and especially after it. How long could she go on accepting this answer? They were already on the brink.

  Rose huffed. “Papa, we need this arm now, not five years—”

  “Enough.”

  Rose gritted her teeth. Everyone said she had her mother’s dark brown eyes. So beautiful. She didn’t want to part with them. She would always wonder if someone she passed on the street wore her eyes. Until now, she didn’t know if she could live with that decision. Now, it seemed crystal clear.

  Rose turned toward the screen door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out,” she said, kicking her slippers across the floor.

  A rough, calloused hand grabbed her left forearm, pulling her back and almost pulling her arm out of its socket. Rose turned about. Papa pulled her toward the bedroom.

  “You are not getting that arm,” he said.

  Rose dug her heels in to the floor and flailed her right stump to grab something. But within seconds, Papa flung her onto the bed and slammed the door shut. With the audible click of a key, he locked the door.

  Rose leapt up from the bed and yanked at the doorknob. She had thought the French door was old and flimsy, ready to fly off its hinges. Yet, as hard as she pulled at it, the door wouldn’t budge.

  Rose banged on the French door. “Papa, let me out. Papa.”

  “I’m putting a stop to this arm nonsense, once and for all,” he said.

  The screen door thumped shut.

  Rose awoke to the click of a key in a lock. She opened her eyes, still red and swollen from crying herself to sleep. She glanced bleary-eyed at the bright sunlight streaming through grimy barred windows. Birdsong danced in her ears. It was already morning. Papa should have been home hours ago.

  The bedroom door opened. The squat, barrel-like Mr. Hasegawa stood in the doorway.

  Not wanting to appear rude, Rose sat up on the bed, straightened her clothing, and said hello. “Where is Papa?” she asked.

  “In jail,” said Mr. Hasegawa.

  Rose leapt out of bed. “What happened? Is he hurt?”

  “Police say he attacked Dr. Trask,” he said.

  Rose gasped. For all his bluster, Papa was a peaceful man.

  “Dr. Trask is pressing charges because of you,” he said. He beckoned to her with stubby fingers. “Come with me. Your Papa asked me to take care of you until he returns.”

  “No,” she said. “I have to see him.”

  “Fine,” he said. He turned and walked to the front door. “I’ll be at my store if you need anything.”

  She could tell he had already passed judgment.

  Mr. Hasegawa picked up an envelope by the door. “This came for you.” He handed it to her, and with a wave, he left.

  Rose opened up the envelope and read the note. Her heart fell as she sank onto the threadbare red velvet chair. It was an eviction notice. On top of everything else, in two days they would lose their home. She was alone now, with no money and no job. The mechanical arm remained a dream.

  She threw the paper aside and curled into a ball on the old creaky chair, its metal springs jabbing her sides through the fabric. What more could she do? Maybe she could run away and join the Chinese migrants building airship ports near Kelowna or Hell’s Gate. Better yet, join an airship crew and fly south to San Francisco or Hawaii. Anywhere but here.

  But she would have to leave Papa behind.

  Rose glanced at her stump. Who was she kidding? She would never be hired on an airship, let alone be allowed to help a port construction. Something glinted in the bright morning sun. She turned toward the potbelly stove and eyed Mama’s favourite copper pot.

  Escaping onboard an airship might be impossible, but maybe she could still help Papa.

  Rose stood up and walked to the stove. She stoked it with wood and lit it before dragging Mama’s copper pot outside for water. She struggled to lift the full pot onto the stove without spilling too much water before grabbing a handful of soybeans and tossing them in. The least she could do was visit Papa in jail and give him some tofu to eat. It was all they had left.

  Rose’s heart sank as she stepped into the sma
ll grey room and the steel door slammed behind her. Her father sat motionless on a steel-framed bed behind iron bars. His shoulders slumped, and he stared at the cold grey floor. Only his arms, bloody and bruised, kept him from collapsing onto the thin mattress. Even his undershirt, normally bleached bright white, now torn and covered in dirt, fell limply across his shoulders.

  The police said he had resisted arrest, and by the looks of it, he had put up quite a fight.

  “Papa?”

  He turned his head slightly. A swollen, blackened eye glared back at her. “Leave me alone.”

  “But Papa—”

  “I told you to stay with Hasegawa-san. For once, can’t you listen?”

  Rose clenched her jaw and her cheeks grew as hot as their stove. He didn’t want her here. Why should she bother? She opened her mouth to yell at him, to scream. But only silence passed her lips.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” said Rose.

  Rose slipped a chipped porcelain bowl of tofu through the iron bars, taking great care not to spill the tofu sprinkled with a few green shallots she found tucked away in a cupboard and ladled with a bit of shoyu for flavour. But of the tofu, she was proud. Firm and cut into perfect one-inch cubes, she arranged them in a small pyramid. She counted herself lucky that the police station was only a few blocks from home.

  Rose reached into her handbag and pulled out a pair of chopsticks. She dropped them on the edge of the bowl with an audible clack.

  She turned to leave when she heard the groan and creak of old steel springs. She looked back. Her father, still sitting on the edge of the bed, picked up the bowl of tofu with shaky hands, eyeing the delicate white cubes hungrily.

  Holding the bowl in one hand, with chopsticks, he picked up a square of tofu, a sprig of shallot balanced precariously near the edge, and lifted it to his dry, cracked lips. His eyes widened as he ate it and then lifted the bowl to his mouth to shovel down more.

  “Tanaka Tofu-ya?” Papa asked between bites.

  Rose shook her head. “I made it.”

  Her father stiffened. He turned and stared at her, a dazed look in his eyes.