Chasing Down the Moon

by Carla Baku

  “Help me pull this out here,” Old Mol said. They maneuvered the tub out, and she called to Li Lau to open up. When the tub was in the girl’s room, she just stood there looking into the hallway.

  “Get stripped,” Old Mol said. “What in Christ’s name are you waiting for?”

  Li Lau closed her door, so slowly and so quietly that Ya Zhen didn’t hear the latch catch.

  “You clean this mess,” Mol said, pointing at a few streaks of bathwater on the floor. “I don’t want anyone taking a tumble in their hurry to pay you a visit.” She gave Ya Zhen’s cheek, a hard pinch, and lumbered back downstairs, humming tunelessly.

  Ya Zhen used her own towel to wipe the floor. Her hand itched to slam the door to her room, to feel the reverberation. She had done it before. Old Mol had opened the door and said simply, “Half-price.” Nine men had used her in the course of two hours, one of them so drunk he had vomited in her bed.

  She built up the fire, slipped out of her clothes, and put on the dressing gown. She pulled the one small chair close to the grate and rubbed her hair with her shirt, not wanting to use the dirty towel. As she combed her hair, she let it fall through her hands in a wide fan, over and over, until it was almost dry and she could hear the first men climbing the rickety stairs behind the hotel.

  Byron Tupper was drinking whiskey with Billy Kellogg in the alley behind Kennedy’s tavern. They passed a bottle between them and tried to decide where to go to get warm. Old man Kennedy was willing to sell a bottle out the back door, but wouldn’t let them drink inside.

  “You ever been to the Western?” Billy asked, smirking. He had large ears that stuck out from under his hat. The cold afternoon made his nose run.

  “Couple times,” Byron said. He took another swig from the brown bottle and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. It was a lie. He was eighteen and had never been inside the big Western Hotel, let alone upstairs with one of the fancy women.

  “Maybe we should go there tonight,” Billy said.

  “You got money?”

  “Not much. How much is it?”

  “More’n we got.”

  Billy picked up a handful of stones and started chucking them at the back of Reilly’s livery. Each made a small thud, and the horses inside shifted nervously. “You can get a chink whore at Salyer’s for fifty cents, I heard.”

  “At Salyer’s? Where’d you hear that?”

  “John Carter’s uncle told him. Said they’re cheaper ’cause they aren’t built like a white woman.” He leaned close and spoke in a low voice, blowing whiskey smell. “They got two…you know. Places to put it.”

  Byron had just taken a mouthful and he choked on it. He started laughing and coughing. “The hell you say.” He was getting warm, feeling the alcohol loosen his joints. “Johnny Carter wouldn’t know where to put it unless he saw hooves.”

  “Na, he’s been practicing on his old grandma.” Billy doubled over laughing at his own joke and fell off the barrel he’d been perched on.

  “You’re spilling the whiskey, shit bird. Gimme that.”

  Billy staggered to his feet and brushed off the seat of his pants. “C’mon, Byron. I got enough money, let’s go.” He threw another rock at the livery and hit the window. The glass shattered and a horse banged into the wall. A man began shouting, and the boys bolted between the buildings toward the street, laughing.

  Salyer’s Hotel was a sprawling, three-story building near the bay. The boys stepped inside and the heat from the fireplace was stifling. The lobby was ornate, polished wood floors and a plush runner of burgundy carpet in front of the main desk. They stood close to the door, holding their hats.

  “What do we do?” Billy asked.

  “I don’t know how they do it here,” Byron muttered. Small beads of sweat formed on his upper lip.

  A black-haired man came out of a back room and stepped behind the desk. Byron recognized Clarence Salyer.

  “Help you, boys?” he said. He was in shirtsleeves and a brown vest, hair slicked with pomade.

  Billy, so anxious to arrive, now hung back running his hat in circles through his hands. He nudged Byron with his elbow. Byron cleared his throat and approached the desk.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Salyer, we, uh…we heard—” Everything he thought to ask seemed impossible in this elegant lobby. “That is, we heard that there might be something a fellow could do here, that is, that there are certain rooms—” He trailed off, staring at his feet, blushing fiercely.

  “You go around back, take the back stairs,” Salyer said, his voice pitched low. “Don’t come in here for that. You knock on the door up there and there’s a lady who’ll see to it.”

  Byron nodded vigorously and turned to go. His head felt oddly heavy from the whiskey and the heat of the fire. He grabbed Billy’s sleeve and pulled him out the door.

  The boys hurried around the corner of the building, not looking at each other. They found the back entrance up a steep, splintered staircase that felt like it might give way if they trod too hard. Byron knocked and a bolt was drawn on the inside. A woman who looked nearly as old as his grandmother opened the door. Her face was long and jowled like a bloodhound over the high collar of her dress. She looked them up and down.

  “Kinda early. You have money?”

  “We do,” said Byron. Billy stood behind him again. The wind off the bay buffeted him on the exposed staircase and he held his hat on with one hand.

  She stepped back and cocked her head to motion them inside. They stood on a small landing at the head of a dark hallway on the far side of the hotel. When she shut the door, Byron could barely see.

  “This way.” She led them down the hall. There was a small gas lamp in the center, and doors on either side. She stopped short and turned.

  “It’ll cost more if you want to go together.” Neither boy took her meaning and stood mute. “If you want the same girl at once,” she said, sounding tired.

  Billy managed to speak up. “No ma’am, we didn’t want…we each wanted our own,” he said. “How much for that?”

  “Dollar apiece.”

  “We heard that you could get a Chinese for less,” Billy mumbled.

  The woman snorted. “All we got here is Chinese, and it’s a dollar each for twenty minutes. If you got money, let’s have it. Otherwise get out. I’d like to have some supper.”

  The boys stood together and dug in their pockets. Between the two of them they found the two dollars. Byron handed it to the woman, who slipped it into her pocket. She pulled out a ring of keys. “One of you in here,” she said, striding ahead. Billy trotted after her. When they passed under the gas lamp, he looked back over his shoulder at Byron, grinning. Without knocking, she let him into a room and closed the door behind him.

  She opened the door nearest Byron. “Come on,” she said, “the clock’s ticking.”

  Byron stood behind her, running a hand through his hair. His heart thudded against his ribs. His erection poked out the front of his pants and he held his hat low to cover it.

  “Twenty minutes,” the woman said, and promptly shut him inside.

  The bed was narrow, its curving iron headboard flaked with rust. A curtain was pulled aside at the only window, which showed his own awkward reflection. The young woman, dressed in a faded yellow robe, stood next to a small grate where a low fire burned. She stood sideways, not looking at him. He was stunned by the delicate line of her brow and jaw. Her long hair was down, falling in a black sheet past her waist.

  “Hello, miss.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scarcely breathing. When he made no advance, she stepped toward him, her eyes on the floor. She walked behind and slid his coat from his shoulders. He let her take it, hang it over a chair, then his hat. His pulse roared in his ears. Now standing in front of him, the girl began to unbutton his shirt. He could look at the precise part in her hair. As she opened his shirt, he placed his palm on the back of her head. She stiffened and stood very still. When he did nothing but rest his hand on her
, she reached for his belt. He gently took hold of her wrist.

  “Wait. What’s your name?” He was whispering. She didn’t respond. He let go of her arm and put his hands on her two cheeks. He tried to tilt her face up, but she turned her profile to him again. This close he saw that her bottom lip was swollen and a small cut bisected it. Byron tried to kiss her, wanting to taste the salt of that little wound, to feel the swollen lip against his. Gently twisting her head away, the girl stepped backward and untied her robe. He was electrified, yanking his pants down in a rush and pulling her onto the bed. He thrust himself between her legs and she guided him with her hand. This was unexpected, and filled him with the tender sense that she wanted him. It was enough to set him off, and before he was fully inside her his orgasm hit. He collapsed, and she lay underneath him, motionless. He put his face into her neck and breathed deeply, cupped her breast. She lay perfectly still, and he could feel the exquisite sense of love running between them like a taut cord.

  When he rolled off, she sat up, pulling her gown closed. He felt ludicrous, vulnerable with his pants around his ankles, his shoes still on. He scooted off the bed and pulled his pants up. The girl held out his shirt. Byron took it and fumbled at the buttons, but when she reached for his coat, he caught her by the shoulders. She tried to step away and he held her.

  “Talk to me,” he said. “Tell me your name.”

  “No name.” So quiet, he could barely hear her.

  “Please,” he whispered. “My name is Byron.”

  She nodded, staring at the floor again.

  “Byron,” he said again.

  She said his name, a soft slur of the R.

  “Pretty close,” he said. “Now tell me yours.” He tried to turn her toward him, again wanting to kiss her, but she stood stiffly, holding the dressing gown closed, her hair falling all around her.

  Without preamble, the door opened.

  “That was quick,” the old woman said. “Good. Out you go.” Byron could see Billy standing in the hallway behind her.

  He picked up his hat and caught a last look at the girl before the door shut. He and Billy passed three men standing in the stairwell, one white and two Chinese. No one made eye contact, and it was too dark to see much anyway.

  “Elsie Dampler is a small-minded busybody.” Hazel Cleary moved around the large kitchen like a locomotive, washing dishes and putting cookies in the oven for the meeting. “Her type is never happy without a sour word to spread.”

  “Yes, exactly,” said Rose. “The spreading is what worries me.” She tested one of the two clothes irons heating on the stove with a wet forefinger, then smoothed it across the snowy expanse of the tablecloth. “It’s certainly not Elsie’s opinion of me I care for. The woman is a bird brain. I can only imagine what the story will be the next time I hear it. She’ll have us in flagrante delicto.”

  Hazel laughed. “I don’t know what that means and I don’t want to know.”

  “It was a touch on the hand. That’s all.” She turned her face away, hoping her aunt wouldn’t see any trace of a blush rising. In the retelling, Rose had made the incident at the mercantile sound like a mere accident of timing, that Bai Lum’s hand happened to graze hers just as Elsie Dampler put her face to the window.

  “It’s enough.”

  Rose banged down the iron in her hand, now cooling, and grabbed up the other.

  “Give that to me.” Hazel took the iron. “In your state you’ll scorch the good linen.”

  “If they’re going to hang me, I should have enjoyed something worth hanging for.” This was the actual truth, and now she really did feel her face go red.

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Hazel said. “I’m sure he’s a lovely man, Rose, but you know as well as I do how it is for the Chinese.” She worked the iron in long, even strokes. “When I arrived in this country, it was bad for the Irish. When I first got to New York I looked for work as a housekeeper or just anything, you know. I had a lady look me right in the eye and say the Irish were no better than fleas.”

  “That’s despicable.”

  She waved her free hand like shooing a fly. “It’s pure ignorance. That woman wasn’t a generation from coming over on the boat herself, from somewhere. But that’s the way it is, Rose. A nation of immigrants, every one looking to be better than the next, and the lot of them like a dog biting on its own tail. Here now, help me put this on the parlor table.” They carried the warm linen into the front parlor.

  “Did you know he has a sister?” Rose said.

  “A sister here?”

  “She lives with him over the store. She’s young. Maybe fourteen or fifteen.”

  “I had no idea. You don’t see many women down there, do you?”

  “I had no idea, either. All the times I’ve been in the mercantile, never seen hide nor hair of her. Then today—one moment she wasn’t there, and poof! There she was right in front of me.” She told Hazel about the girl repeating the word yes, yes. “I think it may be all the English she knows. I wonder if Bai Lum would like me to tutor her.”

  They draped the tablecloth over a large side table that had been pushed to the wall. “You may be playing with fire,” Hazel said mildly. “Especially after what happened this afternoon.”

  Rose felt the old resistance needling around inside her. “I don’t care, you know that. Let them talk about me.” She twitched one corner of the tablecloth to even it. “It’s not like that’s anything new, is it?”

  Hazel looked at her across the snowy expanse of the empty table. “You can’t play ignorant about this. You may say you don’t care what other people think, but you should care. A great deal, in fact.”

  This was so unlike Hazel —who could be counted on to thumb her nose at sanctimony— that the argument was knocked right out of her head. “I’m not going to…I don’t—”

  “For the sake of your friend, Rosie. He depends on the good graces of the whole town to keep his business, but it’s much more than that, and you know it.” She touched Rose’s hand, the skin of her palm warm and rough. “Only a fool raps a stick against a hornet’s nest.”

  At seven o’clock, a fire blazed in the hearth of the front parlor and reflected in the tall windows opposite. As the women arrived, Mattie —recruited by Hazel that morning— stood at the door and collected coats and wraps. Rose showed everyone into the parlor, which was filled with folding chairs borrowed from the Congregational Church. Two of the group’s members had come a little early to help set up, and both seemed cheerful and unconcerned; Rose assumed they hadn’t yet heard the rumors.

  Woman after woman pushed into the Kendalls’ parlor. Rose felt a little queasy. She had only been to two other WCTU meetings, and neither of them had been anywhere near this packed with people. The folding chairs were soon filled, as were the upholstered wing chairs and six side chairs from the dining room. Two women even sat side-by-side on the chaise longue. By all accounts, it was a full house. At least two whispered conversations abruptly ceased when Rose entered the room, but she just kept smiling and thanking the guests for coming.

  Finally, just before the meeting began, Elsie Dampler arrived.

  Rose straightened, pulled back her shoulders, and fixed what she hoped was a welcoming expression on her face. It felt to her that every eye in the room was on her now.

  “Rose!” Elsie exclaimed, as if she hadn’t seen her in years. “I’m so glad to be here tonight. The weather is turning nasty, did you see?”

  She thought Elsie did look glad, that she looked happier than a pig at the trough. She and Elsie typically had little to say to one another, since Rose had neither the time nor the patience to listen to Elsie’s pretentious, behind-the-hand natters. Weather seemed like a safe enough topic, though.

  “Is it raining again? I’m going to develop webbed feet if it keeps up this way.”

  Elsie glanced down at Rose’s shoes as if she expected to see the mutation in progress. Then she batted at Rose’s shoulder with a coy grin
. “Rose Allen, you’re a caution.” She wiggled her fingers at someone on the far side of the room and began to work her way through the press of bodies.

  Rose kept the little smile plastered to her face like armor, and stayed near the door.

  Once the room was full to bursting, the Congregational minister’s wife, Lucy Huntington —acting president of the WCTU— addressed them. She was a tiny person, not even five feet tall, and she stood on a small footstool to be more easily seen.

  “Thank you all for coming this evening. Thanks also to Hazel Cleary and Rose Allen, and to Prudence Kendall, of course, for hosting us this month.” The group smiled and nodded, and there was a polite smattering of applause. “Before we begin, are there any announcements?”

  Annabella Briggs, wife of a wealthy timberman, stood and faced everyone, impeccably dressed in clothing purchased in San Francisco. She and her husband Daniel lived next door to the Kendalls, and Rose had tutored their daughter Juliet in upper mathematics. “I’m sure you all remember,” Annabella said now, “that the temperance recital is a week from tomorrow at the school. How many of you are recitation leaders?” Four or five hands went up. “Wonderful,” she said. “Be sure you tell the children they must be at the school at least a quarter-hour before the program begins.” She sat again, smoothing her hands over her lap.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Briggs,” Lucy said. “Now ladies, I open the floor for ongoing business.”

  Mary Reilly, a slight woman with buck teeth, stood. Her husband owned the livery behind Kennedy’s tavern and he was known to be a prodigious drinker. “Madam Chairwoman, I’d like to address the issue of suffrage,” she said. “As you may recall, we did not have time last month to open a discussion regarding votes for women, and the matter was tabled.” She sat again, and a quiet rustle ran through the room.

  “Yes,” said Lucy, “the chair recognizes the issue of women’s suffrage, to be adopted as a tenet of our chapter, open for membership discussion.”

  Prudence Kendall raised her hand. Captain David Kendall’s wife was a soft-spoken woman with a mass of faded brown hair. “When I opened this matter for discussion last month,” she said, “I suggested that our local WCTU might adopt suffrage. Several chapters have done so recently, and I applaud their progressive thinking.”