by Carla Baku
Ya Zhen stayed, wiping Li Lau’s face and arms and legs, as the granny woman had done for her. She wished she had some of the elderflower water the old woman had used. For three more hours, while Old Mol alternately dozed upright and peered between the girl’s legs, Li Lau labored, twice vomiting into the bucket. Finally, the fetus slid into the world. Old Mol tugged on the umbilicus and the afterbirth came free. She wrapped baby and placenta in a rag and put it in a basin.
“This gets burned,” she said. “See to it while I get her clean.”
Ya Zhen left the room with the bowl, not looking, feeling her way down the dark inside stairs. In the hotel kitchen, she pulled a chair to the biggest stove, which was still warm from the banked fire inside. Even before she drew the rag back, she knew the child was alive. It was a tiny boy, no bigger than a squab. He grimaced, one translucent fist pressed at the side of his face. She put her hand under him, shocked at the delicate weight on her palm, his skin warm and thin, mottled with Li Lau’s blood.
She sat there in the dim kitchen with her back to the outside wall and held him in her hands. He moved more slowly as the hour slid away, the little chest rising and falling sporadically, until finally he lay still. Ya Zhen thought about a world filled with people, all of them beginning just like this fragile thing, no more harmful than a moth newly out of its cocoon. She wrapped him in the rag again. “Better for you,” she whispered. She opened the stove, stirred the coals, and poured on some kerosene. When it blazed up and lit the room, she lowered the little bundle, light as a held breath, into the flames.
Chapter 4
It was 6:40 in the morning, and Mattie wouldn’t look Rose in the eye.
Hazel had left a note that she had made coffee and was going to the Kendalls’ at the very crack of dawn. When Rose came downstairs, Mattie was already in the kitchen. Her dark hair was disheveled, but she had changed into night clothes at some point and wore a soft flannel wrapper. She leaned against the counter, holding her cup in two hands and gazing out the window. The sun was out, like a small miracle after the deluge of recent wet weather. Three African violets perched on the sill, and the sun lit the little hairs on the broad, furry leaves.
“Good morning, Mattie.”
She startled slightly, and pulled her robe tighter around her, tilting her head so that her hair fell in a little curtain across the side of her face. “Morning, Rose.”
“So, we have some sun today.”
“Indeed.”
Rose poured herself some coffee and sat at the table, giving Mattie a wide berth. After a few wonderfully hot and bitter sips, she cleared her throat. “Feeling well?”
“Me? Grand, Rose. Are you working today? Hazel’s gone off without you already.” She went to the dishpan and rinsed her cup, keeping her thin back to Rose.
“I’m going in a little while.” And as long as we’re talking about me, she thought, the less likely we are to talk about why you were moaning in the pantry last night. “Listen, Mattie,” she said, moving her finger through a few grains of sugar spilled on the tablecloth. “I’m keeping a big secret and it’s about to make me crazy.”
That did the trick. Mattie’s face was guarded and wan, but she met Rose’s eye. “A secret?”
Rose nodded. “May I confide in you?”
Mattie pulled out the chair opposite and raked the hair away from her face. “Of course. You can tell me anything.”
Rose currently harbored a multitude of secrets, it seemed —one for Mattie, one for Lucy Huntington— but this one was hers. Not quite believing she was doing it, she spilled the truth. “I’m in love, Mattie. I didn’t want to be in love. Part of me wishes I wasn’t. It’s a mess, really.”
Mattie’s eyes went wide. “Rose, no. It’s wonderful that you’re in love. That is, I know you’re an independent sort of person, but—”
Rose shook her head. “No. It’s not that, exactly. It’s…well, it’s complicated.”
“Doesn’t he love you back?” Mattie spoke in low, confidential tones and her freckled skin had pinked up. The idea of star-crossed love apparently agreed with her. “You aren’t unrequited, are you? That can’t be.”
In for a penny, Rose thought. “I believe my feelings are returned, yes. We haven’t spoken about it, but I think that he…I have a sense that he does feel the same. For me.” Rose’s face had now turned a much darker shade of pink than Mattie’s.
Mattie frowned at Rose, clearly confused. “Why is it a mess, then?”
“It would be a…a social impossibility. He’s—”
Mattie’s hand flew to her lips. “God, Rose,” she whispered. “You’ve gone and fallen in love with a married man.”
“Married?” Rose shook her head, a little stunned.
“What’s so impossible, then?”
“It’s Bai Lum. From the mercantile.” She couldn’t seem to say it fast enough. “I’m terribly and completely in love with Bai Lum. Elsie Dampler saw us yesterday, just my hand on his arm, or…him holding my hand, maybe, I don’t know. It was nothing, not really, and I don’t think she could even see. But I know she’ll be telling everyone that she caught us—”
Mattie’s face softened all at once and a host of emotions swam there: distress, anger, love. “To hell with Elsie Dampler,” Mattie said. “It’s grand that you’re in love. Really, it’s pure wonderful.”
Rose couldn’t help it—she stared. “Really?” she asked, dumbfounded. “You think it’s wonderful?” She needn’t have asked though, it was clear by her expression that Mattie meant it, right to the soles of her feet.
“Of course I do!” She pulled her chair so close to Rose that their knees touched, and leaned in, resting her elbows on her thighs, as if too tired to sit up straight. “Rose, listen. I have a secret, too. Nothing good about it.”
She told everything. How much she missed Ireland and wished she could go back. How she had longed for her father’s love all her life and had never seemed good or sweet or clever enough to keep his attention. How afraid she was of hurting Hazel’s feelings, who had been better to her than her own mother. And how she had gone to the opium room one night, a few nights after Christmas when she felt so lonely it was like a bottomless pit in her heart.
“Mattie, you can’t. You have to promise me. Last night you were so gone, like a ghost of yourself.” She squeezed Mattie’s cold fingers. “I can’t stand to think of you like that, out there somewhere like you were. Something terrible could happen.”
Mattie brought Rose’s hand to her lips and kissed it. She cried and promised. Last night had only been the second time, she said. Never again. Never.
“If you swear to me that’s done, I’ll believe you. We’ll keep each other’s secrets.”
“On my oath, my lips are sealed,” Mattie said, wiping her face on the sleeve of her robe. “But what will you do? About your dilemma?”
Rose stood and pulled Mattie to her feet. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said. “Not today, anyway” She hugged her. “Come on, then, we both have work to do. Mrs. Kendall is a softie, but Aunt will scorch me if I’m late. I hate to even imagine what that nasty Cora Salyer would say if you were tardy.”
Maddie nodded. “I can imagine it. Quite clearly. That woman has a curdled disposition.”
A few minutes later, as she washed and dressed, Rose felt an amazing liberty just for having told Mattie about Bai Lum, for saying it straight out loud. It didn’t change a thing, not really, but being able to say it —I love— was astonishing. She believed Mattie would keep it in confidence, too. Believed, actually, that Mattie was more likely to keep Rose’s secret than she was to keep her own promise about going out at night. She wished she didn’t think that, but there it was. Just thinking the word was too bizarre to make sense of. Rose whispered it to herself once, then twice: opium. Opium. It started to sound odd, the way a word does if it’s repeated over and over. It was a word out of a cautionary tale, some story not fit for the eyes of the average person, written for salacious per
iodicals sold on shadowy corners in big cities.
After Ya Zhen took care of Li Lau’s baby, she came upstairs to find that Old Mol had cleaned the girl, and the room as well, having rolled all the bloodied bedding into a pile by the door. Li Lau was tucked in, the blanket pulled to her chin, her round face still and ashen. “Never mind,” Old Mol said, “she’ll be fine in a few days. I’m afraid you’re going to be awful busy, though.” She made a toad-like sound that Ya Zhen took for a laugh. “See that these things get into the wash today. That’s good timing.” The hotel laundry was always done on Thursday, as opposed to the usual wash on Monday, iron on Tuesday rhythm of home life. Everything was done in a single day—wash, iron, and mend. This allowed a full complement of clean bedding for the rooms and clean table linens for the restaurant, all before the weekend trade got into full swing. Week in and week out, Wu Song and Wu Lin helped wash everything and had it hung out by half-past twelve to allow time for drying on the hotel roof.
Exhausted from the long and nearly sleepless night, Ya Zhen went to the window and pushed it open a few inches. The sky was just lightening in the east, clear and colorless, without a single cloud. She breathed in the cold air and watched as a raven, its features indistinguishable as a shadow’s, settled on the roof across the road and shook itself. Her palms echoed with the sensation of Li Lau’s son, the delicate beads of his curved spine as he tried to wake into this world, tried to breathe the air of the hotel. She pressed her hands together, tight as she could, to force the feeling away. The raven made a ratcheting sound, like the creak of a tree limb. She closed the window and stripped the bed, rolling Li Lau’s bloody linens inside her own dirty sheets. She had just changed into her daytime clothes —rough-woven trousers and tunic, baggy and faded with long wear— when there was a peremptory knock at the door. Cora Salyer opened and stood on the threshold. Her hair, a rusty dark color from the henna she used, was tied in rag curls that stuck out in wild confusion on her head. Dressed in a brown morning wrapper, she greatly resembled a scrawny and misshapen tree.
“You’re going to help with the laundry today,” Cora said. Her eyes traveled around the room as she spoke, from washstand to narrow window to the bare mattress on its iron bedstead. There were stains in several places, some old, brown; others were newer, still dark red. She grimaced and looked away. She rarely entered the girls’ rooms and carefully avoided this side of the hotel, although her husband made regular visits.
“You’ll work with the kitchen girl all day, the Irish girl. Once the wash is finished, you should have time to assist with some other cleaning. Do you understand? Plenty of time, before you have to…to be back here.” She clutched the neck of her wrapper so tightly Ya Zhen was surprised the woman could breathe. “No sloth. I absolutely won’t tolerate it.” She shook her head for emphasis and the rag curls bounced and bobbled. “Those older ones,” she said, meaning the Wu sisters, “will be out doing other errands, and Molly seems to think I can trust you. I’d use that other girl too, her in the next room, but I’m told she’s indisposed.” Ya Zhen knew Li Lau would not be doing any sort of work that day, would be lucky if she could squat on the bucket without help. “The kitchen girl will be here soon. Bring all of this.” She tipped her chin at the bundle of sheets, lips so thinned they were nearly invisible. “Molly will get you started. Hurry, so she doesn’t have to come up here after you. She does enough complaining as it is.” Cora Salyer walked out, not touching so much as the edges of the door. Ya Zhen waited until she had disappeared down the hall toward the main staircase. She gathered the pile of bedding and went the inside way, back down to the kitchen, back to the stove.
“I don’t disagree with your impulse. I’m concerned, though.” Standing at his oak commode, the reverend Charles Huntington wiped away the last bit of shaving soap from his neck. Age had softened the skin at his throat into a wattle, but the boxy line of his jaw remained firm, giving him a deceptively pugnacious profile. “There’s a danger that she could mistakenly unravel the whole effort with some innocent remark to the wrong person.”
“That’s what had me tossing all night,” Lucy said. “It seems we’re in a corner, though, don’t you think?” Standing in the open door of their bedroom, her eyes followed him as he finished dressing, his spotless white shirt, stiff collar, dark tie and black vest. “There’s no question she’s gotten emotionally attached to Bai Lum.” She sighed. “Which is a different kettle of fish entirely, but I can’t even think about that right now. After what happened yesterday, the girl actually coming into the store while Rose was there—well, now it’s just a matter of time before Rose realizes something unusual is going on.”
Charles bent and kissed the top of his wife’s head. He was quite tall, well over six feet, and towered over her. “If you think we can trust her, then we’ll have to,” he said. They had been married over forty years and he gave great credence to her instincts. He slipped into his day coat while they walked to the kitchen. Sun poured through the amber sidelights flanking the wide front door, painting bars of light across the entry hall. “Isn’t this weather a blessing,” he said.
“It is. Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee. Paper here?”
“Full of bad news,” Lucy said, and handed it to him. “Ranting and raving. No jobs, so let’s find a scapegoat.”
“As ever.”
Lucy nodded and looked out at the backyard, where every wet branch and blade threw off a coruscating reflection. The economic panic of the late ‘70s had brought a steady stream of men to Humboldt County, some with families, many on their own, all looking for whatever work they could find: lumber, fish, gold. There was virtually none of the latter and a great lot of the former, but even the largest timber operations could afford to hire only so many.
“Not all the shouters are the rough-and-ready crowd, anyway,” said Charles. “It’s coming from every quarter these days. Idiots like that fool in San Francisco. What’s his name, the big shouter?”
“Denis Kearney.”
“Yes, Kearney. Hate-mongering loudmouths, and the next thing you know they’re running for public office. Elected by the sheep. Baaa!”
Lucy laughed. “Are you going to eat something?”
“Just this.” He blew on his coffee and sipped it. “Now, I know I don’t need to tell you, but after what happened with Elsie Dampler yesterday, you’ll have to be extra careful at the mercantile. Bai Lum should keep the store open and you should all make yourself as conspicuous as possible. I wish I could come with you, but I told Mrs. Farley I’d visit this morning. Her husband’s so ill—there’s no putting it off.”
“Of course not. It’s better anyway. If we all showed up at the mercantile together it would only raise more attention. I’ll make sure Bai Lum understands that you’re putting the wheels in motion.”
“Good. I don’t know how quickly I can move the girl, but if we have to, if things get too complicated, we’ll bring her here.”
“I should probably start getting a room ready, just in case.”
He stood and took her hands. Such a small person, but always steady, his temperamental match in every way. “I have no doubt the Lord will provide recourse,” he said. “I’ll put Buster on the carriage for you.”
When Byron Tupper opened his eyes, the sun shone in around the edges of the drawn shades. Thin slats of light crossed the dark room and shone on the opposite wall where the old wallpaper curled at the edges, showing dirty bare plaster underneath. He lay still for a little while, watching dust motes rise and fall in the sun.
He felt good. He felt—exalted. It was not a word he used, was not a word he even would have considered part of his own vocabulary. But he understood it to be a true word. “Pearl,” he whispered into the stale air. He had decided that this would be what he called her. Even when he knew her real name, he could use Pearl as a special term of endearment. He thought about how smooth the top of her head looked when she unbuttoned his shirt, how the back of her head fit into his cupped pal
m. For a few minutes Byron tried to resist the nagging impulse, tried to hold Pearl in a purer place, but each thought of her placed him back in the moment when she had taken him in her hand. He had almost been inside her, had felt the head of his penis graze her body, when he lost control. Now he groaned and grasped himself, imagining over and over that he was plunging into that perfect place with her name on his lips.
Afterward, it was a relief to think about her more clearly. Her chin was a perfect point, her forehead a broad, gentle curve. Her skin was flawless, the color of new beeswax, and her voice—so soft he could hardly hear her. He closed his eyes and remembered her small room, spare and clean. How many men went into that room every day? What did they do with her?
He threw back the sheet and put his feet on the floor. The first thing he needed to do was earn some money. There was no way that old cow at Salyer’s would let him in unless he paid. But if he paid his way in again he could explain to Pearl that he wanted to help her out of that place. Once she knew how he felt, they could make a plan to get her away.
His pants were crumpled on the floor next to his bed. The room was a dingy mess—dirty clothes dropped around, his muddy boots crusted by the door, his rifle standing in the corner where he left it after duck hunting four days ago. He hadn’t even cleaned the gun, and if his father knew it he would clout Byron upside the head. If he was going to bring Pearl here, to marry her and make a home, he would have to make some changes.
First he raised the shades, something he hadn’t done for months. The paint around the window casement was buckled and filthy. Byron grabbed an old shirt and rubbed away the mildew and grime. There was also a scrim of mildew along the baseboard under the windows. This was the north side of the house and in the cool damp climate mold was tough to beat back. He managed to wrestle one of the windows partway open, but the sash weight was broken so he had to prop it open. The nearest thing at hand was a childhood picture book, a story about a duck preparing to throw a garden party for her animal friends. His mother had read it to him over and over before she died. All he could remember now was that the duck had gathered bayberries to make bayberry candles for the party. His mother passed away with the scarlet fever when Byron was six. He had opened the book only once after that. The ensuing struggle to read had convinced him that he would only ruin the story by trying and he had closed the cover for good. He wondered if Pearl could read. When they had children she could read the book to them.