Chasing Down the Moon

by Carla Baku

  The lamp was not lit and no fire built, but the last hint of lingering twilight from the window showed her Li Lau’s small self, huddled beneath the blankets. Ya Zhen went to her. “Are you asleep?” she whispered. The girl was on her back, so still, and Ya Zhen’s breathing seemed loud in the silent room. She leaned down and put her hand on Li Lau’s face. It was soft and warm. She sighed and curled over, tucking her hands under her cheek like a child; a wave of relief fell over Ya Zhen. The room was cool, so she built a little fire. By the light of the flames, she could see a plate on the washstand—buttered bread and some sort of meat. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and her stomach reacted loudly to the sight of the food. Wrapping the meat in the bread, she ate it all in a few quick bites. She went to Li Lau and listened to her regular breathing, looked around the room, pushed Li Lau’s bucket closer to the bed. There was nothing else to do.

  Back in her own room, she wiped grease from her fingers, put another stick of wood on the fire, and felt able to put the bed in order. She sat in the chair again, pulling her feet onto the seat, folding herself in half so that she could rest her head on her knees. No one came. Cool air from the window and the warmth of the fire created a pleasurable round of sensation, and she watched the shifting flames, holding her comb in one hand, running her thumb over the smooth points of its teeth. No one came. The distant sounds of people and horses in the street had stopped entirely, and the only sound was the rain.

  No one came.

  “Get her a glass of water, Rose.” Hazel Cleary’s wooden medicine box was on the kitchen table, and she took out a rolled bandage. Mattie’s blistered palm was shiny with ointment Hazel made from honey, beeswax, and calendula flowers. She winced a little as Hazel began to gently wind the clean strip of rag around her hand. Rose handed her the water, and Mattie sipped at it.

  “Tell me how you did this?” Hazel said.

  “Again?”

  “Again.” Hazel used small scissors to carefully cut the end of the rag into twin tails. These she tied together to secure the bandage at the wrist.

  Mattie took another long swallow of water. “I took hold of a skillet handle that had just come out of the oven. It was a stupid mistake—I was in a hurry.”

  “This will do for now,” Hazel said. “I’ll check it again in the morning and see if those blisters have gotten any bigger.” She tucked everything back into the chest and clicked the latch in place. “What I don’t understand,” she said, “is how you burned the skin on the top of your hand, too—by grabbing a hot skillet.” She tilted her head, obviously waiting for an answer.

  “It’s laundry day,” Mattie said. Her voice was threadbare with fatigue.

  Hazel and Rose exchanged a glance over Mattie’s head and Hazel patted Mattie on the back. “You’ll not be able to work tomorrow, at any rate,” Hazel said. “Not at anything Cora Salyer would set you to do.”

  “Oh ho,” Mattie said. “Cora Salyer would love to fire me. I have to go and just make the best of it.” She drank the last of the water and got to her feet. “Thanks for this,” she said, waving her bandaged hand.

  “We’ll see about that in the morning,” Hazel said emphatically. “Now, I’m going to make some beef broth. You need the protein to heal. Rose, get this one tucked in—she’ll need some help tonight, and don’t you dare argue, Matilda Gillen.”

  Mattie raised both hands as if in surrender. “I have a beastly headache, too. I must be coming down with something.”

  Hazel’s brow furrowed and she looked Mattie over. She laid the back of her hand on the young woman’s forehead, which looked clammy. “Yes, you’re sick,” Hazel said quietly. “You get into bed, darling.”

  Rose followed her upstairs. This morning Mattie had been a bit ragged, smudges under the eyes, but tonight her cheeks were gray. There were large patches of perspiration on her dress and Rose had seen her unbandaged hand shaking when she held her water glass. She looked worse right now than she had last night while muzzy and disoriented in Hazel’s pantry.

  In her room, Mattie dropped onto the bed in a slump. With an elbow propped on her knees, she cradled her head in her unburned hand and began to cry, dry wracking sobs that put a knot in Rose’s stomach. After the trouble last night, it seemed that Mattie —who was always so tough and cheerful to Rose, a kindred soul— was deconstructing before her eyes. Part of her wished she could help Mattie into her nightgown, then run across the hall and slide into her own bed with Great Expectations. Instead, she sat next to Mattie. “Tell me.”

  Mattie tilted her head back, eyes streaming and nose running. “She put a baby in the stove,” she moaned. “They made her do it, Rose. Merciful Jesus, she burned a little baby.” She lifted her skirt and sobbed into it.

  Horror nailed Rose in place. The words baby in the stove seemed to echo around the room. She wanted to touch Mattie, but her hands wouldn’t move, wanted to say something calming, but her breath died in her throat. Was this some sort of weird hallucination? Had she smoked opium again? There was none of the garbled lethargy or bad smell that had been there last night, but Rose had to admit she didn’t have the vaguest idea what to look for. Finally, she stood, her movements spastic as a marionette’s. “Mattie,” she whispered. Mattie kept crying. “Mattie!” she said, trying to get Matilda’s attention without rousing Hazel. She jerked one of Mattie’s shoulders sharply. “Stop it, now,” she hissed.

  Mattie looked up at Rose then, and the eye contact seemed to bring her back. Her shoulders hitched as she worked to stop the tears. Rose went to the bureau and got a handkerchief; Mattie wiped her face, then balled the hanky in her good hand and rocked back and forth, catching her breath.

  “I’m feeling very sick, Rose.”

  “So you said. Coming down with something.”

  “Aye. Everything hurts.”

  “I’m going to help you to bed. But first you’re going to tell me just what the hell you mean. A baby—” She swallowed hard. “A baby in the stove, Matilda? What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  Mattie nodded, as if giving herself permission to speak. “There are girls who live at the hotel. Chinese girls.”

  Rose’s mouth opened, a small O of surprise. “Yes,” she said, the word a little whistle of sound in the room.

  Mattie’s gray face was now blotched red, and she stared at Rose. “You knew?”

  “No, I didn’t…I just found out this morning. Mrs. Huntington told me about them when we—” Here she stammered, realizing she had very nearly told Mattie about Shu-Li.

  “They’re like captives, Rose,” Mattie said. She stood shakily and began wandering a slow circuit of the room, touching the furniture for balance as she went. “I should say they are captives. All this time, I thought they were just…I don’t know. Servants. I thought they were hired help for Mrs. Salyer.” She sagged against the washstand, causing the ewer to joggle noisily in its bowl.

  Rose took her by the arm. “Come back over here and sit. I’ll get your buttons.” She opened Mattie’s dress at the collar, and Mattie lifted her chin like an obedient child being undressed at bath time. Rose hesitated, her heart thudding. “Mattie, listen. I want you to tell me now, what you meant about a baby. Shh…not like that. Slow down and just tell me.” Mattie held the wadded hanky to her mouth, as if to stifle whatever awful thing wanted to pass her lips. Suddenly she stood and rushed to the washbowl and vomited, a terrible grinding retch that brought up nothing but the water she’d just drunk. Two times, three times she heaved, then hovered over the bowl, bracing herself on both hands, even the burned palm, and shuddered violently. She moaned.

  “Come on,” Rose murmured. She managed to slide Mattie’s sweat-stained dress off her shoulders and slip her soiled chemise off as well. It was shocking to see how thin she was—her visible ribcage appeared more prominent than her tiny breasts, and her hips were almost as straight as a boy’s. Didn’t she ever eat? “Lift your arms. Good girl.” She pulled the clean nightgown on over Mattie’s head. Then she h
eld her friend’s elbow, not trusting her to walk under her own power, shaking as she was. She turned down the bed and Mattie climbed obediently in. Rose dampened a second hanky in the pitcher and wiped Mattie’s face, her mouth, her neck. “You are sick,” she said. “You need to rest now.”

  “The opium,” Mattie said, her voice such a croaky whisper Rose had to bend close to hear. “Stopping. Was never this bad before.” Her teeth started to chatter.

  Rose pulled the blankets in around her and, despite everything, felt a wash of relief—Mattie was keeping her promise. “You’ll be okay,” she told her. “Aunt will think you have the grippe. Try to rest.”

  Mattie turned on her side. Tears dripped across the bridge of her nose and make a dark spot on the pillowcase. “Rose,” she muttered, “her name is Ya Zhen.”

  “Ya Zhen?”

  “She told me today. It’s not her fault.” Mattie moaned and curled into a fetal position.

  “Never mind,” Rose said, although she wished she could sit Mattie up and demand some answers. “Don’t think about it now. Try to sleep, if you can.”

  She gathered the soiled clothes and the washbowl and hurried downstairs. Hazel was stirring the broth when Rose came through the kitchen. “She’s sick,” Rose said. “She’ll need a bucket by the bed.” She went directly into the backyard. It was very nearly raining again, and goose bumps rose on her arms. She dropped Mattie’s clothes on the back porch and worked the pump handle. Rinsing the fouled washbowl, she tried not to gag at the sour smell of vomit; it was probably a blessing that Mattie hadn’t eaten much today. Finally, she washed her own hands and face and carried the clean bowl inside.

  Hazel had a bucket in one hand and her medicine box under the other arm. She pointed to the pot of broth. “I’ll go check on her. Put some of that in a bowl and bring it up. You should probably have some too.” Marching up the stairs, she called back, “We can’t have everyone getting sick around here.”

  “I think we’ll be fine,” Rose said, and —horribly— laughed. She clapped a hand to her mouth. No response from Hazel; thank God, she must be upstairs already. From the cupboard she fetched a bowl, and the china vibrated a little rhythm, one dish against another. She set the bowl down and gave her hands a brisk shake, as if she could knock the tremble out of them. Ladling the broth, Mattie’s words spun through her like a top, coming around again and again: merciful Jesus, she burned a little baby. The first part of her plan for the evening, concocted while she sat on the Kendalls’ stoop, had been to get Mattie alone after Hazel retired, and find out what she might know about the Chinese girls. There’d be no more talking with her tonight, but perhaps that was fine because now Rose had more than Lucy’s information: she had a name. Her name is Ya Zhen, Mattie had said. It’s not her fault.

  After taking the tray of broth upstairs, she crossed the hall to her own room. Even with the doors closed she heard more retching, and Hazel’s soothing voice. Rose’s book was on the bedside table. She dropped into the upholstered chair by the window and opened to the place she had left off reading, but couldn’t anchor her thoughts on the troubles of Pip and Miss Havisham; her eyes grazed the page like sliding over a frozen pond. Earlier in the day, she decided she’d convince Mattie to get her into the hotel somehow so she could see the women for herself. Staring down at the book, Rose realized her jaw was clenched so hard her teeth felt in danger of breaking. She tossed the book onto the bed and leaned on the window sill. It faced south, and other than the few houses nearby, it showed nothing but dark and more dark. Her breath made a hazy little cloud on the glass. Even now, she imagined storming into the hotel all on her own, could feel her entire body kindling to the idea of making a terrible scene until —in shame— the Salyers brought the girl to her (she was Ya Zhen now, not “the girl,” and oh, whatever was happening to her seemed so much worse because of that).

  Her fantasy reached no further than her expression of righteous indignation. The Huntingtons would take the next step. Thinking of Bai Lum and Lucy —of the things they had done already, all their care and risk— slowed her barreling train of thought. Better Harriet Tubman than Joan of Arc. Stealth, not just discretion, might prove to be the better part of valor. She couldn’t go to the hotel.

  But she knew who could.

  She grabbed her heavy wool cape from the wardrobe and stepped into the hall, closing the bedroom door behind her as silently as she could. Pausing to listen at Mattie’s room, she heard nothing. Hazel might still be in there, but she may also have slipped out without Rose hearing her go. She crept downstairs, holding her breath and listening. At the foot of the stairs she still heard nothing. She threw the cape around her shoulders and slipped out the front door, wincing when the latch clicked shut. On the wet street, she pulled up the broad hood so that no part of her face showed, and hurried, once again, to the mercantile.

  Byron Tupper was afraid to bed down in the livery too early, figuring that Mr. Reilly would be less likely to come around later at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself, though. It had started to rain again, and he was famished. At some of the waterfront saloons he could get food; Kennedy’s would serve a plate of potatoes and a chop, but he didn’t want to risk running into his father. He was certain Garland was looking for him, so he moved through town sticking to back alleys. It seemed as though everyone must be cooking supper—the smells were everywhere. Finally, after more than an hour of spooking around, he got lucky. Down one alley, a group of small, ramshackle houses had been slapped together almost on top of each other; several of these had neither rear yards nor fences. Slipping past one place, Bryon realized he was looking through a steamy window straight into a kitchen. The door stood ajar, perhaps to let some heat out, and an old woman bent over a stove on the far side of the room. On the table behind her stood a steaming bowl of stewed cabbage and a pan of biscuits. Acting quickly before he could lose his nerve, Byron stepped right into the room, grabbed three biscuits with one hand and the entire serving bowl of cabbage. He expected to hear the woman shout after him, but she didn’t seem to hear a thing. Still, in case she raised an alarm over the pilfered grub, he trotted several blocks away before tucking himself under a dripping eave and dipping into the bowl. The biscuits were tough, but the cabbage, which he had to scoop with his fingers, was cooked in bacon fat and onions, and was hot and good. He ate until he was almost bursting, and after a mighty belch left the bowl sitting atop a fencepost.

  It was still too soon to sneak into the livery, but he was warmed and energized by the food. He decided he’d make his way over to Salyer’s. He couldn’t spend any money there tonight —not with a wife in his near future— but he wanted just to look at the building, knowing Pearl was there. Perhaps, if he waited in the street below, she would look out her window at him. Maybe she would even wave. His gut burned thinking that other men might be there with her, and he hoped she would tell them to leave her alone. The two of them had shared something so good last night. In his memory she had openly welcomed him, had been tender and demure. The love he felt was so obviously reciprocated—surely she would refuse anyone else. When he reached 2nd Street, he first went around to the rear of the hotel and was greatly cheered when he saw that no men waited around the back stairs. Maybe the wet weather was keeping them away. He retreated to the side of the building and positioned himself across the street in a dry doorway alcove that lent him a clear view of Pearl’s window. Nothing in the room was visible except the ceiling, but he saw low lamplight flicker on the sheer yellow curtain. The other windows nearest hers were dark.

  Pulling back as far as he could, he kept an eye on that yellow window, imagined how delighted she would be to know he was here, keeping watch. So intent was he on catching the least glimpse of her face, Byron failed entirely to notice Garland standing a half-block over, even though his father made little effort to stay out of sight.

  The street running through Chinatown was deserted, except for the skinny shadow of a cat that crept along the muddy gutter,
probably hunting. When Rose got near, it pelted away, disappearing between two buildings. Her nerves were frayed, but she told herself the anxiety was due to the terrible thing Mattie had said—and not that she was out alone, in the dark, taking yet another trip to the mercantile. Still, it was a relief that the only other people she saw on her walk over were in carriages. No one seemed to be out on foot except her, but she kept her face well-submerged in the hood of her cloak.

  At the mercantile, she couldn’t think of any way to get Bai Lum’s attention, other than knocking at the door of the storefront. She hated to make that much noise, but she’d certainly attract even more attention if she shouted up from the street. For one ridiculous moment she imagined tossing a handful of pebbles at his upstairs windows, as the White Rabbit had done when Alice was stuck in his house, and Rose had to stifle a gust of nervous laughter; with her typical grace, she’d undoubtedly end up hurling a rock through the glass. The shades had been drawn on all the windows that fronted the street, and the store itself was dark. She rapped at the door, a tentative knock, but the noise seemed unconscionably loud in the quiet evening. She shrank even deeper into her cape and waited, counting slowly under her breath. When she got to twenty-five, she tried again, five heavy knocks. A bit of reflected light moved on the sidewalk. She pushed back her hood and looked up. There was the round face of Shu-Li, looking down at her. Rose waved and pointed at the door. “Tell Bai Lum,” she whispered, hoping the girl would read her lips or understand her pantomime. Shu-Li smiled and waved again. Before Rose could respond, the glow of a lamp showed through the oilcloth shades, and Bai Lum opened the door.

  “Rose.” He cracked the door only a few inches. “What is it?” His face was grave, his usual welcoming smile nowhere evident.

  “I have to…I’m hoping you might—” she stammered, nonplussed by his reticence. She glanced into the street, abruptly certain that someone would see her here, at night and alone. “Please, Bai Lum, may I come in? I need your help,” she whispered.