by Carla Baku
She swallowed hard and nodded. “I…I do know it.”
“If you know where to look, you’re bound to find more. That’s according to my wife, anyway.” He tipped her a little salute. “See you soon.”
“Good night,” Rose said, and strolled away, pretending she had all the time in the world, as the fog rolled ashore in earnest.
“Jesus. Oh Jesus.” Billy’s voice sounded muffled, close but soft. It might be a prayer. Byron hoped he would not talk anymore. For a time —perhaps it was a very long time, or not, Byron wasn’t sure— Billy was quiet. Then he was whispering. Byron could hear the whispering, but at first it wasn’t words, just sound. He liked the sound, quiet and smooth.
“…and he’s going to see that girl…kept asking me…wanted to know which one.”
Byron rested, floated in the dark. The taper flared again, across the room.
“Was she good?” Billy’s voice hovered somewhere over Byron’s shoulder. “Like this?”
Pearl’s long hair, a black river falling down her back. The slope of her breast when the robe opened and the smell of her neck as he climaxed. Lying in a bar of dusty sunlight, clean hay in the livery loft. Floating again, safe, everything just as it should be. Byron dozed.
“I’ll try her next time.”
“What?” It was like pulling up from deep sleep. The door was ajar. Byron could see gray, late afternoon light falling over the jamb. The cooler air helped him think a little. His limbs felt heavy. He sat slightly forward. His head bobbed, straightened. He looked at Billy, still slumped against the wall, but eyes wide open, like always.
“The other girl…I didn’t like her much. Her face was sort of…flat.” He giggled. “She kept on yanking me—”
“Shut up, Billy.” It came out in a whisper.
“I’m just saying, is all. I want to try.” In the long pause, someone stretched out on a bunk coughed from deep in his chest. “Try the pretty one.”
Byron turned his head, as if it weighed fifty pounds on his shoulders. There was something he needed to say here, but his thoughts stood at the back of his mind, just beyond reach. “Going out.” He leaned forward and tried to rock to his feet. When he landed heavily on his ass again, he laughed. Billy laughed, too. The men around them lolled, some seemed to sleep. In the far corner of the room, someone started to sing. Blessed assurance. Jesus is mine. Byron recalled singing a hymn when he woke that morning. Was that this morning? He tried to pin it down, how it was long since he sang and cleaned the house. This morning. Yes. He rocked himself forward again and this time managed to gain his feet. For a moment the room tilted and Bryon stumbled, but then he steadied and walked to the open door. The last bit of daylight, a lambent streak shooting beneath the roiling fog bank and across the surface of Humboldt Bay, dazzled Byron so that he had to raise a hand to shield his eyes. He squinted out at the water and was surprised to see two steamships at harbor, the Humboldt and the City of Chester. It was rare to see two ships at once; they must be expecting rough seas tonight. A lone hand stood on the Chester’s deck, running a mop back and forth. Two little girls, dressed in the way of sisters, with matching yellow pinafores, stood at the foot of the pier, throwing rocks into the water. Their voices drifted back to Byron: “Mine went farther.” “No it did not. I’m stronger than you.” “Watch this, smarty britches,” said the smaller girl. “I’m going to hit the sun with my rock.” The child put so much effort into her throw she nearly threw herself into the bay. “Missed,” said the bigger girl.
Billy Kellogg came staggering into the street. His eyes were bleary and he had lost his hat. “Damn. Bright out here.”
Byron nodded.
“So, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“The Chinese poppy palace. Isn’t that a place to go?”
Byron nodded again. Little by little he felt his head clearing.
“Let’s get some whiskey before we go to my place,” Billy said.
“I don’t want any. I have to do some things for a while.”
Billy gave him a blank look. “What?”
“I’ll be there later.”
“Why later? I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
Billy frowned, looking more than ever, Byron thought, like a not-too-bright dog. Then he laughed. “You’re going back to Salyer’s, aren’t you. Not without me, brother.” He draped a skinny arm around Byron’s shoulders.
Byron shrugged him off. “Christ, Billy, do you have to follow me around like an old bird dog? Go home.”
The crooked smile faltered then dropped away. “Home? I guess I can go upstairs at Salyer’s if I want, same as you.”
“Shut up, Billy.”
“Shut up yourself!” When did you get up on a high horse? One night with a Chinese whore and you’re royalty, giving orders?” Billy strutted back and forth while he talked, stiff-legged. “You don’t own me, and you don’t own Salyer’s, now do you?”
Byron started away. Billy fell in behind him.
“I’m talking to you, your majesty. I can spend my money on that girl just as fast as you can, Byron. You think you’re better than me ’cause you had her first?”
Byron grabbed Billy by the shirtfront. When he yanked him forward, there was a small tearing sound. “I told you to shut up, Billy. She’s not like that. I’m getting her out of there.” They were both breathing hard, and Byron could smell the odor of opium on Billy’s skin. He twisted Billy’s shirt hard in his fist and shoved him backward. The shirt tore under both arms and Billy fell, landing hard on his tailbone. The tears in the other boy’s eyes made Byron look away, battling the urge to hit him, to kick him in the ribs while he sat on his butt in the dirt.
“Big man,” Billy called after him. “You know your daddy’s in line before you tonight, don’t you?”
Byron stopped. He turned, and it seemed to take forever, turning, turning, turning toward Billy Kellogg. He could still feel the opium in his head, making him slow. “Liar.”
Billy was on his feet. There was a small smear of blood on his lower lip, so he must have bitten his tongue when he fell. He tried to smile at Byron, but there the fear in his face made it an ugly grimace. “He told Eustace he was going to show her what a real man was made of.”
“Piss ant liar!” Byron roared, raising his fist.
“Go see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
Byron could see it was the truth and that somewhere, underneath, it hurt Billy to tell him. That shred of sympathy was terrible and he wanted to kill the boy, to throw him to the ground again and beat him senseless. He dropped his hands. The fog had finally closed around the setting sun. The late afternoon was now uniformly gray and chilly. Gooseflesh rippled up Byron’s neck as he stalked off.
“Don’t come looking for a place to sleep tonight, Tupper,” Billy yelled after him. “I’ll tell my brother Albie to shoot you in the ass if you come around.”
But Byron was long gone.
Ya Zhen was able to find the meeting place easily because of Reverend Huntington’s map, but she couldn’t wait by the road, not even for a minute. From the moment she’d gotten out of Lucy’s sight, she’d been gripped by a terrible barbed awareness, trying to see in every direction at once. She wanted to listen for the wagon, but everything she did hear —someone splitting wood behind a house, a dog barking monotonously— scraped at her nerves. When she recognized the way the street dipped and then rose again as it continued toward the middle of town, she hurried to the base of the hill and stepped into the woods. In here, it was almost fully dark, even though she had only stumbled some eight or ten paces from the road. The trees were like something from a grandfather story, a boasting jest told to a gullible child; they rose so high above the forest floor that Ya Zhen felt vertigo when she looked up to judge how much light was still in the sky. As she picked her way through huckleberry bushes and scrubby alder saplings, she found in the base of one massive redwood tree an opening the size of a small cave. It
appeared to have been made by fire, and was so blackened it was impossible to see how far back the declivity went. She held her breath and listened, afraid she’d hear some animal denned for the night, but there was only silence. She screwed up her courage and ducked just inside. The ground was springy and damp, and she huddled there, hugging her arms around her under the shawl. The day had been long and disorienting; she was hungry and needed badly to urinate. Had she really imagined, standing in front of the hotel this morning, that she might be able to disappear into the forest and survive, all on her own? “Xǐng zǐ,” she whispered. Fool. For one terrible moment Ya Zhen wished she were back at Salyer’s, in her room, a small fire snapping in the grate. Immediately she was swept with revulsion, horrified that the hotel might seem like any sort of asylum.
I have no home, she thought. She tried to see the road through the underbrush, in case the wagon came. There is no place in the world that is mine, no refuge for me. In her mind’s eye she saw a bird, flying, flying over the dark sea she had crossed to come here, a bird that would beat her wings looking for a place to rest until finally her heart gave out and she hurtled into the cold water like a stone. Ya Zhen began to tremble, first her hands, then her chin, until her whole body seemed to vibrate. She clung to the edges of the shawl. Her teeth chattered and she remembered her fever on the night the men had taken her from home. Gray blots spread across her field of vision. As she lost consciousness and fell onto her side, a slow and easy sensation, someone cried out. It is Hong-Tai, she thought, calling for the cuckoo.
“Ya Zhen!” Rose called, then listened. Nothing. “Ya Zhen, where are you?” Again, no response. She stood at the edge of the trees, peering in, seeing nothing but shadows. If she was here, she must be hiding. She didn’t know Rose, had never laid eyes on her—why would she answer? “Please, Ya Zhen, come out now, it’s Rose Allen. I’m a friend.” She nearly shouted that she was helping Lucy, but then looked up and down the street, worried that someone would hear. She eased her way into the woods, not wanting to appear a threat. “Are you here?” she said. Some small animal, bird or squirrel, scattered through the underbrush, making her jump. The staccato rattle of a woodpecker echoed from some distance, nothing else. The panic rat was nibbling around the edges of her thoughts again—if Ya Zhen wasn’t with Reverend Huntington, and wasn’t here, then where? Had she taken a wrong turn in her short walk from the rectory? The idea that Clarence Salyer had come looking for her or that —perhaps worse— someone else had accosted her, kept edging in on Rose’s thinking.
Then she realized two things: the woodpecker’s hollow thrum had resolved into the steady clop of hooves and creak of wheels—the reverend had arrived at last. And, several yards deeper into the woods, a young woman seemed to materialize from the side of a redwood tree.
Chapter 7
Rose picked redwood needles and bits of duff out of Ya Zhen’s hair and off her clothes as they helped her out of the woods and over to the wagon. She seemed disoriented, as if she’d been asleep, and was trembling.
“Jump up in there and give her a hand,” Reverend Huntington said, “before someone sees us. She’ll get warm under the tarpaulin.”
Rose rested a boot on the high edge of the wagon bed and boosted herself up, then reached down to help Ya Zhen climb in beside her. The wagon had been lined with old quilts, and the waxed canvas of the tarpaulin not only kept out the damp, but it did, indeed, make the space much warmer than the outside. There wasn’t enough head room to sit up, so both of them lay on their backs. The quilts smelled of hay and horses. Reverend Huntington tied the covering neatly in place and climbed onto the seat, making the wagon rock to one side and back again.
“The clothes are in there with you, Rose. Ready?”
“Ready.”
He made a double click with his tongue, and with a single rocking lurch, they were on their way. “Keep it quiet, now, or someone will think I’ve gone over mad, talking to myself.”
Rose laughed. She couldn’t help herself. She turned on her side and propped her head on her elbow. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
Ya Zhen nodded and rolled over too, so they were face-to-face. “I’m feeling much better now.”
“Why did you hide? Did someone see you?”
Ya Zhen shook her head. “No one saw.”
Rose smiled. “Good.” She reached for the small pile of clothes. “Lucy sent these for you,” she said. “A little costuming, in case anyone sees us going into the mercantile.” She was about to hand everything to over, but stopped short. “I’m Rose Allen, by the way. Very, very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Mattie is your friend.”
“Mattie is my dear friend, and she will be so happy when she knows you’re safe.”
“Will she be at the store?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and plucked another bit of dead foliage off the front of Ya Zhen’s shawl. “I hope so. Here,” she whispered. “Let me help you get these things on over your clothes.” There was a blue shirtwaist, faded almost gray with a great deal of washing, and a capacious apron. By much wrestling around, they managed to get these twisted in place, buttoned and tied. Last was an old-style working bonnet. Seeing it gave Rose a pang of homesickness for the ladies around Paw Paw, out laboring in their kitchen gardens all summer, protecting themselves from the prairie sun. The bonnet had a brim so deep and wide that it hid Ya Zhen’s face entirely. Rose helped wind her hair so that it was completely captured inside.
Twice along the way, someone hailed Reverend Huntington and he called back a happy remark in return. The calm sound of his voice helped Ya Zhen feel tethered to her body. Rose Allen reached over and squeezed her hand, hard. “Almost there,” she said. Ya Zhen squeezed back.
Finally they rolled to a stop. Reverend Huntington climbed down, and then he was behind the cart, untying the cover and letting it hang loose.
“Rose?”
“I’m here.”
“When I tell you, I want you to come out of the wagon. When you do, go straight into the store and find Bai Lum. I’ll bring Ya Zhen in when one of you tells me the store is clear.”
“Here we go,” said Rose. She turned to whisper in Ya Zhen’s ear. “Be ready.”
“Yes, I will.” Ya Zhen said. Her heartbeat made her voice shake, but she wasn’t afraid now, only excited that they had nearly made it, and in two days she would be gone from Salyer forever.
“Only a minute,” Rose said, and scooted out the back of the wagon.
When she stepped into the mercantile, Bai Lum was transacting a purchase with Muriel Pinchbeck, probably the oldest person in Eureka. He had lit the overhead gas lamps against the early dusk. Even in her apprehension, Rose had a moment of amused incredulity that Mrs. Pinchbeck, thin as a stripped reed and hunched at the neck, shopped in Chinatown. At the moment, she was bent over a tiny coin purse, counting out pennies onto the counter. Bai Lum looked up, and Rose nodded once. Then she walked directly to the counter.
“Hello, Mrs. Pinchbeck. Hello, Bai Lum.” Mrs. Pinchbeck didn’t even glance at her, so intent was she on paying for a small tin of mackerel. “Bai Lum, I’ve come to look again at the bowls you showed me the other day. Do you recall the ones I mean?”
“Four Flower design,” he said. “This way.” He came from behind the counter and started for the rear of the store.
“We’ll only be a moment, Mrs. Pinchbeck,” Rose said.
The old woman stared into the palm of her hand at several coins, counting in a whisper. She craned around to look at Rose, her filmy eyes blinking behind heavy spectacles. “Of course,” she said in a tiny voice that was hardly more than a coarse whisper. “Go ahead, young man, and see to this lady,” she said, not seeming to realize that Bai Lum was no longer standing near her. “I can wait.” She bent back to her task.
Rose hurried after Bai Lum. When they were standing next to the porcelains, Rose took one of the bowls and cupped it in her palm. “Ya Zhen is right outside with Reverend Hunti
ngton.”
“Will she be seen?”
“No, no. We have her hidden in the back of the wagon. Can we get her upstairs?”
Bai Lum glanced over his shoulder. Mrs. Pinchbeck had finished counting her money and stood with one hand on the counter. A Chinese man Rose recognized, who sold vegetables from a prolific truck garden he cultivated in town, was also waiting to speak to Bai Lum.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll take care of it.”
Rose stayed where she was, making a pretense of looking at the dishes. Bai Lum crossed the store in a few quick strides and collected Mrs. Pinchbeck’s change. He thanked her for her purchase. She began to fidget her coin purse back into her drawstring handbag.
“That’s fine, then,” she said, her voice tremulous and breathy. “You’re a good boy. Very clean.” She spoke without looking up. “I don’t care what the busybodies say. I’ve never minded a whistle for gossip.”
Bai Lum looked over at Rose, worry stiffening his features. She crossed the store with the bowl still in her hand. With a small tilt of her head, she gestured Bai Lum toward the waiting man. “Are you out alone tonight, Mrs. Pinchbeck?”
The old woman lifted her chin slightly. “Of course I am,” she said. When her attention was on Rose, Bai Lum went to the man and they began to chat amiably.
“Even on a foggy evening like this?” Rose asked her. “Are you sure you can get home?”
“I’ve lived alone in this town twenty-three years,” she said, “and in twenty-three years I’ve done for myself.” Her quavering voice took on a firm edge. “I was ninety-two on my last birthday, you know.”
“Ninety-two? You certainly look well,” said Rose. She tried to see Reverend Huntington out the front window, but the evening had gotten so dark, she could only see a reflection of the inside of the store. She took a small step toward the door, hoping Mrs. Pinchbeck would follow, but she stayed planted near the counter.