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Chasing Down the Moon

Page 23

by Carla Baku


  “I was just telling that young man, I like a clean place. A clean place and a clean person.” Rose watched Bai Lum from the corner of her eye. She recalled the other man’s name now, Wei Chang. Around town he was called Charley Wei. Bai Lum laughed at something he said. Wei Chang bowed slightly and went out.

  “All that rubbish they write in the paper. They’re clean people. I told my granddaughter, Eliza, that our Celestials are probably the cleanest foreigners in California. All they need is a bit of Christian charity.” She retrieved the tin of mackerel with her knobby right hand. Fat veins stood out prominently over and around her knuckles, deep blue under the mercantile’s gas lamps.

  It seemed to take forever.

  The mercantile door opened and closed. Reverend Huntington greeted someone. “Hello, Mr. Wei. How’s business?”

  “Very slow now, sir. Cold winter.”

  “Yes, we’ve had some storms, haven’t we? You know, the telegraph lines have been down between here and the city.”

  “Oh, yes. Very bad. Too cold for vegetable.”

  “Warmer today, though. Spring will be here soon. Mrs. Huntington will be by to see you for cuttings.”

  “I have some, maybe two weeks. Good evening.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Wei.”

  Footsteps receded down the boardwalk.

  “It should only be another moment,” Reverend Huntington said quietly. The mercantile door opened once again.

  “All clear.” Reverend Huntington said. “Hurry.”

  Bai Lum and Rose looked at each other over Mrs. Pinchbeck’s bowed head while she spoke. When Rose gave him another single nod, he stepped to the door and motioned to Reverend Huntington.

  “It’s a very clean store,” Rose said. “Have you seen the Four Flowers dishes?” She held the little bowl under Mrs. Pinchbeck’s nose.

  “Dishes? No, I don’t need dishes. I have a houseful. If I broke a plate every day until the day I die, I’d still have plenty left to eat off of.”

  Ya Zhen came into the store with Reverend Huntington right behind her, walking as if she wanted to run, her face completely hidden inside Lucy’s old bonnet. Bai Lum stood so that he blocked Mrs. Pinchbeck’s line of sight, but Rose doubted the woman’s rheumy old eyes would know who she was looking at, even from such a short distance.

  “Hello, Mrs. Pinchbeck. What a pleasure to see you here this evening.” Reverend Huntington stepped neatly around Ya Zhen and held out his hand to the old woman.

  Her withered face lit up. “Pastor! Gracious, what are you doing here?”

  “No rest for the weary, I’m afraid. Mrs. Huntington has sent me after supplies. Are you here alone?” His eyes never left her face, but, holding her hand, he turned her ever so slightly toward the front of the store. Rose hurried Ya Zhen through the curtained partition in back, and there was Shu-Li. She took Ya Zhen’s arm and up the stairs they went. Rose slipped back into the store, her knees wobbling precariously. Bai Lum approached her, holding the delicate white bowl with its dark painted flowers.

  “Have you decided then?” he said loudly. Where they stood, between two tall shelves, they couldn’t be seen from the front of the store.

  “Done,” she whispered, and leaned her face into his shoulder, shaking slightly.

  Reverend Huntington was still caught in his chat with the old woman. “I have to get home and have my supper,” she said, “although I can’t eat much anymore. When I was a girl, my mother used to tell me I ate like a field hand.” She laughed, a whispery little chuckle in the back of her throat. “But I could work then, from dark to dark, and then more if it was a full moon.”

  He rested a gentle hand on her back. “Can I give you a ride home, Mrs. Pinchbeck? I have the wagon just outside.”

  “No, no, I like the fresh air. I have to get out, like anyone else. Walking helps my appetite.” She started for the door with the slightly tottering gait of a pigeon. “Pastor, you can get the door for me.” She said this as if bestowing a favor.

  He walked her to the door and held it open. “I’ll see you on Sunday, Muriel.”

  “Goodbye Mrs. Pinchbeck,” Rose called.

  She was gone, picking her careful way past the window. Bai Lum pulled all the shades and threw the bolt on the door.

  The room swayed, back and forth, back and forth, and Mattie knew this was what it had been like in the cradle, rocking under her mother’s hand. She had no such actual memory of her mother, who had shrunken in on herself after Mattie’s father died, dried up and turned inward like the husk of some long-neglected melon. There was precious little memory of Da, either, just a vague blur of brown hair and soft voice.

  She lay on her side, eyes not quite closed in the dark room. It had taken her several visits here to adjust to the sweet, burned smell of opium, but now the odor alone started the work of pulling her outside herself, even before she took the pipe. It was better than the laudanum, which she had first used for headaches when she was fourteen. The pipe was smoother and deeper. Her burned hand had stopped pulsing. She loved the smoke and she loved the dark room. She loved all the others laying in the dark with her, as if they were all in a womb together, but a womb without boundaries, room for everyone, infinite. A womb. A room. Mattie laughed. Mostly it was men here, and that had been difficult at first, but now she was perfectly at ease. They were all there to ride the same wave together. It was fine. People sometimes laughed and sometimes they wept quietly. Sometimes someone would begin to talk and Mattie would travel along on the surface of their words. It was fine, a fine ride. The door opened and feeble evening light fell flat on the threshold. A brawny man entered and Mattie tried to remember something about him. She couldn’t recall his name, but something she knew about him flirted at the edge of her memory. How strange! He sat on the long bench by the wall. Mattie was glad she got one of the reclining spaces. The man’s eyes roamed across her hip and wandered away again as he waited for his turn. The flame briefly illuminated his face and the hand he used to steady the pipe. A dark stain marred his sleeve, nearly to the elbow, red as blood. Tupper, she thought. Rose told me something about him. His Christian name was a flower, too, like Rose, wasn’t it? She sailed for a while, and it floated past—Garland, that was it. Rose’s Garland, garland of roses, the one who was rude in the store. Yes. But he was quiet here in the room, and everyone rode on the wave of smoke. Here it was not so bad. Here it was fine.

  6 Feb 5:20 pm

  Dear Mrs. Salyer,

  I send this note ahead to thank you for so graciously allowing me to hire your young lady today, and hereby remit the agreed-upon amount of $4. Due to a problem with my carriage, I have had to set her home on foot — with the strictest instructions to go immediately to the hotel and nowhere else, of course. No doubt she will arrive shortly after your receipt of this note. She was a great help, and I hope that I might retain her again sometime in the future.

  Yours very truly

  Mrs. Charles Huntington

  Four men milled around the back stairs of the hotel. There was little conversation among them. Mostly they stood hunched against the growing chill coming in off the bay, waiting as if for a streetcar. Byron slowed as he approached them.

  A burly man standing at the foot of the stairs folded his arms and gave Byron a hard face. “The line starts back there, Tupper.”

  “I have to see someone,” Byron said. “It’s an emergency.”

  “I’m having an emergency myself,” another man said, and grabbed his crotch. Rough laughter at this.

  Byron looked from face to face and knew that he would be given no quarter here, no matter what he said. He made as if to stand away from the group, then turned and sprinted up the stairs. What the men possessed in numbers, Byron more than made up for in youth. He hit the top of the stairs and found the door unlocked. Despite threats shouted from below, no one made the effort to follow him.

  It was dark in the inner hallway, even darker than he remembered it, and he didn’t realize the old woman was th
ere until she was in his face. At the same moment a girl cried out, a wrenching scream that rose in pitch before trailing back into sobs. Every nerve in his body stood at attention.

  “What in the holy hell do you think you’re doing?” the old woman shouted. “You can’t bust in here like that!”

  “Did he hurt her? Let me in there, I have to see her!”

  The old woman was as tall as Byron, and she blocked the narrow passage with her beefy carriage. “Like hell you will. She’ll be good for nothing, even if she lives through the night. The doctor’s in there trying to tie the pieces together and there’s so much blood it looks like breakfast in Hades.” Another horrible wail split the air, this time rising until the vocal cords behind it failed.

  Byron shrank back. He tore the cap from his head, turned and punched the wall with all his strength. The skin on his knuckles split open and cold pain shot up his forearm to the elbow. “What did he do?” he yelled. “God damn him to hell, what did he do to her?”

  She stared at Byron. “You know him?”

  “Tell me what he did,” Byron roared, spittle flying from his lips.

  “I told him no, but he said he only wanted a feel.” Under her bullish exterior, Byron could hear a note of panic, someone about to deny responsibility for a mighty backwash of vexation. “I told him the girl couldn’t manage the other thing, not tonight, and he swore on his mama’s name he’d only grab a feel. He tore her open every which way, though—after gagging her to hide the screams.” She glanced over her shoulder at the partially open door. “Christ almighty, I wish they’d gag her now.”

  Byron straightened, his left hand bleeding but feeling senseless and frozen. Without warning, he backhanded Old Mol across the face, knocking her backward. She stumbled and went on her ass with a grunt. Her nose poured blood and she clapped a hand to her face.

  “Clarence!” she bawled, her voice choked and nasal. “God damn it, Clarence, get out here!”

  Byron was already out the door and pelting down the back steps. Before the men below could react, another awful scream went out into the foggy evening, and every man there took a step away from the stairs.

  Hazel Cleary hummed a ballad their father had often sung of the fair Mailí Bhán, lost when her lover mistakes her for a swan. The Kendall’s guests were gone and the family was having coffee, lingering at the table with Phoebe. The spectacular mess in the kitchen was ridded up, dishes done, and Hazel couldn’t wait to put paid to this day of work and worry. She prayed that Mattie and Rose would be there when she got home.

  She had just thrown the dishwater out the back door, when David Kendall came in with the coffee things. The painted tray looked like a child’s tea set in his big hands.

  “That was a fine feed,” he said. “I’d walk a mile in foul weather for your scalloped potatoes, Hazel. Wish I had room for another helping.”

  She took the tray, and the cups rattled lightly in their saucers. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said, “since you’ll be facing the leftovers in your dinner tomorrow.” Music started in the other room, Phoebe at the piano, playing Bach. “Listen to that girl,” Hazel said. “What I wouldn’t give to play a piano like that.”

  “You ought to take a lesson. She could teach you.”

  Hazel smiled and wiggled her fingers. “These hands have already learned their tricks. I’d hate to hear what kind of noise that would be.” She draped the dishtowel over the end of the counter to dry. “Do you want some more pie?”

  He laid a hand on his belly and groaned. “Woman, do not tempt me.”

  “Perhaps some vigorous dancing would refresh your appetite.”

  “Walking will be enough of a challenge, thank you.”

  “Good,” she said. “But I’ll leave the pie on the sideboard, in case you change your mind in the middle of the night.”

  “I’m going back to the office for a while. May I see you home on my way?”

  She glanced outside, and even in the dark could see the fog that had settled in at sunset. “You’re out again in this mess?” She rinsed the coffee cups and set them back in the tray for the next morning, upside-down on their saucers. “It’s cold as clay out there.”

  “No doubt it is, but there are papers to be shuffled and numbers to tot.” He held the dining room door for her.

  “In that case, you’d better go on. I want to visit with your ladies a few minutes before I leave.”

  Prudence held his overcoat, picking at a spot on one sleeve. “You’re a mess, Captain Kendall,” she said. “This coat needs a good brush. What did you run your sleeve into?”

  “Let’s see that,” he said, taking the coat from her. He scratched at the crusty patch. “Paste, maybe.” Then he sniffed it. “Yes, definitely the paste pot.”

  She rolled her eyes and helped him into the heavy coat. “Don’t be too late, will you?”

  “Home before ten.” He leaned in and kissed her on the temple.

  “Don’t forget me,” Phoebe called from the piano.

  Prudence pushed him gently. “You’re awfully popular.”

  Kendall planted a kiss on Phoebe’s cheek, which she proffered with a tilted head, not missing a note. “You may be asleep when I get back,” he said. “See you in the morning.” She nodded without looking away from the music.

  “Very well,” he said, “time and tide, tempus fugit, and so forth.” In the foyer, he took his hat from the hall tree and tipped it. “My dears. You too, Hazel.”

  In the dim light near the front door, his grin made the years drop away. Prudence thought he looked hardly older than the day they met. Before the door had closed behind him, she was talking to Mrs. Cleary about laundry. Later, she could not forget that she had missed a last glimpse of his departure because she was discussing the unkempt state of his overcoat.

  “Well done, everyone,” Reverend Huntington said. “Now I have to get home quick so Lucy will know we’re in the clear and she can send her thank-you note to Cora Salyer. Bai Lum,” he said, grasping the younger man’s hand and giving it a firm shake, “I’ll leave it to you now. I’ll be here before dawn on Monday to take the young ladies north.”

  Bai Lum nodded. “We will be ready.”

  “Rose, can I drop you at Mrs. Cleary’s on my way?”

  “No,” she said, and looked at Bai Lum. “I’m going to see how the girls are faring before I go.”

  “Splendid. You’d do well to bolt the door behind me, I think. Goodnight, you two”

  “Wait,” Rose said. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

  He smiled and patted Rose’s back. “We’re in this together, now, aren’t we.”

  She looked up into his face. As always, his wiry white hair stood out in a nimbus around his head. “We are.”

  When the bolt was once more in place, Bai Lum put out the lights. He took Rose’s hand, leading her through the darkened storefront and through the curtained alcove. “I want to check the doors and windows back here, too, but it’s dark,” he said. “You go up.” He kissed her, a sweet, lingering kiss, and stepped into the dark storage area. In his black clothing, he was little more than a silhouette.

  Rose climbed the narrow staircase and stood at the top, listening. There was no sound from the small apartment. “Hello?” she called quietly.

  “Rose Allen,” came the answer. It was Shu-Li. The soft light of a candle illuminated a room across the hall from the kitchen. She sat next to Ya Zhen on a thick mattress. Her hair was loose over her shoulders and shone like spilled ink in the low light. Ya Zhen had stripped off Lucy’s old clothes; everything was folded neatly on the floor next to the bed. The same fabric panels were draped over her walls and windows as hung in the sitting room, and a heavy yellow coverlet was spread across the mattress. The room was a small, warm haven. Shu-Li scooted to her left and gestured for Rose to join them.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “We did it, Ya Zhen. You’re really here.”

  “I am,” she said, her face solemn. “Before
, when I was in the tree, I thought it might be a dream.”

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “I’m very tired,” she said, and immediately translated for Shu-Li. Shu-Li nodded “Yes,” she said and sighed.

  Rose smiled. “Me too.”

  Shu-Li had a lacquer box on her lap, and began to show Ya Zhen what she kept in it. The two of them talked quietly, and when Rose heard Bai Lum on the stairs, she realized she had been nodding toward sleep. She thought she should get up and meet him, but was tired and suddenly self-conscious at the audacity of inviting herself to stay. She waited.

  He came to the door and looked at all of them sitting on the bed, and Rose tried to read his expression.

  “Shu-Li,” he said, “Mào shòu xiāng ba?” Shu-Li nodded. She launched into a breathless explanation of some kind, but he put his fingertips to his lips and she quieted. “Ya Zhen,” he said softly. He spoke English, and Rose knew it was for her sake. “I’m honored to have you as a guest, if you would like to stay. You can share this room with Shu-Li.”

  There was no viable alternative, of course, but in the invitation, Rose felt him returning to Ya Zhen a small measure of agency—a gift: to stay or go as she chose. And Ya Zhen knew. The hope on her face was so fierce that Rose couldn’t stand to look at it. She turned away the way she would, in reverence, from a birth or the consummation of love. All three women looked at Bai Lum standing there in the doorway, his face quiet in the candlelight, and Rose’s heart broke open with the knowledge that they all loved him, and that she would remember this moment with gratitude as long as she lived.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  No one said anything.

  He nodded. “I’ll make tea.”

  “Let me help,” Rose said. She followed him into the small kitchen.

  He squatted before a one-burner cast iron stove and took a bit of kindling from a box under the window. The room was dark, and when the fire caught, it cast a quick yellow light on his face. He shut the firebox with a clang and put the kettle on. Rose lit a candle that sat in the center of the table. Celadon dishes lined a short shelf nailed to the wall, their watery green surfaces glimmering in the uneven light. Bai Lum took down four cups and measured tea into the pot. Through all this preparation, they were quiet; the only sound was the muffled crackle of the fire in the stove and occasional quiet conversation between Shu-Li and Ya Zhen.

 

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