Chasing Down the Moon

by Carla Baku

  With their choices honed thin as a knife blade, they began —as Hazel had said earlier— to make the next best decision. It would be safest to take Ya Zhen and Shu-Li to Hazel’s, along with Rose and Mattie, as they had initially tried to do. For safety in numbers, Lucy would spend the night there, too. Reverend Huntington would stay at the church with Jacob Weimer’s family and whoever else may have gone there looking for sanctuary. “In the morning,” said Lucy, “Rose and I will bring the girls back here to the mercantile so that you all stay together.”

  Lucy was right. The night was not going to turn around, no deus ex machina would drop from the foggy heavens. Rose could resist, or she could acquiesce—it didn’t matter. Everything had already changed. The circumstances had opened an unexpected space. She got off the stool and stepped into that space.

  “I’m not going with you,” she said. “I’m not going back to Aunt’s tonight. I’m going to stay and help Bai Lum get ready for tomorrow.”

  In the silence that followed, as if on cue, somewhere up the street two men began to shout, and then came the thudding, grunting scuffle of a physical altercation, of blows to the body.

  Bai Lum turned to her. “It’s not safe here, Rose. You should not stay.”

  She felt the weight of everyone’s eyes, but looked only at Bai Lum. There was blood crusted at one corner of his mouth, and his left eye was now swollen shut entirely. But his gaze was steady, and Rose knew there was only one thing he could say to make her leave.

  “Do you love me, Bai Lum?”

  Mattie made a sound, a little intake of breath. The almost imperceptible hiss of the gas lamps filled the room. His face was very still. Rose felt the urge to look away, to spare herself, but did not. She clasped both his hands and cast all her bread upon the waters.

  “I love you. I’ve loved you for over a year. And I’m certain that you love me.” She paused, drew a deep breath. “Will you marry me?” Then, because she felt as if she was standing in only her underdrawers, and because of the stunned look on Bai Lum’s battered face, she finally had to break down laughing. He looked from Rose, who was trying desperately to get her laughter under control, to the Huntingtons, to Shu-Li and Mattie and Ya Zhen. It seemed to buoy him.

  “Yes, Rose Allen,” he said. “Yes, I love you. I will marry you.”

  She couldn’t manage to make a sound, as though her proposal had used all the words she had left. He leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  “Well I’ll be,” said Mattie.

  “Yes Rose Allen,” Shu-Li cried, and clapped her hands.

  That was all it took. Everyone began to laugh. They hugged her and they hugged Bai Lum. Shu-Li clung to Rose, saying her name over and over, Rose Allen, Rose Allen. Reverend Huntington squeezed her shoulders with his large, knobby hands.

  “Will you marry us? Now?”

  He rubbed a palm across the plane of one cheek, raspy with stubble so late in the day. “This is dangerous,” he said. “For you, especially, Bai Lum.”

  Bai Lum nodded. “Yes. But already they tried to kill me. Already they came into the store and stole my goods.” He put one hand briefly to Rose’s face. “They will force me onto the boat tomorrow,” he said, “but not tonight. Tonight I am free to do as I please.”

  Reverend Huntington stood silently, looking at the two of them, then down at the floor. Rose wondered what she could do to convince him—tell him she would stay with Bai Lum regardless, perhaps, which was the truth. Finally, he turned to her. “Are you also sure, Rose?” he asked softly. His clear expression pierced her, his eyes wells of kindness. She understood that performing a marriage like this might ruin his position, not just in this isolated coastal outpost, but into his future ministry, if word got out. Yet his first concern was for the two of them.

  “I’m sure,” she said, wishing fiercely for her father, and for Hazel.

  “Nothing to stop us, then,” he said. “You certainly have your witnesses.” Reverend Huntington took one of Rose’s hands and one of Bai Lum’s and held them between his own. Mattie and Ya Zhen stood solemnly next to Lucy, but Shu-Li hurried over to the jumble of things on the counter. She got scissors and took the red silk they had piled there. She ran it through her hands until she found a clean section, and cut out a large square. Beaming, she came to Rose, holding out the piece of fabric.

  “Jì lǐ, Rose Allen,” she said.

  Rose looked at Bai Lum. “What is it?”

  “She says it is good luck, auspicious.” He smiled, wincing a little from the pain in his face. “It is our custom for the bride to wear red,” he said to Rose. “Very lucky.”

  “Of course.” She nodded at Shu-Li. The girl lifted the wisp of fabric, standing on tiptoes to reach, and centered it carefully on Rose’s head. It fell like a breath over her face, touching just at her shoulders. Rose could see through the fine weave, everything fiery and soft around the edges. The two lamps glowed like small suns.

  “Very well then,” said Reverend Huntington. “Rose, do you accept Bai Lum as your husband, forsaking forever that which would divide you and nurturing that which will unite you in the eternal mystery of your Creator?”

  “I do.” The silk puffed out lightly when she spoke. Bai Lum gripped her hand under Reverend Huntington’s, and it seemed she could hear the blood coursing through her veins, a thin, silver sound in her ears.

  Reverend Huntington asked Bai Lum the same question, and he answered with a resonant, “Yes.”

  “Lovely. Dear ones, you have made a promise before God and this company. You are husband and wife.” He patted their joined hands, and let them go. The whole ceremony had taken less than a minute.

  Rose’s eyes widened, extraordinarily surprised. Did I really?

  Shu-Li, who had apparently appointed herself maid of honor, pulled the red veil away, and there was Bai Lum, his beautiful face close to hers.

  Yes.

  “After we leave, you mustn’t go back out on the street. You know that.” Lucy buttoned her coat and gave Rose a last lecture. The door had been cleared; Bai Lum and Reverend Huntington stood in front of it with Mattie, Ya Zhen, and Shu-Li.

  “We won’t leave,” Rose assured her.

  “Charles will spend the night at the church and come back for all of us in the morning. We’ll bring the girls here early. How is your wrist?” It seemed to Rose that Lucy was stalling her leave-taking.

  “Lucy, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Try not to worry.”

  Lucy nodded, but her face said everything they could not speak aloud. That the marriage was dangerous for both of them. That in a few hours, the town would put her new husband on a ship and put him out to sea like a piece of freight.

  Rose touched the furrows in Lucy’s brow and smoothed her finger across the lines. “We’ll work all those things out in the morning,” she said. She leaned close so she could whisper. “You should go now. You’re obstructing my wedding night.”

  Lucy laughed, swatted at her, and —to Rose’s delight— blushed. She kissed Rose on the cheek and hurried over to her husband. “All right,” she said. “Let’s get these girls to Hazel Cleary’s so they can finally get some rest.”

  When the carriage pulled away from the mercantile, Rose and Bai Lum went inside and slid the heavy barricade back in place.

  Ya Zhen listened to Shu-Li breathing beside her, deeply and evenly. They were in Mrs. Cleary’s bed, a voluminous feather mattress that was like lying in a cloud. Rose’s aunt had been tearful and sweet, smothering all of them in bosomy hugs and kissing their cheeks when Reverend and Mrs. Huntington delivered them. Before they could even mount the damp porch steps, she had flung open the door and rushed out, first putting her arms around Mattie and rocking her back and forth, then shaking hands with Ya Zhen and Shu-Li when Mrs. Huntington introduced them.

  “I thought Rose was bringing the girls here.” She looked around and realized who was missing. “Oh God, where is she now?”

  Mattie linked her elbow through Hazel’s. “She’s fine,�
� she said. “It happens that Rose is not a maiden lady anymore,” she said. “Come in and we’ll tell you.”

  Now Ya Zhen lay deep in the glory of Mrs. Cleary’s feather bed, her belongings tucked under the pillow and Shu-Li sound asleep. She could hear Reverend Huntington outside, saying goodnight to his wife. She slipped out of bed and went to the window.

  Lucy stood at the gate, almost imperceptible in the dark and fog. Reverend Huntington gave the horse a kindly pat on the neck and climbed into the carriage. He put his fingers to his lips and blew Lucy a kiss, then drove away, the clop of the horse’s hooves a small and specific sound, like round stones dropped into water. Lucy stayed at the gate for a few moments until her husband drove out of sight and then tipped her face to the occluded sky. The moon, now visible only as a faded hint behind the clouds, still threw enough light to make her features discernible. To Ya Zhen, it almost seemed like the face of a different woman, her expression soft and vulnerable, full of fear and love. She mounted the porch steps slowly, looking every bit her age, and disappeared inside.

  The rooftops of Eureka, a crowd of peaks and spires, gables and chimneys, hunched out toward the edge of the bay, all of it swaddled in mist. At the far edge of town, Salyer’s Hotel rose above everything near it, the eight-sided cupola standing in stark silhouette. None of its windows was lit. She looked in the direction of Chinatown, but couldn’t see those buildings, most of them squatty shacks with rough, unpainted facades and crudely lettered signs. All of the people who had called that place home were strangers to her, including the men who had used her body. In that way, Eureka’s Chinese were little different to her than everyone else in town. She was bound to none of them. Somewhere behind those walls were women, a few invisible souls who stayed in because of shame or because their status had literally hobbled them. A woman with bound feet was considered a woman of leisure, who needed only the comforts her husband provided. Tomorrow Ya Zhen would see them all, every one a refugee now, floating into the unknown.

  Back in the bed, she drew close to Shu-Li, relishing the warmth the other girl radiated. She closed her eyes, letting the heavy quilts press her gently toward sleep, and she listened to the small sounds of the other women getting ready for bed: Mrs. Cleary, Lucy, Mattie. The time she had endured at Salyer’s taught her not to project her thoughts too far into the future, nor into the past. She chose not to picture much of what might happen in the morning, or what she would do when she arrived in San Francisco. Right here, right now—this was enough.

  Ya Zhen sank deeper, and her last thought was of the way the gold threads in her wedding clothes had glimmered on the walls of her mother’s home, and of the red veil over Rose’s face. She slid a hand under her pillow and cradled the ebony chopsticks.

  For a half-hour, Bai Lum hammered shelves apart and nailed the boards across the windows at the front of the store. Rose went into the back and found several empty crates. She fitted as much into each one as she could, and by the time Bai Lum was done securing the windows, she had packed most of what was salvageable and dragged it into the storeroom. Her wrist throbbed heavily; she sat on a wide keg of nails and held her arm to her chest. Bai Lum came through the curtain and looked around at the crates.

  “You’ve done too much.” He stood next to her, shaking his head. “I cannot take the store with me.” He looked at the way she held her wrist and gestured to the stairs. “We need tea.”

  She stood, finding it curiously difficult to meet his eye. This is my husband, she thought, my husband. He took the stairs ahead of her, holding the slender neck of the whale-oil lamp. Despite her racing pulse —or perhaps because of it— she had never been so tired, and felt as if she could barely pull herself from step to step. When they turned at the landing, she remembered her hesitation here, the way he had put his face next to hers and breathed her in. It was like something that had happened to someone else, something she’d read it in a book.

  In the kitchen, he stoked the fire and she set out cups. He prepared the tea with slow deliberation, and she watched his long fingers in the uncertain light of the lamp. He opened the cold cupboard built into the north wall, chilled by a screened vent to the outside. He retrieved apples and cut them into wedges. These he placed on a plate in front of Rose and sat down next to her at the table.

  She leaned her shoulder into Bai Lum’s. When she reached for a piece of apple, he picked up the slice himself, put it to her lips. Keeping her eyes on his face, she opened her mouth. The apple was tart and juicy, and the taste of it made saliva squirt from under her tongue. He watched her chew, offered her another. She ate, then lifted a slice to his lips in return. Bai Lum bit the wedge in half, chewed.

  “Does your mouth hurt?” she asked. She was nearly whispering. The flame of the little lamp shifted, moving on their faces.

  “No. It is fine.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, took the rest of the apple from her fingers, smiling.

  She felt as if the warm tea was seeping into every small space, every capillary, every hollow inch of her. “You married me, Bai Lum.” She put her palms on his cheeks and her eyes roamed across the strong planes of his face. He leaned forward and kissed her. She could taste apple, and salt from the cut in the corner of his mouth.

  “Yes, Rose Allen.” He pulled her bottom lip gently between both of his, held it for a moment, released her. “Táng kè. My love.” He breathed the words into her mouth.

  She shifted back a little, drank, watched him over the rim of her cup. “What will happen tomorrow?”

  His eyes skimmed around the small kitchen as if to take an inventory. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I will get on the ship with Shu-Li and Ya Zhen. With everyone.”

  “With me.”

  He was silent.

  “With me.”

  “You will come later, Rose,” he said. “On another ship. Safer that way.”

  She wanted to argue, but she knew he was right. He didn’t need to say what they both understood: there were people already willing to kill him. She closed her eyes and could see him standing on the scaffold with the noose around his neck, and a shudder wracked her, “I’ll get a ticket on the next steamer out,” she said. “It might be a week or more, if the weather is bad.”

  “I will send a wire from San Francisco telling you where to find us.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “There are people I know in the city, probably still there.” He lifted her hand and kissed the knuckles. “I will be fine,” he said, “and you will be fine.”

  “What time do you think will they’ll raise anchor tomorrow?”

  “It depends on the tide,” he said. “Probably in the afternoon.”

  “But we need to be ready early.”

  “What do you want to take?”

  “My wife is a practical woman. This is a wonderful quality.” Rose’s hair was slowly but surely falling out of the pins she had ratcheted in when Mattie had gotten her out of bed; Bai Lum smoothed one long tendril away from her face. “I’m going to check downstairs before we sleep,” he said. “Will you make us one last cup of tea?”

  She moved slowly around the tiny kitchen, stirring the fire, filling the kettle at the pump. It was just past midnight and it seemed as though her exhaustion had shifted, so that she felt not tired but caught in a dream. Measuring tea into the pot, she had the pleasant sensation of moving underwater. While the kettle ticked and simmered, Rose looked out the window. It showed only the back of the building next door. Lamps were lit in the upstairs room, and three people moved behind drawn shades, all men, it appeared. Their shadows first loomed like behemoths and then shrunk to man-size as they went through their rooms, preparing to be turned out. She could no longer hear voices in the street.

  She filled the teapot and carried the tray down the hallway, following the lamplight to the back of the apartment.

  The room smelled like him, a loamy smell like the deep duff under conifer trees, clean and particular. A small lamp stood on a table beside the bed. The be
d, somewhat larger than Shu-Li’s was covered with a heavy damask spread, a shade of indigo so dark it was almost black. One small window and tall chest of drawers were draped with polished cotton. He had pulled one of the trunks into the room and it stood open under the window. When she entered, Bai Lum took the tray and set it on the chest of drawers.

  “I want to show you something.”

  On the far side of the room stood an ornate screen, four panels of dark wood etched with symmetrical gilt designs, tendrils and leaves, clusters of flowers and curved branches upon which sat a variety of plumed birds. She followed him behind the screen, and stopped short. Here was a full-sized bathtub, the enamel glossy in the light of a single candle, filled to within a few inches of the rim with steaming water. A square brass table with a glass top stood next to the tub, holding a comb and a slender, corked bottle. Several dried chrysanthemums floated, nearly transparent, across the surface of the bath.

  “Oh,” she said, amazed at this oasis tucked into the corner of an old plank building. He had arranged it for her delight, and was clearly pleased by her reaction. “How? Bai Lum, how did you do this?”

  “The stove downstairs has a boiler,” he said. “When the fire is high, it doesn’t take long to make the water hot.” He moved the pump handle and a stream of water set the flowers rocking.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she said. She ran her palm along the smooth, curved edge of the tub.

  “I built it two years ago,” he said. “It would be better in its own room, but—” he shrugged, “no room.”

  All the care he had lavished here. Who would bathe here tomorrow, or next week, next year? Who else would expend such effort on these simple rooms? Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Now a wedding gift.”

  She turned and put her arms around his waist. The firm, silky length of his braid was beneath her hands. “Thank you.”