by L G Rollins
Jasper’s brow creased and he leaned back slightly. “So you are Miss Zhi.”
“Yes, sir.” Her name seemed to mean something to him—something beyond recognizing she was the woman he’d met last night, something about being a member of the Zhi family, but what, exactly, Ju couldn’t fathom. He mulled over her response with that same look in his eyes he’d had last night when she’d offered to introduce him to her mother and Wei shu.
“My name means something to you, sir?”
Wei shu gave her a stern sideways glance. It was the look she always gave when Ju spoke too boldly. Ju usually ignored it, which is what she did now.
“Yes,” Jasper said, his tone rich and soft as it had been last night. “As it turns out, I have recently made your mother’s acquaintance.”
“Oh?” When would Mama have had met Jasper? The only thing Mama had been doing lately was . . . looking for work. So that must be it. Mama had gone knocking at Jasper’s place. Still, it wasn’t common for the man of the house to deal with such matters. Was he a manservant in some wealthy home?
Changchang moved up directly next to Jasper, her hands wrapping around his arm. “Mrs. Zhi is such a kind woman. Quite a favorite around here.” Her voice sounded shrill as she tried to break into the conversation. “We are all praying someone generous enough will hire her soon.”
Ju’s jaw clamped shut. As if someone would have to be generous to want to hire her mama. They weren’t a charity case. Mama only asked to be paid a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work.
“Mama is one of the hardest workers in all London. Most assuredly she will find work soon.” Ju’s tone was a bit harsh and Wei shu was giving her that look again.
Jasper coughed nervously. “Ah, I am sure she will.”
Ju listed her head. She couldn’t quite seem to make sense of this man. On the one hand, he was so easy to talk to. He brought with him a sense of safety and security. Best of all, he spoke to her like a person and not like a prize pony. But he didn’t pull away from Changchang’s advances, and seemed slightly ill at ease with their conversation of her Mama’s lack of work. Moreover, in not much time, he’d seemed to have left every woman in the room under the impression that she was his personal favorite, judging by the way they all hung on his every word. Perhaps he just knew how to flatter her as well.
He was still looking at her. He seemed to not want the conversation to end.
Then again, she didn’t either. “I must admit I am surprised you knew, though my name is Zhi ju, to call me Miss Zhi and not Miss Ju.” Though she hadn’t pieced out who he was, Ju liked talking to him. She liked the rumble in his deep voice and the way she felt when he looked at her.
“You have your mother to thank for that, actually. During our brief encounter she was adamant I call her Mrs. Zhi. Am I correct in assuming, then, that in China surnames are spoken first and given names second?”
“Very good. Keep figuring out secrets like that and soon you’ll have all of Chinatown welcoming you with open arms.”
Her gaze strayed to Changchang. It looked like Chinatown was already opening its arms wide for Jasper.
Wei shu spoke, her tone civil but still clipped. “Pardon me, Mr. Wimple, but I do have another class coming soon and I need the use of my dance school.”
“But of course.” He bowed politely. “I shall be on my way, then. I thank you again for allowing me to interrupt your day. I have learned much.”
“Must you go?” Changchang asked.
“Afraid so, my sweet.” The endearment was said lightly, casually. Still, it rubbed against Ju like rough wood. Perhaps she was just another pretty face to him. Though, she certainly hadn’t felt that way when she spoke with him. On the other hand, Changchang probably didn’t feel like ‘just another pretty face’ when he’d called her ‘my sweet’ either.
As Jasper made his way to the front door, more than one young woman pressed up close to him asking if he would be back. Ju didn’t follow but stayed standing next to Wei shu. She couldn’t ignore the tug inside her, the deep desire to trust him. But Ju had felt thus before. Sometimes it turned out well, like with Dapo. Other times, it didn’t, like with Wang. Which kind of a man would Jasper turn out to be?
Jasper reached the door and then glanced back into the school. His gaze fell on Ju and he gave her that same smile as before—the small, sincere one. And suddenly, it was as though no one else stood in the room. It was only her and him and a warm feeling of being seen—truly being seen for who she was and not just how she looked.
Then he was gone, strolling down the street and out of sight.
“Finally,” Wei shu said under her breath. Then, she clapped her hands together. Every voice silenced. Every eye swiveled to Wei shu. Even Ju obeyed the command—they’d all been taught since they were little what that clap meant.
Wei shu addressed the gaggle as a whole. “Enough foolishness, girls. My evening students will be arriving soon and you all will either leave or be put to work tutoring.”
No one risked groaning aloud—Wei shu wouldn’t have allowed it—but more than one countenance fell.
A hand raised and Wei shu nodded toward the young woman. Ju didn’t know her well but had always found her to be one of the more flirty girls. “Do you suppose Mr. Wimple will return tomorrow?”
The question caused a wave of giggles to roll across the room. Wei shu sighed and whispered a near silent, “Heaven help us if he does.” Then she stood up straighter and spoke aloud once more. “Listen to me closely. Mr. Wimple seems like a nice enough man. But we, none of us, know him well and we would all be wise to remember that. Now be on your way or I shall put you to work.”
Ju pursed her lips as the women about her stood and slowly moved toward the door. Conversation was softer now, but still revolved around Jasper. Did Wei shu not trust Jasper? Granted, Ju didn’t know the man very well either, but she couldn’t help but feel, deep down inside her, that he was trustworthy.
Ju followed Wei shu back into the office. “Do you have cause to distrust Mr. Wimple?”
Wei shu slumped heavily into a chair behind a worn desk. Resting her elbows on the table, she leaned her head into her hands. Ju didn’t often see Wei shu show her exhaustion. Ju sat across from her in a cushioned seat with a couple of holes across the back. The woman trained dancers like they were cogs in a machine and she expected them to perform perfectly each and every time. Wei shu never seemed to age. Never showed a hint of sickness or weakness.
“Nothing alarming,” Wei shu said between her hands. “Mostly I fear he will distract the girls and possibly break a heart or two.” Her hands dropped away. “The man is an unrepentant flirt. That much is obvious.”
He had called nearly every girl “sweetheart” or “my dear”. “Did he say why he’d come by?” Not that Ju expected Jasper had come in and asked for her. But what if he had? She hadn’t mentioned Jasper the night before when explaining what had happened with Wang. Her mama and Wei shu had grown so enraged with Wang halfway through Ju’s tale that they’d hardly allowed her a word in edgewise after that. So Ju had remained silent about Jasper and only said, instead, that she had managed to get away.
Wei shu waved a hand and closed her eyes. “He only said he was an artist and wanted to photograph different sides of London—places most people didn’t know even existed.”
“I see.” Ju hoped her disappointment didn’t show.
“Ju.” Wei shu’s tone changed, turning gentler and, at the same time, more firm. “You need to be careful.”
She needed to be careful? “I’m not sure what you mean.”
One of Wei shu’s brows rose. “I saw the look you two exchanged just now. Londoners have a term: hopeless romantic. It means someone who, no matter how often their heart gets broken, they’re always looking for their next love.” Her gaze moved to the door which led out to the rest of the dance school; giddy voices still seeped through. “I have several girls whom that term fits quite suitably.”
Ju felt her face heat up. “Surely you don’t think that I am one of them?” Gears above, she hoped not. She didn’t assume every new male acquaintance could have romantic interest in her. Moreover, if she was, as Wei shu seemed to be implying, someone who was forever looking for love, she’d done a terrible job at it. She’d never had a beau—she had always been too busy with her dancing for such things.
Wei shu smiled at her; a patient, motherly sort of smile.
Ju let out a little breath. “If you aren’t calling me a hopeless romantic, then what are you saying?”
“You are right. You are not a hopeless romantic. What you are,” Wei shu said with a sparkle in her eye, “is a hopeless truster.”
Ju laughed lightly. “Oh, so I’m gullible now? Is that it?”
“No, no.” Wei shu waved a hand. “Gullible means you believe anything you’re told without thinking it through first. No. What you are is a person who has had their trust betrayed many times and recognizes that whenever you meet someone new. And yet, every time you meet someone, you are hoping they will be trustworthy.”
Ju opened her mouth. Then shut it again. Was that true? She’d never seen herself in such light. But, now that Wei shu had uttered the words, Ju couldn’t help but feel that her heart agreed with the dance instructor.
“Mr. Wimple is probably no more dangerous than any other handsome man who likes to harmlessly flirt with women for whom he would never form any serious attachment to,” Wei shu continued. “I simply feel it would be wise if you understand that right now.”
A heaviness seemed to sit in Ju’s chest. But she couldn’t deny the wisdom in Wei shu’s words; Ju had always found her former instructor’s judgment to be sound. Suddenly she didn’t want to risk allowing herself to trust Jasper. Only a fool craving a broken heart got entangled with a man like that.
Ju stood, ready to be on her way back home. “I came on behalf of Mama. She wondered if you had any extra joss paper.”
Wei shu pushed away from her desk. “For Zhi liling? Of course.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of the paper wrapped with twine. The square paper was mostly cream colored, but a golden square filled the center.
“Thank you. Mama will be most appreciative.”
Wei shu smiled and the act seemed to ease the wrinkles across her eyes and the tightness edged in her forehead. “I know what a trying time of year this always is for her. Tell your mama, I’m here if she wants to talk.”
“Thank you.” Ju bowed just as she had hundreds of times when she was a student.
Wei shu patted Ju’s hand. “Keep yourself safe.”
***
“I’m home,” Ju called as she stepped inside. She glanced about the small abode and then clamped her mouth closed. Mama was kneeling before a small table she’d decorated with flowers, candles, and the few images of Ju’s father they had.
“Sorry,” Ju whispered.
Mama didn’t so much as wave or acknowledge Ju’s return. So, Ju silently shut the door behind her and moved to the small kitchen table.
Placing the joss paper down, Ju sat and began folding the sheets into lotus lanterns. Today marked the first day of Ghost Month. Though most of Chinatown wouldn’t celebrate the holiday until Hungry Ghost Festival, which wasn’t for another fifteen days, her mama celebrated every minute of the entire month, every year.
The practice used to excite Ju—it was a time of flowers and food and fire. Moreover, ancestors from the afterlife could come visit during Ghost Month. It seemed someone in Chinatown told of seeing and conversing with a long lost loved one every other year or so. She’d treasured this time. That was until six years ago.
One Hungry Ghost Festival, Ju had spent most the evening with several other girls from Wei shu’s dance school and they’d informed her that the only ghosts who truly broke the bands of the afterlife and visited the living during this time of year were tricksters, murdered souls, and, worst of all, those who had taken their own life.
Ju folded the paper and tried to block out the sound of Mama praying. The few stories Mama had told of Ju’s father and her flight to England didn’t leave Ju with many facts. But it seemed that her father had not been much of a trickster. Moreover, Ju knew that her mama had fled China in the dead of night, without help from anyone. She’d run from her previous life—not like one who wished her husband avenged, but like one who was dishonored and ashamed.
Tears pooled about Ju’s eyes, blurring the sight of the cream and gold paper in her hands. Ever since that one Hungry Ghost Festival, Ju had stopped asking questions about her father. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The unrest she felt every time she thought about the man who’d sired her but whom she’d never known grew every year. It was like she’d swallowed a thick floor brush and at every though of her father it scrubbed at her ribs, rubbing them raw.
Mama’s voice grew. She was praying Ju’s father would guide them, protect them, keep a vigil over them. But, why would he? What kind of a man chooses death over a wife and unborn child? Not the kind of man who cared what happened to them now, that much Ju was certain of.
Mama’s voice hiccupped with a soft sob.
Ju didn’t miss her father like she would have had she known the man before he died. But Mama was forever racked with grief. Even when Mama smiled, Ju could see the loneliness behind her sparkling eyes. Mama’s petition for guidance continued, the sincerity in her voice pressing painfully against Ju’s chest.
Ju tossed the lotus lantern she was making onto the table. “Let him go, Mama.”
Mama stopped speaking, but didn’t turn away from the small shrine she’d built that morning.
Ju let out a frustrated breath. Maybe it was just leftover panic from last night, or disappointment in finding Jasper to be an insincere flirt, but Ju wasn’t in the mood to petition a man for help, one who had deserted them no less. Both she and her mama were strong, competent women and they would solve their problems as they always had—on their own.
Still, Ju couldn’t deny that her anger was seeded in something more than the happenings of the past twenty-four hours. She was sick and tired of Mama looking to the past for solutions. Why look to a time and place that, first of all, was long behind them, and second of all, more often asked women to be beautiful decor instead of contributing individuals? They were in England now. They had opportunities here.
Yes, they were on their own. Yes, they were struggling a bit. But they didn’t need this death grip on the past. They didn’t need Ju’s father.
“He’s not coming,” Ju spat.
Mama’s tone was weary, but determined. “Just because we never see him doesn’t mean he hasn’t come. He always finds ways to communicate.”
Ju rolled her eyes. Mama was forever claiming small, inconsequential things where actually her father trying to communicate with them. A flower on the sidewalk, a bowl tipped on its side in the cupboard, dust magically wiped away from the small ornate mirrors decorating the top cupboards.
Ju moved to her Mama’s side, knelt down, and placed a hand on Mama’s shoulder. “We aren’t in China anymore.”
“The dead do not care for boundaries laid out by the living.” There was more of an edge to Mama’s voice this time.
“I only meant, don’t you think it’s time we”—how to say this delicately—“we saw the beauty in English traditions and, perhaps, joined in some of their celebrations instead?” The only time Ju wished she was more adept at speaking with tact was when she argued with Mama. Once Mama turned stubborn, nothing persuaded her.
Mama turned her head slowly, like a hungry bear slowly waking, and eyed Ju with one eyebrow raised. Then, Mama stood and moved over to her trunk. Wordlessly, she lifted the lid and pulled out two small books. Ju had seen them before, but had never read either. Leather-bound and water-stained, the two books were a handwritten history of Mama, Mama’s mother, and Mama’s grandmother.
Mama walked slowly back toward Ju and held out the small books. “Do the English remember the
ir roots? Do the English honor those who have toiled that we may flourish?”
Ju shook her head. Mama was deliberately not giving the English a chance. Well, Mama wasn’t the only one who could be stubborn. “Father’s toil has not made it so we may flourish.” She raised a hand toward the two books. “Those women did not toil so that we could flourish. We left any advantage or wealth they may have given us in China.” Now that Ju had begun speaking, she couldn’t get herself to stop. “Your hard work and my hard work is what has put food on the table. We owe our ancestors nothing.”
Silence.
Oh, blast, she’d gone too far. Mama blinked a couple of times and shoved the two books at Ju’s chest. Ju took them, more so they didn’t end up falling to the ground than anything. Wordless, Mama turned back toward the shrine, chin high, and knelt before it once more.
Ju slowly rested the two leather-bound books in her lap. It’s not that Ju didn’t care for her ancestors or heritage. She simply felt her mama was taking it too far—an unhealthy degree too far.
Still, guilt weighed down the corners of Ju’s lips. “I’m sorry, Mama. But I truly think it’s time we moved on.” Ju moved toward her own bed roll in the corner and put the books down next to the thick, silver bracelet father had supposedly bought for Ju, and which Mama was always asking her to wear. “Starting with not celebrating all month,” Ju said over her shoulder. She didn’t want to take China away from her Mama completely. Ju only wanted her Mama to stop grieving so endlessly.
Mama’s voice trembled. “If he’s going to come to us, he needs our prayers to get him here. And you need your sleep if you’re going to dance hard again tomorrow. I will keep a vigil for both of us.”
“Mama—”
“Good night, Ju.”