Joshua bit back the retort he longed to make and forced a smile. He would have to deal with this man almost every day for the foreseeable future, and Nellie-girl’s comfort was in his charge.
The next comment came from Madam Mamie, who stuck her head into his office as he was writing up his notes on his morning patients. “‘Immoral labor’? I’ll be sure to tell the girls what you think of their profession.”
“But — but —” After his first embarrassment, he saw that she was twitting him, and relaxed enough to be able to answer. “That’s what they’re claiming, which is what I said. And I wanted those who have that view to listen to me.”
Her expression combined cynicism and something darker. “We sure see plenty of men with that view, as you put it. See ‘em over and over, as a rule. But anyhow, I’m glad to see you sticking up for our Li Chang. He’s never been anything but a gentleman to me and my girls.”
Joshua had a quick dinner at the nearest saloon, and then it was off to see more patients. As he left the saloon, he was rattled to see Dolly approaching. Since Freida had chided him about her, he had been somewhat avoiding her, but it seemed she was not avoiding him. “Good afternoon, Doctor. Out on another errand of mercy?”
He wriggled inside at her phrasing. “I’m going to see Li Chang, to check how his burned arm is doing.”
He could have answered her without mentioning the laundryman, but he was curious to see how she would respond. Her faint blush and shifting gaze supported what he would have guessed, that she had seen, and had not meant to mention, his letter. Half curious, half resigned to her disapproval, he pursued the subject. “Did you happen to read the paper this morning?”
She did not pretend to ignorance, but said, still looking to one side, “I did, and saw your letter. I was — surprised, I suppose. When the congressman’s aide described the bill, it sounded . . . sensible. A way to protect those Chinese girls, as well as the men here who might . . . .” She blushed more deeply. “. . . who might suffer unfortunate consequences if those girls are brought to our shores.”
He had said what he had to say in his letter. He would not further defend his opinion to her, standing in the street. After a supremely awkward silence, she finally looked straight at him and said, in a voice whose cheerful tone seemed forced, “But it’s important for a man to get involved in the issues of the day. I’m sure your family would be proud of you for doing so.”
Now that she had turned away from disagreement, he found himself perversely wishing she had continued to disagree. It would have helped him understand her better, and possibly to examine his own opinions and test their merit.
Li Chang was agitated as Joshua had never seen him. “I don’t understand. What is this Act? What is Page? This Congress wants to keep my wife and my mother in China? How can they do that?”
Joshua could say little to calm him. He was no great expert on Congress, and what little he knew would not be encouraging. But he said, as he changed the dressing on Li’s arm, “It may not happen. The speaker was trying to make his boss look important — this bill may not pass after all. But . . . if your wife and your mother have any way to come sooner, it might be a good idea.”
“Yes, yes. I will write to them. I will tell them to leave what they can’t sell, borrow from my uncle, do whatever they can.”
It might give the man some bit of comfort to know what Joshua planned to do next. “I’m going to try to get folks here to sign a petition to Congress, asking them to vote against this bill. We’ll see what we can do.”
Li Chang grabbed Joshua’s right hand and shook it hard enough that it must have made his burned arm throb. “You are a good man, Doctor. I thank you. My wife and my mother will thank you.”
Joshua returned the handshake with some embarrassment. “I look forward to seeing them here, and when they are, they can thank me if they’ve a mind to.” He went on his way as soon as he could decently manage it.
The lawyer who had advised him was gone, riding the circuit. Another had turned up in the meantime, but Joshua was unlikely to get his advice at bargain rates. He studied his accounts and confirmed that he simply couldn’t afford to hire anyone to help him word the petition. But the mayor had seemed friendly with the congressman’s aide. Maybe he would be willing to share some thoughts about what phrasing might be effective in Washington.
The mayor, however, was far from willing, either to assist or to give Joshua the time of day. How dare Joshua challenge their very own representative about matters of which Joshua was so entirely ignorant! Did he think himself the intellectual equal of such a man? What business did he have interfering? Did he want to see more men infected with the noxious diseases of the Orient? Was he, perhaps, trying to ensure an influx of patients?
Joshua went from gritting his teeth to clenching his fists. He managed to leave without pounding the fellow’s face in and hurried over to Robert’s, there to pour out his indignation. “So good Americans are supposed to crawl on their bellies to anyone with a fancy chair in the capital? I suppose he imagines himself in Congress next, and wants to make sure all of us at home are properly mealymouthed once he gets there! He probably thinks himself above us already, from being the mayor. And him without the wit to tell a bull from a steer!”
Robert snorted at Joshua’s fulminations and then reached for a bottle on his shelf. “Here, old son. Captain Worthingson’s Potent Potion, sure to calm your inflamed liver, soothe your fevered brow, and knock you flat until you wake up forgetting all about it.”
Joshua was distracted, as Robert no doubt intended. “Where did you come by that swindler’s piss?”
“Oh, we had a medicine show come by the other day. Reckon you were out seeing to farmers.”
Joshua abruptly remembered the last such invasion. “Was the pitchman a yellow-haired man, good-sized, with whiskers but no wax on ‘em?”
“No, he was a runt of a fellow, with slicked-up whiskers about as wide as he was tall.”
“And you bought a bottle as the price for speeding him on his way.”
Robert grimaced. “Not one. Three. And stood by as four of my customers bought one apiece. And paid for his dinner at Mamie’s, and a round with one of Mamie’s girls. He drove a hard bargain.”
“Glad I wasn’t here. I have enough aggravation.”
That night, the oil lamp pulled close and his tired eyes stinging, Joshua scratched out yet another line of what would be the petition if he ever finished it. What would make a difference to a congressman? What motivated them? Reelection, for one. But he could hardly claim that voting against prostitution, or in favor of foreigners so unlike most of their constituents, would cost them votes. Or could he? He could repeat and expand upon the theme Freida’s comments had suggested, for what was more fundamental, more moving, than motherhood? What politician worth his salt would vote against it? And marriage was almost as sacred. . . .
We, citizens of the State of Nebraska and proud Americans, protest against the legislation proposed, to deprive our Chinese brothers of the companionship of their wives waiting faithfully on distant shores, and yearning for the freedom and prosperity for which their menfolk left home and entrusted their futures to our country . . . And further, we entreat our Representatives to honor the bonds of kinfolk and the respect due to sacred motherhood, as this cruel bill would forever part mothers and sons, and leave those who bore those sons alone and destitute in their declining years . . . .
He stumbled to bed after midnight, with little idea of what he had written. But in the morning, reviewing his draft by sunlight, he thought it would serve.
Joshua paid the town clerk to write out three fair copies of the petition, not trusting his own handwriting for so important a purpose. He posted one copy on the signpost in the town square and another on his office door. He would have liked to post the last one on the notice board at the church, but the preacher practically kicked him out the door at the suggestion. He took the copy to the social library during Freida’s ho
urs there and asked diffidently, “Could you see your way clear to letting me post this? I’ll understand if you’d rather not risk upsetting your subscribers.”
Freida snorted and plucked the paper from his hand. “Give it here, I’ll put it up near the history books. People who read about history, they should be less afraid of the world and the people in it, wouldn’t you think? And if they don’t like it, they can try to find books somewhere else, good luck to them, they’ll have a hard time.” She stumped over to the desk in the room and retrieved a pen. “Here, I’ll put a pen on this table, very handy.” She held the pen in her hand, pondering it. “The ladies, they can’t vote, can they sign this petition?”
“That’s a very good question.” Joshua considered the matter and picked up the pen, drawing a line down the middle of the paper and writing Gentlemen and Ladies at the tops of the columns. “The bill’s sponsors claim to be protecting our womenfolk and our families. Seems fitting to have wives and mothers tell them they’re wrongheaded in how they’re doing it.”
A new voice came from the doorway. “I’m glad to hear you say that.” Clara Brook stood in the doorway with two books in her hand. She came in, handed the books to Freida, and held out her hand for the pen. “Let me be the first to sign in the ‘Ladies’ column.” Then she hesitated, with first a troubled and then a sardonic look on her face. “At least, if you’ll allow those of us who are neither wives nor mothers to sign.”
“I wouldn’t dream of objecting.” He was heartily glad that she wanted to do it. It was balm to his spirit, after Dolly’s failure to see things his way.
Clara took the pen and wrote on the paper, her signature full of bold diagonals and firm strokes, but entirely legible. “These politicians dream up a problem so they can puff out their chests solving it, and never mind who gets hurt in the doing.”
It occurred to Joshua that he could inquire where she was going from here, and possibly escort her. But Freida’s earlier lecture about Dolly rang in his ears, reinforced by Freida’s presence. He had better watch his step. He contented himself with thanking her, and with looking out the door after her as she went her way.
Joshua had little grasp of how things worked in Washington. He didn’t know how long it might be before what kind of votes on the Page Act. That made it hard to decide how long to wait for signatures before taking down the petitions and sending them — where? He did not even know that. His own congressman was unlikely to pay them any mind. They could end up used to line bird cages, or even in some congressional outhouse.
Back he went to Thaddeus. “Who’s the head man in Congress?”
“For which party?”
“The Republicans, I guess. They’re in charge, aren’t they?”
“For now. And that would be James Blaine, in the House at least.”
Joshua put Blaine’s name on the envelope, got the address from Thaddeus, and filled that in as well. He would wait three days in the hope of getting more signatures.
During that time, every footstep outside his office, every creak of the door, took on a possible new meaning. It might be a patient, or Robert coming over for a chat, or the wind rattling the door as it often did. Or it might be someone reading the petition, deciding whether to sign. The window in his office did not give him a good view of anyone standing right next to the door. If footsteps approached, stopped, resumed, and faded away, it could be a nervous patient who had changed his mind, or someone who had read the petition and signed it, or someone who had read it and simply walked on.
On the second afternoon, he heard heavy steps and then the door rattling. Holding his breath, Joshua thought he could just make out the scritching of a pen on paper. He moved near his window, where he could see the street, and saw the burly frame of the barber walking away. He waited until the man had turned the corner and then opened his door. There it was, the large signature taking up more than its share of paper.
Joshua whistled to himself. You just never knew.
None of the copies had filled up entirely by the time Joshua took them down. He took one more look at the names before stuffing the copies in the envelope. He did not know whether to be amused, gladdened, or annoyed to see Dolly’s careful, rounded handwriting at the end of one.
* * * * *
Joshua timed his errand according to the weather. He would prefer not to have too many people wondering why he was visiting the barber with a paper sack in his hand, and possibly lingering nearby in the hope of a confrontation. A sudden squall, complete with sleet, cleared the street well enough for his purposes. He fastened his overcoat and made his hunched and shivering way to the barbershop, slipping in without, he thought, attracting attention from anyone but the barber and his customer. Both turned toward him, the barber wary, the customer — an unfamiliar traveler, perhaps a salesman — only curious. Joshua breathed a sigh of relief. He could simply sit down as if waiting his turn, and with luck, no one else would brave the weather for a haircut or shave.
During the few minutes he had to wait, he idly studied the silvery tools sitting ready for the barber’s hand and the ceramic jar full of brushes. Once the door shut behind the traveler, Joshua stood up and proffered the sack. “I brought you something. The bartender down the street tells me you like Scotch whiskey.” He need not add that Clara Brook had said something similar, months before.
Mr. Hawkins’s heavy brows moved slowly upward as he took the sack. “What’s the occasion, Doc?”
Joshua cleared his throat. “I mailed off the petitions concerning the Page Act yesterday. Naturally, I saw your signature.”
The barber gave the basso chuckle Joshua had rarely had occasion to hear. “Would this be a thank-you, then?”
“It would.”
Hawkins studied the sack in his hand, pulled out the bottle, and lumbered over to the door. He flipped the sign from Open to Closed and hung his smock on a peg. “Care to join me for a drink, then?”
Whiskey would warm him up nicely. “Yes, thank you.”
The barber kept glasses in a cupboard, it seemed, and pulled out two. Joshua wondered whether there was already a bottle in there as well. Hawkins poured generous amounts for both of them, handed one glass to Joshua, and settled himself in his red leather barber chair, swiveling it around to face the room rather than the long low mirror. Joshua pulled one of the chairs in which customers waited so it faced the barber’s and settled in to enjoy his drink. One taste told him that he and Hawkins had one more thing in common, their taste in whiskey. He toasted his host. “To a warming drink on a cold day.”
Hawkins lifted his own glass and then took a gulp. “Good of you to come out in this weather. Appreciate it.”
“And I appreciated your signing the petition.”
Hawkins looked into his drink as if seeing visions there. “It’s not right, what they’re doing. I thought, what if it was my ma? Or my Katie?”
They nursed their drinks quietly for a few minutes. Then the barber said, “I’ve noticed something.”
Joshua cocked his head.
“I’ve noticed you don’t seem to like false teeth too much.”
How had the man come to that deduction? He waited. Hawkins finished his drink and poured himself another, then held the bottle out toward Joshua. Joshua held his fingers a small distance apart; Hawkins poured him a smaller amount than before, put the bottle down, and went on. “You’ll pull a couple of teeth, and wait, and then pull another, before you give up and pull ‘em all.”
“Sometimes two teeth — the bad one and one next to it — is all they need pulled.” Joshua looked into his glass and decided to wait a while before getting any nearer to emptying it. He put it down and waited for the barber to get to the point.
“I thought it might be you don’t much like Waterloo teeth. Having served and all.”
An astute guess, and Joshua had felt just that way when he first thought about becoming a doctor. Waterloo teeth, so named for the battle when the first human vultures thought of raiding the b
odies of the dead for the teeth in their jaws, selling the teeth for dentures. Joshua’s own teeth gritted at the thought of corpses still unburied, mouths gaping open, teeth missing. Recollecting himself, he glanced up at the mirror to check his expression. To his relief, the anger that had surged up in him did not show — or was no longer showing — in his face.
The barber went on, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “I wasn’t never called up. Waterloo teeth wouldn’t bother me.” He took a drink. “You can send folks to me for ‘em, if you want. If you tell me where to order the teeth.”
How to honor his intention while correcting his error? “It’s a thoughtful offer. But these last few years, there’s something better and less expensive available. Some clever fellow invented porcelain teeth a while back, and now there’s a way to set them in a kind of rubber. That’s what I order, when pulling just a few teeth won’t do.”
Hawkins looked crestfallen. He might have been hoping to use false teeth as a wedge to get hold of other patients, but the offer could well have been in good faith. What could Joshua offer as a substitute olive branch? What tasks did he dislike, that would be within the barber’s abilities?
Well, there was bloodletting. Patients still asked him about it, despite how rarely he believed it worthwhile. If he sent them to Hawkins, they might seek him out for other “treatments” Joshua considered useless. He would lose out on their fees, but it might be worth it in reduced aggravation, at least if Hawkins stopped actively trying to divert other patients his way. A significant if. “You know how to bleed folks, and I don’t often hold with it. If I send you folks who insist on being bled, will you try to get them to look for you for all their ailments? And tell their friends to do the same?”
What Heals the Heart Page 16