Authors: Stacey Lee
He wrings his cap. “I'd better finish unloading.”
“Sure.” I try not to let my disappointment show. Silence, which usually feels like an old friend, now squirms between us.
He rakes a hand through his stiff mop, then replaces his cap. “Tell Jack we're still on for kite flying this weekend.”
Impulsively, I hug him. “Oh, Tom, that will mean a lot to him. Thank you.”
“Don't be polite,” he says, meaning
you're welcome
.
His breath is warm and sweet.
The first time Tom kissed me, I was twelve, and he was thirteen. I persuaded him to go swimming with me at the beach, though it didn't take much effortâthe day was hot enough to melt the dailies off the wall. The ocean roared as we stood on a crescent of sand. I was suddenly very aware of how small I was, a speck of pepper waiting to go in the stew. Tom hesitated, but I grabbed his hand. “Come on, you tortoise,” I teased. “Don't be scared; I won't let you go.” But before we could venture farther, a wave crashed over us, and we were spun into the ocean. Water stung my eyes and filled my nose. I thought for sure it was the end.
Just when I couldn't hold my breath any longer, the ocean spit us out. We lay heaving on the sand, limbs entangled. As he gazed at me, water dripped from his face onto mine. He lifted my hand to show me that although I had let go, he had not. “Remind me never to listen to you again,” he said in a surly voice before sliding his salty lips over mine.
It was more a kiss of relief, of joy at surviving, of the need to feel something warm and alive. It never happened again after that, though I often wished for it.
As I do now.
He lets me go. I pick my way back down the length of the pier and I could swear his eyes follow me. But when I turn around, Tom has returned to his work, his strong back flexing as he heaves a crate onto his pull wagon.
LATER THAT NIGHT, MA, JACK, AND I WAIT on the corner of Dupont and Stockton for Monsieur Du Lac's automobile. Ba doesn't see me off, citing too much work, but I know it's because he has already given as much approval as he can give. Ma catches me looking in the direction of the laundry shop and
tsk
s her tongue. “New shoes take time for working in.”
A small crowd has collected around us to observe the spectacle of me in my fine navy dress. It is one of four that Monsieur Du Lac had delivered, along with a cream-colored shawl, black stockings, black boots, and a smart-looking felt hat. I look like a proper St. Clare's girl, at least from the neck down.
The dainty Ling-Ling and her shrewd mother peer through the window of Number Nine Bakery. Despite my efforts to ignore the buzz around me, a few comments from the mostly male crowd get through.
“She's going to some fancy school up on Nob Hill.”
I groan. Chinese people think anything of value must be located on Nob Hill.
“Must cost a lot of money.”
“They don't have money. Maybe she has caught the eye of a wealthy man's son.”
“Mercy? Her cheeks are round but not the rest of her. No one wants to hold a spring onion at night.”
“She's easier on the eyes than your sorry wife.”
Ma turns around and barks, “If you keep talking nonsense, your tongues will fly out of your mouths like bats from a cave.”
Instantly, the chatter stops. No one wants to cross a fortune-teller, especially one as formidable as Ma.
Ling-Ling minces up to me bearing a tiny square of steamed cake, and all eyes shift to her silk-clad figure. Though her feet are not bound, she likes to walk as if they are to make herself more attractive. Her ma follows behind like a dragon's barbed tail. “Sister, you are looking as fresh as a bubbling spring,” Ling-Ling simpers. “I have brought you some prosperity cake for your voyage.”
I take the waxy package with the cake, which is burned on one side and would've been thrown out, anyway. Ma makes a noise at the back of her throat. They just wanted an excuse to poke around in my business. “Ling-Ling, Auntie, you are too generous.”
“It grieves us to see you go. But I am sure you will have many admirers in your new life.” Ling-Ling's eyelashes flutter coyly. It is said that she rubs her face with the pearly sliver of an abalone shell every day for a lustrous countenance.
I grit my teeth. “I doubt it, given it is a school for girls.”
Her ma speaks without moving her thin lips. “Not every tree is meant to bear fruit. Sometimes a girl has too much
yeung
to be married.” That is her way of saying I am too male, as opposed to the female energy,
yam
. The woman considers herself an expert
on marriage, having secured the silk merchant's son for Ling-Ling. Unfortunately he died last winter before they were married; though he
was
forty-two.
The cake grows soggy in my palm.
Ma puts her steadying hands on my shoulders, which have migrated to my ears. “I have found that the sweetest fruit comes from the trees that have been given time to grow.” She lances Ling-Ling's ma with her all-seeing eyes.
“Come, Ling-Ling.” The woman ushers her daughter away.
Ma takes the cake from me, knowing I will not eat it.
In the back of the crowd, a figure leans against a wall posted with Chinese scrolls, his faded newsboy cap pulled low. Tom could be just another onlooker with his dark Chinese suit and slipper shoes. But unlike the others, his presence fills me with something warm and healing, like the first sip of soup to a starving man.
Jack presses something into my hand: our Indian head penny. “Take this for your adventures.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Don't spend it on candy.”
A hot lump forms in my throat. “I won't.”
A roofless blond-colored car pulls up, engine rattling
clackety-clack
and gas lamps turning the street white. A black man jumps out of the driver's seat and pulls his goggles to his forehead. “Evening. You must be Mercy. I'm William.”
“Good evening, sir.”
People inch closer to the vehicle, ogling its shiny chrome and velvet seats.
Jack attaches himself to me. “Why do you have to go?”
My chest tightens, and I suddenly wonder if the cost of attending St. Clare's is too dear after all. Monsieur Du Lac made it clear that Jack and my parents could never visit since it would expose the deception. I will be missing out on a whole springtime of Jack's life, and nothing can replace that.
But one day, when I can buy him more than the bones of the ox, it will be worth it.
I go because Ba is training you for the laundry, and you haven't even lost your first tooth. Because Ba works sixteen grueling hours a day, and he needs a rest. And because, baby brother, our ma believes in me.
I bend down so our faces are even. “One day, we shall sail to the South China Sea. Maybe we'll even get a peek at Ba's Precipitous Pillars.” Ba was always talking about those sandstone towers he saw as a boy.
“Who will do the laundry then?”
I look him straight in the eye. “Not us. Now, if you start to miss me, place one grain of rice into my bowl. If I'm not back by the time there are enough grains to fill a soup spoon, I'll let you throw this on our next adventure.” I show him our coin.
Jack rubs his eyes with his fists. The bruises on his knuckles are now the shade of summer squash.
“Oh, Jack.” I squeeze him. “A last game of Two Frogs on a Stick?”
It kills me when he shakes his head. He has never refused to play our game of who can make the other laugh first.
“You ready, Miss? I have another pickup to make.” The driver's low voice is professional but not unfriendly as he opens the
door. He already placed my travel satchelâcontaining my uniforms, underwear, toiletries, padded Chinese jacket with matching trousers, and of course, Mrs. Lowry's bookâinto the trunk.
“Come here,
dai-dai
.” Ma pulls Jack to her, strapping her arms across his thin chest.
Ma stiffens as I hug them both. We don't often embrace. “You're a good girl,” she says thickly, one of the few English phrases she uses with me.
“Say good-bye to Ba for me,” I tell her in Cantonese to let her know I will not forget my roots.
“Remember not to be loud, and to get along with the others,” she adds sharply.
Jack watches me get into the car. I give him a smile that he doesn't return. Then William toots the horn, and we're off.
“There's a robe on the floor for your feet if you get cold.”
“Thank you, sir.” I spread the blanket over my toes.
Though this is my first ride in an automobile, I cannot enjoy it. My heart aches as we leave Chinatown. The image of Jack scrubbing his eyes rips a hole in my soul the size of California.
Twisting in my seat, I search for a last glimpse of Tom.
The sight of Ling-Ling talking to him hits me like a fist to the face. Her gaze is cast demurely, her body angled to show off her slender figure. Ling-Ling's ma, standing behind her, lifts her cunning eyes to me, and a smugness creeps over her hard features.
I am tempted to tell William to turn around and, while he's at it, aim for the crone with the lacquered bun. As soon as Ling-Ling's ma digs her claws into anything, it is hard to escape.
As the expression goes, when there is no tiger in the mountain, the monkey declares himself king. Well, let them try to snare Tom. Didn't he once tell me Ling-Ling's breath stank of onions? Then again, that was when we were ten and still racing pill bugs.
I am so consumed by my thoughts that I don't notice we've stopped in front of the St. Francis hotel until the door swings open.
Elodie Du Lac steps out in a cream-colored coat that perfectly matches her silk gown. She stops short when she sees me in her automobile. Our gazes meet, but I am the first to look away, focusing instead on the wood of the steering wheel.
Elodie slides in beside me. She doesn't bother to say hello, so I don't, either.
William starts the car again. “How was your dinner, Miss Du Lac?”
“Mediocre.” She arranges her gloved hands over a beaded purse. “My pheasant came with an artichoke that looked like a squashed toad on my plate. I wanted to complain, but Maman said that was the way it was and I had to accept it.” She smirks at me, and I realize she is not talking about the artichoke. “Rather dismal way to live life, don't you think?”
William doesn't reply, eyes focused on the road.
I cough. “For the artichoke?”
Her rosebud lips crush together, then pop open with a
tsch
! “My papa tells me I am to pretend you are an heiress from China. I am not fond of make-believe.”
“Then I suggest we interact as infrequently as possible.”
She frowns, reminding me of Tom's old bulldog, Chop, who never seemed happy, even in front of the meatiest bone. “Suits me fine.”
She gathers the silk folds of her coat around her, hoods her eyes, and stares straight ahead. A clammy sort of anxiety settles on me. She could make my life very difficult, even if she keeps my secret.
For the rest of the trip, we sit in thorny silence, made even thornier by a parade down Market Street, which slows traffic to a walking pace. San Franciscans love to paradeâeven the Chinese, though we generally reserve our processions for funerals.
When we finally arrive at the school, the house lights are lit, casting golden halos over the brick facade. Elodie hardly waits for William to stop the car before she alights from the cabin. The door nearly swings shut on me, but William grabs it.
“Thank you,” I say.
William winks. “I've been catching doors for forty years.”
Mrs. Tingle waits for us on the stoop. I confirm that my skirts are straight, then follow Elodie into the mansion. She flounces up a winding staircase, but I stop at the foyer, feeling like an intruder.
“Please wait here,” says Mrs. Tingle, bustling away.
Ma would disapprove of a door-facing stairway. The door is the mouth through which energy flows into the house, and a staircase opposite causes energy to rush upstairs, leaving the first floor empty. Keeping flowers on the ground level helps encourage energy to linger, but the only vase I seeâa heavy white and blue one that looks, ironically, Chineseâsits empty.
The cut carpet features a peacock, its head turned toward
the name of the school, while an enormous Tiffany chandelier, as big as the one Jack and I saw at the Palace Hotel, hangs over the staircase. More peacocks are pieced into the glass. It's an interesting choice of mascot. For the Chinese, a peacock symbolizes compassion and healing as the favored animal of the goddess Goon Yam, who refused immortality to stay on earth and aid humanity.
“Such noisy, irksome birds.” A woman who looks to be in her fifties appears at the foot of the staircase.
A hump between her shoulders combined with her bustle gives her the posture of a smoking pipe, all held tightly in a dress of gunmetal gray. Her pupils are like pencil dots on sky-blue paper, with pouches below them that Ma would say result from “unshed tears.” Her dark hair, shot through with silver, is pulled into a bun. Something about her severe appearance makes me conscious of my every imperfection, from my crooked teeth to the blisters on my too-long toes.
“I've never seen one in real life, ma'am.” To sound more like a Chinese native, I sprinkle my speech with a light Chinese accent, which simply involves rounding out certain syllables. I mimic how Ba speaks English. Belatedly, I remember that if I'm a wealthy heiress, I probably would keep a whole flock of peacocks in my summer palace, or wherever it is I live.
“You are fortunate. They squawk as loud as someone being murdered. Messy, too. We used to keep a pair on the grounds, but after a month of that vexation, I had our cook roast them for dinner.” Her mouth is an even line, the kind that doesn't need to open much to say a lot.
“If they are so irritating, why do they represent the school?” I ask meekly.
Her face becomes cunning. “Because they are proud in bearing and the envy of all other birds.”
I spend the next moment wondering what to say, but she breaks the silence. “I am Headmistress Crouch. I must admit, your command of the English language is impressive. Even the local Chinese don't speak half as well.” One threadbare eyebrow lifts a fraction, sending a bolt of fear into my heart.
“I was educated in an American school in China. Father hopes for me to help with the family business one day. We are tea merchants.” That seems the safest lie, as tea is China's greatest export.
“What is the name of the school?”
“
Gwok Jai Hok Haau
American School.” I hope that one's hard to remember.
“Why would an American school have a Chinese name?”
“It is how they do things in China.”
Headmistress Crouch rakes her eyes down my uniform, then up again. “Are you Catholic?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Which parish?” The questions fly like darts.
“The parish of
Wong Hoh
, the eternal flowing river of accountability.”
“That hardly sounds Christian.”
“I am sorry. Again, the Chinese do things a little differently.” I bow my head apologetically, wondering how long before that excuse wears thin.
“Clearly.” She grips the polished rail with a clawlike hand, and her steely eyes bore into my skull, as if trying to look around inside. I begin to doubt that I will even make it past the first step. Monsieur said I would have to convince the staff, but he didn't warn me of the guard lion at this entrance.
After a long pause, she finally says, “This is highly irregular, but it seems my hands are tied. You will be staying with the rest of the girls on the third floor. Nightgowns are hung on wall hooks. House slippers and a trunk for belongings will be found under the bed. When the clock reads half past seven, you should be on your knees in the chapel. Now, Monsieur Du Lac has already requested an outing for you to translate for him on Friday.”