by Jamie Ford
“She’ll come back,” Charlotte said. “There’s another show tonight, and another tomorrow and the next day. We could leave and return an hour before the evening performance. That would give us plenty of time …”
“I’m not leaving,” William said, crossing his hands in front of his chest. He had tried banging on the door, hoping that some stagehand might hear and let them inside. William hoped that he’d be able to sneak into his ah-ma’s dressing room and wait for her arrival. But they only attracted the attention of an angry old custodian, who told them to scram—shooing them off with his mop. Eventually the rumblings from inside the belly of the theater quieted, matching the soundlessness of the vacant alley.
“We can’t wait forever,” Charlotte argued politely. “What if we get arrested for truancy or, worse, vagrancy? They’d split us up for sure.”
William listened as he noticed the wending cracks in the concrete, covered with moss and tufts of long-dead crabgrass. He followed the cracks to the garbage-strewn mouth of the alley and watched a group of old men shamble by with hand-painted picket signs resting on their shoulders. William’s English was spotty at times, but even he noticed the misspellings on the placards. And the men, they looked like they’d worn the same clothes for weeks, and their unshaven faces and windburned skin revealed the relentless sorrow of their days. No one will even notice us, William realized. We’re invisible—no value, no trouble to anyone.
As the minutes became hours, William and Charlotte huddled together and passed the time talking about food and songs, about family and unfulfilled wishes. She even held his hand, tucked her hair behind her ear, and rested her head on his shoulder as William watched the long afternoon shadows creep down the red-brick walls and wrought-iron fire escape that had been painted yellow. Eventually the colors of the alley faded and darkened, like a bruise on a piece of rotting fruit. Occasionally they’d doze off, one or the other, sometimes both, napping amid the unkind smells left behind by roving animals and stray humans, their respites interrupted by the wails of sirens or the clanging of a trolley, and finally the slamming of a car door.
William squinted down the alley toward the sunlit street as the yellow blur of a taxi pulled away. He nudged Charlotte, then realized she was already wide awake.
A man in an overcoat stalked toward them, his face hidden beneath the brim of his fedora. He tipped the hat as he stopped in front of them, but William’s tired eyes were slow to adjust to the shade of the alley and he couldn’t see the man’s face clearly.
“What do we have here?” the man said as he waved his hand in front of Charlotte’s vacant eyes. “Lemme guess, you’re a new act—Chinky and Blinky.”
It’s the comedian. William recalled the voice. Asa—something …
“Is that you, Mr. Berger?” Charlotte asked, timidly.
“Slow down, honey. My father is Mr. Berger. My friends call me Asa. You can call me … Sir Handsome Bloodworth the Third, Lord of the Alley, Sultan of Sloth, and the Patron Saint of Blind Runaways and Lost Celestials—no offense, kid.”
The man spoke so fast that William had a hard time understanding. He helped Charlotte to her feet as they dusted themselves off. William buttoned his jacket and straightened his bow tie. “Is it showtime already? What time—”
“Why, you kids looking for work?” Asa interrupted. “Or just taking a napping tour of Seattle’s finest alleys?” The man paused, hands out as though waiting for laughter or applause, but the only sound they heard was from a fat tomcat that mewed from atop an overflowing garbage can. The comedian shook his head and mumbled something toward the sky in a language William didn’t understand.
“We’re waiting for Willow,” Charlotte blurted as she held on to William’s arm.
“She’s my mother. That’s why she cried when she saw me,” William stated with all the vigor of a deflating party balloon. I think that’s why, at least. He found the autograph and showed it to the comedian.
“Wow.” Asa snorted. “Conclusive proof. Except for all I know this says, ‘Free Chow Mein on Sundays.’ What else you got? After all, kid, Willow’s an actress—the tears are part of her shtick; she cries at the drop of a hat, any hat.”
William couldn’t answer.
“C’mon, kid, we get stuff like this all the time. I mean, you know Stepin has a way with the ladies, and Yours Truly is no slouch when it comes to affairs of the … uh, affairs of the … ah, screw it—just affairs. I mean, we’re the ones looking over our shoulders for angry fathers and cuckold husbands, but Willow Frosty with kids—that’s rich. Um, let me ask you this in all seriousness—are you two kids related? What I mean to ask is, does Little Orphan Optic here know she’s not from the Far East? And I’m not talking about Long Island.”
William shrugged through another awkward pause.
“We’re both from around here …” Charlotte corrected. “From Sacred Heart …”
“I’m from Chinatown. My mother was Liu Song Eng—her name means Willow. We lived at the Bush Hotel on South Jackson. My mother was taken away five years ago and I was sent to an orphanage …”
William watched as Asa stretched into an exaggerated yawn. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a sucker for a sob story. You want in for free, c’mon in. You wanna tell fairy tales, save it for the rubes. You can wander around backstage until showtime—then off you go, my little Irish twins. Don’t tell anyone, though, or they’ll start these crazy rumors that I’m some kind of a nice guy.” He handed them each a ticket from his billfold and then banged on the door, first with his fist, then he kicked it several more times for good measure.
A large man in a ratty black sweater opened the door, looked at his watch, and grunted “Good evening” to Asa. William watched as the man in black propped the door open with a chair and sat upon it, looking them up and down.
“That’s Chuckles the doorman—Mr. Personality, that guy,” Asa said as he led them inside and down the hallway. “That’s the stairway to the voms that will take you out to your seats. Stay out of the way of anyone in black—those are stagehands and union guys. That’s the greenroom. I suggest you wait in there, and don’t steal the silver. I’ll be in my office taking my medicine.”
Medicine, William thought. He watched as Asa walked into a dressing room across the hall. The comedian looked out of place against the gold-flecked wallpaper, sitting beneath a crystal chandelier. Asa found a bottle of whiskey with a ribbon around the neck, poured a mug of cold coffee into a trash can, and opened the bottle, hands shaking as he poured. William could see the man’s Adam’s apple rise and fall with each gulp. Then he set the mug down, looked into the mirror, turned and met William’s gaze with sad, bloodshot eyes, and slammed the door.
William and Charlotte sat in the greenroom—which wasn’t green at all—surrounded by bouquets of flowers, baskets of fruit and hard rolls, and a silver tea service steaming with fresh coffee. They were afraid to touch anything, certain that someone would see them and kick them out at any moment. But when a stagehand popped in with a clipboard and asked who they were with, they held up the tickets Asa had given them. The stagehand’s suspicious eyes softened when he saw Charlotte’s white cane, and he shrugged and walked on. Thank you, Charlotte, William thought. No one doubts the intentions of a blind girl. Charlotte suggested he read something to her, but the only thing he could find was an old newspaper. The headline was about a high school girl named Frances Farmer who won a trip to Russia with an essay entitled “God Dies.” William spared his blind friend the article but nodded in agreement.
He sat back and watched a small parade of theater workers and performers breeze in and out of the greenroom. Some he recognized from earlier in the day. Others were new, like a ventriloquist with a dummy that played the bagpipes, and an old man who arrived with a chimpanzee in a tuxedo. And each time he heard a commotion in the hallway he expected to see his ah-ma and each time he was disappointed. Eventually he heard the musicians in the concert hall tuning up for their performance and began to worry
that Willow might never show up. Then he heard flashbulbs popping and laughing from the alley. He peeked down the hallway, expecting Willow, but instead it was a black man in a finely tailored suit.
William hesitated. At first he thought the man was an usher. Then William recognized him. “You’re Mr. Fetchit, aren’t you?” William noticed the man had a daily racing form from Longacres tucked beneath his arm, along with a copy of Ulysses.
“Call me Lincoln.” He shook William’s hand. “Lincoln Perry. You know there’s a place here in town called the Coon Chicken Inn? I thought everyone in the Great Northwest was better than all that.” He turned his head and cursed. “Say, are you an acrobat or something? Man, I hope you’re not performing tonight—kids always steal the show. Bad enough I have to share the stage with that damn monkey …”
“We’re here for Willow,” Charlotte said, waving her cane.
William watched as Stepin looked at them quizzically. “That so?” the man said. “Well, she’s here. Though I don’t think she’ll be hanging out in the greenroom. She’s in one of her blue moods. When she’s down like that, we all just leave her be. She’s in her dressing room.” Stepin pointed. “But if I were you, I’d enter at your own risk.”
“She’s here?” William blurted.
“She’s been here for thirty minutes—down in the basement. That’s where all the ladies’ dressing rooms are, in case you were wondering.”
“But Asa told us to wait here …”
Stepin waved his hand. “That man don’t know his last name half the time. He came home from the war all shell-shocked—went from receiving the Croix de Guerre for heroism in the trenches to years in a funny farm. Now he’s Mr. One-liner and all that. Somehow it makes sense, I guess.”
Charlotte interrupted. “Go, William. Just go.”
William thanked the man and promised Charlotte that he’d be right back. He thought about what he could possibly say as he ran downstairs, going against the flow of glittering dancers and corseted showgirls, who barely noticed him. He found there was no carpeting in the basement, and the cement floor seemed to radiate cold. At the end of the cluttered hallway, past racks of clothing, props, and set pieces, he saw a star painted on a door. Written in chalk was the word Willow. William straightened his jacket and drew a deep breath, tasting talcum and tobacco in the air as he gently knocked. No answer. He knocked again, harder this time. Still no answer. He looked around the hallway and then opened the door, which creaked on rusty hinges, announcing his arrival. He peeked inside and saw the actress sitting in the windowless room, perched before a mirrored vanity, staring at her reflection through a haze of smoke. The cigarette in her hand had nearly turned to ash. He spied the ashtray, which was overflowing.
“Sorry, Asa dear, I can’t go out there tonight,” he heard Willow say. “I don’t care what they’re paying me. Please tell them to take it up with the Screen Actors Guild. I can’t play this town—the rain is bad for my voice.”
But your voice sounds perfectly fine. William stood in the doorway staring. He noticed that she wore a different dress from earlier in the day but sat barefoot. Up close, her glittering jewelry looked like painted glass and her sable wrap looked dead, a lifeless slice of brown carpet. She sat staring at the lighted mirror, which was broken and splintered. Her glamorous composure seemed wrinkled and faded, discarded and stained, like the photo he kept in his coat.
“Who are you?” she said as she caught his silhouette in the mirror.
I didn’t have a reason to stay. He heard her words from the radio interview all over again. “I’m …” Scared to know why you left me behind.
William heard the din of footsteps upstairs on the worn wooden floor, and the skittering of high heels, the clicking of tap shoes. He watched as she stubbed out her cigarette and slowly turned around. When her eyes met his, it was as though they were both staring at the ruins of a broken promise. Her grace had vanished along with her glamour. The dark circles of her eye makeup stood out against her pale skin. This woman—his mother, who was barely thirty—seemed a million years old and weary beyond reckoning. She gazed at him unblinking, while a single black tear wandered down the hollow of her cheek, coming to rest at the confluence of her lips, which trembled.
“It’s really you,” Willow said, “isn’t it?” She took a deep breath and then another, struggling to collect herself. “You’ve grown so much …”
“It’s William,” he said, nodding, “William Eng.”
She looked as though she’d been slapped. “Please, don’t say that name.”
“William?”
She shook her head, slowly. “Eng.”
“But you’re Liu Song Eng, aren’t you?”
She bit her lip. “Don’t call me that either.”
“What should I call you … Willow? They told me you were dead, but you’re right here—you’re my mother, aren’t you? You’re my ah-ma.”
With those words she seemed to shrink onto the floor, sinking to one knee, arms open, outstretched, hands limp as though reaching for something she dared not grasp—as though her every hope might be laced with poison.
William melted into her arms, a swirl of familiar fragrance and memory, her embrace, the terrible way her body shook as she sobbed, the warmth of her tears on his cheek, on his neck, the pain, hauntingly familiar.
She ran her fingers through the hair on the back of his head as he tried not to cry. “I’m so sorry, William … I’m so sorry … so sorry.” She rocked him back and forth, the way she had when he was just a toddler.
He felt her kiss his cheek and his ear. “I’m so sorry. I’ve thought about you every day, wondering—who you were with, what you’d remember about me.”
“But how could I forget?” William asked.
She let go of him, gently fixing his collar and touching the buttons on his shirt, as though she’d dressed him herself and was about to send him back out into the world. She touched his cheek as she spoke. “The person I was back then, she’s dead, William. The person you knew is buried in sorrow and shame. The mother I was, Liu Song, she didn’t have a chance. She didn’t even have a choice. So I let her die. And all that was left was the person on-screen, onstage. Willow, who just kept going …”
But you are both. “Willow is just a stage name.”
“It’s how I’ve survived, William. Willow saved me.”
Yes, but from whom? “Then why didn’t you come back for me?”
She paused and motioned for him to close the door. Then she asked him to lock it as well. She fished out another cigarette, put it to her mouth, hesitated, and then put it away. “There’s so much you don’t know. You were just a little, little boy.”
William swam through the memories of his years at the orphanage—years of loneliness, years of longing. Then his mind flashed upon her flickering image on-screen, the movie posters and radiant lifestyle. You have everything.
When William had dared to hope that Willow was indeed his mother, he’d imagined this moment, the tears of joy, the embrace, the life they would have together. This was nothing like that. These were tears of sadness. “What couldn’t you explain to me?”
“All I knew was that I couldn’t give you the hideous life I had then—I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. And I couldn’t give you the life I have now, for your own protection. I couldn’t even give you a decent name. I couldn’t give you anything that mattered.”
“But you have it all.” William gestured to the dressing room, the theater itself. “You are wealthy—famous! Everyone loves you. What don’t you have?”
“I don’t have what matters most.”
Your son, William thought. I’m right here.
She whispered so softly he barely heard her. “Forgiveness.”
“What more is there to forgive?” William asked. Then he had a terrible realization, that maybe she was unable to forgive herself.
She motioned for him to come closer, and she took his hands. She slowly examined them. The years he�
��d spent working in the laundry or pushing a mop at Sacred Heart hadn’t smoothed his long, wrinkled fingers—they still had the same hands, old hands. But where his were warm, hers were cold, frozen. He felt her let go and then watched as she stared into her empty palms as though reading lines on a map, searching.
And then, while music began to play from somewhere upstairs, somewhere far away, she spoke to him of family and fathers.
Songs
(1921)
Liu Song Eng walked home from Butterfield’s, where she worked after school as a song plugger. Singing in front of the store wasn’t a bad job, per se. With her voice—her thunderous contralto—she managed to earn a nickel for every page of sheet music sold. But her looks drew unwanted attention from passersby, especially when she wore her mother’s chevron tabard dress. Matronly women squinted their eyes at Liu Song and pursed their bee-stung lips. Grown men stopped dead in their tracks when they heard a tearful Mamie Smith ballad coming from Liu Song’s seventeen-year-old body. They leered, looking her up and down, then slowly back up again. Even the prim Seattle beat cops seemed to linger nearby, palming their batons and making jokes about a stiff breeze as she fought to keep the chill wind from blowing up her slip. Meanwhile, Old Man Butterfield sat inside, where it was warm, smoking his pipe and flitting his long fingers across the chipped ivories of an old, upright piano, which, unlike the pianolas, wasn’t for sale. He could have let one of the new autopianos do all the work, but Liu Song suspected that he liked to play as much as she liked to sing. To Liu Song, the lonely old man seemed wedded to his music. He’d never married and rarely even talked about women, except to comment on their shoes.
“Don’t make the same mistakes, Liu Song. Don’t be alone with a man—any man—not until you’re married.” Those were the last words her mother ever spoke to her.
