by Stacey Lee
Laurel Hill lies only a couple blocks to the west. Before I change my mind, my feet have already taken me to the laundry building at the back of the school lot, where a high fence connects to the school’s hedge and hides the clothes from visitors. In Chinatown, laundry was simply hung wherever you could jam a clothespin.
I toe the bottom rail of the fence. Sure enough, boilers and tubs populate a square courtyard; there’s even a box mangler for easy pressing. Ba does all his ironing with a handheld slug that weighs five pounds. Metallic alum and powdery soap lace the air. It seems that laundry smells the same no matter who it belongs to.
I find a bare spot where the hedge meets the fence and squeeze through.
The night is cold, but I savor the feeling of pavement against my soles. Every sound makes my heart skip a beat, and for several minutes I’m convinced I hear footfalls behind me. I turn around, preferring it be a criminal to Headmistress Crouch. But the footfalls soon die off, and I concentrate on moving forward.
No gates surround Laurel Hill Cemetery, as there is no need. The threat of ghosts and ghouls are enough to keep mischief makers away. Weeds have crept up the wet side of the hill. That would never have happened under my watch as assistant to the assistant groundskeeper. Keeping an eye out for Tom, I climb a grassy knoll studded with marble markers and winged statues. The residents here are the oldest on the property.
When I die, I want my headstone inscribed with something that will make people smile, like “No more Mercy,” or maybe a twist on Abe Lincoln’s famous quote: “Mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice. (So drop your apple cores here).”
Of course, I would never have a final rest on this hill. Getting a home here is even harder than on Nob Hill. There was a vault given to the Chinese, but it has been defaced and off-limits for years. Even the dead, it seems, have their prejudices.
At the top of the hill, I wrap my shawl tight around me and plop down on a stone tablet marker to wait. Bird droppings cover the G and L in the name of the occupant: Jack Glass. Bet Mr. Glass is turning over in his grave. Then again, he’s been lying there for fifty years and can probably use the exercise.
After several minutes pass, my fingers turn numb, so I get up and hop in place instead. Consultant. I snort. Elodie doesn’t even know Tom. He’s a dreamer, an inventor. He will touch the stars one day. That she could think he’d stoop to such a mundane job is laughable.
Or maybe I am the one who should be mocked, waiting here for someone whose feelings have dropped off steeply. Tom never said he would come. I thought we were friends, but perhaps he’s been keeping his distance because he objects to an arranged marriage between us. Maybe Ling-Ling is more his taste and he is waiting for me to release him.
I turn to leave, but before I go two paces, something moves in the bushes, rooting me to the spot.
“Couldn’t we meet at a park like normal people?” comes a voice.
I release a shaky breath, hoping he doesn’t realize he scared the hair off me. “That would be too easy.”
The sight of Tom throws my heart into orbit. He’s pulled the collar of his coat up to his chin, and his cap hugs his head.
“And easy is too hard for you.” His breath curls out of his mouth. “You will never be happy if you don’t climb to the top.”
“You sound like my father, Tom. At least I stop when I run out of land. You’re the one who wants to fly.”
We sit down on the marker, sides touching, and I almost swoon at his warmth.
“About that . . .” He stares at our city below, obscured through a night as thick as black sesame pudding. I feel more than hear him clear his throat, but he holds on to his silence.
“What is it?” When he still doesn’t answer, I nudge him.
His folded hands twitch. Those hands are strong enough to lift heavy grain sacks, yet his nimble fingers can tweeze a petal without breaking it.
“After the hearing, Ba and I got into a table scratcher. I told him I wasn’t going to be a doctor like him. He hasn’t said a word to me since. But I was never cut out for that work. You know that.”
“I’m sorry. What can I do?”
“Nothing. I disappoint him, and he will find any reason to remind me.”
There’s something so aching and hungry in the way he stares up at the dark sky, I can’t help wishing he would look at me that way. I imagine the weight of his arm dragging me to him. The memory of sand and Tom’s face dripping down on me fills my mind.
Without thinking further, I lean closer, and when he turns his startled face to mine, I kiss him.
I misjudge and our teeth collide, but he gently corrects course instead of pulling away. When he kisses me back, all the hurt inside me floats to the surface and somehow drains away. It makes me want to laugh.
Tom does care for me. He cares.
My heart thumps so loud, it feels as if the noise is coming from outside of my head, as if it belongs to the city. As his kiss deepens and he grips me closer, it is easy to imagine that we are the only two people left on earth, that the only rules are the ones we make.
Too soon, he pulls away. “Mercy,” he says hoarsely, using the word as if in protest. “You should not get attached to me.”
“I already am.” I move toward him again, wishing to continue exploring these new angles on him. The quarter moon, like a full-bellied fish, swims high off the horizon. We don’t have much time.
But instead of his lips, I feel only the cold emptiness of air.
Tom looks like he stepped on a turtle, surprised and a little off-balance, as he struggles for words. Finally, he swallows. “There is no one like you, Mercy. You deserve more.”
I blink. “What?”
Seven heart-crushing seconds elapse. He has fallen for Ling-Ling. He is pushing the dagger in gently.
“There’s a man in Seattle who’s working on a flyer. Aluminum engine, twenty horsepower . . . it’s a big improvement on the Wrights’. He’s looking for someone to fly it.”
“Seattle . . .”—thank the Nine Fruits it’s not Ling-Ling, but—“Washington? That’s a thousand miles away.” He nods. “I thought you were still working on your balloon.”
“I’ve done all I can on it. Got it to stay up a whole two hours yesterday. Besides, airplanes are the new bird. This is my chance to be a part of something big.”
A leaf mouses around my ankles, and I crush it with my toe. I’d always encouraged Tom to do what he loved, but now that it’s a real possibility, the thought of him shooting around in the sky makes my stomach turn loops. One little misstep, and the sky could come crashing down on him.
And what about me and our herbal tea business? True, I never explicitly asked for his help. I just assumed we would be married . . .
“But you’ll come back.”
The silent moments that follow hit me like sharp stones, each one sharper than the last.
He doesn’t care. I was a fool, and his kiss was simply a gesture. Pity, even.
“I’m leaving Tuesday at dawn,” he says at last. “Captain Lu said he’d give me a ride. He’s even letting me bring the Island.”
The ship with the green eyes, Heavenly Blessing. I stare dumbly ahead. He wraps his coat around my shoulders, but no coat could warm my chill.
Seconds slog by, and I linger, mute and immovable as a wounded animal. We’d grown up together. We’d dreamed with our faces to the moon, plotted the courses of our lives.
Finally, he gestures distractedly in front of him. “Look at all that space. I know something’s waiting for you out there, something good. You’re going to have the biggest house on Nob Hill one day, remember? And a company to command. Even the gwai lo will respect you.”
I can hear the pleading behind his compliments, and it strikes me as ironic how often comfort rides on the back of pity, like a mule with a silk saddle. When I still do not speak, he dr
ags in a breath, then lets it out in a slow exhale. “Mercy, don’t wait for me.”
Ma says we can measure our lives by our pain.
There is the pain of our first steps, and of losing our first tooth. The pain of a parent’s anger, and the disappointment when something doesn’t go our way. Each advances us in some way, leading us further into the experience of being human.
If Ma is right, then I must be an old woman now, for the wound Tom inflicts with his gentle voice hurts more than all the rest put together.
I want to rail against him, tell him what a dumb egg he is. But why? Because he needs more than harmonious signs to dream of a future together? Americans marry for love, and we have always considered ourselves American, even if our city does not. Would I marry Tom if I didn’t love him? I don’t know. I can’t imagine not loving Tom.
“You deserve to find your place in the sky,” I say in a tight voice. I cannot leave on a bad note, because that would dishonor us both. I must accept that our friendship will never bloom to something more. “Just promise you will remember which way is up and which way is down.”
He gives me the whisper of a smile, and it presses a hard finger to my wound.
The garden at St. Clare’s is full of shadows. Despite my heavy heart, I quickly work my way back to the main house, my ears attuned to every rustle through the lavender, every shake of tree branches. The fountain with the goldfish gurgles. Servants move around in the kitchen, but they can’t see me out here in the dark.
I’m about to step into the light of the entryway when a slender figure emerges from the chapel. A low-rimmed bonnet obscures her face, and she walks with a distinct shuffle, favoring her right hip. The sight triggers a recent memory.
The woman looks up, and the light from a streetlamp illuminates her features. At the sight of me, Madame Du Lac’s free hand flies to the choker at her throat; the other one clutches her Bible.
“Evening, Madame,” I say, loud enough for her to hear me.
Her eyes narrow, but instead of returning my greeting, she quickly moves away. It’s late, but I suppose God doesn’t keep visiting hours.
When I slip back into our room, Elodie is sitting at her desk in her nightgown. Her scalloped boots stand at attention in one corner, as if awaiting her orders. She barely lifts her eyes from the letter she is composing. The peacock feather of her pen ripples with her scratching.
As the last bell rings, I wrestle off my uniform. Elodie deposits her letter in a drawer, then gracefully folds herself into her covers. “You’ll be pleased to know, I have just written to Papa, informing him of our new arrangement with Chinatown and my recommendation of hiring Tom for the consultancy.” She smiles brightly.
I should hold my tongue, but I am in no mood to be toyed with. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but Tom is no longer available. I guess you’ll have to rewrite your letter.”
I yank my nightgown over my head just as Headmistress Crouch appears in the doorway. Taking in my flushed appearance, she frowns. In an instant, she is by my side, lifting my chin with her ruler. “Have you been exercising?”
“No, ma’am.” My voice squeaks at the end. “I’ve been praying.”
Her eyes become two cracks in the bleak wall of her face. Has she discovered my lark?
She lowers her ruler. “Good. Exertion before bedtime is bad for your constitution. We are ladies, not acrobats.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Elodie snorts, and Headmistress Crouch turns to her. “What are you sniggering about?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. I was simply noticing the roughness of Miss Wong’s hands. Perhaps Chinese heiresses are acrobats. Or perhaps—”
I cough. “My hands are roughened because in China ladies learn pottery instead of embroidery. The more calloused the fingers, the higher one’s skill.”
“Is that so?” Elodie’s smile drips venom. “I would love to see a demonstration some time. No doubt, it would prove as entertaining as your tea ceremony.”
“It would be my pleasure to show you how well I can throw a slab,” I growl.
“Enough.” Headmistress Crouch’s hand chops through the air. “This yammering is aggravating my blood pressure.”
Elodie sneers at me. A tense moment passes, and then another, during which Headmistress Crouch’s gaze shifts between us. Not even the devil’s own breath could melt the chill in the room.
“Good night.” Abruptly, the headmistress switches off the light and breezes out. Maybe she realizes trying to unsnag this line isn’t worth her paycheck.
After we hear her footsteps marching away, we get into it.
“What do you suppose Headmistress Grouch would say if she knew you were a phony?”
“I haven’t the foggiest, Elodie,” I spit back, feeling reckless. It’s hard to care about anything right now. “Why don’t we tell her and see? Of course, all your commendable work at the hearing will have been for nil. Plus, I doubt Papa would be very proud of you when his reputation goes down the sewer. The scandal it would cause.”
“You think you’re so clever. But you don’t belong here.” Her words rip across the six feet of space between us. “Class is not something you can connive your way into.”
“Not like your father did, you mean.”
She kicks up her sheets. “Maman’s people were of the highest caliber.”
“There is a saying. ‘All mankind is divided into three classes: those that are immovable, those that are movable, and those that move.’ You are the former; I, the latter.”
“Your Celestial proverbs don’t make a whit of sense.”
“That was said by an American. Maybe you’ve heard of him: Benjamin Franklin.”
That cooks her cabbage. She flips onto her side so her back is to me.
In the silence that follows, the ceiling begins to creak. This time, there are scraping sounds and moaning. Though ninety-nine percent of me doesn’t believe in hungry ghosts, the remaining one percent suddenly becomes an annoyingly vocal minority.
Elodie stops rustling her sheets and lies very still, nose pointed at the ceiling. Sensing how scared she is takes the edge off my own frayed nerves.
At least she is good for something.
15
TOM SWOOPS IN AND OUT OF MY DREAMS, too high to touch and too fast to catch. I wake to the moans of the ceiling, and in my half-dreaming state, a different terror slips under the covers with me. I still can’t shake Tom’s image. But now he’s cold as death, and there’s an emptiness to his eyes. In place of his mouth, there’s a gaping, screaming hole. The mouth of a hungry ghost.
Finally, the morning dawns, ending my torture. I wake, drenched in sweat, my cheeks streaked with salt. Tom will board the Heavenly Blessing soon, crossing the watery mountains to a new life. I thought he would be around forever, but maybe people are like the boats in the harbor, always coming and going, and sometimes never returning.
“Joi-gin,” I whisper.
May he hear our Cantonese word for good-bye, which means “see you again.” He may never be my partner in business or in life, but I hope his boat will return one day.
Unlike Mr. Waterstone, our embroidery teacher Mrs. Mitchell dictates where we sit by pointing with her embroidery hoop. “You can’t lairn to be a good hostess if you stick with your comfy sitch-uations,” she lilts in her Scottish brogue. Her accent is twice as thick as my father’s, but with her white face, it seems no one accuses her of being a foreigner.
The girls hurry to their places with deferential nods and “Yes, ma’am”s.
Mrs. Mitchell directs Ruby and me into a square grouping. I’ve learned to ignore the number four when I’m in this room. Elodie is corralled with us as well, and she maneuvers to the seat on my right, saving us from having to look at each other.
Francesca arrives, braids pinned neatly around her head, her shawl arranged ju
st so on her shoulders. Spotting the empty seat, she starts toward us but stops short as she realizes Elodie is part of the package. I wouldn’t want to sit here, either. She searches for somewhere else to park, but seeing all seats accounted for, she resignedly takes the last chair in our grouping.
Mrs. Mitchell bounces on her toes, clutching her hoop. “Girls, I have a surprise for you. The young lads from Wilkes College will be takin’ breakfast with us day after t’morrow.”
Excited tittering breaks out from the girls, and Mrs. Mitchell raises her hand for quiet. “Therefore, you must have your hankies done by then so’s you can shows them off”—her brown eyes become sly—“maybe even gives yars away to one of the gents. But don’t tell you-know-who I said that,” she quickly adds. I warm to her, figuring she means Headmistress Crouch. In my short tenure here, I’ve noticed it’s not just the students who snap to when she’s around. “Now start yar stitching, and put some love into it.”
Spools of embroidery floss have been placed in baskets on each table. I snip a length of orange thread for the tiger I’m embroidering on my handkerchief. I will have to make it extra large to cover a bloodstain I left there on Friday.
Elodie chose to embroider the school mascot, a peacock. A fitting choice, if not very original. Her fingers nimbly work the needle with even pokes and draws. She glances across the table at Ruby, whose tongue sticks out of her mouth as she struggles to thread her needle. The hanging blade between Ruby’s eyes is visible again.
“Why, Ruby, what a darling frog,” says Elodie. “Probably not what the young men will be looking for, but I’m certain it has a wonderful personality.”
Ruby turns as red as her namesake. It’s clear to me that Elodie’s needling has nothing to do with handkerchiefs, but she hides her zingers behind pretty words so Ruby isn’t sure.
“It’s—it’s not a frog; it’s a leaf,” she stammers.
“A leaf? Oh, I’m sure it will have a wonderful personality as a leaf as well.” Elodie licks her finger and rolls a decorative French knot on one of her peacock’s feathers. “And will your young man be present for the breakfast, Francesca? What’s his name again?”
