A Superior Man

by Paul Yee

  “I agree. You must go.”

  Fist shook his head. “We came together, we leave together.”

  “You should stand up for yourself,” I said.

  “Shit-hole fiend, you don’t need his consent.” Boss Soon took his sack to the door. “I’ll get my men to do it.”

  “No!” I shouted. “It’s easy to trace the explosives to you.”

  “Leave the bag here.” Fist quickly grabbed it. “Give us time to talk.”

  The bookman shook his head. “You’ll never change the old fool’s mind.”

  Fist looked into the bag, and then up. “Maybe I’ll kill these two old things tonight.”

  The headman stormed out. No Brain started stacking the dishes.

  I cursed One Leg, the brick apple. No one could get a bite of him, not even a headman who spoke English.

  If I didn’t take revenge, then I went home a failed man. And it would be a thousand times worse with the boy at my side.

  16

  THREE HANDS ARE BETTER THAN TWO (1885)

  Next morning, a gunshot awoke me.

  Bright mid-morning light filled the window. Another sudden bang, then a crisp ping on metal. The boy’s bed was empty.

  I stumbled outside and saw birds circling overhead, afraid to land.

  Sitting on a chair with his thighs wide apart, One Leg aimed his rifle over a cluttered patch of tree stumps. White smoke leaked from the gun barrel. His target was a row of tin cans on top of a tower of wooden crates. No Brain stood by him, hand on the boy’s shoulder. The brat covered his ears but his eyes shone with pleasure. One Leg fired again and missed. The boy pounced on the spent cartridge.

  I hurried over. “Up so early!”

  “That stupid thing, Fist, has run off.” One Leg did not look at me. “Let’s see if this old cat’s whiskers get singed or not.”

  “Run off where?”

  “Spuzzum, to find someone he can trust.” He put the rifle on his lap and sat back.

  My mind was already on the mission. One of us, Fist or I, needed to stay atop the tracks to pull up the other man. Whoever it was, he needed to be strong. Fist was too scrawny. Or, we could both climb down and up on opposite sides of the trestle in order to save time. But I would be faster and he, on looking slow and weak, would lose his temper and do something stupid.

  “You two must go now!” I said to One Leg. “Redbeards will come, wanting revenge.”

  “Screw! Fist won’t do a thing. You watch; he’ll be back in time for dinner.”

  I wanted to smash the rifle into his face. “No, he’ll take revenge and run for China.”

  “He cried like a newborn babe when he left,” said One Leg.

  “Hindered by your silliness.”

  “What do you know? Our crewmen took turns burying corpses. Fist’s father handled one, but then he got killed. Fist got scared and refused his turn. When we replaced the grave-sticks here, Fist wouldn’t touch them until I threatened to get help from Spuzzum. What a spineless coward.”

  “Plenty of men won’t touch those things.”

  “No crewman refused. Not even No Brain.”

  “I’ll go to Spuzzum.” I reached for Peter, who watched One Leg raise the rifle.

  “Ah, let him be,” he said, squinting through the sight. “Get your things and then fetch him.”

  I wouldn’t let go. The brat screamed and dug his heels into the ground. When I lifted him, his thrashing body arched into a taut bow as his fists and feet pounded me. I twisted away, but his fingers jabbed my eyes. I yelped and slapped him. The more he screamed, the louder I yelled. I held him with one hand and spanked him with the other. No Brain tried to free him.

  “Don’t smack the head,” One Leg scolded. “You’ll wreck his brain. You’re so big; don’t you know your own strength?”

  The boy refused to walk. He pulled the other way, as if drawn to the north where Mary lived. He lay on the ground, arms and legs spread out, and stared at the sky. When I stood him up, he flopped down. I sang, “Come, come sit, eat sweet bits,” but failed to amuse him.

  I threw him over my shoulder like a sack of rice and staggered along the railway. When I released him, he darted away and shouted to people at the river. The words were gabble to me and I doubted that anyone could hear him over the wind and rushing river. Still, I clapped a hand over his mouth and dragged him away. The last thing I needed was a worried fisherman hurling a spear through me.

  It took all morning to return to the bridge. We spent our energy bickering, not making time. The brat dawdled to poke at bugs, pick wildflowers, and collect round pebbles. When we entered the forest to squat, I finished first and shouted for him to hurry. As he ignored me, I thought again of my original plan to dump him here. Fist didn’t want him on the mission, he had made that clear. But this time, I would act with more thought, as a superior man should. This time the hand of Heaven was stroking my back, egging me on.

  At the bridge, the boy knelt and watched the whitened river shoot through the narrow chasm of high rock. Dark bullets of fish fought the current, driven upriver to spawn and ensure the survival of their line. I was just as determined to charge ahead on this task. It was more important than life itself: it provided honour to otherwise meaningless lives. I saw myself under the trestle, dangling by a rope with nothing but death below. Were Fist and I strong enough? By now, that fool could have reached the trestle. Would he know where to install the dynamite? He could go to the middle of the bridge, or stay close to one end. An explosion meant confronting angry redbeards. Better hurry to Yale, where more Chinese lived.

  Good thing Fist had finally left One Leg. If not, nothing would happen—not for me, not for the bones churning in that graveyard. Maybe Fist had pounded his pillow and wept all night. Maybe his father visited him in a dream. Maybe the idiot finally realized that an ugly face such as his required more dressing up than just a few years of work in Gold Mountain. Too bad he had no use for me. If he got caught, then he would bring disaster to the bookman and everyone, and have only himself to blame. His dislike of me was childish, worse than silly. I had brought him the very answers he wanted from His Holiness, yet he turned against me.

  In the afternoon, we reached Spuzzum, where I visited the Chinese stores and asked in a carefree manner for Fist. Wary eyes stayed on my back. Any China man who was still kicking around after the railway needed a strong reason to stay. And if he was seeking others, then some plot must be in the air and everyone wanted to know more. People said they had not seen him.

  Good, he had left no trail. But I was stupidly drawing attention to his name. I was the fool who might betray Boss Soon. At the cookhouse, the owner put out a chipped porcelain vase filled with yellow and purple wildflowers. The boy reached for it, but I knocked away his hands.

  “Didn’t you and Sam go to Lytton?” The cook recognized me. “You saw the fire?”

  I nodded.

  “The stagecoach stopped here with Boss Joe. Then the local men who were thinking of home decided to go too.”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” exclaimed Blue Smock. “Sam is as useless as a fart.”

  “Is he here?” I hoped to hear “no,” and relaxed on hearing that very answer.

  The two customers from before were sitting as if they had never left. They rolled three small dice between them, using pebbles for cash.

  “In Lytton, didn’t you ask Old Yang for help?” asked Knitted Hat. “He knows people.”

  “No Yangs lived there.”

  “Where does the boy go?”

  “You want him?”

  The men snorted, not caring if I was serious or not.

  “Did Fist pass through?” I asked. “The one who brings wild meat to sell.”

  “He ate here. He was looking for a kinsman but couldn’t find him.”

  “When was that?”

  “Mid-morning. Those three donkeys talk in circles. Won’t they ever go home?”

  I breathed easier. If Fist hadn’t found a helper, then I still ha
d a chance to join him, unless the fool had run ahead by himself. In that case, a blast could go off at any time.

  “Is the washman still here?”

  “Of course, his daughter came back. What, you need a bath?”

  A small hand-pulled wagon stood by the washhouse door. The air inside was thick with the smells of cooking as Yang served a Native woman at the counter.

  “Eat rice!” Peter called out in Chinese, grinning.

  I slapped the back of his head for being rude. When Yang paid us no attention, I recalled how he talked against himself. He would waste my time, but I needed help.

  The woman, likely a servant in a redbeard household, was pulling laundry from a big cloth bag. Her hair was coiled behind her neck, and a white apron covered her dark skirt. She counted the pieces along with Yang, mouthing the numbers silently.

  As the washman wrote out a ticket, she called to Peter, who bantered shyly with her. Then she ran her fingers through his hair and waved goodbye. I wished she was his mother.

  “Boy still follows you!” remarked Yang. “Four days aren’t enough to find someone.”

  “I got robbed and had nothing for the mother.”

  He shrugged. “A woman would rather have her son than a pile of cash.”

  “It’s worse. With no money, how can I feed another mouth in China?”

  “Get a job.”

  “China men are finished here.” I leaned in close. “Is there a Native family that can take him?”

  Yang shook his head. The boy was trying again to set the toy soldiers upright. This time, Yang wasn’t helping.

  “The boy can strengthen his people,” I added. “Isn’t that what you said?”

  “He needs at least one trueborn parent. I raised my Jane after her mother passed.” Yang squatted to watch the boy, which gave me faint hope.

  “Your daughter came back! You raised her well. Do I get to see her?”

  “She went to help with the fishing. Those ghost-rat China men called her a demon when she was really a goddess. She and Wee-yum didn’t cheat me. Jane went to her people, to a young man there. She wanted me to take the bride money from Wee-yum and go to China. I returned it to him.”

  “You were right all along.” I squatted and slapped his back. “How about raising a boy?”

  “This old thing? I’m going home.”

  He led us to the back room. The table and high-back chairs were gone, replaced by wooden crates. He brought out potatoes cooked with fatty pork and bean sauce, saying, “I cooked enough for several days, so there’s plenty.”

  “Where’s the fancy table?” I asked.

  “I spent part of the bride money so had to sell the furniture to make up the difference.”

  Peter reached for a metal spoon, but I thrust chopsticks into his hand. Time for him to use them.

  “Isn’t there anyone who would take a child?” I was a child begging for an adult favour. “Uncle, the only reason I dare ask again is because we are kinsmen.”

  We ate for a while before Yang spoke. “Sally the whore, she could take care of him. She saves her money.”

  “But will she send him to school? Anyone else?”

  “Sam’s grandmother will know.”

  “Last time, she made the boy cry,” I muttered. “All he did was run to her. He fears her.”

  “Jane went to her all the time. Girls need the guidance of women.”

  “Sam isn’t here, is he?”

  He shook his head. “But you should talk to his grandmother. Want me to help you talk?”

  I shrugged. Earlier, on the way into Spuzzum, I had thought about asking Sam to take Peter. But Sam wanted to go to China and find his own family. He didn’t want to be dragging Peter around the world. If I could stop Sam from going to China to be humiliated by the people there, then that would be my grand gift to him; indeed, it would repay all my debts to him. Too bad my words were fleas to him. Couldn’t he be a better man than me and take Peter from me? They had, after all, the same mix of blood. Surely Sam felt a kinship to the boy and knew exactly what to teach him. The brat had laughed far more with Sam than with me.

  What was that old saying? “Through laugh and talk, all are equal.” Me, I never tried once to make the boy smile. When Grandfather used to cite that proverb, I always snickered to myself. He was trying to get Mother and Grandmother to be nicer to each other, which was as likely as a rooster laying an egg.

  Yang, Peter, and I set out for the Native village. The railway swerved to higher ground and crossed a stream over logs made into a cricket cage. In clearings among the bushes, great boxes and ragged banners stood in fenced graveyards. Wooden statues, carved as humans and painted in bright colours, wore western hats and clothing. I shuddered, recalling the life-sized paper servants that were burned at funerals in China to join deceased human masters. Those servants were always painted with the rosy cheeks of children.

  We took the old wagon road to the village, past meadows of cattle and horses. Dusty rows of crops looped around log cabins where plump chickens scuttled for safety. An old man carried a rack of jiggling dried salmon through the maze of animal hides stretched taut on frames. My boy recognized someone and tugged to escape. A thin woman with white hair and a red blanket on her shoulders sat on the steps of a cabin, chatting with a younger woman holding a basket of potatoes.

  The porch was crowded with crates, tools, and empty tin cans. Metal traps for catching animals, large woven trays, and nestled baskets were piled high. Coils of stiff rope hung from the wall. By the door was a waist-high stack of kindling and firewood. Yang squatted and spoke to the boy in Chinook. The brat kept his gaze on the ground, kicking a rock back and forth between his feet. At one point, it rolled toward me and I kicked it back. The boy looked up at me in surprise.

  When we approached the old woman, the younger one hurried off. I too wanted to leave. Another China man with a mix-blood child would only remind the grandmother of her errant son-in-law, Sam’s father. No doubt she despised China men for causing her daughter’s ruin. That daughter would not have had such trouble in China. When a man ran away from his wife, as my father had done, her proper place remained with his family. She would never think to return to her birth home. But Sam’s mother had brought her children to this village, a burden for her own mother.

  When Yang spoke to the grandmother, she listened intently. I caught words of Chinook: father, home, money, and hard work.

  Home. Wasn’t that what everyone wanted?

  I was supposed to have provided that: plastered walls around a cooking fire, clean straw for the livestock, and a stone courtyard where chickens pecked for food and where the grandparents’ scolding brought each day to an end. Withered oranges sat on the ancestral altar, awaiting an event for fresh replacements. Great urns of rice were sealed with heavy, tight-fitting wooden covers to foil the mice.

  Yang’s words made Sam’s grandmother chuckle and she returned the favour. Then he pulled the boy forward and told him to speak to her. The brat pulled back, shaking his head. She took the furry hat from his head and brushed the fur as she spoke.

  The boy answered her, and she asked some short questions.

  At the end, she shook her head. Yang tried to reason with her, exaggerating his frowns and gestures, but she was firm.

  “What does she say?” I demanded.

  “China men must take care of their own. Their children need money for school.”

  “What did the boy say?”

  “He liked it when Sam carried him.”

  “Let’s go.” I thanked her and bowed stiffly.

  “Sam had told her that the boy liked him better than you.”

  I yanked my son away.

  She called out words that Yang translated. “She wants to know if Sam is with his woman in Lytton.”

  “Tell her a girl was born,” I said. “But the mother rejects Sam as the father and her family drove him away.”

  The grandmother must have repeated her question, because Yang asked m
e again and repeated his answer. Her jaw quivered. She struggled to stand, but the washman urged her to sit.

  “She asks, where is Sam now?”

  “On his way to China, to see his father’s people.”

  “Crazy fool,” muttered Yang.

  When the grandmother heard my news, she cried out in dismay.

  Yang glared at me. “Couldn’t you stop him?”

  “He thinks his life will be better there.”

  “You let him believe that? You stupid thing.”

  Yang and the grandmother spoke at length before the three of us returned to town.

  “You’re in luck,” said the washman. “She thought it over and may take the boy. Her thinking is that if Sam becomes a father, then he won’t go to China. But someone will need to find Sam quickly.”

  I was worse than vermin. If I offered Peter to Sam, he would never take him. Far too much bad blood ran between us. He would do me no favours, and I expected none from him. Between men, that was fair. What was not fair was getting a kinsman to sneak me through the back door to approach Sam’s grandmother and gain this leverage. It was like kicking a sleeping man in the mouth, smashing his teeth, and letting him bleed. It was not what a superior man did.

  Fist leaned by the door of Yang’s laundry, chewing tobacco. “Cookhouse man said you asked for me,” he said.

  I put on my gambling face and quelled my excitement. “One Leg sends you good wishes: obliging winds all the way.”

  “Stinking bastard said no such thing.” He walked off. “Let’s not talk here.”

  I went with Fist along the railway. Neither of us carried tools, store goods, or baggage. When a horse pulling a wagon rumbled by, I averted my face from the driver and its riders. Two China men, strangers in a rough town, were strolling in the afternoon like scholars pondering a poem. We should have tried harder not to be noticed.

  I asked where the explosives were.

  “Safe.”

  “Did you get ropes?”

  He nodded.

  “Strong ones?”