by Stacey Lee
“Why would anyone want to build a monument for a war they lost?”
“Because they ain’t good at losing. And that’s another reason why I want that bicycle. It’s bad enough we got the dogs barking us into place, now they’re putting up statues to remind us, too. We have to fight for every inch or we’ll lose it.”
“Every inch of what?”
“When’s the last time you saw a colored on a bicycle?”
“About thirty minutes ago.”
She bumps me with her arm. “Colored folks don’t ride bicycles, but it don’t mean we can’t. We got to act how we want people to treat us.”
The men notice us watching them, and we hurry away.
“But, you’re going to make your point with a bicycle? Why not choose something less costly, like not stepping off the sidewalk.”
Her eyelids peel back. “You want a gang of white hoods to jump me?”
“Of course not.” I interlace my fingers in Old Gin’s good-fortune gesture.
Noemi watches me shaking my hands as if I were winding up to throw dice. “Old Gin does that whenever that old billy goat runs by.”
“He doesn’t trust things that are white like that goat. Chinese people use white for funerals.”
Her cheekbones become knobs. “Ha! We got a lot in common, Old Gin and me. Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll borrow from my no-account brother if I have to.”
Whatever I was going to say dies on my tongue. I always figured her no-account brother had, well, no account.
“Here’s the thing. Unlike the sidewalk, there ain’t rules yet for bicycles. Means we got to jump in and make the rules.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Or someone else will make them for us.”
* * *
—
WITH THE BASEMENT all mine, I decide to give myself a thorough scrubbing with leftover tea in our kitchen. Nature tells all animals to get clean, and when we don’t, some powerful odors build up, not to mention the jibbies. At Mrs. English’s, I’d see women ruin their hats scratching to get at the itch underneath, when they could’ve avoided the problem by simply washing their hair now and then.
I dry mine by passing it over a frying pan I heated on the stove and then braid it into five strands for tomorrow’s pagoda hairstyle. Then I pad over to Old Gin’s room for paper. The drawer where we keep it sticks, even though Old Gin regularly waxes the wood. I slide open the drawer underneath, which contains scraps of fabric. A length of scarlet silk lies atop the heap.
I pull it out. “What are you doing here?” Old Gin had brought the cloth to the Beautiful Country—America—one of two items that had belonged to his late wife. I open the silk. To my horror, it falls into several irregular pieces. He cut it? But why?
I hold up a piece—definitely the beginnings of a sleeve. I measure it against my arm. It’s just my length.
My stomach squeezes into a cold knot. He’s making something for me. A wedding garment? Chinese women wear red on their wedding day, as it’s the color of happiness and luck. Is he planning to give me away so soon? And to whom? He said he had taken steps to assure our future, but it still comes as a shock.
I should be grateful for Old Gin’s care all these years. If not for me, he could’ve returned to China to fetch another wife, who might’ve given him sons. At sixty now, he is too old to marry. Once I am “taken care of,” at least he can put some dust on his soles, as he has always wished to do. For all the time he spends with horses, he never gets to travel far.
Still, the realization that I have been a burden tears something deep inside me. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve and tuck it back in the drawer.
I hope my parents appreciated him for the job he took on. Wherever they are.
Wondering about my parents is a strange kind of agony, an itch that I can’t help scratching until it causes pain. Mostly, I think about my mother. There’s a good chance my father was a cad—he wouldn’t be the first to love and leave a woman. It’s harder for a woman to leave her child. Maybe she had a good reason. Odds are, she would’ve been poor like me and, unless she had people like Old Gin and the Bells in her life, uneducated. Still, I like to think she had a smile in her eyes and a song on her lips. I like to think she smelled of summer peaches.
Back in my room, I stretch out on my bed. There is still time to show Old Gin that I don’t need a husband. That I can make my own way, despite my history of dismissals.
Cautiously, I unplug the listening tube. Forbearance woofs, throwing my heart into orbit. I scramble to replug the tube, but then Nathan says, “It’s just rats as I told you. We could get a cat . . .”
The barking stops.
Nathan chuckles. “I didn’t think so.”
Mrs. Bell says something I can’t distinguish, hopefully not, Maybe we should investigate under the house.
“If they pass that legislation, you can be sure the streetcar companies will jump on it,” Nathan replies. “They’ve wanted to segregate for years.”
“We must pray.”
It seems to me that praying is a hit-or-miss thing, and when it’s answered, it’s never quite the way one expects. For a long time, I prayed my parents would come back for me, but they never did. Then I outgrew my need for them, which I suppose was God’s way of giving me an answer, albeit a sideways, not to mention protracted, one. I hope God will provide a swift and satisfactory reply to the proposed legislation, which seems as ridiculous as putting robins and blue jays in different trees and expecting them not to share the same sky.
While Nathan works on the Sunday edition, I do my part ten feet below. I pull out my dictionary, which opens to the Y section, where I’d stuck a clipping of “Yea or Neigh?”
Shiny bicycles with red leather seats wheel back and forth across Miss Sweetie’s mind. Dare I write about them so soon after the incident with Caroline? If she read it, she might smell a rotting fish, but surely she wouldn’t suspect her “slow” maid of penning the column.
My knees bounce, and my eyes find the word giddy on the wall, next to goobers.
BICYCLES: PEDALING US TOWARD THE FUTURE
To those who are still on the fence over ladies riding bicycles, I say bring on the odorless horse! They don’t need feeding on the front end or shoveling on the back end. They don’t need exercise, a stall, or blankets, and they won’t wander off if you forget to tie them up. Ladies, why should men have all the fun? There is no greater thrill than that which comes from captaining one’s own ship through the waters of one’s choosing. You can run your errands twice as fast and exercise your limbs while doing it.
And to those who call women who ride bicycles vulgar, may your iron corsets and chastity belts not weigh you down while the rest of us sail the freedom machines into the twentieth century.
Respectfully submitted,
Miss Sweetie
Remembering the wolf-whistling men from when I left the last letter, I fetch the mystery uncle’s navy suit and linen shirt from the crates. A lone woman should not travel by herself at night, but a man can go wherever, whenever. It’s a wonder more women don’t disguise themselves. With a few rolls, tucks, and cinches, I persuade the clothes to keep their grip on me. The Balmorals are missing. Perhaps Old Gin has managed to sell them already. I padlock my face with an old scarf, then top everything off with my misfit hat, which is so confusing in shape, it could be worn by a man or a woman.
The coat of undyed wool crackles when I slip it on. In the inner pocket, I discover a folded paper of good quality that resists my efforts to open it.
尚,
Forgive me.
The Chinese characters are written in penmanship even worse than mine. 尚 means “esteemed” and is also a man’s name, pronounced Shang. The signature is not a Chinese character I recognize. So Shang must be the mystery uncle. It occurs to me that Old Gin never mentioned his name when I asked. Wa
s that intentional?
Moreover, could Shang be Billy Riggs’s debtor? Anything’s possible, but I doubt it. Old Gin had carefully screened those who lived with us, refusing all but the most hygienic and trustworthy. Someone who consorted with lowlifes like the Riggses would not have made the cut to be an uncle. If you choose good bricks, Old Gin liked to say, you will not have to worry about your house crumbling.
Well, Shang, whoever you are, we are partners in crime tonight.
Fourteen
Dear Miss Sweetie,
Hold your horses. What’s next? Shall women and men be forced to exchange wardrobes—pants on her and petticoats on him? I think you need to rein in your brazen ideas.
Sincerely yours,
Mary Steeple
Dear Miss Sweetie,
Women ask men? A resounding and heartfelt YES from this bachelor! About time women do some of the heavy lifting.
Respectfully submitted,
RMS
* * *
—
Wearing Shang’s clothes transforms me. Miss Sweetie rather likes the loose and swingy fit, and the offense of wearing men’s clothes feels strangely right. I swagger down the sidewalk, wishing I had a cane to swing before me. Maybe an eye patch, too.
I giggle, wondering whether my skull has cracked. Miss Sweetie is not a pirate, though she may make waves.
The streets are empty, and I almost feel disappointed no one is around to test out my disguise. Definitely, my skull is cracked.
Both the print shop and the house have gone dark, but the streetlamp coats the path to the door with a wan yellow light. Despite my effort to step as lightly as possible, the stairway groans in triplet as I ascend, then cross to the door in five steps. I give a nod of appreciation to the sloped roof covering the porch, which hides me in shadow. A mail slot is placed at hand level. I lift the brass flap, and the slot practically shrieks at the intrusion. It didn’t do that the last time I deposited my letter. I quickly stuff the paper inside.
But the brass flap has trapped the sleeve of my undyed coat! Goose feathers. I tug my sleeve this way and that, but the thing has caught me in its jaw. Soon, another jaw begins to bark—Bear. Trying not to panic, I begin to work the fabric loose, but suddenly the door swings open, pulling my arm with it. I give my sleeve a solid yank, and hear it rip.
Bear lunges toward me but doesn’t pounce, only circles as if trying to herd me forward.
“Bear!” Nathan slaps his thigh twice. She hastens back to his side and quiets, though her tail thumps like a landed fish. “Pardon me. But it’s rather late to be leaving letters.” Nathan’s gruff voice sounds weighted by weariness. He’s still wearing his day clothes, but his shirt is untucked and his sleeves are unbuttoned, as if he were about to undress. Before I can flee, he adjusts the knob of an oil lamp to burn brighter.
I retreat to a spot halfway between the door and the stairs, and turn my back. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I call over my shoulder. My voice comes out too girlishly high, and I clear my throat loudly, trying to find a lower range.
“Miss Sweetie, is it?” Nathan’s voice perks up. He is holding my letter and reading the envelope where I’d written, To: Mr. Nathan Bell, From: Miss Sweetie.
I shrink farther into the shadows and summon a self-important madam’s voice, one that sounds suspiciously like Mrs. English. “Yes. Miss Sweetie, that’s me.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you face to, er, back.”
“As you might recall, I’ve requested anonymity.”
“Don’t leave yet,” he orders, then belatedly tacks on a please. “I was hoping to discuss a matter with you.”
“A matter?”
“Your letters of admiration.”
“My what?”
“Letters.” His shoulders tug with the effort of restraining Bear. “People have been dropping them into our mail slot all day, which is why it’s a bit cantankerous. I think the springs have twisted. Sorry about your sleeve.”
“What do these letters say?”
“Wait a moment, and I’ll fetch them.”
Before I can answer, Nathan disappears with Bear.
As much as I want to know about these letters, every moment standing here I risk discovery. Passing as white is a punishable offense whose severity depends on who is duped and to what degree. If it were discovered that a lowly Chinese girl dispensed courtship advice to hundreds, if not thousands of Atlanta women, I would get jail time if I was lucky. If not, I could get an angry mob on my heels, reminding me never to make that mistake again. I have dipped my toe into too deep a pond, and now an alligator must surely be on its way up. Chinese people can’t be advice columnists. I thought we could be hatters, but clearly I was wrong about that, too.
While I clutch my sleeves, Nathan reappears holding letters tied with twine. Bear barks another greeting. “I read some of them. I wasn’t quite sure if you’d . . . be back. Anyway, not all of it is admiration, but the main thing is that you provoked a discussion, and that’s our motto.”
I think of the drawing of a microscope that adorns the front page of every issue of the Focus, below which is printed, to feed public discourse that such may achieve an enlightened citizenry. “I’m pleased at the enthusiasm. Have you received more subscriptions?”
“Forty-two today, and none lost. It’s incredible. I suppose we have you to thank.”
If the Focus needs a hundred subscribers each week until April, or fifty new subscribers for each edition, I will have to do better.
He rubs his arms. “You should come in unless you want to catch a draft. I promise not to . . . look.”
“No, it is late.”
“How did you get here? Do you have an escort? I don’t see anyone.” He tries to peer beyond me, though I shift around, blocking his view.
“Yes. He is not far. In fact, there he is now,” I lie, searching the empty streets as if I can actually see someone.
“Take the letters. You might get ideas for future columns.” He holds out the bundle. The familiar smells of the shop beckon me—printer’s ink, lemon oil, the charred hickory used in the fireplace, and other scents I can’t identify but that taken together smell like home.
“Toss them here.”
He sizes me up, now facing him directly. “Er, will you catch them?”
“No, I shall let them give me a black eye.” Then I could definitely wear an eye patch. “Be quick about it.”
He tosses the bundle, and I snatch them easily.
“Will you be sending regular posts? Er, not to press a thumb on you. We are grateful, in case that wasn’t—”
“I will do my best,” I interrupt, sure he can see every dot and crease on my face through my hat brim. “I’ll send the posts a day or two before publication. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes.”
With a joyful bark, Bear breaks away from Nathan and barrels toward me. “No, Bear!” I shrink away.
Before she reaches me, Nathan grabs the dog and wrestles her back inside. “I’m sorry, she’s been quite naughty as of late.” He throws a stern look at where the dog’s eyes would be.
I recover my breath. “Well, it’s late. Good night.” I begin to descend the staircase.
“Miss Sweetie?”
I pause at the last stair.
“How did you know Bear’s name?”
“I, er, I thought that’s what you called her.” Didn’t he? Or did I imagine it?
“Oh. Of course.”
My ears burn as the night swallows me up.
* * *
—
THE WEEKEND STARTS off a rinse-water gray, a color that does nothing for fair Atlanta, or as Mrs. English would say, “piles on the ugly.” Folks move slower on Saturdays, like they’re trying to make it last longer. Even the trains at Union Station move as if they haven’t quite
woken up yet. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck, gritting my teeth both against the morning chill and at the stabbing memory of last night’s slipup. That shall serve as my warning to limit my interactions with Nathan as much as possible. Miss Sweetie must remain a lady of mystery.
Most businesses, like English’s, are closed on the weekends. But not Buxbaum’s, whose signage reads, WHEN YOU NEED IT, WE HAVE IT. Abraham Buxbaum himself doesn’t work on the Jewish Sabbath but employs a healthy cadre of young men to run the store for him. The two-story brick building spans half a block, with glass windows that showcase furniture, footwear, sewing machines, and even ladies’ undergarments, as bold as petunias in a box planter.
I swing open an ornately carved door, ringing the bells. The store’s central furnace kisses my frozen cheeks, and I soak up the heat, my face upturned to the flock of light fixtures displayed from the ceiling. Maybe one day I’ll have enough money to snag one of those birds, but I’ll need to get my own ceiling first.
On one side of the store, the head clerk demonstrates an umbrella for some customers in a hearty voice that carries across the room. I start toward him, but then a familiar figure stacking bottles behind a counter catches my eye. “Robby?”
“Morning, Jo.” Robby shines a smile at me. A clerk’s apron in practical brown hangs as straight as a cupboard over his pin-striped jacket. “Looks like your scarf ate you for breakfast.”
I unwrap my face. “I’ve got this scarf well-trained. It won’t pull the wool over my eyes.”
“I suspect not many can do that.”
“I thought you were back on the cart.”
“Mr. Buxbaum hired another man but caught him snoozing on the job. He asked me to fill in again until he finds a replacement.”
“From where I’m standing, that clerk’s apron looks just your size.”
