The Woman in the Camphor Trunk

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  “It tastes like coffee,” she said, voice full of wonder.

  “I dare say you could make other things, too, if you tried.” Mr. Melvin said shyly, staring at his feet.

  “Thank you for teaching me, Mr. Melvin.” She poured a cup and offered it to him with her best smile. He, in turn, smiled at the table.

  Anna opened the door to return to her desk, and saw Joe swinging into the station. His hair shone with brilliantine. His skin glowed from being scrubbed. He wore his best suit. He had definitely not been in jail. Had he dressed up to impress her? She slipped back into the kitchen, and, hugging her belly, watched him from the slightly open kitchen door.

  Wolf sauntered over to Joe. “Assistant Matron Blanc wanted to see you.” Wolf registered Joe’s attire and flashed his white teeth. “Look at you. You’ve been visiting a lady.”

  Joe made a shushing sound. “Miss Lory.”

  Wolf’s grin broadened. “Have you gotten to third base yet?”

  Joe answered in a quiet, irritated voice. “No.”

  “Because you didn’t get to second.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t try. She’s not that kind of a girl.”

  Wolf coughed. “You don’t mind my asking if, uh, Miss Blanc is that kind . . .”

  Joe glared at Wolf. “Anna isn’t any kind of a girl.”

  “Of course not.”

  “There isn’t any other girl like Anna.”

  “She’s a special gal. So, first base with Miss Lory?”

  Joe cut him off. “She’s not that kind of a girl.”

  “There are two kinds of girls, young Joe. Those who like physical love and those who don’t. If you’re planning on marrying a woman and she won’t kiss you, you’re in for a chilly forty years.”

  “I haven’t asked her yet.”

  “That’s wise. But as for Miss Blanc . . .”

  “What?” Joe snapped.

  “Would you say she likes physical . . .”

  Joe threw up his hands and turned heel toward the kitchen.

  Wolf raised his voice. “If I were you, I’d—.”

  Joe called back. “I know what you’d do.” He opened the door and collided with Anna. Her coffee spilled down the front of his suit.

  Joe scooted backward. His cheeks reddened when he met her eyes. “Wolf said you wanted to see me.”

  By contrast, Anna looked pale. “He’s mistaken. I never want to see you again.”

  Joe swallowed. “Did Father Depaul get you home safely?”

  The priest had surprised Joe and Anna in the church and demanded to drive her home in his wagon. The priest’s timing was impeccable. Their lips were getting closer and closer, and had almost touched.

  Anna fiddled with the coffee pot. “He gave me a sermon about evil men. I have to say, I couldn’t agree with him more.”

  Joe said, “I suppose it looked unseemly.”

  “It’s all right. I told him my side of the story, and he had to listen. They have to listen when you confess. So I confessed.”

  “What did you confess to? We didn’t do anything.”

  “Unforgiveness in my heart.”

  Joe unpacked his lunch pail and handed it to Anna. “Eat this.” It was a rice dish.

  Anna dumped it in the trash. “I went to see the missionaries and Mr. Jones this morning while you were out making love.”

  “You should have waited for me.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I found out?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. No one’s heard of this Chan Mon, but Elizabeth was definitely in love with him. If she was going to run off and marry anyone, it was him.”

  “I’ll also ask at the mission.”

  “You do that.”

  Anna lounged on the giant bed in her apartment writing up notes on the case of Elizabeth Bonsor—every detail, every clue. A laundry line stretched between the gilded finials at the top of her canopy bed, hung with the drab uniform and fancy French underpinnings she’d worn yesterday. Every garment was worse, not for wear, but from incompetent laundering and the injudicious use of bleach.

  The bell rang. Anna opened the door as far as it could be opened with a giant bed two feet away. Joe stood outside with a cast iron frying pan, a burlap bag, and a determined look on his face. He brushed the hair out of his eyes. It was parted on the side and badly needed cutting.

  Anna raised one eyebrow. “I thought you wouldn’t come to my house without a chaperone. You were afraid I would eat you or something.”

  “You’re losing weight.”

  Anna looked appalled, though the afternoon frock she wore hung loose in the waist. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m thinking you don’t cook. At all. I’m thinking you’re living off crackers or something.”

  Anna threw back her head and released a high-pitched, artificial laugh. “Nonsense.”

  Joe squeezed past her into the apartment where he was immediately arrested by the giant canopy bed, draped in laundry. “Lord Jesus. Why is your bed in the living room?”

  “It doesn’t fit in the bedroom.”

  Joe turned in a circle, assessing the paintings, the draperies, the fluffy rugs, and the gilded antiques crammed into the small space. “It’s like sweetened condensed mansion in here.”

  “Why, thank you. Aren’t you supposed to be off with your lovers?”

  “Sherlock, you’re starving right in front of me. Somebody’s got to look after you.” He handed Anna a piece of paper. “Miss Robins doesn’t know a Chan Mon, but she gave me a list of every Chinaman who comes to the mission or attends English classes. Mr. Jones and I interviewed them. Nobody knows where Leo Lim is, nobody knows Chan Mon.”

  Anna’s shoulders slumped infinitesimally. “Biscuits.”

  Joe’s eyes fell upon Anna’s baby grand and lingered there, suddenly distracted. He said nothing.

  “I would have given it to you, you know,” Anna said.

  “I know.” Joe slipped off his boots and crawled his way across the feather tick and matelassé white coverlet, over the lavish silk pillows, past the tassels and flounces, ribbons and drapes.

  He maneuvered his way into the corner that served as Anna’s kitchen. A tower of Cracker Jack boxes neatly teetered on her stove next to a heaping pile of Cracker Jack riddles. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  “I eat kippers, too.”

  He glanced at a little house made of kipper tins in the corner. “I see that.”

  Joe restacked the Cracker Jacks on a nearby vanity. He perused through the mountain of toy surprises, picked up a riddle card, and smiled. “Have you read all these?”

  “No. It’s not interesting to read them alone.”

  “Want to play a game?”

  “Maybe.”

  “If you get this riddle, and you swear you’ve never heard it before, you get one wish. If you don’t, I get a wish.”

  “So, you’ll have to grant me a wish, like a genie?”

  “Only if you win. If I win, you are my genie. You have a ten-second time limit.” Joe dug in his suit pocket for a gold watch, which dangled from a fob.

  “Oh, I’ll win.” She stuck out her hand.

  Joe gripped it and gave it a hardy shake. He unwrapped the riddle card, read silently, and chuckled. “You ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “What’s worse than raining cats and dogs?”

  Anna replied immediately. “Hailing omnibuses.”

  “Doesn’t count. You knew that one.”

  “No, I didn’t. But it had to be either snow, sleet, or hail. The verb ‘to sleet’ isn’t commonly used. It could have been snow, however there is no cliché or object that immediately comes to mind, is there? You might ‘snow’ someone, but it implies a successful deception, which is a good thing. How could that be worse than raining cats and dogs? So it has to be hail. What does one hail? The King, but hailing the King is usually done in celebration, so it can’t be worse than raining. What does one hail in which the hailing
itself or the object of hailing is annoying? Hailing an omnibus.” Anna sparkled like a sunbeam. “Joe, you’re my genie.”

  “All right. What do you want?”

  Anna deliberated. After reading What a Young Woman Ought to Know, she had endeavored to be modest and good, most of the time, so that God would be on her side. This ruled out making Joe remove his clothes or insisting that he throw off Miss Robins. She could petition on her own behalf, or, for extra points, ask for something that would benefit others. Her better nature won out.

  “Join the priesthood.”

  “That’s want you want?”

  “You said I could have my wish and you never lie.”

  “That’s a pretty big request. I’m not even Catholic.”

  “It’s not a request. It’s a command. Be happy. It could have been much worse. I could have made you kiss Detective Snow or something,” Anna said. “And do note that a priest would never hunt singsong girls.”

  Joe rubbed his forehead. “Okay, but only if you do whatever I ask when you lose. And I mean anything.”

  “Of course. But I won’t lose.”

  “Swear.”

  “I swear.”

  “This time, you pick the question.”

  Joe sat on the edge of her bed while Anna selected a riddle card from the pile, barely taking her eyes off him. She fumbled blindly for his pocket watch, unwrapped the card, and read. “What is it that never asks any questions, but requires so many answers?” She looked up expectantly.

  Joe’s brow crumpled. “Damn.” He propped his elbow on his knee and rested his chin in his hands.

  Anna watched him with a silly smile. “Tick. Tick. Tick.”

  “Oh God! I don’t know. Please don’t make me kiss Detective Snow.”

  She laughed and clapped her hands. “You’re not as smart as I thought you were, but that’s all right. You have many fine qualities. You have five seconds.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Three seconds.”

  “Holy Mary!”

  “One second!”

  “Doorbell.” He grinned.

  Anna frowned in consternation. “You’re teasing me.”

  “You’re my genie, now, Sherlock.”

  Anna’s heartbeat quickened, and she bit her lip. “What’s your wish, then?”

  “No priesthood.”

  Anna’s mouth flattened. “I want a rematch. Best of three,” she said. “And, if the riddles are going to be so easy, you ask me this time.”

  Joe selected a riddle card. “Why is a ship like a woman?” He checked his watch to mark the second hand.

  “Because . . .” Anna’s eyes raced back and forth. She threw down her hands. “A ship isn’t at all like a woman. I’m not like a ship.”

  “Agreed. You’re more like a runaway circus train. Think about other girls.” His eyes sparkled. “Tick, tick, tick.”

  Anna frowned in fierce concentration. “She’s a . . . ? Um, she’s salty? She can sink?”

  Joe’s face split into a wide, victorious smile. “Time’s up, Genie.”

  Anna moaned. “I can’t believe it. It mustn’t make any sense at all or I would have solved it. What was the answer?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Because she is often tender to a man of war.”

  “That’s not fair. I’m not tender.”

  “You wanted the rematch, Sherlock.”

  “Oh, and what did you want?”

  He considered her for a long moment, looking rather serious. “Since I can have absolutely anything I want, and because you’re a genie of your word—though I’m sure I assume too much—I want to think on it for a month or two.”

  “You’re going to hold it over my head.”

  “Didn’t you learn anything from fairy tales, Sherlock? The characters always fail this test. I’m not gonna be one of them. I’m gonna look before I leap.”

  Anna studied his face and tried to ascertain just how worried she should be. He gave nothing away.

  “Would you really have joined the priesthood?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She huffed and spun around toward the stove. “Let’s cook.”

  Joe squeezed past Anna to a blackened potbelly stove and opened up the clinker door. The ash pit was swept clean, empty, and cold.

  “Just as I thought.” He dumped a heap of coal from his bag into the stove and lit it. “I can only teach you the basics, because that’s all I know. But my neighbor, Mrs. Macklehainey, said she’d give you lessons if you want. I recommend it. You’re gonna get so skinny you’ll go chase some tong hatchet man and your dress will fall off.” He extracted two handfuls of eggs from the bag and looked around. Having nowhere to put them, he apparently resolved to hold them. “Can you boil water?”

  There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice, and she relaxed. “Um.”

  Anna scanned the few neglected kitchen soldiers hanging on the ceiling rack above Joe. Her eyes rested on a pot, its bottom shiny new and gleaming like a star. She squeezed sideways toward Joe until they were face-to-face, and very close, careful not to upset the eggs in his hands. Joe’s beautiful Arrow Collar Man eyes watched her warily. Anna bit her lip. “I can’t help it.”

  “I know. It’s one thing I’ve always loved about you.”

  Anna mounted a stool, stood on tiptoes, and reached above his head for the pot. She captured the pot and filled it at the sink. She began the return journey and Joe deftly backed out of her way.

  Anna set the water atop the blackened stove. “Now what?”

  Joe dropped the eggs into the pot. “We’re gonna make sticky rice. I need another pot.”

  “Sticky rice?”

  “Any circus train could do it, and it’s what I had on hand when I lost my mind and came over here.”

  “You had sticky rice on hand? No one has sticky rice on hand.”

  Then she thought about the many enticing rice dishes he brought in his lunch pail. If he knew how to cook those dishes, why were they making hardboiled eggs?

  Then Anna’s eyes fluttered wide. She put her fist to her mouth and made a desperate, hollow sound. “Jupiter.”

  “What?” Joe said.

  She negotiated her way over to the bed and began crawling across it toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Joe asked.

  “Your digs.”

  “No, you’re not.” Joe dove onto the bed and grabbed Anna by the ankles, yanking her backward. Anna kicked him and he let go. She wriggled across the coverlet and raced for the door, slamming it in Joe’s face. She hopped onto her bicycle, and began peddling out onto the street, fighting to keep her hem out of the gears.

  She heard a rumbling sound, and Joe flew past on his motorcycle, leaving Anna riding in his dust. He disappeared into the sooty tangle of cars, carts, and trollies.

  When Anna arrived on the doorstep of Joe’s basement apartment, his motorcycle was leaning on its kickstand. She banged on the door until he opened.

  He said, “A single lady should not be visiting the apartment of a single man unchaperoned.”

  “Unless she’s a singsong girl.”

  Joe pulled her inside and locked the door.

  Anna’s eyes flitted around the lonely apartment, which was entirely too clean. “You’re hiding them. I know you are.”

  Joe crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

  “You’re gaining weight, because they’ve been cooking for you. And, they’ve been giving you Chinese lessons. That’s why you’re so good at it.” She waltzed to the bedroom door and opened it. Joe’s single bed sat squarely against the wall, neatly made, beside an armoire and dresser. “I know you don’t make your bed.”

  Joe followed her into the room. “Anna, go home.”

  Anna opened the armoire, sliding the clothes aside with a swish. She bent over to look under the bed, lifting the quilt. Nothing.

  She dropped down onto her knees and began crawling around on the floor, knocking on the clean wood planks with her knuckles, and lis
tening for hollow spots. She came to the rag rug and lifted the edge. “You expect me to believe that you mop beneath your rug?” Anna rolled back the rug, revealing a trap door. She reached for the ring to pull it open. Joe stepped on it with his foot. Anna lifted his foot with both arms, throwing him off balance so that he stumbled backward.

  “Hey!”

  She lifted the trap door.

  There, in a shallow crawl space, two girls huddled in silk sacques and loose trousers. Anna crowed triumphantly. “Ah hah!”

  Joe sighed. He said something in Chinese.

  The older of the two girls lifted herself onto her knees and rose to her minute feet, which had been broken and bound according to the old Chinese custom. She was a lily of a girl, willowy, with inky black eyes and glossy hair pulled back in a long braid. Her chin was as high and tight as Anna’s, despite the fact she could be no older than seventeen. She stood over the crawl space like a sentinel, arms crossed, guarding the second girl who stayed huddled within.

  Anna began to shake. “You lied to me, Joe Singer. You’re not supposed to lie.”

  “No Anna, I didn’t. I just didn’t dispel your rather unflattering misconceptions. You confronted me in the jail right in front of the jailer. I couldn’t tell you what was going on. If word gets out that I’m hiding the singsong girls, the girls go straight back to the tong and I’m a dead man.”

  Anna scrunched her face. “You could have told me later. You didn’t have to let me hate you.”

  “Anna, I’m trying to court someone else. It was a lot easier if you hated me. Okay?”

  “I knew deep down you were a good man.”

  Anna slapped him.

  Anna and Joe slumped at the table. Anna’s eyes were red and puffy from crying. Joe held his head in his hands, his cheek pink from where she’d struck him. The second girl, whose name was Ting Ting, had finally come out from the crawl space, and now sat in the corner, arms wrapped tightly about her legs, rocking back and forth. She was achingly young—maybe fifteen.

  The older girl, whose name was Yuk-Lin, sat near her sister trying to interest her in a game of cards. She periodically eyed Anna with anger. Anna thought it was because she’d slapped Joe. No one said a word. Anna noted how gracefully the girl moved. How exquisite she was. How she had been living alone with Joe Singer in his apartment.