by Alice Duncan
“Um… One.”
“Right. The rest of the population, ‘ceptin’ for some black, brown and yeller folks, look like little white pearls to folks like me, who come from more mixed-up parts of this grand land.”
“Little white pearls?” My voice had become faint.
“Yeah. And the black, brown and yeller folks work for you little white pearls. Guess they’re the rocks among the pearls or somethin’.” And he plopped his own hat, a straw boater that went well with the weather, onto his disreputable head.
“But…but…but that’s not true!” I thought about what I’d just said for approximately half a second. “Is it? Really?”
“Yeah, it really is.” And he turned and clumped down the porch steps.
When he got to the sidewalk in front of our house, instead of walking across the street as I’d expected him to do, he turned right and headed down Marengo. Aha! I knew what that meant!
“Mister Prophet! Just a minute!” I called after him.
I saw his shoulders rise and fall as he sighed and turned around. “Want me to wait for you?” he asked with resignation.
I gave him a huge smile and said, “Yes, please. I won’t be but a minute.” Remembering I currently wore my bathrobe and slippers and hadn’t even brushed my wild mane of russet-red hair (redheads and blondes running around loose, my left hind leg!), I amended my earlier comment. “Maybe two. Come on back inside and talk to Pa while I finish the dishes and get dressed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And he did. I could tell he didn’t want to.
When I got back indoors, I discovered my wonderful father had finished washing the breakfast dishes for me. I kissed him on the cheek and thanked him, then hurried to my bedroom, Spike tagging along. It didn’t take me long to put on a simple green day dress, brush my bobbed hair, stuff my stockinged feet into my brown walking shoes, plop my own straw hat on my head, and race out to the living room. Spike, needless to say, helped me dress and bounced into the living room with me.
“Ready to go?” I asked Mr. Prophet needlessly. He’d been ready to go five minutes earlier. Honestly, it didn’t take me more than that to get ready. Maybe six, but that was it. Really.
“Is Lou joining us on our walk?” asked Pa, sounding pleasantly surprised.
Horsefeathers. I’d forgotten all about Pa and Spike and our daily walk. Well, what the heck. He didn’t need to know why Mr. Prophet and I aimed to visit Angie, did he?
Mr. Prophet and I exchanged a speaking glance. His told me I was an idiot. Mine told him I wasn’t, either, but I just forget things every now and then. Truth? I think he was right.
“Yes. He’s going with us, as far as Angie’s house anyway,” I told my father, smiling brightly, as if Mr. Prophet visiting the glamorous Angie Mainwaring was an every-day occurrence. Pa was a smart man, and he knew Mr. Prophet and Angie weren’t best pals, so this jaunt on Mr. Prophet’s part to Angie’s place was…odd. Thinking like mad, I added, “She said she’d bring us all some oranges from Orange Acres, and Mr. Prophet is going to pick them up for us.” And I’d just have to visit Angie later in the day. Rats.
“Oh?” said Pa, understandably confused, since what I’d said made no sense. Oh, well. I never said thinking madly was a practiced skill of mine, did I? “That’s nice. Need help, Lou?” He glanced at Mr. Prophet.
“No, thanks. I can handle a few oranges.”
When my father turned his back and went to fetch his own jacket from the hall closet, Mr. Prophet gave me a truly evil-looking scowl. “Oranges?” he said. “Is that the best you could come up with?”
“Yes. Darn it!”
“And you with two orange trees right outside your door. And there are probably six of ‘em at Sam’s place across the street.”
“I couldn’t think of anything else on the spur of the moment.”
“Kee-rist.”
“Stop swearing.”
His gaze visited the ceiling, and he shook his head.
Pa joined us. “All right, folks, let’s get this walk started!”
Spike leapt with glee as I bent to clip his leash onto his collar. “Want to hold his leash, Pa?”
“Sure.”
I could tell my father didn’t buy my oranges excuse any more than anyone else with a working brain would have, but it was too late to change the story now. Paltry excuse or not, we started our walk. As we walked up to Angie’s mansion, its gate stood open. This seemed strange to me, since something so worrisome had gone on there the night before.
“Why’s her gate open?” I asked Mr. Prophet. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“Why not?” asked Pa reasonably.
“Dunno,” said Mr. Prophet. “I’ll take a look.” And he veered right and on up the long drive.
“Be careful!” I called after him.
He waved, but didn’t turn around. He just kept walking.
“What are you worried about, Daisy?” asked Pa, who was a trifle too perceptive for my personal good from time to time.
“Nothing. Not really.”
“Come on, Daisy. ‘Fess up. Why are you worried about Missus Mainwaring’s gate being open?”
“I don’t know. I just…am.”
“Oh?” He didn’t buy my excuse, being the intelligent human being he was.
So I tried again. “Well, I…I mean, why does she have a big fence, a gate that locks and a call box if she’s just going to leave her gate hanging open?”
“I have no idea,” said Pa, still being reasonable.
We continued our stroll around the neighborhood.
After a few minutes, Pa said, “All right. What’s up, Daisy? Is something wrong with Missus Mainwaring? You know as well as I do that we don’t need any of her oranges.”
Nertz. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to tell my father at least a partial truth. After heaving a sigh as big as the entire month of April, I said, “You remember when Spike barked last night?”
“Yes. I wondered if you were entertaining Sam in your bedroom.” My father’s face was stern.
Mine flamed. I could tell, because it heated up and burned like an oven. “Pa! I would never do anything like that! You know it! Don’t you?” His doubt of my purity made tears build in my eyes. They didn’t fall, which was only appropriate, since my purity at this particular point in my life was a thing of the past.
What a lowering reflection on my morals. But Sam and I did aim to marry as soon as we could. Good intentions count for something. Don’t they?
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I do know it.”
Naturally, his trust in me made me feel guiltier than sin, if there’s anything worse than sin. “But… Well, something disturbing happened at Angie’s place last night. Neither Sam nor Mister Prophet wanted to cause a ruckus in the neighborhood, so…um… Well, Miss Li—I don’t think you’ve met her yet. She’s a lovely Chinese woman—came over to our place for a few minutes. That’s why Spike barked.”
“Oh.”
When I glanced at my father, I saw him peering at me with a troubled frown on his face. My story needed more added to it, dagnabbit.
“You see, Miss Li, works at Angie’s orchard.”
“Oh. And?”
“Well, when Angie drove home—actually, she has a chauffeur named Cyrus Potts, who’s Hattie Potts’s husband. Hattie’s Missus Mainwaring’s maid, I think, but—” I told myself to stop babbling. “Anyhow, when Angie came home yesterday, she brought Miss Li with her. When they arrived—and I honestly don’t know if this is true or not, but I suspect it is—three of Miss Li’s brothers had come all the way from China and were waiting for her. They aimed haul her back to China, because she ran away to escape being married to an old man her father wanted her to marry. I guess they kind of pay for brides in China or something like that, and her father was mad because he lost money and… Well, I don’t know what you call it, but I guess the family’s prestige was damaged by Miss Li’s rash act.”
“How did Sam and Lou get involved?�
��
Excellent question. Wasn’t sure how to answer it since, as mentioned before, quick thinking wasn’t my best friend that day. “Um… I’m not really sure. I think somebody escaped from Angie’s house and walked—or probably ran—to Sam’s house, and he and Mister Prophet went down to Angie’s house. They brought Miss Li to me because she was slightly injured.”
“Injured?”
“Um… Yes.”
“By her brothers?”
“That’s what they said. So I allowed her to rest in my bed while Sam and Mister Prophet went back to Angie’s and got Miss Li’s brothers packed off to China again. Without Miss Li with them. Sam said he didn’t want to get the authorities involved, since those fellows were Chinese, and involving the governments of both the USA and China might make a bigger mess of it than it already was.”
“Hmm. Interesting.”
“It’s the truth, Pa. The truth as I know it, anyway. I guess it’s the truth.”
“I imagine it is,” said my adorable father thoughtfully. “I doubt Sam would enjoy being involved in an international incident. You know, I read an article somewhere—I expect it was in the National Geographic—that told of the bride-buying custom still being practiced in China.” He shot me a grin. “Aren’t you glad we didn’t sell you to the highest bidder?”
“Were there any bidders?”
Chuckling, Pa said, “No.”
“Didn’t think so.” I heaved a huge sigh.
I’m sure Pa thought my sigh was one of dejection because no men had pounded on our door, begging my father to allow them to buy me for a small fortune. That was when I was seventeen and married Billy, which seemed like such a long time ago. It felt as though those things had happened in someone else’s life and not mine.
Out of curiosity, I said, “You allowed me to marry Billy when I was only seventeen. Were you…” I had to stop and think for a minute. “I mean, I was so young. Billy was only two years older than I was. Were you glad we got married? I mean, did you want us to marry? You didn’t raise any objections.”
After several seconds of silence; seconds that made my nerves jump like water on a hot skillet, my father said, “Your mother and I talked long and hard about the plans you and Billy made. We thought you were far too young to make such a life-changing decision. But we also knew Billy was heading off to fight in a war from which he might not return. We didn’t have the heart to object, even though neither of us was happy about it.”
Taking a quick swipe at the tears welling in my eyes, I said with the utmost sincerity, “I have the best parents in the world.”
“Don’t know about that, but we wanted our little girl to be happy.”
“That’s so sweet. Your little girl was pretty stupid back then, wasn’t she?” It hurt to ask the question, although I don’t know why. I already knew the answer.
But my father surprised me yet again. “Not stupid. In love and frightened. Nobody knew if Billy would come back from that god-awful conflict or, if he did, how the experience would have affected him.”
“In some ways, it might have been better if he’d died over there. I know he often told me he’d rather have died than live the way he had to live when he came home. Maybe he was right.”
After another several thoughtful seconds, Pa said, “I don’t think so. I know his shell-shock and his ruined body were hard for both of you to deal with, but if he’d been killed in France, I’d bet you’d still be in mourning. The way things happened was rough on you, but at least you didn’t have to wonder how—or even if—he’d died. Lots of people will never get an answer to that question, but their children or husbands are still missing. It’s as if they’re living in perpetual limbo.”
I mulled over his words for maybe a minute. “You might well be right, Pa. I felt so guilty when Billy died.”
“I know you did, sweetheart. But you did the best you could, and from the perspective of your parents, you did a swell job.”
“Boy, I don’t think so. I was so short-tempered with him.”
Pa shrugged. “He was an unhappy, crabby, miserable person a lot of the time. But now you’re engaged to marry a truly good and honorable fellow, and your mother and I couldn’t be happier.”
His words made me think of some other words: those both Sam and Mr. Prophet had flung at me earlier in the morning. “Um…does it bother you or Ma that Sam’s Italian?”
“Bother us?” Pa sounded surprised. “No, it doesn’t bother us. But your mother and I are both from back east. There’s more variety back there than there is in Pasadena.”
“I guess so. Especially in New York City, where Sam grew up.”
“Especially there,” said Pa with a grin.
“What would you and Ma have done if I’d decided to marry a…” Oh, Lord, why did I even begin to ask this next question?
“Marry a what?” asked Pa.
“Well, if I’d wanted to marry, say, a Chinese fellow. Or one of Mister Jackson’s kin?”
“You mean what would we do if you came home with a fiancé of a color different from ours?”
“Yes. I think.”
“We wouldn’t like it.”
“Oh.”
“Not for the reason you think.”
“Oh?”
“If you decided to marry a man from a different race, your life would be so difficult, sweetheart. You know how the KKK went after that poor Jackson fellow a year or so ago. Can you imagine how they’d react if a white woman married a Negro or a Chinese or Japanese man?”
I shuddered. “Yes. I can imagine it. Heck, those horrible Klansmen shot at me, and all I did was befriend the Jacksons.”
“Exactly.” Pa shook his head. “Life is difficult enough without piling unnecessary hardships on it.”
“Thanks, Pa. I love you.”
With a short laugh, Pa said, “Love you, too, sweetheart.”
After deciding God had gifted me with the world’s best father and mother, I pondered our conversation. A part of it made me chuckle. “I’m glad my only brother is George. He would never ship me off somewhere because I misbehaved. At least I don’t think he would.”
With a laugh, Pa said, “I think you’re safe with George, sweetie.”
Angie’s gate still gaped open when Pa, Spike and I walked around the block and looked at it from the other side of the street. The open gate disturbed me a lot, but I didn’t say so to Pa. And I wasn’t sure why I was so bothered about it.
“I’m going to see how Miss Li is doing, Pa. I’ll be home soon.”
“Have a good visit,” said my marvelous father.
Spike wanted to come with me.
“No, Spike. You go on home with Pa. Be a good boy, and I’ll give you a treat!”
The word “treat” always made Spike’s tail wag. I loved my dog almost as much as I loved my father.
I walked up to the big porch and climbed the steps. It was then I noticed the coffin door also stood open. This seemed extremely strange to me, but because I’m an idiot—I mean a brave woman—I just went ahead and walked inside.
And that proved to be a gigantic whopper of a mistake.
Eighteen
The precise moment I stepped foot onto tiles in the foyer, I felt something poke me, hard, in the back. I jumped a little, and a gruff, New-Yorky voice said, “Hold it right there, sister. Stick ‘em up.”
Stick ‘em up? Did people actually say that? Whoever this guy was—did. He also poked me again, so I obeyed his command and held my hands up. “What’s going on?”
The man who’d spoken tapped me on the side of the head with something that felt like a bludgeon.
“Ow! Stop it!”
He did it again.
“Ow! Cut it out!”
“Daisy!” came Angie’s voice from her front parlor. She sounded slightly panicky. “Don’t argue! Just do as he tells you to do.”
“Smart too late, ain’t you, Angie?” said the nasty voice. The way he spoke her name made me think she’d meant it wh
en she’d told me she’d made it up. Uh-oh.
“Get in there,” said New York Nasty, jamming the hard object into the small of my back and shoving me toward the front parlor. By that time, I’d figured out the hard object to be the front end of some kind of gun. I’m sure that part of a gun has a name, but I don’t know what it is.
Anyhow, I got in there. The scene I walked in on made my mouth fall open. I closed it with a clack of teeth and sought Angie in the tableau. Ah. There she was. Seated on one of her pretty Chinese-patterned chairs, tied hand and foot. Li, looking bruised and much the worse for wear, sat in a chair next to her, likewise bound. I took a breath, intending to speak, saw Angie shake her head furiously, and didn’t, even though I wanted to know what the heck was going on. Angie began filling me in.
“Missus Majesty, this is my…” Her voice petered out. Then she said, “He’s an old acquaintance of mine.”
New York Nasty sneered at her. “You can do better than that, Gingersnap. Tell the lady the truth now.”
If looks could kill, New York would be dead as Robert Browning (the poet, not my friend). Unfortunately, they couldn’t. Therefore, Angie said, “That man”—she put scornful emphasis on the word man—“is my…” her lips pinched together, and she seemed to have to forcefully pry them apart in order to spit out the word, “husband.”
Heavens to Betsy!
“Yeah,” said New York. “That there’s my wife, dammit, and she ain’t no fancy-dancy damsel in distress, you can bet on it. She took me for all I was worth and left me back in Brooklyn. But I found you, damn your eyes.” He flung the last sentence at Angie, who received it with a flinch as if it hurt. Then New York shoved me at the sofa. I more or less fell on same and peered around.
Mercy sakes. This clearly wasn’t a good time to be visiting Angie Mainwaring. It was also clear that neither Rolly nor the tarot cards had been fooling around when they’d told Angie her past would catch up with her. It dawned on me, too, that Angie had made something of a habit of using men for her own purposes. I didn’t approve, although men had been doing the same thing to women since the beginning of time. Truthfully, I felt a faint flicker of glee in the understanding that Angie had turned the tables on a few of the men in her life.
