by Susan Patron
“Didn’t your mother give you any of her meat pies?” Momma was asking.
“Yes, mam, but my father wouldn’t let me have much. He says I got to earn my keep in the mines. Guess I’ll start that soon as I can get hired.” He looked at the carpet for so long that I looked, too, wondering if there was a bug of some sort that had distracted him. There wasn’t. Finally he said, “I am right sorry we scared you. I want to ax you please don’t tell my pa about it. That’s all.”
“You mixed up with the 601, Hank?” Momma talked gently, so he’d know he could answer without flaring up her temper.
He said, “No! Mr. Tucker said we couldn’t—I mean we was just coming over on our own, like a joke, but people started shooting and it waren’t turned out like we planned.”
“A joke!” I said. “You and that Con Williams ride in here with rifles and torches and call it a joke? You insult my papa in school and expect us to—” I broke off, remembering too late I hadn’t intended to let Momma know about that and the paddling.
“I thought on that. I oughtn’ a said what I did about your daddy.”
Momma stood. “Hank, you are thirteen years old and you have done a stupid thing. I’m ashamed of you; you betrayed this family and me. If you raise a gun, someone will shoot you. How can you not know that?” Her voice was strange, like she had a sadness-sickness. “Playing at vigilantes. It’s a miracle that you are alive. Now go.” She turned away and left us, Hank looking stricken.
How is it possible to feel such extreme fury and such numbing pity for the same person at the same time? I had no words, but maybe Momma’s disappointment in him was enough. I shoved the lard pail into his free hand and pushed him out the door.
Thursday, June 10, 1880
Dear Diary,
Last night I was too tired to continue writing, for Momma and I stayed up late after Hank left. I learned something I’d always wondered about but never known.
She patted the side of the bed when I passed her door, her hair loose, both of us in nightshirts buttoned to the neck against the evening cold.
“Did you take your medicine finally, Momma?”
“No. You know, Angie, there’s a quantity of opium in it. I was starting to want it like a prospector wants whiskey, and that’s bad. Should have realized sooner.”
“Well, take a little if your gum hurts.”
“I’m all right. Are you?”
I was going to say “yes, mam” but didn’t. I wasn’t.
She asked, “What did Hank say about your father in school?”
“Called him a one-armed shyster. Is he? A shyster, I mean?”
She hesitated. “Well, Patrick goes by the law. Some of his clients have had rough lives and he loves to help the underdog. You have to understand that some of the accused that go free—it’s not necessarily because they’re innocent, but because the jury couldn’t agree and find them guilty. There’s a difference.”
“So he helps guilty people go free?”
“People are innocent in the eyes of the law until proven guilty. And sometimes they don’t go free—they have to go through another trial with a different jury.”
I thought about that. After a while I said, “Mr. Duval and that ‘other fella’ outside let Hank go tonight.”
“Hank was a fool and worse to come here and almost get someone killed. But he’s still just an overgrown boy been treated bad by his father for years. Maybe kindness, or one more chance, makes more sense than punishment. I don’t know for sure.” She pulled her shawl around her shoulders. “You went upstairs. What did you give him in that lard bucket besides food?” she asked.
“Papa’s old leather belt,” I admitted.
She nodded. “He should not have to be humbled on account of his clothes.”
“Shall I get you another blanket, Momma?”
She shook her head and waited, eyebrows raised. She knew very well I had more thoughts churning around inside.
“The gunfight,” I said finally, “the one when Papa lost his arm before I was born. The two of you always talk about how you fell in love during the time afterward when you nursed him and got him to give up gunfighting and study law.”
“Now you want to know how it happened,” she said.
“I have asked before, but no one would talk about it.”
“Even I probably don’t know the whole story. Maybe your father doesn’t, either.” She paused and then I knew she was going to tell me. “He and your uncle Ned were partners in those days, following new gold discoveries and living in mining camps. This was in Aurora during its boom. One day they were hunting in a canyon near town and another hunter saw movement and fired a shot that hit Patrick in the arm. Mistook him for game.”
“So it was just an awful accident.”
“Well, more like an accidental gunfight. Instead of revealing himself, the man stayed hidden. So Ned fired back—the only time he ever missed—and then the man threw out his gun and began bellowing and crying. He was sore afraid and ashamed. Ned said he was the worst sort of coward and vowed he would even the score in a fair fight, once Pat got seen to by a doctor.
“But the man helped Ned carry Patrick to town. Later he paid all the doctor bills. He was real sorry he acted like he did. And your father convinced his brother to call it quits—no more bloodshed. In time we found out the shooter was known as a confidence man around the mining districts. He started to accumulate money and bought shares in successful mines. People liked him because he was a natural leader, and he was generous. He organized volunteer fire departments in the camps and planned games and balls for holidays. A few years ago the man and his family moved here to Bodie.”
“The man who shot Papa lives here?” I could not figure this out. Why hadn’t I ever heard about it before?
“I used to try to befriend his wife, but she always seemed reticent and kept to herself. They have a daughter, and this is another reason why Papa and I have not told you the story. The girl doesn’t know, and I doubt the wife knows. The man asked us, for their sake, to keep it quiet—he says he’s ashamed even though it was an accident. I also suspect he fears retribution from your father’s friends if they knew about it. We decided to forget the past and get on with our lives. This man does not speak of it; nor do we. And nor, Angeline, must you.”
Something made me wish I hadn’t pressed Momma to reveal these old secrets. I did not want to know more, but of course at the same time, I had to know more. “Who is it, Momma?”
When I was little, Papa would sit me between them on the bed. I would cross my arms, giving one hand to Momma and one to him. Right hand to Papa’s left, left hand to Momma’s right. They would match my fingertips one by one to theirs, reciting “pinky, ring finger, middle man, index, thumb” and then Papa would kiss the tip of my nose and say he had all the hands he needed.
Now Momma took my left hand and silently touched each of her fingertips to mine. She said, “I’m telling you now because I don’t trust him. I believe he’s dishonest. I want you to be careful.” And then she looked at me and said the name of a rich, well-liked leader in Bodie, one of its prominent citizens.
Darryl Tucker.
My new friend Eleanor’s father.
I took this knowledge to bed, along with the revolver. We were not bothered again, though we heard shouting and whooping throughout the night. A metal gun barrel is a cold and sorrowful thing to sleep beside.
Friday, June 11, 1880
Dear Diary,
This morning, as I stood barefoot in my old nightshirt waiting for water to boil, sorting the mending into piles of urgent, very urgent, and most urgent, I heard a tap at the back door. I was lazy from sleeplessness and hadn’t dressed. Thankfully, it was Ling Loi, but she was not alone. A large, drowsy puppy was draped in her arms, appearing as heavy as a little pig.
She looked at me, then at the dog. “It belonged to the Walheims,” she began.
“Who?”
“The family the vigilantes forced out of town
,” she said.
“Do you mean Mr. Walheim the boot maker over on west Main?” The puppy lifted its head and yawned. I yawned, and then Ling Loi yawned. It is the most curious thing that a dog can send a yawn to a person and then every other person will catch it, too.
“Yes, the cobbler, his wife, and a bunch of children, some of ‘em almost grown. The vigilantes killed this dog’s mother, who was trying to defend the house.”
“Well, that’s an almighty shame. What crime did they say Mr. Walheim committed to get kicked out of town?”
Ling Loi shrugged. “Two weeks ago there was a fight at the Parole Saloon. No one knows who started it, but when the deputies got there Mr. Walheim had a pistol in his hand so they arrested him. He was out on bail waiting for the trial but his lawyer … got killed.” Her face showed no sign of any opinion about this, though of course she knew he was alive.
“My father was his lawyer?”
She shifted the puppy’s position so that its head hung over her shoulder. The dog was a sound sleeper. It had brown hair and big ears, just like me. “That’s what people are saying. They claim the vigilantes didn’t want to wait until Mr. Walheim found a new lawyer; they didn’t want to wait for a trial, so they decided he was guilty and ran the whole family out of town. That’s all I know, except this dog needs a home.”
“Not here, Ling Loi. I have no time for a puppy and dogs make Momma sneeze. You keep it.”
“I cannot. I have no … place for it.”
I shrugged and poured hot water into a basin for Momma. After she washed, I’d take it out and pour it on the vegetable seedlings, though there was little hope of them surviving. There is not a single tree here, or for miles around—the only plants are stringy, prickly desert shrubs and wild grasses. It is hard for most things to grow here, in a place 8,000 feet high. “Well, give it to a boy. Boys always want a dog.”
“No. I will not. Boys are mean.”
“Ling Loi, I’m almighty busy.” Almost as soon as I said it, she was out the door. I went after her. “Hold on. I have an idea. Let me get dressed and take this to Momma. Wait on me for a minute.”
I dashed to Momma’s room with the water, spilling some on my nightshirt, but excited with my new plan.
Now it is late and I must go to bed, so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open to write, but tomorrow I must tell what occurred when Ling Loi and I left the house with that puppy dog, for it is a surprising story.
Saturday, June 12, 1880
Dear Diary,
“We are going to call on Mr. Johl,” I explained to Ling Loi as we walked toward Main Street yesterday. “Do you know him?”
She shook her head and the two slim feathers of her eyebrows drew together in a frown. She looked not at me but at the dog and said, “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Oh, he’s a nice man. Momma buys our meat from him and says he gives large cuts for a fair price. Perhaps he and Mrs. Johl could use a dog to guard the shop at night. Please try not to scratch at your flea bites while we are there or they will think it is flea-ridden.”
She looked at me. “Oh,” she said in a sarcastic way. “Maybe you should carry the dog to keep it from getting my fleas.”
“I did not mean that. But why do you have fleas?”
“I haven’t fleas. I have flea bites. From my customers, the inmates at the jail. They give me their bedding and clothes to wash, and, oh, the fleas. Hard to kill—you have to smash them with the back of your thumbnail, or drown them if you can.” We were keeping to the edge of the road, for it was thronged with miners carrying their empty food pails, finished with their all-night shifts, heading for home or the saloons. “The prisoners pay me in gold dust or coins. Some of them are too poor to pay. If I like them I do their clothes pro bono publico. That means ‘for the public good.’ I do it for free.”
I knew what it meant because Papa takes a lot of pro bono legal cases, which Momma says is why we are not rich. “It must be horrible, the jail.”
“I have friends there. We call it the Hotel de Kirgan because Constable Kirgan runs it, the boss man. I have to bribe him with a portion of my pay.”
She was a surprising girl. “But your parents do not worry? They allow you to do this?” Mine would not even let me walk along Bonanza Street, at the end of which was the jail.
She made a clicking noise with her tongue. “No more questions.” The dog began to squirm and she put it down on the dirt, where it immediately began to sniff. I kept walking. I did not have time to chase puppies or worry about girls. A miner shoved Ling Loi and aimed a kick at the dog, which she snatched up just in time, keeping beyond his reach. He cursed at her.
“Hurry up,” I said to her. “Let’s get this done.”
But then in the midst of all this commotion—weary, filthy men going home; new families arriving in town on wagons and on foot; shopkeepers hurrying to open their shops on Main Street—right then a voice I knew well screeched my name. It was Miss Williams, her sharp elbows assuring plenty of leeway among the other travelers. The miners kept well out of her path.
With a sinking heart I greeted her, continuing on my way, but she bid me wait.
“Angeline Reddy,” she said. “I believe the school is in the other direction.”
“Yes, Miss Williams,” I said, trying to look as innocent as possible, since I was innocent. “I shall not be late, just running a little errand before the bell rings.”
“No doubt,” she answered. “And who is this?”
“Nobody. Just a girl, Miss Williams.”
“Name?”
“Ling Loi.” Ling Loi glared at me and then turned to Miss Williams with a look of terrible fear. She inched nearer to me. I believe she was too afraid to run.
“I have heard about you, Ling Loi Wing,” Miss Williams said, a horrifying pronouncement. No one ever wants to be the subject of something Miss Williams has heard about. “It was the Presbyterian Mission Home in San Francisco, a Miss Culbertson, who contacted me. Someone had written to her with a most improbable story of a Chinese girl living in squalor here in Bodie. Of course there are hundreds of Chinese here, but you”—she leaned forward, as if to see Ling Loi at the closest possible range—“are the only Chinese child that I have seen.” Miss Williams stopped speaking and fixed us with her piercing eyes. She waited.
When Ling Loi did not respond, Miss Williams said, slowly and quite loudly, as if Ling Loi were deaf, “What is the dog’s name?”
“We do not know, Miss Williams,” I said. Of course, I then realized how foolish I was being, for Miss Williams did not care what the answer was, only whether Ling Loi understood her.
Then Miss Williams did a strange and unexpected thing. She reached out one of her bony hands for the dog to sniff. It licked her fingers. Ling Loi smiled. Miss Williams petted one silky ear. Ling Loi smiled more.
Miss Williams drew herself up, her head tilted back, and looked down at me fiercely. “Well, Angeline, is she?”
I racked my brain but could not figure out what Miss Williams wanted to know. This kind of situation, of not understanding the question, could be almighty bad. “Is she what, Miss Williams?”
“Living in squalor, Angeline. What do you think we are talking about?”
I had thought we were talking about the dog, but I saw that Miss Williams moved like a knight in the game of chess—in two different directions. I glanced at Ling Loi, who had a sweet expression on her face that was new to me. She looked fragile and tender, and I could tell by the way she tilted her face prettily that she had had to wear that mask before, to cover up her scowl. At the same time, she reached one arm behind us, still cradling the dog in her other, and pinched me.
I looked straight back at my teacher. “Of course not, Miss Williams. What I mean is, of course she is not living in squalor.” Squalor, whatever it was, did not sound good. But even if she were living in it, I figured Ling Loi did not want to be rescued by the Presbyterian Mission Home.
“We shall see,” Miss Will
iams said. “And Angeline, do not bring the dog into my classroom.”
With great relief we finally parted ways with Miss Williams and hurried on toward Mr. Johl’s butcher shop. I hoped to find, not only a home for the dog, but some pigs’ feet, which can be boiled a long while and then packed with their bones in a stone jar with cider vinegar. This is useful to have on hand in the larder, as it keeps well. Momma pulls off some of the meat and stirs it with a thickening of flour and water to make a nice breakfast souse.
Thinking of pigs’ feet made me hungry and I paused to look at the slate menu outside the Occidental Hotel and Restaurant. “Mmmm,” Ling Loi said, “they have fresh oysters.”
I hadn’t supposed she could read English, and was surprised. How had she learned that? Even more surprising, she had tasted fresh oysters, a costly dish here, far from the ocean. I asked her how it came to be that she’d eaten them.
“Oh, I have had everything on that menu, partridge and veal cutlets with truffles, and ice cream and champagne besides,” she said.
I decided not to show her for one second how preposterous this sounded to me. Should a person doubt Ling Loi’s word, it is best not to let her know it. “How grand,” I said in a neutral way. “And who taught you to read?”
She shrugged as if it were obvious, and answered, “Same people who gave me the food.”
I peered through the window at ornate chandeliers, velvet-backed chairs, gilded mirrors. “I bet this is what it must be like in San Francisco,” I remarked. “Fancy restaurants and shows—”
“I would hate to live in that Home in San Francisco,” Ling Loi interrupted. “They probably give you some kind of soupy gruel and hard bread. I’d run away if they made me go there.”
