Behind the Masks

by Susan Patron

  So this was Mrs. Lottie Johl! For some reason, even though we were right at her door, I was foolishly, unreasonably, unprepared to see her. Had I expected her to remain hidden in her husband’s house, afraid to show her face to proper society? Had I thought she would be poorly mannered, dressed in undergarments, smelling of whiskey? Such is the attitude of those respectable ladies, and in some way it must have spilled into my own suppositions. Relieved at her warmth and humor, I squeezed her hands. And then she glanced over my shoulder—and fainted.

  Ling Loi, who had evidently returned, dashed around behind Mrs. Johl, helping me to keep her from falling to the ground. We sat her down, and the dog licked her ear while Miss Williams patted the unconscious woman’s hands and cheeks, none too gently I might add.

  But most surprisingly of all, Ling Loi burst into tears, burying her head in Mrs. Johl’s neck and crying as if she had lost—or found—the only thing she ever loved.

  Miss Williams put a stop to that by issuing orders: I was to fetch a glass of water and Ling Loi was to cease crying at once and use her handkerchief properly. No command was given to the dog, who was apparently beyond reproach. At that point, Mrs. Johl regained consciousness and sat up. She stared wide-eyed into Ling Loi’s face and then she gathered her in her arms, the two of them rocking and hugging each other in a way so sweet and passionate that I almost could not look.

  And now I am so weary, dear diary, that I must resume this account tomorrow. I will close with the good report that I completed the moth treatment, and in addition have added bundles of dried sage, thyme, and spearmint to our clothing closet, and Momma said I accomplished it all in a most efficient and practical way.

  Tuesday, June 22, 1880

  Dear Diary,

  Now to continue the story of Ling Loi and Lottie Johl (known as Lottle), as it was revealed to me.

  We sat on straight-backed chairs in the Johls’ parlor, which was crowded with a very great amount of furniture, lamps on every table, crocheted doilies under every lamp, vases, figurines, and glass bowls filled with hard candies. For being so full, the room felt uninhabited, like a stage setting after the play is over. On the walls hung paintings in great gilded frames, etched-glass mirrors, and a curious portrait of a full-bearded man.

  Ling Loi sat on the carpet facing Mrs. Johl. The two of them spoke animatedly for some time, Mrs. Johl having asked about some women she called “the other mothers.”

  “Oh, Lottle, it is mostly so sad. Ellen Fair was beaten and murdered by that wretched man, Jon Draper, who is in jail in Bridgeport awaiting his trial. Sunny Mollie was clubbed over the head and robbed—they don’t know who did it—and later she took too much opium and died. The doctor said she had a disordered brain.” Ling Loi had begun to cry again, and Mrs. Johl rocked her for a bit, an expression of great sadness on her face.

  “I read in the newspaper about Julia being arrested,” Mrs. Johl said quietly. “Arrested for vagrancy!” she explained to Miss Williams and me. “Oh, the dreadful unjustness and shame of it all! Abandoned by husbands, all three, Ellen and Mollie and Julia, and them only trying to survive.”

  Ling Loi pressed a handkerchief against her eyes—I know the gesture myself, as if it could somehow keep the tears from leaking out. “Nell McCloud was caught stealing firewood and had to choose between a forty-dollar fine or forty days in jail. And she being so frail with her bad foot! She was freezing in that little cabin. She had no money, so was sent to jail. I went to see them both, Nell and Julia. They shared a cell so at least they had some company.”

  Mrs. Johl sat with her back straight, her head bowed. “Poor Nell. Such a hard life she’s had.” Cupping Ling Loi’s chin in her hand, Mrs. Johl said softly, “And Popo? Is she all right?”

  Ling Loi nodded. “Strict, like always. I am learning the Three Obediences and the Four Virtues but she says I have to work harder on ‘pleasing manner’ and ‘reticence.’”

  Mrs. Johl smiled and so did I. Miss Williams’s eyebrows twitched. Popo surely had an almighty challenge in trying to teach those things to Ling Loi.

  “And who is this person that has taken on such a formidable task?” Miss Williams asked.

  “Everyone calls her Popo. It means grandmother but she’s not my real grandmother. She was a friend of my mother’s.”

  “And she became my friend, too, when we got to know each other,” Mrs. Johl said. “She’s a dressmaker. One day I went to her for a fitting, and there was a tiny infant with her. She allowed me to hold the baby. Through gestures Popo made me understand that the child’s mother and father had died. After that, Ling Loi and I spent much time together.”

  In a small voice, Ling Loi said, “Until Mr. Johl came and took you.”

  “Please try to understand, Ling Loi. I am so fortunate—Mr. Johl has been good to me.”

  “That’s what the other mothers explained after you left,” Ling Loi said. “They said he made a condition to being married—that you must walk away and never go back to Bonanza Street or to Popo’s, and never visit any of us, not even to say good-bye. You had to put that life behind you. I did not understand! It felt like if you had died. Because … because …” Ling Loi seemed to be struggling for words. She went on in a burst, “… because having so many mothers is harder than … anything! Already three of them have died, even though I didn’t know the one I was born out of, and the one I loved best, besides Popo, left me.” After a pause, Ling Loi said, “And I know it is not obedient and shows lack of a pleasing manner, but I hated Mr. Johl for taking you away.”

  Mrs. Johl hugged Ling Loi again, and I, very carefully, without moving my head toward her, looked over at Miss Williams out of the corner of my eye. She was holding the puppy and caressing it, and, like me, listening.

  “Mr. Johl wants only my happiness. But for me, too, it has been hard. More than you know, Ling Loi.” She cleared her throat. “We will talk more in a little while. Now we must not keep our visitors any longer.” She looked at Teacher. “All right, Miss Williams. Please explain your mission and I will do what I can to help.”

  “I am most concerned,” Miss Williams began, getting right to the point, “for the child has come under the notice of the Presbyterian Mission Home in San Francisco. Perhaps that is where she should go, though I would have thought it better for her to remain with her own people. Yet it seems she has no family here.”

  Mrs. Johl looked angry. “She has no relatives in Bodie. But Popo and Sam Chung and her mothers at the Palace are her family.”

  “How is it,” inquired Miss Williams, balancing her teacup on one knee, “that Ling Loi speaks and, according to herself, reads English?” Miss Williams did not excuse herself from asking direct and personal questions, as I have been taught to do. I believe this is a bad result that comes of being a teacher. But I was glad she asked, being myself interested in the reply.

  Mrs. Johl sighed deeply, playing with Ling Loi’s long braid. “My visits to Popo were an excuse to be with Ling Loi. Popo saw how much I loved the child. She trusted me.”

  Miss Williams waited.

  Ling Loi said, “Lottle, you have to tell all about Sam Chung.”

  “Sam Chung. Yes.” Mrs. Johl’s mouth tightened for a second, as if the words were reluctant to come out of it.

  “One day when Ling Loi was about a year old I paid a visit and found Popo to be ill. I returned the next day to see if she needed anything. Sam Chung was there. He spoke English and I knew him slightly from his store, the Emporium, so I told him how fond I’d become of Ling Loi, and asked him questions about her. He told me that Popo was in charge of Ling Loi’s care and upbringing until the age of twelve. Then the girl would work for him because her parents owed him a great deal of money.

  “I saw that Popo was worse: ill and feverish. Sam bundled up the baby to take her to another woman until Popo got well. Ling Loi reached for me and I said, ‘Let me mind her for a few hours, until you find someone.’

  “Sam didn’t like that idea at all. He was in a
hurry and argued with Popo. I didn’t understand the words, but I’m sure Popo was trying to convince him I could be trusted. Later I found out that many people in Chinatown were ill with the same fever Popo had, so maybe he realized it would be hard to find anyone who could care for a baby. Finally he handed her to me.

  “I was working at the Palace at the time, and brought her back with me. The other girls loved her instantly, for none of us had ever seen such a beautiful baby, Chinese or any other kind. She was so calm, not a crying type of wee one, and loved being held. A perfect baby.” Mrs. Johl stroked Ling Loi’s cheek with the back of her hand. It was the most tender of gestures.

  “Popo remained ill for several weeks, and Sam Chung himself got the fever. He sent his lawyer, Pat Reddy, to ask me to keep Ling Loi until he or Popo recovered and could come for her. He knew he could trust Mr. Reddy”—Mrs. Johl smiled at me and my heart swelled at hearing Papa’s name—“to make sure we understood it was only temporary.”

  “I cannot imagine,” Miss Williams said, “that the owner of the Palace looked kindly on babies, even temporary ones.”

  “Oh, you are right about that, Miss Williams. Madame Steele came nigh to exploding, so angry she was. But Mr. Reddy told her we dared not return Ling Loi to Chinatown for fear of catching the illness and bringing it back with us. And then the next day a curious thing happened.

  “It was a slow morning in late spring and we were all sitting in the dance hall, Mollie, Ellen, Julia, Nell, and me, doing our mending and watching Ling Loi take her first steps. Even Madame Steele, polishing glasses behind the bar, couldn’t take her eyes off that baby. Old Peasley was banging out some Irish jig on the piano. Ling Loi tried to dance and walk both at the same time. She’d fall on her bottom, look greatly surprised, and then pull herself up on the legs of a chair and start over. A couple of prospectors killing time at the faro tables begged to give her a kiss. They’d never seen such a sight as a Chinese baby.

  “I made a joke about how much a kiss might be worth, and one of them brought out a bag of nuggets. He had tears in his eyes, saying he hadn’t seen a baby in so many years, and never a ‘real China doll baby.’ He was an old fool but he gave me an idea.

  “During those weeks, Ling Loi earned her keep. Men were willing to pay a silver dollar to kiss her hand and two to kiss her cheek or forehead. They would pay just to smell her baby hair. I believe some of them would have stolen her if we hadn’t kept a close and constant watch.

  “Naturally we had to give a percentage of this money to Madame Steele. But when Sam finally got well and came to take Ling Loi home to Popo, there was an unexpected bonanza for him. I put the coins and nuggets in a bag, handed it to Ling Loi, and told her, ‘Give it to Sam Chung.’ She understood perfectly and launched herself over to him all smiling and said, ‘Sam Chung!’ and dropped the bag at his feet. Those were her first words.

  “Well, Sam is nobody’s fool. He saw Ling Loi’s potential and decided right then that, like him, she should learn to speak, read, and write English as well as Chinese. Of course we offered to teach her. He and Madame Steele made a deal: We would take care of Ling Loi every morning, and strictly supervise her expensive kisses from homesick miners, and begin her English education. She would be returned to Popo each afternoon. Sam repeated that he would allow this until she turned twelve years old. Then he’d put her to work in a dance hall until she had repaid her parents’ debt to him. He promised he would not send her to China, nor to a home for orphans in San Francisco.”

  Miss Williams’s hand flew to her heart. “Good heavens!” she cried. “You cannot mean work in a bawdy house!”

  As if in a mirror, Mrs. Johl’s hand went to her own heart. She wore a ring of faceted clear green stones. “In his mind, he was not being barbaric, only practical. Most Chinese men left wives and families behind. Mr. Chung figured Ling Loi would eventually end up working in a dance hall and he was offering his protection so she would not be mistreated.”

  Miss Williams had set her teacup on a table. I felt a little sorry for her knee when she pounded it with her fist. “A deplorable situation. Please continue.”

  “Madame Steele agreed to the deal with the stipulation that she receive a percentage of all earnings for kisses, to which Mr. Chung nodded accord, plus an additional monthly sum for Ling Loi’s ‘provisions,’ which he refused to pay on the grounds that he was the one to whom money was owed. Ellen, Mollie, Julia, Nell, and I voted to pay it out of our own earnings. Split among five of us, it was not so much. So Ling Loi had five Palace mothers plus her Popo and other mothers in Chinatown during those early years. We all took turns caring for her.”

  Mrs. Johl sighed and continued. “She was a solemn, serious little girl. She grew up speaking two languages easily, with no effort at all. As she got older we taught her all the book learning we had among us and tried to raise her proper. But we all knew that when she turned twelve she would be lost to us. We loved her but tried not to love her so much our hearts would be broken.”

  I could see that Ling Loi enjoyed hearing her story told, and that she’d heard it before. She caught my eye when Mrs. Johl described how she got money for being kissed, as she knew I’d only faintly believed her before.

  Miss Williams asked softly, “And did you succeed?”

  Mrs. Johl make a clicking sound with her tongue. “Five years ago when Mr. Johl and I fell in love, he asked me to marry him. As Ling Loi said, his only stipulation was that I leave my life on Bonanza Street completely, and come to live in his world. In many ways, he saved my life. Of course, neither of us realized how hard it would be for me to make friends among the Christian women here, how … lonely it would be. Many times I wanted to go to Ling Loi, for—to answer your question—no, I could not prevent my heart from being broken. But I kept my word to my husband and I shall continue to keep it.” She leaned forward and rested her cheek on top of Ling Loi’s head. “Some choices can just about pound all the light out of a person’s heart, like that ore-crusher up at the mill. Yet we must make the choice to make them.”

  Miss Williams nodded, her face somber. She stood and went to examine the strange portrait on the wall. With her back to us, she asked, “How has this likeness been achieved? It is finely wrought, yet there is something unusual about it.”

  “Every line,” Mrs. Johl said, “is made from human hair. A cunning artist. But I care not for it. He is merely playing a game with us, with the result that we look at the portrait and fail to see anything but his cleverness. Neither the man in the picture nor the artist himself is revealed.”

  “You speak as an artist yourself,” Miss Williams said.

  I glanced at Ling Loi. She had stopped crying, and had composed her face so that no expression could be seen on it. She hid her feelings behind a smooth mask of unconcern.

  Impatient, I swallowed a large gulp of tea, wishing they would get back to discussing Ling Loi’s dreadful situation. If she were sent to the Presbyterian Mission Home, she would run away, and probably land in even worse trouble. If she stayed in Bodie, she would soon be put to work in a dance hall. Her fate rattled in my head like dice in the hands of a gambler.

  “You have asked me many questions, Miss Williams,” Mrs. Johl said. “Now I should like to ask you one.”

  We all looked at Miss Williams, who lifted her chin slightly, as if she expected something to strike her. Like Ling Loi, I kept my face expressionless, yet I felt glee and triumph in my heart. Clearly Miss Williams preferred to ask questions, not answer them, and it was an almighty rare occasion that I could be there to listen.

  “Who is it that contacted the Presbyterian Mission Home, Miss Williams?”

  “I am not in a position to discuss—”

  “Did you think to help this child, Miss Williams? It was you, was it not?”

  Before she could reply, the door adjoining Mr. Johl’s shop flew open. The butcher burst into the room and Ling Loi sprang to her feet.

  “Ha!” he said, in that way he had of not laug
hing. “Visitors!” He moved swiftly, for such an ungainly big man, across the cluttered room to the window. Closing the heavy curtains, he said, “My dear Lottie, your guests will have to leave. I have word that the 601 is out on its dirty business again.” He eyed Miss Williams and then me. “You are safe, no doubt, but all the same I will accompany you both to your homes.”

  The vigilantes again. I felt dread as I thought of their masked midnight raids.

  Mrs. Johl went to her husband as Ling Loi melted behind a huge overstuffed chair. That girl could disappear in an instant! “Wait, Eli,” she said. “Please do not judge Miss Williams by the behavior of her brother. I believe she is trying to do good”—here she glanced at the teacher, who only arched her back further. I was afraid she’d topple backward if she got one bit more bothered—“and the Lord knows it is not easy in Bodie.”

  “I will be fine, Mr. Johl, but thank you all the same,” I said. “Ling Loi can come with me—”

  “Ling Loi will stay here tonight,” said Mrs. Johl, looking not at me but at her husband. “Please, Eli. I want her safe with us.”

  Mr. Johl passed his meaty hand over his large bald pate. Before he said a word, the puppy raised its head and an instant later I heard the back door close. Ling Loi was gone again.

  Mr. Johl walked me home in silence and then he and Miss Williams continued toward her house, beginning an animated conversation as I left them. I hoped that whatever Miss Williams was trying to convince him of, she would not succeed.

  Friday, June 25, 1880

  Dear Diary,

  Several days have passed during which I could not write, so now I must record the further events of that afternoon and night.

  We ate a light supper of Momma’s good Turtle Bean Soup. I know you are wondering, dear diary, so I shall tell you: It is not soup made from a turtle, but regular black bean soup with the addition of a slab of salt pork and sliced hard-boiled eggs, and very good it is for the hungry yet weary.