Behind the Masks

by Susan Patron

  And such weariness I have never felt, like an ache in the marrow of the bones, an ache in every muscle, even behind the eyes. I fell into my bed and into instant sleep.

  She woke me in the gentlest way, so at first I thought it was Momma. Through the bedclothes she took hold of one of my big toes, grasping it lightly as I floated up out of sleep. Although a small candle flickered in her hand, it was dark in the room. She stood by the bed, holding my foot. “Shhh,” she said.

  “Ling Loi?”

  “Yes. Can you get dressed and come with me? Something bad is happening at the Babcockrys. I cannot find Antoine or Mr. Reddy, but I think if you come out, maybe they will find us.”

  The frightened tone in her voice made me come fully awake. Yet somehow it is harder in the night to summon courage; all I wanted was to burrow down deep under the blankets. The thought of pulling on my layers of underclothes and dress and shoes seemed a task beyond my ability.

  “I brought you a disguise,” she said, and let go of my toe. Over her shoulder hung a bag; from it she took some garments. “Pants and a jacket just like mine, from a woman about your size. Your feet are almighty big so I brought you a man’s slippers.”

  I touched the cotton fabric, which was soft from many washings. It seemed almost more wrong, in my sleep-addled mind, to go out of the house wearing Chinese clothes than to sneak out without waking Momma. (Of course I dared not wake her as she would have forbidden my leaving.) Ling Loi must have misunderstood my hesitation, for she said, “Oh, do not worry. They are very clean—no fleas.”

  “Ling Loi, be quiet. Bring that candle closer.” I began to dress. If she could go running around the streets of Bodie at night, so could I. Dread was strong but excitement and the possibility of dangerous adventure were stronger.

  “Hurry,” she said. “Please.”

  The clothes fit me well enough; they were loose, light, and allowed such freedom of movement as a cat enjoys. Even the cloth slippers were large enough for comfort; my feet felt nimble in a way that normal shoes and boots do not allow. It thrilled me strangely to walk in the shoes of a man, as if they gave me a magical power. She tied a black silk scarf over my hair and we made our way silently out the back door.

  We blended into shadows and I realized I did not have to walk in the modest, proper way of a young woman. We ran and I leapt as I have not since I was a child. My usual clothing was a suit of armor in comparison. Then a worry came to me, and I said, “Ling Loi, how will my father or Antoine recognize me? And if they do, what will they think?”

  “They or their friends have been keeping watch on your house. If they’re around here, they saw one Chinese girl go in and two Chinese girls come out.”

  Our eyes adjusted to the dark, enough that we could dodge around the ruts and mud and garbage on the street. Ling Loi led me through back ways and alleys. I feared no ghosts and no haunts. She made me braver than I was.

  A group of rough-looking men approached, hats low and spurs jangling, some of them singing a bawdy song. We flattened ourselves against the back of a building, and they passed by. Their smell of horse manure reassured me, though it was too dark to recognize any of them. One of the men lagged behind the others. “Who goes here?” he asked.

  “Wing sisters,” Ling Loi responded immediately.

  “Taking flight?” He shook his head. “Not tonight.”

  I guessed what he was from the way he spoke, punning and rhyming. “Why,” I said, and hoped he couldn’t see my cheeks reddening at the thought of Antoine Duval, “is it a Horrible night?”

  “That’s right, miss, Horrible,” he said. “Back to the nest, you two.”

  So this was Papa keeping an eye on me with the Horribles’ help.

  Ling Loi realized this, too. She said, “There is trouble at the Babcockrys’. Can you get a message to Mr. R. or Mr. D.?”

  “Trouble?”

  “I overheard Constable Kirgan talking about it,” Ling Loi said. “Said Mr. Babcockry shot another man over a card game.”

  “All right. We heard the mob was organizing; didn’t know it was about Babcockry. Go back inside.” He took us by our shoulders and turned us around, back the way we’d come. “Hurry,” he added, and we began to jog.

  We turned a corner and Ling Loi looked back. “No one’s following,” she said.

  “Let’s go,” I answered, and she knew I did not mean home.

  We took a circular route to the Babcockrys, who lived in a little shack behind the wigmaker’s shop where Bessie Babcockry worked. As we approached we could hear the mob of men in front, out on Main Street, shouting orders and insults. After several thugs with burning torches rushed past, we crept along the alley and ducked into the rear room of Ward’s Furniture and Undertaking. This time I had no wish to peer into caskets. I led Ling Loi quickly through the back room and to the front parlor, where we could peek around the heavy velvet curtains and watch the scene on Main.

  Men seated on panicky horses fired their guns into the air; others stood in a loose group taking swigs from bottles. They all wore masks or hoods and threw long shadows from the lights spilling out of saloons and dance halls on both sides of the street.

  Suddenly, from between two shops, a woman and two boys appeared; they were herded out to the street. It was Mrs. Babcockry, shouting at the top of her lungs. Her younger son—we called him Marbles—in his nightclothes, gripped her hand; each of them carried a satchel. Her beautiful hair shone as if it were lit from inside her, a thick golden cloak covering her shoulders. Marbles looked around wildly, as if seeking some way of escape. Hank Babcockry followed, bound by ropes and struggling uselessly. He had his mother’s hair, though his was matted and stuck out in odd clumps. I was glad to see, at least, that his pants stayed put, anchored by Papa’s sturdy leather belt.

  They were shoved into a small wagon.

  “That boy Marbles taught me how to play ringer,” Ling Loi said. “We played keepsies and I won a cat’s-eye off him. Where are those men taking them in that wagon?”

  I didn’t know so I shushed her.

  “How dare you force us out of our home in the middle of the night?” Mrs. Babcockry shouted. “My husband has been a member of the 601 Committee! Sure, we got behind on the dues, but he’s a right upstanding member of this mining district! Upstanding! Don’t touch him, you reprobate!” She directed this to a man who had tried to break her son’s grip on her hand. He spat in the dirt. “I’m reporting all of you to the head of this Committee! Oh, yes, I know names! I know who you are! You should be ashamed!” The crowd laughed and shouted at her.

  Finally Mr. Babcockry stumbled into view, prodded by several masked men. His clothes were stained and torn, his hands tied behind him, his feet wearing only ragged socks with holes in the toes. He lurched unsteadily and cried out, “Bessie, doncha know yer not supposed to tell people I been a member? That’s the very exact reason the 601 wear masks, see? ’Cause they don’t want people to know who they are! Somebody give me a drink!”

  His wife snapped, “Oh, for the love of God, Bab! It’s not another drink you’re needing right now!”

  One man stepped out from a group of onlookers. He climbed with long legs onto a display of caskets. I saw that it was Mr. Ward, probably keeping an eye on his establishment. “Boys,” he shouted mournfully, “I’m always glad for business, but let’s settle this the right way. Take the man to the sheriff and leave his family alone.”

  Mr. Ward astounded me, as even from inside I could tell that the crowd surged with some kind of eager madness. I thought he had better get down from his perch, and quick. But he continued, “Not a good time for business, this sad business especially.”

  Shouts and warnings pelted Mr. Ward: He was advised, in strong, unrepeatable terms, to mind his own business.

  “My own business, of course,” Mr. Ward repeated, calmly nodding. “But this is the sheriff’s business. Where might he be?”

  “Seen him over in Molinelli’s Saloon, Ward. Get down off yer caskets a
nd go buy him another drink,” someone shouted.

  “Molinelli’s,” Mr. Ward repeated. “A fine idea. Let’s all go and see what—” Before he could finish, someone lashed out with a mule whip, caught Mr. Ward at the back of his legs, and made him topple off the platform of caskets.

  The mob turned back to Mr. Babcockry and, with a sudden rush, knocked him to the ground. Some men began kicking him but I could not see what happened next. He must have been kicked partially under the wagon. Or maybe he scrambled there to try to get away from the attack. Someone threw a bottle that went wide and hit one of the wagon’s two horses on its rump. Ling Loi and I saw the horse jerk; we saw the masked driver trying to retrieve the reins that he’d dropped; we saw the horses lunge forward several yards.

  Mr. Babcockry lay in the street.

  Suddenly the crowd drew back. Someone screamed, “The wheel went right over his neck. Musta broke it!”

  Masked men shuffled backward. Began to melt back into the darkness, or duck into the nearest saloon. Those mounted turned their horses away. There was shouting, but it sounded different—less angry, as if the wheel that broke Mr. Babcockry’s neck also broke the mob’s will. It had been the beginning of something dreadful, and all at once it was the end.

  A group of women who had kept themselves in the background came and helped Mrs. Babcockry climb out of the little wagon. I saw Mrs. O’Toole among them; she removed her shawl and placed it over Mr. Babcockry. Someone untied the ropes binding Hank.

  I dropped the curtain. Ling Loi took my hand. “That boy Marbles always has a runny nose but he’s nice,” she said. “Now he doesn’t have a pa.”

  “Nor his brother, Hank,” I said. “I’m almighty sorry for them.”

  As we cautiously opened Ward’s back door, I saw a half-dozen cowboys hurrying toward Main. They were panting from hard running. I guess the Horribles, being unpaid actors and punners and poets and protectors of girls, cannot afford to feed and shelter horses of their own. They were too late to help the Babcockrys, even if they could have swayed that mob.

  Ling Loi, still holding on to my hand, looked at me closely before we slipped into the alley. “That Mr. Ward was the bravest man we saw tonight,” she said.

  He was only a strange old undertaker, but I guess she was right. “Braver than Sheriff Kelley over in Molinelli’s,” I said. “Looks like the 601 run the town now. I wonder who will be next.”

  We started toward home and my heart seemed to freeze when a few men turned into the alley and approached us, nearly blocking our way. These men were not Horribles, I was sure. Ling Loi said something in Chinese, and I kept my head down as she had instructed earlier. We scrambled to the side and the men, arguing, barreled past us with hard-eyed looks, forcing us to make way for them. They showed none of the gentlemanly manners I’m accustomed to. My Chinese disguise gave me a curious kind of freedom, like being invisible—or as if, in the eyes of those men, I was not worthy of being seen. Now I know that a disguise can hide as much about the wearer as it reveals about the observer.

  Ling Loi came inside with me and waited while I undressed so she could collect the borrowed clothes and return them to their owners. Then she left, all on her own, and I watched her jog away into the night. Mr. Ward had been almighty brave that night, but he was not the only one.

  Sunday, June 27, 1880

  Dear Diary,

  It was furious hot in the kitchen. I determined not to think about the dreadful events of a few days ago, to think, instead, of celebration.

  Eleanor and I were boiling onion skin dye, simmering vinegar fixative for the muslin, and stewing flour-water paste.

  We were making our masks for the grand ball, and we were steaming with pure excitement!

  I planned to dance until the moon sank and the sun rose.

  But no one would have danced with us if they saw us now! We perspired like horses, our faces were gooey from the protective ointment, and our hair was sticky and powdered with flour.

  The cast-iron cookstove heated the kitchen to 100 degrees.

  Momma had heard of the arrival in town of a wagonload of fresh fruits and vegetables at reasonable prices. Before she left with her big basket, she presented us with two flour sacks. She had cut holes for heads and arms. To cool off, we removed our outer clothes and wore the sacks as aprons. Oh, the glory and freedom of bare arms and legs!

  Once the paste cooled, we cut muslin into strips and dipped them into the mixture. It was sticky and messy and got on everything. I lay on the floor on my back—as far from the stove as I could get—while Eleanor applied overlapping strip after strip to my gummy face.

  I stared up at her through my eyeholes. This first layer was a torture of itchiness. I flopped my arms. “Don’t be impatient,” she said. “Wait for it to dry.”

  “It’s taking almighty long,” I said, trying not to move my face while I spoke. After a moment, in as casual a way as possible, I asked, “What if someone I don’t care for asks me to dance?” Ellie had much more experience with social events than I had, and she knew the proper etiquette.

  “Unless he is drunk or rude, you must accept all offers, and be gay about it. If you decline a man’s invitation, do not accept any other man’s for that dance.”

  I fanned myself with a newspaper. “But what if the man you want to dance with doesn’t ask you?”

  She laughed. “And who would that be?”

  Instead of answering, I ran my fingers along the edges of the mask. Dry and almost rigid. “It’s dry enough, Ellie, I’m positive. Help me lift it off.” Using both hands, she carefully pried it up and placed it on an upside-down bowl.

  “The nose!” she cried. “It’s all floppy! It’s sinking!” She grabbed the saltcellar and positioned it beneath the mask’s nose. Once thoroughly dry, we would add a second layer of white muslin strips.

  I wiped the ointment off my face while Ellie took my place on the floor. For her mask we used muslin that had been dyed to a bright yellow gold in the onion skin bath. I tried to be as delicate and precise as she had been, molding the strips to the contours of her face.

  “Fan me, Angie,” she begged.

  “‘Don’t be impatient. Wait for it to dry,’” I teased. As I fanned her, I thought of another question.

  “Ellie,” I said finally, “what does it mean if a man winks at you? Not at the ball, but just during a conversation.”

  She smiled, not moving the other muscles of her face. “If we are talking about a certain Wells Fargo clerk, it means he likes you.”

  “But how can you be sure? He just thinks of me as … an Irish satirist schoolgirl.”

  “Then Mr. Duval must surely love Irish satirist schoolgirls, especially ones wearing fabulous masks. Is it dry yet?”

  “No.”

  “Shall we paste chicken feathers to our masks like Mrs. O’Toole? It could be pretty.”

  “I want us to be unique, Ellie. Mysterious, shining, radiant.”

  “Of course! Brilliant, luminous, dazzling! I wish we had jewels we could add.”

  “Momma would say, ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’”

  “My mother, too.” We both sighed. “Please can we take the mask off now?”

  I pried around the edges with a little butter knife. As I lifted it, I said, “All I want is to dance and dance through the whole night until dawn.”

  Ellie said, “Oh, Angie, that’s it! Our masks will be perfect!”

  As we tidied up she told me her idea for our costumes and I felt a thrill go through me. But then I realized what an awful girl I am, with Papa in hiding, and Mr. Babcockry getting killed—and all I can think about is being in the arms of that Wells Fargo clerk with his tragic eyebrow, whirling me around and around and around.

  Tuesday, June 29, 1880

  Dear Diary,

  Yesterday Momma decided to cook larded calf’s liver to go with the onions she had bought, and sent me to Mr. Johl’s. I was also to buy the bacon to lard it with, and was thinking of how
good this would taste as I hurried along Main Street.

  The sign in Mr. Johl’s window said CLOSED. This was unusual for mid-afternoon; I paused to peer into the window. What I saw shocked me: The meat case was clean and empty except for blocks of melting ice. Mr. Johl’s knives and apron were not hanging in their usual spots behind the counter. The shop looked not merely closed—it was deserted.

  I ducked around the corner of the building, as before when I had followed Ling Loi and Miss Williams, and made my way through overgrown grasses to the rear. There I saw a wagon loaded with trunks and cases, and Mr. Johl lugging yet another trunk out from the house.

  “Oh, M-Mr. Johl,” I stammered, flushed with embarrassment at being discovered like a common sneak behind his house. “I … I saw the sign in the window and hoped you and Mrs. Johl were not ill, and then I … decided to come around to see if … there is some way I can help.”

  “Ha!” he said, as if he had just discovered something. “As you see, we are leaving Bodie.”

  Mr. Johl had evidently hired a two-horse wagon and a man I recognized as one of Sally O’Toole’s boarders, Mr. Gibson, the teamster. He looked up from the hoof of one of the horses and nodded at me. Unlike most men who carry their weapons in their pockets or tucked into waistbands, he wore a holster. Clearly Mr. Johl had hired him as both driver and armed guard. The wagon was piled high.

  I said, “I’m almighty sorry, Mr. Johl,” and I was. “But what—” I broke off, stopping myself from asking about Ling Loi. I could hardly bear the thought of her losing another mother, one she had just recently found again, one she so clearly loved. But such a question would surely anger Mr. Johl. I said, “What about … the dog?”

  Mr. Johl stared at me a second, but I could not read his thoughts. He looked different without his apron. In Levi denims, with a neatly ironed shirt and vest over his substantial paunch, he could have been a prosperous rancher or a banker on his way to a picnic outing. Just then, from within the house, Lottie Johl called, “Eli? The canvases are ready.”