The Reverend Caleb Carson gazed up at the scudding clouds and counted his blessings in seeing another day. He had always thought of himself as a man of simple pleasures, and one of them was to be out-of-doors on a fine summer morning like this one. To breathe in crisp mountain air that reminded him of his boyhood in New Hampshire, though little else about this rugged setting was the same. The cedar trees here were spindlier, the scrub brush more spiked, the rocks more jagged than those in the mountains of his youth.
Even when he had crossed this range in North China as a healthy man, he had felt it blanket his spirit with barrenness and gloom. At dangerous bends in the trail, the Chinese had placed simple altars to their ancestors and gods. Over his five years of expeditions to the outlying churches, Caleb had come to understand that stopping to pray in any fashion was entirely the right idea. Otherwise the setting felt altogether too godless and the poor traveler abandoned to his fate.
Yet the sky overhead now on this summer morning struck him as promising. With some effort, he turned his head to his good side and gazed over the cliff toward the long valley below and the town too far in the distance to see. That he suspected he would die before ever returning to his home in that distance caused a literal dull ache in his heart, while the rest of his body was shot through with a simpler, more searing pain.
Eight weeks before, during a break in the spring rains, the clouds had lifted and sunlight had caught on every shining pale green bud. Caleb’s heart had felt as it always did in springtime: as if the Lord himself had scrubbed clean the earth, and he, too, needed ablution. A garbled message arrived just then on his two-way radio. American marines on a reconnaissance mission were cornered in the North. Now was the moment, he thought, to purify his heart and his goals by assisting in the communication between the brilliant, though somewhat naive and isolated, Communist leaders and the outside world.
Caleb told his wife he must visit the outlying churches. It was a matter of urgency, he said, and as he expected, she did not inquire further, preoccupied as she was with her own affairs. He left at dawn, before Shirley and their son awoke. He took Cook with him, since the older man had proven himself an excellent companion on previous trips. Captain Hsu tried to dissuade them from departing by reporting that the road was more dangerous than ever—slick underfoot and overrun with not just the usual bandits hoping to make up for profits lost during the rains but the Japanese invaders as well. Caleb would hear nothing of it.
They left the mission in chilly darkness, but by the time they reached the foothills, the path reflected pink sunrise. As they rose up into the mountains, switchback after switchback, all seemed vivid and hopeful. Until, at a point where the trail narrowed because of a rockslide farther up the mountain, Caleb’s mule refused to go on. As he assessed the situation, he wondered if perhaps the animal was of the correct opinion. But his mission was imperative, so he tried coaxing the beast with words, then with his heels to its sides. He even climbed down off the animal and tried to yank it forward. Cook’s mule seemed prepared to cross the dangerous pass, but Caleb felt he should be the first to try terrain so extensively drenched and unstable.
As is so often described, the more he pulled, the more his mule dug in. Finally Caleb gave up and turned away, and in that moment, the contrary animal took one step forward—one fateful step that set off a series of mishaps. Still holding the reins, Caleb lost his balance and stumbled backward. The animal lurched forward, and their combined weight caused the ground beneath to give way. Down they fell into a rocky crevasse on a slide of mud.
The earth was the color of the purest honey, and Caleb had come to know it well. Yellow dust from the Gobi turned to paste in springtime and coated every surface. As he fell, he swam through it, slipping with increasing speed on its thick and sticky consistency. In retrospect, the descent took an awfully long time. Slowly he tumbled, aware of the animal rolling beside him. Tree limbs and rocks tore into him, inflicting punctures and lacerations. Even at the time, there was an endless quality to the incident, long enough for him to think over the error of his decision to force the animal where it did not want to go.
His fall came to an abrupt end, and Caleb found that he was covered in mud and unable to move. He passed out for a short time, and when he came to again, he tried to wriggle his arm, but the pain was too much. He shifted a single finger, and although that pain was also penetrating, he managed to create a pocket of air near his lips. He sputtered out foul dirt and realized that with each inhale, he was sucking it back in again. He heard muffled voices and sensed movement nearby. Before he blacked out for a second time, he heard his cook’s voice shouting and thought that if there was ever a man good enough to rescue him, Cook was that man.
Cook fashioned a stretcher from branches and green vines and dragged Caleb out of the crevasse. Passing Red Army soldiers then carried him the rest of the way to the their camp over exceedingly treacherous terrain. How Cook and the soldiers had managed it was a miracle of the type that only the Chinese can achieve, Caleb thought. A more industrious and ingenious people did not exist on the planet. Being in the care of such routinely heroic types gave him hope that he might survive to see his family again.
Since the morning of the accident, he had been on his back on a military cot in the cave at night; in the day, they brought him outside to take the air. His lungs were still lined with mud, and his breathing was badly impaired by internal ruptures. No doctor had seen him, but he had no complaints about his care.
“Reverend hungry?” Cook asked in his faulty English.
Out of courtesy, the good man had kindly switched over to a language he had never mastered. Since the accident, Caleb had been unable to understand the local dialect. He couldn’t even have managed the more refined Mandarin, not that Cook spoke it, either. Caleb’s mind simply did not work well enough any longer to accomplish it. He let out a slight sound in reply.
Words, English or otherwise, had become too great a challenge for him, although he knew he needed to keep trying. That was the thing—he had come to realize that life was one long series of tries. A nice summation, he thought, worthy of a sermon. Caleb wished he could dictate his ideas to someone for future lessons. He had never been a deep thinker, never the wise minister he had hoped to someday become. His mother’s brother, whom he had never met but had heard of as a boy, had come to North China over thirty years before, and the elders here still spoke of him in mythic terms, as someone not only comfortable with the natives but inspiring from the pulpit as well. Caleb, by contrast, simply helped people by seeing that tasks were accomplished in the name of the Lord. He was a minister of the trail and of duty, not of words.
The irony was that he had finally achieved the proper distance on life to be able to sum it up, and yet he could no longer speak. He had become the sage that the collar he wore was meant to suggest, and yet he had lost the words to convey his thoughts. And wasn’t that a lesson in and of itself, he thought: the maddening lesson known as life?
He let Cook lift his head so he might sip mild broth. Caleb suspected it was nothing more than stone soup, but he relished the taste. The turnip added a bittersweet tang to the water that, had he been healthy, he would hardly have noticed. So much in life is overlooked, he thought, while our minds are busy on other things. Under normal circumstances, he would have spit out this thin concoction and not noticed how even its smell suggested life itself—the rock-hard reality, the mineral quality, the very soil to which we all must return in time.
His mind tended to go down the path toward death with almost every thought now. After too many weeks in pain, he let it. At first, he had tried to rally. He had hopes that he would soon return home to see his wife and son. He would walk again. He would sit up. All grand ambitions, as it turned out. In reality, his energy was better spent on the simple acts of clearing his breathing passages and using his nostrils to their fullest extent. Air was what mattered. The taking in of air.
Cook set Caleb’s head back on the hard pillow. That the Chinese had not discovered feather pillows seemed a surprising oversight. Historically they had chosen instead lacquered blocks in the finer homes, but out here on the trail, it was a pile of pine needles pressed together and wrapped with string. Caleb shivered uncontrollably, and the wretched wool blanket was placed over him again. The damned thing was a curse that chafed the skin under his chin, but he did not complain. And wasn’t that how life revealed itself to us, with every ounce of comfort overshadowed by accompanying irritation? The miracle of the Lord on the cross was not as Caleb had once thought it to be, not only a higher lesson in salvation but also one of simple survival through everyday trials. The poor savior’s palms and feet where the nails had been stuck must have not just ached but also itched terribly.
When Caleb awoke again, he heard voices and commotion over at the heart of the Communist camp. He thought he detected Captain Hsu’s sincere and gravelly tones. Never so fine a man as that one, Caleb had come to realize. And the fellow had no higher education to speak of. No advanced degrees except those given out by life. That distinction, Caleb realized, was fodder for at least one Sunday morning’s lesson. How life’s school was all around us, there for the taking, if we only opened our eyes, which he accomplished now with some effort.
The missionaries here in China could stand to be reminded of that, Caleb thought, not to mention certain parishioners back home who were overly preoccupied with the credentials of their minister and treated him like a boyish puppet. He had gone to great lengths at seminary to stand out, to be deemed as having promise. He had been rewarded with a small, established parish, where, unfortunately, perhaps because he was still so young, the stout ladies and bent deacons had continued to assess and hover and criticize until the Chinese hinterlands had sung to him of freedom. Tales of his uncle’s adventures in this distant land had risen to the surface of Caleb’s memory, and although that story had not ended well, he felt certain the world had changed sufficiently with modern times for him and his family to have a more successful outcome. But where had his newfound freedom taken him? he asked himself now. As far from civilization as imaginable and longing for a potluck supper of casseroles and Jell-O compotes under his congregants’ watchful eyes.
Caleb wished now that he had not learned so assiduously from books nor labored so painstakingly over the complexities of human foibles but had gathered wisdom instead only from the woods. Thoreau had had it right. Although, Caleb recalled, while at Walden Pond, the philosopher had lived just down the street from his dear mother, who continued to take in his laundry every week. Wouldn’t Shirley have gotten a kick out of that? Caleb thought. Then he promptly reminded himself not to let his mind wander to his beloved wife. It only made his body hurt more radiantly when he considered his brilliant, complicated, and often vexing partner. Hers were the human foibles he had tried most to parse, often without success. His son was a much simpler creature, but recalling him was entirely out of the question. For as many hours of the day as Caleb could manage, he kept his mind on anything but his boy.
Nighttime was another matter. During sleepless hours in the damp cave, his family haunted Caleb and caused him to cry as he hadn’t since he was a boy. He had always been a proponent of the school of life that believed in slogans such as Stiff upper lip! Pull up your socks! Carry on!—words that were now seared through with irony and even despair. How could one possibly have a stiff lip and dry eyes in a world so fraught with misery? How could one keep the chin tucked and the back stiff when it was literally broken?
Caleb let the tears come now. He swallowed them down, and his lungs, which were already dangerously compromised, filled again, which led to another choking fit. Each time this happened, Cook appeared at his side. The old fellow was at a loss to soothe him. Caleb wished his Chinese servant would no longer rescue him but, instead, that the earth would rise up and drown him in a sea of sorrowful memories—sorrowful precisely because they were so happy. More and more often, Caleb could imagine the dreadful satisfaction of choking to death on one’s own tears.
Shirley and Captain Hsu stood at the bedside of a young lady, a girl, really, who had been raped who could guess how many times and remained unconscious. They whispered, though it was unclear whether the patient could even hear them.
“We must be prepared for more wounded from the countryside. We will need this bed for my men. Please see to it, Nurse Carson.”
“What would you have me do with her? I can’t toss her out into the courtyard as if she was bathwater.”
“If you are unable to do this,” Captain Hsu said, “I will take care of it.”
She had noticed over their weeks of working side by side that the captain wasn’t a callous man, just straightforward and no-nonsense. But she also recalled that in China, the birth of a daughter was sometimes met with condolences; it wasn’t unheard of for baby girls to be drowned or left to die. Shirley felt determined to protect this damaged girl, even from the captain, because in all likelihood she had never been protected before.
“No,” she said, “leave it to me.” Then she called over a pair of young men she assumed to be soldiers whom Captain Hsu had assigned to help her. “Please carry this young lady upstairs to my bedroom,” she told them. “Be very careful with her. Do you understand?”
She looked about for Lian and found her across the hall, bandaging a broken arm. Lian had proved indispensable in the clinic and had taught Shirley a trick or two from her country ways: simple though surprising treatments such as how to create poultices for burns out of rhubarb, herbs, and dung, something Shirley had never dreamed of before. Shirley then noticed Dao-Ming seated cross-legged in the corner, rocking over a pad of paper and scribbling with the nib of pencil she must have found in Charles’s school things. The poor creature, she thought.
“Dao-Ming,” she called.
The girl did not look up. Shirley took off her apron, hung it on the coat stand, went over, and gazed down at her. Her chubby feet were covered in crusted yellow mud. Her hands appeared to be rubbed raw, the fingernails and cuticles bitten to the nibs. She had nasty-looking bites up and down her arms, no doubt from fleas. Dao-Ming continued to rock, now with her eyes shut, and let out an occasionally hoarse and phlegmy cough.
“Dao-Ming?” she asked again in a calm voice so as not to startle her.
Nevertheless, it did. The girl scrambled clumsily to her feet, pawing at the air. She scampered into the corner with her thick arms up over her eyes.
“It’s all right,” Shirley said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Dao-Ming panted, and her brow furrowed into anxious ridges. Shirley glanced around for Lian again, and when she turned back, she saw that Dao-Ming had been looking for her, too.
“Lian is busy, but we’ll be all right without her, won’t we?”
The girl whimpered.
Shirley crouched so they were eye to eye. Dao-Ming’s black, straight hair fell in ragged bangs over her eyes. When Shirley brushed them aside, the girl flinched. Her breathing sounded troubled, a fraught wheezing. In addition to her other challenges in life, Shirley realized, she must have asthma.
“Do you see that young lady over there?” Shirley pointed to the unconscious girl. “She needs someone to take care of her, to sit beside her bed, stroke her hand, and speak to her.”
Dao-Ming’s narrow eyes narrowed further.
“Or,” Shirley corrected herself, “if not actually speak to her, then communicate. You may squeeze her hand or comb her hair. Do you think you can do that?”
Dao-Ming nodded, and her bangs flung forward and back.
“Grand,” Shirley said and stood again. “Go along, then, and help the young men get her settled in my bedroom.”
Shirley started to step away, but Dao-Ming tugged on her skirt.
“What is it?”
Dao-Ming pointed upstairs with a worried expression.
“I know, I don’t usually allow strangers onto the second floor, but this will be our little secret, all right?”
Dao-Ming mouthed the word as if she had heard it before and relished the sounds.
Shirley stepped outside for a smoke. On the verandah, Tupan Feng reclined in one of the rocking chairs, his eyes half closed. Since the arrival of the Chinese into her home, Shirley had seen the old warlord shuffling about more often, using his cane to point their visitors in the proper direction and telling them what to do. He seemed to enjoy his new role, although it appeared to have also exhausted him.
At the bottom of the steps, Captain Hsu was conferring with several men. When they left, he joined Shirley on the top step as she lit up.
“I don’t know how you manage so much,” she said to him. “Yet you never seem hurried. It’s as if you had all the time in the world.”
“Time is not an issue if you believe in what you do.”
Shirley dusted a stray thread of tobacco from her lip and wondered if that was true. She had certainly never experienced it. She hitched herself up to sit on the railing and inhaled slowly. “You’d be surprised how many Americans race about, forever feeling they don’t have enough time.”
“They lack conviction,” he said matter-of-factly. “That is their problem.”
She let out a long stream of smoke.
“What did you do in America, Mrs. Carson?”
Her life back home seemed strangely distant and faded now, especially compared with the vivid, all-consuming days in the clinic. “I was a student, of course, and good at it. I might have liked to go on and study further.”
“A society needs its scholars,” the captain said as he started to pace before her. “But for most, being a student is just a phase. We must step forward into life. Your decision to become a nurse is for the good of society. A wise choice.”
“I suppose so,” she said. “But I dropped it as quickly as I could when I married Caleb. I didn’t feel like working anymore.”
Captain Hsu stopped and stared at her. Shirley thought he could have done better at hiding his disappointment. Perhaps his frankness was a sign of their deepening friendship, though she suspected it was more an indication that he was starting to fray at the edges from working so hard.
“Captain,” she said, “why don’t you have a seat here beside me? Rest a moment.”
“I must get back to my duties,” he said. “I don’t have time to discuss decadent American lives.”
She let out a laugh. “Is that what I was describing, my decadent life?” She flicked her dying cigarette onto the hard soil.
“You felt like quitting as a nurse, so you did—just like that.” He snapped his fingers in the air.
He must be joking, she thought, but when she looked at him, his stern expression startled her. His knuckles whitened around his leather belt, and he said, “I think I will leave the Eighth Route Army today because I feel like it. Yes, that is what is best for me. I quit!”
“Oh, come, now, Captain.”
He pressed on, his face reddening. “Capitalism convinces you that you are lucky to make this choice. You call it freedom. But think of the waste of human potential!” He slapped the railing with his palm. “All those American lives with no purpose. We fight for a new China to free not only ourselves but our brothers, too, from poverty and lives like yours of no purpose. We do not choose to sit on the sidelines because it is more comfortable to do so. We do not quit because we feel like it!” He pushed off from the railing and headed to the steps. “I can’t understand how you and your people are not ashamed of yourselves.”
He bowed abruptly and wished her good day. Before Shirley had a chance to stop him, Captain Hsu was making his way through the crowds camped on the grounds. A high, light cackle came from the seat behind her, and Shirley turned to see Tupan Feng’s shoulders shaking.
“What are you laughing at?” she asked.
“Captain is correct,” Tupan Feng said. “Americans are lazy!” He shifted in the rocker and tipped too far forward, then scrambled to right himself. “But so are the people of my province. Hsu thinks they will work hard for the good of the country. They will not work hard for anything! Believe me, I tried to make them work.” He started to cough and couldn’t stop.
“Don’t get yourself too riled up,” she said and patted his back.
As his coughing fit subsided, he sputtered, “Revolution is all well and good, but they should keep the old system in place, too. Bring back the warlords, I say!” He swung his cane in the air, and Shirley sidestepped it. “I will lead their revolution!”
“There’s an idea,” she said. “Why don’t you suggest that the next time you see Captain Hsu?”
Tupan Feng set down the cane. She lifted the tartan throw from where it had fallen at his feet and tucked it around his neck. As she headed into the clinic again, the captain’s words settled slowly over her, coating her thoughts like the dust that slipped under closed doors and changed every surface in summer in North China. She watched the dozen Chinese nursing assistants busy at their patients’ bedsides or cleaning and restocking the storage shelves. They knew the tasks required of them and coordinated their efforts well. She wondered if she had ever felt more purposeful than now, working alongside these women and men. Perhaps the captain was right: she had had to leave America behind and come all this way to a distant outpost in a foreign land to fully experience a genuine sense of conviction.
She tied on her apron and went to the nursing station to check the patients’ charts, and just as she was choosing the next bed to visit, Kathryn appeared at her elbow. Shirley set down the rough-hewn clipboard and offered her friend a hug. Kathryn responded with limp arms and stepped away quickly.
“How do you like it?” Shirley asked.
Kathryn studied her up and down.
“No, not me,” Shirley said, spreading her arms toward the clinic. “The setup here. Look at all we’ve done since you were last here. We’re going full guns. A total of thirty beds and various other triage spots around the house. My assistants are remarkable. Very quick learners, the Chinese. And Captain Hsu says we’re making a genuine difference. Our patients leave with their bodies at least somewhat restored and their morale boosted. Isn’t that something?”
Kathryn peeled back the white kid gloves that she usually saved for Sunday service or visiting Chinese matrons. She adjusted her little cloche hat, also usually reserved for special occasions. Was Kathryn trying to impress her with her stylish appearance? Shirley patted down her own hair and couldn’t recall if she had brushed it that day.
“You are something,” Kathryn said.
“Oh, it isn’t me. I’ve never met such resilient, hardworking, decent people. Caleb used to say as much, but I hardly listened to him. The truth is, they deserve better than the lousy hands they’ve been dealt in life. I just wish we could do more.”
“Who do you mean by ‘we’?” Kathryn asked.
“Captain Hsu and I and the others.”
Kathryn did not smile.
“You’re welcome to join us anytime. I would love to be comrades with you.”
Kathryn bristled at the suggestion.
“I didn’t mean ‘comrades,’” Shirley said. “I just meant—”
“I think the good captain has been filling your head with propaganda,” Kathryn said.
Shirley could feel her face going hot.
“You know we’re not supposed to be supporting the Reds. It isn’t policy. It’s fine that you’ve been helping the injured, but I think you should consider closing up shop here and joining Doc Sturgis and the other Americans at the infirmary. I’ve been assisting over there, and he’s really quite crackerjack at what he does.”
“That’s wonderful, but I’ve been doing perfectly well over here, too.”
“He’s a doctor, Shirley. Have you forgotten that you’re not?”
Shirley let out a shocked laugh, but Kathryn continued. “I know he would love to have a real nurse at his side and not poor imitations like me. The two of you would make an excellent team. That’s the team you should be crowing about.”
“I’ve trained a fine staff of Chinese to assist me.”
Kathryn gestured to the crowded rooms. “So I see. Chinese everywhere you look.”
“Shouldn’t there be Chinese everywhere? It is their country, after all.”
“But this is our mission. This is neutral territory. We are not at war with the Japanese. We are Americans, not Chinese. We need to remain in charge.”
“I am in charge!” Shirley threw up her hands.
“Clearly,” Kathryn said, as she yanked back on her gloves, “you have chosen to work with the Chinese precisely so you can be in charge. Over at the infirmary, you’d have to give that up. You’d have to play second fiddle.”
“I don’t think that’s the issue at all. I’m doing what Captain Hsu has asked of me. I’m joining the cause like everyone else.”
“Well, hurrah for the revolution and all that!”
Shirley took a step back. “Kathryn, you’re not making any sense. First you accuse me of only doing this so that I can be at the top of the heap. And then you seem to worry that I’m joining in with the ranks of the masses. You can’t have it both ways, my dear.”
Kathryn bowed her head. Her shoulders rose and fell as she gathered her breath. Then she reached out and took Shirley’s hands. “I’m just so worried about you. I don’t know what you’re up to, and it makes me nervous.” She squeezed Shirley’s fingers for emphasis.
“Just before you arrived, I was thinking that I’ve never felt more purposeful in my life. But of course, I miss you terribly. I can’t offer you tea in the parlor any longer.” She gave a weary smile as she glanced at the changed room. “But you are always welcome. I mean it.”
Kathryn slipped her hands from Shirley’s and started to step away.
“Give my best to Doc Sturgis,” Shirley added.
Kathryn flung open the screen door and marched down the porch steps.
Shirley stood in the center of her front hallway and looked about. Kathryn was right: Chinese surrounded her. She wished she’d spoken up to her friend and said, “Why, yes, you’re right, hurrah for the revolution!” She wanted to shout it now.
Instead, she headed for the piano, which had stood untouched for weeks. She pushed open the cover, sat heavily on the bench, and, after a long pause, threw herself into playing. The dark, romantic riffs soothed her and stirred her and reminded her of the universality of life’s tragedies. She played with as much vigor as her sleep-deprived and hungry self could muster. She swayed and shut her eyes and tried to block out everything else. When she opened her eyes again, Dao-Ming was at her side, and for once, the girl didn’t startle Shirley. Instead, her thick, sweaty palm on Shirley’s forearm gave a sense that they were all in this together. The music had brought the unfortunate Dao-Ming to her, and Shirley could offer these chords as a gift in return.
Then the child pinched her with those dirty little fingernails, and Shirley stopped playing. “Damn it, child,” she said in English. “Don’t do that!”
Shirley had not cursed in a long time. Caleb couldn’t abide it, and so she had changed her habits years ago, but it felt awfully good now. Then she noticed Dao-Ming’s eyes filling up. She patted the girl’s back and tried to soothe her.
“I’m so sorry, love,” she said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Was the music too much for you?”
Dao-Ming nodded.
“I hope I didn’t bother the patient upstairs? How is she doing?”
Dao-Ming mouthed a word. They all knew that the girl understood language but seemed unable to use it either for physical or emotional reasons—Shirley had never bothered to consider the cause. But now she leaned forward and put her ear to the girl’s lips. Sound began to issue forth surprisingly smoothly, perhaps coaxed out of her by the inspiring music. Shirley hoped that was the case. She listened with great concentration, not wanting to misunderstand the Chinese syllables. But Dao-Ming spoke without trouble, and the word she said was “Dead.”
Charles thrust the broom into the chimney pipe, and soot bloomed everywhere. His khakis and button-down shirt were streaked with ashes, his face and hands gone gray. He pushed back the Chinese Army cap, and his hair became dusted with it, too. He knew he had no business being up on the patched and splintered bamboo roof. But he plunged the chimney one more time, then made his way back down the ladder, whistling as he went. That he’d brought his own ladder seemed to him a heroic gesture, but the girl had hardly acknowledged it when he’d come up the alley with it teetering on his shoulder. He hopped from the bottom rung, and the billowing ash made him sneeze. She finally looked up from where she sat on the stone bench and giggled. Charles wiped his nose, which only seemed to amuse her more.
“You’re funny,” she said.
That wasn’t his intention, but he tried to make the best of it. At least her grandmother wasn’t around to spoil things with her sour tongue. The old woman’s snores floated out from the shack, offering a rather lousy soundtrack, Charles thought. In the movies, the leading man nonchalantly leans against something and looks down at the girl, who gazes up at him with adoring eyes while romantic music swells. Charles leaned against the wall of the mud shack now and looked down at this girl, who in turn looked down at her lap. He joined her on the bench and asked her name.
“Li Juan.”
“That means beautiful,” he said.
She remained unsmiling, her head bent with strands of dark hair draped over her sallow cheeks. He knew he should say her name was perfect for her, but he couldn’t make himself form the compliment. “You seem sad. Are you missing someone?” he asked.
She appeared startled by the question but then nodded.
“Did you lose someone?”
She nodded again.
“A parent?”
“My mother has been gone from me.”
Charles swallowed hard. The Chinese had strange ways of saying things without coming out and saying them, but he supposed she meant that her mother had died. “I’m sorry.”
“My grandmother and I must leave again soon,” she said.
“But you just got here. It’s too dangerous to go back to where you came from.”
She shrugged.
Charles stood and said, “You need to stay with us. If Lian doesn’t want you in her quarters, come to the big house with me. My mother’s got the whole Red Army in there, so she won’t even notice.”
“The Red Army is at your house?”
“Just some injured soldiers disguised as peasants.” He sat down again, closer to her this time. “I should be whispering about that, shouldn’t I? I’m lousy at this.”
She smiled, and he wondered if he could reach over and take her thin hand in his again. He remembered how it had felt. But then he glanced down the alley and noticed Lian headed toward them at a rapid clip. As always, she took small steps but managed to move very fast. She was bent with a braided straw basket on her back, held in place by a strap around her forehead. Such baskets were used by laborers or farmers during harvest; bow-legged men who came up from the coal mines, misshapen by the weight of the rocks in similar baskets on their shoulders.
“Here, Lian, let me help you with that,” he said and went to take it off her.
She shooed him away and set it down on the packed ground. She wheezed, the humid, sunny day clearly getting to her. The basket was filled with clothing and towels torn into strips and used as bandages, now covered in dried blood.
“What are you doing here, Charles-Boy?” she asked.
“I saw that your chimney needed fixing,” he said and pointed to the ladder.
Her eyes shifted from Charles to Li Juan and back. “You are man of the house now, I see. You carry on Father’s duties. Very good. Soon you study for pulpit and join other ministers and visit parishes that Father love so much. Excellent, Charles! Mother will be most proud. Off you go. Time to study Good Book!”
“Esteemed Lian,” he said, and kicked a pebble up the alley, “you of all people know that life’s not for me.”
Li Juan sprang from the bench then, raced forward, and threw her arms around Lian. She pressed her cheek against the older woman’s plentiful chest and cried out, “Ma-ma,” as if she could hold back the word no longer. Charles wondered if he’d heard right, but then she said it again.
Lian patted her on the head. “Sit down, little niece. Sit, tired one. She is exhausted from many travels,” she explained to Charles. “She does not know what she says.”
The old grandmother’s screeching voice came from inside the shack. “Is that my daughter I hear? Is that my Lian? I hope you brought us warm buns to eat and a delicious feast of duck and dumplings, but I suspect you did not. No matter. Come to Mother so I tell you all the things your daughter did wrong today. She is sullen girl and of no help to me.”
Li Juan shouted at the open door in the country dialect, “I’m worn out with you, Grandmother. Who wouldn’t be with all your complaining?”
Lian’s hand shot out and swatted Li Juan’s backside, but the girl was quick and escaped a second hit. She hid behind Charles’s back, and her small, powerful fingers wrung his arm.
“I thought you said your mother was dead,” he said.
“My mother is not dead!” she said. “She is here, with you and your mother, but never with me! She is gone from me all the time.” Tears welled in her eyes and tumbled down her cheeks.
“Madam Lian,” Charles asked, “is this true? We thought you didn’t have children.”
“Do not bother me, Charles-Boy.” Lian looked down into the basket of dirty laundry and shook her head. “I have work to do. Out of my way, you bothersome children.”
Charles turned to Li Juan. “Lian is your mother?”
“And Dao-Ming is my little sister,” she said.
“We thought Dao-Ming was an orphan. Why didn’t you tell us, Lian?”
She reached into the basket and grabbed a handful of rags as if she intended to wash them right there in the dusty alley. “I needed a job. I say I am from town and have no family or they do not hire me. But it is no matter now.”
“So Li Juan has lived without a mother for many years, and you without your child?”
“You are my child, Charles-Boy. That was how it is. Li Juan knows this.”
He tried to keep hold of Li Juan’s hand, but she pulled it away.
“I wish you’d told us. I’m so sorry we didn’t understand.” Charles looked to Li Juan, but she continued to glare at her mother. “I think you’ve done enough for today, Lian,” he offered. “You should stay here and be with your family. We can manage without you.”
Lian squinted up at him. “Maybe you are man of house now, after all. You have grown up. You are like son to me. I have no real children of my own. I might as well be barren.”
“You are not barren!” Li Jung shouted. “I am your daughter. You have two daughters!” She turned to Charles and said, “You see, she does this. She convinces herself she has no children. It makes no sense. I used to think she did it so she wouldn’t miss me so much, but now I think she does it because she doesn’t want me. ”
Lian shook her head. “Sad truth, I have no boys. I must do all the work myself. I am cursed. I have Dao-Ming, who is like small animal. But Li Juan, you are strong. You must do your part for the family. That is what girls are for. Otherwise they are useless. You must get along with your grandmother!”
Lian lunged at her daughter for the second time, and the girl skittered around behind Charles again. He couldn’t imagine such a thing. In his household, his parents hardly ever raised their voices and certainly never a hand to him.
“Mother,” Li Juan said, “things can change. I can live with you now. This young American says it’s okay.”
Charles made himself stand taller in the way his mother did when she wanted to assert her authority. “I wish to invite you and your family to stay at our house, where you will be safe and where we can share our food and supplies. And best of all, where both of your daughters can join you.”
Lian’s expression remained stony, but Charles thought he saw a faint glimmer in her eyes. “Mrs. Carson does not need more mouths to feed,” she said. “I already have one child underfoot who eats all the time. They said Dao-Ming would die young, but she is sturdy as water buffalo and looks like one, too.”
“Mother!” Li Juan said. “That’s not nice. My sister can’t help it. I will keep her happy and out of the way so you can do your work. And I hardly eat a thing.” She inched closer to Lian and continued, “I am very good at cooking and at doing chores in the house. I am strong. Feel this!” She held up her thin arm, and Lian squeezed it like a melon at the market.
“With Cook gone, I suppose I could use some help,” Lian said.
“I can do it for you!” Li Juan said. “You will see.”
As Li Juan tried to convince her mother, Charles recognized the look in his amah’s eyes: she was secretly pleased with her daughter. She did not offer a reassuring smile but sternly assessed the young lady before her and approved. Li Juan took Lian’s hand now and led her to the stone bench. She sat her down and knelt before her and began to massage her red and swollen hands.
“I will do laundry for you to start with,” Li Juan said. “I am good at laundry.”
Lian leaned back against the mud wall and shut her eyes. Li Juan looked up at Charles in a way that was finally a little bit like the girls in the movies. But now, he couldn’t imagine how she’d ever really like him, knowing that he had stolen her mother away from her for all those years. He would try to make it up to her, although he knew that nothing could fill the hole a missing parent made in a child’s heart.
Charles gathered up the ladder and headed back toward home through the crowded mission compound. It worried him that the Chinese seemed to have erected more established lean-tos out of wood, cardboard, and tin. Their cooking fires burned incessantly, carrying sharp, charred odors that seeped into every corner of the mission. They appeared to be here to stay.
The massive red doors of the chapel stood open, and a line of coolies rose up the steps and into the darkened chamber. Charles doubted they were lined up to attend service; they were probably waiting instead for rations of rice and millet. At the entrance, the diminutive Reverend Wells looked lost amid the barefoot crowd in tattered clothing. The rickshaw drivers, who usually hung about outside the gates of the mission, ready to pounce on any potential customers with boasts and bravado about their services, had pulled their carts up to the chapel steps, where they waited for food with everyone else. They were always the thinnest and wiriest of men, and Charles wondered how they had been managing on even less food than usual. One of them listlessly lifted his head and called out to Charles. The man’s concave chest was bare, and every rib pressed against his skin, giving it a bluish, almost bruised tint.
“Here,” Charles said and reached into his pocket. “It’s not much.”
The man’s hand shot out and snatched the oatcake from Charles’s palm. The snacks always tasted like straw, but he still carried one or two with him whenever he went out. The rickshaw driver clearly didn’t mind its dryness. The man wore a burlap bag with holes cut in it for his legs and tied with a frayed rope. Charles stood beside the shoeless skeleton as he gulped down the last of the crumbs.
“I give you ride!” the rickshaw man shouted. “I take you to your home like prince! Best ride in town! Smooth and fast! Faster than all others!”
Several other rickshaw drivers growled their usual denunciations and curses about their competitor’s abilities to do the job as described.
“I’ve got a ladder,” Charles said.
“I carry it for you!” the driver shouted.
Charles couldn’t imagine how the man mustered such enthusiasm. “No, you’ll lose your place in line if you do.”
The man gazed up the steps to where the rations were being dispensed. The poor guy was probably starving, Charles thought. “You can take my mother and me to market sometime soon,” he offered.
“Excellent!” The man bowed. “I give you best ride in town!”
Charles moved on. When he came to the stone steps that led to the top of the wall surrounding the compound, he set down the ladder. It had never been risky to leave anything lying about in the mission. You could return days later and still find whatever you had left. But now, as he glanced at the many strangers passing by, he decided it was worth the risk of losing the ladder. He took the steps two at a time, came out above the compound, and hurried to the corner where he and Han had built the pigeon coop. The anxious sounds made by the abandoned birds made his chest tighten. He had forgotten to feed them for he wasn’t sure how many days. He wondered if he should let them go free now. He didn’t want it on his head if they died of starvation in their cages, though if he let them go, they would be eaten in no time. Either way, the poor things were making a racket and seemed not long for this world.
But when he reached the coop, he saw that their tray of food had been filled and their water replenished. They were making all that noise as they gorged themselves. Charles took off his Nationalist Army cap and watched them eat. Who was taking care of them? he wondered. Maybe it was Han? He missed his friend so badly in that moment that he walked over to the side of the wall and shouted.
“Han!” he yelled. “Where the devil are you?”
Charles studied the gray tile rooftops of the modest town. Little had been done to clear the rubble from the original Japanese attack that had woken him that morning weeks before. Several homes on the outskirts had collapsed into their courtyards, their private rooms exposed to the street. From what he could see, the market remained derelict, but that was often the case by this time of year, when summer drought left the farmers with nothing to sell. Piles of debris and earth blocked the central road to the west, requiring a more circuitous route. The townspeople had been inconvenienced by the summer’s military incursions and remained wary of troops of any sort, even their own. But since the bulk of the Japanese Imperial Army had departed, they no longer felt in imminent danger. Shopkeepers opened each morning by sweeping yellow dust from their steps but kept their windows boarded, just in case. Fewer Chinese families fled on paths leading into the plains, where the fields of hemp shimmered golden brown in the heat. The countryside needed rain, but that was to be expected in high summer. All in all, Charles thought, things seemed as ordinarily dismal as ever.
The few Japanese soldiers who remained behind behaved as they had during the earlier occupation before the fighting began, milling about and generally ignoring the Chinese. Two younger ones stood directly below the mission wall, and Charles tried to see if he recognized them. With their caps on, it was hard to tell. An officer finished speaking to them, then turned and marched away. Charles squinted and thought he recognized the Japanese boy who’d swept their back steps.
“Hey,” he shouted down in the local dialect, “how’s it going out there? It’s me, Hollywood!”
Charles wasn’t sure what he meant by calling out to them. Later he tried to think it through, but the truth was, he didn’t mean much. He just missed Han and figured the other fellows who were about his age weren’t so bad to talk to. At the sound of his voice, the two young soldiers scurried across the dirt road and ducked behind a barricade made from the destroyed guardhouse. Charles could see the barrels of their guns pointing outward, searching, he assumed, for the source of the voice that had shouted at them.
“Whoa, guys,” he called again, “take it easy. It’s just me, Hollywood. I’m not the enemy.”
One of the soldiers tipped back his cap, and Charles could see his familiar face. He was about to tease the kid about Jean Harlow again when he heard a sharp retort. Charles felt the bullet go past so close it whistled in his ear, just like in the movies—shrill and piercing and far too near. He ducked down fast and slumped against the side of the wall, his heart going wild in his chest. The dumb Japanese kid, he thought. Charles would report him to his commanding officer. He would tell his mother. As a neutral American on American soil, Charles had been shot at by the Japanese.
But then he yanked the Chinese Nationalist cap off his head and twisted it between his hands. As his breathing calmed, he wanted to shout to the kid that this wasn’t a game, but clearly the Japanese soldier knew that already. Charles was the one slow to understand. He should never have worn the cap. He had almost gotten himself killed. He told himself he had to face things as they truly were. He was alone now, without his best friend or his father.
He cleared his throat and tried to think what his father would want him to do. He sat up straighter and remembered something so obvious it startled him. Every time his father had left the compound on one of his tours to the outlying parishes, he would say, “Take care of your mother, my boy.” He had said it even when Charles was small. The request had always mystified him, since clearly it was the other way around: his mother had taken excellent care of him, perhaps too good care, fussing over him and seeing that he got anything he wanted. Yet his father had asked him to take care of her. Charles had no idea how to do that when Nurse Carson was more headstrong than ever, but he knew he must try.
But first he needed to find Han. He could do nothing to get his father back, but at least he could make an effort with his friend. He stayed low as he made his way back to the pigeon coop. The plumpest and handsomest of the kit had been Han’s favorite. Charles unlatched the cage of that bird now.
“You miss him, too, don’t you, Hsiao P’angtze?” he asked, calling their best bird by the nickname that they had given him: Little Fat Boy. Charles stroked him all the way down his sturdy back. The pigeon cocked his head to the side and seemed to be listening.
When Charles was young, his father would sit on the edge of his bed before sleep and use his hands to make shadows in the lamplight against the wall. He had shaped his fingers to become bunny ears and a round tail. His thumb and forefinger would part to resemble the mouth of a barking dog or a howling wolf. But Charles’s favorite by far was when the hands wove together and flapped, mimicking the wings of a phoenix rising up into the flickering light. Charles could still see the magical bird taking off, courageous and free.
Lian had taught him that the phoenix Fenghuang was also known as the August Rooster. Contained within it were all birds, and other brave creatures, too, representing the full range of Yin and Yang in life. It appeared in auspicious times and brought goodness, virtue, and grace. From high in the K’un-lun Shan Mountains nearby in North China, where it lived, it would someday swoop down and bring everyone below good luck. Lian had boasted that those in the North were most likely to profit from such auspiciousness, which seemed to Charles a feeble perk given the many hardships of living in the region. Still, when she told him to keep watch for the Chinese phoenix as it circled the sky above the compound, he did. At any moment, the bird might descend, she said, spreading immortality and happiness. Charles looked about him now and longed to see its shadow.
“Find Han!” he whispered, pressing his mouth to Little Fat Boy’s feathers.
He could feel the fast-beating heart as the bird’s small system quivered, eager to take off. Charles raised the pigeon above his head and flung it out and over the wall until it disappeared into the cloudless sky.
Please, Mother, get in. Don’t make a scene.”
“Humans are not meant to be beasts of burden. I hate to encourage it.”
“It’s the man’s job.”
“I’m fastest in town!” exclaimed the rickshaw driver.
“Let’s go now,” Charles pleaded with her, “so the other drivers leave us alone.”
She slid in beside him, and the rickshaw bolted forward, throwing them both against the straw seat. Though he wore no shoes, the coolie ran swiftly as he navigated the deeply rutted road that led away from the mission compound and into the town. When they were young, Charles and Han had raced barefoot on the hard-packed dirt to the river, and he knew how the pebbles cut into you.
“We need to find him,” he said, more to himself than to his mother.
She patted his knee briskly. “We will find your friend,” she said. “We will.”
Her rising determination almost made Charles imagine she could see to it. Since opening the medical station in their home, she had been behaving as if she could accomplish whatever she set her mind to. He had to wonder if her confidence rose in inverse proportion to how hopeless their situation had become.
On the narrow main street, only a few shops appeared open. Young women dressed in high-cut, tight-fitting cheongsam strutted in front and called out to any men passing by. From the doorsteps of deserted buildings, grandfathers in traditional robes smoked thin pipes and gestured with long pinkie nails coated in white powder. Stocky, unshaven Russians in Western-style black suits and fedoras even in the summer heat hissed prices at Charles and his mother as they hurried past.
When the rickshaw reached the farmers’ market, they climbed out. The driver set down the bamboo poles and doubled over with hacking. When he finally stood straight again, Charles saw blood on his lips. His mother was about to pay, but Charles snatched the coins from her and slapped them down on the straw seat. The driver pocketed the change quickly and was gone in an instant.
“That driver was not only sick,” his mother said, “but utterly lackluster and exhibiting very strange behaviors. All that twitching and the way his arms shook. Did you notice? I suspect he has several illnesses at once in addition to being malnourished.”
Charles wondered how it was possible that his mother had lived in China for five years and still couldn’t tell an opium addict when she saw one. The rickshaw driver with his scabbed arms and rheumy, darting eyes looked like every man who ever stumbled out of a den after a binge. Charles had never been inside one of the smoky rooms down the back alleys but had peered in as he passed and seen the sickly-looking customers lolling about on couches, their heads thrown back onto threadbare pillows in some sort of unpleasant ecstasy. His mother had always said that she loved the Chinese people, their language and history, but as far as Charles could tell, she had rarely left the mission before now and certainly had never wound through the passageways and side lanes the way he had with Han. The Chinese people must have remained abstract to her—more the idea of a people than the real thing.
But on this warm afternoon, she strode into what was left of the marketplace, a straw basket swinging on her arm, as if fully expecting to find the makings for supper. Charles did a quick two-step to keep up with her as she pressed on past the destroyed stalls, many of which had been converted into makeshift homes with laundry hanging across their fronts instead of awnings. Someone tossed a tub of bathwater onto the path, and his mother simply skirted it. She even kept her balance when a pack of wild dogs raced by and knocked against her legs. None of it seemed to bother her.
When they reached the one open stall, his mother stepped up but didn’t seem to recognize Mrs. Chen, who looked even more bedraggled then the last time, her clothing torn and her hands scabbed and encrusted with dirt.
“How much for these root vegetables?” his mother inquired in the local dialect. Charles was afraid she might touch a shrunken beet, but luckily she seemed to know that wasn’t done.
Mrs. Chen continued to repair a filthy and tattered straw basket and barked an unreasonable price. Charles’s mother laughed outright, placed her hands on her hips, and exclaimed, “Why, that’s robbery! No one has that kind of money any longer. These vegetables shall rot before you find a willing customer.” She then glanced around at the peasants who rummaged through what was left of the market. “Good woman,” she said, “have you no feeling for your compatriots? You don’t need to sell your precious produce to me, but at least offer a better price to your comrades.”
“She’s not going to budge,” Charles whispered. “Let’s go.”
His mother rose taller, leaned over the stall, and said, “Your fellow citizens are starving, madam. If you have food, then it is only right that you share it. Your generosity will come back to you. Captain Hsu will see to it that you are given a portion of the millet we have at the mission.”
The woman finally looked up. “Captain Hsu?” Beetle nut juice fell slowly and deliberately from her bottom lip onto the dusty ground. “That man is dog and traitor. The Reds are responsible for this.” She spread her bony arms. “If he and his sons of bitches, turtle-egg, festering dog-bitch men had not come here, the Japs would have left us alone.” She snarled quite a bit like a dog herself, Charles thought.
“He is none of those things,” his mother persisted. “He fights for the country and its people. He’s against capitalist greed, which I can plainly see you remain in favor of.”
“Mother,” Charles tugged at her arm, “please don’t get involved.”
She turned suddenly to him and said in English, “But I am involved. I’m deeply involved, and you should be, too.”
Then she turned back to Mrs. Chen and continued, “Captain Hsu and his compatriots think about the whole, not just those at the top. China is far too destitute a country to have the marketplace rule. I see that now. The Communists intend for the vast majority of your people to be literate and fed. Isn’t that marvelous? Other countries may have higher goals, but here that is what’s needed. But everyone must get on board. I think you should join them.”
Mrs. Chen’s three-legged stool fell over as she stood abruptly and hobbled off. “American woman is Communist,” she muttered. “Now I have seen everything!”
Charles finally pulled his mother away. “You can’t get tangled up in this. We have to leave.”
“Yes, you’re right, it’s time we got back to the mission. Hopefully we’ll still come upon something for supper on the way.”
“I don’t mean leave the market,” Charles said. “I mean leave the province, leave China. It isn’t safe here any longer. I want to go back to America.”
His mother stared at him for a long moment, and her face did not soften, even when she should have noticed his eyes filling and his bottom lip quivering almost imperceptibly. He didn’t intend to cry, but the beginnings of tears were there, and she should have sensed them. When he was younger, his mother had always known when he was injured or sad or had gotten his feelings hurt by friends. She had called him sensitive—which he knew meant overly sensitive. But, while that was true, it was also true that she had been overly sensitive to him. Alert to his every pain, his mother had known how he felt almost before he did. But apparently not any longer.
“I’m surprised you don’t understand that we are still needed here, Charles.”
“All right, I wasn’t going to tell you this,” he said, pulling the Nationalist Army cap from his back pocket and using it to fan his face, “but it will change your mind. A Japanese soldier shot at me today.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t throw her arms around him, as he had expected she might. She didn’t invite stares with her exclamations of fear for his life or gratitude for his safety.
“I wonder,” she said after a long moment, “if we need weapons.”
“Mother!”
“Now, hear me out,” she continued. “Perhaps we would be wise to have more protection than we have.”
He had assumed that once she heard of his narrow brush with death, they would start packing their bags. She would understand that the safe and idyllic mission compound of his childhood was now no different from the occupied town, and while things might have calmed down somewhat for the time being, the whole province was basically lawless and fraught with danger. In the hinterlands of Northwestern China, far from international scrutiny, the Japanese could do anything they liked. The wild bullet that had grazed his head had taught Charles that.
But his mother carried on, “Every one of these Chinese boys has a mother. Some have died in my arms when they should have been home, helping in their family field. I feel we owe it to them and to their mothers to not just traipse off when the going gets tough. One can’t leave an army on a whim, Charles.”
He looked down at his dusty sneakers and felt dizzy. He wanted to sink right there on the dirt path and let the stream of people continue around him. Perhaps she was braver than he. Perhaps he remained a coddled boy after all. He wished his father were here to sort it out.
“Son,” his mother continued as she held on to his shoulders with two strong hands, “I’m afraid I have to ask, but where were you when this incident took place? Were you outside the mission? Were you wearing that cap?” She gestured to the Nationalist Army hat, which he hurriedly stuffed back into his pocket. “Charles, were you asking for trouble in some way?”
“You think it’s my fault that I got shot at?”
“Sometimes your judgment isn’t the best.”
“You think I deserved it?” he shouted.
“Of course not! But, perhaps it was just an instance of mistaken identity, or you weren’t as cautious as we need to be. If we stay within the compound and are protected by Captain Hsu and his men—”
“Mother, Captain Hsu can’t protect us. The Geneva Convention can’t protect us from the Japs if they choose to attack.”
“We don’t call them ‘Japs,’ Charles. We call them ‘Japanese.’ And Captain Hsu is not an inferior commander. He is very wise. You could learn something from him.”
She loved it, he thought, the chaos all around. “I can’t listen to you. I have to go.” He turned and started to push through the crowds.
“Charles, get back here!”
But he kept on, weaving through the Chinese—each selling something, wanting something, when he wanted nothing except to leave.
“Young man,” his mother gave one last shout, “come back here this instant!”
Charles turned down an alley, and another, and finally a third, until there was no way her voice could still reach him. He hoped more than anything that he might come around a bend and bump into Han. Charles pressed on, following his Jack Purcells, which he had tried to keep clean instead of covered in ugly yellow silt because he thought that was how the boys back home in America wore them. The truth was, he didn’t know how the boys back home did anything. Life magazine arrived six months late, when it arrived at all. The last movie shown in the Parish Hall was over a year old. For all he knew, Jean Harlow had been replaced several times over by younger leading ladies.
He came out of an alley onto a crowded road. People hurried past, intent on repairing their homes and shops, refilling tin buckets, carrying loads, scavenging or trading scraps of food. They knocked into him where he stopped, but he didn’t care. Charles kicked clods of torn-up dirt, soiling his sneakers even more. He would buy a new pair when he got out of here. Because, he made a promise to himself, he was going home to America, no matter what his mother said or did.
“Hey, good-looking,” a skinny, sickly girl called to him from the door of a boarded-up shop. She wore a tight dress with slits to the tops of her thighs, her thin arms also exposed, unlike a proper Chinese woman. She beckoned him with long, red-tipped fingernails. “Come on over,” she purred. Smoke and the voices of men drifted out onto the street from inside, along with the rattle of dice and the percussive slap of mah-jongg tiles.
“Thanks, anyway,” he said and added, “I’m an American.”
The moment he said it, he realized it was irrelevant to her trade. She cackled, and he couldn’t blame her.
“And I’m a beautiful flower. You want to pluck a beautiful flower?”
An older woman in a flowing, large-sleeved gown appeared from the shadowed doorway and stepped into the harsh afternoon light. Elaborate decorations floated from a bun high on her head. Her face was painted white like the actors in Chinese opera Charles had seen in the provincial capital. Black lines representing eyebrows curved upward in a maniacal way as the grande dame towered over the sickly girl, who shrank beside her.
“Back inside to customers!”
“But I found this delicacy,” the girl said as she tossed another beckoning glance at Charles.
The madam looked him up and down and hissed, “He is not for you. Now, go!” She swatted the girl’s backside in the tight dress.
Charles knew he should move but remained stuck in the same spot, transfixed by the elaborate costume and makeup. The madam was far too tall to be a Chinese woman, he thought, and only later considered whether she might not have been a woman at all. Beads of sweat stood out on her painted forehead, and the whiskers on her chin had been powered white as well, like one of the characters in Lian’s terrifying bedtime tales.
“You America?” the madam asked as she stepped closer.
He nodded.
“Get lost, America! You don’t belong here.”
Her sudden rudeness woke him from his spell. “All right, I’m going,” he said, but still he didn’t budge.
“What is it now, boy?” she asked, changing her tone. “You want to come inside? Don’t just look. Touch. But first,” she held out a hand with the long pinkie nail, “give all your coins to me!”
Charles remained transfixed by her unnatural appearance and voice. The words seeped out of her in a high singsong that grated on the ear but was also strangely enticing. She gave him the creeps, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“No, you see,” he began, “I just wanted to say that we’re not the enemy. We’re on your side. Look,” he pulled out the Chinese Nationalist cap and placed it on his head. “I even have this.”
She careened down off the wooden steps in her silk skippers and scurried toward him. With a high-pitched cry, she lifted her arm in the elaborate robe, waved a folded fan in his face, and used it to knock the cap off his head. “Take that off!” she shouted. “Only our soldiers wear that!”
Charles snatched the cap from the dusty ground.
“Go back to Christian church and pray for us.” She swatted his shoulders with the fan. “Go, America! Go home and pray!”
Charles jumped away from the crazy woman, turned, and hurried off. When he reached the mission compound, he couldn’t bring himself to go in through the open gate but instead scrambled up the stone steps to the top of the wall. He needed to see the countryside. The madam was right, he thought. He and his mother and the other missionaries should go back to America and pray, though he knew his days of praying were over. He’d never kneel again, or whisper into the folds of his hands before bed. Even his father’s advice seemed wrong now. He didn’t need to care for his mother. She was stronger than he was and had a will of her own. What he needed to do was take care of himself and get the hell out of there.
The cooing of the birds reached Charles as he reached the top. At least he was keeping his promise to them. Dusk meant feeding time. But when he turned the corner, he saw that the cage was already open. The birds fluttered about as their seeds were scattered before them on the brick walkway.
“Han!” Charles shouted as he ran toward his old friend and hugged him. “Dear Lord,” he said, “you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Han nodded enthusiastically, his face bright and open.
“Where on earth have you been?” Charles asked.
Han smiled and nodded, though more shyly. “I’m with the Eighth Route Army,” Han said. “The best army in all of China. We have tens of thousands of recruits now!”
Charles stood back and looked his friend up and down. Han stood straighter and seemed taller. He wore a pale blue jacket and matching pants, thin cloth shoes—a real uniform, including a belt that cinched his narrow waist with a buckle bearing the Communist star. He even had on a Red Army cap.
“You look good,” Charles said.
“We don’t have much food, but we manage. And all the soldiers take lessons in reading and writing. I help teach them. It’s good, Charles. The country is changing. For the first time, the people are in charge. No more warlords and, no offense, no more greedy foreign influences. Not you, but, well, you know—”
Charles didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to ask Han to explain it to him now.
“Because of my experience here in the mission,” Han continued, “I will serve as a translator for our top leaders. Some are the sons of peasants and laborers, but very smart men. I’ve never known such intelligent men, and brave, too.”
Charles had never heard Han speak for so long or so eloquently about anything before.
“But how are you?” Han asked. “I see our birds are plump. You have done a good job caring for them.”
“Not really,” Charles said.
“It is good to see you.” Han reached up and clapped Charles on the shoulder. “But,” Han said, stepping back, “where did you get that Nationalist Army cap?”
Charles pulled it off and tossed it onto the bricks as if it was on fire. “I found it by the side of the road. I don’t mean anything by wearing it. I’m not in favor of them. I don’t really know who I’m in favor of, except you, of course. If you want me to burn it, I will. We could burn it together!”
Han laughed. “You are so dramatic, my friend. No need to burn it. Just don’t wear it. It’s not safe. And also not right.”
“Of course, absolutely.”
“Would you like my Red Army cap instead?” Han asked.
Charles could hardly believe it. “That’s too generous.”
“I shouldn’t wear my uniform in town, anyway, even with only a few Japs around. I would be honored for you to have it.”
Han handed him the green cap with the red star, and Charles bowed. “I’m the one who is honored.”
“You are my friend,” Han said.
Charles wanted to mention how much he’d missed Han and how he hoped they could talk things through like they always had. But instead, the two boys watched the birds as they milled about on the wall, pecking at the last of their food.
After a few moments, Charles asked, “Can you tell me where you’ve been?”
“For now, we are at a camp in the caves. I can’t say more.”
“I see,” Charles said. “Up in the mountains.”
Han stepped closer and asked, “But I wonder, do you know what you and your mother are going to do?”
Charles let out a long breath. “I want to leave, but she’s gotten tangled up with that fellow Captain Hsu. I think he wants her to stay and keep running the medical clinic in our house. Seems like a crazy idea to me.”
“Hsu is an excellent leader, and I heard about your mother. She is known in many provinces as a very brave woman.”
“I suppose,” Charles said.
“But you feel it is time for you to leave?” Han asked, his expression more serious than ever.
He looked like a soldier, Charles realized. He looked like a man.
“So, where will you go?” Han asked. “Peking?”
“No,” Charles said. “It’s time for us to return to America.”
Han nodded. “I am sure your father would want that.”
Charles let out a relieved chuckle. “How did you know that I keep wondering what he would want? You’re such a good buddy to me, Han.”
Han smiled, too. “I feel quite certain he would want you to leave China. Yes, I feel this is true.”
Charles wondered for a moment why his friend seemed so convinced. He dug a hand deeper into his pocket and ran his fingers over his father’s marble chop, his confidence growing as he touched the familiar worn shape of the carved phoenix. “You’re right,” Charles said. “I’ll tell Mother. I’ll positively insist on it. Would you like to join us for supper?” he asked. “We haven’t much, but I bet it’s better than army food.”
“Army food is not great, but I must be getting back. I came to see Hsia P’angtze. He knows me, you know?”
“Sure, I know. I assumed he found you and that’s why you’re here. I sent him.”
“You sent him?” Han asked.
“Well, who else would have sent him?”
Han looked quickly again at the birds. “It doesn’t matter. I am here. That’s what matters.”
Charles wanted to ask more about Little Fat Boy and where Han had been and what he was going to do next, but he had to let it go. Han was a soldier, with all the knowledge and secrets that entailed. Han hustled the last of the pigeons back into the coop. He kept Hsia P’angtze out, took a small strip of paper from his jacket pocket, and attached it to the bird’s leg with a thin black thread. Then he raised the creature up into the air and, with a flourish, let him go.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Han,” Charles said. “But I assume it’s for the good.”
“Yes,” Han said, “it is.”
He closed the door of the coop, turned back to Charles, and bowed. Charles bowed, too, and when he stood straight again, Han was striding toward the stairs. Charles rushed to look over the edge of the wall, but his friend was already gone, somehow blending in with the many other Chinese passing on foot and in carts. Charles put Han’s cap onto his head and looked out at the fields that burned red in the late day with the sun going down.
From all the way across the courtyard, Shirley could see Japanese soldiers standing at attention in front of her home: the young one who had swept her back steps and a second one who also looked familiar. Major Hattori paced the verandah, his hands clasped behind his back. During her afternoon expedition into town, she had been surprised to find few signs of the Japanese Imperial Army. Weeks before, they had swarmed in, worse than locusts descending on an already weak harvest, and attacked and ravaged the town before swiftly moving on, she hoped, to the next province. And yet, here were three of them in the mission compound. She wanted to stomp up her front steps and give the major a piece of her mind. But instead, she clenched her fists as she wove through the Chinese camps beneath the fruit trees. Their cooking smells soothed her now in a familiar way, but she was not to be calmed. She spat on the ground as the Chinese did to clear ill humors, knowing it was fury she must expel. She stepped through the moon gate, skimmed the steps, stopped before the stone-faced officer, and offered a crisp, perfunctory nod.
“Good evening, Major Hattori. It’s awfully late in the day to be paying a visit.”
He gave an abrupt bow. “I wait for you, Mrs. Carson.”
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I’m not available at the moment. My head is spinning, and I haven’t eaten all day. My son has taken a wrong turn, and I have many mouths to feed. I must get on with my evening plans.”
“We will meet now,” he said. “We know you have Chinese under roof. We suspect some are soldiers. You offer them not only food but medical help, too. Our general is aware of all this. You should be punished. But that is not why I am here.”
“Oh, really?” she said nonchalantly, trying to hide her alarm.
“Also, I am not surprised you lose your son. You are very bad mother.”
Shirley let out a gasp. “You do seem to have theories on many topics, Major. And in addition to everything else I’ve been through today, you seem interested in chastising me. Are you a parent yourself? If not, I suggest you hold your tongue.”
The major’s grip tightened around the holster at his hip.
“Please,” she tried again, “let’s speak tomorrow. I’ll be much more civilized then. Are you available to come for tea? Let’s say four o’clock. Now, good evening, Major Hattori.”
Before he had a chance to reply, Shirley spun around, opened the heavy door, slipped across the threshold, and shut it behind her. As she pushed the iron bolt into place, her heart beat so loudly in her chest she worried he could hear it on the other side. She was certain he would start pounding at any moment, but as she stood with her ear to the carved rosewood, his boots retreated down the porch steps, leaving her surprised by her easy victory.
Shirley took off her sunbonnet and headed to the coat rack. The nurses huddled together in the front hall had overheard her conversation with the Japanese major. They watched her in both awe and horror. One of them, a Chinese girl with close-cropped hair and the trousers worn by the Communist women, said, “Japanese dogs! Yellow Army dwarf bandit sons of whores. I say we invite them inside and kill them! If you offer tea,” she hissed at Shirley, “I poison his cup!”
Several of the more sensible young ladies looked appropriately shocked at this idea, but at least as many appeared to seriously consider the suggestion. Who could blame them, Shirley thought, after what they had seen the Japanese inflict on their compatriots, soldiers and citizens alike?
“The Japanese Army has been absolutely barbaric,” Shirley said, “but you must remember that our American compound remains neutral territory. We are safe here. There is no rule against us running a clinic to help Chinese citizens if we choose. We’ve done that for years, offering inoculations and various treatments. But we must behave in as civilized a manner as we can in this tense climate in order to remind them that America is not their enemy. Otherwise we will risk losing our clinic and will be unable to assist anyone. Now,” she said, as she handed the empty food basket to one of the women, “tell me, dear ladies, did any of our patients pass over to the other side while I was gone?”
The young Communist woman said, “I say, fight them here and now and get it over with!”
“My dear, you are far too young to instigate such action,” Shirley said. “You must leave the military strategizing to men like Captain Hsu.”
The Communist woman put her finger up to her lips and squeezed Shirley’s arm. The other young ladies crowded closer, their faces wild with concern, their heads shaking from side to side. They all seemed to be trying to tell her something, but before she had a chance to inquire further, Kathryn rose from the piano bench. Shirley hadn’t noticed her there and was startled to see her but grateful for the familiar face on this most wretched of days.
“Kathryn, my dear,” she said and reached out with open arms, “I have missed you so. How are you? I hope you’ve had a better day than I. I can’t crawl into bed fast enough.”
Kathryn took a last drag on a cigarette and dropped it onto the polished wooden floorboards of the front hall. Shirley was shocked but tried not to show it. That Kathryn would smoke so openly wasn’t terribly surprising given the tense circumstances, or even that she would do so inside a missionary home. But Shirley did not appreciate that her friend now treated her house like a pool hall. However, when she saw her friend’s cool expression, she decided to let it go. She stepped closer and let her arms drift to her sides again. There would be no hugging.
“I’m so sorry,” Shirley said, “I’ve been remiss and haven’t paid a call in I don’t know how long. I’ve hardly seen anyone for days.”
“You seem to have seen many people,” Kathryn said, looking around at the medical helpers and the beds occupied by patients. “Just not the usual ones.”
“That’s true, isn’t it?” Shirley said, offering a smile. “And I see you’ve taken up smoking publicly. Whatever will the other ladies think?” She let out a friendly titter, which Kathryn did not echo.
“The other ladies are more understanding than we knew them to be. They have each risen to the situation in their own way and are not as petty as we once thought. I’ve come to like them quite a bit, actually.”
Shirley found that hard to imagine but did not contradict her friend. “How nice,” she said.
“I came by to tell you about the meeting last night.”
“Oh, the meeting! I knew I forgot something. Yes, do tell.”
“The entire congregation met. Reverend Wells did an excellent job. He has stepped up to the plate better than anyone could have expected.”
“No longer the rumpled little bookworm that he used to be?” Shirley tried again with a smile.
“No,” Kathryn said with an arched eyebrow and an accusing look in her eye. “No one is who they once were.”
Shirley nodded. “I suppose not.”
“A vote was taken, and plans have been made. We are all leaving.”
Shirley went to the piano and settled on the bench, her elbows accidentally hitting several deep and discordant notes.
“We will take the train to Peking and from there to Shanghai, where we will make passage.”
“Passage?”
“To America,” Kathryn said. “I assumed you knew that.”
“No,” Shirley offered softly, “l didn’t know.”
“Orders have come from the American legation in Peking. All American women and children must leave the country immediately,” Kathryn said. “Foreigners are being kicked out. It isn’t safe for us any longer.”
Her stoniness was as jarring as the news itself. But then Kathryn surprised Shirley by kneeling down before her and taking her hands from her lap.
“You’ve been wonderful and heroic, but you really must stop now. It’s time to go home.”
Kathryn pressed her cheek into Shirley’s hands, and Shirley instinctively stroked her charming bobbed hair. She was such an enthusiastic, large-hearted girl. It was good she was returning to America. She would find a new life there. The man who had not materialized for her here in China would find her on the ship going back. Shirley could picture it: Kathryn would lean against the ship’s railing, the wind blowing her hair around her pretty face, when an impressive fellow with an eye for finer things and a mind expanded by his years in the Orient would step forward to light her cigarette, and together they would commence a new life. Just like that. Such things did happen. All the time. To other people.
“Thank you, my dear, dear friend,” Shirley said. “You are so kind to have come to tell me this important news.”
Kathryn raised her head. “So you will pack up and leave with us? We have a few days to prepare, but no more, perhaps less, depending on how the arrangements are fulfilled. As it turns out, Reverend Wells is excellent at this, too. Who would have guessed it?”
Kathryn finally smiled as Shirley lifted her up and they stood. She held her friend’s hands in hers. “Yes, I will discuss it with Charles right away, and we will make a sound decision.”
“But there is no decision to be made. You must simply do it,” Kathryn said. “This is not something to discuss with a teenaged boy. You are his mother. You must tell him what to do.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Shirley said and turned toward the young nurses. “I’ll be with you in a moment, good ladies,” she called to them.
“I see,” Kathryn said and removed her hand. “Well, I can’t say that I didn’t try.”
“No,” Shirley said, “you did more than that. You have convinced me.”
“I have?” Kathryn asked.
“There are just a few things that I must put in order first.”
Kathryn appeared skeptical but said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Shirley adjusted her friend’s adorable pillbox hat. “Wherever do you find such perfect accessories?” Shirley asked as she escorted her to the door.
Kathryn beamed, her good nature bringing color back into her cheeks. “You know how my mother loves to shop. When we get back home, she wants to take us both out for a rousing expedition to F. R. Lazarus. We really will be rising from the dead then, won’t we?”
Shirley loved a good pun and laughed, then bade her friend good-night. She opened the door quickly for Kathryn, glanced around, and felt relieved to confirm that the major and his soldiers were gone. When the door shut again, Shirley made a beeline for the waiting helpers and was just reaching for a patient’s chart when she felt something tug at her linen skirt.
Dao-Ming appeared before her, stranger than ever, her cheeks flushed, her eyes practically swollen shut, her socks mismatched, and her rotund body wrapped in several layers of dirty Chinese robes. Shirley noticed a new item that weighed her down: a thick, heavy belt with the Red Army star on it. But then Shirley spotted something even more peculiar: the girl appeared to be wearing Caleb’s driving cap.
“Where did you get that?” Shirley asked, forgetting momentarily that the child could barely speak, or chose not to.
“Did Charles give it to you?” she tried again.
Dao-Ming shook her head.
“You found it yourself downstairs?”
Dao-Ming nodded.
Shirley stepped away from the other ladies and took Dao-Ming by the hand. She hustled her over to the stairs that rose to the upstairs quarters. With some effort, she lifted the child onto the second step so that they might speak eye to eye.
“Where is Lian?” she asked.
Dao-Ming pointed down the hallway toward the kitchen dependency.
“I see. Is she is helping to prepare food?”
Dao-Ming nodded, and then, as if speaking had never been a problem, Dao-Ming whispered the words, “Hsu down.”
“You mean Captain Hsu?”
The girl nodded.
“What do you mean by ‘down’?” Shirley asked.
Several loud and insistent knocks sounded on the front door just then. Dao-Ming’s eyes widened.
“It’s all right,” Shirley said.
But the girl’s head shook frantically as she whispered, “Jap devils.”
“Lian,” Shirley called down the hallway, “would you mind answering the door for me, please?”
Lian came swiftly from the kitchen, followed by the young woman, Li-Juan, who had recently come to help. Behind them were the Japanese grandfather and his daughters. And after them hobbled Tupan Feng, body bent over his cane and sword swaying with each halting step. What they were all doing in the kitchen with hardly any ingredients for supper was a mystery to Shirley.
On her way to the door, Lian whispered harshly to Dao-Ming, “You took him?”
Dao-Ming nodded, panic making her limbs stiff and more awkward than ever.
“So,” Shirley asked, “Captain Hsu is hiding in our basement? Is that it?”
Lian wheeled around and hissed at Shirley as Dao-Ming shook her head madly, tears starting to stream down her face. “Great man must be kept safe,” Lian whispered.
“Absolutely,” Shirley said, standing straighter. “I will not let them touch a hair on his head. I promise.”
She hurried to Lian’s side and reached the door just in time to open it herself. “What is it now?” she asked Major Hattori and his two soldiers. “I believe I said I wasn’t available this evening.”
They stormed past her and into her home. Shirley leaned out and took a quick glance at the dark courtyard for her son. It wasn’t like him to stay out this late. “Charles is upset with me,” she whispered to Lian. “We need to keep an eye out for him.”
Lian did not reply, but her expression only made Shirley more anxious. She turned to join the others in the front hall and asked, “Now, Major, what can I do for you?”
As she spoke, she pulled back her shoulders and offered a calm, even serene visage. They had barged into her home, but she intended to behave like a lady of sound intelligence, a Vassar graduate with a good head on her shoulders, and not someone to be trifled with. She thought of her husband’s handy phrase, stiff upper lip.
“Mrs. Carson,” Major Hattori said in English, “you, madam, are under arrest.”
Shirley let out a high, alarmed laugh, which was quickly stifled by the two soldiers, who snatched her wrists in a firm grasp. Lian stepped forward and tried to wrench the soldiers off her.
“That’s all right, Lian,” Shirley said. “You mustn’t upset your heart. I’m all right.”
Li Juan began weeping, her arms wrapped around Dao-Ming, who positively wailed. Lian tried to stop the men for a second time by planting her considerable body in front of the open doorway. The soldiers simply pushed the older woman aside. She stumbled and sprawled on the wood floor.
Old Tupan Feng doddered forward and, with some effort, pulled his long, ornamental Japanese sword from its lacquered sheath, almost toppling as he raised it up toward the ceiling. “Halt,” he said. “Unhand Mrs. Carson.”
Major Hattori had been standing back with his hands on his hips, but he now strode toward the old Chinese man and laughed. “Where did you get that saber, grandfather?” he asked.
Tupan Feng blinked several times and brought the sword back down to his side. “Tupan Feng Number One Student at Tokyo Military Academy. Top of class. Excellent training.” He bowed.
“That’s right,” the major said without bowing as he took it from Tupan Feng’s trembling hand. “I recognize this as one of ours.” He held the sword out before him in his open palms. The silver blade shone handsomely in the dim light of the front hall. “You have taken good care of it.”
Tupan Feng raised his chin as high as he could. “We were taught many important things. Discipline and virtue above all. I tried to bring this superior Japanese standard to my people here in my province. But they were lazy and would not obey.”
“Of course.” Major Hattori chuckled. “They are Chinese. What did you expect?”
“But,” the old warlord continued, his voice growing stronger than Shirley had ever heard it before, “they were never cruel, evil, or heartless. They are not barbarians like you!”
The major swiped the saber in the air, and the others skittered back, but Tupan Feng stuck out his chest and kept his firm gaze forward. “If you must take a prisoner,” he said, “I volunteer. I am highest ranking of these people. I am the only military here. They are civilians. We do not attack civilians. We are civilized.”
The major signaled his men. As they pushed Shirley out onto the porch, she called over her shoulder, “Please find Charles and reassure him that his mother will be all right.” Once out on the porch, she planted her feet on the red-painted floorboards and shouted, “Let go of me! I am perfectly capable of walking without assistance. Major, tell your men to release me.”
The major nodded to his men, and they let go of her arms. Shirley straightened her skirt and blouse and looked down upon them with fiery eyes. “My riding coat, gentlemen. I never go out in the evening without proper outerwear.” Lian instructed Li Juan to bring the coat. After it was placed over Shirley’s shoulders, she said, “Do get word to Reverend Wells, though I hate to bother him in the evening when he likes to read.”
“Enough instruction,” the major shouted. He motioned to his men, and one of them prodded her forward with the butt of his rifle to her shoulder blade.
“That is completely unnecessary,” Shirley said as she started down the steps. But then she stopped: there he was, tromping up them, looking as bedraggled as a boy his age could. “Charles,” she asked, “are you all right?”
It took Charles a moment to come out of his haze, but then he looked up and saw Japanese soldiers standing behind his mother, their rifles pointed at her. He clutched the railing and stepped out of their way. “Mother! What’s going on? Where are they taking you?”
“Don’t panic, darling,” she said. “It’s just a misunderstanding. We’ll get it straightened out. Steady hand and cool heart, as Father used to say.”
Charles then surprised her, and perhaps himself, by speaking directly to the Japanese officer as he passed. “This is a clear violation of the Geneva Convention. The legation in Peking will hear about it. We’ll get the American forces involved if we have to! Don’t even think of hurting her, and I mean it!”
The soldiers nudged Shirley onto the mission grounds. Lian threw her arms around Li Juan, who held on to Dao-Ming. The major gestured for Shirley to move, and she set off. Fear swirled and tangled her thoughts and made her legs weak and heavy, but her heart was calm.
Cook set Caleb’s head down on the straw pillow and wiped watery porridge from his chin. “Sun out today. Reverend feel better,” he said.
Caleb tried to smile.
“Han-Boy brings news.”
Caleb frowned, which for some reason was easier to accomplish than a smile.
“No worry,” Cook said. “He not tell others. Family does not follow. They carry on without Reverend. Very good!”
Cook’s upbeat voice echoed against the damp cave walls. Caleb’s eyes shifted to the opening, where the sky hung like a perfect blue cutout made by a child.
“American Mrs. Carson joins Red cause.”
Caleb raised an eyebrow.
“You do not believe?” Cook asked with a chuckle. “I not believe, either. But very sorry,” he shook his head, “Reverend cannot see to believe.”
Caleb looked up into the man’s lined, yet cheery, face.
“Do not trouble self.” Cook set down the bowl of porridge and clapped the dust from his hands. “You prepare instead for the other side.”
Cook’s friendly-sounding words descended over Caleb, as heavy and uncomfortable as the wool blanket that weighed him down. Cook, of all people, grasped that he had outstayed his welcome in this life. He was but skin and bones, and many of those broken. But his mind would not stop. It had the tenacity of his old mule, which had miraculously survived the fall. But luckily for the animal, it had been shot in the head soon afterward and finally set free. We only reserve such kindness for animals, Caleb thought. His eyes grew moist again as he realized that the mule’s release was what he longed for, too.
Cook stepped away to allow him privacy, thoughtful as always. Caleb could rest now. But then the young man came near, Cook’s son and his son’s friend. Caleb couldn’t recall the young man’s name as he pulled up the stool to sit beside the cot. He heard whispered Chinese words. Then the boy leaned in closer and placed his round, handsome face in Caleb’s line of sight.
“Esteemed Reverend,” he said in quite good English and bowed his head.
Caleb wished with all his heart he could reach out and touch the black hair and fine, though already creased, forehead. The children of this country grew up far too early, Caleb thought, and faced hardships far worse than those endured by most adults back home. Chinese boys did not tromp into the mountains in springtime in search of small game and mild adventure. They did not discover through play a boundless sense of themselves, as Caleb had with his older brothers. A spasm of pain shot down his spine at the thought, and he scolded himself for remembering.
“I have seen your son,” the boy said.
Caleb grimaced.
“No, it is all right, Reverend. He is well.”
Caleb bit his bottom lip as the pain suddenly returned. He didn’t want to frighten the young fellow, but he sensed an uncontrollable scream rising up inside him.
“Charles has come to the decision to leave. Not just our town and province but China.”
With great effort, Caleb fought back the urge to moan or exclaim. He even tried to make the corners of his mouth rise into a smile.
“That is what you wanted, yes?” the boy asked. “I told him so.”
Caleb couldn’t help the moan that finally seeped out of him.
“Please do not worry,” the boy said and laid a gentle palm on his chest. “I did not tell him you are alive, or that I see you. But I said to him that I am certain you want him and his mother to leave the country and be safe.”
Cook came over, touched the boy on the shoulder, and said something to him in Chinese. The young man bowed his head again.
“I must go,” he said. “You are greatly missed, Reverend. Charles-Boy loves you very much.”
Caleb could feel his eyes brimming over, and he no longer cared. The boy wiped his own eyes with his sleeve, and that was fine with Caleb, too.
Cook remained dry-eyed as always as he said, “Enough. Reverend sleep now.”
Caleb lifted his finger, but the boy was gone. Caleb hated for him to go and wished with all his heart that he could have asked questions about his family. But his thoughts were coming slowly today, staying deep within. The boy had said that his son was all right. That was what mattered. There was no need for words beyond that.
As sleep started to slip over Caleb again, a clear, powerful thought struck him, and he was suddenly wide awake. Like his wife and son, he, too, must move on to the next stage. He must leave this life behind. His stubborn body had refused to release him, but Caleb knew a way around that. Every soldier in the camp carried a weapon—a rifle, pistol, knife, or bow. These young men had been raised on farms around livestock and understood that an animal with a broken back was done. He would ask the best of them, the one with the keenest intellect and deepest sympathies. When he awoke, Caleb would ask Captain Hsu to kill him.
Some hours later, he awoke again and was alone on his cot at the mouth of the cave. Midday sunlight drenched the leaves, but the cool, moist air from inside the mountain felt refreshing. On fine, clear summer days like this one, Caleb recalled, he and his brothers had tromped out into sunlight, brushed through high, wild grass, and taken the paths up the mountainside. They knew the trails by the rocks and trees that marked each bend. In mid-August in the White Mountains, berries weighed the branches low, tempting the boys. They knew it was still too early but couldn’t resist and popped them into their mouths only to spit them back out again. “You have to learn to wait,” his oldest brother would say as they washed their stained hands in an icy brook and pressed on toward the peak.
Caleb understood now that those familiar mountains had been his testing ground for this mountain in China. So far away from where he had begun, and yet he knew the feel of the damp walls and the pebbled floor that surrounded him. For hadn’t he and his brothers taken shelter in caves many times? When the wind whipped up and sudden bouts of rain came careening across the open sky, first darkening the mountainside across the way, then releasing torrents, the boys would duck into a cave to wait it out. That was all he needed to do now, Caleb told himself: wait it out.
As he and his brothers waited, they watched the rainfall and told stories. His oldest brother was the best at creating an entertaining chill in the younger ones. Rumors and tall tales circulated among the country folk and in the mountain villages. Certain stories caught hold and couldn’t be shaken for generations. Once a group of boys—not Caleb and his brothers but boys of his grandfather’s era—had lifted their lantern to see down a defunct mining shaft and spotted with their own eyes the bones of a man, his clothing stripped away and the whiteness of his skeleton shining as if lit from within. The boys raced home, but when they returned to the woods with their fathers, the skeleton was gone. Ever after, it was said that the ghost of that fallen miner roamed the hills.
Caleb tried to chuckle at how that story had kept him awake many nights until he was almost his son’s age now. Never a brave or stoical child, Caleb had been unable to banish it from his mind, especially before sleep. It had haunted him the way Lian’s bedtime stories bothered Charles until Caleb had finally forbidden their amah to tell them. But the damage had been done: Charles, like his father, had a too-active imagination. It tortured him, even when every rational explanation offered by grown-ups insisted otherwise. He and his son were weak in that way, Caleb knew, and susceptible to worry. But he loved Charles for it, for he equated a fanciful mind with a generous heart.
Caleb could no longer pretend to maintain a self-imposed stricture on memory. Grasping that he would not live much longer, especially if he enlisted Captain Hsu’s help, Caleb decided that he might as well let the stories from his past cascade over him as readily as the tears that he let fall willy-nilly. During the endless hours when he lay half awake and half asleep in the cave, he would allow himself to recall and invent and dream, his mind roaming—in search of what, he wasn’t sure.
Another story his brother had once told wove its way into his thoughts. A hiker had wandered off the Appalachian Trail as an early winter squall rumbled down from Mount Washington. The young man took cover in a cave, where, wet and cold, he shivered and ate the last of his food. Snow quickly burdened the pine boughs and obscured the shapes of rocks and cliff sides. If he ventured out again into the rising drifts, he might take a misstep and tumble over the edge. So the hiker stayed in the cold of the cave. As the sun went down behind the hills, the world outside became as blank and forbidding as a sheet of paper in a platen, its purpose not yet known to the writer. Night fell, and the young hiker pulled leaves around himself to try to keep warm, but he knew it would be impossible. He would not survive to see dawn paint the whiteness with a gentle, rosy glow.
But the young hiker did awake the next morning. He stumbled out of the icy cave and found the trail not far away. At the general store in the nearest village, he drank black coffee with trembling hands. The owner’s wife, old Mrs. Knox, didn’t look up from her crossword puzzle as she asked, “Bear save you, did he?” The young man nodded into his cup, realizing she must be right and no longer amazed by anything. He would spend the rest of days searching for an embrace as warm and miraculous as the one that had surrounded him in that cave.
Caleb shivered, and Cook appeared and added a second blanket to the weight that already bore down on him. He shut his eyes and wished for the warmth of that surprising creature, though the summer was full and dry outside, and to anyone else, the air was mild. By mid-August back home, the birch leaves would have begun to flip like coins in a pool of golden light, registering the coming season long before anyone else sensed it. Faint, glowing, upright friends, those white birches had been like family to Caleb. His grandfather, eyeglasses catching the sun, trousers creased sharply, and his minister’s collar worn tight. All the men on that side, including Caleb himself, were as thin as young birches, their tall, sturdy New England bodies bending into the wind.
Like the poet, Caleb had seen birches arched by snow, limbs caught under a crust of ice. He had freed them more than once, though he never chose to ride one, as Frost and Caleb’s more adventurous brothers had. He was too young when they had wrapped their skinny legs around the trunks to make a winsome whip. Caleb had watched instead, snow frozen inside his woolen mittens and up his sleeves, the cuffs chafing him with the red wrists of winter. Scrawny and made mostly of bone, he was often sick as a child and easily scarred by the elements, drawn on like the birches by shadowy lines that he understood now had foretold his end. He was a lone birch, too pale in a forest of pines, weaker than his sturdier relatives.
What he wanted now more than anything was to be amid that glade of white birches on the trail toward home. He longed to see them now—his brothers, his family, and those shimmering branches a little farther ahead.
When he next awoke, night had fallen. He did not move his head but let the sounds of Chinese voices wash over him. Cook and another man spoke rapidly in the local dialect. Caleb had stopped trying to understand that foreign tongue, and perhaps because he no longer made an effort, the Chinese cadences wormed their way into his mind. After a few moments, he surprised himself by recognizing a phrase or two.
The Japanese had taken his wife into custody. He heard Cook and the other man discussing it. He wanted to call Cook over and ask for further explanation. By the urgency of the men’s voices, he could tell that this news had just arrived and that action was being taken. Captain Hsu was no doubt already doing his best to correct the situation through his many channels with the elders of the town. And Reverend Wells, never the most competent at dealing with others, would also rise to the occasion. Caleb assumed that some mistake had been made. The Japanese couldn’t possibly want to hold his wife for long. She was an American, after all, and a woman, for heaven’s sake.
But not just any woman, he thought with a smile. She was his Shirley: sturdy and unbendable in ways that he was not. Shirley Carson was not to be trifled with. If anything, she would see to her own release and not leave it to the others. With this confident thought, Caleb drifted off again, aware that he must stay alive a little while longer, at least until word came that she had returned safely to the mission compound.
Shirley was willing to bow, but not low, or at least not as low as the Japanese general would have liked.
“Thank you for joining me this evening, Mrs. Carson,” he began as he poured tea for them into fine porcelain cups.
She had certainly not joined him freely but had been forced by the Japanese soldiers through the mission, out the gate, and down the empty town streets until she and her entourage arrived at this municipal building, formerly the center for tax collection under both Tupan Feng and then his warlord nephew. She had visited here with Caleb some years before when he wanted to express his outrage at the practice of excessive levies and bribes. He had felt hopeful that he could help change the historically corrupt system. As she noticed the Nambu pistol in its holster on the Japanese general’s hip and the fiery shine of his shoes, she found herself longing for those old days, when the warlord was greedy, unprincipled, and vulgar, but at least had a patrician sense of responsibility to his people and province.
“Won’t you have a cup of tea?” the Japanese general asked in impeccable English.
She had refused to look him straight in the eye but did so now. “You realize it is past midnight.”
The general spoke to his soldiers, who turned and withdrew, leaving Shirley alone with him. He approached with the teacup, and she took it. Short and rotund, he appeared tidier and cleaner than anyone she had seen in weeks. The stars and medals on his chest shone, and the creases in his pant legs were sharp. He wore thick, black-rimmed round glasses, and his thinning hair was slicked back and greased with something pungent and familiar.
“Please, make yourself comfortable. Have a seat.” He gestured to a wicker chair in the middle of the room. She had been surprised to see the Western-style furniture in this office, a large teak desk and banker’s chair, not the tatami mat, stools, or low tables that the Japanese usually preferred.
“I believe the majority of Americans today do not drink tea,” he said. “They prefer Chock Full o’ Nuts or Nehi soda pop. But Mrs. Carson, I am sure you do not care for such a low-class drink, even if I could get it for you.” He offered a good-natured laugh.
Shirley eased into the wicker seat as he leaned against the desk before her, his legs crossed at the ankles.
“I was always partial to Coca-Cola myself,” he continued, his voice confident and friendly. “Delicious drink. If they ever sell it in Japan, the tea tradition will be over forever. But I will never forget the hot toddies at football games. What a grand custom of your people! I still carry a flask with me.” He patted his breast pocket. “During final-examination period, we drank black coffee late into the night. Were you Vassar girls allowed to do that? At Princeton, no one watched over us. The young men were untamed. Nothing could have prepared me for the wildness of American boys.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. “I understand you have a teenaged son. I do not envy you.” He shook his head. “In Japan, we know how to handle boys. We are much better at this. You Americans could learn from us.”
Shirley calmly lifted the cup to her lips, unwilling to betray her surprise at everything he said. But as she drank the bitter tea, one crucial thing occurred to her: this general was trying to impress her.
He set down his cup and offered his hand. “General Hayato Shiga, Princeton class of ’15.”
His plump and clammy palm repulsed her.
“Everyone called me ‘Hal.’ I doubt you remember me, but I remember you. I saw you at Vassar’s final spring dance our senior year. You stood out even in that company of lovely young ladies.”
He pushed off from the desk, strode to the window, and gazed out. A flash of acid orange light appeared far off, briefly bathing the horizon in a sudden, astonishing glare.
“You Vassar girls were regal,” he continued. “I was not allowed to dance or date because I was engaged to be married back home. But that was all right. I was terribly shy. I admired you American girls from afar. Such thoroughbreds, isn’t that the term? Highborn women. Women of the royal court. Princesses, every one of you.”
“Not exactly,” she said. “My stepfather owned shoe stores. I was no princess.”
His insistent smile suggested that he was not to be dissuaded.
Shirley took another slow, deliberate sip to gain courage before speaking. “We are here now in North China, General Shiga. Times have changed. But I am so glad that our two countries remain on good terms. Yet, as friendly as we are, I cannot be bribed with a cup of tea.” She set hers on the desk and raised her chin. “I was taken by force from my home this evening, was marched across this unfortunate town, and am being kept here against my will. I know with great certainty that you have violated any number of international laws by treating me this way.”
Behind the thick glasses, his eyes grew sharper. “I brought you here, Mrs. Carson, in the hope that we could ignite camaraderie, even friendship. We have a shared past. But you are hardheaded. I should have expected it from an American woman.”
Shirley straightened her spine. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you brought me here, General?”
He strode behind his desk. “I have heard that you are a nurse. You care for the Chinese citizens who seek temporary shelter at your mission compound. Your Reverend Wells and I have discussed this, and I agreed that under our current rules of engagement, American civilians may assist the population. But my primary concern is my officers. They are in need of medical attention. They suffer from maladies, private medical conditions.”
“War wounds?” she asked.
“None of them have been injured.”
“So they do not suffer like the Chinese who have been bayoneted and left to die by the road? From our window, my son and I witnessed the execution of not only military but also civilians. They were shot and tossed into a ditch. Has a similar fate met your soldiers?” As Shirley spoke, she rose from her seat, her voice growing stronger. “Or perhaps they have been attacked like the Chinese women I saw in the marketplace, their bodies ruined for any future life, their very souls flayed from them.”
“Come, now, Mrs. Carson,” he said with exaggerated patience. “You are an innocent. It is not your fault that you are a sheltered, spoiled woman who has never seen such things before. What you have witnessed is typical of war, nothing more.” He waved a hand toward the window, where another flash of light illuminated beyond the farthest edge of town. “My request of you is nothing so horrific. I would not presume to burden you with real injuries. I don’t think you could handle them.”
Shirley squeezed her hands together to control herself. She longed to tell him all she had done to oversee the care of the badly wounded Chinese, but instead, she simply said, “Good of you, General.”
“Our complaints are more rudimentary. One of my officers needs dental help, and another has such bad hemorrhoids that he can no longer sit down. They have bunions from marching. Indigestion from rancid Chinese food. Coughing, most likely from TB give to us by the unsanitary Chinese. Basic ailments for which we need your help, Nurse Carson. I request that you attend to my officers. In exchange, I will see that you are fed and kept safe. My protection is worth all the money in this lousy country. And if you serve us for even a short time, I will see that you and your son are escorted out of the province to safety. I think that is a fair offer.”
Face the foe, her husband had always said, half in jest, but Shirley knew he would not be joking now. She pulled back her shoulders and said, “I wish to be escorted back to my home, General Shiga. I must decline your offer, but I thank you for considering me for these tasks.” She meant to continue in this vein, civilized and in control of her feelings, but could not. “I’m flattered that you trust me with bunions and hemorrhoids and other insignificant complaints.“
A growl began deep in the general’s chest and erupted loudly. He stroked his slick hair and spun away from her. He called out to his men, who came and grabbed her by the wrists, but Shirley yanked free.
“I will not tolerate such rudeness, General. If I were to help you, it would have to be on civilized terms.”
“Then you will still consider my offer?” he asked.
“It must be after 1 in the morning, and my son will be worried sick. Please, I need to get home.”
“You may go,” he said. “My soldiers will escort you. But do not dismiss my offer, Mrs. Carson. As you Americans say, sleep on it, all right? I hope to hear from you soon.” He bowed.
She bowed, too, but before turning to go, she added, “I do remember you, Hal. You were one of two Asian boys who attended the dances. You and a good-looking one would huddle in the corner by the band. What was his name, I wonder?”
The general seemed to flinch behind the heavy lenses. “Chen,” he said. “Harvey Chen.”
“That’s right. You two seemed to be such good friends. Thick as thieves.”
The general barely nodded.
“I think I heard that he married a Vassar girl. They live out in sunny California now. My, my, isn’t he the lucky one?”
The general may have blanched but turned his back quickly and did not answer.
Outside, Shirley leaned against the side of the building and let the thick night air embrace her. Beads of sweat rolled down her ribs, and she realized she was shaking. From around her neck, she untied a silk scarf that Caleb had given to her. On it, a colorful phoenix spread its wings and dove across a royal-blue sky. In the dim light cascading from the municipal building, the magical bird looked fierce and free. From her study of Chinese antiques, she knew that Fenghuang bestowed on all who saw it not only grace and good luck but also immortality. She patted the powerful image of the bird against her lips now and then pressed it to her damp breastbone above the buttons of her blouse, hoping for strength.
Shirley started off through the quiet town, two Japanese soldiers escorting her. They held their rifles cocked, and she suspected that Chinese watched from inside darkened doorways and through the cracks in boarded-up windows. At a corner, she almost stumbled into the bent back of a coolie who was rummaging through a pile of garbage. The soot-stained man appeared haggard but unfazed and purposeful. The fear Shirley had held at bay with the general rose up, and her stomach turned. She raced to the side of the road and retched into a gully. A second wave of nausea overtook her, but she had nothing left inside. When she raised her head and noticed the desolate scene around her, she felt panicked that she had behaved in such a headstrong way with the general. She had always been like that: cocky in the face of trouble, her instinct never to flee but to stride directly toward whatever frightened her. But that was foolishness now, she thought, hubris of the first order.
As she straightened up, one of the soldiers stepped closer and addressed her in Japanese. Shirley couldn’t understand the words but looked down into the young man’s worried face.
“I’m all right,” she said in the local Chinese dialect.
The young man appeared baffled by her words, too, but bowed. Shirley bowed in return. The second soldier eyed them warily, and Shirley wondered if the compassionate younger soldier would be reprimanded. He was a boy, just a boy. So like her son. At the gates of the mission compound, she bowed again before leaving the Japanese soldiers and hurried inside. She needed to get back to Charles.
At the sight of her home and the stone gate bathed in moonlight, Shirley lifted her skirt and ran. She dashed up the steps and flung open the ornamental screen, but the iron handle on the thick front door did not turn. In peaceful times, Caleb had insisted it never be locked. She ran her fingers over a colorful bas-relief statue of a door god that he had nailed to the door frame, the ferocious warrior figure put there to protect the family inside from evil spirits.
Shirley was about to pound on the door when the thick handle turned and it swung open. Dao-Ming stepped back as Shirley entered her home. She glanced around at the peaceful sight of the patients stretched out on their beds and the nurses curled on pallets on the floor. Charles sat sprawled in the wicker rocking chair, his long legs stretched onto the stained coral blossoms in the blue carpet. He had no doubt waited up for her as long as he could, but then sleep had overtaken him as he reclined where she used to rock him as a boy.
Dao-Ming appeared to have been weeping, although her eyes were always pink-rimmed. Shirley took the girl’s chin into her hands and lifted her sorry face toward the light. Dao-Ming trembled all over, and Shirley realized that was part of her condition, too. She brought the girl closer and wrapped her arms around her thick, curved back. Dao-Ming did not reciprocate at first but merely stood like a lump of plentiful flesh. Then the full weight of her pressed against Shirley, and Shirley did not push her away. Instead, she held on and whispered into the girl’s ear, “It’s all right. I’m back now. I’m here.”
As she felt the distinct pressure of Dao-Ming’s breasts hidden under her many layers of clothing, Shirley realized that the girl was more mature than she had previously understood. Dao-Ming might even be Charles’s age. Though short of stature, she was a substantial person, a young lady, in fact—a person to be fully considered and no longer ignored. Dao-Ming drew back and stared up at Shirley with serious, knowing eyes.
At that moment, Shirley recalled Caleb’s words spoken from the pulpit: We have no one if not each other. We are united in our humanity. We are one. He had meant that we are all citizens of the world, brothers and sisters, grown from one family tree. As hard as it had been to fathom previously, Shirley thought now, this strange young woman standing before her in this strange land was of the same blood. And we must keep watch over one another, Caleb had said. We are our brother’s keepers.
“Yes, love,” Shirley whispered aloud in English, “that’s right. We are our brother’s keepers.”
Dao-Ming smiled quite genuinely at that moment, as if understanding the words Shirley had just spoken.
“Mama Shirley no leave?” Dao-Ming asked. “Mama Shirley stay!”
Shirley stared into those dark, narrow eyes that seemed bottomless and saturated in unreserved hope just when there should have been none.
“That’s right,” she said. “Mama Shirley stay.”
Charles stepped into the too-bright morning to meet Reverend Wells as he came up the porch steps. The older man’s hair had turned white in the weeks since the fighting had begun, and he had developed a limp. Always an odd bird, the Reverend appeared even more so in the Chinese coolie hat he wore to keep off the sun. Kathryn lagged a few paces behind him, her own stylish hat worn low and lopsided on her head. They both looked beleaguered and worse for wear.
“Thanks so much for coming, sir,” Charles said and pumped the Reverend’s hand. “But everything’s all right. Mother’s back now. She got home late last night and is still asleep upstairs.”
The Reverend took Charles’s hands between his and patted them. “My poor boy,” he said, “do not consider yourself abandoned. That’s good news about your mother. I was prepared to visit the Japanese headquarters myself this morning to insist on her release.”
Charles gently pulled his hands away. “I haven’t seen her yet, but I gather she wasn’t harmed at all. They just wanted to talk to her. And Lian’s found mien at the market this morning, and we’re planning a feast for later today. Not a feast, exactly, but, you know, a farewell dinner. No need to worry about us. We’re all quite keen.”
The Reverend glanced at Kathryn.
“I’m glad your mother’s safe,” she said, “but Reverend Wells and I wanted to talk to you, Charles, about your situation. Remember when I told you that you can always count on me, kiddo? It’s true, you know.” She reached across and straightened his collar. “You’ve grown up a lot this summer, but we want to make sure you understand the danger you’re in. I’m worried that you haven’t been given a full picture of things.”
Charles nodded warily.
“We don’t want anyone confusing you about what you should do next,” Kathryn said. “You must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. As soon as we receive word that passage has been secured on a ship out of Shanghai, we go. Are you ready to do that, Charles?”
“My bag is packed.”
“You will have only one chance, my boy,” the Reverend insisted. “Nothing, and no one, must get in your way.”
“All right, I get it,” Charles said, his voice rising. “I won’t let her change my mind.”
At that moment, he noticed the shadow of his mother in her white dressing gown standing at the screen door. Through the metal mesh, she looked like a ghost. Her face appeared unchanged for a long moment, and he felt frightened that while her body had returned home the night before, her spirit remained elsewhere.
“Mother!” he shouted and flung the screen open. He took her hand and led her out onto the porch. He hugged her, and she seemed sturdy enough in his arms, which gave Charles courage again. But then she turned to Reverend Wells and Kathryn, and her warm smile disappeared.
“I’m glad that you and the others know your plans,” she said to them, “but please don’t presume to tell my family what to do.”
Kathryn threw her hands up and said, “But Shirley, you’ve already told me you’re coming with us.”
The Reverend reached for Shirley’s hands and said, “I’m so relieved you’re all right, my dear. I was terribly worried.”
Shirley slipped free of him and stepped back.
“Mother, Reverend Wells and Miss Kathryn are only trying to help,” Charles offered.
His mother’s expression remained stern.
“I know you are aware, Mrs. Carson,” the Reverend said, “that I’m officially in charge of everyone here in the mission. I have orders from the Missionary Board in Boston as well as the American legation in Peking that I must see us all returned home to U.S. soil.”
Charles moved closer to his mother’s side.
“I owe it to the memory of your husband to see that Charles is safe,” the Reverend continued. “We all know how much Caleb loved the boy.”
His mother finally lowered her chin.
“And I must insist that you leave with us, too, Mrs. Carson. Those are my orders.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and stood very still. Charles had seen that expression on her face more times than he cared to remember. When his mother was backed into a corner, there was no telling what she might say or do. He stepped forward and put his arm around her waist. He had never done that before. He took her by the hand as if he intended to escort her out onto the dance floor for a little spin.
“Mother, here’s the thing,” he said. “I’m ready to go back to America. I’ll miss it here, but it’s time. I think Father would agree, don’t you?” His mother’s gaze drifted toward the crowded courtyard. How, he wondered, could she look out there and not grasp that they must go? “Shall we pack your bags, too, Mother? Lian is planning a farewell dinner tonight. We’ll say our good-byes and be ready to leave whenever we get word. America,” he added, in case she had missed his enthusiasm, “here we come!”
Reverend Wells rocked forward onto his toes and back onto his heels. But Charles’s mother remained mesmerized by the sea of Chinese before them.
“Thanks a lot for dropping by,” Charles said as he escorted the Reverend and Kathryn toward the porch steps. “We appreciate it.” Then he leaned closer and whispered, “She’s a little stunned at the thought of leaving. Just keep us posted. We’ll be ready.”
“You’re a sound young man, Charles,” Reverend Wells said, shaking his hand. “Your father would be proud.” He tipped his Chinese straw hat and said, “Good day to you both.”
He and Kathryn went down the steps, conferring with one another as they left.
Charles stood beside his mother at the porch railing. “Thank goodness you’re all right. The Japs didn’t hurt you, did they?”
“No, Charles, I’m fine.”
Her voice sounded far off, and he worried that she might not be telling the truth. He wanted to know what had happened to her. He wanted to take care of her. But he also somehow didn’t want to know. He couldn’t bear it if she had been harmed.
She finally looked away from the busy courtyard. “Reverend Wells is right. This is no place for a child. No place for you, Charles. But I can’t imagine leaving just yet. My patients still need me.”
He studied the lines around her eyes and her hollow cheeks. She had lost weight since his father’s death, and now she appeared almost frail. He had never seen her looking so sallow and drawn. “You don’t look well, Mother. Are you sick?”
“No, not at all,” she said and touched a cool palm to his cheek. “I feel quite well. Perhaps better than ever.” She brushed hair from his forehead and let her hand settle lightly on his shoulder. “I will join you. That’s what I’ll do. It can be arranged.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I want you to go ahead with the American women and children. I will come along soon after, perhaps with the men, or some other way.”
He flicked red paint from the porch railing and then held on to it. He wasn’t dizzy, exactly, but felt mild vertigo. For days, he had let himself consider the possibility of leaving China without his mother, and now she was saying that that was how it would be.
“I need to check on my patients now, darling. You’ll be all right,” she said and stood on her toes to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Reverend Wells is correct in saying that your father would be terribly proud of you—as am I.”
She turned and left him on the porch, looking out at the Chinese who went about their business in what had been his front yard. Charles wanted to hate them. They were the reason his mother wasn’t leaving with him. They needed her more than he did. Charles spat onto the dusty ground below.
“Damn,” he said loudly in English. “Damn this damn country.”
Charles headed off to where he always went when he got riled up inside. He took the stone steps to the top of the wall. He needed air and the view across the rooftops to the millet fields and the purple, shadowed mountains. His father had been lost in that great distance. He spat again—not down at Japanese soldiers on sentry duty below but instead beside his own dusty sneakers on the brick path.
When he looked up, he noticed that one of the pigeon cages was open, and he went to close it. As he rounded the corner, the full coop came into view, and Dao-Ming stood before it. She had a feedbag at her feet and was sweeping the open cage with a handmade whiskbroom.
“Hey,” Charles said, “what do you think you’re doing?”
Dao-Ming didn’t look up from her task.
He stepped nearer and changed his tone. “Did Han ask you to do that for him while he’s away?”
Dao-Ming nodded.
Charles reached for one of the pigeons that was strutting about and stroked it. “I always did whatever Han told me to do with the birds. He knows everything about pigeons.”
“I know more,” she said in a high, crackly voice, and in English, too.
Charles nearly dropped the bird. “Since when can you talk?”
She offered an odd smile.
“And what do you know about pigeons?”
“I know we use them to help cause.”
Why had she kept quiet for so long? he wondered. He cocked his head to the side and looked her up and down. “What cause?” he asked.
Dao-Ming laughed. “The cause your father work for, silly.”
“Now, wait a minute—” Charles began.
She held up a pudgy finger and shushed him. “With radio and supplies.”
Charles took off the Red Army cap, slapped it against his leg, and suddenly noticed that she was wearing his father’s wool driving cap.
“Where’d you get that thing on your head?” he asked. “That’s mine. Give it to me.”
“Not yours. Reverend leave it behind.”
“I know. I saw it down in the cellar, but I tell you it’s mine.”
Dao-Ming went back to cleaning the cages and even hummed to herself as Charles tried to fathom that she had known his father in a way that he never would.
“All I want is his ugly old cap. It’s all I’ve got left of him.” He could feel tears starting down inside, though he didn’t cry anymore.
Dao-Ming finally looked up from her work and tossed it his way. He snatched it from the walkway and put it on his head. Then he looked at the Red Army cap in his hand and sensed her watching him with her small, dark eyes. He walked over and placed Han’s army cap on her head.
“Here,” he said. “You’re the Red, not me.”
Dao-Ming gave a big grin, a front tooth missing and eyes crinkled shut. He suddenly worried she might think he had given her the grungy cap because he wanted to go steady.
“I better get going,” he said and started to stride away.
“Han here,” Dao-Ming shouted after him.
Charles stopped and went back. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
Just then, Han stepped out from behind the corner tower. He no longer wore a Red Army uniform but still appeared strong and sure of himself.
“Jesus,” Charles said, “you gave me a fright.”
Han bowed, but Charles wasn’t having it. He strode to his friend and lifted him up in a big bear hug. Han laughed, and Charles did, too.
As Charles set him down, Han said, “Charles-Boy is in good spirits. You are going home soon.”
“I’m happy, all right,” Charles said, “but, sad, too, if you know what I mean.”
“It is sad we must say good-bye. You and your family are good people. May many happinesses come to you in your own country.”
Charles was at a loss for words, but he sputtered out, “You, too, Han. You be safe, now.”
Charles realized how ridiculous that sounded. He might be excited about his own future, but Han had nothing to look forward to except more fighting, and Charles couldn’t imagine how his friend could be happy about that.
“My country will be great someday. Our dream will become a reality,” Han said. “The people will no longer suffer. You will see. There is no better satisfaction than that.”
Charles nodded and wanted to understand but knew the time was past for that. Soon he would start the long journey back across the ocean to the America of his dreams. How could he possibly explain the joy in that to Han? Instead, Charles reached out, and they shook hands like men.
As the others lined up outside the kitchen for their supper, Shirley slipped past them on her way up to her bedroom. She found a clean linen blouse in the back of her closet and a lace skirt she had usually saved for Sunday service. She dragged her hairbrush through her knotted curls and applied lipstick for the first time since her husband’s death. In the intricately carved mirror above her dressing table, she saw a changed woman: older, more haggard and thin, but flushed with life.
Once back downstairs, Shirley received a bowl half filled with noodles from Lian.
“For you, Mrs. Carson,” Lian said. “Sit on piano bench and eat.”
“I can’t imagine what you went through to find food for all these people,” Shirley said as she sat. “You have done well by us in so many ways.”
The young woman named Li Juan came up then, bowed, and handed Shirley a plate with meat swimming in a red, gelatinous sauce. Shirley suspected she was the only one to be given this delicacy. She would share it with one of her patients who needed the protein, or with her son, who was still growing and hungry all the time.
“Thank you, kind and esteemed Mrs. Carson,” Li Juan said, “for allowing me to live here.”
“My pleasure.”
As Shirley raised her chopsticks, she noticed the helpers crouched on their haunches in the hallway or seated on the edges of cots in the clinic, each digging into their bowls of noodle soup. The elderly Japanese fishmonger huddled on the bottom step as he had on the day he had first arrived at the mission. Only now Tupan Feng sat beside him. The two appeared to be having a debate about the correct use of discipline in child rearing. The old Chinese warlord insisted the rules should be the same in the home as in the military, while the fishmonger felt that a softer touch was needed. Though combative, they seemed to be enjoying one another.
So little joy had surrounded them all for too long, making this brief moment of peace all the more precious. Shirley cleared her throat, rose again, and in her best imitation of a minister’s resonant oratory addressed the small band of friends. “I want to thank each of you for your fine efforts. I have great confidence that you will continue to run the clinic beautifully when I depart soon with my son. It has been an honor to work beside you.”
The nurses’ aides bowed their heads and accepted the praise.
“I would like to especially offer my gratitude to Lian for her forbearance and skill in all she does.”
Lian’s arthritic fingers twisted the rag that hung from her belt. She pulled back her shoulders as if Shirley’s words were stones pelted her way. Charles, who must have sneaked in from his usual roaming about, leaned against the door frame, a lanky young man who, Shirley was surprised to realize, might even be mistaken for someone rather suave. He addressed the assembled group like the man of the household he had become.
“Madam Lian,” he said, “you have been a second mother to me, often more reliable than my first, if I do say so.”
Lian hissed, “Do not be rude to Mother, Charles-Boy.”
“But really,” Charles continued, “I wouldn’t be the fellow I am today without your help. I learned so much from you, especially from those crazy bedtime stories you told. Frightened the devil out of me and made me want to grow up faster. Anything to escape those witches and spirits in the night!” He bowed. “Thank you, esteemed and patient Madam Lian.”
Lian dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the rag and hurried off toward the kitchen. The others returned to their soup and shared memories of the terrorizing fairy tales of their own childhoods. Shirley patted the piano bench, and Charles strolled over to sit beside her.
“Well said, Charles. Now, help yourself to this plate Lian made for me. I was afraid to ask the type of meat, but I think you’re so hungry you won’t care.”
“Mother, I don’t understand you,” Charles said as he started in with his chopsticks. “Did I hear right? You just told everyone that you’re leaving with me. The last I recall, you were staying behind and planned to join us later, however that might work.”
She studied his handsome profile and piercing blue eyes, his large hands as they expertly used the sticks, and the overall heft of him. To look at her son, anyone would assume he could manage just fine on his own. It was true, he didn’t need her any longer. But she had come to realize that she needed him.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “My assistants have learned to run the clinic quite well. They’ll do fine without me. Also, I don’t want to be like Lian, separated from my child for the wrong reasons. That just seems too pitiful. So I intend to go with you.”
“All right, then,” he said.
“But I’ve promised Captain Hsu that I would accompany him on a brief visit to his camp on the plains to the east of here. It’s quite nearby. They’ve set up a medical clinic like this one.”
Charles set down the empty plate and pulled one of his father’s handkerchiefs from his pocket. “When?” he asked.
“Tonight. I’ll be back by morning. I’m ready to leave with you whenever the word comes.”
“I don’t know. That doesn’t sound like such a good idea to me,” he said as he wiped his lips. “What if we have to leave tonight?”
She took the handkerchief and dabbed a spot of red sauce from his cheek. “It’s already 9 o’clock and dark outside, son. They couldn’t possibly mobilize us to depart this evening. And besides, I already agreed to go with the captain. We’ve put it off for days. He’s coming back to pick me up shortly. But don’t worry, you and I will still leave the mission together. I promise. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
He stood and stretched but didn’t reply.
“Well, it makes me happy,” she said. “But will you agree to a haircut when we get to Shanghai? I’ve never seen such a disgraceful mop.”
He planted a quick kiss on her forehead.
“Where are you going?”
“To say good-bye to Li Juan.”
“Ah, I thought so,” she said with a teasing smile.
But he hadn’t heard, or didn’t care, and was already stepping away.
The Reverend Caleb Carson felt the stirring of the trees on all sides and listened as the wind picked up. He heard the beginnings of rain before it arrived. Leaves began to fall, and twigs whipped past his cot on the cliffside. He would have liked to reach out and catch some but could not move his arms fast enough. He simply shut his eyes and felt himself becoming a part of the maelstrom. Flimsy and insubstantial, he welcomed the sensation of being sucked into it.
But then Cook was at his side. As always, dear Cook. And his son, Charles’s friend, whose name Caleb now remembered: Han. He recognized in their voices the timbre of concern and perhaps something like love. They had been unerringly kind. The sudden drops of rain struck Caleb like small punishments, punches from God down the length of his prostrate body, bestowed upon him for his foolishness.
Days before, word had come that his able and forceful wife had returned to the mission after being briefly detained by the Japanese. Apparently she continued to perform her good works at the small medical clinic now set up in their home. Her will was strong, Caleb thought, while his had always been weak. Ever since his accident, he had asked himself how and why he had gotten into this wretched position. The only answer he could muster was that he was pitifully human.
But there was no time for such sad reflections now, with the rain falling fast. The father and son leaned over him and raised the cot to return Caleb to the cave, leaving the rain to pelt the rocky ground. Their backs—one young and narrow, the other crooked and wide—grew wet in a matter of moments. Both so healthy, it might even have felt good to them after the dryness and heat. But to Caleb, the rain came like another irrefutable curse.
They lifted his cot and carried him over the rough earth. He heard their shoes slosh in sudden puddles and worried that they didn’t have proper footwear. He would have liked to give them his fine leather boots, but those had been lost to the mudslide many weeks before. Since then, he had had no need for them, but he hoped he might need them eventually. He had made it through the summer and seemed to be improving, or at least holding on. He could lift his head now. And as he did, he saw great torrents fall outside the mouth of the cave.
Han began to laugh at the rain, which made Caleb smile, too. It rolled over the cave door like a waterfall, and they were inside it. Yes, Caleb thought, that had always been a fine sight. He and his older brothers would hike miles up the trails near their home, and after a final steep bend in the path, they would come upon their favorite hidden gem: a waterfall that seemed to him, even at a young age, ancient and profound. In August, when other streams were dried up, white water churned over the rocks at this falls, fed by snow melting deep in the bowl beneath Mt. Washington.
The boys would throw off their clothes and scramble across the slippery rocks and dare one another with its icy touch. They sensed the danger and knew never to mention it to their mother, who would have forbidden them if she had known. A fall from that height at that distance from home would never permit rescue. If one of them fell, each brother would blame himself for the rest of his life, and so all four would be sacrificed to the failed expedition. They owed it to one another to never let that happen.
Caleb, being the youngest, was always the last to make the ledge. For years, his legs were not quite long enough to step over. While his brothers waited, he had to jump the final expanse across to the other side. They stood trembling inside the waterfall, their shivering backs pressed against the dry rock, while Caleb remained on the outside looking in at their wild and joyous faces. The frothing water poured down like a veil between them as they waited for him to take the last leap, which their shouts encouraged him to do. He would never forget the instant when he hung between rock and rock and waited for the firm grip of his brother’s hand as it reached out through the falling water to bring him across to safety.
Caleb felt the tears roll down his cheeks before he realized he had shed them. Such was his new state of being: more fluid than solid. He reached a trembling hand up and swiped away the wetness. Outside, the rain carried the sky downward with it. The peak of the mountain over his head, Caleb could imagine, becoming one with the wet sky.
The Chinese youth beside him danced a boyish dance, and Caleb wished he could join him. Caleb recalled Charles performing a similar rain dance in fresh puddles when he was younger. Without words, Han was reminding Caleb that the rain was not a curse against him but merely the changing of the seasons, proof that life carried on, and they with it. He had never believed he would make it this long with his broken back, but he had, and the boy’s excitement gave him hope that he might just make it through to the next season, and even the next. He did not want to die. He wanted to rise up and rejoin the living. He wanted to dance with his boy again.
Han hovered over his bed as Cook massaged the blood back into Caleb’s feet. He thought he might even walk today. He might sit up, as he had several times, and actually walk.
“Reverend,” Han said, “I have news from the mission.”
Caleb smiled at the young man. “You look well, Han.”
“Thank you, Reverend. You look better, too.”
“You are happy?” Caleb asked.
“Yes, very happy. Shall I tell you about your family?”
Caleb looked out at the rain and wondered if he could bear to hear it. Any news of his family both fueled his recovery and pained him. He nodded carefully, his neck finally repaired enough to allow him to do so. He longed to show Shirley his progress.
“An order has come from the American legation in Peking. They are all leaving, sir.”
“What’s that?” Caleb asked, though he had heard the boy.
“Your family and the others will start their journey back to America today,” Han shouted to be heard above the sound of the rain. “They will travel by train across the north to Peking, then down to Shanghai, where they will leave on a Swedish ship, the Gripsholm. They are fortunate to have booked passage. Some foreigners are not so lucky.”
The rain continued, loud and insistent and pure. Caleb wished he could listen to it and keep daydreaming. He had imagined a reunion at the mission, his family amazed by the miracle of his return. But now his family was leaving China for good without him. Han had brought word.
“Ah,” Caleb finally said.
“You are not surprised by this news, are you?” Han asked. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Of course.”
“The Japanese front continues to expand, but we are ready. Our leaders say the whole country must fight against them together.”
“That’s a good plan.”
But Han did not appear convinced by Caleb’s reply and repeated, “Your family, Reverend, must leave quickly to escape. No one will be spared. You understand?”
“So it must be.”
But in his heart, Caleb longed for more time. For the rains to have held off longer. For his legs to have regained more strength. For the searing pain in his back to not cripple every part of him, even his mind. He understood it would be impossible for him to join them after they had left the mission. He would never make it to Shanghai to board the same ship. Later though, he would travel alone across dangerous territory and eventually make his own passage to America. But he could not possibly make that journey by himself, when still so fragile and the conditions so harrowing. His mind went white with confusion and doubt as he realized he would never get home.
“Thank you for telling me,” he made himself say. “I pray they make it out without incident. With all my heart, I pray for that.”
Caleb felt tears leave his eyes again and roll down his cheeks. He could not bear his own selfishness. That any part of him wished they would stay for his sake was wrong, and he knew it. He cried at his feebleness of spirit. He was a flawed man who had given up caring that he opened like a faucet, the tears pouring from him as naturally as the rain outside. He could not bear his own company any longer.
He began a prayer in his mind that his beloved wife and son be escorted away from him and into a new life. They must leave this hard and disastrous land and return to America, where everything was easier. They deserved to be free of China and of his tired, broken bones. How could he have imagined burdening them with his wounded self? If they were to make it out alive, they did not need to be toting along a cripple who would only impede their progress. They needed to go on without him. That was only right.
“It is good,” he said more firmly.
The boy crouched closer and nodded. “Yes, very good.”
Then Han stood and bowed and left Caleb’s side.