Outrun the Moon(10)

I bring our bucket of dishes to the community pump behind our building, still put out by Ma’s proclamation, even if I don’t believe it. Her work, her life is ruled by things that cannot be seen or felt, only suspected and feared. Yet, I cannot blame her. The Chinese have spent thousands of years honing their beliefs, and it isn’t as if the Catholic’s system of saints and demons is any less peculiar. It just comes with a lot less predictions.

Women have gathered around the community pot, their loose pants rolled to the knees and their jackets to the elbows. A few of them perch on wooden stools, gossiping.

“Evening, Wong Mei-Si,” they greet me by my Chinese name, which means “beautiful thought.”

“Evening, aunties.” Their hair is dappled gray, and their faces are creased. Like Ma, many of them came here before 1882, when President Arthur signed the Chinese Exclusion Act, which barred Chinese from immigrating.

They toss questions at me like bread crumbs, hoping I will bite. “When will your parents give you away? There are rumors you will marry Tom Gunn.”

The women pass around a smile, and when I do not answer, the questions continue.

“How is your ma? We do not see her enough anymore.”

“Is she getting on with your ba? It must be difficult never to see him.”

“They are well,” I say simply, retreating to a spot by a bushy fern.

When it is apparent I will say no more, they return to their chatter, which now probably concerns me. Their tongues may be long, but I envy their friendship. The few girls I do know are expected to stay home. Not everyone has an independent mother who lets her go where she wants.

Squatting, I scrub the dishes as quickly and noiselessly as I can. I don’t see Ma’s bowl with the faded blue designs. She skipped a meal again.

A feeling of dread coils through me, too slippery to catch. I breathe deeply to start my energy flowing again. It will take me at least three years to graduate from St. Clare’s. Then when I’ve earned enough money from my herbal tea business, I will deliver us from this pernicious drudgery, and Jack will thrive.

I empty the bucket, using my arm to keep the dishes from falling out, and watch the gray water slip over my toes. Maybe once Ma’s business returns, her grim outlook will improve. I don’t believe in fate or destiny, but somehow I will change ours for the better. Even my inauspicious Ma’s.

I simply must catch the phoenix feather.





4



MONDAY ARRIVES WEARING A GRAY STOLE on her shoulders, which she refuses to shed by the time I set out for my meeting with Mr. Du Lac. Ma checks my black funeral dress for fibers. I look just as I did on Friday, except today I am wearing sensible shoes—flat cloth slippers with wool socks.

Licking her fingers, Ma tucks my chin-length hair behind my ears. Her fingers drift to my bossy cheeks and press, a not-so-subtle reminder to keep my authoritative bumps in rein.

I try to shake her off, but she holds me in place. “These cheeks are from me. They mean you can row your own boat, even when there is no wind to help you.”

Her gray eyes tighten, and it puts an anxious flutter in my stomach. This morning, I heard her and Ba arguing. “Is Ba still mad at me?”

She releases me. “No. He thinks it is my fault for letting you run wild. That I have created a cricket daughter who believes she can jump wherever she wants.” Father is always calling Ma a cricket because those insects don’t have ears and she never listens to him. Ma says that crickets do have ears, they just listen a different way.

“I’m sorry. Should I talk to him?”

“No. I told him you can’t force a kumquat tree to make pears. You must help it make the best kumquats it can make.”

“I am the kumquat?”

“No, you are the tree. Now go on, and make some good fruits.”

I untie our rope lock.

“Wait. It is bad luck to go empty-handed.” Ma crosses the room with our pomelo, an important symbol of family unity due to its full, round shape. “You should offer a gift.”

I clasp my hands behind my back. “They would just think me odd.” Plus, it took Ba a full day’s work to afford that one. He never skimps when it comes to offerings for ancestors, even though it technically contradicts his Catholic beliefs. It is one of the few things my parents agree on.

“Take it.” Her top lip presses into the bottom one.

“What about an orange instead?” At least an orange is familiar.

“An orange is not lucky enough.” She pushes the fruit at me, then closes the door.

I sigh. It is useless to argue with a cricket.

My knees protest as I descend steep Clay Street, then Dupont, past men searching for work on the posted dailies and past the open-air fish market with the squid curtains. Mr. Tong fills flat baskets with still-wiggling mackerel, blue and sleek with staring eyes.

“Beautiful Thought, are you well? You haven’t bought a rock cod from me in nearly a moon,” he calls out. Icicles of white beard hairs twitch from his chin. “Nine Fingers hasn’t stolen you away?”

In the next stall, his twin brother scoops Dungeness crabs into a crate with his bare hands. He lost the tip of his finger that way, but he says nine is a luckier number than ten, anyway. “Or perhaps you have driven her away with your ugly face, which makes even onions cry,” Nine Fingers says.