Outrun the Moon(11)

“Ba has lost his taste for seafood, but he thinks it will return soon,” I lie. Ba loves fish, but we’ve been substituting it with tofu, which costs less.

The spaces between Mr. Tong’s teeth are big enough for a beetle to crawl through. “Maybe it’s your ma’s cooking.”

Nine Fingers spits. “Maybe this is why you lose customers, because you insult their mothers!”

I bow to the brothers, then hurry away, leaving them to their argument. I have three miles to walk, and I can already hear the bells at St. Mary’s tolling the eleven o’clock hour.

The land levels out several minutes later when I’ve exited Chinatown. I cut a wide path around a dark alley, then correct course again, past Union Square.

On one side of a brick building, faded stenciling reads Come one, come all! Rowboats, 15￠/hr, Golden Gate Park. When I was Jack’s age, I begged Ba to take me there. That day, Ba was in a good mood. We hiked to Stow Lake in the middle of the park and handed them our dime. They laughed at us. Monkeys don’t ride boats, they said.

In the center of Union Square, the white figure, Winged Victory, meets my grimace with a fierce expression, urging me onward with her trident.

I turn onto Geary, and then it’s a straight shot to St. Clare’s in the Western Addition, the streetcar suburb built on the old western boundary of the city. I clutch my grapefruit, wishing I had thought to bring it in a bag. If only Ma hadn’t made me bring this dratted fruit.

Past the main thoroughfare of Van Ness, gussied up Victorian houses regard me coolly. I’ve passed this way a hundred times to the cemetery, but they never seem to get any friendlier. Ma says all houses have humors, and I always suspected theirs were waiting for me to trip.

After a mile of ascent, my funeral dress sticks to my chest and the grapefruit slips in my grip. The chapel of St. Clare’s appears, with its narrow bell tower, then the school. Five stories of hay-colored bricks end at a steeply sloping roof punctured with peek-through windows. The school’s buildings occupy half the block.

Now that I wait on the threshold of opportunity, a tingle of doubt wends through me. It’s as if I’ve stepped in front of a sleeping tiger, and perhaps I should not wake it after all.

I remember the feel of Jack’s tiny hand, tugging me forward. Let’s go, Mercy!

Fixing my hat upon my head, I march up the painted stoop. Muffled chatter seeps through the door. I grasp the brass knocker and put it to work.

The chatter falters. Moments later, a droopy-cheeked woman with a nest of gray hair answers. The collar of her maid’s uniform is starched flat as moth wings. “May I help you?” I detect an Irish accent. Her eyes cut to my grapefruit.

Girls in crisp navy dresses flutter behind her, reminding me of the basket of mackerel I passed earlier, with their staring eyes and sameness in appearance. I ignore them. “I am Mercy Wong. I have an appointment with Monsieur Du Lac.”

Titters erupt from the girls.

“A Chinagirl,” someone whispers.

“Wants to speak with your father, Elodie,” says another girl.

Elodie? A pair of insolent eyes pin me from behind the maid’s shoulder. The girl at the Chocolatier was no shopgirl, but the Du Lacs’ daughter. I now recognize the same aquiline nose as her mother, indicating a proud and sarcastic nature. My eyes fall to her boots, so shiny you could start a fire with them.

“One moment.” The maid closes the door and doesn’t return for the length of time it takes to boil water.

“Please follow me,” she says when she finally opens the door again.

Head held high, I pass into the hallowed halls where no Chinese girl has gone before. A hundred white ghosts seem to gasp at my boldness, while a hundred yellow ones hold their breaths.

A bell rings, and to my relief, the girls scatter. The maid leads me down a hallway hung with so many pictures it looks like the walls will collapse. Leland Stanford, Mark Hopkins, John Sutter, Charles Crocker. The roster of unsmiling mugs is impressive, though for a girls’ school, there certainly are a lot of men.

My shoes sink into the plush runner, dyed the impractical color of cream. I peek behind to see if I’ve left dirty footprints.

The maid stops, and I smack right into her. “Oh! Sorry.”

She pats her graying bun and mutters, “Better watch your step. There are people here you don’t want to bump into.” She eyes my grapefruit again, then raps on a heavy oak door.

“Enter,” says a man’s voice that sounds accustomed to giving orders.

Monsieur Du Lac rises from his chair behind an expensive desk. He strikes me as the male equivalent of his wife, though perhaps it is because of his distasteful expression, ironic for people always surrounded by chocolate. His chin and nose form double knobs, substantial enough for a miniature-sized person to hang their hat and coat. His appearance is orderly, with the exception of his vest buttons, which valiantly stem the tide of his thickening middle. “Miss Wong, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sneezes, and I watch out for flying buttons. “What is that?”

“A pomelo for you, sir. For prosperity—”

“Mrs. Tingle, get rid of it. I seem to be allergic.”

The maid bobs and holds her hands out to me. With a sigh, I hand over my golden orb.

“Will you be wanting tea?” she asks him.

“No.”