Outrun the Moon(33)

“Maybe he would if he knew the overseer is paid five dollars a day. If he does well, it may even lead to a permanent position.”

I keep my features tied tight, though five dollars is a heavenly wage. He could start a nest egg for the glider he wants to build. But the thought of him working for the Du Lacs makes my tongue peel, like I’ve sucked on one of the bitter roots in Ah-Suk’s store.

As Elodie flits around the room, any last feelings of victory seep out of me like suds through the floor drains at Ba’s laundry. Suddenly, I’m desperate to see Tom again. Not just to foil Elodie’s self-serving plans, but because I could use a friend right now. He knows just how to shake the wrinkles out of any situation.

When I first started working at the laundry, my fingers were cracked and wouldn’t stop bleeding. He rubbed an ointment of beeswax and cork bark into my skin, telling me, “You want to climb to the top, you’ll have to pass through some rough stretches. They won’t last forever. Just make it through today.” That was Tom, never seeing the glass as half-full, or half-empty, but just drinking the water.

I pull off my stockings, nearly poking my thumb through the wool. Headmistress Crouch won’t grant permission for me to leave again after tonight’s outing, even if I could think of a plausible excuse. And I can’t just waltz out of here without anyone noticing.

It occurs to me that in two days it will be Easter Sunday. Tom and I hadn’t discussed whether we would have our annual meeting, but what if he did plan to meet me on Laurel Hill? After all, I’m closer to the cemetery now than when I lived in Chinatown. And he mentioned last year’s hike when we were at the docks, so it was in his mind. Maybe I can sneak out after chapel.





14



ON EASTER SUNDAY, FATHER GOODWIN delivers a passionate sermon on the wrath of God smiting the sons of disobedience, and I rethink my decision to sneak out. No doubt God’s wrath includes daughters, too. If I get expelled, I will have pulled the window open, just to have it slam down on my fingers.

Then again, the thought of Tom working for Elodie brings my blood to a simmer. Plus, I would hate for him to go all that way and me to not show up.

Francesca plays the organ with enough ferocity to march all the saints back home. We file out, and the girls head to the salon, where Headmistress Crouch rehearses them. Not even the Lord’s resurrection can make her skip rehearsal.

Laurel Hill lies only a couple blocks to the west. Before I change my mind, my feet have already taken me to the laundry building at the back of the school lot, where a high fence connects to the school’s hedge and hides the clothes from visitors. In Chinatown, laundry was simply hung wherever you could jam a clothespin.

I toe the bottom rail of the fence. Sure enough, boilers and tubs populate a square courtyard; there’s even a box mangler for easy pressing. Ba does all his ironing with a handheld slug that weighs five pounds. Metallic alum and powdery soap lace the air. It seems that laundry smells the same no matter who it belongs to.

I find a bare spot where the hedge meets the fence and squeeze through.

The night is cold, but I savor the feeling of pavement against my soles. Every sound makes my heart skip a beat, and for several minutes I’m convinced I hear footfalls behind me. I turn around, preferring it be a criminal to Headmistress Crouch. But the footfalls soon die off, and I concentrate on moving forward.

No gates surround Laurel Hill Cemetery, as there is no need. The threat of ghosts and ghouls are enough to keep mischief makers away. Weeds have crept up the wet side of the hill. That would never have happened under my watch as assistant to the assistant groundskeeper. Keeping an eye out for Tom, I climb a grassy knoll studded with marble markers and winged statues. The residents here are the oldest on the property.

When I die, I want my headstone inscribed with something that will make people smile, like “No more Mercy,” or maybe a twist on Abe Lincoln’s famous quote: “Mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice. (So drop your apple cores here).”

Of course, I would never have a final rest on this hill. Getting a home here is even harder than on Nob Hill. There was a vault given to the Chinese, but it has been defaced and off-limits for years. Even the dead, it seems, have their prejudices.

At the top of the hill, I wrap my shawl tight around me and plop down on a stone tablet marker to wait. Bird droppings cover the G and L in the name of the occupant: Jack Glass. Bet Mr. Glass is turning over in his grave. Then again, he’s been lying there for fifty years and can probably use the exercise.

After several minutes pass, my fingers turn numb, so I get up and hop in place instead. Consultant. I snort. Elodie doesn’t even know Tom. He’s a dreamer, an inventor. He will touch the stars one day. That she could think he’d stoop to such a mundane job is laughable.

Or maybe I am the one who should be mocked, waiting here for someone whose feelings have dropped off steeply. Tom never said he would come. I thought we were friends, but perhaps he’s been keeping his distance because he objects to an arranged marriage between us. Maybe Ling-Ling is more his taste and he is waiting for me to release him.

I turn to leave, but before I go two paces, something moves in the bushes, rooting me to the spot.

“Couldn’t we meet at a park like normal people?” comes a voice.

I release a shaky breath, hoping he doesn’t realize he scared the hair off me. “That would be too easy.”