Outrun the Moon(52)

24



HEADMISTRESS CROUCH RUMMAGES THROUGH a crate. A sprig of hemlock needles falls on her, and she claws it off. “Fools. What good’s a pot without coal?”

I want to continue past her to Ah-Suk, a hundred feet away, but I don’t wish to be rude. “Maybe it’s not for cooking.”

She shudders, then bends over the crate, which is stuffed with canvas and wood sticks. “What kind of blanket is this?”

“I believe that’s a tent, ma’am.”

She looks up at me sharply, then shakes out the canvas. “Obviously it’s a tent.”

I’m in no mood for her snippiness, so I move toward a ring of redwoods, passing an iron bench, which has become a makeshift bed for an entire family.

Ah-Suk perches on his supply crate, trying to unstick the clasp of his suitcase. Unlike Tom, who favors his mother’s solid build, the doctor has always reminded me of a crane, with a long neck and a deliberateness to his movements.

“Ah-Suk, thank you for bringing me here,” I say in Cantonese. More tears spring to my eyes, but I force them back.

The last time I saw Jack, he was asleep. I should’ve woken him. I should’ve told him how much I love him.

“Don’t need to thank me.” He beckons me to sit beside him on the crate, and I do.

He continues, “Your ma led a good life. She deserved a five-blossom death.”

I nod, though that particular saying always blew sand in my face. Chinese believe that in order to die well, a woman must have experienced the five “blossoms”—marriage, bearing a son, being respected, having a grandson who loves you, and dying in your sleep after a long life. To me, Ma’s death is no less honorable than someone with five hundred grandsons.

In the distance, the St. Clare’s girls are trying to put together tents. Harry and Katie stretch out the canvas, while Francesca tries to fit two sticks together.

“You must burn paper for your mother, and your brother, too.” Ah-Suk makes a sucking sound, and he shakes his head gravely. “Black hair must send white hair first.”

The reminder that parents should not live longer than their children puts a fresh ache in my heart. “I will, Ah-Suk.”

“Your father was out making deliveries?”

“Yes. He would have been coming back from Oakland.”

He pulls off his skullcap to run a hand through his hair, and the gesture immediately reminds me of Tom. I always teased him that he better stop or his hair would grow as thin as Ah-Suk’s. “Then he should be fine. Nothing you can do but wait.”

Despite his words, an image of Ba wringing his cap springs to mind, replaced by a worse image of Ba drowning. I take a deep breath, forcing the terrible thought to leave.

“And what of Tom? Do you think he is okay?”

He scowls, and his chin hairs quiver. “Captain Lu’s ship can reach twenty-two knots. They should be a few hundred miles up the coast by now.” He returns to trying to open his suitcase. “I would not worry about him, Mercy. He is not coming back. We have both lost family.”

He must feel great shame that his only son has left, though he, like many Chinese, will never admit it. I don’t point out the irony of Tom’s disobedience, which saved him from this hell. And though I sympathize with Ah-Suk’s loss, it cannot equate with the loss I feel for Ma and Jack. Ah-Suk could still go look for Tom, or write him a letter.

The lid of the suitcase finally pops open to reveal his high-shelf tea set padded with packets of herbs.

“I’d packed this to give to Tom for his trip, because sometimes he has trouble sleeping.” His sharp Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, and I’m surprised to find his normally strict expression beset by grief. “I didn’t realize he meant to leave so soon.” He pulls a folded paper from his jacket and slaps it against his palm. “That’s all I get for eighteen years of being his father. One lousy note.”

Despite my loyalty to Tom, I find myself hurting for the old man. I want to assure him that we will see Tom again, but it would be impertinent for me to offer comfort to a respected elder. He shakes his head and snaps the lid back down.

“I sent Winter to Mr. Cruz. I told the fool to lay off the chicken livers, but he prefers his gout,” Ah-Suk says brusquely, changing the subject. He often sent his horse to the Portuguese man’s house in Potrero Hill when his leg acted up. Winter was the smartest horse I ever met, and he always followed Ah-Suk’s instructions to the letter.

“May luck go with them. Have you heard word of Ling-Ling and her mother?”

“I have not. One can’t be sure. The whole block went up in smoke.”

I envision Ling-Ling’s ma trying to hobble away from the flames with her lotus feet, and immediately regret all the unkind thoughts I’d had about her.

I’m struck by the impermanence of it all. You expect certain things to always be there, like the bakery on the corner, or the boy you grew up with. But when the very ground can eat you alive without warning, what’s to say the ocean won’t dry up? Or the stars won’t suddenly shut off? Nothing is forever.

“May we help you with your tent?” I ask.

“Girls should not do men’s work,” Ah-Suk says sternly. “Plenty of others to help.” He points his chin toward the river, where two Chinese men are fetching water. “Go back to your white ghosts. Seems they need your help more than me.” He sweeps his hand toward Harry and Katie, who are wrestling the tent as if it were a live animal.