Love and Other Consolation Prizes(43)

She shushed him. “It’s okay, Ernest—it’s okay,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to startle you. I’m sorry to wake you like this, but we’re having a bit of an emergency and I need you to get dressed and put on your shoes as quickly as you can, okay?”

Ernest shook off his slumber and bolted upright. “Is it a fire?” He instinctively sniffed but didn’t smell smoke, only tobacco and the dreamy haze of last night’s perfume.

“Nothing of the sort.” She touched his arm and calmly spoke. “Madam Flora is having one of her fits. Miss Amber and Maisie are trying to calm her down, but I need you to run to the herbalist again and get more of that tea. I need you to go right now. I’ll turn around so you can put your clothes on.”

She handed him his pants and then stood and faced the door while he got dressed and donned a clean shirt. When she turned back to him, she held up a dollar bill. “Mrs. Blackwell will take care of the downstairs, there’s nothing there that you need to trouble yourself with. And the upstairs girls, for the most part, are still sleeping—they have the day off. Everything will be fine, but this is…”

Ernest didn’t know what one of her fits meant exactly. True gentlemen were not privy to many female mysteries, and the proper response was simply not to inquire further. So he took the money, slipped his shoes on without tying them, and ran down the hall. He descended the grand staircase and sprinted out the front door toward Chinatown.

By the time he reached the Jue Young Wo herb shop, Ernest was sweaty and nearly out of breath. To make matters worse, the store was closed, though he could see the old proprietor moving about inside, sweeping the floor and brewing a pot of tea. Ernest banged on the door and shouted until the man finally let him in. The herbalist offered him a cup of ginger tea and began speaking to him in Cantonese.

Ernest shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t remember the name of the herb in English or Chinese. He held up the dollar and urgently pointed to the dried red flowers.

—

WHEN ERNEST RETURNED, Fahn was busy making breakfast for the servants. Mrs. Blackwell emerged from the kitchen with a kettle of boiling water. “Follow me,” she said, as she quickly brewed the tea and took the concoction upstairs on a lacquered tray, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, as if this were any other Sunday and she were bringing up a breakfast of toast and apple butter. Ernest did as he was told. If the cook was distressed in any way, she didn’t reveal her concern. Instead she handed Ernest a kitchen towel and said, “I have a feeling you’ll need this.”

A few worried girls, still in their nightgowns, had gathered in the hallway near Madam Flora’s suite, but Mrs. Blackwell shooed them off. From outside Ernest could hear voices, some soothing, some panicked, almost crying. He stepped back as he heard the strange whir and squeak of light machinery.

He said, “I don’t want to be in the way…”

“Your chores can wait, lad.” Mrs. Blackwell shrugged. “Time to see the world as it really is—occupational hazards and all.”

Ernest looked back, confused.

“Madam is our matron saint, and we all need to pull together and do what we can,” Mrs. Blackwell said as she walked. “Besides, honest Abe Lincoln suffered from the same affliction. It goes away for decades, but when it comes back—oh my, how that sickness does some terrible things to the mind. Hopefully this stuff works, because it’s a frightening way to go—losing your wits, forgetting everyone around you, going blind…”

Mrs. Blackwell knocked to announce their arrival and then opened the door. Inside the finely appointed room, Madam Flora sat atop a bicycle that had its front wheel propped up so that she was riding in place. The legs of her short, blue silk pajamas had been pulled up to her knees and fluttered as she pedaled.

I must be dreaming, Ernest thought. I’m having some kind of bizarre nightmare from ingesting too much tobacco smoke.

He stood paralyzed, towel in hand, staring wide-eyed at the scene of Madam Flora riding, crying, her white legs streaked with thick purple veins. Wigless, Miss Amber held Flora’s hand and kissed her cheek.

Standing nearby was Maisie, whose nose and eyes were puffy and wet with tears. She took the cup from Mrs. Blackwell and offered it to her mother.

“Please, Mama…Flora, just have a sip,” Maisie said. “It’s piping hot, just the way you like it. Please…”

Madam Flora swiped the cup away from Maisie with the back of her hand. The red liquid splashed on the wallpaper as the cup shattered. Madam Flora screwed up her face like a toddler forced to drink a spoonful of cod-liver oil as Mrs. Blackwell snapped her fingers at Ernest, pointing to the towel. He sprang to life, scrambling on his hands and knees as he wiped up the mess, dabbed at the wall to try to soak up the tea, and collected the broken bits of porcelain.

“I want to go home,” Madam Flora pleaded. “Please, just let me go home…”

Ernest looked back and saw Miss Amber, a kind shadow of her gruff self, softly whispering, “Ah, you are home, my love. You are the heart and soul of the Tenderloin, and we need you. Please come back to us, my dear.”

Ernest watched as Madam Flora stopped pedaling and looked around the room. The front wheel continued to spin, winding down like the slowing of a panicked heart. Then Flora seemed to realize where she was, and hysteria dissolved into confusion. She touched her hair, the disheveled mess, part up, part hanging down in a ratted clump, as though she’d been caught in a transient state between celebration and slumber. The exhausted woman held out her trembling palms when Miss Amber offered her a fresh cup of tea. This time Madam Flora cradled the delicate china cup in both hands and sipped.