Love and Other Consolation Prizes(92)

Ernest smiled as he felt warmth spreading from the center of his chest. He was almost fifteen and could pass for marrying age. And Fahn was nearly eighteen.

“We could…” He hesitated. Then he took her hands. “We could make it official. We could go to the courthouse…”

“I can’t believe you still want to marry me…”

“Why? What’s wrong with that?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all. A part of me would like that, Ernest.” She spoke the affirming words, but her eyes were filled with apologies as she let go. “I love the thought of a life together, with someone, anyone, but especially with you. I dream of that sometimes. But…I’m not the girl you marry. I never was and I never will be. I don’t think I’m the marrying kind.”

“I do.”

Fahn turned her back toward the Tenderloin. “Then I guess we’ll see what happens. The world is changing. Maybe I’ll be allowed to change as well.”

Ernest picked up his suitcase and stared at the vacant street, the darkened buildings. Everything was quiet. He could hear birds calling on the rooftops, the clip-clop of a distant horse. The faint sound of a church choir.

Ernest thought about the future and sighed. “Goodness, gracious.”





LOVE AND MARRIAGE


(1962)



Ernest left Gracie at the apartment, engrossed in a live television program about the Century 21 Expo and the opening of the Space Needle. He walked east on South Weller, beyond a vacant lot where an old abandoned building had been torn down and past the smoky entrance of the Consistory Legionarios del Trabajo. He’d visited the lodge with Pascual on occasion, whenever the Filipino-American brethren were serving lechón.

As he passed, he didn’t smell the telltale aroma of lemongrass and vinegar, so he kept going on across the street to the humble Crescent Café. Inside there were burgers frying, chili simmering, and coffee noisily percolating behind the counter. He found a booth by the window and rested his elbows on the chipped Formica tabletop, hands in front of his face as though in prayer. He thought about Maisie and Fahn—better known these days as Margaret and Gracie. As if in answer to his silent invocation, a waitress brought him a glass of water and a menu.

Ernest glanced at his wristwatch and then looked outside at the creeping shadows of the setting sun. As he waited for Juju, pedestrians walked up and down the sidewalk beneath the awnings of the Red Front Tavern, the Manila Café, and the Victory Laundry & Bath.

He’d told Juju all of his recollections regarding the great Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition. He’d shared how Madam Flora and Miss Amber had traveled abroad and never returned, how Fahn had run away to a less reputable establishment, and how Maisie had eventually transcended her social status. But as his reporter daughter walked through the door, he knew that he had to answer whatever other lingering questions she might have, if only to keep Gracie from surprising her on a regular basis.

“Wow, Dad, charming place you picked out. It’s almost as nice as the Publix,” Juju said as she hung up her coat and settled into the booth across from him.

“Some people go out to be seen,” Ernest said. “I prefer to be unseen.”

“Yeah, you and Sasquatch.”

Ernest motioned to the waitress, who brought them a fresh pot of tea, steaming hot. He swirled the pot and then poured for both of them. He observed how the bits of leaves settled at the bottom of each cup, and he wondered what secrets might be foretold, past and future. “What are Hanny and Rich up to this evening?”

Juju opened her reporter’s notebook. “Han said they’d meet us back at your lovely apartment after dinner; she wanted to spend some more time with Mom before they fly back.” Then she shifted on the cracked vinyl of her seat. “How’s she doing?”

“Better,” Ernest said with a nod. “I think she’s getting a little bit better every day. Though occasionally she’ll ask where old friends are—most of whom have long since passed away. But we’re together again, so that’s something—”

“Dad, I told Hanny the truth about Mom’s situation,” Juju interrupted.

Ernest paused and slowly sipped his tea. “And…how did that go?”

“Oh, she already knew.” Juju rolled her eyes. “Han works in Las Vegas as a showgirl. She’s around gangsters and gamblers and topless dancers all the time—she’s not that na?ve, trust me. She just doesn’t like to dwell on the thought of her mom working as a—what was that word you used?”

Ernest cleared his throat. “The Chinese called them mui tsai. The Caucasian girls had other, less interesting terms for ladies who were caught up in that line of work. Your mother was what they called a karayuki-san. And while she only worked for a brief time, it had a lasting effect, as you well know, mental, physical. Sometimes the girls were lucky, they only worked as maids—domestic servants. But others…”

“Yeah, that,” Juju said with an exasperated sigh. “It’s hard to sort it all out. Though I did find this article.” She unfolded a newspaper, a yellowed, brittle copy of the Seattle Times from 1901. She pointed to a small headline about Chinese and Japanese children sold as domestic servants. She’d highlighted the line