The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(112)
“Do you know what happened to her?” Dorothy asked.
“To who?” the boy said as he spread paste across the old poster.
“Her.” Dorothy pointed at what was left of the previous advertisement.
“Back home to the Orient is what most say. Though some will tell you she signed up with a circus in New York City.” The boy’s eyes widened when he looked down and saw Dorothy. “You looking to join her act?”
I’m already part of it.
He shrugged, then went back to his work. “I swear I saw her once, in poor condition, I’m afraid. She was the talk of the town for a while, that lady.” As he spoke, he covered up what was left of the poster for the Chinese Woman. “If I were you, I’d ask at the local almshouses. Though… don’t discount the circus.”
Dorothy thanked him and kept walking, slowing to peer down each alley that she came upon. Most were occupied by draft animals attending to bins of hay and troughs of water. Others were where horse-drawn carts and drays stood idle as stout men unloaded barrels of oatmeal, molasses, and crates of tea. Some of the narrow brick canyons were filled with mountains of festering manure and clouds of black flies so thick they looked like smoke. One arched alleyway was a depository for the putrefying carcasses of dead horses that lay rotting, the stench so foul it made her eyes water.
With each step, Dorothy understood why the streets were deemed no place for a lady. There were only a handful of women about, and those who did traverse the avenues did so with a retinue of servants carrying their belongings, their purchases, shading them with parasols and holding their gloved hands as they stepped off each curb. All of which made Dorothy’s presence more remarkable, not just to bearded laborers in stained shirts in need of laundering, but also to businessmen in tailored suits sporting elegant haberdashery. Dorothy even encountered—much to her surprise—a half-dozen Chinese workers who spoke to one another in a heavy Toisanese dialect as she passed. The men seemed confused, unsure if she was real. That’s when Dorothy felt a tingle run up the back of her spine, looked back, and saw a policeman one block away who took notice of her. He followed, pushing his way through a crowd that gathered on a street corner.
Dorothy hastened down the street, then began running, slipping by pedestrians as she sprinted past saloons and tobacco shops, bakers and coffee roasters, chandlers and fishmongers. She struggled to catch her breath, trying not to trip on the uneven sidewalk. She heard a shrill whistle, followed by a voice of authority shouting, “Come back!”
Her heart raced as she dashed down the nearest side street. She didn’t look back, darting across the crowded avenue, down the block, then ducking into a darkened alley, looking for someplace to hide. Amid the filth and garbage, rats scurried out of her way. She caught her breath as church bells began ringing in all directions, marking the time, but to Dorothy it felt as though someone had sounded an alarm.
Then Dorothy saw her.
She sat against the wall, in the dirt, legs splayed like a marionette whose strings were cut. Her pregnant belly bulged beneath her frock, the bottom of her dress dark, soaked with mud and blood. Dorothy froze as she saw a homeless man kneeling next to her, reaching into her bag, knocking over the tin cup the woman used for begging.
Somewhere far away, Dorothy still heard the policeman’s voice calling out to her, but she didn’t care anymore. Because the clouds were moving and shards of light found their way into the darkness, where she could clearly see the woman’s face, in so much pain and agony she seemed to be frozen. She broke the silence with a horrible wailing, the sound of a wounded animal, crying, birthing, dying.
The homeless man touched the woman’s face.
“Leave her alone!” Dorothy screamed.
She stepped closer, saw that the woman sat in a pool of her own blood, bearing down, pushing. The stranger wasn’t a beggar, or a thief, or a monster preying on a helpless woman. He was Chinese. He held her hand. He spoke to the woman gently as he tenderly wiped her forehead with a damp cloth and attended to her tears.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s Yao Han. I’ve finally found you.”
* * *
Dorothy felt as though she were in a speeding car and someone had slammed on the brakes. A sense of forward motion interrupted by the sound of wreckage, breaking glass, twisted metal, flying debris, the wind so loud she thought a train was bearing down on her. Amid the clamor she heard a man’s voice as dark blurs around her coalesced into shapes, figures. She saw a face directly above hers, blocking what little light there was to be had. His hand on her forehead, his fingers pinching her nose, his other was on her chin, tilting her head back. She felt the stubble on his face, the strange, intrusive intimacy of his lips on hers as he blew air into her mouth, once, twice, filling her lungs. Her chest expanding, swelling with warmth, aching as though bruised. Lying there, she couldn’t move, couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t blink. She could only stare at the ornate ceiling, aware of her helplessness as she felt the warmth of tears running down her cheeks.
He let go, then placed the heel of his hand into the center of her chest. “Come back to me,” he pleaded, pressing down hard, again and again and again.
I am back.
Dorothy heard him ask someone, “What did she take?”
“I don’t know what this is,” an older woman answered, holding an empty prescription bottle. “It’s not a narcotic. At least not one that I know of.”