The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(47)

“Draw another name!” a man in the front row demanded. Others joined in, insisting that the Hanningtons pull another name from the hat.

Afong stepped back as the audience turned into a mob.

“If you’ll all just calm yourselves,” Mr. Hannington shouted back. “Is there a Mr. George Codhooker in the audience, he’s the name she meant to read.”

“It’s rigged!” one man yelled. Another shouted, “I want my money back!” Their voices joined a chorus of men and women, roaring with anger.

“Ladies! Ladies! Ask your men to settle down,” Mrs. Hannington hectored the audience as though scolding a group of misbehaving children. Her pleading was met with a ripe apple that bounced off her forehead. Her arms flailed as she toppled backward, falling like a tree, her head bouncing off the stage floor.

Afong backed away as she watched three men in the front row seize Nanchoy. Other men alighted the stage, demanding the money that was promised.

Like a ghost, Afong slipped behind the curtain and headed for the rear exit. She heard Mr. Hannington yelling, the rage in his voice ceasing, turning to fear, then to silence amid the sound of boots on the stage, the tumble of bodies, the smacking of fists on cheekbones. Afong left the theater and thought she heard Nanchoy pleading for help. She listened again for a moment, then closed the door behind her.

Afong hurried down the street, but all she could manage was an awkward shuffle, tripping, stumbling, falling to the wet pavement. She climbed to her feet and kept going, trying to run. People stopped and stared, they pointed at her clothing, her face, her features that set her apart from everyone else. A drunken man shouted, calling out to her. A group of women looked offended as they gasped at her presence. Even a freeman regarded her with bewilderment, raising his eyebrows and scratching his beard.

When she finally reached the boardinghouse, sweating and out of breath, she caught her reflection in the window. Her hair clung to her face, which looked pale, like ivory, a mask of carved alabaster. Her skin felt cold, clammy, her stomach turning. She walked through the door, startling two other residents, young men who were smoking pipe tobacco in the drawing room. Afong ignored them but could not ignore the smoke that made her nauseous. Her mouth felt dry as she climbed the stairs, went to her room, stepped inside, and closed the door. Dizzy, shaking, her hands trembled as she reached for an empty brass spittoon and dropped to her knees. She struggled to breathe for a moment, holding back, then her body seized and she expelled what little she had in her stomach. Her eyes watered and she smelled the sour spew as it splattered on the inside of the cold brass vessel, a wet, hollow ringing in her ears.



* * *



Fifteen minutes later, Afong’s head cleared and her stomach settled enough for her to sip water and begin quickly packing her belongings. She tried not to think of what would happen to her at the hands of Mr. Hannington, though a part of her hoped they would just leave town as planned, leaving her behind. She heard a commotion in the hallway, and a female boarder shrieked as Nanchoy stumbled into Afong’s room. His face a swollen purple mess, dried blood caked beneath his nose, his ears, his mouth. He staggered in, one hand on his stomach where he pressed a silk handkerchief, now soaked with sanguine fluid. His hand was shaking as he collapsed on Afong’s bed. He struggled to breathe as he tried to move. He grimaced in pain, wheezing. He stared down as a bloodstain on his shirt, a red flower, the size of a fist, grew even larger, wet and sticky and smelling like an abattoir.

“What happened?” Afong asked, though she already guessed.

“The mob…” Nanchoy coughed up a dram of dark liquid that dripped down his chin. “They stripped off Hannington’s clothing, dragged him out to be tarred and feathered. He screamed that I cheated him. A white man, cheated by a Chinaman.” Nanchoy sucked in a deep breath. “Someone shot me.”

Afong shoved her remaining things into her bag. If they did this to Nanchoy, she worried what they might do to her.

“Please, Afong,” Nanchoy wheezed. “No one else would help.”

She opened her mouth to speak but felt a wave of nausea and rushed to the spittoon and threw up again, gagging, coughing.

Nanchoy tried to sit up but collapsed back on the bed, clutching his stomach and moaning, one leg dangling on the floor. “Don’t leave me… Afong. Please, find a doctor.”

Afong hesitated, catching her breath. Then she wiped her chin and stepped toward Nanchoy. She sat on the edge of the bed, reached as though she were about to caress his cheek, then she pulled the oyster knife free from the headboard.

She stood over him. Her hand shook as she gripped the knife.

He coughed again, looking up at her.

He spat blood on his shirt as he spoke. “You don’t even know… do you?”

Know what?

He smiled.

Know what!?

“You’re… pregnant, Afong,” Nanchoy gurgled, then spit up more blood. “I knew it. Mrs. Hannington too. Now you have to help me. We have to get married. Do you know what happens to women who have a child out of wedlock? You’re a foreigner. You won’t even find work as a wet nurse. You need me.”

She realized she was shaking. “I do not need you.” She heard a commotion in the hallway, doors opening, slamming, voices asking what’s the matter, others shouting for police or calling out for the woman who owned the boardinghouse.