China Dolls (15 page)

It wasn’t as though I couldn’t impress Joe when the opportunity arose. In an effort to attract more business to the Forbidden City, Charlie got the ponies booked to do a dance in a newsreel. On the big day, a bus drove us to the beach. We lined up in the sand, wearing big headdresses that tinkled and glittered with every movement, and embroidered Chinese opera gowns with long water sleeves made of the lightest silk, which draped over our hands a good twelve inches. Our feet dragged in the sand, but our water sleeves floated and blew in the ocean breeze. We sidestepped until we were behind a coromandel screen set up incongruously on the sand to discard our headdresses and gowns, and toss them toward the camera in a manner bound to provoke good-natured chuckles. The music changed to a jitterbug. Now in bathing suits, we swung out from behind the screen. “Well, well, well,” the announcer intoned with proper surprise. “What would Confucius say?”

A few weeks later, when Ruby was in bed with cramps, Joe took me to a matinee—the first picture I’d seen in ages—and we saw the newsreel. I sensed what others in the audience felt when we stripped down to our swimsuits. We had moved from foreign Oriental maidens to homespun American gals in a few frames.

“What a great opportunity for you,” Joe told me later. “Pretty soon you’ll be a genuine motion-picture star.”

Now wasn’t that better than seeing an electric razor or a television?

J
OE GAVE ME
a fan from the Chinese Village. A landscape of soaring mountains, pavilions with upturned eaves, and trees bent by the wind spread across the fan’s folds. Every night when I got ready for bed, I took it out of my dresser drawer, where I kept the other trinkets he’d
given me—a pickle pin from the Heinz exhibit, aluminum coins from the Union Pacific railroad exhibit, and a pair of 3-D glasses. Sure, they were all giveaways—except for the fan and my first precious pair of nylon stockings—but whenever I opened the fan, I thought of Joe. On my days off, I stayed at the exposition all through his shifts, so I could be there during his breaks.

“Grace, you’re still a kid,” he announced matter-of-factly one afternoon as we walked to the White Star Tuna Resturant to buy a lunch of hot tuna turnovers with frozen peas—the latest in fancy foods. “You’re too young for me, and I’m too old for you. Maybe in another ten years …”

Even when I surprised him, he always seemed glad to see me. “You again! Great!” Sometimes we sat by the Port of the Trade Winds to watch the China Clipper seaplanes, which offered the first commercial flights between the United States and Asia, taking off and landing in the bay.

“It takes three weeks to travel from here to Hong Kong on an ocean liner,” he told me. “The China Clipper has shortened it to a couple of days.”

That seemed wondrous, but then I’d never been on a ship, let alone an airplane.

“Maybe one day I’ll get to fly a China Clipper,” he said. But I didn’t see how, especially if he wanted to go to law school.

Joe taught me to drink homemade Cuba libres, which we made by pouring rum into our Coca-Cola bottles. He told me he’d rather have me learn to drink properly with him than from the men in the club, where I might forget how to handle myself.

In August—five months after Joe first approached Helen and me with his rolling chair—he took me to see
The Wizard of Oz
. Sure, it was a kids’ movie, but those flying monkeys scared the dickens out of me. Watching Auntie Em and Uncle Henry search for Dorothy made me think about my parents.
Does Mom miss me? What about Dad? Do they wonder where I am and how I’m doing?
But those questions
puffed away when Joe whispered in my ear. “The Land of Oz looks just like Treasure Island, doesn’t it?”

Just hearing his voice could wash away even the darkest thoughts.

O
N A
S
ATURDAY
in early September, I sat in the Court of Flowers, watching for him. I could tell as soon as he came into view that he was cross. My stomach tightened: beware. “I had a single fare for the entire day,” he complained. “Then the guy stiffed me.” Joe burned in a way I recognized from my dad. I got up and followed as he shouldered his way through the throngs, pushing people aside. Of course, trouble finds trouble, and Joe knocked into the wrong person.

“Hey, bub!” the man shouted when Joe didn’t stop to apologize. “Are you looking for a beef?”

Joe answered by spinning around and shoving his accuser in the chest. The man lowered his head and heaved himself at Joe, who was thrown into the crowd. People peeled away, making room for the show. Joe regained his balance, planted his feet, and curled his hands into fists.

“Joe! Don’t!” I cried.

He shuffled forward. The other man was ready. I had to stop this. I reached out and touched Joe’s shoulder.

“Joe—”

He whipped around with his arms raised, ready to lay into me. I closed my eyes and cowered, preparing myself for the blow. It didn’t come. I opened my eyes and saw Joe staring at me, horrified.

“I could have hit you.” His voice shook, but his hands were still up and clenched.

Behind Joe, passersby pulled the other man away. The space around us quickly filled as the masses resumed their fun, while Joe and I remained frozen. Without breaking his gaze, I slowly straightened my body. The terrible tension melted from Joe as his fists loosened, followed by his arms, and finally his shoulders.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”

I put a hand over my mouth and ran through the crowd until I
found a trash can. I threw up. I was still heaving when Joe’s fingers began to smooth my hair from my forehead. I flinched; he pulled away. I retched again; he placed a hand on the small of my back. I shook from fright.

“I’m sorry,” he crooned. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry …”

Usually, at the end of our time together, Joe headed to Berkeley and I returned to the city. But on that night, he escorted me back to San Francisco on the ferry. He was still twitchy, but so was I. I hadn’t felt this way since the last time my father beat me to mash almost a year ago. I couldn’t stop shivering. Joe wrapped his jacket around my shoulders and took me to Foster’s on Jones Street for something to eat. He tried to get me to talk, but what could I say? I was too embarrassed to tell him my father had walloped me for years and that for one terrifying second Joe had reminded me of him. I could never hurt Joe’s feelings that way, not when he hadn’t
actually
hit me.

“You’re a good egg,” he said, heartbreakingly apologetic. “My mom and dad would love you.”

Just like that, pure joy erased my fear. We still hadn’t kissed on the lips, but I could wait.

When we arrived at my building, Joe glanced up and saw that the lights were off in Ruby’s and my apartment. He said good night without asking to come up.

A
MONTH LATER
, the exposition closed. Some said it was for the winter; some said it was because the fair was in such financial trouble that the organizers needed to come up with an improved vision. Now, Joe came to the city on Saturday nights to see me dance. Sometimes he sat with Ruby—who’d gone back to job hopping—and they watched all three shows. Other than that, I rarely saw my roommate, and I didn’t see Joe as much as I would have liked either. No kisses. No proposal. Nothing. I told myself Joe was taking his time, because I was young, and he was still a student.

With fewer tourists in town for the fair, the Forbidden City’s prospects began to dim. People gossiped that Charlie was bankrupt and
that the club was in receivership. Once a week, everyone lined up outside his office to get paid. He hated to part with his cash—whether at the racetrack, in a kitchen poker game, or to compensate his employees. It’s true what they said about him: he wept when he paid you. One night he bawled so hard that Ida griped, “He cried so much, I wanted to give him back his money.”

I’d seen Charlie weep and had him plead with me too: “You don’t really need this, do you? Let me keep it for you.” But I always pocketed my pay without an ounce of guilt or sympathy. I had things to buy and things to do. I couldn’t contemplate the idea that the club might close.

F
EBRUARY ARRIVED.
I’
D
been in San Francisco for sixteen months. It had been five months since that night on Treasure Island when Joe almost hit me, but we’d both gotten over that, and my feelings for him had only grown. Today was the first anniversary of the day we met again at the exposition. One year! That was a lot of jitterbugging and talking. I was ready for something more, and I’d decided that tonight would be
the
night with Joe. I was going to kiss him and tell him exactly how I felt.

I arrived at work and was ready when Charlie called, “
Fiedee, fiedee, fiedee!
Hurry, hurry, hurry! It’s showtime!”

I was a bit distracted by my decision, so I had to force myself to concentrate as we lined up behind the velvet curtain. Charlie opened the evening: “I want to introduce you to some lovely southern belles … from South China! Grace, Helen, Ida, May …”

We began the promenade, our umbrellas twirling just as they had on opening night, only now Charlie put up a hand to stop me, as he did during every show.

“Now hold on a second, little lady,” he drawled. “How y’all doin’ t’nite?”

“Ah, hawney,” I purred back, “I’m all riled up with no place to go.” I glanced at the audience. “Will you kindly gentlemen—and ladies
too,” I added with a tiny curtsy, “allow this gal to show y’all a good time?”

Our customers chortled. They just couldn’t make sense of what they were hearing and seeing, but they absolutely loved it. (I earned an extra five dollars a week for speaking my few lines and for bringing tea to the Lim Sisters at the start of the evening. It seemed like a fortune, and yet I spent every dime.)

That night—as every night—we danced close to the patrons, who drank, smoked, and ate by the red-tinged light of their coolie-hat table lamps. They ogled us in our satin peep-toe sandals, skimpy outfits, and amusing headdresses perched at improbable angles. We swished, wiggled, and writhed. We pranced with a single forefinger raised in the air—jazz style—as we gazed heavenward like naughty angels. I scanned the room and found Joe at a table on the second tier.

When the number ended, the ponies and I went backstage, elbowing past the Juggling Jins, who’d replaced the Merry Mahjongs when they’d gone on tour to “kick the gong around” other cities. These weren’t the only changes we’d had in the fourteen months since the club opened. When Jack Mak decided he needed an assistant, he’d chosen Irene, one of the chorines, to help him. They’d gotten married two months later. (“I told him no funny business until I have a ring on my finger,” Irene said at the wedding. “I couldn’t risk getting knocked up.”) A new girl, Ruthie, had replaced Irene in the line, and she was nice enough. Tonight, after the last show, she would leave real fast, trying to escape before she had to deal with persistent stage-door Johnnies. Other girls—like Ida—would change slowly, guaranteeing that someone would be outside to take them out.

In the top-hat number, I made a turn, zeroing in on Joe to use as my focal point, and spotted Ruby next to him. The way they stared at each other … The way their heads were tilted toward each other so intimately … I finally saw it: Ruby and Joe were
a couple
! My breath caught. I missed a step, stumbled slightly, and stopped dead in the middle of the number. Helen sashayed in front of me to cover my
mistake. I began to count in my head—
one, two, three, four
—and my body, trained as it was, obeyed, but my heart was frozen.

As soon as the routine ended, I ran offstage. A hand clamped down on my shoulder.

“What’s wrong with you?” Charlie demanded.

I bowed my head, praying that this wasn’t happening, that perhaps I’d fallen asleep and was having a guilty dream after what I’d hoped to say to Joe tonight.

“It was my fault,” I heard Helen answer. “I’m so clumsy and careless. Grace tripped over my feet.”

“Is this true?” Charlie asked.

I refused to look up. I saw Charlie’s alligator loafers—the ones he always wore on Saturday nights—and my black satin shoes. In my peripheral vision, I glimpsed several pairs of shoes that matched my own, belonging to Helen and the other ponies.

“I count on you, Grace,” Charlie chastised. “If you can’t do the job, then—”

Helen pulled me away before he could finish. When we got to the dressing room, she said to the other girls, “We’ve got to help her. Hazel, be a doll, will you, and grab her corset? May, make sure those buckles are tight. Ida, what am I forgetting?”

I was numb as they wrestled me out of one costume and pushed me into another.

“Did you know?” I asked.

“About what?” Helen may not have been the best dancer, but she sure could act innocent.

“Ruby and Joe.”

“Don’t imagine things,” Helen said, but her voice gave her away.

The ponies were uncustomarily silent, soaking in the drama.

Helen sighed. “I figured something might be going on with those two.”

“Fiedee, fiedee, fiedee.”

It was time for our next number. Helen balanced my hat on my head.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I asked.

“I hoped you’d never find out. I hoped even more I was wrong.” She led me through the door to the backstage area. “The truth is, I could be wrong.
You
could be wrong. They’ve met at the club before. You’ve seen them sit together before.”

“But did you see how they
looked
at each other?”

How long had I been making a fool of myself? From that night a year ago, when I introduced them outside Sally Rand’s?

At the curtain, I closed my eyes, preparing myself to go onstage. The music for the finale started. I wanted so bad to bolt out of there.

“Grace, you can’t lose your job,” Helen whispered behind me. “He’s just a boy. I take it back. He’s not a boy. If what we suspect is true, he’s a two-timer who led you on. Mama says a man like that is worse than a horse trying to pull two carts, meaning …”