China Dolls (34 page)

The floor show began. The ponies still carried “kitten” muffs, but kittens grow up, and those cats sure didn’t like being confined. In the middle of the number, Ida’s cat clawed out of his muff prison and hit the floor. He arched his back, hissed, and scrammed for the Catskills. The boys hooted and yuk-yukked.

Next up: Eddie and I did our routine, but the minute we came offstage we were at each other’s throats. I complained to him about drinking before our act; he snarled at me to stop nagging. Then the girl we’d hired to be the new Chinese Sally Rand had a hard time with her fans. She lost her balance, dropped a fan, and ended up with her fingers in a G.I.’s chow mein. After that, Mabel, one of the ponies, caught her son behind the stage, peeking through the curtain to catch the back side—the
naked
side—of that fan dancer. Mabel yanked her
boy back to the dressing room by the ear, and I’m sure customers could hear him yowling—even worse than the cat—all the way out front.

“What the hell’s going on tonight?” Charlie asked, irritated, as we went out to talk with customers during the first break.

Our boys wanted to dance with Chinese girls, and we did because it was part of our jobs, but plenty of women—fabulous and rich, with orchids splayed on their shoulders—in the audience wanted to dance with our Chinese men. But Eddie didn’t feel like it that night. Instead, he collared Jack Mak, and together they made a beeline for the bar. Jack threw down a hundred-dollar bill and asked the bartender to pour as many drinks as he could for the customers around them, including Errol Flynn. One drink too many prompted the star to eat the orchids off women’s shoulders—one by one throughout the club.

Charlie started the second show with one of the stalest jokes in the book: “Have you heard that Kotex paid Maxwell House for their slogan? Good to the last drop.”

It went downhill from there. Eddie’s hands slipped on my midriff. It wasn’t any worse than usual, but I bet there wasn’t a single person ringside who didn’t hear Eddie muttering to me through clenched teeth: “You’re suffocating the kid. Give him a chance.”

And me, biting back, “He’s only thirty-one months old.
I’m
his mother.”

“And
I’m
his dad! Let the kid breathe.”

George Louie tried to turn the tide with “I’ll Be Seeing You.” He circulated around the edges of the floor, sometimes kneeling before a woman so he could sing directly into her eyes, when one—and I can only call her this—dame threw her skirt over his head and held him between her knees to show him what was under there. George kept singing, though. “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places.” Our boys in uniform laughed so hard they barely managed to stay in their chairs. When that dame finally let George out, his face was as red and shiny as a Christmas ribbon.

After the second show, Eddie and Jack returned to the bar. “I want
to buy
everyone
a drink.” Eddie brought out two hundred-dollar bills and slapped them on the bar, outdoing his pal. “Let’s see how far this will go.”

When the third show started, Eddie and Jack were pickled. From opening night, Jack had done a trick in which he shot into a box, opened the lid, and a dove would fly out. Only tonight he opened the box and feathers flew out. He’d actually
shot
the bird!

Then Eddie and I returned to the stage. As he lifted me to spin me over his head, his hands slipped—once again—on my oiled midriff. This time, he dumped me on my rear end, and I skidded across the floor. People shrieked in surprise, and then howled until they held their sides. They thought it was part of the act, but Eddie was in no shape to be laughed at. When we came backstage, he leapt up the stairs toward the dressing rooms. I followed right behind him. When I reached the landing, he turned and bumped into me. I tumbled back down the stairs. Eddie fell too—sprawled out, drunk as a skunk. Was it an accident? Or had Eddie
pushed
me?

“He’s my son!” he screamed at me.

The ponies averted their eyes. Mabel put her palms over her boy’s ears. Grace was so much stronger now, but she stood stock-still. A deer confronted by a hunter, or a warrior on alert? Charlie swung through the curtain, furious, bouncing his open hands up and down, trying to calm the situation. “Pull yourself together,” he said to Eddie. “Get some coffee. Are you going to make me fire you? Is that what it will take to get you to stop drinking?”

Eddie got to his feet, elbowed past Charlie, and shoved through the kitchen door.

Grace ran to me. “Are you all right?”

I was so dazed that at first I didn’t notice Grace squeezing my arms and legs. I pushed away her hands in embarrassment.

“I’m fine,” I bleated, though I felt bruised and sore.

Grace walked Tommy and me to the compound. She was awfully silent. I had the feeling she was remembering her father and maybe
even Joe. She could change all she wanted, but a part of her would always be that scared little runaway from Plain City. I was too overwhelmed to speak either. I loved Eddie, and I was grateful to him. I never wanted to be afraid of him.

The courtyard was eerie in the middle of the night. We tiptoed into the back building and edged down the deserted hallway to my childhood room. After we put Tommy to bed, the two of us sat up, eager for Eddie to come home. We waited and worried, but my husband didn’t barge through the door still bristling and drunk or contrite and bearing forgiveness gifts. What had first been fear about him coming home turned into fear about why he hadn’t come home.

As the sun came up, Grace dozed off. I bathed Tommy, took him to the dining room for breakfast, and then sat in the courtyard watching for my husband to stroll through the gate. I finally gave up, went back upstairs to my room, and shook Grace’s shoulder.

“What time is it?” she asked, sitting up, rubbing her eyes.

“One in the afternoon.” I stifled a sob. “And he still hasn’t come home.”

“Now, Helen, you’ve told me yourself that sometimes he stays out all night.”

But her reasoning didn’t help. We went to the club at 4:00, but Eddie wasn’t there either. Charlie, worldly as he was, looked particularly anxious.

Around 6:00, Eddie arrived with a black eye and other contusions, some of them serious. I drew the back of my hand to my mouth. The ponies’ eyes widened. The guys in the band hung their heads as though they’d expected something like this might occur for a long time.

“What happened?” I rasped.

Eddie rubbed his forehead. “I got caught in an alley by a group of sailors. It’s my own damn fault.”

But that wasn’t the worst of it. In a rage or in despair, he’d staggered into an Army recruiting office and enlisted.

“Those places are open twenty-four hours a day, so they can take you any time you want.” He laughed hideously. “Uncle Sam wants you!”

“Oh, Eddie,” I sputtered. “You could get killed.”

He put a hand on his hip and turned to Charlie. “You can’t have a black-eyed Chinese Fred Astaire after all,” he said, flippant but resolute.

“Jesus, buddy, what have you done?” Charlie shook his head, deeply troubled. Then he turned to me. “Don’t worry, Helen. We’ll take care of it.”

By the end of the first show, Eddie’s anger and humiliation had burned off. The reality of his situation began to crinkle his edges, yet he continued to act the matinee idol.

“You babes all love a man in uniform,” he uttered with false bravado.

During the one-hour break after the second show, he and Charlie paced backstage, talking in low voices. By the end of the third show, Charlie had a plan. “Helen, get Tommy. Grace and Ida, we’re going to need you too.” His eyes brushed over the other show kids. “If any of you want to come, that would be great.” As we started to move, he added, “Don’t change—not your costumes, your shoes, or your makeup. I need you all just the way you are.”

What a spectacle we were—a troupe of performers in skimpy costumes with coats or jackets thrown over our shoulders—drawing the utmost attention to ourselves, like we were acrobats going from village to village, eking out an audience and a few
yuan
. We reached the Army recruiting office, and it was open just as Eddie said it would be. The weak-jawed sergeant and the skinny lieutenant working there seemed both surprised and wary as we filled the space with our sequins, top hats, chiffon, hosed legs, and rouged cheeks. Charlie did the talking, explaining that we were patriotic, that we were Americans, that he’d sent more than half his staff to war, so he was asking for one small favor.

“Could you tear up the paperwork my star here was fool enough
to fill out last night?” he asked, pointing to Eddie, a tall man, dressed in a tuxedo, with powder on his face, and surrounded by a zoo of colorful performers.

The lieutenant made little grunting sounds, which translated to “You’ve got to be joking.”

Charlie went on. “Mr. Wu has a wife and a baby.”

The lieutenant shifted his eyes to Tommy and me, then motioned to the sergeant, and said, “So do we.”

“And,” Charlie continued undaunted, “Mr. Wu has a contract to fulfill. I’ve got it right here.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers folded into thirds.

The lieutenant paged through the document. “He’s only got two weeks left,” he said. “Sure, we’ll give you that.”

Two weeks? For all Charlie’s plotting, he hadn’t bothered to
read
the contract. On to the next idea:

“As you can see, we’re performers. We’ve all”—here Charlie motioned to the rest of us—“done our bit for the war effort. I’d like to recommend that you put Mr. Wu in the Special Services to entertain.”

Even the sergeant got a kick out of that one.

Charlie took umbrage at their attitude, straightening his back and setting his face. “We’ve performed at war bond drives, for the Red Cross, and at Chinese Rice Bowl celebrations. We’ve also done USO tours to the local bases for all the different branches of service.”

We nodded in agreement—little dolls in a penny arcade.

“No dice” came the verdict. “Everyone has to do their part.”

“Of course they do,” Charlie agreed, “but the Special Services—”

“He’s an Oriental. No one wants to see an Oriental when we’re at war with the Japs.”

“We aren’t Japs,” Ida got up the nerve to say.

“And we’ve entertained thousands of boys already,” Charlie added. “Come by the club tomorrow night. We’ll”—and here, again, he gestured to us in our costumes—“show you. You should see Eddie dance—”

But
no dice
meant
no dice
.

There was one sure way out, but Eddie would have to speak it himself.

T
WO WEEKS LATER
, a group of us were at the Port of Embarkation in Oakland, saying goodbye to Eddie as he set off for boot camp in Tennessee. We stood on the platform with so many other women and children, bawling our eyes out. He picked up Tommy and kissed him. Then he pulled me into their embrace. He whispered into my ear, “Give the boy a chance to grow up properly. Loosen the reins a little.
You cannot refuse to eat just because there’s a chance of being choked
.”

He boarded the train.

“I love you,” I burst out.

Eddie’s voice cracked as he called down to me. “I love you too. And be good to your mom, Tommy.”

We waved our goodbyes, and then Grace, Tommy, and I returned to the car, drove back across the bridge, and went to work.

“I’m all alone now,” I said, although I was tied more than ever to my family.

Grace promised that she’d stick by me until Eddie came home, and Charlie was a prince. He invited me to stay on as a soloist—doing the exact same routine I’d done with my husband, only he was missing. My dancing solo was like my trying to draw a portrait of a dragon and ending up with a doodle of a dog, but Charlie was too softhearted to demote me back to a pony.

GRACE

Every Particle of Happiness

At the end of March—a year after Ruby was picked up—Ida packed a bag and went to stay with one of the ponies. I went downstairs and waited on the street for Joe to arrive. Soon enough, he hopped off a cable car and swept me into his arms. There was nothing brotherly about his kiss, let me tell you. He held me close as we walked to the Mark Hopkins Hotel, where an elevator whisked us to the nineteenth floor. The Top of the Mark had once been an exclusive nightspot for San Francisco’s café society. Now it catered to the elite-of-the-elite servicemen. Since it was wartime, not only was I allowed in but I was permitted to enter on the arm of an Occidental. Joe slipped the maître d’ a tip, and we were shown to a window table, which had a spectacular view of the city, including the Navy base on Treasure Island and the lights in the Berkeley Hills.

After a waiter took our order, Joe and I studied each other. He’d finished his two years of training, and the way he looked in his uniform—with the wings on the flap of his jacket pocket—was very impressive. His face had formed angles. His sandy-colored hair was trimmed and neat. His smile was still a bit crooked, but he was clearly a man now.