Dreams of the Red Phoenix (7 page)

One family, though, sat stonily quiet, asking for nothing and
not raising their voices. On the bottom step that led up to the sec
ond floor, an older man sat. Two middle-aged women, who must
have been his daughters, and several grandchildren crouched
around him. Charles recognized the traditional Japanese robes
and realized that this grandfather was the town's only fishmon
ger, a Japanese citizen who had been here at least as long as the
Carson family. Charles had always been afraid of the old man,
not because he was Japanese but because he was a crotchety bas
tard who never had a kind word for anyone. The man was quite
unreasonable about his prices, but he didn't seem a mortal enemy
of the Chinese. Now his hand trembled as he raised it to his brow,
and his children and grandchildren hardly lifted their eyes from
the floor.

Charles went to his mother's side and whispered in her ear,
“Shall I take them upstairs?” He nodded toward the Japanese
family. She looked both exhilarated and utterly flummoxed, her
mouth hanging open and wisps of hair falling from her bun.
Before she had a chance to respond, Charles said, “It's all right,
Mother. I'll take care of it.”

He slipped away and bowed before the Japanese grandfather
and his family, then gestured for them to follow him up to the
second floor. At the top of the stairs, he escorted them into his
mother's sewing room, a space not much larger than the lava
tory, which now felt far smaller with all those people in it. The
ladies let out thrilled exclamations at the sight of the Singer ma
chine on its special table with the iron foot pedal underneath.
They crowded around and touched it with delicate fingers. One
of the grown daughters elbowed the others aside and took the
seat in front of it. She read aloud the gold letters written in En
glish script on the side of the black base, and the little girls inched
closer and clapped their hands as the woman began to practice on
a piece of muslin his mother had used for the curtains downstairs.

Charles joined the Japanese fishmonger, who sat at the end of
the iron-framed day bed, his head bent, his palsied hand to his
brow again. The old man was so distracted by his worries that he
hadn't even noticed the curled body stretched beside him on the
pilled bedspread. A tartan throw covered the narrow shoulders,
and a lace antimacassar lay over the bald head to keep out the
light.

Charles shook Tupan Feng's shoulder. “Rise and shine,” he
said. “You have visitors!”

The Japanese fishmonger still didn't look up, even when
the old warlord's feet in his tattered slippers shifted beside him.
Tupan Feng sat up, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand
like a child, and blinked several times. He didn't look one bit
surprised to find Charles standing over him in the narrow room
now packed with strangers.

“Is it time?” he asked.

“Yes, it is,” Charles said, though he wasn't sure what the old
warlord had in mind.

Tupan Feng's face went red as he pushed himself to stand,
one hand on his cane, the other on the handle of his prize sword.
“Into battle we must go!”

The Japanese fishmonger finally looked up.

“Whoa, hold on,” Charles said and took the old warlord by
the arm. He gently eased him back down onto the bed.

The two men sat hunched shoulder to shoulder, neither ac
knowledging the other. Charles made proper introductions, be
ing sure to sound equally respectful and bowing equally low be
fore each. They nodded imperceptibly and pursed their lips, but
neither spoke.

“All right, now, you two should have plenty to talk about,”
Charles said and tipped his cap. “How about Tokyo, for start
ers? Old Tupan Feng remembers it, don't you? He was a student
there. And you, Honorable Fishmonger, you must have at least
visited there before coming to China?”

Both men grimaced. The deep frown lines that sloped down
their cheeks acted as perfect mirrors when they turned their
heads on their sinewy necks toward one another. If only these
two could resolve the war, Charles thought.

At the top of the stairs, he held the newel post and listened to
the cacophony of voices all around. After his father's death, the
Carson home had felt as chilly as a tomb for weeks. The spring
rain had fallen in sheets outside his window and pounded the
unyielding ground. The tile roofs had grown slick, and a rush
of unceasing water had rumbled down the gutters. Unable to
sleep, Charles had crawled out of bed, pushed open the window,
and sat with his elbows on the sill, his face splattered by rain.
His shirt became quickly soaked, and he shivered but still kept
watch. Even in the dark, his eyes stayed on the compound gate.
Only when his arms grew numb and his ears filled with the sen
sation of being lost deep under water in a sea he could not name
did Charles realize that he was waiting for his father's mule to
come around the corner of the guardhouse and into the mission.

He finally wrenched himself away from the window and
paced on the braided rug to keep from crying. Then he threw
himself back onto the quilt, and felt the forceful thud of his own
heart as it echoed against his ribs. He was alive. He was breath
ing, even if his father was not. Only there was little pleasure in it.
No joy. Just a pang of guilt and a heartsickness that made every
part of him hurt.

If he stayed in bed too late in the morning during those
mournful days, Lian would yank back the covers and pull him
by the hand down the steps and out onto the front porch, where
Han stood waiting. While it embarrassed Charles to have his
friend see his red-rimmed eyes, he was grateful to him, too. Lian
gave them both a few coins to spend at the market and insisted
they bring home fish from the river for supper. Never before had
Charles been instructed to go fishing. Lian was also the one who
had suggested that Han show Charles the pigeons that Cook had
been training up on the compound wall. Charles had enjoyed
caring for the birds, even if he didn't know the first thing about
them. Mostly he liked being with Han and away from his sor
rowful, too-quiet home.

Now, as he went in search of supplies, he considered the pos
sibility that his summer might no longer feel like a lonely night
mare, although he also knew that in more ways than he could
fathom, things would never be the same.

A
tall Chinese man with silver hair stepped through the crowd
on the verandah and crossed the threshold of the Carson
home. Shirley had spotted his distinctive profile above the others
at the door and noticed the way people shifted out of his way as
he moved forward. He stopped before Shirley, bowed first to her
and then to Lian.

“Captain Hsu,” Lian said out of turn, “what an honor to have
you join us.”

Shirley looked from Lian to the Chinese gentleman in the
threadbare, mismatched jacket and trousers and realized that
they seemed to know one another.

“Thank you,” he said in clear English. “It is my honor to meet
the widow of Reverend Caleb Carson. Your husband was a good
and courageous man.”

Shirley tried to recall the striking profile but couldn't place it.
Surely she'd have remembered the scattering of pockmarks on
his cheeks or the pale scar over his right eye.

“You knew my husband?” she asked.

“He was devoted to our cause. He visited our camp up in the
hills a number of times. He would be proud of us now, though
we still have many battles ahead.” He leaned closer and bowed
again. “I am Captain Hsu, Eighth Route Army of the Second
United Front.” He pulled from his pocket a green cap with a red
star on it and shifted it between his hands before stuffing it back
into his pocket. He then glanced around at the crowded house. “I
see that you are like your husband, Mrs. Carson, most generous
and brave.”

“Not at all, Captain.” She glanced around, too, and let out a
sigh. “I so wish he were here. He would know what to do. He
was far better than I am at dealing with—” She wanted to say
“adversity” but felt compelled to admit instead that the trouble
she had was with “people.”

“Mrs. Carson cannot say no,” Lian explained. “I have been
telling her we must shut the door. That is all. Simply shut it!”

Outside, the line of Chinese snaked down the porch steps and
into the dusty courtyard. Shirley could see similar lines weaving
from the other mission homes. The courtyard was packed with
Chinese who milled around beside their mules and carts stacked
high with bundles.

Captain Hsu offered a nod and said, “I will see what I can do.”

He then slipped around the Chinese in the front hall, stepped
outside, and stopped on the top step. He clapped his hands. Shir
ley made her way past the strangers, too, and brushed aside the
thick curtain at one of the open dining room windows. The line
of people outside grew quiet. Through the open window, she did
her best to follow the words of his announcement, but his voice
was too quick, though authoritative and resounding. When he
finished speaking, the crowd began to disperse right away.

When Captain Hsu returned inside, Lian blushed as she
looked up at him.

“What on earth did you say out there?” Shirley asked him.

“I said that you are most generous but that we are Chinese,
and we must take care of ourselves. The Eighth Route Army is
nearby, and they must sit tight and be patient and join us to cre
ate a harmonious and free China. Also, I said that food rations
will come to all who wait outside in the courtyard and not in the
house.”

Lian let out a surprisingly girlish giggle. Shirley wasn't sure
why she had felt predisposed to be wary of this captain, but she
couldn't help smiling at him now, too.

“And
will
food come?” she asked.

“That is the plan,” he said. “But meanwhile, do you need any
help here?”

Lian jumped in with a reply. “We need water brought from
the river. We have a decent supply of bandages but will soon need
more. We have not much rice but plenty of turnips and even a
few potatoes.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Captain Hsu said, and Lian blushed
again as she bowed her head.

Was it possible that Caleb had visited the Red Army military
camp without her ever having known about it? Shirley won
dered. She had often discouraged him from talking about politics,
so he must have chosen to spare her his interest in Communism.
Although, now that she thought about it, she recognized that his
impulse for egalitarianism had grown steadily over recent years.
She recalled him using words like “proletariat,” “cadre,” and
“comrade” with striking frequency.

Then it occurred to her that perhaps her husband had never
mentioned his interest in Communist ideals because she was of
the class the revolution wished to eliminate. With her interest
in Chinese furniture and silks, not to mention her love of sim
ple but elegant outfits worn with a strand of pearls at the collar
bone—though never anything flashier than the typical ensemble
of a tasteful Vassar girl—she would have been labeled bourgeois
in a heartbeat. Weren't the Communists all about toppling the
current structure and putting well-off people like Shirley and her
parents at the very bottom of the heap? She tried to picture her
stylish mother as a street sweeper or a chambermaid. Surely Ca
leb couldn't have hoped for that.