Dreams of the Red Phoenix (9 page)

The Reverend Wells's owl eyes in his thick glasses blinked
several times as he noticed the bloodstains on her apron. “Are you
injured, Mrs. Carson?”

“Heavens, no, I'm fine. This is from that wounded fellow
over there. I've just finished extracting a bullet from his leg.”

Reverend Wells looked across to the young man on the sofa. “I
see,” he said and smiled politely.

Wells was a nervous man, easily overwhelmed, though an un
natural calm came over him when he rose to the pulpit. Shirley
admired his sermons, which were quite erudite. She had often
wished that she and Reverend Wells could sit down and parse
the Bible, or Chinese culture, or any topic together, but she was
relegated to the women's conversations instead. The lady mis
sionaries were a dear bunch, but none of them, except perhaps
Kathryn, was a serious thinker.

Wells glanced out at the crowded compound through the
screened window. “We've estimated close to five thousand have
arrived. Can you imagine? The most we've ever had at Christ
mas service was five hundred. We finally had to shut the gates. I
hated to do it, but we had no choice.”

“My, I would never have guessed such an enormous number.
Whatever will we do with them?”

Wells's lips trembled slightly. Shirley realized the terrible iro
ny for him: for years, he had avoided the missionary trail, prefer
ring to stay in his library rather than go out, as Caleb had, to meet
the actual Chinese in town and countryside. But now they had
come en masse to him anyway.

“I gather,” she offered, “that the Eighth Route Army of the
Reds is somewhere about and intends to help as best they can.”

“We're not supposed to get involved with the Communists,
although they do seem to have a good touch with the local people
and better success against the Japanese. But the American board
in Boston has sent strict orders for us not to become entangled in
Chinese internal politics. That is the policy.”

Shirley straightened her spine. “Policy or no, our Amer
ican board is in America, Reverend. They can't possibly un
derstand the situation here when we can hardly understand it
ourselves.”

As she spoke, Reverend Wells seemed to duck into his collar,
and his face turned a soft and lovely pink. Shirley could imagine
her husband whispering frantically in her ear that not everyone
was accustomed to what he politely called her
straightforwardness
when what he really meant was her
bossiness
. Ladies, and most
especially ministers' wives—in Shirley's opinion an all-too-often
simpering and milquetoast bunch—were not meant to speak that
way.

She pressed on in a more measured tone. “I just don't think
we can follow directives from afar, given the changing circum
stances. Don't you agree, Reverend?”

“Yes, of course, you're right. Absolutely right,” he said, head
bobbing.

Shirley waited for him to continue, but when he did not, she
asked, “And so, what
do
you plan to do?”

His eyes darted out the window again. “The Eighth Route
Army, you say?”

“I must introduce you to Captain Hsu.”

“Why, yes, Captain Hsu,” Reverend Wells said, his voice ris
ing in confidence again. “There's an excellent fellow. He used to
stop by our Bible study group from time to time.”

“Is that so?” she asked. “I was sure the Communists are
against religion. Isn't that one of their central tenets?”

“He's not a believer. He came to the study group out of respect
for your husband, whom he greatly admired. They developed a
friendship of sorts. Caleb was always keen to know the Chinese
on their own terms, and he took that experiment to its furthest
extent with Hsu. But the captain has a fine mind.” Reverend
Wells tapped a finger to his thinning hair. “A top-notch intellect.
I think Caleb genuinely enjoyed his company. But I'm sure you
know all about that.”

Shirley nodded pleasantly and did her best to hide her dis
belief. How had Caleb developed such a full-blown friendship
with someone whom she had never even met? Since his death,
she had spent hours and days recollecting the man she had loved.
So many moments with him drowning her mind in a ceaseless
torrent until she felt there was nothing more to remember, noth
ing more to know. But now the awkward, though reliable, man
before her seemed to suggest a whole chapter of her husband's
life about which she knew nothing.

She was about to ask more when Reverend Wells patted her
sleeve and gestured for her to follow him into a quieter corner of
the front hall. He lowered his voice even further, and she leaned
in to listen.

“The other reason I came by, Mrs. Carson, was to tell you that
your Lian's family from the country has arrived here at the mis
sion. It appears they want to join my household. I thought you
should know.”

Shirley stood upright. “How absurd. They should be here
with us, of course. If they arrive on your doorstep, send them
over to me right away.”

“I'm sorry, this is awkward, Mrs. Carson, but Lian visited my
wife late last evening and asked our permission.” He ducked and
hedged again, “Apparently you had not invited them to join your
household? I'm sure it was a simple misunderstanding.”

Shirley was suddenly aware of Dao-Ming at her side. She
shooed the girl away and glanced over at Lian, who chatted with
the injured boy and his friends.

“Thank you for coming to tell me, Reverend. I'll take care
of it right away,” Shirley said. “I seem to have missed the cues
Lian offered me last night. I'm not accustomed to the politeness
of the Chinese. I was raised to speak up if I wanted something.
Simply ask! The business of dropping hints, or even saying the
exact opposite of what you want, is entirely lost on me. Caleb
was a far more sympathetic soul and better at grasping the sub
tleties of communication between native and foreigner. I'm
abysmal at it.”

She started to turn, intending to go immediately to Lian to
straighten this out.

“Mrs. Carson,” the Reverend said as he took her elbow in a
firm grip, “may I suggest that you let it rest for the moment?
After I've gone, offer her family a gracious invitation. You don't
want it to seem that you have offered it under duress, do you?”

Shirley looked down at him, and, as Caleb would have ad
vised, she inhaled a long, careful breath. “Quite right. Good of
you to remind me, Reverend. I have a hot head and can make
terrible messes when I don't control my impulses.”

He shuffled from side to side and offered little reassuring
noises. “Simple mistake,” he said. “We all do it. They are so very
different from us.”

Shirley made herself smile but understood that the problem
was not with the Chinese—though they could be difficult to
grasp—but with her own obtuseness. She had never been skilled
at picking up social signals of any sort. She withered in the com
pany of well-bred ladies who had been raised to chatter with one
another on a different plain, hemming and hawing and never
getting to any particular point. Shirley found taking tea with
them most aggravating. The topic was always the weather, or
their husbands' sartorial habits, and nothing of any interest was
ever said outright but only implied. Days later would she learn
that factions had formed over the course of dull conversation and
cucumber sandwiches.

“Mrs. Carson,” Reverend Wells interrupted her thoughts, “do
you mind me asking, what you meant earlier by saying that you
removed a bullet from that Chinese boy, per se?”

“I meant precisely that. I say what I mean, Reverend, and I
mean what I say. I'm simple that way.” She let out a sigh. “Per
haps at some point, my husband mentioned to you that I am a
trained nurse?”

“Ah,” he said as a bewildered look overcame his face and he
shook his head. “So sorry, I don't recall. He very well may have. I
am terrible at remembering details about, well, people.”

A headache had bloomed over Shirley's right eye. Normally,
at this time of day, she would be curled up in her bed, either cry
ing about her lost husband or, before his death, reading. Endless
ly engaging with people, which she had done since first thing this
morning, struck her as unrelenting torture. Clearly Reverend
Wells knew the feeling.

“I realize I have been holed up for weeks,” she said, “ever
since word came of my husband's death, and before that I kept
to myself perhaps more than I should have. I'm sure you've no
ticed that I have never been an active community member. I'm
simply not a joiner, Reverend. I don't enjoy—communication.
I know that's criminal, especially for a minister's wife, but you,
of all people, can understand that I prefer the company of books
and ideas.”

The Reverend let out a long sigh, as if he, too, was aching for
his library at that very moment.

Shirley gazed out the window again at the shuffling masses in
the courtyard. “But I have always found the Chinese fascinating.
The variations in their language alone warrant our attention. I
would love to study it at university. And such intriguing customs
that I barely fathom even after living here for five years. Sadly,
though, I never pursued my intellectual interests beyond college.
Instead I developed the skills that were expected of me. Like so
many girls, I became a nurse, not that it suited me then, or now.”

Reverend Wells let out an understanding grunt. He leaned in
closer as if they now shared a secret understanding. “Life flows
along, doesn't it, dragging us with it? It carries us down unex
pected and often less rewarding streams until we are spit out into
the ocean and have no way back. The tide pulls us, and there
we are—out in the vast blue.” He rocked forward onto his toes,
a hopeful glow appearing on his face, his voice barely hiding a
rising sense of mirth. “Everyone must know,” he continued, “that
I, of all people, am not meant to be a leader of men, and yet here
I am—in charge! That is simply how it is. We must rise to our
calling, Mrs. Carson, however ill suited we may feel.”

His eyes glistened, and an impish smile appeared. “But how
fortunate for us that you are a nurse,” he exclaimed. “I will tell
the others. Already today, Doc Sturgis has set up the mission in
firmary for typhoid inoculations. With the unsanitary conditions
and refuse problems, we need that right away.”

The Reverend paused and looked at her, waiting, it seemed
for her to say something rousing as well. When she didn't, he
carried on, his eyes still sparkling behind the thick lenses. “I
suggest we relieve Doc Sturgis by setting up another, smaller
clinic here in your home. What do you say, Mrs. Carson? It
would not be for the worst cases but for more routine problems
that suit your nursing skills. We really must take advantage of
your training.”

Shirley felt distracted by the sight of Lian crossing the hall, a
cast-iron pot of bloodied water sloshing in her hands. Dao-Ming
followed close behind, her arms laden with used towels.

“I'm sorry, Reverend,” she said. “I must go help the others now.”

“So here, then? A clinic?” he asked again. “I would offer the Par
ish Hall, but it is packed to the gills with people already, and I think
we'd do better to start small. If word gets out that we're opening an
actual hospital here, there will be no end to the Chinese.”