Outrun the Moon (10 page)

“Fair.” Mr. Leung looks down the table at the men. “Who is in favor?”

This time, three say
hai
: Mr. Chow, Mr. Cruz, and Just Bob, enough for a majority. Mr. Ng scowls, and Ah-Suk sits as still as one of the wood panels.

“Will your father honor this agreement?” asks Mr. Leung.

She throws back her shoulders and says primly, “
Hai.
”

I WANT TO TALK TO TOM BEFORE WE LEAVE, but he's already bent over the minute book again as the Yu-Pei Family Association begins its meeting.

I catch his eye, and the shadow of a smile flickers over his face. In an instant, I feel as light as the Floating Island. I forget all about Ling-Ling and her buns, which are mostly air, anyway. I am two steps closer to full tenure at St. Clare's, and my happiness from seeing Tom is hard to wipe off my face.

In the lobby, Elodie's sails are as full as a clipper that has caught a fair wind. “We did it! Won't Papa be surprised when he learns I've given
him
a present for
my
birthday?”

An unexpected rush of gratitude warms me. Because of her, may Chinatown be lifted one step higher in the world.

A quarter of an hour remains before William will fetch us. “Do you still need to visit Carmen?”

She looks at me for a moment, then laughs. “
Carmen
isn't a person; it's an opera. Papa was supposed to take Maman and me for my birthday.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, I need you to wait here. I'll be right back.”

“Where are you going? You can't just leave me here by myself.”

“This is the safest spot in Chinatown. No one will harm you.” With that, I push open the heavy doors, then jog a block to Clay Street.

I knock lightly on our unpainted door. “Ma?”

“Mercy?” a voice calls from the other side.

“Yes, it's me.”

The ropes are untied, and soon Ma's round face is peering at me. “You look like my daughter, but she lives on Nob Hill now.”

“Western Addition is hardly Nob Hill,” I say, even though I know she's teasing. She looks smaller than I remember. She pats me on the back, and tears spring to my eyes. I haven't made it past my first week, but it feels like a lifetime. How do those St. Clare's girls handle not seeing their families for months?

“What are you doing here? Are you hungry?”

I'm famished, but I shake my head. “Just a school project.”

“So late?” She clicks her tongue. “Early risers find gold in their wash buckets.”

I don't have time to tell her about the hearing. “I can't stay. The driver's waiting for me. How are you?”

“Same, same. We can wake Jack.” She reads my mind.

“No, let him rest. I just want to see him.” I crack open the bedroom door. The soft light casts a warm glow over the bed. Jack sleeps on his stomach, a white starfish in his long johns with his limbs spread out, like he's suctioned to the bed.

He's kicked the quilt that Ma stitched together from old silk ties off him, and I place it back on while Ma waits in the
doorway. He sleeps with his mouth open. A little white bud has started to grow in the space where he lost a tooth. That's new. I've already missed something.

My rice bowl lies on a crate table, filled with a teaspoon of grains already.
I've missed you just as much, Jack. One day, it will be worth it. I promise.

I kiss his downy cheek and quietly steal away so my wakeful energy doesn't affect his sleep.

Before I leave, I kiss Ma as well. “How is Ba?”

“He has been walking lighter lately. The Valencia Hotel is hiring his services. He's already dropped some of his more bothersome customers.” Ba has a lot of those—clients who conveniently “forget” the handkerchiefs tucked into their pants so that he launders and irons them, usually without payment.

“That's good news,” I say.

“Yes, your father is a good provider.” Her eyes fall away from me, as if she is holding something back.

“What?”

She doesn't answer, and I can't help but wonder if she's thinking about her own death again. She shakes her head and smiles. “You look like a fine lady in this dress.”

On the way back to St. Clare's, Elodie chats gaily about her impressive performance. My heart feels heavy despite our victory. I should not have stopped home. It has only made me miss my family more. I watch the paper lanterns between the streetlamps sway until they're the size of fireflies.

Once back in our room, Elodie tosses her beaded bag onto her bed. “I had them eating out of my hand.” She slips off her ring and then her gloves. “They loved the product. Well, maybe not that old stick of a man, but I bet he wouldn't know good chocolate if it pulled his chin hair.”

“Dr. Gunn is a respected elder. Do not talk that way about him.”

She looks up sharply, and the room temperature plummets. “It is a free country, and I can talk about anyone I choose,
to
anyone I choose.” She rakes her gaze over my uniform. “Even
 . . .
Headmistress Grouch.”

She wouldn't blow the whistle on me
now
, would she? A chill snakes through me. Monsieur now has what he wants—exclusive chocolate rights in Chinatown, and new workers to boot. Tom recorded those terms in the association's minutes, but I have nothing to show Monsieur's promise to me.

“Let's be clear here. We are not friends.” Elodie paws a brush through her curls, watching me out of the corner of her eye. “We are only temporary business associates, nothing more.”

“Suits me fine.” I fumble with the buttons of my uniform, the smell of my own anxiety lifting off me.

“What was the name of that young man? Tom? He seems well-mannered and bright.” Her voice coats his name like cream on a cat's tongue. “Mercy, are you blushing?”

“Certainly not.”

A smile lurks around her mouth. “I think
Tom
would make an excellent consultant for the Chinese workers, don't you?”

In the history of ideas, that ranks up there with floating
shoes. “Impossible. Tom will be our herbalist someday. He has no interest in business affairs.”

“Maybe he would if he knew the overseer is paid five dollars a day. If he does well, it may even lead to a permanent position.”

I keep my features tied tight, though five dollars is a heavenly wage. He could start a nest egg for the glider he wants to build. But the thought of him working for the Du Lacs makes my tongue peel, like I've sucked on one of the bitter roots in Ah-Suk's store.

As Elodie flits around the room, any last feelings of victory seep out of me like suds through the floor drains at Ba's laundry. Suddenly, I'm desperate to see Tom again. Not just to foil Elodie's self-serving plans, but because I could use a friend right now. He knows just how to shake the wrinkles out of any situation.

When I first started working at the laundry, my fingers were cracked and wouldn't stop bleeding. He rubbed an ointment of beeswax and cork bark into my skin, telling me, “You want to climb to the top, you'll have to pass through some rough stretches. They won't last forever. Just make it through today.” That was Tom, never seeing the glass as half-full, or half-empty, but just drinking the water.

I pull off my stockings, nearly poking my thumb through the wool. Headmistress Crouch won't grant permission for me to leave again after tonight's outing, even if I could think of a plausible excuse. And I can't just waltz out of here without anyone noticing.

It occurs to me that in two days it will be Easter Sunday. Tom and I hadn't discussed whether we would have our annual meeting, but what if he
did
plan to meet me on Laurel Hill? After all, I'm closer to the cemetery now than when I lived in Chinatown. And he mentioned last year's hike when we were at the docks, so it was in his mind. Maybe I can sneak out after chapel.

ON EASTER SUNDAY, FATHER GOODWIN delivers a passionate sermon on the wrath of God smiting the sons of disobedience, and I rethink my decision to sneak out. No doubt God's wrath includes daughters, too. If I get expelled, I will have pulled the window open, just to have it slam down on my fingers.

Then again, the thought of Tom working for Elodie brings my blood to a simmer. Plus, I would hate for him to go all that way and me to not show up.

Francesca plays the organ with enough ferocity to march all the saints back home. We file out, and the girls head to the salon, where Headmistress Crouch rehearses them. Not even the Lord's resurrection can make her skip rehearsal.

Laurel Hill lies only a couple blocks to the west. Before I change my mind, my feet have already taken me to the laundry building at the back of the school lot, where a high fence connects to the school's hedge and hides the clothes from visitors. In Chinatown, laundry was simply hung wherever you could jam a clothespin.

I toe the bottom rail of the fence. Sure enough, boilers and tubs populate a square courtyard; there's even a box mangler
for easy pressing. Ba does all his ironing with a handheld slug that weighs five pounds. Metallic alum and powdery soap lace the air. It seems that laundry smells the same no matter who it belongs to.

I find a bare spot where the hedge meets the fence and squeeze through.

The night is cold, but I savor the feeling of pavement against my soles. Every sound makes my heart skip a beat, and for several minutes I'm convinced I hear footfalls behind me. I turn around, preferring it be a criminal to Headmistress Crouch. But the footfalls soon die off, and I concentrate on moving forward.

No gates surround Laurel Hill Cemetery, as there is no need. The threat of ghosts and ghouls are enough to keep mischief makers away. Weeds have crept up the wet side of the hill. That would never have happened under my watch as assistant to the assistant groundskeeper. Keeping an eye out for Tom, I climb a grassy knoll studded with marble markers and winged statues. The residents here are the oldest on the property.

When I die, I want my headstone inscribed with something that will make people smile, like “No more Mercy,” or maybe a twist on Abe Lincoln's famous quote: “Mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice. (So drop your apple cores here).”

Of course, I would never have a final rest on this hill. Getting a home here is even harder than on Nob Hill. There was a vault given to the Chinese, but it has been defaced and off-limits for years. Even the dead, it seems, have their prejudices.

At the top of the hill, I wrap my shawl tight around me and plop down on a stone tablet marker to wait. Bird droppings cover
the
G
and
L
in the name of the occupant: Jack Glass. Bet Mr. Glass is turning over in his grave. Then again, he's been lying there for fifty years and can probably use the exercise.

After several minutes pass, my fingers turn numb, so I get up and hop in place instead.
Consultant
. I snort. Elodie doesn't even know Tom. He's a dreamer, an inventor. He will touch the stars one day. That she could think he'd stoop to such a mundane job is laughable.

Or maybe I am the one who should be mocked, waiting here for someone whose feelings have dropped off steeply. Tom never said he would come. I thought we were friends, but perhaps he's been keeping his distance because he objects to an arranged marriage between us. Maybe Ling-Ling is more his taste and he is waiting for me to release him.

I turn to leave, but before I go two paces, something moves in the bushes, rooting me to the spot.

“Couldn't we meet at a park like normal people?” comes a voice.

I release a shaky breath, hoping he doesn't realize he scared the hair off me. “That would be too easy.”

The sight of Tom throws my heart into orbit. He's pulled the collar of his coat up to his chin, and his cap hugs his head.

“And easy is too hard for you.” His breath curls out of his mouth. “You will never be happy if you don't climb to the top.”

“You sound like my father, Tom. At least I stop when I run out of land. You're the one who wants to fly.”

We sit down on the marker, sides touching, and I almost swoon at his warmth.

“About that
 . . .”
He stares at our city below, obscured through a night as thick as black sesame pudding. I feel more than hear him clear his throat, but he holds on to his silence.

“What is it?” When he still doesn't answer, I nudge him.

His folded hands twitch. Those hands are strong enough to lift heavy grain sacks, yet his nimble fingers can tweeze a petal without breaking it.

“After the hearing, Ba and I got into a table scratcher. I told him I wasn't going to be a doctor like him. He hasn't said a word to me since. But I was never cut out for that work. You know that.”

“I'm sorry. What can I do?”

“Nothing. I disappoint him, and he will find any reason to remind me.”

There's something so aching and hungry in the way he stares up at the dark sky, I can't help wishing he would look at me that way. I imagine the weight of his arm dragging me to him. The memory of sand and Tom's face dripping down on me fills my mind.

Without thinking further, I lean closer, and when he turns his startled face to mine, I kiss him.

I misjudge and our teeth collide, but he gently corrects course instead of pulling away. When he kisses me back, all the hurt inside me floats to the surface and somehow drains away. It makes me want to laugh.

Tom
does
care for me. He cares.

My heart thumps so loud, it feels as if the noise is coming from outside of my head, as if it belongs to the city. As his kiss deepens and he grips me closer, it is easy to imagine that we
are the only two people left on earth, that the only rules are the ones we make.

Too soon, he pulls away. “Mercy,” he says hoarsely, using the word as if in protest. “You should not get attached to me.”

“I already am.” I move toward him again, wishing to continue exploring these new angles on him. The quarter moon, like a full-bellied fish, swims high off the horizon. We don't have much time.

But instead of his lips, I feel only the cold emptiness of air.

Tom looks like he stepped on a turtle, surprised and a little off-balance, as he struggles for words. Finally, he swallows. “There is no one like you, Mercy. You deserve more.”

I blink. “What?”

Seven heart-crushing seconds elapse. He has fallen for Ling-Ling. He is pushing the dagger in gently.

“There's a man in Seattle who's working on a flyer. Aluminum engine, twenty horsepower
 . . .
it's a big improvement on the Wrights'. He's looking for someone to fly it.”

“Seattle
 . . .
”—thank the Nine Fruits it's not Ling-Ling, but—“
Washington?
That's a thousand miles away.” He nods. “I thought you were still working on your balloon.”

“I've done all I can on it. Got it to stay up a whole two hours yesterday. Besides, airplanes are the new bird. This is my chance to be a part of something big.”

A leaf mouses around my ankles, and I crush it with my toe. I'd always encouraged Tom to do what he loved, but now that it's a real possibility, the thought of him shooting around in the
sky makes my stomach turn loops. One little misstep, and the sky could come crashing down on him.

And what about me and our herbal tea business? True, I never explicitly asked for his help. I just assumed we would be married
 . . .

“But you'll come back.”

The silent moments that follow hit me like sharp stones, each one sharper than the last.

He doesn't care. I was a fool, and his kiss was simply a gesture. Pity, even.

“I'm leaving Tuesday at dawn,” he says at last. “Captain Lu said he'd give me a ride. He's even letting me bring the Island.”

The ship with the green eyes,
Heavenly Blessing
. I stare dumbly ahead. He wraps his coat around my shoulders, but no coat could warm my chill.

Seconds slog by, and I linger, mute and immovable as a wounded animal. We'd grown up together. We'd dreamed with our faces to the moon, plotted the courses of our lives.

Finally, he gestures distractedly in front of him. “Look at all that space. I know something's waiting for you out there, something good. You're going to have the biggest house on Nob Hill one day, remember? And a company to command. Even the
gwai lo
will respect you.”

I can hear the pleading behind his compliments, and it strikes me as ironic how often comfort rides on the back of pity, like a mule with a silk saddle. When I still do not speak, he drags in a breath, then lets it out in a slow exhale. “Mercy, don't wait for me.”

Ma says we can measure our lives by our pain.

There is the pain of our first steps, and of losing our first tooth. The pain of a parent's anger, and the disappointment when something doesn't go our way. Each advances us in some way, leading us further into the experience of being human.

If Ma is right, then I must be an old woman now, for the wound Tom inflicts with his gentle voice hurts more than all the rest put together.

I want to rail against him, tell him what a dumb egg he is. But why? Because he needs more than harmonious signs to dream of a future together? Americans marry for love, and we have always considered ourselves American, even if our city does not. Would I marry Tom if I didn't love him? I don't know. I can't imagine
not
loving Tom.

“You deserve to find your place in the sky,” I say in a tight voice. I cannot leave on a bad note, because that would dishonor us both. I must accept that our friendship will never bloom to something more. “Just promise you will remember which way is up and which way is down.”

He gives me the whisper of a smile, and it presses a hard finger to my wound.

The garden at St. Clare's is full of shadows. Despite my heavy heart, I quickly work my way back to the main house, my ears attuned to every rustle through the lavender, every shake of tree branches. The fountain with the goldfish gurgles. Servants move around in the kitchen, but they can't see me out here in the dark.

I'm about to step into the light of the entryway when a slender figure emerges from the chapel. A low-rimmed bonnet obscures her face, and she walks with a distinct shuffle, favoring her right hip. The sight triggers a recent memory.

The woman looks up, and the light from a streetlamp illuminates her features. At the sight of me, Madame Du Lac's free hand flies to the choker at her throat; the other one clutches her Bible.

“Evening, Madame,” I say, loud enough for her to hear me.

Her eyes narrow, but instead of returning my greeting, she quickly moves away. It's late, but I suppose God doesn't keep visiting hours.

When I slip back into our room, Elodie is sitting at her desk in her nightgown. Her scalloped boots stand at attention in one corner, as if awaiting her orders. She barely lifts her eyes from the letter she is composing. The peacock feather of her pen ripples with her scratching.

As the last bell rings, I wrestle off my uniform. Elodie deposits her letter in a drawer, then gracefully folds herself into her covers. “You'll be pleased to know, I have just written to Papa, informing him of our new arrangement with Chinatown and my recommendation of hiring Tom for the consultancy.” She smiles brightly.

I should hold my tongue, but I am in no mood to be toyed with. “I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but Tom is no longer available. I guess you'll have to rewrite your letter.”

I yank my nightgown over my head just as Headmistress Crouch appears in the doorway. Taking in my flushed
appearance, she frowns. In an instant, she is by my side, lifting my chin with her ruler. “Have you been exercising?”

“No, ma'am.” My voice squeaks at the end. “I've been praying.”

Her eyes become two cracks in the bleak wall of her face. Has she discovered my lark?

She lowers her ruler. “Good. Exertion before bedtime is bad for your constitution. We are ladies, not acrobats.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Elodie snorts, and Headmistress Crouch turns to her. “What are you sniggering about?”

“I beg your pardon, ma'am. I was simply noticing the roughness of Miss Wong's hands. Perhaps Chinese heiresses
are
acrobats. Or perhaps—”

I cough. “My hands are roughened because in China ladies learn pottery instead of embroidery. The more calloused the fingers, the higher one's skill.”

“Is that so?” Elodie's smile drips venom. “I would love to see a demonstration some time. No doubt, it would prove as entertaining as your tea ceremony.”

“It would be my pleasure to show you how well I can throw a slab,” I growl.

“Enough.” Headmistress Crouch's hand chops through the air. “This yammering is aggravating my blood pressure.”