Dreams of the Red Phoenix (11 page)

“We thank you for the invitation, but my grandmother has
been through a lot. It took us days to get here. Lian's food is the
first we've had in a while. My grandmother needs to rest before
we move anywhere.”

“I understand,” Charles said, “but I'll drop by again soon to
see—” he looked down at the grandmother—“how she is doing.”

The girl blushed, and Charles realized that his cheeks were
warm, too. He didn't know what to do with his hands, and be
fore he knew it, he had reached out to shake hers. The girl's hand
seemed to have no substance to it at all, and he hoped he didn't
squeeze too hard. When they let go, she sat down quickly, and he
turned away fast.

“Also, I'll bring something to fix the chimney,” he shouted
over his shoulder as he started down the alley. “It really shouldn't
smoke up the room like that. That's not right.”

“Yes,” she said, “not right,” though when he glanced back, she
was smiling.

C
harles didn't rush on his way home, and when he emerged
from the alley, he saw that the central courtyard remained as
crowded as when he had left. He wasn't sure what he had hoped
for—perhaps that the Chinese would have all gone back to wher
ever it was they had come from. It was only the end of the first
day since their arrival, and he felt worn out with them already.
Charles could hear his father whispering a stern reminder to not
be selfish—to think of others, not only himself.

Someone bumped his shoulder, and he stumbled over a stack
of straw suitcases held together with a cracked leather belt. More
Chinese pushed past, and Charles ducked under the branches
of his favorite cherry tree. He reached to grasp the black, slick
limbs that he had climbed when he was small. Chinese of every
sort surrounded him. Families mostly, with children stumbling
along, as burdened as the elders, lugging their own things. The
rise and fall of Chinese intonations washed over him in a hot tide,
and the shade of the tree did little to cool him. Charles breathed
through his mouth to avoid the stench that had started to rise in
the courtyard, where latrines had not yet been set up.

He felt certain that he had nothing in common with these des
perately poor people who were now victims of war, and yet, as he
looked around, he felt an affinity with them. They had all faced
their own personal tragedies to arrive here. The Chinese before
him huddled so close that their bowed heads practically touched.
Charles realized that he and his mother, in the wake of their fam
ily's great loss, had lost track of one another. He wanted to be
more like these Chinese, he thought, and set off to tell her so.

Charles pushed away from the cherry tree, stepped over and
around more people, and went up his porch steps. He slipped
into his home, apologizing to those who pressed to follow him
inside. He shut the heavy carved door, rested his back against it,
and shut his eyes.

A moment later, a woman's voice said, “Had a long day, hon
ey?” His mother's friend, Miss James, leaned against the wall be
side him. “You always wanted more to happen around here,” she
said. “Now you've got it.”

He tried to smile.

“I'm sorry your dad's not with us anymore. He'd know how
to handle this.”

Charles looked down at his shoes, covered in yellow sum
mertime dust. He'd forgotten to stomp his feet before entering.
He'd probably forgotten a lot of other normal things, too, because
nothing was normal anymore. He wished people wouldn't men
tion his father so often.

“Your mother's going to be real busy from now on.” Miss
James nodded toward the dining room, where his mother was
instructing several Chinese men on where to place some cots.
“If you need anything, kid, you ask me, okay? The single ladies'
dorm isn't nearly so overrun as your place. We have a few empty
bedrooms with perfectly decent beds. You come over anytime,
and I'll sneak you in. This house is going to be crazy now that it's
a medical clinic.”

“A medical clinic?”

“She says they enlisted her, though I can tell that she loves it.
You know how she likes to be in charge.”

Miss James seemed to be trying to get a rise out of him, but
he wasn't sure why. She always acted as if they were in cahoots,
though Charles never knew about what. He supposed it was just
her way of showing that she thought of herself as a younger sister
to his mother, even though they were close in age.

“But we'll help her out, won't we, Charles? We'll roll up our
sleeves together.”

He tried to dodge her hand as she reached to pat down his hair.

“You might even become a doctor someday because of all this.
That's looking on the bright side.”

“I hate the sight of blood,” he said.

She wiped something off his cheek with her thumb, and he
wriggled away. “Oh, you'll get over that. I can picture you in a
white doctor's coat. You'll be quite the catch.”

Charles doubted he'd ever get over his squeamishness, and he
didn't feel so great about Miss James right now, either. She was
his mother's best friend, and he knew that meant he should like
her best, but sometimes she acted strange.

“Have you had anything to eat today?” she asked.

Charles shook his head.

“I see how this is going to be. Your mother's still not taking
care of you, you poor thing. You need to come over to my place,
and I'll feed you. Right now. Let's go.” She took him by the wrist.

“I just got back, Miss James. I want to tell Mother something.
And I think we have food here. I'm okay. Really, I am.”

She patted down his collar and said, “All right, but I've got
my eye on you. We can't have you being neglected, can we?” She
pointed a long finger at him and offered a flash of white teeth.
Her hand hovered a moment longer, and as if she couldn't help
herself, she started to adjust his jacket where it was hitched up
wrong on his shoulder.

“Stop it,” he finally said and shifted away. “I can take care of
myself.”

She laughed a little, as if it was funny that he didn't want her
pawing at him.

“Remember, now, if you need anything,” she said again, “just
let me know.”

As she reached for the front doorknob, Charles spoke up.
“Actually, Miss James,” he said, “I'm trying to find my friend
Han. You know, our cook's son?”

“Sure, I know Han.”

“No one seems to know where he is.”

“I'll ask around. But don't worry too much. Everyone's a little
out of place right now. And by the by, call me Kathryn. It makes
me feel old when you call me Miss James.”

As she headed out the front door and negotiated the crowd
outside, he heard her apologizing to them for their wait. She
wasn't so bad, he realized, just a little peculiar around him for
some reason. Charles then went to join his mother, who stood
with her hands on her hips in the middle of what used to be their
dining room.

“I found Lian's mother, and a girl was with her,” he start
ed right in. “Probably her niece. Did you know that Lian has a
niece?”

His mother continued to point at the cots and bark orders at
the men helping her.

“I forgot to ask her name,” Charles continued. “Do you hap
pen to know Lian's niece's name?”

Finally his mother stopped what she was doing and took him
by the shoulders. “Charles, thank goodness you're back. I was
worried sick.” She kissed him hard on the forehead. They stood
eye to eye now, and her usual kiss to the crown of his head was no
longer possible, so she had substituted this awkward placement.
He wished she wouldn't kiss him at all, especially not in front of
everyone. He wasn't a little boy anymore.

She let go of his shoulders and said, “We have so much to do,
son, it's mind-boggling.”

“The thing is,” he tried again, circling around and blocking
her way, “I couldn't find Han anywhere. Have you seen him?”

“Han? No.”

“I have to find him, Mother. He's my friend.”

“He'll turn up. Everyone's gone a bit missing right now.” She
offered a quick smile.

“But what if he doesn't? What if he ends up like those men
lined up by the Japanese this morning? We have to do something.
We have to find him!”

His mother turned. “Darling, I understand your concern. But
I want you to look around and notice.
All
these people need our
help, not just one. We have to think about the whole, not just
the individual. Captain Hsu was saying something to me this
afternoon that resonated so deeply. ‘The people, and the people
alone, are the motivating force in the making of world history,'
he said. Isn't that a simple, yet staggering, thought? These peo
ple, Charles, these people right here are the makers of world his
tory. We need to face that extraordinary fact and help as many of
them as we can.”

Color had come back into his mother's cheeks, and her fore
head glistened under her fallen wisps of hair. He could barely
follow what she was talking about but thought that at least she
wasn't as miserable as she had been. His mother—lost for so
many weeks and gone over to the ghosts—was now replaced by
this manic person before him.

“Whatever you say, Mother. That's swell. But I'm going to
find Han. I'll see you later.”

Before she could object, he had turned on his heel and left the
house again.

In the ruins of the splintered guardhouse, Charles found Mr.
Sung, the blind self-appointed watchman. With his three-legged
stool nowhere in sight, the man crouched on his haunches, his
can beside him, as always. The high ping of his betel juice hitting
the tin was the most recognizable sound outside the mission.

“Esteemed Mr. Sung, are you all right?”

The old man stopped chewing and cocked his head. “Amer
ican boy?”

“I didn't expect to find you, grandfather.”

“I am here,” the old man said matter-of-factly.

Charles looked beyond the dirt road to the ditch, where some
of the bodies of the Chinese men had still not been collected.

“Do you want to come inside the compound, sir?” Charles
asked. “It would be safer.”

“I must not leave my spot,” the old man said. “It is my duty.”

Charles pressed his forearm against his eyes. “All right, then,”
he said, mustering a voice as much like his father's as he could.
“Carry on! Keep up the good work! Fight the foe!”

The old man gave a blackened grin and saluted.

As Charles headed up the rutted road toward town, he tried
not to stare at the dead bodies. Contorted in the worst possible
ways, they lay in pools of blood, slick and iridescent as tar. Flies
lit and swarmed. Charles yanked his gaze away and watched the
millet swaying in the fields, golden in the sun. He tried to fathom
how such a fine summer day could continue unchanged.

The town consisted of only several shops on one side of the
main street. Across the way, the flimsy cardboard and splin
tered wooden stalls of the farmers' market displayed meager
root vegetables and fruit. The fishmonger also sold his catch
there, if he had any. The Chinese usually had very little money,
so commerce tended to be irregular at best. Still, Charles hoped
to find his friend. He skirted piles of rubble, broken boards,
and clods of soil where the land had been ripped open, Charles
guessed by grenades. Hand-to-hand combat must have taken
place here, but he saw no Japanese soldiers now. Instead, an
eeriness filled the quiet town in the aftermath of that morning's
skirmish.