Dreams of the Red Phoenix (31 page)

“Get me the location of the Red Army camp in the mountains,
and I will see that you join your son before he leaves Shanghai,”
the general said as he continued to gaze at the storm that was
starting to rage outside.

Torrents always marked the change of season here. Shirley re
membered Charles playing in the sudden mud puddles with his
dear friend, Han. Her husband would dash home so they could
press their rocking chairs close together and watch the great,
sweeping power of the storm as it rushed across the plains. For so
many years, rain had made all things new. Shirley wished for that
now, for them all. To wash away the sins of violence and misery.

But the rain would do nothing of the sort, especially not for
her. Shirley understood in that moment that if she did what
the general asked and betrayed her friend and his cause, noth
ing could wash her clean. No matter how empty or terrified she
might feel, or desperate to be reunited with her son, nothing
could justify such a decision. And yet she felt she had no choice.

“I will try,” she said.

“Don't play games with me, Mrs. Carson. If you do not come
through with this information, you will not see your son, and I
will leave your fate to my men.”

The general called for his soldiers. They pushed her out of
the office and through the maze of other soldiers, then left her
on the steps of the municipal building to make her way home in
the driving rain.

C
aleb watched the rain as Han and Cook conferred at the
back of the cave. They had set it up so nicely, with a fire
and two cots, his own and one for Cook. All summer, Caleb had
been grateful for the dampness inside the cave as it had helped
keep him cool through night sweats. He was coming back to
life. He felt certain of that. But then he heard their voices, and
despite the pounding rain and their quick tongues, the crucial
information reached him. Han whispered to his father that an
update had come over the radio: Mrs. Carson was missing, per
haps taken by the Japanese or simply lost in the countryside. The
night before, she had visited a Red Army camp out on the plains
with Captain Hsu. Early that morning, an unexpected Japanese
attack had struck nearby, and in the confusion, Mrs. Carson had
disappeared. She had not been seen since, and subsequently, Han
explained, the camp had been destroyed, only the Eighth Route
Army leaders and some of the troops escaping in time.

Caleb wanted to shout above the sound of the rain and beg
them to tell him it wasn't true that Shirley's whereabouts were
now unknown. But instead, he bit his bottom lip and squeezed
his hands together in an exercise they had devised to help him
regain strength in his arms. Cook had overseen his recovery so
well, and Caleb understood that the older man was protecting
him from any painful news that might impede his recovery. He
listened intently for any further updates and heard Cook say that
he would confirm Mrs. Carson's absence with Captain Hsu.

They were all out there, Caleb thought: his wife, his son, and
his friend and comrade Captain Hsu. They all existed beyond the
veil of water that separated him from the rest of the world. As the
rain fell, swirling him in its embrace, he shut his eyes and tried to
appear as placid as he could, though his mind roiled with worry
and his body felt more infirm than ever.

“You have rested well,” Cook said. “But now you must sit up.
The humors must move. Stir blood. Very important.”

For weeks now, Cook had tried to teach Caleb the Chinese
understanding of the body. It was so foreign to him, and he was
such a slow learner since the accident, unable to grasp the many
rules and distinctions of his care. But he had come to believe that
Cook's approach was right: his blood had grown too still. Now,
after overhearing the news of his missing wife, Caleb sensed that
even his heart was slowing. Perhaps it would stop altogether. His
tears started again, and Cook frowned.

“You feel much pain?” he asked.

“No, I'm just happy that my family is going home to America.”

At this, Cook nodded briskly and appeared satisfied. “It is
best.”

He then stepped away and left Caleb to wonder how he could
possibly go on living while she was out there alone in the coun
tryside. He remembered the old phrases he had used to cheer his
wife when she felt unhappy, which had been quite often here in
China.
Stiff upper lip
, he had said.
Carry on
. How had he ever
believed it possible to carry on, unscathed? He had thought he
could come to China to make a difference, first with teaching
at the mission and then with the Communist cause as well. He
had wanted to help redirect the stream of history here, when in
actuality, it had washed over him like the rain over the lip of the
cave. How had he ever thought that he and his family could es
cape the shifting and slippery ground around them in a country
not their own?

He fell asleep to the pounding of rain and awoke later to see
the unmistakable silhouette of Captain Hsu by the mouth of the
cave. Caleb sensed other men nearby, too. A great tiredness over
came him. He was not well. The rain had slowed to an even pace.
Caleb knew it would go on like that for days. It made his bones
ache even more than before. The pain seeped through him the
way the water leaked from cracks in the cave walls. His wife was
missing and he hurt all over. He raised a finger and tried to make
his voice heard above the insistent rain.

“Captain,” he called.

It took several more tries before his comrade heard him and
left the other men to come to his side. He knelt down and pressed
Caleb's hand.

“You are feeling better?” Captain Hsu asked.

Caleb wanted to smile but felt too feeble to do so. “I'm no
better than I was,” he said.

“That is not what Cook tells me.” The Captain's strong voice
echoed off the watery walls.

What a vital man he was, Caleb thought. That scar over his
eye and other marks on his face did not take away from his over
all handsome and positive appearance. Captain Hsu would have
stood out in any country but seemed especially unique in this set
ting, where hardship crushed the spirits of lesser souls.

“I have heard about my wife,” Caleb whispered. “Is she still
missing?”

The captain bowed his head, his silver hair catching the lamp
light. “I am sorry, my friend. We tried to spare you this news.”

“Don't tell Cook that I know. He will worry about me.”

The captain looked out at the night. “We did not see the raid
coming until it was almost too late. Our leaders barely escaped.
And now, Imperial Army troops line the main roads and fill the
town. Everyone who can has left. We are unable to return there
without great risk. I have to assume that the Japanese took Mrs.
Carson, though honestly I don't know. But I will try to investigate.”

“Please don't put yourself in danger, Captain,” Caleb said.

Captain Hsu patted the Reverend's chest. “Danger is every
where. It cannot be helped.” He stood and started to step away,
but Caleb called him back.

“I'm sorry, Captain, but I have another favor to ask.”

“In addition to trying to find your wife?” The captain finally
smiled. “Isn't that enough?”

“Yes, and I'm eternally grateful to you.”

“I don't believe in eternity, so don't bother. What else do you
want, old friend? Another blanket? The air is colder now with
the rain.”

Caleb motioned for the captain to bend closer, and he did.

“I want you to shoot me,” he whispered. “Will you do that
for me?”

The captain straightened up fast. “You don't know what
you're saying.”

With great effort, Caleb tried to reach for the captain's hand,
but Hsu did not take his.

“You should know I would never do such a thing,” he said.
“We are not barbarians. I will ignore this insult because you are
not yourself. Now, sleep. That is an order.”

Then the good man—a better man than Caleb thought
himself to be—left the cave. Sleep came quickly and with it
relief from the shame he felt for having asked his friend to
commit a mortal sin, even if the captain did not believe in
such a thing.

R
ain blotted out the night sky and made every surface slick.
Shirley wove through the deserted streets and felt the dust
turn to mud beneath her feet. A Japanese soldier followed a short
distance behind, and she wondered if he was rogue and would
attack her, although the longer he did not, the more she allowed
herself to believe that he had been sent to protect her instead.
When she glanced around again, he was gone. But then he reap
peared in the destroyed market and later by the compound wall.
She didn't know if she could do what she had been asked to do,
but for now, she simply walked, one cut and bruised footstep af
ter the next.

The gates to the compound had been left open, and a pack
of emaciated dogs stood over the body of the blind grandfather
who had guarded the entrance. Shirley looked away quickly but
had already seen too much. Though soaked through, she did not
hurry or seek shelter. She wandered up the brick pathways in a
daze as rain cascaded down her hair and fell in a wall around
her face. At her home, she stumbled through the moon gate and
up the wide wooden steps of the porch. The rocking chairs were
gone from their usual places, and Shirley had no idea how long
ago they had been taken. There was so much she had not no
ticed. The screen door had been stolen, and the handsome carved
front door stood open, the small statue of the door god no longer
keeping watch. She stepped over the threshold and nearly let out
a cry at the familiar sight of her piano. It stood exactly as before,
though the bench was missing. She longed to play it now, to hurl
herself into a sad and stirring piece, but didn't dare make noise or
draw attention to the house. She had seen no one since entering
the compound, though she had sensed movement in the dark.

She wandered into the clinic, where only a few cots remained.
The supply station had been tipped over, the medical instruments
taken. Used bandages and other debris lay tossed on the wooden
floor. Hanging on the coat tree, along with several aprons, she
found a rumpled sweater that had belonged to Charles when he
was a younger boy. She pulled it over her head and breathed in
the scent of him—neither sweet nor unpleasant but simply his.
With the wind up and the season changing, she was chilled all the
way through but began to feel warmer, sensing her son with her.

She hung a white apron around her neck and tied the sash at
her waist. She had come to feel such purpose when putting on her
nursing garb and entering the clinic. She stepped into the former
parlor now. The cots and chairs had been taken, too. Only the
wicker sofa remained, tipped on its side, the cushions gone. Dry
newspapers and other rubbish littered the corners. Ashes from a
recent fire glowed in the hearth, and she wondered if any Chi
nese people were hiding out in her home, a thought that would
have once terrified her but now seemed almost a comfort.

She pressed her bare toes into the faded coral cherry blos
soms on the sea of blue carpet. The gold screen painted with the
image of the rising phoenix no longer stood in the corner. She
had complained to Caleb that all the decorations in their formal
rooms should be as fine as that elegant piece, one of her prized
possessions. By having high-quality Chinese antiques and Orien
tal bric-a-brac, she had hoped to convince herself, as well as the
Chinese, that she knew them and their world. She understood
now that she had hardly known them at all.