Outrun the Moon (4 page)

“Why? Is something going to happen to him?”

I don't like the slow beat of her clucks, or the uneven way she stirs her beans.

“Not him. Me. I have foreseen my death.” She tosses out those words as if commenting on the price of paddy straw mushrooms.

“Don't say that!” I may not be superstitious, but if there were ghosts listening, surely they would overhear. “Death is unpredictable. You tell clients that all the time.”

“That is so they don't do something foolish like Mr. Yip.” Mr. Yip ran through Union Square wrapped in an American flag after Ma told him to prepare for his final rest. He was almost put in the stocks for that, until the Chinese Benevolent Association paid a hefty fee for officials to look the other way. “Anyway, I turned forty-four this year, an inauspicious number.”

“Ma,” I groan. As if I didn't already view
four
with suspicion, forty-four in Chinese sounds like the words “I want to die.” “But four plus four equals eight, and eight is the luckiest number,” I attempt to argue.

She shakes her head. “No, Mercy. My vision has told me so.” This time, she speaks with the solemnity of striking a gong with
a mallet. Of all the tools a fortune-teller uses to read a person's fate—the almanac, the beans, and the “Four Pillars” of birth year, month, day, and hour—Ma believes her vision to be the most reliable. Others apparently agree, as she is Chinatown's most sought-after fortune-teller.

Noticing my grimace, she adds, “It is not something to be feared, death.”

“I don't fear it. I worked in a graveyard, remember?”

She clucks her tongue in disapproval. Ma had not approved of my job at the cemetery, believing hungry ghosts would follow me home and wreak destruction. Though she stopped complaining after seeing the money I brought in—the fortune-telling business had slowed in recent years.

A bit of the nausea I felt aboard Tom's Floating Island returns, and I grip the sides of my chair, trying to keep my voice light. “Dr. Gunn says your pulse is sturdy and your energy flows like a river. Besides, you always tell clients they can change their destiny.”

“No, I tell them we can change our
perspective
on it.”

Jack calls for her. Ma squints toward the bedroom door, then looks back at me. She presses her small but solid finger against the bridge of my nose, smoothing out the wrinkle lodged there. “It is like the moon. We can see it differently by climbing a mountain, but we cannot outrun it. As it should be.”

I bring our bucket of dishes to the community pump behind our building, still put out by Ma's proclamation, even if I don't believe it. Her work, her
life
is ruled by things that cannot be seen or felt,
only suspected and feared. Yet, I cannot blame her. The Chinese have spent thousands of years honing their beliefs, and it isn't as if the Catholic's system of saints and demons is any less peculiar. It just comes with a lot less predictions.

Women have gathered around the community pot, their loose pants rolled to the knees and their jackets to the elbows. A few of them perch on wooden stools, gossiping.

“Evening, Wong Mei-Si,” they greet me by my Chinese name, which means “beautiful thought.”

“Evening, aunties.” Their hair is dappled gray, and their faces are creased. Like Ma, many of them came here before 1882, when President Arthur signed the Chinese Exclusion Act, which barred Chinese from immigrating.

They toss questions at me like bread crumbs, hoping I will bite. “When will your parents give you away? There are rumors you will marry Tom Gunn.”

The women pass around a smile, and when I do not answer, the questions continue.

“How is your ma? We do not see her enough anymore.”

“Is she getting on with your ba? It must be difficult never to see him.”

“They are well,” I say simply, retreating to a spot by a bushy fern.

When it is apparent I will say no more, they return to their chatter, which now probably concerns me. Their tongues may be long, but I envy their friendship. The few girls I do know are expected to stay home. Not everyone has an independent mother who lets her go where she wants.

Squatting, I scrub the dishes as quickly and noiselessly as I can. I don't see Ma's bowl with the faded blue designs. She skipped a meal again.

A feeling of dread coils through me, too slippery to catch. I breathe deeply to start my energy flowing again. It will take me at least three years to graduate from St. Clare's. Then when I've earned enough money from my herbal tea business, I will deliver us from this pernicious drudgery, and Jack will thrive.

I empty the bucket, using my arm to keep the dishes from falling out, and watch the gray water slip over my toes. Maybe once Ma's business returns, her grim outlook will improve. I don't believe in fate or destiny, but somehow I will change ours for the better. Even my inauspicious Ma's.

I simply must catch the phoenix feather.

MONDAY ARRIVES WEARING A GRAY STOLE on her shoulders, which she refuses to shed by the time I set out for my meeting with Mr. Du Lac. Ma checks my black funeral dress for fibers. I look just as I did on Friday, except today I am wearing sensible shoes—flat cloth slippers with wool socks.

Licking her fingers, Ma tucks my chin-length hair behind my ears. Her fingers drift to my bossy cheeks and press, a not-so-subtle reminder to keep my authoritative bumps in rein.

I try to shake her off, but she holds me in place. “These cheeks are from me. They mean you can row your own boat, even when there is no wind to help you.”

Her gray eyes tighten, and it puts an anxious flutter in my stomach. This morning, I heard her and Ba arguing. “Is Ba still mad at me?”

She releases me. “No. He thinks it is my fault for letting you run wild. That I have created a cricket daughter who believes she can jump wherever she wants.” Father is always calling Ma a cricket because those insects don't have ears and she never listens to him. Ma says that crickets do have ears, they just listen a different way.

“I'm sorry. Should I talk to him?”

“No. I told him you can't force a kumquat tree to make pears. You must help it make the best kumquats it can make.”

“I am the kumquat?”

“No, you are the tree. Now go on, and make some good fruits.”

I untie our rope lock.

“Wait. It is bad luck to go empty-handed.” Ma crosses the room with our pomelo, an important symbol of family unity due to its full, round shape. “You should offer a gift.”

I clasp my hands behind my back. “They would just think me odd.” Plus, it took Ba a full day's work to afford that one. He never skimps when it comes to offerings for ancestors, even though it technically contradicts his Catholic beliefs. It is one of the few things my parents agree on.

“Take it.” Her top lip presses into the bottom one.

“What about an orange instead?” At least an orange is familiar.

“An orange is not lucky enough.” She pushes the fruit at me, then closes the door.

I sigh. It is useless to argue with a cricket.

My knees protest as I descend steep Clay Street, then Dupont, past men searching for work on the posted dailies and past the open-air fish market with the squid curtains. Mr. Tong fills flat baskets with still-wiggling mackerel, blue and sleek with staring eyes.

“Beautiful Thought, are you well? You haven't bought a rock cod from me in nearly a moon,” he calls out. Icicles of white beard hairs twitch from his chin. “Nine Fingers hasn't stolen you away?”

In the next stall, his twin brother scoops Dungeness crabs
into a crate with his bare hands. He lost the tip of his finger that way, but he says nine is a luckier number than ten, anyway. “Or perhaps you have driven her away with your ugly face, which makes even onions cry,” Nine Fingers says.

“Ba has lost his taste for seafood, but he thinks it will return soon,” I lie. Ba loves fish, but we've been substituting it with tofu, which costs less.

The spaces between Mr. Tong's teeth are big enough for a beetle to crawl through. “Maybe it's your ma's cooking.”

Nine Fingers spits. “Maybe this is why you lose customers, because you insult their mothers!”

I bow to the brothers, then hurry away, leaving them to their argument. I have three miles to walk, and I can already hear the bells at St. Mary's tolling the eleven o'clock hour.

The land levels out several minutes later when I've exited Chinatown. I cut a wide path around a dark alley, then correct course again, past Union Square.

On one side of a brick building, faded stenciling reads
Come one, come all! Rowboats, 15¢/hr, Golden Gate Park
. When I was Jack's age, I begged Ba to take me there. That day, Ba was in a good mood. We hiked to Stow Lake in the middle of the park and handed them our dime. They laughed at us.
Monkeys don't ride boats,
they said.

In the center of Union Square, the white figure, Winged Victory, meets my grimace with a fierce expression, urging me onward with her trident.

I turn onto Geary, and then it's a straight shot to St. Clare's in the Western Addition, the streetcar suburb built on the old
western boundary of the city. I clutch my grapefruit, wishing I had thought to bring it in a bag. If only Ma hadn't made me bring this dratted fruit.

Past the main thoroughfare of Van Ness, gussied up Victorian houses regard me coolly. I've passed this way a hundred times to the cemetery, but they never seem to get any friendlier. Ma says all houses have humors, and I always suspected theirs were waiting for me to trip.

After a mile of ascent, my funeral dress sticks to my chest and the grapefruit slips in my grip. The chapel of St. Clare's appears, with its narrow bell tower, then the school. Five stories of hay-colored bricks end at a steeply sloping roof punctured with peek-through windows. The school's buildings occupy half the block.

Now that I wait on the threshold of opportunity, a tingle of doubt wends through me. It's as if I've stepped in front of a sleeping tiger, and perhaps I should not wake it after all.

I remember the feel of Jack's tiny hand, tugging me forward.
Let's go, Mercy!

Fixing my hat upon my head, I march up the painted stoop. Muffled chatter seeps through the door. I grasp the brass knocker and put it to work.

The chatter falters. Moments later, a droopy-cheeked woman with a nest of gray hair answers. The collar of her maid's uniform is starched flat as moth wings. “May I help you?” I detect an Irish accent. Her eyes cut to my grapefruit.

Girls in crisp navy dresses flutter behind her, reminding me of the basket of mackerel I passed earlier, with their staring eyes
and sameness in appearance. I ignore them. “I am Mercy Wong. I have an appointment with Monsieur Du Lac.”

Titters erupt from the girls.

“A Chinagirl,” someone whispers.

“Wants to speak with your father, Elodie,” says another girl.

Elodie? A pair of insolent eyes pin me from behind the maid's shoulder. The girl at the Chocolatier was no shopgirl, but the Du Lacs' daughter. I now recognize the same aquiline nose as her mother, indicating a proud and sarcastic nature. My eyes fall to her boots, so shiny you could start a fire with them.

“One moment.” The maid closes the door and doesn't return for the length of time it takes to boil water.

“Please follow me,” she says when she finally opens the door again.

Head held high, I pass into the hallowed halls where no Chinese girl has gone before. A hundred white ghosts seem to gasp at my boldness, while a hundred yellow ones hold their breaths.

A bell rings, and to my relief, the girls scatter. The maid leads me down a hallway hung with so many pictures it looks like the walls will collapse. Leland Stanford, Mark Hopkins, John Sutter, Charles Crocker. The roster of unsmiling mugs is impressive, though for a girls' school, there certainly are a lot of men.

My shoes sink into the plush runner, dyed the impractical color of cream. I peek behind to see if I've left dirty footprints.

The maid stops, and I smack right into her. “Oh! Sorry.”

She pats her graying bun and mutters, “Better watch your step. There are people here you don't want to bump into.” She eyes my grapefruit again, then raps on a heavy oak door.

“Enter,” says a man's voice that sounds accustomed to giving orders.

Monsieur Du Lac rises from his chair behind an expensive desk. He strikes me as the male equivalent of his wife, though perhaps it is because of his distasteful expression, ironic for people always surrounded by chocolate. His chin and nose form double knobs, substantial enough for a miniature-sized person to hang their hat
and
coat. His appearance is orderly, with the exception of his vest buttons, which valiantly stem the tide of his thickening middle. “Miss Wong, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sneezes, and I watch out for flying buttons. “What is that?”

“A pomelo for you, sir. For prosperity—”

“Mrs. Tingle, get rid of it. I seem to be allergic.”

The maid bobs and holds her hands out to me. With a sigh, I hand over my golden orb.

“Will you be wanting tea?” she asks him.

“No.”

The maid bobs again, then is gone.

Monsieur Du Lac steers his piercing gaze to me. “I am told you seek an education here, but I regret that it is not possible.” Though grammatically perfect, a French accent stretches his English out of shape. “Had you simply believed my wife when she informed you of this, you might have saved yourself a trip.” He speaks in the tone of one who expects his word to be the last, though he could not have always been so self-important. In an interview he gave to the
Examiner
, he spoke of growing up as
the son of a coal peddler. “Now, she says you gave her a special herb or some such for her spells but neglected to pass along the method of its dispensation. If you'll just give it to me, you can be on your way.”

“It is not as simple as that, Monsieur Du Lac. Public schools are required to allow in Chinese students.
Tape v. Hurley
, 1885.”

He rocks forward on his toes, and his shoes squeak. “I'm afraid you're misinformed. The board of education provided your people with a public education. You may attend the Oriental Public School.”

I sniff. All Chinese know the Oriental Public School was a concession, a way around the law. “Our textbooks are outdated. Not to mention the school ends after the eighth grade. Surely you, who grew up impoverished, would understand how inequitable this is.”

One wiry eyebrow arches, and he swallows down whatever he was going to say. “Even if that were true,” he says slowly, “we are a private institution—”

“That receives public funding. Enough to make you a public school in the eyes of the law.” I examined the board of education records at City Hall myself.

“Again, I remind you that you have a perfectly adequate school.”

“A school that I have already completed. And that many believe is unconstitutional. I would hate for you to be the test case for just how unconstitutional it is.”

“You're threatening me?” His fists clench, maybe getting
ready to wring my neck. I seek a spot to gaze in place of his eyes, which Mrs. Lowry says can spark aggression, and I settle on the puffs under them.

“No, sir.” I try to effect an air of humility, though my heart races like a crazed beetle. “I am merely providing you with an opportunity. You are a businessman, and I am certain you can recognize an opportunity, even when it comes bearing fruit.”

“Business opportunity?” His eyes narrow.

“May I sit down?” Mrs. Lowry says it is always better to discuss business sitting down where one is comfortable. Not to mention, it is rude for him not to offer me a chair.

With a sigh, he gestures to a group of leather loungers, with seats too deep for any woman's limbs. I perch on the edge of one and hide my scuffed shoes under my hem.

Monsieur Du Lac chooses the chair opposite. “Explain.”

“San Francisco is home to three hundred and fifty thousand people, six percent, or twenty thousand, of whom are Chinese. If every one of them bought just two
cacahouètes
at a nickel each, that's an extra”—I glance up at the parquet ceiling, though I did the math beforehand—“two thousand dollars a year in revenue right there, for selling peanuts. If they did it once a month, well, that's a lucrative bit of change.” He can work out the sum of twenty-four thousand dollars without me needing to tempt fate by saying the word
four
out loud.

He leans forward in his chair, and his expression grows hungry. Mrs. Lowry's golden rule of negotiation is to never reveal your price tag until you convince the other party he cannot live without your product. I continue wafting the smell of profits.
“You are the biggest chocolatier in the state, maybe the nation, bigger even than Li'l Betties.”

His eyes grow sharp at the mention of his competitor.

“For now,” I toss in.

“What do you mean?”

“Surely you know that Li'l Betties just opened a shop on Geary, right outside Chinatown. My brother tried one, and now he can't get enough. His friends, too.”

A coolness sets over his features. “What are you proposing?”

“Chinatown is informally run by the Benevolent Association, which governs all matters of trade. You must petition for a hearing to sell chocolate within our boundaries.”

“I have a right to sell chocolate anywhere I damn please.”

“If it were that easy, you would be doing it already.” He could sell it, but no one would buy without the approval of the association. Many, including my late grandfather, fled the mother country because of economic hardship from the Opium Wars. England coerced China into accepting the black tar in payment for tea and cracked China open like a ginkgo nut. Old injuries still itch.

“Why would you think I want to do business in Chinatown?”

“Anyone who reads the dailies knows how Li'l Betties poached your best workers.” I devour the dailies, not just the Chinese ones posted on the sides of our buildings, but the American ones that are always discarded in Union Square. “Less workers means less output. It also means family members must chip in.” I hedge my bets that is true; why else would the haughty Madame Du Lac be minding the shop, with her daughter doling out the sweets?

He blinks as if splashed, and I know I've hit the mark. I hurry on. “I can get you an association hearing. No guarantees, of course, but the association only hears a fraction of the cases brought before it, particularly if you are not Chinese.” Tom's father owns one of Chinatown's oldest businesses and is one of the six association members.

I fill my lungs, then say in a rush, “In return, you will persuade your board to let me attend St. Clare's at full scholarship until I graduate.” Before the words
full scholarship
have time to sink in, I add, “I have top grades, a good work ethic, and an agreeable disposition.” I smile broadly so there can be no question. “You won't regret it.”