Songs of Willow Frost (21 page)

Liu Song shook her head. “No one knows, not even him.”

She watched as Mr. Butterfield swallowed his brandy in one gulp. He sat back, his cheeks slowly turning pink. He looked as though he were aging before her eyes.

“No sense in telling him now, I suppose. Sadly, you’ll only ruin his reputation along with your own.” Mr. Butterfield hesitated and then asked, “Are you going to carry this child? There are things that can be done in private to remedy this kind of situation.”

Liu Song had considered those options—she’d agonized over them for weeks. She remembered old wives’ tales of pregnant women eating small quantities of poison or using knitting needles to keep the seed from taking root. And the only family she had was no family at all—though she worried that if Uncle Leo and Auntie Eng found out, they would want the baby. They just wouldn’t want the mother who came along with a newborn. She imagined them taking the child. A part of her wanted that. But another voice called out to
her. And as much as she loathed her stepfather-uncle, as much as her skin crawled at the thought of his touch, the other voice knew that this child would still be a part of
her
—part of her mother and father. This child would be her only family—with it, she wouldn’t be so alone. She tried to block out the rest, the terrible, ugly truth.

“I’m going to keep it.” The decision brought her no comfort.

Mr. Butterfield seemed relieved, as though those words had some quiet, redeeming value. “If only you had shown that kind of willpower earlier, dear, none of this would have happened.” He shook his head, still in shock. “Well, when you start to—you know”—he gestured to his stomach and tugged on his waistcoat—“I imagine you won’t be able to work here anymore. You’ve set us back a bit, that’s for sure. What a shame that you’ll have to take a leave of absence, but necessary, I’m afraid. I certainly can’t have my good customers thinking I condone this kind of behavior—appearances are everything, I’m afraid. Who knows, they might think I’ve been Barney-mugging you behind the counter and that
I’m
the father.” He half-chuckled at the notion.

Liu Song blinked, trying not to grimace. She found nothing in their conversation worth smiling, let alone laughing, about.

He offered her a handkerchief. She took it but didn’t cry.

“It’ll be okay, sweetheart. Somehow, it’ll all work out,” he reassured her. “And when the time comes, I’ll put you in touch with a place that will care for you until the baby arrives. They’ll get you through the rough part and help you decide what to do afterward. They’ll get you on your feet again.”

The rough part
, Liu Song thought. The rough part would be explaining this to Colin, whom she hadn’t seen or spoken to in weeks.

“Thank you,” she said, somewhat relieved—to have told someone but also that her boss had in mind a place that could help her. She knew that none of the white hospitals would admit her.

“I guess this explains why your uncle Leo said to pay you directly from now on.” Mr. Butterfield reached beneath the counter
and fished out the zippered bag with Liu Song’s earnings for the past few weeks. He handed it to her. “Throw you out, did he?”

Liu Song felt the weight of the full bag. This had been her money in the first place. She’d earned every penny. But now it felt like something else—like coins the flower girls earned in the shadowy doorways of Paradise Alley. Now these dollar bills were notes that read: Go away, get lost, good riddance.

“Something like that,” she said.

A
FTER WORK
, L
IU
Song walked home to save money, and besides, the weather was nice. She strolled by bakeries, inhaling their sweet aromas, and walked past the frying, clinking sounds of greasy spoon diners. She trudged up the broken sidewalks of King Street, passing noodle factories, sausage carts, and the well-stocked window displays of the Yick Fung Mercantile, filled with simple pleasures she could never afford. When she reached Canton Alley, she looked up and down the street, mindful of peeping neighbors and passersby, then slipped toward her apartment. She was famished as she locked the door behind her, and knowing that her cupboards were bare and her icebox empty only made the rumbling in her stomach worse. But her thoughts of food disappeared when she saw an envelope that had been slipped beneath her door. Her heart raced as she read who the fine piece of stationery was from:

Dear Liu Song,

I must apologize for my behavior when last we were together. It was very forward and presumptuous of me, especially after what you’ve already been through with the loss of your dear mother. I can understand why you haven’t called or written. I should have respected your time of grief and mourning. I hope you can forgive my foolishness and perhaps let me make it up to you.

As I hinted, I landed a small part in a revival of
A Chinese Honeymoon
at the Empress Theatre. It’s a very modest production that will only run a few weeks, but it’s a rare opportunity. And it starts tonight.

I have left a ticket for you at the box office, in your name, should you decide that you’d like to see me again. Once more, please accept my sincerest apologies. Yours truly,

Colin K.

FR 324

The note had included his phone number, leaving Liu Song wishing she had a telephone. She slumped to the floor and leaned against the door, staring at the vacant room, a chronic reminder of her empty, desolate life. She’d walked through Chinatown every morning, ignoring the stares and whistles from Filipino cannery workers and Chinese fishmongers. Men twice her age who undressed her with the soiled fingers of their crude imaginations. And at Butterfield’s she drew stares of lust and condemnation, admiration and hope, expectant supplication. Colin, on the other soft, gentle hand, seemed like the only person who treated her with tenderness, caring, and respect. He was everything she wanted, needed.

She touched her tight belly and remembered that her life of solitude was about to change. How could she tell Colin? How could she burden him with that news? She’d wanted to call him the morning after their dinner together. She’d wanted to run to the nearest phone booth, but she’d been so sick, and her body had ached. And as each day passed, as each wave of nausea waned, that awful feeling was replaced with doubt, until every time she looked in the mirror she saw nothing of worth. In a roaring society that valued youth and beauty, her riches were now counterfeit, her innocence bankrupt. She had nothing to offer him but disappointment, embarrassment, and shame.

But even after a few hours of contemplation, a mote of hope refused
to go away. That twinkling caused her to rise like a ghost whose labors begin when the sun sets. As night fell, she walked out the door and wandered through the misty rain to the corner of Second Avenue and Spring Street. She stared up at the ornate brass awning that had turned an earthen shade of green, where
A Chinese Honeymoon
had been painted in broad gold lettering. She’d never seen or heard the musical before, but her father had once told her how the production had run in thousands of theaters—a favorite of white audiences all over the world, though he didn’t care for it much. She knew the story well—a trumped-up tale of couples who break the law in China by accidentally kissing in public.

Liu Song gave her name to the matron in the box office, who handed her a cardboard ticket. Colin had saved a spot for her in the front row, but she chose to sit in a dark corner near the back of the theater. The Empress playhouse was tiny, but an eager crowd of patrons filled the three hundred seats, chatting and eating roasted almonds from sleeves of pink paper that turned silver when the houselights dimmed. Liu Song watched through the fog of her loneliness and grief as Colin appeared onstage as a servant in the palace of the farcical Hang Chow, the Emperor of Ylang Ylang, a made-up land for a made-up story. A white actor played the part of the Emperor, though he wore makeup to give his skin a yellowish tone. Liu Song thought he looked more like a hairless cat than a man. Still, all eyes were on the Emperor, all but Liu Song’s, whose gaze was fixed on Colin. She felt so close to him, a distance measured in heartbeats instead of feet. Colin’s role was small, a token at best, but she felt proud.

During intermission Liu Song snatched a program from the trash and found Colin’s name at the very bottom. She traced the printed characters with her fingertips. He was the only Chinese performer in the show—even the character of Soo Soo, the peasant girl betrothed to Hang Chow, was played by a white actress.
That could be me
, Liu Song thought. And when the two performers finally
kissed at center stage beneath a dazzling spotlight, Liu Song closed her eyes and imagined her and Colin in those roles. Even in a dream, the sight was too much to bear. She wasn’t jealous—Colin wasn’t hers in any way—but watching their performance only made her want him that much more and, by comparison, made Liu Song feel beyond unworthy. How could a man like Colin accept her? She was the used, the forsaken—the discarded.

After the play ended with a musical fanfare, Liu Song fled. She left amid the clapping and cheering as flowers were thrown toward the footlights, toward the happy couple onstage that appeared like a vision, a mirage in the desert—the embodiment of all she could never be and what she could never have. She was out the door before the first curtain call. She took off her heels and ran home in the rain, shredding her stockings, splashing through mud puddles, dodging motorcars that honked and flicked their lights at her. She staggered to her empty apartment, forever occupied by her persistent companions—shadows of fear, doubt, and regret. She couldn’t bear to tell Colin about her condition and she didn’t want to torture herself by seeing him again. She tore up the ticket, his card, and his note—all evidence of the man she knew she could never have. She caught her breath and stood in front of the sink, her cold, wet secondhand clothing clinging to her sagging shoulders. She turned on the stove for heat and put on a tiny pot of rice. Then she sat alone on the floor in the dimly lit kitchen, trying not to cry, forcing herself to think of names for her baby, wishing for a boy to call her own.

Dead Letters

(1934)

William heard clapping and cheering from upstairs as he stared at his glamorously bedraggled mother, this strange weed of a woman, still so young, but weary.
You gave birth to me
, he reconciled all she’d told him.
You loved me, but you gave me away. I guess I know why
. He grimaced at the thought.
My father … was your stepfather
. This avalanche of truth wasn’t the reunion he had hoped for, but at least their strange relationship was one he could understand. Countless times he’d seen mothers come and go from Sacred Heart, and each time he thought,
If you really cared, you wouldn’t leave your child behind, you wouldn’t abandon him—no matter what
.

What does that say about me?
William wondered.
Or does that merely reflect on my uncle Leo, who was never spoken of, and with good reason?

“My father was a bad man, then.”
Like Charlotte’s father
.

“
Father
is too generous a word.” She lingered on that thought as though she couldn’t find a description worthy of her disgust. But then William saw her glance in the mirror and quickly look away, her eyes cast downward. “I wasn’t much better. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted what was best for you, but I was young and stupid,” Willow said. “But I didn’t ever,
ever
want to leave you …”

William heard a knock on the door and someone calling Willow’s name. They knocked again insistently, and he heard Asa’s voice as well.

She held out her hand, admonishing William to stay while she answered. He listened as his mother argued with the comedian and a stage manager, who was saying something about breaking her contract and the legal consequences.

“I have to go, William,” she said as she reached for a handkerchief and began wiping the black streaks from her cheeks. “I have to go, but it will just be a few minutes. Promise me you’ll stay. I’ll be right back …”

“I’ll stay. I promise.”

She closed the door, and William listened to the orchestra in the distance. He waited and wondered if Willow would be performing the same song, or if she had changed her tune as she’d changed her heart so many times. Then he heard another knock and a commotion in the hall.

When he opened the door he saw Charlotte, who looked pale and angry. “I’m sorry, William.” Behind her stepped Sister Briganti and two men from Sacred Heart, who grabbed William by the arms and dragged him into the hallway and up the stairs. Then all he felt was shock, and fear, and the urge to run away as fast as he could.

William was deflated—stunned. “That was my mother,” he protested to Sister Briganti as she led Charlotte up and out into the alley and then to the sidewalk. He pointed to the marquee. “Willow is my ah-ma!”