Usually on Sundays, Billy, Papa, Aunt Hortense, and I go to church. Uncle Karl doesn’t like church. He says, Going to church doesn’t make a person a Christian any more than taking a mule into a barn makes the mule a horse. He rides out to Ocean Beach or down to the racetrack to get stories for his newspaper column.
Last night he said he’d find out about Jing first thing. But Uncle Karl’s first thing could be a week from tomorrow. Still, this is an emergency. He knows that, doesn’t he?
In the kitchen, Maggy has made oatmeal, but everything she cooks tastes like boiled potatoes.
It’s messy to carry a bowl of hot cereal up two flights of stairs and then bring the dirty bowl back down. I fill a pitcher of water, then make two apple butter sandwiches, grab a jar of peaches and two forks, and roll everything into a kitchen towel. Noah won’t like Maggy’s boiled-potato oatmeal any better than I do.
While Maggy is in the chicken coop gathering eggs, I run up to the third floor.
“Noah,” I whisper, knocking softly.
No one answers.
I knock again.
Still nothing. Is he asleep?
If I knock too loudly, Billy might hear. But I can’t just leave Noah’s breakfast outside his door. How would I explain that to Maggy?
What am I supposed to do in a situation like this? Again I think of Miss Barstow’s etiquette rules.
“Noah,” I whisper, opening the door.
Inside, the room is still. The dragon wall tapestry. The black lacquer table. The pitcher and washbasin. The red silken bedcover. The books.
“Noah,” I whisper, a little more loudly this time.
Tlick-tick. The closet door opens. Noah ducks out from under the shirts, hopping over a kerosene lantern.
A flicker of joy flashes in his eyes, and then he scowls. “This is my room! You can’t just barge in anytime you want.”
It’s not his room. Uncle Karl and Aunt Hortense own our house.
“Well…I was bringing you breakfast.”
“You scared me.” He chews on his lip. “I heard footsteps.”
“We need a way for me to know it’s okay to come in. I can’t be knocking.”
“No,” he agrees. “We could hang something on the door.”
“Maggy might notice. What would she think about things appearing on Jing’s door when Jing isn’t here?”
“How about the window? If we drape something small over the blind? Would she notice that?”
“Probably not.”
He opens the closet, stands on his tiptoes, and runs his hand along the high shelf. Dust motes fill the air; a ball of red yarn falls down. He pulls out a gold braided cord with a tassel on each end.
“That’s good,” I say, “but what if it’s not safe to come up? Is there a way to get a message to you?”
Noah’s eyes rove the room. “Orange Tom comes up here. We can attach messages to his collar.”
“What if someone finds the message? What if they read it?”
“We’ll have to be careful what we write,” he says as I unroll the kitchen towel and take out the apple butter sandwiches and the jar of peaches. He spreads a cloth on his bed, as if we are having a picnic, and I set the sandwiches on it, open the peaches, and hand him a fork.
His eyes widen. “You’re going to eat with me?”
“Sure,” I say. I don’t want him to know I’ve never eaten with Jing or Maggy before.
I take a bite of my sandwich. Noah tries to stab a peach with his fork.
“I talked to Uncle Karl. He said he’d help.”
Some of the stiffness in Noah’s shoulders melts away. He stares at the door as if Jing will come through at any minute.
Is it mean to tell him that it may be a while? Papa says never give a patient more information than he can handle.
“In Chinatown, do you live with your mother?”
“Mama’s in China. I live with my uncle Han.”
At the wharf, I’ve seen people coming off the steamships from the Orient. Women in bright Chinese clothes, men in black derbies and baggy pants carrying lacquer chests, spices, bamboo, bolts of fabric, large jade figurines, teak furniture. Everyone comes here. Does anyone return?
“She went back to China?”
“She never came over. It’s hard for women to leave.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Do you write her?”
“No.”
“Why not?” If I could write my mother, I certainly would.
He shrugs, then takes a bite of sandwich. I wait for him to say more. Finally I offer, “My mama is gone, too.”
He nods. “Baba talks about her sometimes.”
“He does? What does he say?”
Noah’s mouth bunches to one side. “She was kind. She hired him even though he’d never been a cook before.”
My mother was kind. It feels good to hear this. Papa doesn’t talk about Mama. He misses her too much.
“She liked to play practical jokes, and she loved chocolate. Chocolate cookies, chocolate ice cream…She even had chocolate sauce on broccoli once.”
“Chocolate broccoli,” I say, laughing. “And chocolate-covered brussels sprouts, too.”
“It was your mama’s idea for him to bake things in your birthday cake.”
“Really?”
He nods.
Mama celebrates my birthday with me. Am I just like the Lizzie I was when I was little? Would she love me now, the way she did then?
“Baba said she adored you, and when she realized she was going to die, she made him promise to stay until you grew up.”
My mouth drops open. “What?” It never occurred to me that Jing would ever leave. Family members can’t decide they won’t be family anymore. But of course, Jing is not family. He’s staying because he promised Mama.
Noah nods.
I look around Jing’s room. The walls are the same as the walls in my room. The floor. The doorframe. The closet. But the room is filled with foreign things.
“Why are you here?” I ask Noah. “You came before the quarantine, didn’t you?”
“We heard that it might happen. Baba wanted me out.”
“He was worried about the plague?”
“He was worried I’d starve.”
“Starve!”
“Everything is closed off. Nothing is allowed in. A lot of people think it’s a way to get rid of us.”
“Who wants to get rid of you?”
“People like you.”
“Me? I don’t want to get rid of you. I just brought you food.”
“Not you.”
Who would want Jing to starve? Jing has made almost every meal I’ve ever eaten. There was always enough. I couldn’t stand it if Jing were hungry.
Noah stops chewing. “What’s the matter?”
Papa says you shouldn’t lie to a patient, but you needn’t add to their worries by piling on your own. “I’m worried about Jing, too.”
He sinks his teeth into his sandwich. “My name in Chinese is Choy, which means ‘wealthy.’ When I grow up, I’m going to own a bank with lots of money and free food.”
“Shall I call you Choy?”
“You should call me by my American name.”
I nod. “How are you going to get the money for your bank?”
“I’m thinking on that. Maybe I’ll learn in college.”
He’s going to college? I can’t even go to college. “Do Chinese people go to college?”
“Some,” he says.
“Some women go to college, too.”
He snorts. “Don’t tell me you want to.”
“I do.” I’ve never said it out loud before.
His brow furrows. “It’ll be hard.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
“You’re not as smart as I am.”
“What? That’s not a nice thing to say. How would you know, anyway?”
“You’re a girl. You’ll get married, like all girls do.”
“I’m not getting married
.” The flush rises in my cheeks. “Wives have to do what they’re told.”
“Maybe you could marry a stupid husband, and then you could make all the decisions.”
I frown. “What would I do with a stupid husband?”
“If you got tired of him, you could take him to an auction.”
“A stupid-husband auction?” I ask. “Would the amount of money you got for him be based on how stupid he was?”
“Yes, so you’d have to prove his stupidity,” Noah says.
“My husband is so stupid…he fills the saltshaker through the little holes in the top.”
Noah grins. “Maybe you are smart enough for college. I’ll help you if it’s too hard.”
“I’ll help you if it’s too hard.”
He laughs, then screws the top onto the jar of peaches and hands it back.
“Keep it. In case you get hungry later.”
He frowns at me. “Okay, but…I just want you to know, I don’t have girls for friends.”
“Why not?”
“Girls lie.”
“They do not! Well, maybe some, but not me. Why would you say that?”
“In Chinatown there’s a girl who lies.”
“That’s just one. Not every girl lies.”
“I suppose not.” His eyes search my face. “Are you telling me everything you know about Baba?”
I meet his gaze squarely. I want this boy to like me. I hope he can’t see just how much. But doesn’t he have to like me, because I’m white and he’s Chinese? “I don’t know anything.”
He wraps a thread around his thumb so tightly, the flesh bunches out in little puckers. “Your uncle Karl said he’d find out.”
“I know. He will!”
“But you’re not sure,” he finishes for me.
“He said he would,” I whisper. “I just don’t know when exactly.”
Noah weaves the thread around the rest of his fingers, and then pulls tight. “You could be my friend”—his eyes are on his fingers—“if you tell me a secret about you.”
“And you’ll tell me a secret about you?”
“You already know one about me.”
I lean forward. “I want another.”
“You first.”
I take a big gulping breath. “I don’t have any friends,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I’m just…different. I don’t like what they like, and the second I open my mouth, I stick my foot into it.”
It feels good to let this out.
He sighs as if he knows what this is like. “Is that all? Because that’s nothing. We can figure that out.”
“How?”
He smiles his crazy smile. “Is there one girl you like better than the rest?”
“Not really.”
“There is. There always is.”
“Well, maybe,” I admit.
“Next time you go to school, look around. You’ll see which one she is. Start with her.”
I nod. “Okay. Now you.”
“In Chinatown there are six companies that run the place. And there are six of us boys who lead the kids. If you ever need anything from a kid in Chinatown, say you’re a friend of Six of Six.”
“Fine, but not that kind of secret. Something personal.”
“Oh, you mean a girl secret. I don’t have girl secrets.”
“I told you a girl secret.”
“Of course you did. You’re a girl. Mine was better. Mine was useful.”
I laugh. “Come on. You have one. I know you do.”
“Okay.” He leans in and whispers, “I don’t know how to throw up.”
“What? Everyone knows how to throw up.”
He shakes he head. “Nope. Never done it. Don’t know how.”
“You want me to give you lessons?” I ask.
We laugh. Pretty soon I’m demonstrating and we’re giggling so hard, we’ve got our hands over each other’s mouths to keep quiet.
I stand up. I’ve been on the third floor a long time. I don’t want anyone coming to look for me.
“Tell me the second you hear from Uncle Karl, okay?” Noah whispers as I tiptoe into the hall. “And, Lizzie…come back as soon as you can.”
After church, I hover outside Billy’s door. Why is he still asleep? He’ll be crabby if I wake him, but I need his help.
When I knock, he barks, “What?”
“Can I come in?”
“I’m sleeping.”
I crack open the door. He grabs his extra pillow and pulls it over his head.
“Billy, I need you.”
“For what?” His voice is muffled.
“To take me to Chinatown. We have to find Jing.”
“Why?”
“He’s caught in the quarantine. If we tell them he’s our cook and he doesn’t live in Chinatown, maybe they’ll let him come home.”
“You’re making this up.”
I pluck the pillow off his head. A purplish-red half-moon rings his left eye. His lower lid is red and swollen. The white of his eye is pink.
“What happened to your eye?”
His hand covers his face. “Ran into a doorframe,” he mumbles.
I pull his hand away and gently inspect his face.
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Was the door?”
“Don’t ask so many questions.”
“It’s only one. This doesn’t look like it needs sutures. Put some ice on it,” I advise.
“I’m not going to take you.”
“But what about Jing?”
He pulls the pillow back over his face. “What about him? Look, I’ve got things to do. Now get out of here.”
Outside his room, I cross my arms and stare down the door. Jing taught Billy how to juggle, ride a bike, and make coins appear out of thin air. Jing played hide-and-seek with us in the barn every night before bed. Jing saved us the butter-frosting bowl even when Papa said it wasn’t good for our teeth. Doesn’t Billy care about Jing at all?
I’m going to find Jing. Mama would want me to. I know she would.
The wagon is hard to hook up. Should I ride? I’m a good rider, but I don’t like sidesaddles, and there’s no telling what Aunt Hortense will do if she catches me riding bareback again.
It takes me the better part of an hour to get the harness on John Henry and the wagon attached the right way. It’s a foggy, gray day, but my hair is pasted down with sweat and my jacket is glued to my back when I’m finished. Still, I’m proud of myself. No other girl at Miss Barstow’s would be able to lift the collar or attach the traces, much less drive a wagon or go to Chinatown. This feeling lasts for a minute and a half, before I realize that John Henry has to pull the wagon right by Aunt Hortense’s house. What if she hears me? What if I run into someone who will tell her? What if a policeman sees me? It’s not against the law for a girl to drive a wagon by herself, but it is unusual.
And how will I get Jing out? I should wait for Papa to come home or for Uncle Karl to help. But who knows when Papa will be back, and how much does Jing matter to Uncle Karl?
I take a deep breath. If I can give a little girl chloroform and set her broken arm, surely I can drive a wagon in broad daylight on a Sunday. I’ll stay on the back streets. No one will see me.
Then, too, I’ve never actually driven before, but I’ve sat next to Billy and Papa a million times. I know how it’s done.
I climb up onto the wagon and give the whip a tentative snap. I don’t want to hurt John Henry. He doesn’t move. I pop it harder….Nothing. I brandish it in the air and snap it back down with a fierce crack, and the big pinto plods forward, pulling the wagon onto the cobblestones. I keep the whip cracking as we approach the Sweetings’ mansion, glancing back at our house. Can Noah see me? I hope so.
It’s unusually quiet at the Sweetings’. I’m pretty sure Nettie, Aunt Hortense’s head maid, has a staff meeting in the second kitchen right now. That must be where everyone is.
What perfect timing!
I have a big grin on my face when the huge front door opens and Aunt Hortense hurries down the marble steps. “Elizabeth! What in the name of…”
Oh no! Gallop, John Henry! I lean forward, ready to take off. But Aunt Hortense will send a servant after me. They’ll catch us, and I’ll be in even more trouble.
I pull up at the gate.
“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” Aunt Hortense is standing on the garden path in her stockinged feet, no hat on her head.
The butler appears behind her carrying her jeweled handbag, boots, and gloves.
There isn’t a lie big enough to cover this.
“You harnessed John Henry?”
I can’t keep the smile off my face.
“Pleased with yourself, are you?”
I try hard not to nod.
“Lizzie!” Billy hurries across the driveway, one boot on, one boot off. “You were supposed to wait in the barn.”
My mouth pops open.
“William!” Aunt Hortense stares him down. “She’s going with you?”
Billy nods, then cocks his head as if he and Aunt Hortense are in cahoots. “Of course. You know how impatient she is.”
Aunt Hortense fans her face with her hand. “I most certainly do.”
“I told her I’d take her to the Emporium,” Billy rattles on. “Can’t you ever follow directions?” he says to me.
“William.” Aunt Hortense walks closer. “What happened to your eye?”
“Ran into a doorframe.”
“Taller than you thought you were, are you?” Aunt Hortense asks.
“I guess so.” Billy smiles his charming smile, but it doesn’t do the trick. Not with the one red-rimmed misshapen eye.
“Uncle Karl knows about your eye?” she asks him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says as I scoot over so he can hop in.
“Elizabeth, I won’t put up with these kinds of shenanigans. You aren’t a little girl anymore. You’re to behave like a young woman. When William says to wait in the barn, you are to do as you’re told. Should this happen again, I will insist that you board at Miss Barstow’s or somewhere else that you will like even less. Is that clear?” She glowers at me.
What’s worse than boarding at Miss Barstow’s? Prison? Billy nudges me with his elbow, and I hold my tongue.
“She’s sorry, Aunt Hortense,” Billy says.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I say, as stiff as party petticoats.