“I’m Jing’s son.”
He’s lying. “Jing doesn’t have a son.”
“Yes, he does.”
“I would know if Jing had a son. He would have told me.”
The boy squints at me as if my answer pains him.
“What? He would have.”
He sighs. “You don’t know anything,” he whispers.
“You can’t talk to me that way.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, though it doesn’t seem like he means it.
The way he moves his lips and his eyebrows is shockingly like Jing. Could he be telling the truth? Is he Jing’s son?
“What’s your name?”
“Noah.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“What are you doing in my house?”
“I live here.”
“Live here?”
“I do now. In here.”
I survey the room, which is clean and smells of almonds and cooked rice. A cot with a red silk quilt rests against one wall; a large dragon tapestry hangs from another. An unlit candle and blue-and-white ceramic bowls sit on a bookshelf full of books.
“Where do you sleep?”
Noah lifts up the quilt and pulls a white pad from under the bed. I go inside to see.
“I thought you were a girl,” I say.
“Well, I’m not,” he shoots back.
“Does anyone know you live here?”
He shakes his head.
Maggy’s room is next door. “Not even Maggy?”
“No.”
“Why are you living here in secret?”
He sucks his lips in. “I’m not a servant,” he whispers.
I try to think if I have known any Chinese who are not servants. The vegetable peddler? The men who work at the cleaners?
“Do you go to school?”
He nods.
“The Chinese school?” I saw the Chinese school once. The kids wore silk skullcaps and silk trousers. He’s not dressed that way.
“Yes.”
I kneel down and run my finger along the spines of one shelf of books. The Brothers Karamazov, Around the World in Eighty Days, The Origin of Species. Is Noah reading these?
“I also do piecework. Five cents a dozen.” He picks up a stack of buttonhole strips, which explains the colored threads hanging from his sleeve. They are needles with thread. “Baba doesn’t want me to get used to waiting on people.”
“Who is Baba?”
“Jing. ‘Baba’ is ‘Papa’ in Chinese.”
He gets to call Jing “Baba”? “Why doesn’t he want you to wait on people? He waits on people.”
“Yes, but he says it makes you invisible.”
“Jing, invisible? Never!” I stare at him. “Are you crazy?”
His eyes go cross-eyed and he sticks his fingers into his mouth to stretch it out like a weird jack-o’-lantern. “Do I look crazy?”
I shake my head; I can’t help smiling.
He bites at his lip. “Baba should be back by now.”
He’s right. Going to market takes a few hours, not all day.
“Do you know where he is?” I ask.
“I’m afraid they caught him.”
“Caught him? Who? What are you talking about?”
“The police.”
I sit back on my heels. “Why would the police want Jing?”
“The quarantine.” He walks to the window and pulls the blind back just enough to peek out. “They want us all in Chinatown.”
“Jing lives here with us. Not in Chinatown. He always has.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.”
“You know so little,” he whispers.
“I know a lot!”
“Miss Lizzie?” Maggy calls from the distant downstairs.
Noah takes a step closer. “Wait. Will you find out where he is?”
“Me? How am I going to—”
“Miss Lizzie!” Maggy opens and closes the doors on the second floor as if she thinks I might be hiding in a closet.
“And promise you won’t tell anyone I’m here,” he pleads.
First he insults me. Now … Who is this kid anyway?
“They’ll fire him if you do.”
Jing has worked for us since I was three. He has made every one of my birthday cakes for as long as I can remember. He bakes a surprise in each one—chocolate filling, strawberries, licorice, peppermint candies. Each year I look forward to what he’s baked inside. He makes me lemonade on hot days and hot cocoa on cold ones. He cuts me big slabs of bread warm from the oven and slathered with honey. Once, when I sprained my ankle, he read me all of Sara Crewe, or What Happened at Miss Minchin’s while I sat with my leg propped up on pillows.
When I come home from Miss Barstow’s, where I have sat by myself, worked by myself, read by myself, it’s Jing who makes me laugh with his imitation of a market merchant trying to sell a pigeon as a goose, or the iceman’s horse who has a crush on Juliet.
“No one will fire Jing.”
“They will.” Noah’s whisper is strained.
“Never!” I say, but … Aunt Hortense and Uncle Karl own our house. They won’t be happy about a boy who doesn’t work for us living here in secret.
I nod. “I’ll keep quiet … until Papa comes home.”
Chapter 6
Second Helpings
The upstairs is so silent, it seems impossible that a boy is up there. Did I imagine him? How long has he been here? Where is his mother? How does he sneak in and out for school?
I sit on my bed, looking out at the sky, which is dark gray, lit orange at the horizon. The yard is a hazy pink. I turn on the electric light, which is unreliable. Uncle Karl says soon we will use only electric lights. I hope not, because the gaslights work much better.
Why would Noah say he’s not going to be a servant? Doesn’t he understand the way things are? And where is Jing, anyway?
“Miss Lizzie!” Maggy breezes through, the bright green parrot on her shoulder, my mended bloomers in her hand. She smiles at me. “Supper’s ready.”
“Supper’s ready! Supper’s ready!” Mr. P. squawks.
My stomach grumbles. Supper without Jing will be dull indeed. Wait. What about Noah? How will he get supper?
In the kitchen, Maggy has warmed Jing’s beef stew and ladled it into a bowl. She has cut Jing’s bread and spread butter on it for me.
“Where’s Jing?” I ask.
“At the market.” Maggy sets the bowl at my place.
“It’s too late for that.”
Maggy doesn’t answer. She knows that if Jing is not here, she must warm supper. Does she think beyond that?
Sunday afternoon is Jing’s time off. Sometimes he doesn’t return until late in the night, but today is Saturday. He never takes Saturday off.
When Maggy heads for the drawing room to get the skeins of ribbons she fashions into bows for my hair, I return what’s left of my stew to the pot. Then I slip back into my seat and ask for seconds.
She ladles more hot stew into the bowl and spreads another slice of bread with butter.
“I’m going to eat this upstairs,” I tell her.
She looks up from where she stands at the counter, black grosgrain ribbon wound around her fingers. “Miss Lizzie sick?”
“I just want to eat in my room.”
She gets a tray for the soup and bread, pours a full glass of milk, and then carries the tray up the stairs and sets it on the bed without spilling a drop. Maggy would do anything in the world I asked. Once, she stayed up for three nights to finish the smocking on a pinafore for me.
“Thank you.” I beam at her.
I listen for her footsteps down the stairs, the swing of the door, and the squeak of her stool. Then I pick up the tray and head for the servants’ stairs, aware of each step and how it rocks the milk.
Outside Jing’s door, my heart beats loudly. “Noah?” I whisper.
Noah
cracks open the door. His eyes shift back and forth. He looks down at the tray. “You brought supper?”
I nod.
He moves out of the way, and I slip inside.
Where do I set the tray? I almost laugh, thinking about asking Miss Barstow this question, given all the rules I’m breaking. Entering a boy’s room, not announcing yourself with a calling card, serving a servant.
Noah sees me hesitate. He takes the tray and sets it on the silk blanket. I’m not as steady with the tray as Maggy. A little of the milk has spilled.
Noah’s eyes are hungry, but he takes a step back, offering the stew to me.
“I’ve eaten.” I spot a chair piled high with books. Noah clears the chair, and I sit down.
He climbs back into the nest of books and button strips on his bed and tucks into his stew, nibbling at his bread as if he wants it to last. He has a habit of pushing his hair behind his ears after every few bites.
“One thing I don’t understand … Why did Jing go to Chinatown?”
“He’s a translator.”
“What does he translate?”
Noah looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Chinese to English.”
“Of course.” I turn red. “Papa isn’t home. I don’t know if he’ll be back tonight. I’m going to talk to Uncle Karl. If Jing got caught in the quarantine, Uncle Karl will get him out.”
“How?”
“Uncle Karl is in the newspaper business. He owns the evening Call and S&S Sugar. People like to be on his good side.”
Noah stops chewing. His eyes watch me warily. “Are you going to tell him about me?”
I shake my head. “No.”
He lets out an uneasy breath. “Baba will be mad I told you.”
“Jing never gets mad.”
Noah laughs.
“What? He doesn’t.”
“Not with you,” he whispers. “He works for you.”
Is this true? Is there another Jing I don’t know about? “What does Jing say about me?”
Noah thinks about this. “He trusts you. He says you’re kind to Maggy Doyle, but … you’re your own worst enemy.”
What? I’m my own worst enemy? “Why does he say that?”
Noah shrugs. “But he loves you. I thought you’d be the person I could trust.”
“Not Billy?”
“Baba thinks Billy has lost his way.”
“He has not,” I say. I don’t want this strange boy talking about my brother. I stare hard at Noah. How can he know so much about us?
Downstairs, I’m putting on my boots to go talk to Uncle Karl when I remember that it’s Jing’s job to feed the animals. The horses are both gone—Juliet with Papa, John Henry with Billy. Orange Tom feeds himself. Maggy feeds the parrot, but the chickens …
“The chickens need to be fed,” I tell Maggy.
Maggy scrambles for her coat. She picks up a lantern— no electricity in the barn—and the basket of stale bread. I follow her outside, where the moon is a lopsided circle, a bird hoots like an owl, and the dark shapes of the hedges create spooky moon shadows. Maggy shines the lantern on the path.
The path is as familiar to me as my own feet, but it seems different tonight. I glance up at Noah’s window. Is he watching me?
I leave Maggy tossing stale bread in the coop and walk up the path to the Sweeting house, all four floors lit brightly.
When I go in, maids in black uniforms are just removing the supper dishes from the long dining room table. The way they’re talking and laughing, I know Aunt Hortense isn’t nearby. When the maids spy me, the giggling comes to an abrupt halt.
Uncle Karl is in the smoking room, a brandy snifter in his hand. He’s deep in conversation with a man who has a half-moon of black curly hair circling his shiny balding head. I’m not allowed in the leather-walled smoking room—no girls are, not even Aunt Hortense. I wait for a break in the conversation.
“Hearst put it on the front page,” the man says.
Uncle Karl groans. “Only Hearst would sanction this ridiculous escapade.”
“The plague sells papers. They’re flying off the stands,” the balding man says.
“It’s bad for the city. We’ve all agreed. Can’t someone get Hearst on board?” Uncle Karl asks.
“Good luck with that.” The balding man steadies his glass as Uncle Karl fills it from a crystal carafe. “You don’t suppose any of this is true, do you?”
“There isn’t a doctor in the state who believes it is.”
“Still. If it were, the prospect is …”
“Unthinkable. But I don’t build my business on speculation, any more than you do. You got something you’re not telling me?”
“Nope.” The man clinks his glass with Uncle Karl’s.
“Then we’ll leave the scaremongering to Hearst. It will backfire soon enough. It always does.”
They’re silent.
“Uncle Karl?” I call from the doorway.
“Excuse me, will you?” Uncle Karl appears out of the smoke. “Why, Lizzie.” He takes a puff of his cigar. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Uncle Karl’s jackets fit better than Papa’s or Billy’s. Aunt Hortense says there is only one tailor in the city who is skilled enough to suit him. No matter the time of day, Uncle Karl is freshly pressed, as if he just stepped into his clothes. He has gray hair, and a kind face with sharp blue eyes. Aunt Hortense is taller than he is.
“Jing is gone. He went to the market this morning, and he hasn’t come back. I’m worried he got caught in the quarantine.”
“The quarantine? Darlin’, you shouldn’t worry your pretty little head about such things.”
I can’t help smiling at this. No one says I’m pretty except Uncle Karl. “But what about Jing?”
Uncle Karl clicks his tongue. “He’s a grown man. There’s no telling where he is.”
“He wouldn’t go off without telling us. It’s not like him. He must be in the quarantine.” I wish I could tell Uncle Karl that Jing’s son is certain Jing is there.
Uncle Karl holds his cigar and his glass with his left hand. With his right, he slides his gold pocket watch out of his vest pocket and glances at it. “It’s possible,” he concedes. “I’ll make some calls tomorrow and see what I can find out, but only for you, Peanut.” He winks at me.
“What about tonight?”
He swirls the brandy in his glass. “What can I do at nine o’clock at night? I’ll look into it first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Is Billy home?”
“I’m not sure,” I mumble.
His sharp eyes cut through me. “You’re not sure, or you don’t want to say?”
I waggle my head back and forth. “A little of both, sir.”
“I wish your father would let me buy Billy a motorcar. Then your brother wouldn’t be out trying to make money every hour of the day and night.”
“Papa wants him to earn it himself.”
“I know he does. Your father is a noble man, but the world is not nearly as noble as he is, Peanut, and don’t you forget it.”
“Papa wouldn’t agree with you about that, sir.”
“No, I expect not.”
What would my father say about all of this? I stop to think. “He’d say it’s up to us to shape the world. And not the other way around.”
“And what do you think, Peanut?”
“I think Papa’s way is nicer.”
“Hah, yes.” He chuckles. “It most certainly is, darlin’. It most certainly is.”
Chapter 7
Chocolate Brussels Sprouts
I walk back to my house, the wind blowing the fog like ghosts chasing through the streets. No light in Noah’s window. Is there enough light coming under the door for him to read, or does he have to go to bed when the sun goes down?
Maggy’s light is on. Too bad. I want to run up and tell Noah that Uncle Karl said he’d help. I miss having another kid in the house. I wish for the th
ousandth time that Billy would be like he used to be.
As soon as I wake up, I run to Papa’s room, but his coat is not hanging from the knob, his pocket watch and loose change are not on the dresser. His bed is untouched.
Billy’s door is closed. When I was little, we used to sneak out to ride before Aunt Hortense got up. Now I don’t dare knock on his door. He’ll tear my head off if I wake him.
Downstairs, I hear the familiar sound of coal being shoveled. Jing! I run out the door and around to the cellar stairs. The door is open, but Maggy is shoveling, her curly hair pinned to her head, a streak of soot on her cheek and perspiration marks under her arms. She smiles up at me.
“Jing is still gone?”
She nods. I run out to the barn to see if John Henry is back. If he’s here, Billy is, too.
John Henry stands with his lower lip so loose, you could collect pennies in it. I slip into his stall and put my arms around his fuzzy brown-and-white neck. I open a bale of hay and toss him a flake. He plods over to his manger and roots around. When his head pops up, his forelock is laced with alfalfa.
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?