Four
Dear Miss Sweetie,
I am a young woman with no dowry, and I have enough hair on my upper lip to resemble a dead ferret. Despite this, a certain mister professes he is in love with me. How can I believe him?
Maiden with a Mustachio
Dear Maiden,
Sometimes love just stumbles into you, out of the blue, and no amount of facial hair can divert you from its path.
Sincerely yours,
Miss Sweetie
* * *
—
The next morning, I don my russet dress and button my pebbled-goat-leather boots. Then I take the western corridor up to the “tree” exit, assailed by the scent of wet dirt and tree roots. It must have been painstaking work for the abolitionists, digging and reinforcing these passages. But as Old Gin says, great souls have wills, while feeble souls, only wishes.
I swing open the trapdoor and haul myself out.
The heavy skirts of the Virginia cedar spread all around me, a tree as good at hiding secrets as keeping out snow. Foliage blocks the Bell residence fifty yards to the east, the boardinghouse to the north, and the soda factory to the south. Before exiting the copse of trees, I assure myself that no one is looking. A chill picks up the skin of my arms. I scan the area but see no one.
Suddenly, a crow shoots from the bushes with a hard squawk, pulling my heart out of my throat.
“Sneaky old flapper,” I mutter as my heart settles back into my chest. Nothing better to do than scare respectable girls hiding in trees. I wish it were a bat, a word that sounds like the Chinese word for “luck.” The bats here seem to be waking from their winter slumber later than usual, maybe waiting for the peaches to ripen.
Bending the rim of my misfit hat to shadow my face, I hoof toward the main business district. Had I a mother, she would no doubt be troubled by the ease at which I travel unaccompanied. Thankfully, growing up, Old Gin allowed me to wear trousers, which were more practical for my work as a stable girl. He also allowed me to learn basic self-defense from Hammer Foot, the other uncle I remembered, who had been raised by Shaolin monks. Shaolin requires many years of unerring devotion to master, but my “Hammer Foot” move almost broke Lucky Yip’s ankle. May I have a lucky strike today, too.
* * *
—
BY THREE O’CLOCK, I’ve made over two dozen inquiries. For my troubles, I net seventeen doors and one window closed on my face; two offers of employment as a “chambermaid” that certainly involved chambers, but not the cleaning of them; one twisted ankle from a crone who sicced her dog on me; and one offer to dye cloth, which was revoked as soon as the mistress saw me limping. I count myself fortunate; Lucky Yip once got a dog sicced on him who tore open his knee. Despite his name, he wasn’t very lucky.
All the determination I felt earlier bleeds into the sidewalks.
A drunken chorus from somewhere ahead diverts my path onto a narrower street I usually avoid on account of the smell. “Carcass Alley” features both a butchery and a mortuary, though I think the real stench blows in from the courthouse down the street, which has never allowed a Chinese to win a single lawsuit. A sagging dwelling with flaking paint seems to cough with every bang of a woman’s hammer as she works to nail a sign into one of its posts. ROOM AVAILABLE. The iron banisters to the doorway have rusted, and several windows are missing their glass. Who would pay to live in a wreck like that?
I bite my tongue, lest the monkeys of mischief hear my thoughts.
“How much is the room?” I call up to her. Chinese aren’t actually allowed to own land or rent—Old Gin and the other bachelors had squatted in a cluster of ramshackle shanties before I was born—but for the right price, folks could be persuaded to look the other way.
The woman twists around, and her eyes clinch at the sight of me. “Too much for you. Y’ar kind is likely to trek in nits, plus I bet you smoke black tar.” She ducks into the house and lets the door swing shut behind her.
My fingernails have lodged themselves in my palms, and I extract them with a slow breath. I don’t want to live here, anyway. The only worse abode would be Collins Street, and Old Gin would never let us inhabit that crime pit. I hobble away, my steps tight and quick.
Before the train crossing, people crowd bright food stalls, thick as bees on honeycomb. When the sidewalk grows too crowded, anyone not white takes to the street. Old Gin always instructed the uncles to give way—the river travels the fastest path by moving around the stones—though he never made me walk in the streets.
Leaning against a lamppost, I stretch out my ankle and breathe into it. Hammer Foot said we could move energy through our body through focused breathing. The scent of sausages tempts me into parting with the dime I brought for emergencies. I resist and redirect my nose to a poster on the nearest building, one of the many that has excited a fervor in ladies like Salt and Pepper.
MR. AND MRS. WINSTON PAYNE
invite all Atlantans to attend an eight-furlong race at Piedmont Park Racetrack, a purse of $300 to be awarded to the winner.
DATE: Saturday, March 22
TICKETS: $2 per person, proceeds to benefit the Society for the Betterment of Women.
SPONSORS: Bids to sponsor one of the twelve contestants will be accepted until March 15. Please mark your bid “Horse Race” and send to 420 Peachtree Street. Sponsor of the winning horse will receive a year of free advertising in the Constitution.
NOTE: In the spirit of the Society for the Betterment of Women, ladies may ask gentlemen.
FURTHER NOTE: No public drunkenness will be tolerated.
It is curious that Mrs. Payne chose to make the race a turnaround event where ladies ask men. I never considered her progressive, even if she did once let a Chinese girl work in her house. The Payne Estate will be busy. Perhaps that is why Old Gin believes there may be extra work.
When my ankle stops throbbing, I continue toward the crossing. Next to Union Station, benches are arranged back to back for those awaiting the train. My feet slow when I notice a bundle of white-and-gray fur. It’s a sheepdog, its tail thumping the worn boots of the man on the nearest bench.
Great geese, it’s Nathan Bell.
“Keep moving!” barks the crossing guard, gesturing with his flags.
Instead of crossing the tracks—seven in all—I duck behind an abandoned dray with a broken wheel and pull my hat low. Nathan has never seen me, of course, and that is how I want to keep it. I marvel at the coincidence of seeing him the day after his mother, though the Chinese believe coincidence is just destiny unfolding.