Songs Of Willow Frost: A Novel Part 11

"Same as you, William," Sister Briganti said with a long, exhausted breath. "I recognized her at the theater, I heard her on the radio-"

"No," William interrupted. "How did you know it was her?"

Sister Briganti sat down across from him, collecting her papers and her thoughts. She opened her desk drawer, pulled out a roll of anise Life Savers, and offered one to William. He shook his head and watched as she popped two into her mouth and bit down on them immediately, chewing them to bits. She sat back in her leather chair and absently touched the rosary that draped from her wide collar.

"I knew ... because it's my sacred responsibility to carry the burden of truth for your families; that duty is not something to be taken lightly." She looked back at William, shifting her weight as though unable to find a comfortable position. "Because of that, I've always known who your mother was."

"How?" William asked. Don't make me beg.

He watched her open one of the files that was stuffed with letters. He leaned forward and pawed through the envelopes; all of them had been opened, and all of them were addressed to him. They were from San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, but mostly-the ones that made his head pound, his temples throb, and his stomach churn-they were from an address right here in Seattle. He brought them to his nose, smelling the paper, hoping to detect a fragrant memory. "She was here." He looked at the postmarks. "That first year ... here all the time ..." She was only miles away. Why didn't she come back for me? William remembered sweet times with his mother. None of this made sense. Did she leave to be an actress?

"I'm sorry, William."

"For what? For lying to me ..."

"Watch your tone, young man. I never lied to you, William. Not once," she snapped, touching the letters. "But I did withhold the truth. And I did it for your own good, because your mother was ultimately declared unfit to care for you. And she didn't fight those accusations. She willingly gave you up when she signed these papers. She was never coming back, not here anyway." Sister Briganti opened a file of stamped doc.u.ments. "My deepest regret is that she didn't give you up at birth. She was selfish in thinking she could provide a proper home. All she did was make it worse for you."

"But ... how ... why?"

Sister Briganti coughed, cleared her throat, then snapped her fingers, and a novice outside her office brought in a cup of coffee and dishes of sugar and cream. Sister Briganti looked pained as she stirred her coffee with a tarnished silver spoon, the pinging sound punctuating the silence between them. She sat there, not drinking the coffee.

"Why?" he asked, again.

"She didn't want you, that's why she gave you up. She's moved on."

He pointed to the cards and letters. "I don't believe you."

William watched as she shook her head, rose, and reached for an old hymnal on the shelf behind her. From behind the volume she fished out an open pack of Fatima cigarettes and a book of matches. She lit one and sat back down, taking a slow drag and blowing the smoke toward the nearest window, which was slightly ajar.

"You can't keep me here," William said. "It's not fair."

Sister Briganti paused to attend to her cigarette. "You can run away again, if that's what you really want. But it's not any easier out there. If the police pick you up without an address to your name, you'll be arrested. You'll go before a judge, perhaps one less caring than me, and you'll be remanded to a reformatory-sent to a place where they take your shoes at night so you don't slip away, where they lock you in a bas.e.m.e.nt and feed you bread and water. Where they label boys like you as wayward or incorrigible and send you to the punishment cottage. A reform school won't treat you with the same courtesies as Sacred Heart. Do you want that? Mother Cabrini always had a soft spot for the Orient; that's why you're treated as well as you are-for that you should be thankful."

For the whippings, being tied down at night, for keeping my mother's words neatly tucked into a folder beside your desk. William stared back, angry, hurt, but most of all, confused. He rested his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands. He spoke softly, choosing his words carefully. "I just want what anyone would want ..."

"And what's that, a perfect family? A mother? A father?"

William shook his head. "Willow-my mother-she told me who my father is, what he was. I don't care. I just want the truth."

Sister Briganti leaned back in the chair, which creaked beneath her weight. She blew smoke. "But your mother cared who your father was. That's why she allowed you to come to Sacred Heart in the first place. Because she knew he'd never find you here."

Fathers.

(1934).

William sat with Charlotte on the old porch swing in front of her cottage. The gra.s.s had long since turned a dull shade of brown, like the color of unwashed hair. They shared an old wool blanket, warding off the chill air as a flock of geese flew overhead, disappearing in and out of fog, heading south for the winter to places warmer and more inviting. William dangled one foot to the ground, pushing off lazily as the swing rocked back and forth. The rusty hinges squeaked and pinged like the slow tick-tock of a metronome setting the pace, matching the unchanging rhythm of life at Sacred Heart.

"So she was pregnant?" Charlotte asked. "With you?"

William nodded absently, staring toward downtown Seattle and the terra-cotta pyramid atop the Smith Tower that peeked above the horizon. "I guess so. She didn't know right away. Sister Briganti says there's a test they can do now, but back then she had to wait weeks to be sure. Her boss at some music store arranged for her to go to a place for unwed mothers. I was born there.

"Sister Briganti said I was lucky-since Chinese mothers aren't allowed in hospitals, they usually give birth down on the docks. She also said that at the place where I was born, most of the babies are given up or are taken away. But for some reason my ah-ma decided to keep me." I guess I was the only family she had left.

"But that explains why she never spoke about my father. I remember being little and listening to President Wilson on the Zenith giving a Father's Day speech. I took out my crayons, sat down, and began to draw a picture for him-I must have thought my father was going to show up or something. When I presented the drawing to my ah-ma, she gushed and told me how beautiful it was. But later that night I saw her take a candle and light it on fire."

Charlotte nodded. "I don't blame her."

"For burning it?"

Charlotte paused. "For not telling you. You're so fortunate that she even kept you. Most unwed mothers would have given you up for adoption right away-they would have had nothing to do with you. There are older girls here who were pregnant once. They've told me frightening stories. She must have really cared about you, William. You must be very special."

At least I used to be, William thought sadly, trying to reconcile his strange circ.u.mstances-his unusual parents and the possible outcomes of knowing or not knowing who his father was. It mattered then. Does it matter now?

"And Willow told you all this?"

William nodded. "But I'm sure she didn't tell me everything." He didn't know what was real and what was illusory. He'd created fictions in his mind all these years, based on memories and half-truths, mixed with wishes, hopes, and dreams. He'd believed his ah-ma to be dead all along; instead he was dead to her-abandoned, and according to Sister Briganti, he was eventually forgotten. And yet much to Sister Briganti's chagrin and his surprise, William's mother had miraculously reappeared. But the person on-screen, onstage, on the radio, she wasn't his mother either, or at least not the ah-ma he once knew. His ah-ma was Liu Song, while Willow was just a facsimile-an actress with makeup and fancy gowns putting on a show.

What kind of b.a.s.t.a.r.d am I?

William chewed his lip and then spoke. "Sister Briganti filled in the rest. She told me about how my ah-ma gave birth to me, how she raised me for a few years. She started to explain why my mother seemed to come and go-about other men she dated, about how if my ah-ma couldn't have me, she didn't want her uncle Leo to have me either." He looked down at his empty hands. "She said that's all I needed to know."

"What else is there?"

"Why she never came back for me." Or was I that much of a burden? Did she give me up so she'd be free to marry someone? Or did she give me up to be an actress? "She's famous now. I don't think there's room in that spotlight for a b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

William felt Charlotte sit up. He turned and saw Sunny running toward them with a note in his hand. His friend stopped and walked the last fifty feet, nearly out of breath.

"Someone's coming for you," Sunny said, wide-eyed.

William, Charlotte-in fact all of the orphans-recognized that tone, like the p.r.i.c.kle of electricity that seemed to hum in the air before a lightning storm, the rush of excitement that came only when a parent returned. Most had learned not to get their hopes too high. After all, often parents came back only for a final, wrenching goodbye. But occasionally and often without advance notice (because parents seemed to love being on the giving end of surprises), one of the orphans would hit the jackpot and be told to pack his or her belongings, which meant one thing-going home.

William's heart leapt in his chest, hoping it was Willow-his ah-ma.

"Coming for who?" Charlotte asked.

"It's your father," Sunny said. "Can you believe it?"

"My father? Uncle Leo?" William blurted, bewildered. A surprising tide of anger seeped into his voice. Though truth be told, a queer part of him was curious, the same way a newspaper article about a ship sinking makes one curious, or a train wreck, or a gang shooting. "Sister Briganti said he'd never find me here. Why would he ..."

"Not your father," Sunny said as he rested his hands on his knees, out of breath. Then he pointed to Charlotte. "Hers."

William sat back, relieved, disappointed, but hopeful for his friend. He touched her arm as she stared at something unseen. She grimaced and stood up. He noticed that her pale skin seemed to redden and her hand trembled as she reached for her cane.

Charlotte uttered only a single word. "When?"

"In a few days. He's coming to visit, to make arrangements to eventually take you away from here. Can you believe it?"

"I thought your dad was ..." How do I say he was a creep, a criminal? William wasn't sure how much Sunny knew, so he stopped short of saying the word prison.

"He must have got out, William," Charlotte said. "All good things come to an end. All bad things go on forever."

"You're not happy about this?" Sunny asked. "This is what everyone hopes for. This is great news-you deserve it."

Charlotte tapped her cane until she brushed Sunny's leg. "That's sweet of you. But you'd understand if you were a girl and you had my father."

"But ..." Sunny said. "It means you'll get to go home."

"It's okay," William said. Home is a fairy tale, the kind where children are lost in the woods, found, cooked, and eaten.

"You can tell Sister B that I don't have a father," Charlotte said. "And that I'm not going anywhere."

AFTER DINNER WILLIAM sat with Charlotte outside the main chapel as the boys' choir practiced some Latin hymn he didn't recognize. Their melodic voices filled the alcove, inspiring a sad reverence. The song had a depressive quality, like a funeral march-intended to be celebratory, but laden with melancholy. William helped Charlotte light a candle for her mother. He lit one for his own ah-ma while he was at the altar. And he lit one for Charlotte, though he didn't tell her that. He had such mixed feelings. He struggled to see her situation through any lens but the one that magnified his own loss, his own longing. She had been given a damaged gift, but one most at Sacred Heart would have been grateful to receive. If his mother had wanted him back-if only for an afternoon visit, he would have jumped into that quagmire with both feet. But he knew their circ.u.mstances were different. Their situations weren't merely apples and oranges. They were oranges and some strange poisoned fruit.

"Did you tell Sister Briganti that you didn't want to see him?" William asked. Because we all know how compa.s.sionate that woman is. She makes cactus cozy.

Charlotte nodded, then shrugged. "There's nothing she can do. He's my father. My mother is dead. He has every right. I asked about my grandmother-I practically begged to go live with her, but she doesn't have a say in the matter. My father served time for bootlegging. But now he gets a fresh start. We should all be so lucky."

"But did you tell her?" William asked delicately. He knew that Charlotte was terrified of her father-something terrible must have happened between them. She never spoke of it, and William had always been too afraid to ask.

"Sister B said that perfect parents don't exist and that I was just being willful and belligerent-that sometimes children get used to the routine here and don't want to return to the real world. She said I should be grateful to have him back in my life."

People change, William thought, Willow certainly did. Maybe Charlotte's father missed her and would make rest.i.tution somehow. William wanted to be positive and optimistic, but if Charlotte didn't want to have anything to do with her father, her reasons were valid enough, and he believed her.

"Sister B just told me to pray," Charlotte said. "As if that ever helped any of us."

William had tried. But Catholicism, with all of its pageantry, was still a mystery clad in Latin, with ceremonies he didn't understand. Like a mynah bird, William could mimic what was expected of him, but he knew it was merely the price of admission to a strange musical.

Charlotte pulled out a long string of gla.s.s beads with a large crucifix at the end. "She gave me a new rosary. Sister B said she gives a special one to every orphan who finds a new family, or every child who is welcomed back into the home they once knew."

William took hold of one end of the long strand. The expensive-looking chain was elaborately woven-a st.u.r.dy keepsake, meant to last a lifetime.

Charlotte sighed. "She said this would be the key to my salvation."

William listened to the choir.

"Maybe you should join the order," he said, trying his best to lighten the dour mood. "Become a nun. I bet they'll let you stay then." Sister Charlotte.

She didn't laugh. But she didn't frown either. William thought he detected a smile, if only a slight one. He watched as she tucked her long strawberry hair behind her ears. And he noticed for the first time just how pretty she was-maybe it was because she'd be leaving soon. His mother's spotlight had made him see just how far his shadow of sadness had been cast and what that darkness obscured. He realized that Charlotte had always been there, a blind girl hoping he would finally open his eyes and see her as more than a friend. He watched her gentle movements, trying to imprint her image on his heart so that he'd never forget what she looked like. He tried to count every freckle. They seemed interesting since they were so uncommon in Chinatown. Most of the people there had birthmarks or moles, if anything, and these were viewed as omens-symbols of good fortune or bad luck. If that were true, then the tan sprinkles that dappled Charlotte's nose and cheeks represented a windfall, of one or the other.

He reached out and laced his fingers through the soft warmth of her hand.

"I'm sorry you're leaving," he said.

She held on tight.

"I'll never leave you, William. I promise."

THE RUMOR OF Charlotte's refusal spread like the plague through the barracks, breeding jealousy and dissent between the older boys and aching confusion among the little ones, who didn't believe such a refusal was even possible.

"Who does she think she is?" Dante asked as the lights went out.

The responses were legion.

"Maybe she's dim as well as blind."

"I heard her father was a bootlegger ..."

"She's an addlepated pinhead-should be with her own kind anyway."

"... I told you she was stuck-up."

Hardly, William thought. She's more accepting than anyone I know.

"She can't see what she's missing," someone said. And snickering followed.

Sunny threw a sock at William, who was trying to go to sleep. "I think she has yellow fever if you ask me," his friend said quietly.

William ignored him, unsure of what he could, or should, share. Sacred Heart was gossipy enough without him adding more cabbage to the stew.

"I'm just kidding," Sunny whispered. "But the two of you taking off together-it was the talk of the town. You're lucky you've got me, Sunny Truthseer. I heard the girls haven't been as understanding. They've been teasing Charlotte something fierce. Going on about her being with a boy and-you know, an Oriental and all that."

William suddenly felt terrible. He'd never considered the damage he might have done to Charlotte's reputation. He'd never planned for any outcome beyond that afternoon at the 5th Avenue. He realized how self-centered, how preoccupied he'd been. He was still dying to run away again, to find his ah-ma before she left town. Or to muster the courage to demand more answers from Sister Briganti, but Charlotte had to come first, at least for a few days. He owed her that much.

"That's okay. I'm sure they're all just jealous," Sunny said. "Who wouldn't want to spend time on the outside, in the real world? And for a girl that walks with a cane, she's easy on the eyeb.a.l.l.s. I'd have done the same."

William didn't feel like talking. He rolled over, hoping his friend would get the hint. He waited in the dark for Sunny to run out of steam.

"I understand why she doesn't want to see her dad."

William rolled back over and opened his eyes. He couldn't see his friend's face in the pale moonlight that spilled through the high windows of the room. But he could see Sunny's faint outline in the bunk next to his. "What are you talking about?"

"It didn't make sense at first," Sunny said. "But I'm in the same boat-I wouldn't want to see my dad either. My mother dropped me off at the library and said she'd be right back. But my dad, he's nothing but trouble-he didn't even go that far. Some dads are like that. I don't remember much ..."

I don't remember Leo at all. I barely remember the man my mother called Colin.

"You never told me that," William said.

"That's because I never told no one."

"What else is there to tell?"

Sunny paused, and when he spoke again William could hear the change in his friend's voice. Sunny spoke in soft, sniffling bursts.