Songs Of Willow Frost: A Novel Part 14

She delighted that he'd been born eight pounds, eight ounces, two lucky numbers in a row to a mother wedded only to sadness and misfortune. During her pregnancy she'd worried about her ability to care for him, but once she had him in her arms-once she felt his breath, heard his whispered cry-motherhood felt right, felt complete, and she knew she never wanted to let go.

She'd told the midwife, "His name is William." Then Liu Song had reclined in the birthing chair, her newborn in her arms, wondering what the spirits of her mother and father would think of such a Western-sounding name. She wished she'd been able to hire a fortune-teller to evaluate William's date of birth, to confirm which of the five elements complemented his name. And she gazed heavenward, looking for a portent, an omen, or a sign, but all she noticed were brown water spots and the rust on the cracked tin ceiling, and vacant cobwebs in every dusty corner.

Looking back, Liu Song could still hear Mr. b.u.t.terfield's voice ringing in her ears. He'd warned her that most people viewed that run-down home in North Seattle as a repository for weak-willed women. So to Liu Song the name Will seemed a natural, suitable argument to the contrary. Plus, that simple word was close to Willow, the Anglicized version of Liu Song. Will would be a family name. And when the nurses had moved Liu Song to a tiny recovery room, she'd lain nearly elbow to elbow in a row of matching beds with six other girls and their newborns. Liu Song remembered everyone looking exhausted, delirious with drug-sp.a.w.ned resignation, many still bleeding or in horrendous pain. But weak-willed wasn't a description that applied to any of them. Not anymore. Like the others, Liu Song had come this far. She'd staggered, fallen, and then crawled across some unspoken maternal finish line where a new challenge was set to begin-one measured in days, weeks, months, and years. But there was satisfaction in the prize swaddled at her breast, then and now.

Worried that she'd wake him, Liu Song walked about her apartment and then sat on the edge of her bed. She scooted beneath the covers, then lay back, slowly reclining, hoping not to rouse him. She stroked the soft fabric of his flannel pajamas and felt a bit of wetness on her cheek as he drooled ever so slightly.

"William Eng," she whispered. "What am I going to do with you?"

She hated the last name they'd both been branded with. And even though she'd lied and told the midwife that she didn't know who the father was, Liu Song vaguely recalled screaming Leo's name during her labor-cursing him and Auntie Eng, crying for her ah-ma as she gave birth to a boy in a cloud of righteous pain and a haze of ether. The doctor wrote Leo Eng's name on the birth certificate in loco parentis, in place of a parent, a festering blister on an otherwise pristine and celebratory doc.u.ment.

"Someday I'll give you a real birthday party," Liu Song whispered.

Because of fluid in his lungs, William had not been allowed to leave the Lebanon Home for weeks that spilled into months. Liu Song remained as well, so that he could be fed without a bottle or a wet nurse-so he could fully recover.

During Liu Song's extended stay, she'd been expected to help out with the new girls as they arrived, each of them terrified and alone. None seemed to mind that Liu Song was Chinese as she tried her best to light the path that she had just traveled. But that light grew darker as Liu Song watched delirious new mothers be told that their tarnished reputations would only burden their children-that an unwed mother was unfit to be a mother. She listened in as they were compelled with unrelenting guilt, goaded, and ultimately swindled, into signing away their children. She looked on in sadness and confusion as mysterious couples arrived each week, then left with newborns, often pried from the grasp of wailing, hysterical young girls. But those infants seemed luckier than the forsaken-the babies no one wanted. Those few without prospects, from mothers who truly didn't want them, from mothers who had died during childbirth, those born sightless or without arms, those children were taken away by grim-faced caretakers to places unknown. Liu Song watched this strange tragedy performed over and over again, quietly wondering why no one had chastised her for weaknesses of the flesh, for bringing shame to her family and being a blight on public morality-she wondered why no one came to try to take William from her. At first she thought it was because of her son's sickly condition; then she caught her reflection in the polished tin of a bedpan and realized the truth of the matter-that no one would adopt a Chinese baby.

As Liu Song closed her eyes, she realized that her misfortune had been William's good luck. Her sorrow had given birth to joy. She would celebrate one day. But due to William's poor health when he'd been born, Liu Song had been unable to give him a proper red egg and ginger party. Even now the thought was sadly comforting. If she had been sent home from the Lebanon Home on time, that celebration, with chewy yi mein commemorating thirty days of life, would have been a lonely occasion. Because she knew that her family would only have been able to be present as ghosts. At least if she threw a party now, she reasoned as she fell asleep, William would be old enough to eat the longevity noodles by the fistful.

LIU SONG WOKE promptly at 6:05 A.M.-she didn't have a choice. Each morning the Shasta Limited chugged into the Oregon and Washington Station, alerting the neighborhood of its arrival with a stout blast of its whistle. The steam horn was so loud the bellowing sound rattled Liu Song's windows from two blocks away. She peeked at William, who merely smiled and yawned. He stretched as she pinched his nose and changed a wet diaper. Then Liu Song carried him to the kitchen, where he played on the floor while she reheated a pot of rice, mixing last night's sticky clumps with sweetened condensed milk and a drop of vanilla extract. An hour later their bellies were full, their teeth were brushed, their hair was combed, and they were out the door.

As Liu Song pushed William along King Street in a secondhand Sturgis carriage, she couldn't help but notice that the city had become a blooming flower as Chinatown extended its petals in all directions. But she still stood out from the crowd on every street corner. In Chinatown she was a girl out of place-young, unmarried, yet with a child. And as she headed uptown, toward b.u.t.terfield's, she was an Oriental face in a city of white strangers who marveled when she spoke such fluent English. They gushed over her accent, which she'd always apologized for. Somehow her voice had become exotic, sophisticated, and mysterious. Though that might have been because of Mr. b.u.t.terfield's relentless promoting. After she returned to work he'd given her a raise, doubling her commission on sheet music, providing income that she desperately needed. The Lebanon Home had helped her apply for a pension for unwed mothers, but she'd answered the questionnaire honestly and said that she had no plans for William to attend Sunday school. As a result, she'd been denied, which was unfortunate because Liu Song didn't even know what Sunday school was. She put down how she intended for William to attend Chinese school in the afternoons when he was old enough to enroll in public kindergarten, but that didn't help her cause. That, and the fact that single Chinese women were still viewed with suspicion.

To make things worse, she'd lost her apartment while at the Lebanon Home, but Mr. b.u.t.terfield had generously found her another place. He'd moved her few belongings to a partially furnished room at the Bush Fireproof Hotel, on the corner of Sixth and Jackson. Liu Song felt safe there because William Chappell, who had once been a volunteer fireman, had built the seven-story hotel. The modern building had 255 rooms, 150 of which had private baths. Liu Song had lived there for nearly two years, paying $1.25 per day. The tiny one-bedroom unit was smaller than her old place in Canton Alley, but at least it was a home without bitter memories etched into every wall, every floorboard, and every ceiling tile.

"You can repay me by coming back to work, dear," Mr. b.u.t.terfield had said. "As soon as you're able. Patrons have been asking about you for months. I lied and told them you were in California working on a vaudeville circuit."

Liu Song had planned to repay Mr. b.u.t.terfield by William's first birthday but managed to settle her debt in half that time by taking a weekend job as a dancer at the Wah Mee Club. The popular speakeasy in Maynard Alley was the one place where her reputation worked to her advantage. She'd hoped to get an opportunity as a singer, but the pay was good in the meantime. On a Sat.u.r.day night, after payday at the docks, she made more money selling dances than she earned all week at the music store. But at the music store, her employer let her bring William to work. Mr. b.u.t.terfield had even cleared a s.p.a.ce in the back where William could take naps while she hustled songs on the street. And when he wasn't tired, the music store was a toddler's wonderland.

"Ready to play a song for your mama?" Mr. b.u.t.terfield asked William, who loved sitting on his lap, William's tiny feet on top of Mr. b.u.t.terfield's wingtips as they worked the foot pedals of a small upright pianola. "Pedal faster," Mr. b.u.t.terfield said. "Now slow through this part ... then we'll hit it hard for a big finish." The pedals not only drove the manual piano but also accented and shaped the music. The keys moved like magic, but in a small way, William was playing the song. Then he'd pop down, run outside, and throw himself into Willow's arms. "I did it," he'd say. "I played it for you."

That's how Willow spent her days, fifteen minutes on, fifteen minutes off-enough time to earn a living and care for her son. That was a unique advantage her day job had over her weekend gig at the club, which required special arrangements, from special friends.

LIU SONG SIPPED a cup of tea as she watched William close his heavy eyelids and doze off. Then she heard the front door open. She smiled as Mildred came inside.

"Look at you in that dress!" Mildred said in Chinese.

Liu Song stood and straightened the seams of her cheongsam. The long dress might have seemed modest on someone else, but the formfitting silk hugged her curves in a way that demanded attention. "Too Oriental? Too garish? Too revealing?" she asked.

"Too bad." Mildred shook her head. "I wish I was as tall as you."

Her old friend doffed her coat and hat and peeked at William, who was now snoring lightly. "He's getting so big," she said. Mildred's eyes were wide and expressive, even more so with the heavy green eye shadow she wore.

Liu Song nodded proudly and poured Mildred a cup of tea.

The rumor at Franklin High was that Liu Song had gotten pregnant and been forced to drop out. Mildred had fought that rumor and was the only person who came and visited Liu Song at the Lebanon Home, against the wishes of her mother. And when Liu Song took the job at the Wah Mee, Mildred offered to babysit William. She said she'd do it for free, just to help out, but Liu Song insisted on paying her. Liu Song avoided asking Mildred if her mother knew that they were friends again. She wished Mildred could be equally adept at avoiding questions.

"How was your date last week?"

Liu Song took a deep breath and tried not to express her disgust. Mildred had fixed her up on a blind date last Thursday with a recent high school graduate, a boy named Harold from a prominent Chinese family. But, like so many men-young or old-Harold didn't want a date as much as he was hoping for a night to remember.

"Same as the others," Liu Song said.

Ironically, William was the only reason most men asked her out, not because they wanted anything to do with him but because, as Harold had intimated, "Hey, the field has already been plowed-why not till the soil once in a while?"

"You're too picky," Mildred said as she took out a Marlboro. Like most women, Mildred favored them because of the red band around the filter that hid her lipstick stains. She went to the stove, bent down, and lit the cigarette on the pilot light. "Have you looked in the mirror lately? You could have any man you want ..."

"I don't want any man."

Mildred smiled but rolled her eyes in a way that seemed to say Suit yourself.

A moment of silence lingered between them as Mildred took a long draw on her cigarette. She looked at her painted fingernails, then back at Liu Song.

"So are you ever going to tell me who the father is?"

Liu Song found her clutch and gloves. "William doesn't have a father."

"Oh, that's right," Mildred said, teasing. "You discovered him under a mountain of rocks, like the Monkey King. When he learns to fly on a cloud, could you let me know? I could save a lot of money on streetcar tokens."

"He has me," Liu Song said. "That's all anyone needs to know." She kissed her sleeping boy on his tiny, pursed lips. Then she looked at Mildred, resting one hand on her hip. "And no boyfriends allowed. Your mother wouldn't approve ..."

"My mother wouldn't approve of a lot of things." Mildred giggled and blew a perfect smoke ring into the air. It hung between them like an unfulfilled wish.

Liu Song poked her hand through the center, dissipating the smoke. She looked at her friend with one eyebrow raised.

"Fine. No boyfriends will come over. I promise," Mildred said, cursing in Chinese as she plopped down on the worn davenport. "I'll read a book or something."

The Wah Mee.

(1924).

The Wah Mee Club was only one block over, tucked neatly into the belly of Maynard Alley. But to Liu Song the whiskey-soaked club seemed a world away from the rest of the city-from the rest of Chinatown for that matter. Because unlike the stately (and dry) Luck Ngi Music Society, or the Yue Yi Club, which had bright neon signs on the outside and handsome musicians on the inside-men from Hong Kong, with slicked-back hair who wore matching jackets and stood in a gold-leafed band box playing the stringed yi wuh and the tenor saxophone-the Wah Mee could easily be missed. In fact, if it weren't for the steady stream of patrons one might never know the nightclub was there at all. And tonight the men were out in droves, some in traditional brocade dragon jackets, but many more in Western suits and ties, with fedoras and homburgs.

As Liu Song pa.s.sed a beat cop who stood at the T where the alley met the street, tipping his hat at pa.s.sersby, she was reminded of a story Mr. b.u.t.terfield had told her. The tale was about a local distributor named Roy Olmstead-Seattle's Rum King, who made his fortune bringing cases of alcohol down from Canada. Rumor had it that his wife, Elsie, hosted a popular children's radio program that also carried hidden messages about where the action was each night. As Liu Song pa.s.sed dozens of people coming and going from the alley, all beneath the watch of the local police, she surmised that Miss Elsie must have been spinning one of her yarns about the Celestials of Chinatown.

When Liu Song walked past the club's only window, made of frosted gla.s.s bricks, she could make out the opaque silhouettes of bodies moving inside. The figures were muted and distorted, as though the patrons were underwater. When she reached the entrance, Liu Song turned the key that rang the doorbell. She peered through the one transparent block and waved as a large shadow blocked the light. A second later a squat fireplug of a man opened the heavy wooden door. Liu Song heard music and laughter wafting out into the evening on a warm current of cigarette smoke and the overpowering smell of stale beer.

"Sweet Willow." The man spoke in Cantonese with a thick, farm-country accent. He was clad in a dark green suit, wearing white leather shoes, and he said her name as though it were more of a statement than a greeting. He waved a few Chinese and Filipino patrons in as well, then looked up and down the alley before locking the door.

Liu Song checked in with the manager and then signed her dance card, just below the time and date. The club's three-piece band was already playing a familiar tune as a pair of white sailors lined up for a dance, a nickel apiece, though some tipped more. Liu Song obliged the servicemen, making small talk and trying her best to create the illusion that she cared. On the nights when she grew tired of pretending, she acted like she didn't speak English. She didn't think of herself as a dancer. She thought of herself as an actress playing a part for an audience of one. That simplified things.

As the second sailor led her through a fox-trot, she shuffled backward in a wide, lazy circle, circ.u.mnavigating the dance floor. On a second pa.s.s she caught a frightening glimpse of an older, balding man in Oxford bags, who stood at the rail of the club's tiny, hand-painted c.r.a.ps table. The man's shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his suspenders hung below his waist. An unlit cigarette dangled precariously from his lower lip as he bounced a pair of dice off the far wall of the gaming table again and again, until finally the other players groaned and the man threw his hands up, cursing in Cantonese and then louder in English, as though one language wasn't enough to express his outrage.

Uncle Leo, she thought. Liu Song had seen him on the street once or twice from far away and always managed to avoid running into him, until now. But as she watched the stickman rake the chips from the table and begin stacking them into neat piles of green, black, and red, the gambler looked up and Leo was gone. In his place was some other man, a simple patron who looked especially down on his luck.

As the dance ended, Liu Song thought of how she dreaded the inevitable reunion with her drunken stepfather. She'd often pictured him turning from the c.r.a.ps table toward the wooden dance floor, fishing in his baggy pants for a cigarette lighter. In her nightmares he would demand that she light his cigarette. He'd regard her slender ankles and leer at her curves until he made eye contact.

Liu Song looked at the stranger, this man who was not her uncle. She still felt terrified-of what? She wasn't sure. That just by Uncle Leo's presence, people might know her shame. Or that he'd follow her-drag her off to wherever he lived now? That he'd find out about William. Her stomach tightened.

She stood, frozen in place as the man approached. In her heels she was an inch taller than he was, even in his fancy leather shoes. As he looked up at her and frowned, she felt a wave of nausea and was reminded of Uncle Leo's smell. His pungent body odor reeked of bad dreams. He blew smoke as he walked by, though she remained frozen in something akin to sleep. A hostess handed him his coat and hat, and Liu Song felt the room spinning as she watched Uncle Leo snap his suspenders into place and then reach into his suit jacket and pull out a billfold. He opened the leather wallet and showed her how empty it was. Then he reached into his pants pocket and fumbled around a bit before he pulled his hand back out and held up an empty silver money clip.

"My bad luck at dice is your good fortune," he said with a shrug. "If I had known the dancers were as lovely as you, I would have saved a dime or two. Because that's all you're worth." He spat on the floor. "I don't care about the spirit of your mother, and I don't care about you. All I care about is ..."

Liu Song blinked and Uncle Leo was gone; a confused-looking man stood in his place. He shrugged and tipped his hat. She watched him stagger away, past the doorman and into the night without a second glance. As sensation returned to her frozen limbs and she could breathe normally again, she felt as though she'd woken from a nightmare, leaving her to wonder what had happened. She always thought that if she ran into her stepfather, things would be different, that she'd be stronger, that she might find satisfaction in his failings. But even brushing up against his memory left her feeling neither strength nor joy. She was shaken by how much she still feared him, how paralyzed and helpless she felt-frightened but detached. The last few times she'd seen him, Uncle Leo had been drunk, and if she had a choice she hoped he'd be drunk forever. She remembered him being angrier when sober.

LIU SONG LEFT work early that night. She didn't even care that she still had names on her dance card. She couldn't put her mind at ease until she saw William. She ran home as fast as she could in high heels, almost slipping on the wet, oily pavement. She bolted up the stairs and burst into her apartment, much to Mildred's surprise.

Her friend had fallen asleep reading a copy of Picture Play magazine. Mildred blinked and stretched as she sat up, fixing her hair and looking at the clock. "You're home early. Slow night, or did you forget something? Something bad happen?"

"Nothing happened," Liu Song lied. "I just had a strange feeling ..."

"I told you I wouldn't bring any boyfriends over," Mildred said, yawning. "And this time I really meant it. I promised ..."

Liu Song walked past Mildred to the bedroom, where she found William sleeping soundly in his crib, half-covered by a blanket. He looked so peaceful, without a care or a worry in the world. She watched him breathe as she touched his cheek, which felt soft and warm, comforting.

She exhaled a weary sigh of relief. "I'm sorry, William."

He snored gently and pursed his lips as though dreaming.

"I'm sorry I can't be here all the time. But I won't let anything bad happen to you. I'll do anything to keep you safe."

Dance Card.

(1924).

It took Liu Song months to stop worrying about Uncle Leo on a daily basis-to stop having paralyzing dreams each night. For weeks she slept with William at her side and looked over her shoulder everywhere they went. And her next few shifts at the club had been tense, nervous affairs. But her stepfather had never returned, at least not on the nights she had worked. Maybe he'd channeled his misfortune elsewhere, Liu Song thought. Or perhaps he'd been too busy with his laundry business-who knew? She'd seen him again on the street but managed to turn and walk the other way before he noticed. She was grateful for his absence, because even if she never saw his face again, a part of him would always be close by. How she could hold William, bathe him, sing to him, love him in every way and not allow nightmares from the past to occupy her waking hours had been a miracle-William had been a miracle. His gentle temperament, his sparkling eyes, his tiny spirit had a way of returning all the love she had for him tenfold. The more she adored him, the more she felt adored. She wondered if that was how her ah-ma felt about her lou dou. Then she thought of her ah-ma marrying Uncle Leo, how she had sacrificed herself upon the altar of marriage a second time, as a second wife. She did it all for me, Liu Song thought, as eddies of guilt and grat.i.tude pooled in the corners of her eyes. That's what love is. Not the gushing, eye-rolling high drama of movie stars, but the real, heartbreaking, unconditional kind-like the love she had for William.

Liu Song smiled as she felt his tiny, mittened hand in hers. She'd cut a hole in his other mitten, and he'd put it to good use. She smiled as he b.u.mbled along, sucking his thumb while they walked to the market, a tuft of black hair sticking out from beneath his cap. She'd left the carriage at home, hoping the added exercise would wear him out. The long walk on his tiny legs was the best way to ensure he'd sleep through the night-or at least slumber through the first hour. Mildred had a big date and wouldn't be able to come over until later. Liu Song didn't like the arrangement, but she had no choice. She would have to put William to bed and leave him alone until Mildred arrived.

Liu Song dreaded the thought of leaving him, but she'd left him alone once before when Mildred had called and said she was running a few minutes behind. And besides, the Wah Mee was only a block away, and her neighbor, a solemn, grandmotherly widow, said she would call the club if William woke up and wouldn't settle himself back to sleep. Liu Song would have asked her to watch her son for the hour, but the old woman was a bit touched in the head.

So as the fat moon rose above the waters of Puget Sound, Liu Song fought against her guilt and her worry as she put William to bed. She removed curlers from her hair and did her makeup and then left with her regrets. She lingered in the hallway, expecting to hear him calling her name from behind the locked door, but the only sound she heard was a rush of water through the exposed plumbing as someone upstairs flushed a toilet. She waited a minute longer, searching the silence, then sighed and walked to the club.

"Sweet Willow, you're popular tonight," the doorman said. "A gentleman booked you for the whole evening."

She paused and peered into the dimly lit club, which was packed with Chinese men and women, even a few j.a.panese couples, plus a few Korean drinkers and gamblers. The tables and bars were crowded. "One of the regulars?" she asked as she touched the pearl b.u.t.tons on her blouse.

"Someone called in advance." The doorman shrugged. "He said that he wanted to fill your entire dance card. I told him it would cost a pretty penny-he said okay."

Despite working in a speakeasy that sold illegal booze and offered fan-tan, faro, blackjack, and birdcage, the Wah Mee's owners prided themselves on running a straight club. Dancers caught offering a little "something on the side" were immediately fired. Though Liu Song knew that those types of girls quickly found steady work elsewhere.

"I don't understand," she said.

"He was very specific," the doorman told her. "And he had a strange accent but seemed harmless enough. He's sitting at the bar right now, see for yourself."

Liu Song looked up, scanning the Wah Mee for Uncle Leo, remembering his thick Cantonese accent, searching her mind for an excuse to tell her boss why she had to flee the club-she'd quit if she had to. But as she looked through the haze of cigar smoke, she recognized the gentleman. He was dressed for the occasion, in a black shirt, white tie, and canvas spats, and his hair was slightly longer. She was overwhelmed with relief to see Colin's wide smile. Her heart soared with delight and then sank with embarra.s.sment. She'd avoided the local movie theaters and even the new China Gate Opera House for fear of crossing paths with him. She felt ashamed for having left so many things unspoken, unresolved. And she felt so awkward and unsure of how she could explain the secret she had waiting for her back home, a secret that wore tiny footie pajamas and called her ah-ma.

But as Colin waved and seemed genuinely happy to see her, the awkwardness subsided, leaving her with the ringing echo of doubt-and impending disaster. It was as though she were standing aboard a yacht on a sunny day but feeling water lapping at her feet as the ship begins to sink beneath the waves. She tried not to chew her lip as he sauntered toward her. She hated the thought of letting him down again, but when she took the job at the club she'd expected such strange reunions would happen sooner or later. Chinatown was a small place-a tiny village within a city. She'd been lucky to hide in the shadows this long.

"I keep going to the movies week after week, expecting to see your face smiling back at me," Colin said. "It's been a long time. I thought you left town. Mr. b.u.t.terfield said you went to California for a while."

Hardly, she thought. "I thought the same of you. I've been ... here," she confessed sadly, pointing about the room. "I've had some changes in my life ..." Liu Song couldn't continue. She fidgeted, struggling to find the words.

"Congratulations," Colin said, gently touching her arm as though to alleviate the worry that must have been evident on her face. "I saw you on the street last week, through a storefront window. You were like the beautiful ghost of your ah-ma, pushing a carriage. At first I thought you might have been hired as someone's nanny, but then I saw the way you held that baby." He took her hand in his. "I know true love when I see it."

Liu Song could barely breathe.

Someone cranked up the Victrola behind the bar, and an old song, a lazy two-step, began to play amid the sound of tumbling dice, the clinking of stemmed gla.s.sware, and the chatter of men and women in various languages, tongues, and dialects. Their exclamations roared with each turn of luck, some good, some bad. She was grateful for the noise, which drowned out the ringing in her ears.

"I was sad at first," Colin said. Then he sipped his drink. "But at least I understood why you disappeared. Though I never see a husband ..."

"I'm not ..." Liu Song hesitated. "I'm not married-never was."

"It's okay, I understand-believe me. Life is complicated. I know ..."

"I wanted to tell you, but I just couldn't figure out how." Liu Song gushed her apology as though it would be less painful to get it all out at once. "I went and saw you that night at the Empress, when you were appearing in A Chinese Honeymoon. I was so sick, and so saddened. There really isn't any proper way to explain it ..."

"You don't have to, Liu Song. Or is it Willow? That would make a terrific screen name, by the way." He ordered another Bronx martini and a grape soda for her. "I just wanted to see you again. I've been in Vancouver and Idaho, taking walk-on rolls as a half-breed in a pair of Nell Shipman films. She's opened her own studio over near Coeur d'Alene, which is quite impressive. And I also got a job in a Streamliner called Balto's Race to Nome. The movie is supposed to be set in Alaska, but we shot it near Mount Rainier and I'm supposed to be an Inupiat Eskimo. Close enough for the silver screen, I guess. It's all quite exciting."

Liu Song sat at the bar, her knees touching his as they talked. When her manager cruised by, Colin handed him Liu Song's dance card and a ten-dollar bill. Colin smiled and told her about his hopes and joys. They talked for an hour and two more drinks, until a trio of musicians arrived and began playing a homespun version of ragtime. Colin led her to the dance floor, and Liu Song delighted in doing the fox-trot with someone other than a total stranger or a sailor on leave, or a rich man who liked to talk about himself and his money. She didn't have to force herself into the pit of polite conversation. She didn't have to pretend like an actress onstage or on the screen. She danced until her feet hurt. Then Colin removed her shoes and held them behind her as she wrapped her arm around his waist and leaned into his chest, feeling him carry her weight and all of her burdens. They slowly circled the crowded dance floor, even as the band played something faster. She could almost have slept in that position, surrounded, enveloped. She understood how William felt being gently, lovingly rocked to sleep, and she understood now why he slept so soundly, so utterly content. She'd never felt so safe, so protected, so wanted. Though a part of her wondered why Colin didn't ask about William.

After the band's first set, Colin suggested they get some fresh air, so they hung out in the alley as men and women came and went from the club, some laughing and smiling, others tripping and staggering away.

"It's a nice night. We could go for a drive," Colin suggested. "Unless ..."

Liu Song looked around the club.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Is there someone else-"

"No," Liu Song interrupted. "Not at all. It's just that my shift ..."

"I paid for all of your dances. You can leave anytime."

Liu Song glanced at the doorman, whose nod confirmed Colin's statement.

Colin offered to drive her home in his new enclosed Chrysler even though she lived only a stone's throw away. "We'll take the scenic route," he said as he opened the door for her and wrapped a motor robe around her shoulders to ward off the chill, despite the fact that the car had a built-in heater. He drove away from Chinatown, past the Aiko Photographic Studio and Ceasare Galleti's Boot and Shoe Repair. She looked back as the neon faded. Mildred would be with William by now, so Liu Song relaxed as they drove north, circling Green Lake, cruising by fine neighborhoods of newly built Tudor homes. They drove as though they were in a parade and he were proudly showing her off, the grand marshal and the Narcissus Queen. She felt such joy, but also worry. She'd never been this far away from William.