Songs Of Willow Frost: A Novel Part 3

Not possible. Not fair. William hesitated, trying to process what he was seeing.

"There's someone down there," he said in disbelief. "Did you tell anyone we were leaving? Did you accidentally say anything ...?"

"I didn't tell a soul-I swear, who would I tell?"

William rubbed his temple. It must have been me. He worried as he remembered the note he'd pa.s.sed. The girl who'd whispered to Charlotte must have told someone, who told someone else, and that gossip had eventually reached the ears of someone in charge.

"William Eng!" a woman called through the trees, from the direction of the school.

"It's Sister B," Charlotte whispered. Her voice was laced with panic.

William's heart pounded. His first thought was to make a break for it. He could sprint through the trees until he reached the fence-then up and over. I can outrun any of the sisters, probably the janitor as well. But what do I do about Charlotte? he fretted. I can't leave her behind.

"It's okay," Charlotte said softly, calmly.

"It's not, this nixes everything ..."

She reached out and took William's hand. "We can just tell her we came here-to the grotto-to spend some time alone."

"Doing what?" William asked, furrowing his brow.

She stared in his direction with her other hand on her hip. She raised her eyebrows. "You know-what boys and girls sneak off for."

William blushed. He understood, grateful that she couldn't see his face.

He was about to agree with that plan when he peered through the trees and saw the librarian, Miss Fredericks, pus.h.i.+ng the wheeled cart of picture books toward the infants' home. And he caught a glimpse of Sister Briganti marching down the brick path.

We can do this. "There's still a chance. Do you trust me?"

"Of course."

"Then I have another idea. We're gonna crawl through the hedges." He took her wrist, and they both got on their hands and knees. He instructed her to hold on to his ankle and follow him as they burrowed their way like rabbits through the thick hedgerow and the next, until they were standing near the lane between the school and the gate.

"Are we going to run now?" Charlotte asked, brus.h.i.+ng leaves and needles from her sweater. She gripped her cane and stepped downhill toward the gate.

"No, we're going to ride." He took her hand and quickly led her back toward the school and the bookmobile.

He heard Sister Briganti arrive in the grotto. "William Eng-I know you're out here somewhere. And Miss Rigg, you know I'll find you too, and when I do ..."

Charlotte covered her mouth and giggled as Sister Briganti began shouting angrily in Italian. "Ho il mio occhio su di te e Malocchio troppo!"

The only word William recognized referenced something about the evil eye. He imagined the statuary of saints wincing and covering their ears.

With Miss Fredericks gone and most of the children on the other side of the bookmobile, William led Charlotte through the driver's door. The outside panels had been raised on the opposite side, and most of the kids were focused on the rows of books, or had their heads down, lost in stories of pirates or runaway slaves-all but Sunny, who stood in the back of the line, waiting impatiently. William saw his eyes widen in shock when they spotted each other through the pa.s.senger window. So long, Sunny, William thought as he put his finger to his lips and led Charlotte into the back of the truck, behind the enormous shelves where there were boxes and crates of books. He found a large, wheeled bin, half-full with hardbound books. He and Charlotte climbed inside, digging their way to the bottom, their legs tangled together as they covered themselves as best they could with copies of Pudd'nhead Wilson, The Prince and the Pauper, and Huckleberry Finn. William waited, in that uncomfortable heap, his heart racing and his temples throbbing with fear and excitement.

"This is an adventure worth writing about," Charlotte whispered.

Before he could agree William heard the librarian return, banging up the ramp with the cart. He took Charlotte's hand, and they quietly slumped down as deep as they could. He felt the book cart slam against their bin, and heard Miss Fredericks locking the wheel so it wouldn't roll. The librarian said something about needing some coffee, then shoved the ramp back into the bookmobile and closed the door, leaving them in shadows. William pushed the books aside so he and Charlotte could breathe and have a little more room, untangling their legs, though she didn't seem to mind.

He peeked up from the bin and saw the librarian climb into the driver's seat, start the noisy engine, and then light a cigarette, tossing the match out the window before rolling the window back up. William clenched his teeth as he heard her grinding the gears. Then the bookmobile lurched and cigarette smoke drifted into the back as the truck pulled forward, turning through the circular drive, heading back down the lane to the city streets and away from Sacred Heart.

On the wall William noticed a poster that read, BOOKS ARE WINDOWS TO THE WORLD. Windows? he thought. This is an exit door, on wheels. As the bookmobile pulled onto the city street and sped up, William felt Charlotte squeeze his hand.

She whispered, "Sister Briganti once said that all great stories of love and sacrifice have a moral-it's up to us to find the lesson hidden inside."

William didn't know if his story had a moral to it. Honestly, he didn't care. He was going to find Willow Frost. All he wished for was a happy ending.

Scars on First Avenue.

(1934).

William climbed out of the dusty bin and sat on the floor near the rear of the bookmobile, struggling not to sneeze. He breathed slowly, trying to relax, inhaling the scent of paper, glue, and printers' ink. He peered through the rear window as they rolled by the stately brick buildings of the University of Was.h.i.+ngton, cruised through the Broadway hilltops, and then headed down Pike Street into the heart of Seattle's business district. Much to his surprise the streets seemed more crowded than when he was out on his birthday, not just with cars and trucks but with people-scores of men, some in army uniforms, were filling the streets, slowing traffic to a crawl. Charlotte felt his arm and tapped his shoulder; then she pointed behind her head in the direction of Miss Fredericks, who had stopped at an intersection and was talking to a traffic cop. William overheard the librarian asking if there was a better way to get to Boeing Field. William had never seen the new airport, but he remembered riding the interurban line all the way to Meadows Race Track, where he and his mother often went when he was just a toddler. As William listened in, he had a vague recollection of curlicues of cigar smoke and the smell of horses sweating on a hot summer day. He remembered his mother pointing out a giant red barn across the river.

"That's where they make airplanes," she'd said, much to his bewilderment. "Some can even land on the water. Then they go ..."

He'd watched as she made a zooming sound and pointed to the sky. Sister Briganti had once told them that Charles Lindbergh had landed there a few years back, but William wasn't convinced. I don't know what to believe anymore.

William felt the bookmobile lurch into motion as Miss Fredericks pulled onto a side street, which was filled with more cars and people. He peeked through the rear-door window and saw a mounted police officer galloping toward them, blowing his whistle. He's seen us. William tried not to panic as he glanced in all directions for another exit, a better place to hide, anything, just as the policeman veered around them, slowly trotting through the crowded street. William heard the roar of an enormous crowd. He looked back and saw Charlotte looking just as worried as he was.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"I don't know, but we might as well leave now." While we can. "I don't think this rig is going anywhere anytime soon."

William felt Miss Fredericks pull the bookmobile over to the side of the street. She honked the horn and then stepped out onto the running board to get a better look.

"Now's our chance." William opened the rear door and was overwhelmed by a flowing river of men-thousands, a huge column marching past them toward Pike Street, tromping in worn leather heels. The men leading the march carried huge painted banners that read, WE WANT CASH RELIEF, MORE CALORIES AND LESS WORMS IN RATION BOXES, and BUILD THE SUBWAY FOR JOBS. The pedestrians on the sidewalks, an a.s.sortment of businessmen dressed in suits and women in pleated skirts, quickly got out of the way.

William helped Charlotte exit the back of the bookmobile, then donned his knapsack and took her free hand as she walked with her cane outstretched in front of her. Fortunately even the most boisterous of those in the crowd still had the civility to recognize a little blind girl and stepped aside or tipped their caps even though she couldn't see their courteous gestures. They tried walking against the tide of marchers but were like helpless fish struggling to swim upstream. It's a protest march, William realized. We're lucky it hasn't broken into a full riot. He took Charlotte's arm and turned her around, going with the flow of bodies until they reached the main avenue; then they slowly peeled off toward the packed sidewalk. He led her up the steps of an apartment building, someplace safe where he could get a better look. He watched as veterans in uniform, some missing arms and legs, hobbled by on crutches shouting for the bonuses they'd been promised. Then someone blew a whistle and the chaos took on a more orderly shape as the marchers began singing in unison, "Don't scab for the bosses. Don't listen to their lies. Us poor folks haven't got a chance, unless we organize."

"It's a rally of some kind-like an angry parade," William said. "Soldiers demanding back pay and all kinds of men marching for jobs. Women too."

From his perch atop the steps, William looked up and down the broad avenue for a boardinghouse, but all he saw were banks, shoe stores, druggists, and an odd a.s.sortment of diners, sausage carts, and popcorn wagons. He glimpsed a large sandwich board with a poster he recognized, the same one he'd seen on his birthday.

"Let's go this way," he said, leading Charlotte through the crowd to the painted image of Stepin Fetchit, Willow Frost, Asa Berger, and an all-girl orchestra called the Ingenues. As William noted the venues and showtimes, Charlotte pulled away from him and walked toward the sound of a player piano.

William looked up at the sign. "Le Pet.i.t," he said. "It's a penny arcade."

"Let's go inside."

William hesitated, then shrugged and led her through the swinging doors.

"It smells like candied apples," Charlotte said, smiling.

And cigarette smoke, William thought, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dimly lit parlor with walls covered in red velvet wallpaper. There were rows of nickelodeons showing adventures, comedies, and grown-up movies about what the butler saw. There was even a sports parlor with bra.s.s Mutoscopes where you could watch Jack Dempsey fight Gene Tunney for a penny a round. William remembered visiting an arcade like this years ago, but that place had been sparkling new and crowded with children, as well as men and women standing elbow to elbow, impatiently waiting in line for their turn at a Moviola. This place had newer machines but was completely vacant.

"Another day, another rally in the street," a man said from behind a counter with neat rows of candy jars and bins of popcorn and boxes of Cracker Jack. "We're lucky the Silver s.h.i.+rts weren't out there causing a ruckus. That's all we need, common folk getting b.l.o.o.d.y in the streets. Been more than ten years since the general strike and things are worse now than they were back then." Coins jingled as he shook his waist ap.r.o.n, redirecting the subject. "You kids need some change?"

"I can't, William. But you should ..."

William looked around. "I don't think we have a penny to spare ..."

"Live a little. You can see. I can't. Do it for me."

William reluctantly agreed and fished out a handful of pennies. He bought Charlotte a bag of cotton candy, and she held on to his arm as he wandered past the rows of movies and newsreels, reading the strange t.i.tles aloud.

"Sorry, kid, the only new flicks we got are work films-we get 'em for free from Uncle Sammy." The proprietor sat back, dipping into a tin of wax that he applied to the tips of his wide mustache.

William pa.s.sed on a movie by Jimmy Durante t.i.tled Give a Man a Job. "Do you have any movies with the lady on the poster?" he asked.

"Willow? I figured you'd ask something like that," the man said.

Why, because I'm Chinese? William thought.

"Especially after her making the tabloids this morning." The man showed him the front page of The Seattle Star, which featured a photo of Willow in a voluminous fur coat, being greeted at Union Station by the local theater critic Willis Sayre and a gaggle of Seattle dignitaries. They were flanked by two police officers on motorcycles. Stepin was seated behind one of the uniformed men, mugging at the camera. Everyone looked enthralled. William echoed that sentiment as he stared at the newspaper. She looked so much like his mother. She looks like me, William thought yearningly. And I look like her.

The proprietor spoke up. "I don't have any of her new movies, but take a look at the machine on the end there. She ain't listed in the credits, but I think Weepin' Willow is in there somewhere, as an extra, I guess. Give it a whirl."

William felt Charlotte squeeze his arm.

He read the placard on the machine. "It's only three minutes long." Then he stood on the footstep, dropped a penny in the slot, and slowly turned the crank as a light came on and the t.i.tle flickered in black and white. "The Yellow Pirate," he said.

"Do you see her?" Charlotte asked.

Not yet. William didn't answer. He was absorbed in the simple story of a Chinese merchant who sold his cargo and then returned, dressed as a comical bandit, and attempted to steal it back. He failed and was quickly killed, losing his Oriental daughter to an American sea captain-but she didn't look like Willow. There were only three main actors and a handful of extras; many of them appeared to be the same people, only their costumes had changed from scene to scene, and only a few were women. William stared, trying not to blink, his eyes watering as he waited to catch another glimpse of the women who stepped in and out of the background. Then the movie ended.

"Did you see her?"

"I don't know," William mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "It all moved so fast and was too blurry at times. I don't know what I saw."

"Then watch it again," the man said.

William began to wonder if this was just a ploy to milk them of every penny they had. Ploy or no ploy, it worked. With Charlotte's blessing, he watched the movie five more times, each time catching a glimpse of a woman in the background who looked like someone he once knew. But he couldn't be sure. The more he wanted the actresses to be his ah-ma, the more they began to resemble her. Each time his imagination projected memorable features onto the figures that quickly entered and then exited the scene. He gave up before his imagination ran away with him and the women on film began to speak to him directly, waving and calling his name.

WILLIAM AND CHARLOTTE still needed a place to spend the night. The man at the penny arcade handed them a card on their way out that read, "All You Downtrodden Ones call 354 Rockwell, Sister Mary's Mission."

"Not pa.s.sing judgment on your character," he said. "But just in case, the mission home is probably the safest place to rest your head."

William stared at the card as they walked down the street.

"I don't think we can, William," Charlotte said. "Not a good idea. The sisters at the mission might just send us back to the orphanage."

William doubted that anyone at Sacred Heart would even want them back, but he agreed that the mission wasn't worth the risk. So they walked down Skid Row, where First Avenue curved around Pioneer Square. Through a haze of dust and coal smoke he could see the street spilling like a river onto the mudflats south of the city, where hundreds of ramshackle homes and clapboard shacks were pieced together with sc.r.a.p lumber and tar paper. A hand-painted banner hung across the road that read: WELCOME TO HOOVERVILLE. WHERE LIFE IS STRIFE. As the wind blew northward he could smell sawdust, urine, and despair.

That's where we don't want to end up, William fretted. Pioneer Square is bad enough. Instead of busy merchants in three-piece suits and fine hats, they now stepped around unemployed millworkers and bankrupt s.h.i.+rttail farmers who drank in the street and vomited in the gutters, cursing and swearing.

Charlotte pinched her nose at the smell but didn't complain.

Amid the discouraging sights, sounds, and smells, William saw a polished sedan that stood out like a s.h.i.+mmering pearl in a rotting oyster. An old, uniformed chauffeur sat stoically behind the wheel as the sleek car glided by, heading uptown. Rich children in elegant clothing rode in the back and made slant-eyed faces, pointing at Charlotte and him as though they were monkeys on display in the Phinney Ridge menagerie. William watched them go and looked around. If anyone regarded him as a lost Oriental, they didn't show it. The people William saw, those living and dying in the streets and alleyways, couldn't see past their own despair or their next meal.

As clouds rolled in, William crossed the intersection of King Street. He pondered finding a room back in Chinatown-someplace familiar, maybe even at the Bush Hotel, but those places near the train station seemed too expensive. So he kept wandering, avoiding establishments that were near burlesque houses like the Rialto or tattoo parlors, frowning at the many signs that read NO INDIANS. He'd once been mistaken for an Indian boy and worried that someone would complain and have them tossed out. Most of the doss-houses, like Father Divine's Mission, the Boatman Hotel, and the Ragdale Home for Working Men, didn't allow women or children. And vice versa for the women's homes. More out of desperation and necessity than because of price or location, and because the sun was setting, William finally settled for a flophouse at First and Yesler that wasn't so discerning.

"How much is it?" Charlotte asked.

William read the sign. "Twenty-five cents for a room, fifteen for a bed, and slings for a nickel. I'm not sure how you want to do this."

She took his arm and paused as though acknowledging his unspoken thought-which was that neither of them wanted to be alone. "I'll share a room."

William led her down the concrete steps from the street into a tiny alcove beneath the building, where an old man with baggy eyes and a wrinkled, windburned face sat behind a gla.s.s, sipping coffee and playing solitaire with an old deck of cards. William slid a s.h.i.+ny quarter beneath the smudged window. "One room, please. One night."

The man looked up and did a double take, then nodded as though checking off a Chinese boy and a blind girl from the list of strangers that had visited. He took the quarter, examined it, and slid back a key. "We don't normally allow boys and girls to share a room, but seeing as how she ..." The man pointed to Charlotte's eyes, then waved his hand in front of her, just to be sure. "Room Seventeen." He went back to his card game.

"It's not much," Charlotte said, smiling. "But it's home."

Until tomorrow, William thought. Then what? All day long they had lived in the moment, not thinking too far ahead. They both seemed to know the quiet, lurking reality that if they couldn't reach Willow, and even if they did and she wasn't who William thought she was, or worse, if she rejected him entirely, then they'd be out on the street for real. Left to fight for meals with other homeless kids. Left to sleep in vestibules and doorways with their shoes on, for fear of having them stolen in the night.

As they descended a lightless, garbage-strewn stairwell into a bas.e.m.e.nt warren, William realized that this flophouse wasn't much better. The rooms had been subdivided again and again into s.p.a.ces barely large enough for a bed and a locker. The walls didn't even touch the ceiling. Instead, chicken wire had been used to bridge the gap, leaving everyone breathing the same air in the rooms, where he could hear tubercular men and women coughing and a baby crying. Everything smelled like cigarette smoke and body odors. As they pa.s.sed a shared bathroom, William noticed a sign with a calendar nailed to the door instructing residents to avoid flus.h.i.+ng during high tide because the toilet would back up. Lucky us. The tide is out.

"It's not so bad," Charlotte said. "We can survive anything for one night."

William wasn't so confident.

"Besides, everyone knows that Blacks and Indians have it worse."

"You're starting to sound like Sister Briganti," William said, as he remembered the nun's many baleful tales of the least among us. Stories of families sleeping in windowless rooms without heat or blankets. Where men with ripe sores on their legs and lice crawling their bodies drank homemade gin to stay warm.

William shuddered at the thought. Then he found their room and he shuddered again. Room 17 had a single lightbulb that hung precariously from the ceiling. The walls were covered in graffiti and an a.s.sortment of salacious artworks, some drawn with pencil or ink, others carved into the wood. William heard a cat somewhere, wailing, probably at mice-or rats.

"I know you must think this place is dreadful, and it probably is," Charlotte said, "but it'll be okay, William-it's only temporary."

For the first time since he'd known Charlotte, William actually felt like he was the one living with a handicap, being sighted in a place like this.

He barred the door and she took his hand, searching with her cane until she found their bunk. The bedding was nothing more than a quilt of soiled, moth-eaten rags, so thin, so rough and foul-smelling that Charlotte peeled it back and shoved it in the corner. William broke out the bread and crackers, and they both nibbled on some of each. Then they huddled face-to-face on the squeaky bed with all of their clothes on, their hats too. They used their coats as blankets.

"Are you still glad you came along?" William asked, apologetically.

Charlotte removed her left mitten and slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers together for warmth and comfort. "I haven't been this happy in a long time. There's not a place I'd rather be right now."

William still didn't know what she had to be so joyful about.

They sat in their tiny hovel, listening to the snoring, breathing, coughing, and the rhythmic squeaking of mattress springs somewhere in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"We'll find her, William. You have to feel it."