Consternation pulls the wrinkles on Old Gin’s face. “Motherhood is a most noble calling. My own mother was only sixteen when she married, but she raised two good sons.”
It is hard to argue with that. Unlike the other uncles, Old Gin was not one of the laborers brought to Mississippi during Reconstruction, but hails from a line of scholar-officials in the Qing dynasty. His mother was a gentlewoman who attended her sons with great devotion, and was esteemed among his father’s wives.
“What would you do if you did not raise a family? Hats?”
My shoulders droop. Hats had given me a way to put my fingerprint on the world, but Mrs. English had seen to it that I wouldn’t get another apprenticeship here. “Maybe I haven’t discovered it yet. But do you remember when you told Hammer Foot that a cricket is happiest when it sings?”
He nods. “Hammer Foot hated digging ditches. He liked performance.” Hammer Foot could walk a tightrope blindfolded. I’d seen it with my own eyes. He’d headed north, where he hoped to join P. T. Barnum’s Traveling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan, and Hippodrome. “Of course, not always easy to find work you love.”
“I know. But you did.”
“I told you I have been lucky, hm? Still, a good partner can support you while you discover this purpose. We will find you one with a big nose.”
* * *
—
WITH ONE EAR stuck to the wall, I listen hard for clues that Miss Sweetie might be making her debut soon. The rumblings from the printing press obscure the conversation, but Nathan eventually takes a break.
“Striking,” he says. “Looks . . . oriental?”
“Yes,” comes his mother’s voice. “A Chinese girl made it.”
Her hat’s embellishment. My neck aches from the effort of keeping still.
“You don’t say. I ran into a Chinese girl the other day. At least, Bear did.”
“What did she look like?”
“Startled.”
“As did mine. What else?”
“I don’t know, Mother,” he says with impatience. “She had two eyes, two legs . . .”
I grit my teeth, remembering the exposure of the legs.
“Oh good, for a minute I thought she might have had three. If we were ever held up, how would you describe the perpetrator to the police? The young woman I saw was pretty, about your age, five foot and some change, with soft brown eyes the color of chestnuts. She had creamy skin—I suppose all hatters are good about keeping out of the sun—and she had a careful way of moving around. She didn’t throw herself about like some young people. Stop twitching. So, what do you think?”
“I think, if she ever holds us up, you’d better do the describing.”
“We don’t see many Chinese around here, especially after the Rabid-Eyes Rapist. Of course, you were too young to remember that.”
“I read Father’s articles.”
I allow myself a breath. They never did catch the Rabid-Eyes Rapist, but they caught another man who looked like him—if you ignored the ten-inch difference in height. The unfortunate soul was eventually cleared, but only after they had hanged him from a stout oak. The Chinese who remained in Atlanta began drifting away after that.
“I suppose that could be who I saw,” says Nathan at last.
“I didn’t catch her name. Perhaps I will ask Mrs. English tomorrow. I’m curious about her.”
I stifle a gasp. Hammer Foot says when people make connections, their energies seek one another out with more frequency as the mind strives to see patterns. That’s why Old Gin was so strict with the uncles about following rules. Footprints are not just left on the ground.
Have I stamped another footprint with my Miss Sweetie column? Yes. Perhaps sending the Bells my letter was a very bad idea.
Ten
My muscles protest as I shift around the bench of the streetcar, scanning passengers for copies of the Focus, ears attuned to any mention of the word sweetie. Though 90 percent of me dreads the Bells’ accepting my proposal, the 10 percent of me that wishes for it is a vocal (and regrettably vainglorious) minority. A man in front of me is reading the Savannah Tribune, one of the few colored newspapers available in this town. Beside me, a butler unfolds the Constitution, clutching it closer to him when I try to get a look. At least the Paynes will have a copy. They subscribe to every newspaper, save the colored and the Jewish ones.
The air is shrouded in droplets, making it feel as if the morning is spitting in my face. Every jostle of the streetcar seems designed to wreak maximum injury on my limbs. Old Gin, though, takes the bumps in stride, serenely chewing on a piece of ginger. Shivering, I slide closer to him, being careful not to muss my new “cheeky clouds” hairstyle with its rolled bundles that peek out from my “borrowed” bonnet.
“I must spend tonight at the Paynes’,” says Old Gin, sidestepping my surprised eyes. He’s been working late hours recently, but he’s never spent the night. “Merritt will be arriving with a new Arabian stallion. Mr. Crycks wants me on hand, just in case.”
Merritt has always loved fast horses, just like his sister. An Arabian stallion is sure to cause a stir among the mares who are in heat. “Where will you sleep?”
“There’s an extra room besides Mr. Crycks’s in the work shed.”
“The work shed is always drafty.”
“If I’m cold, I’ll sleep in the stables.”
“The dust will hardly help your cough.”
“I’m only a little hoarse, hm?” He begins to laugh at his own joke, but when he becomes short of breath, I fix him with a glare.
“Will they compensate you for your additional work? You should not set a precedent.” Of course, that would never happen. Folks like us are just lucky to have jobs.
“There are rewards.”
May the rewards from his extra hours be worthy of the loss of his health.
Once at the Paynes’, Old Gin opens the kitchen door for me, but leaves before anyone can attempt to feed him. Through the window, I spy Noemi bent over in the garden.
I assemble fist-size cinnamon buns dripping with honey and butter on a doily-thin plate, betting that even my bad-tempered mistress won’t refuse this breakfast.
Before I even reach the third floor, I can hear Caroline’s and her mother’s voices, the rapid pace telling me how things lie. They must like to get their arguing over with in the morning, sort of like milking the cows. It strikes me that money can alleviate many of the miseries of common folk, but it opens up other avenues of suffering.