They waited for him to return to the old run-down house, waited night and day, week after week, watching the stars pass through the hole in the wall, pestering the postman twice a day to double-check for letters, taking turns walking the hilly streets to his old haunts, diving into the hells, and inquiring at the banks. None of their old friends could recall the last time they had seen him inside or out of the octagon house, and none of their old business partners or fellow speculators could even recall old James Worth. As the months became years, they had forfeited hope for the return of the prodigal brother and husband. He had vanished from the earth, leaving behind just enough, if they were careful, for the welfare of the pair. And for the most part, they husbanded their little egg well, though Eben pissed away a fair share gambling and dissipating. And then he lost all one day in 1881 when he crossed too close to a cable car racing down Clay Street, and he died at hospital from the injuries, leaving Flo all alone in the ramshackle house.
Like Penelope faithful to Ulysses, she waited for Jams to come home. Over the years, the frequent earthquakes had widened the fissure in the wall to the point where she no longer felt safe entering the room, but his presence lingered there in the indentations on the seat of the easy chair, the shape of his body on the sofa cushions, and the picture of the universe he loved to watch. Rain and moisture left a trail of mildew that trailed down the wall and into the room below, and the carpets and furniture were constantly damp and coming to pieces. The stove was near impossible to light. Nails in the flooring had popped and would catch her slipper when she crossed. Her bed was lonesome, and whenever the house creaked she feared it was either another quake or his return. Mice had gotten behind the plaster, and she could hear their comings and goings in the dead of night, and seagulls had frequented the southwestern sides and streaked the outer walls with their guano. Forty years had passed since they had left Kentucky and a dozen since he had suddenly left her to go rest. Had he walked through the door at any moment, she would have given him an earful, beat him for abandoning her, and then held him in her arms.
Just when all hope was lost, a Chinaman come to her door one Sunday afternoon. Ye scarce saw any Chinee since the Exclusion in ’83, for they kept to themselves more or less from fear of the whites. The young man on the stoop unnerved her. She had not a word of Chinese, and he little English, though he had a message to deliver.
“Mister,” he said. “Mister in the bed.”
“There is no mister here. I live by myself.”
“No. Mister-in-the-bed no more. All gone.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Your mister. All gone.” He handed over a packet addressed to her. “Nee dohng mah?” He lifted his eyebrows as if trying to convey some understanding.
She could not take his meaning, only that he had delivered it to the correct address as printed on the brown paper surface. “Thank you,” she said. “Wait right here, and I’ll find a penny for your troubles.”
When she returned to the door, the boy was gone.
With great care, she opened the packet. Wrapped in red tissue paper were a few personal things she instantly recognized as her husband’s. A silver pocket watch engraved “Virginia, Nevada” from his trip there. A tortoiseshell comb that Flo had given him on his thirtieth birthday. A straight razor with an ivory handle. A leather billfold, which she opened and found inside forty-nine dollars and a carte de visite with a photograph of the family, probably from before the silver disaster, and on the reverse, the family name and address of the octagon house. Stashed in the secret compartment was a yellowed clipping from an ancient newspaper, a brief story about the robbery of a red lacquer box filled with cash, owned by a well-to-do Chinatown importer named Li, a longtime resident of the city who had first worked the California gold fields back in the glory days.
A letter accompanied these tattered effects:
Please forgive me English.
I am returning these few things of my tenant, Mr. James Worth, who left this world peacefully some months past. He was an ideal man and never caused any trouble. Although he seemed hale and hearty during our long acquaintance, he must have been otherwise suffering, for no one could enjoy his bed and sleep more than our Mr. Worth. I do not know if he is survived by any family, but in good conscience, I send these few remainings to the last no address.
Ah Sum
Beneath the English signature, the author had printed a character in Chinese, but this meant nothing more to her than the final inscrutable sign of her incomprehensible man.
The spotlight snapped off, the houselights were raised instantly, and the shower curtain was drawn back a final time. The other women in the room gasped one by one as the golden jewelry melted from their necks and arms and evaporated from their ears and hair. All of the silver stock certificates in the bathtub began to curl and form little spheres, and as they rose, they changed into soap bubbles, exploding as they touched any surface, until the tub was clean and empty.