Maisie slowed down and for a moment seemed lost, then stopped and looked up at the sky. Ernest almost thought he saw sadness in her pale blue eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Having bounced around for years as a ward of the state, he was used to nonchalantly talking about the comings and goings of parents, grandparents, siblings, and guardians. “If that’s something I shouldn’t ask…”
“It’s okay. It’s not a big secret to anyone who lives at the Tenderloin. I suppose it’s better to hear it from me than from the maids,” Maisie said as she sniffled and mentioned something about the autumn air, even though the sun was shining.
“In the district there are crib joints and then there are parlor joints, and sometimes Madam Flora cherry-picks new girls that have potential from the bad places—the run-down sporting clubs in the neighborhood. Other girls she’s found on the street or rescued years ago. But Flora, in one way or another, has adopted almost everyone at the Tenderloin. And the girls who seem to have a certain spark, Flora puts to work upstairs. It’s a fancier life, she has them tutored, and trained, but only if they are cut out to be true Gibson girls. The rest, they end up downstairs, working as maids, and cooks, and housekeepers. No one seems to care or mind very much—we all do what we’re told. Everyone sticks together through thick and thin, everyone’s happy, and everyone minds her own business. Well, except for Fahn, who is always up to something.”
As she kept talking a dam of silent emotion seemed to be cracking. Ernest followed along, regarding her—Margaret, Maisie May, the Mayflower, Madam Flora’s little hummingbird. With her tomboy hair, she seemed destined to work downstairs, but there was something about her blue eyes—great beauty, hiding in plain sight. And she seemed smarter than the rest. He wondered where she’d be in a few years.
“We’re like a big happy family at the Tenderloin; Fahn and me are like Irish twins. Even Professor True is like an uncle. But, despite all that, you should know that Madam Flora is most definitely not my real sister.”
Ernest looked over at her.
“Madam Flora is my real mother.”
Ernest blinked and stepped away from the curb as a bus rumbled by.
“Here’s the thing. She doesn’t want outsiders to know, because it’s bad for business. Back in the day, Madam Flora had plenty of suitors—rich, powerful men, some even wanted to marry her. But…then I came along and crashed the party. Amber said my father was some banker. From what I heard, he already had a wife back in Chicago, so when he found out Flora was up the duff he wanted her to get rid of me. He tried to buy her off, but she refused. That’s how I know she loves me.”
Ernest stopped in his tracks.
Maisie brushed her long blond bangs from her eyes. “Amber said that man lost a million dollars the year I was born. And we’re guessing he blew what was left in the big Knickerbocker Panic, because right about that time we heard he walked off a pier in New Jersey and was never seen again. Sharks probably got him. Madam Flora hung up her stockings after that, once and for all, breaking the hearts and egos of a lot of wealthy gentlemen. Ever since then she’s just told everybody that I was Flora’s little sister—it’s less complicated that way. Plus, I think it makes her feel youthful.”
Maisie shrugged again. “Besides, I doubt that Flora’s the first working girl to call her daughter a cousin or baby sister…”
“But…she’s still your mother,” Ernest said. “You’re still her daughter, you’re…”
“I’m nobody’s anything, Ernest.” Maisie cut him off as she handed him the rest of the invitations and walked away. “I’m not the Mayflower.” She turned and patted her chest. “I’m Plymouth Rock.”
DRAGON’S BLOOD
(1909)
After Ernest finished delivering the invitations, he returned to the Tenderloin and found Fahn waiting for him on the front step. She was peeling green apples, cutting them, and dropping the slices into a copper pot filled with water. She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and shook her head.
“When Miss Amber saw that the Mayflower had sailed back without its crewman, she chewed her out something fierce and then sent me off looking for you. I circled around for a few blocks, but I knew you’d figure it out.” Fahn smiled and cocked her head. “I hoped anyway. Grab the pot and follow me.”
As Ernest trailed behind, he tried not to drip on the carpets or the wooden floor and tried even harder not to think about Maisie, and her stubborn acceptance of her circumstances. He remembered the last time he saw his own mother back in China. Her life—her death—had become more myth than memory. He knew he’d been born near the Pearl River Delta, but now he couldn’t even find that place on a map. And he remembered his mother telling him how she could never be a good Chinese wife, could never abide by the three obediences—whatever those were.
He put the pot down on the kitchen counter where a dozen ceramic dishes sat at the ready, lined with fresh piecrusts. He felt heat radiating from the large gas oven.
“Are we baking pies?” Ernest asked. “I don’t know a thing about—”
“Mrs. Blackwell must be taking a break,” Fahn cut him off. “She makes the pies. I do all the grunt work. I don’t mind, though, because I was able to save you the best apple in all of Washington—maybe the whole wide world.”
Ernest watched as she hung up her apron, polished a perfectly round apple, chopped it in half, and delicately sliced out the core with a paring knife. Then she took a wooden dipper and drizzled honey over the bare fruit. She handed him one half and then bit into the other, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.
“Miss Amber told me to pick up tins of snuff for the upstairs girls. They use chewing tobacco to lose weight and stay fit. Then I have to go pick up Madam Flora’s new medicine,” Fahn said with an excited smile. “Amber thought that you should come with me so you know where to get it next time.”
Ernest’s legs felt tired from trying to keep up with Maisie, and his feet were swollen in his ill-fitting leather shoes, but the apple tasted sweet.
“I’d love to go,” he told her.
—
ERNEST FOLLOWED FAHN, who mercifully walked at a much slower pace than Maisie’s battle march. As they turned left at King Street Station and headed east up South Jackson, she pointed out places of interest, like the Maple Leaf Saloon, the Triangle Bar, and the People’s Theatre in the basement on Second Avenue.
“Don’t be fooled by the name,” Fahn confided. “It’s not a penny crush. It’s a low-rent crib joint with watered-down drinks. If a rich customer happens to wander into a place like that, he’s bound to take a sap to the back of the head, wake up down on the mudflats, without his wallet. Madam Flora hates those kinds of places. She says they treat the girls awful and give the Garment District a bad name.”
Ernest was still gawking at the buildings when they passed a newspaper boy who stood on a fruit crate, shouting headlines.
“Ty Cobb wins home run title with ninth home run!” he barked to no one in particular as he held up the paper. “Only a nickel! Read all about it!”
Fahn smiled at the newsboy. “Maybe on the way back, hon.”