As they left the herb shop Ernest felt bold enough to offer his arm, and Fahn took it without ceremony. She talked and talked, occasionally pausing to point out a puffy cloud in the blue sky that looked like a circus animal, or to admire the crispy ducks hanging in the window of a Chinese barbecue, or her favorite blossom, tiger lilies, on a nearby flower cart—the street provided an infinite supply of everyday things to amuse and delight her. At the corner, where they waited for a streetcar to roll by, she even complimented Ernest on his smile.
And when they reached Pioneer Square the paperboy was still there, still hawking today’s news—something about a Wright Brothers airplane crashing in France and killing the pilot, and the return of a great comet. Fahn paused, and Ernest watched as she read the paper’s headlines, then regarded the boy, who was still standing on his upturned crate. She dropped a nickel into his tin cup as he stepped down to hand her the paper, which she ignored. Instead, she placed her hands on the newsboy’s shoulders, stood on her tippy-toes, tilted her head, and kissed him square on the lips.
Then she smiled, took Ernest’s hand, and continued walking, leaving the stunned paperboy behind them without a second glance. “I don’t like paying for bad news.”
Ernest looked back at the boy, who seemed dumbfounded. “But…why did you do that? He’s a total stranger!”
“Well, we’re not total strangers, Ernest. I see him on the same corner at least once a week.”
Ernest remembered his own kiss and was even more confused, and a bit jealous.
Fahn seemed to notice his befuddlement. “Women settle for the admiration of men, which is worthless. A dog will admire trees all day but only respect a sharp stick. That’s what Madam Flora always says. She tells us that we need to make our own way in the world and not rely on a man for anything. Sometimes that means we have to take what we want for a change. So I kissed him back there because I wanted to add a little something to my collection.”
Ernest felt her squeeze his hand.
“Some people collect pennies or feathers. Others collect commemorative ribbons or stamps of the world. I collect first kisses. But that wasn’t his first,” she said, shaking her head. “Trust me. There are a lot of boys in my menagerie, and I can tell by now.”
Ernest held her hand as they walked. Or, more aptly, she held his hand and led him along the avenue. He didn’t mind. Not too much, anyway. He was deeply dazzled by this strange place, this happy new life. Though when they got back, as she let go of his hand and bounded up the steps, two at a time, part of him felt sad to be left behind, disappointed that she didn’t care to collect second kisses, or thirds.
OLD MAN ON CAMPUS
(1962)
Ernest contemplated the collection of sentimental items that had accumulated in his desk drawer—postcards, souvenir pins, campaign buttons (more losers than winners), and ticket stubs from old movies. And of course Juju’s latest news clippings, and programs and lobby cards from Hanny’s many performances in Reno and Las Vegas.
Some people yearn for the spotlight, Ernest mused.
While at the Tenderloin, he had often heard about a legendary Japanese woman known as the Arabian Oyae. She always wore bright blue stockings and was said to be the rival of any of the Tenderloin’s Gibson girls. Fahn had actually seen Oyae once, on King Street late one night, a regal woman, who was surrounded by a retinue of servants and rich men, who all fought for her attention. That encounter, years before Ernest had arrived, had left an impression on Fahn. She had told him that she wanted more from life than her household duties. She wanted to become the talk of Chinatown, if not the city. Fahn wanted to be like Oyae: she wanted to become the next unbreakable horse.
Ernest sipped his coffee and read the paper. He tried not to worry too much about his daughter’s new Caucasian fiancé. Rich the lawyer was rich, and handsome and successful, and he’d said all the right things over apple pie à la mode. And he obviously cared about Hanny a great deal, but…marriage, a mixed-race one at that—that’s a complicated undertaking. Ernest remembered Gracie’s favorite magazine, Ladies’ Home Journal, and its trademark column “Can This Marriage Be Saved?”
Marriage is easy to untangle in Las Vegas, Ernest thought. Perhaps that’s why Hanny is entering this arrangement so suddenly after turning down so many other overtures. Meanwhile, Washington’s judicial system refused to acknowledge divorces from Nevada—let alone those from south of the border. What had been so convenient for Katharine Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor, and even last year for poor Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller, would never work in Seattle. Not that Ernest would ever consider divorcing Gracie, no matter what her condition was or if she even remembered him.
Ernest shook his head and went back to his newspaper, where he read about the musical West Side Story, which had swept the Academy Awards. He’d watched the movie, alone, at the Atlas Theatre. The story had reminded him of classic romantic tragedies like Pyramus and Thisbe, Odysseus and Penelope, and of course, that famous tale of the daughter of Capulet and the son of Montague, which in turn made him think of his own years of teen angst and heartache with Fahn and Maisie. That was forever ago. He chewed his lip and turned to things more wondrous and less nostalgic. He was reading about a test pilot named Neil Armstrong when the phone rang in the downstairs lobby.
Ernest wished the rooms had their own phones as he heard the hotel manager shouting his name up the stairwell. That’s when he realized he was late for his meeting with Juju at the University of Washington—she hoped strolling around the former grounds of the AYP might jog loose a few memories. He grabbed his hat and coat and quickly trundled down the stairs, past the manager, who held the phone out at arm’s length.
“Tell her I’m on my way,” Ernest said. The man rolled his eyes and smacked on his unlit cigar, as he went back to reading his Life magazine bearing the headline OUT OF THIS WORLD FAIR IN SEATTLE.
—
ERNEST CLIMBED INSIDE his old black Cadillac, thinking how he’d once made a fine living with the elegant sedan, as the favored driver of visiting jazz musicians, colored celebrities, and the occasional prizefighter. Gracie had always loved this car as well, and he had so many fond memories of road trips, weekend getaways. But Ernest also had recollections of trips to the hospital, and driving Hanny to Sea-Tac Airport last year.
Now she’s back, Ernest thought. I have more people to hide Gracie’s secrets from.
When his wife moved in with Juju and Hanny moved away, Ernest had slipped into marital limbo. He tended a small garden in what used to be Kobe Terrace Park. He volunteered at the Chinese Community Center. And he’d haunted the Seattle Public Library, catching up on scores of books he’d wanted to read. Until he grew restless and paid a visit to Kawaguchi Travel, where Gracie used to work part-time, and on a whim he inquired about visiting Canton. A part of him longed to find the village of his birth, where his mother must have died. But in the end he knew traveling there wasn’t an option—visits had been prohibited to U.S. citizens.
So instead, Ernest had been forced to settle for a book of Chinese poetry. As he drove, he thought of the words of the great poet Shijing.
I search but cannot find her,
awake, asleep, thinking of her,
endlessly, endlessly…
Ernest’s route north to the U-District paralleled the gash of construction that had almost healed, leaving a scar the size of a superhighway through the heart of the city. As he saw the towering figure of George Washington who marked the entrance to the campus, Ernest knew that memories had always loomed over him, connecting him to places and people. He waited at a stoplight near the statue, which had been erected when the grounds were being converted to a university campus at the end of the AYP. He remembered that when he was a boy, the sculpture had sparkled, shining almost cobalt blue. But now the first president had taken on the color of dark ash, and his shoulders were covered in epaulets of pigeon droppings.