“Hey, you—girl!” The young man’s voice had shifted from sneering to something-to-prove. “Where you going? I’m talking to you!”
Ling’s heart pounded. She didn’t dare look back. The men were close, though, and the bus still too far. Three months ago, she could’ve broken into a run to get away. Now the jangle of her leg braces was loud in her head as she struggled on, and her arms shook from trying to move her crutches so fast. She was afraid she’d put a foot wrong, lose her balance, and fall in the street. Some people watched what was happening with expressions of vague discomfort, one man even giving a meek “Hey, now! Leave her be.” Others barely noticed before moving on. No one stepped in to stop the bullying, though. Ling’s head was down but her eyes were up, searching the streets wildly for a place to duck into for help. A restaurant window’s neon sign boasted BEST ROAST BEEF IN NEW YORK! just above a new, hand-lettered sign that read, simply, NO CHINESE ALLOWED.
“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, girl?” the man called. “Do you even speak English?”
He was right behind her. She could smell his aftershave lotion. To her right, the giant marquee of the New Amsterdam Theatre beckoned. Ling changed course, heading toward its doors. Her crutch came down hard in a pothole, jarring her entire body. She was close to tears. And then Henry stepped out of the theater’s alleyway, blowing on his hands in the cold.
“Henry!” Ling shrieked. “Henry!” she screamed again.
He saw her, went for an automatic wave, and froze.
“Help m—” Ling cried as a clod of muddy ice hit her, hard, knocking her off-balance. Her purse dropped and the clasp broke, scattering the contents as she fell.
“Dirty Chinese! Go home!” the young man shouted as he ran past with his friends, laughing. I am home, Ling wanted to say, but the words were stuck in her throat as she sat sprawled in the wet muck of Forty-second Street.
“Cowards!” Henry shouted. He was suddenly beside her, helping her to her feet, fetching her crutches, gathering her things off the street and putting them back into her purse. “Ling! Are you all right?”
“I’m f-fine,” she mumbled. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I just, just need to go home.”
“All right. I’ll take you.” Gently, Henry brushed the dirt from her coat. As he did, his gaze traveled to Ling’s braces, her crutches, and the ugly black shoes, and for just a second, his bright smile dimmed. He recovered quickly, his smile too polite, the way people looked when they didn’t want to upset you. And the tears Ling had kept at bay streamed down her face, hot and shameful.
“Oh, hey. Hey, darlin’,” Henry put an arm around Ling, and she stiffened at his touch.
“I’m sorry,” he said, releasing her. “You’re pretty shaken up. How about a cup of hot cocoa first? You like cocoa, don’tcha?”
“I’m fine. Just… point me toward the bus.”
“Well, now, you see, I have a firm policy that I never drink hot cocoa by myself. It’s against my religion.”
“You have a religion?” Ling sniffled.
“Well, no. Not really. But if I did, that would be the first commandment.”
Ling wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and chanced a sideways glance at Henry. He was standing there in his tweed coat, his slim shoulders hunched up toward his ears and a thick plaid scarf wound around his neck, as if he were an overly wrapped Christmas present, her purse dangling from his elegant fingers. He looked ridiculous, and she wished she could laugh, but instead, she was crying. Earlier, her heart had been full of wonder as she watched the newsreel, thinking about a world of atoms and change and possibility. Now the moment had shifted into something else, and she didn’t like it. The snow salted down, coating them both in wet flakes.
“One hot cocoa,” Ling said, taking back her purse. She nodded toward the restaurant window’s NO CHINESE ALLOWED sign. “If you can find somewhere that’ll let me in.”
“Don’t worry. I know just the place,” Henry said and offered his arm.