Dreams of the Red Phoenix (34 page)

From overhead, he heard the swift, heavy footfalls of the
Eighth Route Army as they marched out of camp. After a while,
he heard nothing except the pounding of the rain again. The
Reds were gone, and he was alone.

Caleb shifted on the cot to find the right position. He wove his
hands together, raised his arms toward the lamplight, creased his
thumbs, and flapped his palms. The shadows on the wall took
shape as he hoped. A bird began to take flight in the manner
his son had always loved. He watched the shadows of the wings
soar and longed for Charles's high and happy voice to beg him to
continue.

He had used the name Red Phoenix yet was nothing but stag
nant, barely healed bones now. He had no wings. He had no fine
plumage and no myth to carry him upward. He was nothing but
feeble hands folded in prayer once more. The bird on the wall
took off in a cloud of pale wings, carrying with it the hope that he
and his comrades had created here. Then his arms drifted down
to his sides. Caleb rested and waited.

Some time later, he awoke to the hum of aircraft flying
low. Reverberations of their engines echoed off the cave
walls. The first bomb went off a short distance away, per
haps down in one of the ravines nearby. The planes whined
as they circled. The second bomb landed closer. The third
was a direct hit at the center of the camp, just up the cliff
from Caleb's cave. The mountain rumbled, and he sensed
what was happening before it began. Rocks began to fall,
slowly at first and then with greater force as they landed in
front of the entrance.

Through the dimming lamplight, he watched the landslide
begin. The heavy rain brought down the rocks, but it was the
bombs that had done it. The Japanese had finally discovered the
location of the secret Eighth Route Army base in the mountains.
Caleb was grateful that the troops had escaped before the bomb
ing began. Someone, he realized, must have intercepted word of
the imminent attack and saved them. A spy had done his or her
duty, and the soldiers, including Captain Hsu, had been spared.
The excellent Eighth Route Army was safe, or at least would not
perish in this air raid.

Caleb watched as rivulets of mud turned to thick streams that
oozed into the cave, pouring over the boulders that continued to
settle. The giant rocks stacked one on top of the next with sur
prising ease, and the mud formed a bond between them. Quite
quickly the rising wall blocked out gray daylight. The boulders
shifted as they were washed over by silt, and Caleb saw the en
trance become sealed.

The lamp sputtered, the oil almost used up. Jesus had known
the cock would crow and rose to meet his destiny. Caleb could
not stand but knew his fate was fast approaching. But still he
held out hope that his spirit could lift up from it like the majes
tic phoenix from the ashes, like his Lord. Caleb recalled Captain
Hsu bestowing his code name upon him. “You will have many
lives here in China,” the good captain had said. “Whatever you
do to help the people will help you to change as well.” So it had
come to pass. Caleb was a changed man, and for the better.

He let out a long, stuttering sigh, but the tears had dried from
his eyes. No longer limp with weakness and fear, he felt his heart
growing stronger in his broken chest. He was not sorely afraid.
He would be embraced in heaven, or high on some desolate,
craggy mountain perch. Soon to be released from the suffering of
this world, he would be rewarded with God's goodness. Washed
away, yet not abandoned, Caleb would die in this cave in North
China.

The light was snuffed out then, and all went dark. He could
not see what happened next but heard the lamp topple from
where it had rested on the ground. The mud flow knocked it
over and carried it away with some force. He felt the earth rise
up under the cot, wet and chilly on the underside of his legs.
He pulled in his hands from the sides and crossed his arms
over his chest, but the mud webbed between his fingers, and
he felt it rise higher against his ribs. It sloshed over his chest
with alarming speed. Quite quickly, the coldness cradled his
chin.

He tried to sit up, but the surface of the cot was too slip
pery. There would be no escaping the mud. He allowed him
self to finally think of her, his wife, Shirley, whom it pained
him to leave behind. He pictured her as she stood tall and
proud with her arms crossed, her hip cocked, and that saucy,
inscrutable expression on her face that he had both adored and
tried endlessly to correct. She would stride deeper into her life
and carry on, her heart, he knew now, expanded by her time
in China. She would do good works going forward, which
gave Caleb great comfort.

And Charles, dear Charles. He would never know the man
his son would become, so he thought back to the sensation of
holding him in his arms when he was young. Caleb bent down to
say good-night, and Charles gripped him tightly around the neck
and planted a kiss upon his cheek.

The mud clogged his nostrils now and slid into his ears. The
thick earth covered his eyes and oozed into his mouth. Caleb
swallowed out of reflex, choked, then simply let his jaw hang
open. He tipped back his head. The wet, moving earth became
his pillow, releasing his spirit to take flight.

W
hen she reached the top of the gangplank of the
Grip
sholm
, the Swedish liner that had been assigned to take
foreign women and children out of war-torn China, Shirley did
not pause but pressed deeper into the crowd and finally made
it to a railing overlooking the water. Dizzy from lack of sleep
and hunger, she shut her eyes and steadied herself. When she
opened them again, she saw shards of a new day dancing on the
fractured surface of the Huangpu River as it led out into the East
China Sea. She leaned back and peered into the blinding dawn.
Its warmth on her cheeks felt like a reproach, an insistence that
the natural world had carried on, unconcerned with all that she
and others had survived.

In the North, she had grown quickly accustomed to living in
rain and knew it as her element. Foggy, impenetrable night and
damp shrouds during the day had suited her. The gloomy land
scape mirrored her troubled conscience. Here in vivid Shanghai,
the colors were too sharp, the voices too loud, the crowds im
possible to comprehend. Shirley had been shocked to see that so
many still lived, but that was only because those who had died
were but a fraction of the sheer mass of humanity in China. The
people had somehow carried on, she thought, in spite of the vio
lence, and the mistakes, and the losses.

On deck, passengers crowded the port side several deep, and
she sensed the ship listing that way. Although they were most
ly foreigners, she assumed they were leaving behind family and
friends and lives they had built here in China. They peered down
on the frantic crowd below and counted their blessings. She won
dered if many of them were leaving China with a mix of sorrow
and elation but also, like her, with shame in their hearts.

As the first departure horn blared from the bridge and filled
the air with electric excitement, she snatched up her valise and
slipped into the crowd, in search of Charles. She wove through
passengers from amidships to the stern but still didn't see him
and told herself not to panic. Not to fear the worst. She had hard
ly slept on the train from Peking, her body rigid with worry as
she had tried to will herself to make it to the ship safely. But now
that she was here, she began to fear that she and her son might
not be reunited in China after all.

So many faces, the bodies pressed close together, all blended
into a feverish mass. What if Charles was stuck on shore and un
able to make it on time? If she left China without him, she could
never forgive herself. As she continued to scour the strangers, she
decided that if she did not find her boy soon, she would have no
choice but to head down the gangplank before they pulled it up.
She would charge back into chaotic Shanghai to find him.

Her eyes drifted over the many faces until the profile of a young
redheaded man came into focus. He had taken up a prime position
at the very center of the stern and stood in a jaunty pose. Charles
did not notice her, so Shirley had a long moment to soak up the
sight of him, her handsome boy who rested a new leather shoe on
the railing and tilted his head in a cocky way. With his hair cut and
slicked back, he looked so much like his father that Shirley felt a
pang of both sorrow and pride. Charles seemed as charming and
irrepressible as ever, she thought. At least, she hoped that was true.
For now, she was just happy to see him happy.

Then she noticed her dear friend at Charles's side. Kathryn's
cheeks, which had always had a rosy plumpness, hung like gray
shingles. She had lost weight, they all had, and her gentle, girl
ish curves had been replaced by sharp contours. Although she
wore a new Oriental-cut silk skirt and matching jacket in an ele
gant orange chrysanthemum print, her hair was tousled, and the
bangs had grown jagged. She still wore a familiar hat to the side,
though its velvet brim was crushed.

Shirley was watching them both when Charles suddenly
tossed his head forward and spat over the side of the ship. She
thought that wasn't a polite thing to do at the start of a voyage
and intended to tell him so but also felt relieved that he still had
such boyish habits. Kathryn took Charles's arm and scolded him
playfully. Not the mother figure her son needed, Shirley thought,
but not a bad friend to have, either. She began to elbow her way
through the crowd to join them.

“Pardon me,” she said, “I need to see my son. Excuse me, I
must get through to be with my son.”

A mother with a child in tow stepped out of her way, as if
understanding the urgency of her request. When Shirley finally
stopped before Charles, she lost all words. She stood paralyzed as
she let the look on his face wash over her. For a brief moment, he
conveyed the love that she had sacrificed so much to feel again.
Shirley realized how terribly she had longed to see that light in
his eyes.

But then, in an instant, his expression narrowed, and he
squinted down, his forehead forming a tangle of lines. He glared
at his mother, quite furious.

She moved closer anyway and threw her arms around him.
She pulled him into her and held on for too long, she knew, but
couldn't help it. Charles felt so sturdy. His body not depleted like
hers. He stood tall and with a broad back and wide shoulders
that did not bend to hug her in return. He remained stiff, unfor
giving, a plank of resistance. He pulled her hands from around
his neck and stepped back. She stared up into his face with moist
eyes, but he glanced off toward the shore.

Kathryn placed herself between them and wrapped her skin
ny arms around Shirley, a bony cheek pressing against hers. As
her friend held on in an awkward embrace and almost toppled
them both, there was no mistaking the alcohol on her breath.
Shirley knew she should be concerned about Kathryn, but she
couldn't take her eyes off Charles.

“Thank God you made it,” Kathryn said, squeezing Shirley's
hands. “Aren't we all the worse for wear? I haven't seen a mirror,
but I know I must look dreadful. You poor thing, is that all you
have?” She pointed at Shirley's flimsy valise.

“The clothes on my back,” Shirley said. “I gave my last two
dresses to Chinese women on the train. They had nothing. My
suitcase is empty.” Shirley glanced down at her raincoat and
rubber boots and realized she still wore the apron under it and
Charles's sweater, which she had refused to take off for days,
even as the weather grew warmer in the south.