Songs of Willow Frost (36 page)

Liu Song couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her heart swelled with his unvarnished adoration—his words confirmed what she’d always felt but was afraid to believe. And yet, now he was leaving. With another woman, a girl much like herself. And none of them knew if or when he might be coming back.

“I can fix this, Liu Song. There is so much happening in America—so much we can accomplish. You know what you want and how to get there. You are your mother’s daughter in every way. Keep going without me, keep singing and acting and auditioning. Don’t give up on your gift—your talent is large enough to fill the screen. I’ll come back as soon as I can. You have to wait for me.” He reached into his billfold and handed her a wad of twenty-dollar bills. She refused, but he placed the cash on the table. It was more money than she’d ever had.

“It’s all I have,” he said. “Buy yourself something nice, something to remember me by, something for William, save it for a rainy day.”

Liu Song smiled, sadly, because she never knew guilt had such a price; besides, it seemed that every day was rainy in Seattle. But in the end there was no one else, Liu Song realized. Just William. She’d wait for Colin as long as she could. There was no one else worth waiting for. And she didn’t want to settle for less. She nodded, and Colin wrapped his arms around her, holding her closer than he ever had. She reached up, touched his shoulders, then smelled another woman’s perfume and stepped away. She couldn’t reconcile his words with his obligations, not yet. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her cheek and saw William smiling and laughing. She felt
like crying but laughed back at him. The absurdity of her life was made apparent as he dumped his bowl on the floor. The ceramic didn’t break, it merely wobbled to a halt.

“Keep singing, keep acting,” Colin said. “Don’t ever stop. Because that’s how I’ll find you when you’re famous and have moved on.”

Liu Song tried to ignore his flattery, yet savored every word. “I will.”

“Keep performing.”

My whole life is make-believe
, she thought. “Always.”

“I’ll send a telegram as soon as I can. I promise I’ll write. I’ll take care of this and return and it’ll be as though I’d never left.”

Liu Song looked at her son and then at Colin. She collected herself and put on the performance of her life. She swallowed her tears. Then she held Colin’s hand and touched his face; his cheek was warm, his skin soft. She smiled bravely and wished him safe travels and every happiness, which she could never have.

Living Arrangements

(1925)

By late winter Liu Song realized she might be waiting forever. She’d counted the days it took for Colin’s steamship to reach Hong Kong and then Canton and the time it would take for a telegram to arrive letting her know that he’d made it home safely and when he might be coming back. Each evening she waited for a messenger boy from Western Union to knock on her door, and each evening she went to bed disappointed. She knew that telegrams were expensive, especially from overseas, so she didn’t expect much, a few words at best, but she didn’t expect silence either. When weeks of silence stretched to months, she learned to accept that quiescence as another kind of message, one she received loud and clear.

She tried to forget about Colin by staying busy at the music store, but even that happy distraction proved to be short-lived as months rolled by without selling a single player piano, even during the holiday season, when all she sang were songs like “Greensleeves,” “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” and “Silent Night.”

William loved the holiday songs. He played inside, where it was warm, peering through the window and waving while Liu Song stood outside as it rained and rained. She smiled and kissed him through the cold glass.

Despite her street performances, which still drew large crowds, Mr. Butterfield had struggled to sell even a quarter of the sheet
music he’d ordered. Everything about Butterfield’s seemed old now, used, unwanted, everything collecting dust. Hand-painted advertisements and discounts hadn’t helped.

William clapped and said,
“Sheng dan kuai le.”
Liu Song looked at him and raised an eyebrow until he switched to English. “Merry Cwismas,” he said as she walked into the store to take her break. She was proud of William’s English but tired of feeling so alone during such a festive season. She sat down across from her employer.

“I’m afraid we’re done for, dear,” Mr. Butterfield announced as he pored over his ledger and emptied his flask into a crystal tumbler with a cracked bottom.

Liu Song looked at the clock, unsure of what he meant. It was only one in the afternoon, too early to call it a day, she thought, even though the sightseeing buses were done for the season. The days had been slower than usual, but the rainy weather always hurt business. Especially since she’d been fighting a cold and sniffling all morning. She sipped a cup of hot jasmine tea to warm her throat and soothe her voice.

“We’re going the way of the dodo.” Mr. Butterfield cursed as he closed his ledger and dropped the thick bound book into the trash. He waved to the financial record of his store as though parting from a lifelong friend. Then he fished out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of his eyes, blowing his nose as he stared out the window.

Liu Song looked across the street toward a new electronics store that had opened just in time for the holidays. That was where their business had gone. Radios had become all the rage, with three new stores opening up within blocks of the music shop. And new radio stations were popping up as well, offering more hours of live music. No one wanted player pianos anymore, especially the expensive Weltes. They were bulky and had to be tuned and watered, and the song rolls were expensive compared to the free music on the radio that could be found live in the evening hours, seven days a week.
Liu Song had thought radio might be a fad, but RCA and Crosley tube units were everywhere, even outselling the expensive Zeniths that had worried Mr. Butterfield the most.

“What now?” Liu Song asked, wanting to know the answer.

Mr. Butterfield hesitated and then loosened his tie. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s been a pure joy while it lasted, but I’m afraid I can’t pay you commission on what we aren’t selling. You’ve got a magnificent voice, and you can act, and half the women in the city would kill for your cheekbones, but looks can’t keep the lights on. We gave it a good fight, but I’m selling everything for half price starting tomorrow—all through the holidays. And I’ll post going-out-of-business signs after New Year’s. It’ll probably take most of January to clear things out and settle with the bank. Then I’ll close the doors for good. If you need a letter of recommendation, I’m happy to oblige.”

It took a moment for Liu Song to process what she was being told. Business had always been up and down, but the city seemed to be booming, people were buying Plymouths and Pierce-Arrows, and the furriers were as busy as ever. She had thought that Mr. Butterfield would be able to adapt to the changing times. Somehow she’d hoped this was a lull, a calm before the storm of holiday business. Little did she know that that calm was a last breath, a death rattle before the end of her day job.

Mr. Butterfield handed her two dollars in change but couldn’t look her in the eye as he wiped away a tear. That was all she’d made in the last week. Then he handed her a five-dollar bill on top of that. “I’m going to miss you, Liu Song. You’ll always be my Willow. And I’ll miss William too.” Before she could thank him he’d already turned. “Please be a dear and lock up when you leave,” he said as he walked away. “I’ve got some more drinking to do.” She watched as he snapped his suspenders and disappeared into the back room. He was gone before she had time to say goodbye. She lingered in the awful silence of the music store, a permanent rest. Then she called
for William, who had been playing with a windup tap dancer in the piano repair room, which sat empty. She smiled as he held up the well-worn toy. The coil had been shot from overuse, and now the tin figure hardly moved at all, but William bounced the little man along.

As they walked down the street, Liu Song searched for help-wanted signs, but she knew that jobs for women were few and far between. The only place hiring was the Jefferson Laundry. She gritted her teeth as she walked by, imagining what it would be like working as a waste girl, picking up fetid laundry, stained sheets, and soiled rags. She didn’t bother walking the long way home, circumnavigating that particular business. There was no use engaging in that folly since her uncle Leo had made his presence felt on a weekly basis.

When she arrived at the Bush Hotel, she found a bundle of fresh linens from the Jefferson Laundry, neatly twined, resting on her doorstep. The sheets she found waiting each week delivered an unspoken message:
I’m watching. I’m waiting
.

Appetites

(1926)

“I’m hungry,” William said, pointing to his belly button, which stuck out below a faded blue shirt that he’d all but outgrown. “I’m hungry, Ah-ma.”

We never have breakfast
, Liu Song wanted to remind him. She’d been out of work for months and hoped he’d be used to that fact by now. She was, but she knew he didn’t understand that they’d nearly exhausted their savings, including the money Colin and Mr. Butterfield had given them. As she heated up yesterday’s rice and mixed in an egg and some sprouting onions, she thought about how her mother had slowly wasted away.
Is that what’s happening to us?
She skipped supper, again, and watched William eat. Her mouth watered as the thought of leftovers made her stomach ache. Once William was down for a late nap, she ate the bits he’d left behind and counted the remaining coins in her purse. She might be able to rummage for used clothing, but with what little she had she’d never be able to pay rent. They barely had enough to buy food. Mildred had left town with a boyfriend—that Andy-something. Mildred had planned to elope somewhere in California, earning money along the way by entering dance marathons. Liu Song pictured her friend with a sign on her back that read:
DRINK MALTED OVALTINE
, sleepwalking her way through forty days on the dance floor—for glory and one thousand dollars in prize money.
Good for you
, Liu Song
thought,
but bad for me
. Without Mildred, Liu Song struggled to find someone she trusted to watch William so she could work at the Wah Mee Club. She’d tried auditioning for several small theater roles but couldn’t seem to get a break without Colin’s connections. And what few jobs there were for women seemed unattainable. To the white establishments, she was too Oriental, and to the Chinese establishments, she was too modern, too Western. She was tainted with a child born out of wedlock and no other family to vouch for her. And by the time she returned to what was left of the music store to ask for a recommendation, Mr. Butterfield had already left town.

She sat on the floor in William’s room, listening to him snore while she read a copy of Seattle’s
Screenland
newspaper. There were new shows listed, new productions advertised, new movies being filmed, but nothing that called for a Chinese actress. In desperation she woke William and dressed him in his warmest clothes. She held his hand as he sleepily walked alongside her toward the Stacy Mansion.

“Why are we here?” William asked.

Liu Song wiped his runny nose with her sleeve and rubbed his hands, his cheeks, his ears, trying to keep them warm. “Ah-ma is here to ask about a job; understand?”

William shrugged and stared up in awe at the sprawling manse; a lopsided formation of snow geese flew overhead. The birds honked as they winged their way toward Tacoma and warmer climes to the south.

Liu Song drew a deep breath. She felt guilty for bringing William along, but she didn’t want to leave him alone. She was desperate, but she didn’t want to appear so needy—yet she was willing to do anything for her son. Mrs. Van Buren had once said Liu Song was welcome to come back and perform. But the exclusive club looked cold and uninviting now that the grass had turned brown and the trees had lost their leaves, all but the evergreens that flanked the wrought-iron gate, which was open to let sleek cars cruise in and
out. The drivers looked bored while the passengers looked elegant, giddy, and half-drunk. As Liu Song looked at the club ladies in their white gloves and mink stoles, the men in their car coats and their velvet hats, she thought that now seemed like as good a time as any.