The Man With No Time sg-5 Page 8

  “A little more than five hours.”

  “Let's figure he was somewhere close by when we got Julia,” I said, sitting. My back cracked. “He'd just called, so we know he was near MacArthur Park at five-thirty. What's he doing now?”

  “Who knows?” Horace said. In spite of the slicked-down hair, he looked much better, five years younger than he had when we left for the park. He'd gotten one child back, and his faith in Uncle Lo had been vindicated, after a fashion. “He'll call when he's ready.”

  “Maybe the question is, where is he now?” Horace gave me an interested glance, and it suddenly struck me that I hadn't seen him alone with Pansy since the kids disappeared. He'd always been with Eleanor and me, consigning Pansy to other rooms. “Maybe he needs this time to get from here to somewhere else.” I looked around. “Speaking of where, where's your mother?”

  “Pansy packed her off,” Eleanor said, coming into the room with a bowl in her hands. “Mom was driving her wild. Tears, accusations, nattering.” She put down the bowl, sat next to me, and pushed her fingers through my hair, combing it back. “About four yesterday afternoon she told Mom to get out of here and go home.”

  I dropped the spoon into my juk. “Your mother's house,” I said.

  “Sure, her house,” Horace said crankily. “Where else-”

  “That's where he's going,” I said.

  Eleanor sat up. “Whatever it was he wanted, he didn't find it here.” She looked at me, but she was thinking about something else. “Should we call her?” she asked Horace.

  “Why?” Horace said. “He doesn't know where she lives.”

  “Actually,” I said after thinking about it for a moment, “he probably does.”

  “How would he?” That was Horace.

  “How'd he know about the twins?” Eleanor asked him rhetorically.

  “I know who told him about the twins,” I said. “Who told him everything except ancient history, in fact.”

  “Who?” Eleanor had a hand on my arm.

  I pointed across the room at the cross on the wall. She followed with her eyes and then gave a small gasp.

  “Mrs. Summerson?”

  Even in his distracted state that caught Horace's ear. “Mrs. Summerson?” he asked.

  The phone rang, breaking through the silence like a dentist's drill.

  “No games this time,” I said. “Just answer it.”

  Horace went to the phone, blew a deep breath out through tight lips, and picked it up. “Hello?”

  Eleanor's fingers tightened on my arm.

  “Hello, Lo,” Horace said. He looked over at Eleanor and their eyes held. Horace nodded twice and rattled off something in Chinese. I caught “Ah-Ma,” or mother, several times, and Horace shifted his gaze to me and lifted his eyebrows. “Okay, okay,” Horace said and then listened. “Yeah, okay. Yes. Bye-bye.” He pushed down the buttons on top of the telephone and said, a little grudgingly, “Good, Simeon.”

  “Mom's,” Eleanor said.

  “He wants the place empty by noon. He wants it to stay empty until five this evening. He wants all Mom's stuff put out in plain sight.”

  “Not just another pretty face,” Eleanor said, making circles with her fingertips on the back of my hand. She hadn't done that in years.

  “Can you reach them?” I asked to mask my confusion.

  “They're home right now,” Horace said, starting to push buttons.

  “How do you know?”

  “Uncle Lo says both cars are there.” He finished dialing and waited.

  “Uncle Lo's very careful,” Eleanor said. “It's a good thing he doesn't really mean to harm us.”

  “I don't know about you,” I said, hanging on to her fingers, “but I'd gladly throw him out of the helicopter for what he's done already.”

  Horace started talking. He encountered some resistance, raised his voice, remembered that Pansy was asleep and lowered it again, and began to gesture with his right hand. He rolled his eyes and looked at Eleanor. “Her purse, too, right?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Eleanor said. “And her wallet, and all the money in it.”

  Horace returned to the fray, using his right hand to drive home points and, occasionally, to wave inarticulately in the direction of heaven. When he hung up he looked as tired as he had the first time I'd seen him that morning.

  “She could tie a knot in a tree,” he said. “Nothing is simple. Should she leave her purse? Should she call the neighborhood security guard? Should she send the plumber out and hide in a closet? How do we know someone else won't come along and rob the house? Everything has to be turned inside out, held up to the light, weighed in the hand, bitten, and once all that adds up, it's time to argue about it. When I was growing up I thought everyone was like that. I thought that was how people figured things out. When I went to junior high school it took me most of the class period to answer the first question on my first multiple-choice test. I was looking for the trick, the double-cross, the sucker punch. Jesus, no wonder I've lost my hair. I failed the written part of the driver's exam four times because I was too busy searching for the hook to answer the questions. It's a miracle I can drive today.” He fell heavily into his chair.

  “She's had a lot of trick questions,” Eleanor said levelly, although I knew she agreed with him absolutely.

  Horace shook his head from side to side. “Oh, sure, sure. Bad luck all the way. Treachery on every hand. And after Daddy died she managed to get out of China and wind up in America years later with two grown kids and two grandkids, one of whom is a boy, and she owns property all over the place, more safety-deposit boxes than I've got dresser drawers, and she's finally got a plumber of her own. She hasn't exactly ended up like Auntie Shih, has she?”

  “Okay, Horace.” Eleanor glanced at me. “Auntie Shih got her back broken during the Cultural Revolution,” she said. “Some ham-fisted farmer was helping her with self-criticism and didn't know how strong he was.”

  “They're going to clear out?” I asked Horace.

  “They're probably gone already,” Horace said tightly, “What the hell does he want?”

  I looked at my watch and yawned. “Nothing to do till five,” I said.

  Eleanor reached over and put her hand politely over my mouth. “Yes, there is.” She got up and stretched. “Clear your plates, please. I'm tired of servitude.”

  “What's to do?” I asked her, knowing what she was going to say.

  “Well, Uncle Lo's in Las Vegas. Let's go talk to Mrs. Summerson.”

  “Yes, who is it?” she said, peering pale blue at us through glasses that were not only thick but dusty.

  “It's Eleanor Chan.” Eleanor pulled me forward. “And a friend.”

  “Eleanor, dear,” Mrs. Summerson said, fumbling with the lock on the screen door. “What a treat to see you, not that I can really see you, I'm afraid. How are the children?”

  “The children,” Eleanor said, momentarily thrown. She absolutely cannot tell a lie without preparation.

  “Your little boy and girl,” Mrs. Summerson said, all blue eyes though the lenses. “Twins, aren't they?”

  “The twins, yes,” Eleanor said, “well, no, they're not mine. They're my sister-in-law's.”

  Mrs. Summerson peered at her for a moment as though she'd forgotten what she was going to say next, but then her face cleared. “Of course,” she said, “you're their aunt, aren't you? I vow, I'm losing my mind completely.” She waved a hand in front of her face, dispelling the fumes of confusion. “And look at me, keeping you standing here on the step like a pair of orphans. Please, come in, come in.”

  She opened the door and then turned away from us and led us into the dim hallway, which smelled simultaneously of old sachet and cooking oil. As she retreated I heard her say, “Pansy is the mother, of course. Whatever is the matter with you?”

  Mrs. Summerson was as tall as I was and had better posture. Her hair was white and cut bluntly, in a way that brought to mind the Chinese rice-bowl haircut. There
was, in all, something indefinably Chinese about her in spite of her height and her big hands and fair skin and ice-blue eyes, something Asian in the way she held herself and in the way she walked, as though she were living in a climate much hotter than that of Southern California, and energy were something to be conserved. I could almost hear sandals slapping, and for a moment I remembered the old woman in my dream, the old woman with Lo's face.

  “. . the parlor,” Mrs. Summerson was saying. “Right there, dear, to the right, you remember. Tea in a twinkling.” Eleanor and I went through a wide archway into the parlor, and Mrs. Summerson padded off toward the kitchen, saying to herself, “How nice this is.”

  “She's gotten old,” Eleanor said wistfully, looking around the familiar room. We could have been in Canton. Chinese artwork was everywhere: fine old watercolors of clouds and mountains and bamboo and horses hung on the walls. Ivories and bronzes, smooth with touching, nestled close on shelves. The Three Ancients, ceramic and brightly colored, stood close together like gossiping old men, offering their blessings on the house. Above the fireplace hung a large black-and-white photograph of a plain wooden building set into a level, dusty field. The horizon was featureless. Lined up in identical uniforms in front of the building, which I had been told was a missionary school, were perhaps seventy Chinese children. They stared patiently into the camera, not hiding behind the photographic smile of the West. In the lower right-hand corner of the photograph, in white ink, was a date: January 10, 1942.

  Next to the photograph was a framed embroidered sampler that said MY HANDS ARE FOR MY FELLOW MAN. MY HEART IS FOR GOD. Stitched below these lines were four lines of Chinese that, Eleanor had explained to me on the day of the twins' hundred-day party, meant the same thing. She'd spoken as an expert, since she'd done the embroidery when she was eight years old.

  Eleanor had once lived in this house.

  “I am a servant of the Lord,” Mrs. Summerson sang from the kitchen. “His wishes I attend.” Her voice was low and resonant, and it carried well. It had carried through churches and schools all over the face of China for almost twenty-five years.

  Eleanor was staring at the sampler as though it were several miles away. Then she let her gaze wander over the room and down to the carpet. She listened to Mrs. Summerson sing, her eyes downcast, eight years old again and abandoned in Los Angeles.

  “How long since you were here?” I asked.

  “Same as you,” she said to the carpet. “Um, no. You've been here more recently.” She went to the sampler and straightened it. Then she untucked her shirt and ran it over the surfaces of some of the carved objects. She picked up a little ceramic statue of Christ, robed in incongruously bright Chinese gold and red, and blew on it. “She really can't see,” she said. “This place was never dusty.”

  “No help?”

  “Mrs. Summerson doesn't believe in help.”

  “Well,” I said, “she's got the Lord.”

  “You've got it backward.” She put the little Jesus down and went to the large photograph of the children and drew her sleeve across the glass. “Mrs. Summerson is the Lord's servant.”

  “We're all the Lord's servants,” Mrs. Summerson said. “If only we knew it.” She pushed a jangling three-wheeler tea table into the room, lifting the back edge to roll it in front of her, and I hurried around to take it from her although she looked strong enough to carry it one-handed. She regarded me in a kindly fashion through the magnified eyes that made her glasses look like a dime-store joke. “So,” she said as I positioned the table in front of the small rosewood sofa, “this is your young man.”

  “What a sweet thing for you to say,” Eleanor cooed. “Especially about an old codger like Simeon.”

  “He looks young enough to me, dear,” Mrs. Summerson said, smoothing her big hands on the front of her skirt. “Young and vigorous. Lots of good hard work in him.”

  “And that's where it'll stay,” Eleanor said. “Inside him.”

  “The way you young people talk.” Mrs. Summerson bent forward and peered at the tea table to see whether she'd forgotten anything. “Jam, sugar, rolls, cream-do you take cream or milk, dear? — well, never mind, we have both, lemon, butter. The tea is Darjeeling. Please sit down. When I was married my husband and I never bantered back and forth like that. Of course, we were serious people. Too serious, I dare say. Still, it was a good life.” She sat at one end of the sofa, tucking her skirt under her legs. “You remember Dr. Summerson, don't you, Eleanor?”

  “No,” Eleanor said, trying not to look surprised. “He was gone when I moved in.” She sat next to her.

  “Honestly,” Mrs. Summerson said, waving her hand in front of her face again. “It's not enough I can't see what's in front of me, now half the time I can't remember what's behind me. It's like living by flashlight, and the little circle of light keeps getting smaller. Dr. Summerson passed on,” she said to me, “two years before Eleanor's mother-how is your mother, Eleanor? — took Horace up to Sacramento to open that what-was-it?”

  “She's fine,” Eleanor said, smiling at her. “It was a grocery store.”

  “Grocery store,” Mrs. Summerson said simultaneously, then tapped her temple. “Not completely gone yet. I told them it wouldn't work,” she said to me. “Sacramento had too many Chinese, I said, and the people up there couldn't tell them from the Japanese and there was still bad feeling about the Japanese in some places. Not as bad as in China, of course. If the Americans had suffered Japanese atrocities the way the Chinese did, I doubt there'd be a Jap left in America. We'd have run them into the sea.” She cleared the tension from her throat, a ladylike ahem. “They're your brother's twins, aren't they?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Summerson,” Eleanor said, sounding like a little girl.

  “Nice boy. More common sense than you have, but you've got the poetry.” She regarded the framed sampler. “Did you know, Mr. um. .”

  “Grist,” I said.

  “Did you know, Mr. Grist, that Eleanor tried to change that saying when she embroidered it in Chinese?”

  Eleanor suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

  “No,” I said. “Did she now?”

  "She certainly did. She wanted to put in a whole new line. After MY HANDS ARE FOR MY FELLOW MAN, she Wanted to write, MY HEART IS FOR MY FELLOW CHILD, MY SOUL IS FOR GOD. And only eight years old. Isn't that something?"

  Eleanor was scarlet. “It certainly is,” I said.

  Mrs. Summerson clinked her teaspoon against her saucer. "And she used to call it 'Christ Must.' "

  “Mrs. Summerson,” Eleanor began urgently.

  “Because Christmas was the one day each year when you must believe in Christ.” She sat back triumphantly. “Isn't that wicked?”

  “Tea, Simeon?” Eleanor asked between her teeth.

  “You little pagan,” I said. “I'd be afraid to take tea from your hands.”

  “But I'm forgetting my duties,” Mrs. Summerson said hastily. “Please. Let me pour.” Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted the pot. Aside from a plain gold wedding band she wore no jewelry. Eleanor's eyes followed the big hands with an expression I couldn't quite read.

  “Someone was just talking to me about you,” she said, passing Eleanor a cup and saucer with a wedge of lemon. “Who was it?”

  “Uncle Lo,” Eleanor said conversationally, as though we'd been talking about him for hours.

  “Oh, of course. Poor man.” She shook her head gravely. “I suppose he came and saw you?”

  “Last Friday.” Eleanor sipped her tea and waited.

  “Dreadful thing. Mugged, right there on the streets of Chinatown. It's getting so no place is safe any more. I've been thinking of putting in new locks.”

  “It's a good thing he wasn't really hurt,” Eleanor said neutrally.

  “Well, his pride was hurt. And there was that eye, of course. Not very distinguished-looking, I must say. He's always been such a self-reliant man. I suppose he's getting older, too.”

  “I wasn't aware t
hat you'd kept in touch with him,” Eleanor said. “I knew you and he knew each other in China, of course.”

  Mrs. Summerson moved things around on the tea cart in a way that, in a less godly person, might have suggested a stall for time. “He popped up about a year after your mother and brother came back from Sacramento,” she said to the dish of lemon slices. “You must have been eleven. Just knocked on the door one fine morning with some lovely ivory for me. That was when there were still elephants, of course. We simply went back to the same work,” Mrs. Summerson said, putting down her tea untouched. “Exactly as we did with you and your mother. Mr. Lo got them out of China and Dr. Summerson and I got them into America. They'd just eased up on the Chinese quotas, and it was easier than it had ever been to get visas and passports. I only wish Dr. Summerson could have lived to see it. It would have gratified his soul.”

  “So Uncle Lo brought out people after us.” Eleanor was clearly surprised at the news, and not entirely pleased. She actually sounded jealous.

  “A few.”

  “From where?”

  Mrs. Summerson pursed her lips. “Mostly Fujian,” she said. “It's on the coast, so it's a little easier. And then, too, the people are mostly fishermen, so there are lots of boats around.”

  “Well, I'll be darned,” Eleanor said.

  “How many times have you seen him since?” I asked.

  “Two or three. He came every five or six years or so, so make it three. Three times in the last twenty years. Of course, the Chinese government put a stop to all that in the eighties, and I haven't heard from him now in, well, let's see, five years.”

  “You never told us about this.” Eleanor managed not to make it an accusation, although her feelings were plainly hurt.

  “It never came up, my dear.”

  I put down my own cup. “What did he say about the mugging?”

  “Oh, he was in a terrible state. Mad enough to spit. Said he'd been jumped right on the street.”

  “What did they take?”

  “Everything. His money, even his cigarettes. I gave him some money, of course, and let him stay here. I let him buy his own cigarettes.”