Page 48 of Blowing Off Steam

No, they would be in Haight’s bad books. Anyone who joined the People’s Line would be.

They ran past Rio Vista and were nearing Squaw House in Steamboat Slough without incident. The Cleopatra lagged a good five cables behind them, having perhaps just taken on some damp wood and having an inferior engine besides. Field was unconcerned as the rain continued a bit harder now. Rushy was right—it was invigorating to steam in the cool air, and colonies of swallows twittered and dove, casting dark clouds across the steely waters. Above in the texas, the cheers and hoorahs of passengers floated down to the main deck along with the occasional champagne glass, and the El Dorado was too far in the lead for anyone from the Cleopatra to shoot at her.

Stan Sitwell approached, elbowing Field in a brotherly manner. Field thanked God Stan had ceased fondling his balls, perhaps after a lecture by Haight. “You go above,” Stan suggested. “I’ve got it under control. Go see that feisty Miss Calliope.”

That sounded fine to Field. He wanted to see if Calliope was able to take a break from cooking, and they could enjoy a cocktail in the cool, refreshing out-of-doors air. The galley was just aft the engine room, so it was a quick jaunt for him to find Calliope at her baking board, rolling out a pie crust.

Field went to her swiftly. He had an urgent question to ask her.

“Possum!” she cried, her usual cheery self, holding her floury white hands away from her hips as though she held bombs. “Have you come to help me make mincemeat pie?”

Field held her jaw gently in his hands. “I was hoping you could take a break. It’s stimulating to feel the rain on your face after so many months without.”

With the back of her powdery hand, Calliope wiped a lock of hair from her eyes. Field helped her by securing the lock behind a hairpin. “I’d never turn down an invitation for a champagne cocktail. Let me finish rolling this and Chiao Kuo can do the rest.”

“Are you teaching them English, or are they teaching you Chinese?”

Calliope looked so fetching with her head tilted thoughtfully as she rolled. “I suppose a little of both, although I’ve told them many times it’s best if they learn English if they want to get ahead. It’s the language of trade and industry, after all.” Chiao Kuo and her two friends had been afraid to “go up the hill” when recently moored in San Francisco for fear their “owner” would find them, and Calliope had drastically altered their hairstyles and given them new American clothes.

Calliope was so practical. Her character fit and melded itself to Field’s in every way possible.

Field said, “We don’t have so many Kwangtungmen back East. Not in Troy or Amsterdam, anyway. In Amsterdam, where my son currently lives—as far as I know, anyway—there are mostly wallpapered shit fires from Scotland, like me.”

Calliope looked at him sideways. “You’re from Scotland?”

“My parents were. My father was a jeweler from Glasgow.”

Calliope didn’t appear to be thinking about Glasgow as she lifted the pie crust and placed it on the pie. “Field. Do you think…Will you be going back to Amsterdam when you get enough money to take care of your son?”

Field did not know how he was planning to casually bring the subject around to his goal, so this was a fine opportunity. Almost without thinking, he tossed his head back and said, “I would go back to New York if you didn’t marry me.”

Calliope’s fingers stilled, crimping the piecrust edges with a fork. Chiao Kuo apparently knew enough English to take the fork from Calliope’s hand and gently shove her toward Field. When Calliope looked into Field’s eyes, her own sapphire irises appeared vacant, perhaps shocked. Field didn’t blame her. “Who…Who said anything about marrying?”

He might as well barrel ahead now. The jig was up anyway, so he pulled the box from his pocket and opened it. “I’m saying something about it, Miss Callie. I sincerely, truly hope you will marry me.”

Her jaw went slack, and she seemed reluctant to accept the box. Her hands fluttered about it like the wings of a bird. “Marry? Why, Field. Do you think that’s wise?”

Field frowned. Wise? What were they doing, selecting universities to attend? “Of course it’s wise, my puss. I’m in love with you.” He allowed the hand that held the box to drop to his side, beginning to admit defeat. His first wife had ripped the box from his hand and tried on the ring. “You are beautiful, tender, happy, resourceful, talented.”

At last she smiled. “And you are all of those things.”

“Maybe. Maybe not ‘beautiful.’” Field took one step closer to her so that her bosom pressed lightly against his abdomen. “But together as a team, Callie, we can buoy each other up. Take care of each other. Be friends to each other.”

“But…” She looked down at his chest. “My former occupation. Do you want people saying your wife was…?”

“I don’t care, Callie! How many poor lonely women in California have been hookers? Do you think it matters? They did what they could. They were resourceful!” Was she coming up with excuses not to marry him? She had called him “my love” before but had never actually professed love for him. Maybe she didn’t.

Field was irritated at first when little Maurice popped his head up nearly in between them. The galley helper chirped, “You love him more than pie!” and Calliope laughed indulgently.

“Why, yes, Maurice. I did say that.” With limpid eyes she looked up at Field. “I do love you more than pie.” She held out her fingers in the shape of the box. “I do love you more than anyone alive.”

Field felt as though in a soused haze as Calliope accepted the box from him. He was flooded with heavenly gratification when her eyes lit up, seemingly reflecting the blaze of the oriental ruby ring he had found in San Francisco. She allowed him to place it on her finger—thank God it fit—as he said, “It’s a red sapphire, much more highly esteemed than the blue sapphire. It’s from Burma, and I testified to its veracity with a blowpipe.”

Calliope’s eyes widened. “You burned it with a blowpipe?”

Field shrugged. “That’s how one can tell. Do you like it?”

Calliope held it to her face so its crimson reflection rouged her cheeks. “I love it, Field. I love you.”