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In so many ways Violet—with her job and her house in Silver Lake—is more assimilated than we are, but she’s taking a risk coming here, since she and Rowland have more to be afraid of than Sam and I ever did. After all, Violet and her family were trapped here when China closed. Violet’s and Rowland’s jobs—which once seemed so impressive—now make them targets. Perhaps they’re spies left here to collect the United States’ technology and knowledge. And yet she overcomes her fear to see me.
“Sam was a good Ox,” Violet says. “He had integrity and bore the burdens of righteousness. He followed the rules of nature, patiently pushing the wheel of fate. He was not afraid of his destiny. He knew what he had to do to save you and Joy. An Ox will always do whatever is needed to protect his family’s welfare—”
“My sister doesn’t believe in the Chinese zodiac,” May cuts in.
I don’t know why she says this. Sure, there was a time when I didn’t believe in these things, but that was a long time ago. I know in my heart that my sister is forever a Sheep, that I’m forever a Dragon, that Joy is forever a Tiger, and that my husband was an Ox—dependable, methodical, calm, and, as Violet said, the bearer of so many burdens. This comment, like so much of what comes out of May’s mouth anymore, shows how little she knows about me. Why haven’t I seen it before?
Violet doesn’t react to May. Instead, she pats my knee and recites an old saying. “All things light and pure float upward to become Heaven.”
In my life, no three miles have been flat and no three days have had sun. I’ve been brave in the past, but now I’m beyond devastated. My grief is like dense clouds that cannot be dispersed. I can’t think beyond the blackness of my clothes and heart.
Later that evening—after Vern has been fed and his lights turned out and Joy has gone out with a couple of the Yee girls to talk and drink tea—May knocks on the door to my room. I get up and answer it. I’m wearing a nightgown, my hair is a mess, and my face is splotched from mourning. My sister wears a slim sheath of emerald green satin, her hair is teased into an improbably high bouffant, and diamond and jade earrings dangle from her ears. She’s going somewhere. I don’t bother to ask where.
“The second cook didn’t show up at the café,” she says. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t care. Whatever you decide is fine.”
“I know this is a hard time for you, and I’m sorry about that. I really am. But I need you. You don’t understand the pressure I have now with the café, Vern, the responsibility for the house, and my business. Things are so busy right now.”
I listen as she wonders aloud how much to charge a production company for extras, costumes, and props like wheelbarrows, food carts, and rickshaws.
“I always base my rentals on a ten percent value of the article,” May continues. I understand she’s trying to get me to come out of my room, reconnect with life, help her as I always have, but truly, I don’t know one damn thing about her rental business, and right now I don’t care. “They want to rent some pieces for several months, perhaps as much as a year, and some of what they want—like the rickshaws—is irreplaceable. So how much do you think I should charge to rent them? They each cost about two hundred and fifty dollars, so I could charge twenty-five dollars a week. But I’m thinking I should charge more, because where will we buy replacements if something happens to them?”
“Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”
I start to close the door, but she grabs it and pulls it open. “Why don’t you let me in? You could take a shower. I could do your hair. Maybe you could put on a dress and we could take a walk—”
“I don’t want to upset your plans,” I say, but I’m thinking, How many times in the past did she leave me at home with our parents in Shanghai, in the apartment with Yen-yen, and now with Vern so that she could go out to do … whatever it is she does?
“You need to rejoin the living—”
“It’s only been two weeks—”
May gives me a hard stare. “You need to come out and be with your family. Joy will be going back to Chicago soon. She needs you to talk to her—”
“Don’t tell me how to mother my daughter—”
She takes hold of my wrist, wrapping her hand around Mama’s bracelet. “Pearl.” She gives my wrist a little shake. “I know this is terrible for you. A great sadness. But you’re still young. You’re still beautiful. You have your daughter. You have me. And you’ve had everything. Look how Joy loves you. Look how Sam loved you.”
“Yes, and he’s dead.”
“I know, I know,” she says sympathetically. “I was trying to be helpful. I didn’t think he’d kill himself.”
Her words hang like elegantly calligraphed characters in the air before my eyes, the silence thick as I read them again and again, until finally I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.”
My sister has never been a good liar.
“May!”
“All right! All right!” She lets go of my wrist, raises both of her hands, and shakes them in frustration. Then she pivots on one of her high heels and sways into the living room. I’m right behind her. She stops, turns, and quickly spills the words. “I told Agent Sanders about Sam.”
“You did what?” My ears refuse to understand the depth of her betrayal.
“I told the FBI about Sam. I thought it would help.”
“Why would you do that?” I ask, still not willing to believe what she’s saying.
