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“I think we should move,” Robert said a week later. He was sitting in the parlor, the room where the three of them had studied Chinese together. They had read and discussed poem together in this room. They played music and sang. The laughter that once filled this room had died with Shao-mei. Now this house might as well be a tomb fit only for dead people. He remembered Guan-jiah saying that a poet had killed himself in this house leaving evil spirits behind. Maybe there was some truth to that.
Scrolls with Chinese calligraphy hung from the walls. There was a bench with a table and some chairs. Against one wall was the altar for Shao-mei’s spirit. He stared at one vase sitting on that altar. It held the ashes from his Chinese robes, the robes Shao-mei bought for him. They had been a perfect fit. One had been linen and the other silk.
After Shao-mei’s death, he burned the robes and swore he would never wear Chinese clothing again. Daily, Robert had climbed out of bed to pull on black trousers and a white shirt.
While he stared at Shao-mei’s shrine, he finished dressing. He put on his silk waistcoat and over that a long frock coat. He buttoned only the top button of the coat. He picked up the brown Derby felt hat from the table in front of the bench. Ayaou ran a brush through his unruly hair. His hairline was starting to recede. He imagined that if this kept up, he’d be bald one day.
She brushed the hair back. It was thick and curly along the neckline. “It is a pity you have to cover this lovely hair with a hat,” she said. “Shao-mei loved your hair. I think you want to move because this house is haunted by her.”
“Yes.” He lied. Robert didn’t want to scare her with his paranoid speculations that someone was hunting them. Captain Patridge had been right when he said Ward wouldn’t hire someone else to do his dirty work. Ward did it himself, like the day he murdered Shao-mei by mistake thinking she was Ayaou.
“When I brush your hair, I think it helps you relax,” Ayaou said. “I’m going to brush it before we go to bed tonight and see.”
Maybe the person who tried to break into the house was a common thief. Even if that were true , he couldn’t risk it. The man could also be an assassin like those attempts that had taken place before Shao-mei's death. What if it wasn’t Ward, but it was Unwyn Fiske or Payne Hollister or Henry Burgevine, Ward’s second-in-command? Robert had not forgotten the argument he had with Burgevine on that ship bound for California with a load of coolies.
He stopped Ayaou from brushing his hair. “That’s enough,” he said. “I heard Shao-mei coming up the stairs last night. That’s why I left.” He compounded the lie. “Last week, I heard her crying and went to see. When I opened the door to her room, I saw her on the bed. She was expecting me. She looked at me with those large eyes and smiled. I saw her dimples. She was crying, and tears ran down her cheeks. She had her favorite blanket tucked under her chin. She reached out a hand for me.”
Ayaou seemed to shrink, so Robert pulled her against him. Her body felt frail. He wanted to protect her. He sent prayers to God every night and morning asking for help.
“One morning I found you in her bed,” Ayaou said. “You were cold and curled up on top of the blanket. When you awoke, your eyes were dark and empty like an abandoned well. I was afraid she’d taken your spirit with her.”
Ayaou had her face pressed against his chest. He rested his chin on top of her head. “I remember,” he said. “You held me for a long time, and I came back.”
“Once when I was cooking the evening meal ...” Ayaou’s voice broke. “... I heard her scolding me—like she did from behind the stove. She said I was demanding too much to keep the fire at a perfect heat.” He felt Ayaou tremble. His insides burned and ached. Then in a muffled voice, Ayaou continued. “She’s lonely without us, Robert. If we leave, she will try to follow us. She might get lost in the city. We can’t escape the love she has for us that keeps her ghost here.”
Tears filled his eyes. He hated when that happened. The idea that he was weak bothered him. Tears were not for men. He blinked away the tears without touching his face and buried his misery.
He realized it didn’t matter whether they moved or not. Whoever was out there was waiting for the right moment to pounce. Moving was not a guarantee of safety. After all, Ward had found the cottage in the countryside where Robert had taken his girls to hide.
No, they wouldn’t move. They would stay in the Ningpo house. There would be no running and hiding. Not anymore. If fate were to come for them, Robert would face it with courage and die beside Ayaou. They’d fight together as they had the day they’d met.
* * * *
When he arrived home later than usual that evening, he stood outside the door afraid to knock. He hadn’t been this late since Shao-mei’s death. What if something had happened to Ayaou?
He kept a hand in his pocket on the grip of the loaded pistol and examined every shadow. He leaned against the door and it creaked.
A scratching came from the other side. That was a relief—a sign she was okay. She must have been sitting by the door for hours. He scratched back and heard her remove the locking bar.
He pushed the door open. Ayaou stepped from the darkness and threw herself at him. He saw the feral hunger in her eyes. He took the iron bar out of her hands and dropped it into its brackets. No one would damage this door again. He had done everything possible to turn the small house into a fortress.
Their eyes locked together in lust. His coat came off. He dropped it. The revolver in the pocket hit the floor with a solid thump. He fumbled at his canvas suspenders. Removing his shirt, a button popped. It rolled across the floor making little tinkling noises. He clawed at his pants to remove them. Ayaou became his mirror image as she stripped. He pulled her naked body against his and pushed into her—not tenderly like before Shao-mei’s death, but like a beast devouring its prey. That was the first time they’d made love since Shao-mei’s death.
Finished, they lay exhausted and sweaty on the floor beside each other. He gathered the scattered clothing and covered their bodies against the cold “My breathing is the only sound I hear during the day,” Ayaou said. “This house is like a tomb when you are not here.”
“Don’t you have enough to read?” he asked. “We have books. Do you want me to buy more?”
“Although I love the books since you taught me how to read, they cannot replace Shao-mei.” His heart ached. Unable to respond, he wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her close smelling the warm ocean scent in her hair.
* * * *
After that cold January day and for the next several weeks, this was the pattern of their lives. They made love with fierceness and desperation. They did it on the floor, on the stairs and on the kitchen table. Sometimes, after she had had her orgasm, Ayaou pressed her trembling body against him. She put her face into the space between his chin and collarbone. Without warning, she convulsed with sobs as she relived the nightmare of her sister’s death.
Robert didn’t have that luxury. He had to stay strong. He had to keep the tears locked away. It wasn’t easy.
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Honorable Mention in General Fiction
