River of Dust (21 page)

    Mildred continued, "But that is behind us now. We are leaving, my husband and I. The other families are departing as well. As soon as we bury our daughter in this wretched soil, we shall abandon this land, and, God willing, we'll never see it again."

    Grace did not appreciate her friend's harsh tone one bit. It made her feel feverish and more alone than ever. But when she looked down into Mildred's distraught eyes, Grace understood her hardened heart. Her friend was doing all that she could to remain strong precisely because she was not. Grace wanted to pat her friend's hand, which was damp with tears, and tell her to let the sorrow take her. There was no point in railing against it. Her grief, the grief of any mother whose child has been stolen away, was far too much to bear.

    Strangely, Grace wanted to welcome Mildred into the painful society she had come to know and now champion. Mildred didn't yet understand that the ghosts win out in the end. It would be so much easier if she simply let them do so. It didn't matter if Mildred left this land on the next boat out of Shanghai, or if she stayed here for the rest of her days. She, like Grace, would never leave behind the plains of North China. There was no escaping this vast and desolate land. Grace understood that now. Once entered into, this desert of loss surrounded even the sturdiest of souls forever.

    Then, as if to prove Grace's assumptions correct, a miserable wail escaped from the lips of her friend. In an instant, her husband was beside her. The other gentlemen stepped nearer, too. They bent forward and offered concerned faces. Grace looked around and saw that the ladies had slipped in closer as well and glared not at Mildred but at Grace. She wondered if they thought she had done something to produce her friend's outcry. Yet how could they imagine such a thing when the true culprit was death itself?

    "I am deeply sorry, Mildred," Grace said. "I loved dear Daisy. You know that I did. I love all the children."

    Reverend Martin held his sobbing wife against his side and said, "Yes, of course you do. We all know that about you." He tried to smile, but his eyes were clouded with tears as well.

    Grace looked more closely now at the stony faces around her. She suddenly recognized what she had not noticed in the year since Wesley's kidnapping. Her fellow missionaries were no longer the largehearted and determined people they had been when they had first arrived in Fenchow-fu. Grief lined their brows, and constant worry made their lips pinched and stern. She could sense the heartache that filled their breasts. They had seen too much, experienced too much, and it had left them in a state of constant grief.

    There was Mrs. Jenkins whose oldest daughter, Miranda, had died suddenly earlier that spring. The lady's body appeared hollow now, her once proud chest caved in and her shoulders curved as if she were a coolie bearing a heavy load across her back. And Reverend Powers, once a robust and striking gentleman, had lost so much weight that his clothing hung on him like a scarecrow. And yet it was his eyes that bothered Grace even more: they had grown dull, the sparkle of light that had once shone in them with curiosity and even delight all but extinguished.

    These people, her good and noble American compatriots, ap peared to her not only worn down but lost. Grace recalled how their mission had once required that they stand tall and sure. They were to be models to the godless here. They were to rise to their better selves and overcome any personal faults in an effort to bring unadulterated good to a poor, deprived race. Now their fervent purpose had grown as faint and forgotten as the soil that blew away on the wind across the plains outside the compound.

    Grace looked back at Mildred, whose tears rolled down her husband's dark lapel. Reverend Martin held his wife tightly. Grace tried to ignore the frantic pumping of her heart that caused her vision to blur. She kept her eyes focused on the spot where Mildred's cheek met her husband's chest. The question that buzzed in Grace's mind was as loud as the sound of her feeble, determined blood doing its work. Where
was
her husband? Grace wondered with surprising ferocity.

    She made herself look away and out the window of the Martins' parlor to the view of the dirt yard at the rear of the compound. In the tradition of Chinese walls, a large and handsome moon gate had been strategically placed so that the Martins might look beyond their property and onto the windswept plains. Out there, the dead grasses of the previous season swayed and yellow dust stirred. Grace could sense the spring sun starting to warm the land. A mild though persistent heat had begun to burn the dry, useless weeds. Her husband was out there in that rising fire.

    He continued on and on in his endless search, though Grace feared he had forgotten what exactly it was that he looked for. Of course each day he hoped to stumble upon evidence of their son. And yet she had come to realize that the Reverend was now upon a quest for something else as well. He had not found it, and yet he continued, not nearly as defeated as the lesser ministers here with her now. No, her Reverend carried on in spite of it all. He was an extraordinary man. She wished he would be satisfied with only her company and love, but he wouldn't be the man he was if he would. He was out in that wilderness looking for something. Something large and significant. Grace feared he was on a mission to discover nothing less than the Lord Himself.

    She shook her head ever so slightly and let out a little puff of air. It was dawning on her that by conducting his fruitless odyssey, the Reverend had been steadily losing not only his faith but his dear extended family here in the compound as well. These people, his people, had had no choice but to turn their backs on him. Her husband had lost not only the Lord but these decent souls. He, of all people, was utterly alone.

    She understood with sudden and striking clarity that she was the last one on earth still able to reach him. Wherever he had gotten himself to, she must go there now. It fell to Grace alone to fetch him back, even if it killed her to do so. Death was not nearly as troubling as she had once assumed, except for the thought of her baby. There was Rose to consider. And yet her husband was somehow calling out to her, too.

    Mildred drew her head away from Reverend Martin's shoulder and spoke more calmly. "Grace, you can't care for your baby here," she said. "She won't survive it. You'd be killing her. Don't you see that?"

    And, in an instant, Grace understood her situation and grasped what was required of her.

    "Yes, Mildred," she said, "I do."

    "Then say you'll leave China with us?"

    "I will come along soon thereafter."

    Mildred shook her head and looked toward the other ladies for

confirmation of Grace's foolishness. But Grace stepped nearer and spoke with as much conviction as she could muster.

    "Dearest Mildred and Reverend Martin, I don't know of two more generous and worthy people than you. You are upright and pure of heart. You are good, good Christians. You have saved me these past months by sharing your home and your care. And yet, now, I find that I must ask you for even more."

    Through their swollen and exhausted eyes, the Martins looked at Grace most willingly, for they recognized their better selves in the description she had painted of them, and like all true Christians, they wished it to be true.

    "Will you take my precious Rose with you when you leave this place?" Grace asked.

    For some time, no one spoke, and so Grace continued, "The Reverend and I will follow as soon as our business here is finished. I cannot leave him now. You are loving parents, and I wouldn't dare to presume that my Rose could ever replace your dear Daisy in your hearts. But if you should take her with you and allow her even a fraction of your love, I would be most grateful. And soon, I will join you. Surely, I will, by and by."

    The Reverend Martin looked ready to speak but then seemed to think better of it. Grace thought she recognized a brief glint of light in his eyes behind the veil of sorrow. Mildred's expression was simpler. She nodded slowly and seemed to grasp the request as only a mother could: above all else, she would see to the child.

    "Good, then," Grace said. "It's settled. I can never thank you enough. May God bless you both."

    She turned and let Mai Lin steady her as she walked out of the parlor without glancing at the others. In the hallway, although it was past the time for her to return to bed, Grace chose instead to step out through the screen door and onto the veranda. She couldn't bear to hold her baby one more time, knowing she might never see her again. So she let Rose sleep on upstairs under the care of Mildred's amah and her new family. Grace told herself not to remember the warmth of Rose's tiny body pressed against her side, her hands clenched over Grace's heart. Just the image of the precious child in her mind's eye was enough to start the unpleasant whirring sensation in her feeble body again. Her blood beat wildly as she looked out at the deserted courtyard. Her arms felt heavy at her sides, as if weary from carrying the weight of her daughter. And yet they were painfully empty.

    As she stepped down from the porch, Grace told herself not to notice how her body ached with loss in every possible way. All around her appeared abandoned. The yellow-brick school building stood shuttered. The chapel at the far end was also closed. Several of the houses, too, were already boarded up. Crates of packed possessions stood stacked on carts, waiting for donkeys to pull them away. And yet none of it seemed nearly as desolate to Grace as the single glance backward that she allowed herself. She looked one more time at the Martins' house, still full of people, including her Rose.

    Then she turned again and crossed the cracked earth toward the Watson home. As Mai Lin walked beside her, Grace shaded her eyes and squinted up at the front porch. She was surprised and most glad to see Ahcho standing just inside the open door, a broom in his hand. The dear fellow had been keeping after the infernal dust even though no one lived there anymore.

M
istress Grace came slowly with Mai Lin to guide her. Ahcho held open the door to the house that had not been a home for months. His heart lifted at the thought of the baby arriving at its proper residence, but when he did not see the small bundle, he hoped that everything was all right. He had seven children of his own, and they each had seven children. He was a happy man because of it, even in these lean times when they had been scattered to the winds. It was known in his family that a baby placed in his arms would soon be charmed to sleep. He hoped he would have the opportunity to show this to the Reverend and his wife with their daughter.

    Mistress Grace paused at the threshold and said, "Thank you, Ahcho, for all you have done to maintain things while I was away. You are most good to us."

    Ahcho bowed solemnly and hoped that his face didn't betray his concern, for he couldn't help noticing that she didn't look at all well. Her sallow complexion matched her dingy white gown. All of her seemed covered by a yellowish tint: her fair skin, her lace dress, the white stockings, and her light brown hair all dusted by a thin layer of loess, the loamy deposit that he spent far too many hours each day sweeping ineffectually from the floorboards and rugs.

    At night, he would shut and lock the front door, and in the morning, he'd still find small piles of the dusty sand pushed up against the walls and crammed into every crevice of this, the finest home in the Christian compound. Try as he might, Ahcho was unable to keep it clean. He had an impulse to use the broom to whisk the loess off his mistress now, or to at least employ a washcloth and lye soap, but of course he would never do such a disrespectful thing. It fell to Mai Lin, if she did her job properly, to help free their mistress of the dirty cloud that surrounded her.

    "Mistress is hungry?" he asked. "I will prepare your dinner."

    "No, thank you, Ahcho. Very kind of you, though."

    She walked with gentle steps into the parlor, where he was pleased to have dusted only an hour before.

    "I'll eat something," Mai Lin said.

    Ahcho ignored her and stood instead behind his mistress as she looked at the lone photograph on the mantel. Inside a dark wooden frame, intricately carved with vines and blossoms, was a daguerreotype of the Watson family. With eyes pinned on the photographer, the Reverend stood in a light linen suit, his collar buttoned high, his goldrimmed glasses glinting in the sun, and a clear expression on his face. Beside the young Reverend stood Mistress Grace. She wore a simple smock with black boots hidden under the shadow of the hem and held a rumpled linen hat in one hand. She, too, stared directly into the camera and did not smile. They didn't hold hands but stood shoulder to shoulder, a matched set, although he was so much taller. Ahcho was proud of the handsome and serious young couple at the start of their important work here in Fenchow-fu, where they would do so much good for others.

    Standing in front of them was their small boy, Wesley. He wore knickers and a sailor top. In his arms he held a heavy-looking glass jar filled with American pennies, his greatest treasure. Ahcho remembered picking up the annoying coins from the floor and scolding the little boy to fetch them himself from then on. Ahcho regretted ever speaking harshly to the lad, who in the photo squinted with ferocious curiosity out at the world.

    Ahcho wondered if Wesley's mother was noticing now that neither parent touched the child. No hand rested protectively on his shoulder, no fingers reached for his small hand. He was not tucked into his mother's side. Instead, little Wesley seemed all alone as he glared into the years ahead, poised to conquer, full of great seriousness and strength for someone so small. He had the countenance of a future leader, someone like his father who would bring people together to accomplish great things. Could the boy have been a prince all along? Ahcho wondered now.