The Girl in the Torch (8 page)

“W
HY YOU LEAVE LAUNDRY
bag on stairs? Mrs. Lee almost break her neck! You want that? You want to kill old Chinese lady?”

“No,” Maryk managed to reply.

“I tell you to leave laundry in hallway next to back door. What you not understand about that? I speak English perfect.”

“I know. I forgot.”

“You forget? You forget and Mrs. Lee end up dead at the bottom of stairs.” She wagged her finger in his face. “Then who do your laundry? Who cook your meals?”

“Sorry.”

“No. Sorry won't do laundry. Mrs. Lee do laundry. Mrs. Lee cook meals. But Mrs. Lee can't do that if she dead at the bottom of the stairs because you left your smelly bag of clothes for me to trip on.”

Sarah let out a small giggle. It was the first time she had laughed
in weeks. Mrs. Lee paused in her rant and turned to the girl.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“It's a long story,” said Maryk.

“Long story? I just ask who she is. Why that a long story?”

Sarah froze, wondering if Maryk would attempt to continue the illusion that she was his niece. Before he had time to say anything, Mrs. Lee yelled again.

“I run a clean house, Maryk. I don't let painted ladies in my house.”

“She's not a painted lady.”

“No, she too skinny for that,” Mrs. Lee said, appraising Sarah's frame.

Sarah straightened her posture.

“Who is she, then?”

“Like I said, it's a long story.”

“I don't want girl with long story in my house.”

Maryk paused and exhaled a deep breath.

“She's in trouble,” he said. “And she needs help.”

Mrs. Lee crossed her arms, and her eyes narrowed on Sarah.

“You speak?”

“Yes,” Sarah replied.

“What kind of trouble you in?”

“Look, can we go inside?” Maryk said. “I can explain.”

Mrs. Lee looked hard at Sarah and then Maryk.

“Five minutes inside. But then out! I don't want trouble.”

Sarah and Maryk followed Mrs. Lee inside. The interior hallway was dark with faded pink-and-blue floral wallpaper and a simple rag rug on the floor. A gaslight fixture hung from the ceiling, letting out shafts of yellow light and making a low hiss. Mrs. Lee led them to the front room just off the hall, and they all sat around a large wooden table that occupied most of the first-floor parlor.

Maryk sat beside Sarah as she retold her story. By the time Sarah had finished, an hour had passed. Mrs. Lee sat with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed as she looked up at Maryk. She hadn't said a word the entire time.

“What you planning to do with her?”

“I don't know,” he said. “But for now, I thought she could stay here and help you run the house.”

“I have Smitty and Miss Jean to run house,” Mrs. Lee shot back.

“She could help with the cooking,” Maryk offered.

“You think I need help to cook?”

“No. But . . .”

“I can do any work,” Sarah said. “I'll work very hard.”

“What if people ask questions?” Mrs. Lee said, turning to Maryk. “Don't want anyone think I force the girl to work or do something illegal.”

“They won't,” Maryk said.

“So some strange girl just appear at my door . . .”

“Please,” Sarah interrupted. “I won't make any trouble. And I will work hard. I promise.”

“The kid could use a break,” Maryk said.

Mrs. Lee took in the girl and exhaled.

“You can stay one week. One week only. But after that, you have to go. Understand?”

“Yes,” Sarah said.

She had no idea what she would do after that, but it was better than nothing.

“It's dangerous for Mrs. Lee to have you here, so you make no trouble.” She turned to Maryk. “She sleep in your room, you sleep in basement. No funny business.”

“Of course,” Maryk said.

“Mrs. Lee have a soft heart and stupid head,” she said.

“Thank you,” Sarah said.

She pointed to Maryk. “You go set up cot in basement.” Then she turned to Sarah. “You come with me.”

Mrs. Lee led her to the kitchen at the back of the first floor. Tall white cabinets lined one wall, and a large stove and icebox stood against the other. A deep old porcelain bathtub sat beside a galvanized metal sink and faucet.

“Take off clothes,” she said.

“Excuse me?” Sarah said.

“You stink like old fish. Need a bath.”

Mrs. Lee filled a battered brass teakettle and several pots and set them to boil on the stove. She filled the tub with some cold
water from the tap and then mixed in the hot water as it came to a boil.

Sarah had never been naked in front of anyone but her mother. The last thing she wanted to do was to undress in front of this strange woman.

“N
O ONE TAKE BATH WITH CLOTHES
on,” Mrs. Lee said. “And I can't have stinky fish girl in house. Go on, before water get cold.”

Sarah slowly started to undress. Mrs. Lee bustled about and continued to talk.

“I see lots of naked girls before. I have two daughters. Grown now. And I'm a girl too. Old, but still a girl. I've got same parts as you.”

Sarah had not disrobed completely since the first night she'd swum ashore, and she felt her entire body lighten as she unpeeled layer after layer. Dirt and grime were caked on most of her body, along with several cuts and bruises from her various falls and bumps. Mrs. Lee noticed her ravaged skin and shook her head.

“You all skin and bones. Dirty skin and bones. Get in.”

Sarah carefully dipped a toe into the water, and the warmth traveled up her leg and into her entire body. She stepped in and submerged herself. Every pore seemed to breathe a sigh of relief upon contact with the warm water. Sarah closed her eyes, leaned
back, and rested her head against the back of the tub. She took a long, cleansing breath. Just as she was truly starting to relax, Mrs. Lee grabbed her hand and roughly scrubbed her arm with a brush and soap.

“Bath not place to sleep. Place to get clean.”

Mrs. Lee proceeded to vigorously wash every inch of Sarah with a hard-bristled wooden brush. Sarah was jarred by the force of the scrubbing, first her neck, then her back and underarms. Mrs. Lee worked her way down until she even got between her toes. It felt as if the old woman might take off a layer of skin. But Sarah didn't want to upset her, so she didn't complain. She hadn't been bathed by anyone since her mother had done it when she was a little girl. Her mother had a much gentler hand. But it felt nice to be taken care of again, even if it was by a tough old Chinese woman she barely knew.

“You have brothers? Sisters?”

“No,” Sarah replied.

“Any family?”

“An uncle.”

“Where he?”

“Back in my country.”

“Why you not go back to him?”

“I am not sure he would take me,” Sarah said. “But also, he is not nice to girls.”

“Lots of men not nice to girls. Mrs. Lee's husband not nice to girls. He left us when daughters just babies. Poof, gone like that. I
have to learn fast. Raise daughters. Run house. Become landlady. Do everything. Never trust a man. Men not reliable. Also lots of mean men in world. They like to feel big by making women feel small.”

Sarah hesitated before asking the next question.

“Is Maryk a mean man?”

“Maryk not mean,” Mrs. Lee said. She considered the question for a moment before continuing. “Just sad.”

“Why?”

“Don't know. Sometimes a person never talk about sadness, because it bring too much pain. You see it on their face. Maryk show sadness in his face.”

Mrs. Lee massaged some soap into Sarah's scalp and through her matted and tangled hair.

“You look like Irish girl with all this red hair. Pretty color. You never see red hair on Chinese girl.”

When she finally emerged from the tub, Sarah's skin tingled and she felt cleaner than she had ever been. Mrs. Lee handed her a simple cotton robe.

“Here, put this on until we wash clothes. I get tub for laundry.”

Mrs. Lee stepped through a door at the back of the kitchen that Sarah assumed led to the backyard.

Sarah was just pulling on the robe when she heard the front door of the building open and people move down the hallway toward the kitchen. She hastily tied the robe closed just as a middle-aged black couple entered, carrying armloads of groceries
in paper sacks. The man was short with dark skin and a long droopy mustache. The woman was taller, and lighter skinned, with her hair tucked under a yellow-and-green striped scarf. As soon as the man beheld Sarah, he dropped his groceries, sending several onions, apples, and carrots rolling across the floor.

“What the . . . ?”

“My Lord in heaven,” the woman said. “There's a half-naked girl in the kitchen! Smitty, get out of here!”

The man quickly covered his eyes, turned, and fled back down the hall where he had come from.

“Who are you?” the woman asked Sarah.

It was the third time she had been asked that question over the past few hours, and she was still unsure how to respond.

“I'm Sarah,” she said.

“Well, what in the name of sweet Jesus are you doing here?”

Mrs. Lee reentered, carrying a washboard and basin. “Oh, Miss Jean, you back already.”

“Yes, we're back,” she said, crossing her arms.

“This is Sarah,” Mrs. Lee said. “She going to work here.”

“She's going to be working here, huh?” Miss Jean said, looking the girl up and down. “You have a problem with the way Smitty and I tend to our duties?”

“She work in kitchen. You work in house. Different.”

“You never mentioned the need for kitchen help before. You know my sister Mavis can cook and—”

“I keep that in mind. Now go find Sarah some old clothes. Hers
are filthy dirty. Can't have naked girl in kitchen all day. And then show her to Maryk's room.”

“Maryk's room?” Miss Jean said, raising an eyebrow.

“He sleep in basement. One week only. Now go.”

M
ISS
J
EAN WENT TO AN UPSTAIRS
storage closet to retrieve a small bag of old clothes that had once belonged to one of Mrs. Lee's daughters and then led Sarah to Maryk's room on the second floor. Sarah had never been so close to a person with such dark skin, and she stole glances at her as they moved down the hallway. Miss Jean caught her staring and stopped short.

“You got a problem?”

“N-no,” Sarah stammered.

“Then why are you staring at me like I've got three heads?”

“I'm sorry. It is just . . . your skin is so dark.”

“Oh, really,” Miss Jean said, putting her hands on her hips.

“It's very beautiful,” Sarah added.

“I like to think so,” Miss Jean said.

“Are you from Africa?”

“Africa? Girl, my people are from Kansas City. And the last time I checked, it was in the United States of America.”

“I did not mean to insult you,” Sarah said, trying to make her
voice sound as apologetic as possible.

“You'd better brush up on your geography.”

Miss Jean continued down the hall until she came to the last apartment and knocked on the door. After a moment, they heard a cough, and Maryk called from inside.

“Hold on a second,” he barked.

After some heavy-limbed shuffling, the door swung open and there was Maryk, dressed in just his pants, suspenders, and an undershirt. Sarah had only ever seen him in his uniform. She could smell the whiskey on his breath as soon as the air from the open door pushed out into the hall.

“I've got a delivery for you,” Miss Jean said, nudging Sarah toward the door.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jean,” Sarah said, gesturing to the clothes in her hand.

“They weren't my clothes to give. But you're welcome. And it's
Miss
Jean, not
Mrs
. Me and Smitty have been married for twenty years, but I like the sound of ‘Miss Jean' because it keeps me feeling young.”

“Thank you, Miss Jean,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, well, you're welcome. I guess.”

Miss Jean rolled her eyes and turned and walked back down the stairs to the first floor, muttering to herself. “Sweet Jesus . . . what is this house coming to?”

Maryk and Sarah stood awkwardly for a moment.

“This is yours?” Sarah asked.

“Ah, yeah,” Maryk said, gesturing for her to enter. Sarah stepped inside. The room was small and dingy and faced the alley behind the building, so hardly any light came in through the lone window. The sparse furnishings included a bed, a pine dresser, a small wooden desk and chair, and a shelf filled with a few well-thumbed old books. A tiny sink was stuck to the wall next to the desk with a round mirror hanging above it.

A half dozen empty bottles of Golden Clover Irish Whiskey along with one full one were lined up along the top of the dresser, next to a framed sepia-toned photograph.

“Toilet's down at the end of the hall. Don't forget to put the lock on. Mrs. Lee don't think too much about knocking. I've just got to gather a few things and then go take a sleep in the basement.”

“You sleep now?”

“When I'm on the night shift, I've got to do my sleeping during the day.”

Maryk arranged his uniform on a hanger and packed some socks and shoes into a small bag. Sarah approached the dresser and examined the framed photograph, which showed a pretty, petite, dark-skinned woman with eyes like Maryk's and long braided hair standing on the back of a white horse. The woman wore a feather in her hair and a short buckskin skirt and blouse decorated with long strips of fringe. A tall man with a head of thick blond hair stood beside the horse, holding the reins. Sarah picked up the picture to look at it more closely.

“Put that down,” Maryk snapped.

“I'm sorry.” She replaced the photograph with a shaky hand.

“I didn't say you could paw my things, did I?”

“No . . . I just . . . the picture is nice.”

“Yeah,” Maryk grumbled, reaching over to straighten the frame. “But you can't just start touching anything you please. You understand?”

“Yes. I'm sorry.”

“Well, just mind yourself.”

After a moment, Sarah nodded toward the photograph. “Who is in the picture?”

Maryk looked down, almost shyly. “My parents.”

“Your mother and father?”

“Yes.”

It surprised Sarah to think of Maryk even having parents, never mind parents who seemed to be performers of some kind.

“They were in a play?”

“No. They both worked for Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West show. You ever hear of Buffalo Bill where you're from?”

Sarah shook her head.

“He's got a big show that's kind of like a circus, but it's all stuff about the Wild West. Trick riders, sharpshooters, knife throwers, cowboys and Indians, that kind of thing. They always do a big parade with all sorts of western characters, and an Indian War battle reenactment as the grand finale.”

“I don't understand what this is.”

“The Indians and the white man, they had lots of wars over here. And Buffalo Bill kind of does a make-believe version of the war. You understand what ‘make believe' means? It's when you pretend.”

“A pretend war?”

Sarah shuddered, thinking of the bloody bodies of the men from her village on the night of the attack. She couldn't understand why anyone would want to pretend to have a war.

“It sounds strange when you say it like that. But it's really just like a stage play, only with lots of horses and guns going off. So I guess they were sort of like actors.”

Sarah tried to see traces of Maryk in the two people in the photo. They seemed so different from him. Yet as she looked closer, she could tell that he was a combination of both, with the almond eyes and serious expression of his mother and the broad body and thick hair of his father.

“Your mother was an Indian?”

“That's right.”

“So you are Indian too?”

“Part Indian. My mother was from the Dakota tribe. Lots of Dakota worked for Cody in those days. My father was a horse wrangler from Sweden. So I'm probably the only half-Dakota, half-Swede you're ever gonna meet.”

“Is this why the man you work with called you a half-breed?”

Maryk's expression darkened and he leaned forward. Sarah pressed herself against the wall as his enormous shadow engulfed her.

“Don't ever use that word again, you hear?” His sour breath steamed into her face. “Only idiots like Johnson say things like that.”

“I'm sorry,” she stammered.

“It's just about the lowest thing you could call somebody like me. So don't use it. Ever.”

“I won't,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears.

Maryk gruffly gathered up his belongings, stopping to pluck the full bottle of whiskey off the top of the dresser along with the photograph. He opened the door but then turned back.

“And don't touch any of my things!”

He slammed the door closed.

It took several minutes for Sarah's heart to stop racing.

She noticed a lock on the inside that she quickly, but quietly, turned shut. As soon as the door was bolted, Sarah felt her body relax, as if she'd been tensing every muscle the entire time she had been in the apartment building and could finally unclench.

She changed into some of the clothes that Miss Jean had brought her and sat on the bed. Scanning the bookshelf, she read some of the strange titles:
Don Quixote, Moby-Dick, The Last of the Mohicans
, and
Aesop's Fables
.

On the top shelf sat a wooden box covered with a layer of dust, as if it hadn't been touched in years.

Sarah approached the shelf. Then she guiltily glanced around. She wanted to find out as much about Maryk as she could, because she still didn't trust him. Maybe the box held a gun or some other
kind of weapon. She needed to know what was inside.

She stood on her tiptoes and reached up. But just as she grabbed the box, there was a loud rap on the door. Sarah dropped the box back on the shelf and spun around.

“You come now,” Mrs. Lee's voice called through the door. “Need you to sweep upstairs floors before make meal.”

Sarah awkwardly tripped over her feet as she stepped away from the shelf.

“Yes. I come,” she said.