The Girl in the Torch (9 page)

S
ARAH SPENT THE NEXT
few hours dusting and sweeping the upstairs floors. As she finished, she heard a sizzle. Then came a warm, savory smell that made her mouth water.

She followed her nose down the stairs to the first floor and entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Lee hurrying around, gathering ingredients for the evening meal. An oversized black steel pot shaped like a giant bowl sat on the stove top, flames licking the bottom. Another large pot filled with white rice simmered on the back burner. Piles of uncut carrots, onions, and broccoli were stacked on the counter beside a thick wooden chopping block. Mrs. Lee handed Sarah a cleaver and pointed to the vegetables.

“You chop. I cook. You chop vegetables before?”

Sarah nodded.

“Be careful not to cut self. Bloody fingers not taste good. Bring over to wok when you finish.”

Sarah took the cleaver and moved to the counter. She recalled her mother holding her hands in just the right way. And the memory
gave Sarah confidence as she grasped a carrot and chopped in a steady rhythm, curling her fingers to stay clear of the blade. Chop, chop, chop, chop. One, two, three, four. Chop, chop, chop, chop. One, two, three, four. She efficiently made her way through the pile of carrots, forming the cut pieces into a neat pile. Mrs. Lee nodded in approval, scooping up the carrots and tossing them into the wok with a sizzling hiss.

She gestured inside the sink, where there were two plucked chickens.

“Now take meat off bone and cut into pieces.”

Sarah's eyes widened. She had never deboned a chicken before. When her family could afford one, her mother would cook it whole in a pot, so the meat would just naturally fall off and the skin and bones would become part of the broth.

Sarah held one of the cool, clammy birds, unsure of where to make the first cut.

“Something wrong?” Mrs. Lee said.

“No,” Sarah said.

She didn't want to expose any weakness in her skills. So she took a deep breath and confidently started to cut away the meat, first chopping the chicken into quarters and then carefully separating the meat from the bone and cutting it into smaller cubes.

Mrs. Lee grunted approval and then turned back to her own work.

As Sarah fell into the familiar rhythm of cooking, she unconsciously started to hum one of her mother's old work songs about
cooking chicken. Some of the words sprang into her mind: “We never waste a thing, not a thigh, a breast, or wing.” The music emerged naturally from somewhere deep inside Sarah, the melody weaving into the rhythm of the work.

Mrs. Lee turned when she heard the humming, until Sarah finally noticed her staring and abruptly stopped.

“Don't stop,” Mrs. Lee said. “I like music. Have Gramophone music box machine. Play Enrico Caruso. You know Caruso?”

Sarah shook her head.

Mrs. Lee sang a few off-key operatic bars.
“Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto!”

Sarah giggled.

“Okay. I not good at singing,” Mrs. Lee said, nodding. “You wait here.”

Mrs. Lee exited the room, then returned carrying a strange-looking wooden machine with a hand crank and a huge horn sticking out of the top. She struggled to settle the heavy piece of equipment onto the kitchen table. As Mrs. Lee vigorously turned the crank, Sarah thought the machine might be used for grinding meat. But a moment later, she jumped back as the sound of an orchestra boomed out of the horn.

“You see,” Mrs. Lee said. “Caruso!”

Sarah listened to the powerful sound of the man's voice, and the aching emotion of the melody. It reminded her of the prayers the men in her village used to chant on Saturday mornings.

Mrs. Lee returned to her work but swayed along to the melody.
Sarah continued removing the chicken meat from the bone and watched Mrs. Lee's strange little dance out of the corner of her eye. She felt her mouth curl up into a smile. She still wasn't quite sure what to make of these unusual people, but she felt safe in the kitchen with Mrs. Lee preparing the evening meal while Caruso serenaded them.

Sarah finished carving and dicing the chicken, and Mrs. Lee added it to the hottest part of the wok. The meat instantly blanched and then slowly browned and crisped along the edges. She mixed the entire contents together with a pile of bean sprouts, then emptied the dish into an enormous serving bowl, sprinkling a handful of sesame seeds on top.

Mrs. Lee handed Sarah a brass bell from a low shelf.

“Go to stairs and ring this,” she said. “Then watch out.”

“Watch out?”

“You'll see.”

Sarah stood at the bottom of the stairs and rang the bell. Instantly, doors opened up and down the hall and multiple sets of feet stomped down the stairs. Two dozen Chinese people of all ages quickly brushed past Sarah and moved to the dining table. There were two families with young children, nearly a dozen men of varying ages, and a group of four young women. They all sat themselves around the table.

A stout Chinese woman in a green dress came down the stairs with her daughter, who looked to be about Sarah's age. The girl was small and thin, with long, beautiful, shiny black hair that she
wore pulled back and tied with a blue ribbon.

The woman regarded Sarah suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“Sarah.”

“You a new boarder?”

Sarah wasn't sure what the word
boarder
meant.

“I work in the kitchen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“With Mrs. Lee. I help clean and cook.”

The woman's face darkened. “I will not stand for this!” she said.

“Y
OU SHOULD NOT BE HERE
!” the woman continued. “This is an outrage.”

“Mama, calm down,” the Chinese girl interjected.

“No. I won't calm down,” the woman said, her face turning even redder with agitation. “Mrs. Lee, I demand to see you right now! Mrs. Lee!”

“What's all this noise?” Mrs. Lee said, emerging from the kitchen while wiping her hands on her apron. “I run rooming house, not beer hall.”

“Why did you hire this girl to work in the kitchen when you promised you'd give work to my Bao Yu if there was any?”

The woman nodded to her daughter and then angrily crossed her arms. Both Sarah and the girl shifted uncomfortably.

“Mrs. Fat, I never promise job to nobody,” Mrs. Lee said. “This is Maryk's niece.”

“Maryk has a niece?”

“Yes. And she a good worker.”

“My Bao Yu is a good worker too,” Mrs. Fat said.

“Well, when you own building, you can hire who you want. I own building, I hire who I say. Now go, eat. Sarah, you come serve.”

Mrs. Fat huffed, and she and her daughter moved into the other room.

Sarah followed Mrs. Lee down the hall, feeling even more self-conscious than before. Between Miss Jean's sister and Mrs. Fat's daughter, there seemed to be a small army of people who wanted the job that Sarah had taken.

Sarah was almost back to the kitchen when Maryk stepped into her path, coming up the basement stairs. They nearly collided, and navigated around each other awkwardly.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“Hmph,” he grunted as he passed.

Maryk walked into the front room and took the lone empty seat at the end of the table. He was dressed for work in his brown uniform, his hair carefully combed. Despite his neat appearance, Sarah detected a slight unsteadiness in his walk and a whiff of whiskey on his breath.

Mrs. Lee emerged from the kitchen carrying the bowl filled with the steaming chicken-and-vegetable dish.

“You get rice,” she said to Sarah. “Before it turn cold.”

Sarah retrieved the rice bowl and joined Mrs. Lee, circling the table behind her and spooning clumps of rice onto each plate. Mrs. Fat eyed Sarah suspiciously from her seat beside her daughter.

Sarah tried to catch Maryk's attention as she made her way around the room, to give him a small smile of thanks and to show him how well she had integrated herself into the work life of the house already. She was hoping for a sign of their alliance or friendship, particularly since she had just made at least one enemy in Mrs. Fat. Yet Maryk seemed uncomfortable as she scooped the rice onto his plate.

“Thanks,” he grunted, without looking up at her.

Everyone at the table was speaking Chinese with the exception of Maryk, who ate silently, and the four young women, who sat together and practiced their rudimentary English. Maryk hungrily forked the food into his mouth without making eye contact with anyone.

Sarah noticed the four Chinese girls staring at her. Unlike Maryk, they wouldn't take their eyes off of her and she felt uncomfortable under their glares. One of the girls whispered something to the others and they giggled.

At last Sarah came to Mrs. Fat and her daughter. She scooped out a large spoonful of rice for Mrs. Fat, but at the last minute, Mrs. Fat nudged her own plate so the rice spilled onto the table.

“Clumsy girl!” Mrs. Fat said.

Blood rushed into Sarah's face and she froze as Mrs. Lee, Maryk, and everyone else at the table turned and looked up at her.

“Why don't you watch what you're doing?” Mrs. Fat continued.

“But I didn't do anything,” Sarah said, the heat rising up her neck.

“Liar. You dumped Mrs. Lee's good food all over the table. We don't waste food here.”

Mrs. Lee's eyes narrowed at Sarah. Maryk finally fixed his eyes on her, too. He seemed to be angry at her for causing a fuss.

“I am not a liar,” Sarah said firmly.

“It was my fault.” Bao Yu spoke up for the first time. Sarah turned to the girl in surprise. “I moved the plate by accident. I'm sorry, Mama.”

Bao Yu used her spoon to scoop the rice onto her mother's plate.

“You expect me to eat rice that's been dumped on a table?”

“My table so clean, you don't need plate,” Mrs. Lee said.

“It's okay, Mama. I'll eat that rice.”

She switched plates with her mother. Mrs. Fat glared at her daughter.

Everyone began eating.

Bao Yu caught Sarah's eye and mouthed the word “Sorry,” before turning to her own plate of food.

S
ARAH FOLLOWED
M
RS.
L
EE
into the kitchen. Smitty and Miss Jean were already seated at the small kitchen table, setting out the platters of food that Mrs. Lee had reserved for them.

Smitty stood up. “Miss, I'd like to apologize for barging in on you earlier. I'm Miss Jean's husband, Mr. Smith.”

He extended his hand and Sarah shook it.

“Sarah,” she said.

“A pleasure, Miss Sarah.” He bowed grandly. “You can call me Smitty. Just about everyone does.”

“All right, Prince Charming, let the girl sit down and eat,” Miss Jean said.

Mrs. Lee gestured for Sarah to join them. “Sit,” she said.

Sarah sat at the table, and Smitty and Miss Jean joined hands and closed their eyes.

“Bless us, O Lord,” Miss Jean said, “and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

“Praise Jesus. Amen,” Smitty said.

They turned to Sarah, clearly waiting for her to chime in with a “praise Jesus” or “amen” of her own. Sarah looked toward Mrs. Lee, unsure what to do.

“She is Jewish person,” Mrs. Lee said. “They don't have Jesus prayers.”

“Is that right?” Miss Jean said, raising an eyebrow. “You don't look Jewish with that red hair.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Smitty chimed in. “Just a little unusual is all.”

“I don't have Jesus prayers either,” Mrs. Lee said. “I am Buddhist person.” She bowed her head toward the food on the table. “This food is the gift of the whole universe. Each morsel is a sacrifice of life. May I be worthy to receive it.”

Mrs. Lee, Miss Jean, and Smitty looked to Sarah for a reaction. She had never recited the evening prayers at home. That had always been her parents' job. But she had committed the Hebrew words to memory and knew what they meant.

“Baruch atah Adonai
,” she began tentatively. “
Eloheinu melech haolam, hamotzi lechem min ha-aretz
. Amen.”

Sarah felt proud of herself that she had memorized the prayer, but then she stiffened as she discovered the others staring at her.

“It is a prayer thanking God for bread,” she said.

“Amen to that,” said Smitty.

“Praise Jesus,” Miss Jean piped in under her breath.

“Enough religion,” Mrs. Lee said. “We eat now.”

Maryk had already left for the night shift by the time Sarah went to clear the dishes from the dining table. Back in the kitchen Mrs. Lee handed her an apron from a hook on the door and pointed to the sink, where the dishes were stacked two feet high.

Sarah spent the next hour and a half washing and drying the dishes and then scrubbing the wok and rice pot with a wire brush. When Miss Jean finished mopping the front room, she sat at the kitchen table and watched Sarah toiling at the sink. Sarah was certain that dish washing had been Miss Jean's job before her arrival, and she knew her skills were being judged.

When the final pot was washed, she felt Miss Jean tap her on the shoulder. Sarah spun around, afraid she had made a mistake.

“I'll show you where they go,” Miss Jean said, nodding with some admiration.

She helped Sarah put everything away.

“Well, you're not afraid of rolling up your sleeves and getting your hands dirty. Come here. I'll help you with that.”

She gestured for Sarah to turn around and then untied her apron, lifted it over her head, and hung it on the back of the door.

“Thank you,” Sarah said.

“It was nothing,” Miss Jean replied.

“Breakfast served at seven thirty,” Mrs. Lee said, reentering the room. “You come down at six thirty to cook with me. You understand?”

“Yes.” Sarah nodded. “And thank you. Thank you both.”

“You go to sleep now,” Mrs. Lee said. “You look like you been run over by wagon.”