It wasn’t as though I couldn’t impress Joe when the opportunity arose. In an effort to attract more business to the Forbidden City, Charlie got the ponies booked to do a dance in a newsreel. On the big day, a bus drove us to the beach. We lined up in the sand, wearing big headdresses that tinkled and glittered with every movement, and embroidered Chinese opera gowns with long water sleeves made of the lightest silk, which draped over our hands a good twelve inches. Our feet dragged in the sand, but our water sleeves floated and blew in the ocean breeze. We sidestepped until we were behind a coromandel screen set up incongruously on the sand to discard our headdresses and gowns, and toss them toward the camera in a manner bound to provoke good-natured chuckles. The music changed to a jitterbug. Now in bathing suits, we swung out from behind the screen. “Well, well, well,” the announcer intoned with proper surprise. “What would Confucius say?”
A few weeks later, when Ruby was in bed with cramps, Joe took me to a matinee-the first picture I’d seen in ages-and we saw the newsreel. I sensed what others in the audience felt when we stripped down to our swimsuits. We had moved from foreign Oriental maidens to homespun American gals in a few frames.
“What a great opportunity for you,” Joe told me later. “Pretty soon you’ll be a genuine motion-picture star.”
Now wasn’t that better than seeing an electric razor or a television?
JOE GAVE ME a fan from the Chinese Village. A landscape of soaring mountains, pavilions with upturned eaves, and trees bent by the wind spread across the fan’s folds. Every night when I got ready for bed, I took it out of my dresser drawer, where I kept the other trinkets he’d given me-a pickle pin from the Heinz exhibit, aluminum coins from the Union Pacific railroad exhibit, and a pair of 3-D glasses. Sure, they were all giveaways-except for the fan and my first precious pair of nylon stockings-but whenever I opened the fan, I thought of Joe. On my days off, I stayed at the exposition all through his shifts, so I could be there during his breaks.
“Grace, you’re still a kid,” he announced matter-of-factly one afternoon as we walked to the White Star Tuna Resturant to buy a lunch of hot tuna turnovers with frozen peas-the latest in fancy foods. “You’re too young for me, and I’m too old for you. Maybe in another ten years…”
Even when I surprised him, he always seemed glad to see me. “You again! Great!” Sometimes we sat by the Port of the Trade Winds to watch the China Clipper seaplanes, which offered the first commercial flights between the United States and Asia, taking off and landing in the bay.
“It takes three weeks to travel from here to Hong Kong on an ocean liner,” he told me. “The China Clipper has shortened it to a couple of days.”
That seemed wondrous, but then I’d never been on a ship, let alone an airplane.
“Maybe one day I’ll get to fly a China Clipper,” he said. But I didn’t see how, especially if he wanted to go to law school.
Joe taught me to drink homemade Cuba libres, which we made by pouring rum into our Coca-Cola bottles. He told me he’d rather have me learn to drink properly with him than from the men in the club, where I might forget how to handle myself.
In August-five months after Joe first approached Helen and me with his rolling chair-he took me to see The Wizard of Oz. Sure, it was a kids’ movie, but those flying monkeys scared the dickens out of me. Watching Auntie Em and Uncle Henry search for Dorothy made me think about my parents. Does Mom miss me? What about Dad? Do they wonder where I am and how I’m doing? But those questions puffed away when Joe whispered in my ear. “The Land of Oz looks just like Treasure Island, doesn’t it?”
Just hearing his voice could wash away even the darkest thoughts.
ON A SATURDAY in early September, I sat in the Court of Flowers, watching for him. I could tell as soon as he came into view that he was cross. My stomach tightened: beware. “I had a single fare for the entire day,” he complained. “Then the guy stiffed me.” Joe burned in a way I recognized from my dad. I got up and followed as he shouldered his way through the throngs, pushing people aside. Of course, trouble finds trouble, and Joe knocked into the wrong person.
“Hey, bub!” the man shouted when Joe didn’t stop to apologize. “Are you looking for a beef?”
Joe answered by spinning around and shoving his accuser in the chest. The man lowered his head and heaved himself at Joe, who was thrown into the crowd. People peeled away, making room for the show. Joe regained his balance, planted his feet, and curled his hands into fists.
“Joe! Don’t!” I cried.
He shuffled forward. The other man was ready. I had to stop this. I reached out and touched Joe’s shoulder.
“Joe-”
He whipped around with his arms raised, ready to lay into me. I closed my eyes and cowered, preparing myself for the blow. It didn’t come. I opened my eyes and saw Joe staring at me, horrified.
“I could have hit you.” His voice shook, but his hands were still up and clenched.
Behind Joe, passersby pulled the other man away. The space around us quickly filled as the masses resumed their fun, while Joe and I remained frozen. Without breaking his gaze, I slowly straightened my body. The terrible tension melted from Joe as his fists loosened, followed by his arms, and finally his shoulders.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”
I put a hand over my mouth and ran through the crowd until I found a trash can. I threw up. I was still heaving when Joe’s fingers began to smooth my hair from my forehead. I flinched; he pulled away. I retched again; he placed a hand on the small of my back. I shook from fright.
“I’m sorry,” he crooned. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
Usually, at the end of our time together, Joe headed to Berkeley and I returned to the city. But on that night, he escorted me back to San Francisco on the ferry. He was still twitchy, but so was I. I hadn’t felt this way since the last time my father beat me to mash almost a year ago. I couldn’t stop shivering. Joe wrapped his jacket around my shoulders and took me to Foster’s on Jones Street for something to eat. He tried to get me to talk, but what could I say? I was too embarrassed to tell him my father had walloped me for years and that for one terrifying second Joe had reminded me of him. I could never hurt Joe’s feelings that way, not when he hadn’t actually hit me.
“You’re a good egg,” he said, heartbreakingly apologetic. “My mom and dad would love you.”
Just like that, pure joy erased my fear. We still hadn’t kissed on the lips, but I could wait.
When we arrived at my building, Joe glanced up and saw that the lights were off in Ruby’s and my apartment. He said good night without asking to come up.
A MONTH LATER, the exposition closed. Some said it was for the winter; some said it was because the fair was in such financial trouble that the organizers needed to come up with an improved vision. Now, Joe came to the city on Saturday nights to see me dance. Sometimes he sat with Ruby-who’d gone back to job hopping-and they watched all three shows. Other than that, I rarely saw my roommate, and I didn’t see Joe as much as I would have liked either. No kisses. No proposal. Nothing. I told myself Joe was taking his time, because I was young, and he was still a student.
With fewer tourists in town for the fair, the Forbidden City’s prospects began to dim. People gossiped that Charlie was bankrupt and that the club was in receivership. Once a week, everyone lined up outside his office to get paid. He hated to part with his cash-whether at the racetrack, in a kitchen poker game, or to compensate his employees. It’s true what they said about him: he wept when he paid you. One night he bawled so hard that Ida griped, “He cried so much, I wanted to give him back his money.”