“I don’t want to remind them”-and it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out I was talking about the FBI and the WRA-“I exist. I don’t want to risk being sent to Leupp to join my parents. I want to forget all that. You left your mother behind. Now I’ve left mine.”
“These aren’t the same things.”
“Aren’t they? You want an American life. I want an American life. Even Helen wants an American life.”
And all of us, in our own ways, were doing the best we could to erase who we were.
We went to the bedroom. I perched on the edge of her bed. Once Grace was dressed, she sat next to me and told me about Joe. Just when I thought she’d reached the end, she went on: “I’m following my mother’s advice. I’ve been writing a letter or postcard to him every few days with messages like ‘Never forget I love you’ and ‘When I did my routine, I thought of you.’ His replies have been halfhearted at best.”
I’d asked her to tell me about him, but now I wasn’t so happy she was doing it.
She went to the dresser and returned with a bundle of letters and postcards. “Listen to what he wrote two weeks ago,” she said. “ ‘By now I’ve seen every kind of death imaginable. All death is bad. Being shot down over the big briny and being lost in the sea is terrible, but the worst are the guys whose planes catch fire.’ ” As she spoke, I could practically hear Joe’s college-boy voice. “ ‘Some pilots manage to fly their planes and their crews, if they have them, back to base, but the agony and destruction onboard is bad. Lost limbs. Faces gone. Flesh burned. No one wants to go on living looking like that. Better to check out fast.’ ” She stopped reading and met my eyes. “I wrote back to say that wasn’t going to happen to him and asked him to promise me that he’d stay safe and come home to me.” She handed me a postcard. “Here’s what he sent.”
I turned over the postcard. It read: I’ll never make a promise to you that I can’t keep. Goodbye, Grace.
“I love him,” Grace said when I gave her back the postcard. “And I’m not going to give up.”
I wasn’t particularly busted up about losing Joe as a lover, but my heart ached anyway. Was there no end to what Grace had stolen from me? And yet, if Sam was right, I needed to find a way to spend time with her. What she next said gave me an opening.
“I didn’t go into entertainment for job security or to make friends, for heaven’s sake,” Grace went on, going right back to acting like the big noise she thought she’d become. “I am the Oriental Danseuse. I’m giving you an opportunity. Take it or leave it.”
“Thanks for laying your cards on the table,” I said, rising to leave. “Now we can go on the road together with nothing between us.”
THE ORIENTAL FANTASY Revue hit the road at the beginning of 1945. I’d been in San Francisco and then Topaz for most of the war, so traveling from town to town to places I’d never been before was new to me. Servicemen were everywhere. Military convoys created endless columns on the roads. We were asked to lead our audiences in “The Star-Spangled Banner” and the Pledge of Allegiance before our shows. Sometimes women’s organizations invited us to visit their victory gardens. The mood in the south: we’re gonna win this thing. The news from overseas seemed positive for the most part. In Europe, American troops had repelled German forces at Bastogne in Belgium. Allied forces were advancing from Paris to the Rhine. In the Pacific, tens of thousands of imperial Japanese soldiers had been killed in the battle of Leyte. But for every positive development, there were sad news items. A month earlier, right in the midst of our holiday performances in Atlanta, Glenn Miller’s plane had disappeared in the English Channel. He was declared missing in action. How many times had I been swung around a dance floor to “In the Mood” and “Moonlight Serenade”? How many times had I listened to the radio at Topaz and chimed in to “Pennsylvania 6-5000” and sung “Chattanooga Choo Choo” with the kids? His death-because what else could have happened to him?-was tragic and hit us all hard, because if a star like him could die, then it could happen to anyone. All three of us had people to lose and that colored every moment of the day, but then there wasn’t a woman in America who didn’t fear the arrival of a telegram or a knock at the door.
Our revue brought cheer to every town we visited. Grace sang, emceed, and appeared as the Oriental Danseuse. She always opened the show with “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. You’re my kind of people… all drunks.” Har, har, har. The Maks pulled out all the tricks and illusions, ending with shooting the dove in the box. I did my bubble routine and my fan dance-above Ming and Ling. Helen and Tommy tagged along too, of course. Helen, business-minded like her father, fell into the job of handling our logistics, telling us where and when to show up, checking us in and out of hotels, and getting us to and from train and bus stations. Tommy was as spoiled as they come, whiny and impossible, but Helen loved the kid. I’ll admit, though, that he and the Mak imps looked precious, and they learned fast how to ham it up as adorable mascots, sometimes attracting more attention than the rest of us. (Although Helen took a different view: “The five fingers are not the same.” Yes! We get it! Your kid is better than the rest!) If people hadn’t seen a Chinese man or woman before, they certainly hadn’t encountered darling Chinese kids. Of course, you had to be the kind of person who liked kids…
When we got off a train, people walked blocks to stare at us. Sometimes they called us Chinks. On a few occasions ruffians threw stones and taunted Grace for being a Jap, which secretly made me laugh my insides out. In any event, she didn’t seem to mind. She was more worried about being picked up in one of the sweeps of Victory Girls, because women with no families, who appeared to be strangers in town, were automatically suspect. Once, on a day off in Mobile-a port town known for building Liberty ships for the war effort-we took a stroll and saw two white women dressed in shiny satin get arrested by a pair of policemen and put in the back of their cruiser. Those women had been walking along just like we were. They hadn’t looked all that different from Grace and me, since we were performers and made sure we “dressed” no matter where we went. What saved our cans that day was Helen and little Tommy. Grace and I just seemed like two friends keeping a well-dressed mother, whose husband must be overseas doing his duty, and her child company.
“Sure, I’m scared,” Grace confessed when we got back to the hotel, not that anyone asked her. “Sometimes I’m scared to death, but what am I going to do? Stop touring? If I’d allowed myself to become paralyzed every time I felt fear I wouldn’t have left Plain City when I was seventeen. I wouldn’t have done a single thing.”
She wouldn’t have either, just like I wouldn’t have. I didn’t need to like Grace, but I could admire her. In her own way, she had as much guts as I had.
So there we were-four women, three men, three small children, cages filled with cooing doves, and trunks loaded with costumes, toys, and Jack’s props and other magic paraphernalia-traveling through the south from booking to booking. Irene was pregnant with her third child. Helen, Grace, and I often had to share a room-with a double bed for Helen, Tommy, and me, and a double bed for Grace. One of the best things about being in show business is staying up all night, having drinks, laughing, dancing, but we practically lived like nuns. We had dinner at four o’clock, two hours before we had to arrive at the theater or club, because Tommy was much better behaved if he had a full stomach. And we went to bed early, because if Grace and I didn’t get enough sleep, we made mistakes and we looked terrible. We’d all done some hard living, and some days it showed.