Chapter 2

I open my eyes to darkness and listen.

Is it the tiny one that has woken me? The past seven days, while Missy so sick, he sleep in my room at night, not to disturb her. But, no, he is not awake or crying — he make no noise except for sounds he make while sleeping. I smile. Never quiet, that one.

I check to be sure he is warm and covered, then move very softly into big room. The room is dark but for banked embers of fire, air chilly. Probably I should check on Missy Cartwright anyway, see if there is any change. I go back to room for lantern, turn very low and walk toward stairs — very stealthy.

I frown at sight of white bundle on stairs — did someone leave clothes there? Very bad habit. Very messy — dangerous, too. Must see who and scold tomorrow. I climb to landing and reach for bundle of clothes, then stop, startled. I place lantern on step and crouch down close.

"Missa Adam."

The bundle of clothes stir, then jump awake, also startled. He see my face and is confused — then slowly place himself, rubbing fists in eyes.

"What you doing here? Why you not in bed? Is freezing!"

"Oh." He look toward big room. "What time is it?"

"What time? Very late! Time for you to be in bed!"

He look at me but does not move.

I touch his hand. Ice.

"Up — up!" I shoo him downstairs, see with horror his feet are bare. "Go to kitchen — is warmer. Will make you something warm to help sleep."

I see him look at clock as he pass by, then shrug. He look defeated. "Okay."

I shake my head. Never understand this one. "Grab blanket!" I point to knitted blanket on big chair. "Wrap self!"

He pick up blanket and tuck it under arm.

"Said wrap self!" I hiss as loudly as I dare. Mustn't wake others. Very late.

He sigh, but wrap blanket around shoulders.

I follow back downstairs. Will check Missy when I follow him back up.

I find him in kitchen, stoking stove fire. I position kettle, go to pantry to look for restful tea and two cups. What kind of foolish people drink tea at this late time?

I find tea that seem good and bring two cups. He is perched on chair edge, staring at flames through stove door.

"Wrap feet," I say automatically. "What you thinking, up so late?"

He does not answer but does wrap feet, so I know he is listening. More gently then, I say, "Worrying will not bring fatha home sooner — will not make Missy Cartwright well."

He is very quiet. "What's wrong with Marie?" he ask at last.

I shrug. "Fever. Much weakness. Not very strong yet after baby."

"Is she going to die?"

Ai, ya. How to answer?

I search his face and his eyes tell me that he does not want lie — even kind lie.

"Who can say?" I admit at last. Kettle sing, and I busy myself there, pouring water into pot. The steam grows quickly fragrant.

"That's how my mother died."

I squeeze my eyes shut, closing out steam and sadness both, shimmering before me like veil.

Have I heard this? Maybe — whispers, maybe. I cannot recall for sure. I do not force myself into private corners of other lives, not even Boss Cartwright's — not polite. I open my eyes and turn to study still, pale face before me. Small wonder heart is hidden — bumped and bruised too many times, maybe. I wipe spout carefully and begin to pour tea, thinking what to say.

"Some women die this way, of course," I offer slowly. "But some do not. Most do not."

He is silent.

"Missa Hoss's motha — she not die of his birth?"

He shake head.

"And Missa Hoss very big baby. Born where?"

"On the prairie. In a wagon."

"See? And still motha live."

He nod, all still but hands - those busy, twisting blanket over and over. "She died a little later, though. Shot with an arrow. Indians."

The wind whistle very loud, trying to get in. Wakes tiny one, who howls along with wind. I leave tea to go to him. Lift him still in blanket, making shushing noises. He is dry — maybe hungry. Or maybe he know of what we are talking. I rub his back — give myself some minutes before returning to Missa Adam, my heart aching so fiercely — howling inside, like the wind.

What kind of place is this that steal away little boys' mothers? Steal away a man's Chinese-ness? Leave nothing but the harsh climate, always greedy, always demanding more from those who stay in it? Why anyone want to live out here?

I settle my face to return to kitchen. Grieving will not help Missa Adam sleep — he has seen enough grieving. Will not settle the tiny one, either.

I enter kitchen, and tiny one glance around, eyes bright. See brother and wave fists in hello, then stuff one fist into mouth and coo. I chuckle. Maybe just hungry. Or maybe just want to stay up, too — very sociable, this one, hate to be left out. I hold him so he can see better.

"Big noises," I say. "Tiny, but strong."

Missa Adam grin at me, then at brother.

I check to see if tea is cold, picking through my words with care. "I think Missy Cartwright have some sickness of the cold weather," I suggest. "Something many people get. I think I hear many people in Virginia City have. Docta come with fatha. He will know how to fix." I know he not convinced, so I hand him cup. "Drink. Get warm."

He sip at tea. "This is good." He sound surprised. "What is it?"

"Chrysanthemum tea. You never have?"

He shake head.

"Very common in China."

"Tell me more about China. About Chinese New Year."

I pick up my cup and sit down, tiny one on my lap.

Why not? He need to listen; maybe I need to talk, to bring things closer, remember who I am. "Is most important of all Chinese celebrations. Seven day after New Year, everybody grow year older, together."

His forehead pucker. "Everybody can't have the same birthday."

I shake head. "Day born not count so much — not like here. Everything change, made new for everybody — all at same time. Is why so important that whole family start New Year together: Show unity in the year to come."

Missa Adam sip at tea. "What if they can't be together?"

I know he is thinking of father. "Then we set place at table so family not there not forgotten — there in spirit."

Missa Adam lean forward, thinking, elbows on knees.

I see his bare feet on floor. "Wrap feet!" I say sharply.

He pull feet quickly up.

"For first three days of New Year, not single cross word can be spoken. Very bad luck to start New Year with cross words."

His eyes grow round. "No scolding?"

"None. Not one word. Very unlucky."

He laugh little bit. "Boy, I'd like that. 'Cept Pa'd prob'ly hurt himself keepin' it all inside."

I look knowing. "No mischief for three day either. Good discipline for everybody."

He make face. "Sometimes you don't know you're doing mischief 'til it's too late."

"True. So for New Year, you think very hard before you do."

He swallow tea, sipping slowly. "Tell me again about the dragon dance."

And so I tell — many thing, for long time — while wind wail and pound shutters, trying to get in. I talk and he listen and the tiny one gurgle.

Until most of the night is gone, we talk: the man with so much he is trying to remember, the boy with so much he is trying to forget.

TBC

Thank you, Tauna!