Chapter 3

I am losing self.

This haunts me through next day, a bad day - Missa Adam and myself very tired after sleepless night — and now into next night. Tiny one fussy all day, but now he sleep hard. Wish I sleep hard, too. But sleep run ahead of me on fast feet so I cannot catch.

I throw back quilt and get up, go to my small altar, light candles, light incense.

For Missy Cartwright, still sick. For Missa Cartwright, still gone.

Is second time today — or maybe first time of new day — cannot tell if very late or very early. Candles dance and incense spiral, climbing up and up. I look at small dish of honey, glass of whiskey I place there earlier today, remember little Hoss entering just as I place them and light incense that first time, startling me.

"What are you doin'?"

Only one not cranky today little Hoss.

"Giving gifts to Kitchen God," I explain.

Giving gifts late … what kind of thing will Kitchen God have to report for this? What luck will he request for me in New Year? I light picture, and Kitchen God burn — poof! — into ash.

Little Hoss stare, eyes big.

"You burned him," he whisper.

"Time for Kitchen God ascend to heaven."

Past time. Should have gone four days ago. So much to take care of — I forget this. Now perhaps Kitchen God angry — who knows? Report bad things, bad luck in New Year.

Little Missa Hoss rest his chin on table and sniff incense. "Maybe he'll meet my mama. Pa says she's in heaven."

Ai.

I reach down to rest hand on pale hair. Much too long hair — must cut.

"Maybe so," I say. My bad temper float up and away, like smoke from incense. "But Kitchen God not like people. He die every old year, come back with New Year. Watch who is good, who is not."

"Oh." The little Hoss screw up his eyes. "Pa says my mama watches ta see if I'm good."

I pat his shoulder, very brisk. Blow out candles but leave incense.

"Motha must be very happy then — see very good boy, I think."

"Really?" The little Hoss's face light like lantern.

"Yes, yes, of course, why not?" I gesture him ahead of me. "Why you standing here? You have nothing to do?"

Missa Hoss not discouraged. "Even after this mornin'?"

I wave my hands. "Was accident. All fixed now."

This morning start badly.

Missa Adam come in from tending animals, face pale; Hoss, of course, trailing behind. Missa Adam holding pail before him, very stiff.

I frown at them, trying to read faces. "So?"

Missa Adam swallow. "We lost a lot of the milk," he stammer. "The cow kicked …"

"I petted her," Missa Hoss say, voice very tiny. "And she kicked. I didn't know …"

"It wasn't your fault, Hoss." Missa Adam sound cross. "I should've warned you."

I take pail. Half full. "Is all?"

Missa Adam nod, very miserable.

Missy Cartwright not able to nurse the tiny one since she is ill; there is no sau nai-nai — milk nurse. Women very scarce here, so milk important.

"Is there enough for Joe?"

I sigh. Why everything hard here — why everything must be pulled by force from earth? I shrug. "We see."

Already top of milk is frozen on short trip from barn to house. I see Missa Adam's face and put down bucket.

"Missa Adam," I say, very firm.

He look up at me.

Too much worry, this one. "Your fatha — very strong man, yes? Very smart."

He nod, wondering, I think, why I tell him what he already know.

I nod back, holding his eyes with mine. "And yet fatha cannot stop snow and cold from making trouble. Why you think you, just small boy, can?"

He blink at me, silent — but thinking. I can see thinking.

I pat head roughly. "I know … oh, many tricks. Will make milk more — you see." His face take look of hope and I smile. "Need more wood. Maybe you chop for Hop Sing?"

He nod, happy to be busy, and start back outside.

"Hat!" I call after, to remind him. Little Hoss I keep with me and I visit pantry.

Missa Cartwright very good about winter supplies, so we have many things. I frown at them. Soy beans make good milk. Better for baby than cow milk anyway.

I pull out barrel and look at them. Make good mash for hens, too. Maybe if I heat they will forget cold and lay more. Wind whistle loudly and I shake my fist at it.

You have not won. We are not beaten — not yet, not yet.

I sigh at memory, then jump at strange sound.

Candles flicker in sudden breath of cold air. I am very still.

Door? Is maybe Missa Cartwright…but…maybe …something else.

I look at tiny one, fast asleep, then look for weapon. I pick up pitcher from washstand — good for swinging, I think — and listen at my bedroom door.

I hear front door latch and move very stealthy into big room, haunting shadows, not to be seen. There is no moonlight — almost lunar New Year; there is no real moon even if sky was clear, and sky is not. Still stormy.

I hear the wind, see small piles of snow already melting where they blow in. I raise my pitcher, trying to see in darkness. See faint movement near door. Hear…small sniff.

I frown, hairs on my neck lying back down against each other, and lower pitcher.

Sniff sound …familiar. Young.

Angry now, I put down pitcher and walk to door, noticing lantern left on sideboard. I turn key and flame jump to life. Small figure jump, too.

"Missa Adam!" I hiss. Only my hope not to wake whole household keep me from yelling as I wish. "You crazy? What you thinking? What you doing outside after dark, all alone, so late?"

I see from his face that I am speaking what he cannot understand — am speaking Cantonese — and I press teeth against each other and struggle for American words.

"What you doing?" I squeeze right words finally past my anger and my fear.

He look at me with his tiger look — a tiger hidden in the trees, watching, not ready to show self. "Checking the animals."

I cannot help. I lose my American words again.

He stand and listen to me, face curious, puddle forming around feet.

I clutch at my hair. "Wet things off!" In American this time. "Now — now!"

He remove scarf and jacket, slow and orderly, then boots, set neatly.

"Enough, enough — finish upstairs! Then, under covers! I bring hot brick. Hurry! Now!"

He shrug and nod — oh, very cool about scaring me into next life!

I am calmer when finally I follow him with hot brick wrapped in flannel. Still angry, though. I do not want to wake Missy Cartwright who need her rest, but we must talk — serious talk.

I tuck hot brick under covers by feet and push quilt up around chin, then fold my arms — very stern. "Now, Missa Adam, I want you promise me. Never, never again go outside in storm alone after dark. Never."

He look at me, still hidden, watching, like tiger. "What if one of the animals needs care or something?"

"Then you get me. I go with."

"Then who'll stay with Marie and Hoss and Joe?"

"They be fine, short time. Or we get one of hands. Better than you wander into dark and maybe freeze."

"I wasn't going to freeze. I had the lead rope."

I hear my Cantonese again — this time just as well, as I am swearing.

"Never. I want you promise. What I tell fatha when he come home if something happen to you? 'So sorry, Missa Cartwright, number one son freeze like icicle and die or lost somewhere in cold, but could be worse — still have number two and number three son?' What you think he say back to me? 'I sorry too, Hop Sing, but next time — who knows? — maybe you lose other two boys as well. Too risky. Pack bag and go, please.'"

Missa Adam small face change — surprise now. "Pa wouldn't say that."

"No? I think he say, oh, much more! And what I say to him? How I explain my terrible shame? You want bring terrible shame to Hop Sing?"

His face show me I have found his weak side, and I am glad. Very dangerous thing he do. Must not happen twice. "I'm sorry, Hop Sing."

I nod. "Then promise me."

"I do. I promise."

"Good boy." I pat shoulder under quilt. "You sleep now. Very late. What you thinking?"

"What time is it?"

"What time? What time? Why always what time? Why you care? Too late time — later, even, I think, than last night. So sleep now."

His face light up, surprising me. "Really?"

I whisper prayer for patience in Chinese.

Crazy, this one, I think. Crazy child.

"Yes." Very stern now. "Sleep."

He does not tell me yes and he does not tell me no — just watches me with a tiger's eyes.

I blow out lamp and close door, shaking head. Morning soon — my bones tell me this is so.

I check Missy Cartwright now. Then maybe I light incense one more time.

This time, though, I pray to the Goddess of Mercy — pray for crazy son of Ben Cartwright.

TBC

Thank you, Tauna. We'll see what happens with Marie!

And thank you, Sibylle. I couldn't tell whether you've read it before or not. If you haven't, there's still a few chapters to go. If you have, well, then you know that. :) You're right - this story has no real action and is more of a character study, so I was very moved that you liked it so much. It's not the sort of story I expect the average reader to love. Writers like their stories for very different reasons than readers do - more to do with challenges they faced or styles they experimented with or things they learned in the journey of writing that particular tale. This one was especially challenging in retaining Hop Sing's voice for a sustained period of time and in seeing the Cartwrights and the Ponderosa through his eyes. It made me see them through different eyes too, so I have great affection for it.