First came the click of the front door lock, then the thud of his heavy American shoes dropping to the wooden floor. My silence and sleep were interrupted. I rubbed my eyes and checked the time. Garbage trucks were starting their rounds.
3 a.m.—fourth late night in a row. Just like his father.
Come morning, I peeked into my son Bing Kuen’s bedroom. He lay uncovered in his street clothes, softly snoring. His father gave him a bag of marbles for his eighth birthday—forgotten for years on the dresser. I picked his empty wallet off the floor and placed it on his nightstand. I pushed a stray lock of hair out of his face.
As I pulled his blanket up, he stirred and mumbled, “Leave me alone. I’ll pay it back, Ma,” waving me away before closing his eyes again. I caught a whiff of the sickly-sweet scent of opium he carried. For years, it had seeped into the curtains, the furniture, the walls—leaving a sticky, unclean film on my skin. I rubbed my hands as if I could wash it away.
Drawn by the familiar aroma, my husband’s spirit stood beside me, looking in on the boy. The odor intensified, the air thick with his presence. Marbles clicked and clacked when the two played on the floor. Years later, he taught his son to run numbers, keep ledgers, make a profit.
I opened the window, replacing the air in the room.
I went to the kitchen and pulled out the hidden safe. Holding my breath: two clicks left, one right, one full spin. The tumblers aligned; the door swung open. Bing Kuen had been there—just like his father, years ago.
Inside were only a few bills, barely enough to pay the butcher. I let out my breath. Placing the money underneath the stack of overdue bills, I left the safe out, door hanging open.
Lying out my last two jade bracelets on the bed, I held each to the light before slipping the thicker one onto my wrist—a wedding gift. Catching the morning sunlight, the deep green glowed from within. My skin warmed the stone, and I thought of my husband’s smile as he gave it to me.
I walked past a framed family photo from 1903. In it, Bing Kuen sat on my lap, the jade bracelet resting on my arm. I turned away—already running late for the Bay Ferry.
At the busy San Francisco Ferry Building, the streetcar line still runs right into Chinatown. But everything’s been rebuilt since the Great Earthquake and Fire. If I can’t find the shop, I’d have a good excuse to turn back with the bracelet.
The aroma of freshly baked pork bao led me to Eastern Bakery, where customers carried pink dim sum boxes tied in red string. Years before, we visited the shop as a family.
A few doors down, I saw Quong Lee’s shop. I recognized the characters printed across the red awning. Gold necklaces glistened in the window. A bell above the door rang, and Quong Lee emerged from the back.
“Hello, Chin Dong Shee,” he said formally. “It’s been a long time. Sorry to hear about your husband.”
Reaching into my bag, I ran my fingers over the cold, smooth stone one last time. I hesitated before handing it over. He took one look and gave it right back.
“Eighty dollars. I see a lot of these lately.”
“It cost three times that in Fuyue village.” I placed it firmly in his hand, turning it so the dark green vein caught the light.
Quong Lee’s left eye twitched slightly. He fingered the bangle a second too long, then smiled. He kept it.
“Okay, okay, your husband—good man. His lottery business brought in many customers. Friends for twenty years.” He paused. “Ninety. Final offer.”
A young couple, hand in hand, strolled towards the jade showcase. They pointed at a smaller bangle marked at two hundred dollars. Half that amount would buy groceries for months. I closed my eyes and saw the safe. The overdue bills. I asked for water.
“Would you prefer tea?” he asked, pulling out a celadon pot. I smiled. He poured the amber liquid into two small teacups.
“Now, you bought this with Qing dynasty money—before the Revolution. Not so valuable today,” he argued, raising a brow.
“We paid what it was worth then—investing in jade over paper. I expect to get what it’s worth now in American dollars.”
His eyes narrowing, he held the jade in both hands, turning it slightly to catch the light. I waited, tapping my finger on my lap. I imagined our wedding day—my husband’s smile.
My tapping resumed. Finally, Quong Lee raised his chin, clearing his throat.
“Ok, Ninety-eight dollars.” Reaching for the till, he added, “Hard to raise a child alone.”
I slipped the money into my purse before he could close the cash register. Stepping outside—Grant Avenue was busy now as if nothing had changed.
Longing to visit my husband before returning to Oakland, I stopped by Eastern Bakery to pick up an offering. Bing Kuen was just a year old when he tried his first bao. His little hands needed help peeling the paper off the bottom.
Pink box in hand, I caught the train from San Francisco to Colma Cemetery. Today we’d share dim sum again.
A light breeze blew as I stood by his gravestone. I rubbed my forearms, but my wrist remained cold where the warm jade once sat.
I lit joss paper and watched it curl upwards in flames, black smoke slowly spiraling into the cool winter air.
I lit a second paper, remembering him shooting marbles with his son. Without the weight of jade, I raised an arm to the sky and whispered into the trailing smoke:
Protect Bing Kuen. Before your fate becomes his.
The wind picked up the lingering scent of opium from my skin—blowing it into the ether.