Paper Son

All day long Lily Kirby had been complaining of headache and palpitations, of difficulty breathing and faintness. Nevertheless, when the clock struck half past seven that evening, Dr. Kirby stood before the mirror in the front hall, straightening his tie and adjusting his westcott in preparation for Poker Night at the Empire Hotel -- Dr. Kirby never missed Poker Night.

"Don't wait up for me," he called up the stairs to his wife. "I'll be late, as usual."

To Ah Sing, he murmured, "She's angry at me for going out. Oh, I can tell. Well, I can't be expected to stay in every night, now can I? Keep an eye on her for me, won't you, Ah Sing?"

"Oh, very good, sir," the house boy said, nodding vigorously to indicate he understood the injunction. "Ah Sing take good care of Missy."

"Excellent chappy," Dr. Kirby commended him absently, patting his westcott pockets to check for his billfold, pocket watch and keys. "Damned if I know what's wrong with her. . . . Up here, if you ask me." He tapped the side of his head. "Well, then, I'm off."

Ah Sing brought Lily her dinner on a tray -- a poached egg on toast, tea with a quadrant of lemon. "Ah Sing bring Missy something make pain go away," he informed her as he settled her with her tray, adjusting her pillows, smoothing her coverlet.

"Nonsense," replied Lily. She poked tentatively at the congealed egg yolk with her silver fork, eyeing it as if she didn't quite know what it was. "What have you brought me?"

"Old Chinese medicine," Ah Sing told her. "Ah Sing make special for Missy."

"Oh, no you don't, Ah Sing!" Lily exclaimed. She returned her fork to the tray without breaking the yolk. "I've heard all about the strange things you people eat -- eels and bird's nests!"

"No eels. No bird's nests," Ah Sing reassured her. "And you don't eat it, Missy. You smoke it. I made it from your poppies . . . the poppies in the garden. Here. Missy eat egg now for Ah Sing. Egg very good for Missy." Taking the fork from the tray, he pierced the egg yolk and handed the plate and fork to Lily. "Eat," he encouraged her.

"You made . . . opium?" Lily gasped. "From my little Icelandic poppies?"

"Opium, yes," Ah Sing nodded. "Chinese call it joss."

"Opium!" Lily repeated, spreading the yolk over the surface of the toast with the back of the fork.

"My grandmother taught me how. Joss very good. You like. Pain go away. Pouff!"

"I . . . I couldn't possibly smoke opium," Lily demurred, cutting off a corner of the egg-soaked toast and placing it in her mouth. She chewed. Of course she had heard all about opium dens, dark cellars lined with bamboo racks inhabited by hollow-eyed coolies that cost two bits to enter. Indeed, she had heard rumours to the effect that certain ladies of her acquaintance had been known to frequent such establishments. A great scandal, of course. Still they had yet to forfeit their place in society. "Well, perhaps I could try a little," she conceded. "The pain is, after all, unendurable. Like broken glass around my heart. . . . But no one must know, Ah Sing."

"Oh no, Missy."

"Particularly not my husband."

"Ah Sing never tell Dr. Kirby."

"All right, then," she said and, pushing the tray away, sat up on the divan, folding her hands primly on her lap. "I'll try some. What could it hurt?"

Ah Sing fetched from his pantry a pellet of opium, the pipe and needle which he had secured from the Chinese Tea and Herb Sanatorium, and a candle jammed into a tarnished brass candlestick and returned to the bedroom. "Missy lie on couch," he advised her. "Head on pillow. Very comfortable."

Lily reclined on her side, her head supported by the satin bolster.

 

 

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2008/Melissa Hardy