Bless the Bride

at the red silk drapes as I waited for them to appear. I thought I saw a hand holding those drapes. A hand with long fingernails.

Eight
     
     
     
    Frederick Lee said nothing as he escorted me down the stairs and out into the street. The street was still empty, but I could hear the distant clatter of commerce from Mulberry and the Bowery.
    As Frederick took my elbow to steer me down the steep outside steps, a young man came flying up the steps, nearly colliding with us and butting me in the middle. At the last minute he checked himself, realizing that he was almost touching a white woman’s skirt, and looked up into my face with astonishment.
    “Why this person visit my father?” he demanded, not apologizing but glaring at me angrily for being in his way. And his very choice of the words, “this person,” made my hackles rise. I wondered for a moment whether he believed I was a prostitute until he added, “If she is missionary lady, then too bad. She won’t make my father change to her religion or make him change his ways.” He gave a scornful laugh, still looking at me as if I wasn’t a person at all.
    I fought back my desire to tell him exactly what I thought of him, knowing I couldn’t reveal the reason for my visit. Also I was puzzled by his calling Lee Sing Tai his father.
    “Your esteemed father requested to speak with this young woman,” Frederick Lee answered for me. He spoke with cold and measured formality.
    “For what reason?” This young man spat out the words in clipped syllables like the man he had called his father but not with the latter’s command of English.
    “As to that, it was personal business between Miss Murphy and your esteemed father,” Frederick said. “Even I was sent away while they were in discussion.”
    “Even you? You are only secretary. I am his son.”
    “A paper son. Very different,” Frederick said.
    “In the eyes of the American law I am his son. That’s all that matters.” And with that he pushed past us and continued up the stairs.
    “I must apologize for this man’s rude behavior,” Frederick said as we continued down the street.
    “That was Mr. Lee’s son?” I asked. “But I thought he had no sons. I thought the reason for bringing…” I bit off the words at the last second. It was probable that Frederick Lee did not know his employer had brought in a young bride from China, or that she was now missing. That was why he had been dismissed from the room while we spoke.
    “He is only a paper son,” Frederick said scornfully. “Bobby Lee.”
    “A paper son? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the term.”
    He looked surprised. “Perhaps the practice is not well known outside of Chinatown,” he said. “The Exclusion Act prevents Chinese men from bringing in their wives, but merchants are allowed to send for their sons. So one of the only ways for a Chinese man to come into this country is to pretend that he is the son of a merchant already here. This is simple to do. Your authorities do not read Chinese to understand our birth certificates. So if a young man in China is also from the Lee clan, who can prove he is not a true son? So he pays money, sometimes a lot of money. Mr. Lee accepts him as a son and he is allowed to enter. There are many paper sons in Chinatown.”
    “And he becomes a true son in the eyes of the law over here? He will inherit if Mr. Lee dies?”
    “This is clearly what Bobby Lee hopes. But my employer is a clever and cautious man. I am sure he has drawn up legal documents that state that Bobby Lee is not a son of his body. At the moment Bobby Lee is useful to him in his business. However, if he were to have a true son, as he so fervently hopes, then you can be certain that Bobby would be pushed aside or even sent back to China.”
    “He doesn’t seem a very pleasant young man,” I said.
    “He is not, and he has let the idea of being Lee Sing Tai’s son go to his head. He behaves as if he owns half of Chinatown. Such a man makes enemies, but unfortunately he is well positioned in On Leong, so we can say or do nothing.”
    “Does he live with his father?” I asked, wondering how much he knew about the missing girl.
    “He does not. He runs his father’s cigar factory in Brooklyn and he lives in rooms above the factory.”
    We continued down Mott Street. “May I ask if Mr. Lee wants you to continue your search for this—jade?” he asked. “I know it’s not my business, but I just wondered…”
    I glanced