The Celestials by Karen Shepard Page A

mouth was doing one thing while his hand another. Why was it thatCummings encouraged the formation of cooperative ventures as a remedy to this botched-up situation, but Daniel had to hear about their own Order’s co-op on the fly? And why cooperation in any case? You could say the only thing a course like that did was indicate that they’d given up all hope.
    Alfred thought about pretending he knew what his friend was talking about but calculated that he would uncover more by being honest. “What did you hear?” he asked.
    â€œA co-op is forming up Brooklyn Street,” Daniel said. “A pistol shot from Sampson’s.”
    â€œSmith and Company’s place?” Alfred asked.
    Daniel nodded. One question after another lined up in Alfred’s mind. “What happened to the plan for the train?” he asked.
    Daniel snorted. “It depends who you ask. Cummings and Troup say they frustrated it as soon as they heard of it. Jenny Gallagher says it was her brother what held up the telegram.”
    â€œWho’s she?” Alfred asked.
    â€œJust a girl,” Daniel said, sliding his second glass back and forth, watching the beer rock against the sides.
    Alfred hated that he had nothing but questions to offer. “Who’s her brother?”
    â€œWorks in the telegraph office. She says it was him who got the message from the Troy machinists offering their services and him who held up delivery until the train was arrived.”
    Alfred went over the last couple of weeks. Had there been nothing but meetings secret only to him? “Where’s Smith going?” he asked.
    Daniel coughed. “Up the street even further. He and someone else have formed to build another factory. Don’t know where any of them think they’re getting waterpower.” The barkeep placed a third beer before Daniel and he lifted it in Alfred’s direction before taking a large swallow. Alfred noted that his friend had not offered to buy him a second one.
    â€œWho all’s throwing in for the cooperative, then?” Alfred asked.
    Daniel said he’d heard only a few names, twenty or thirty in all.
    Alfred had spent and would spend much of his life looking for the person who would take him into account, who would sit up and take notice of the slimly built boy in the corner. Everyone so far had let him down in this regard. His family, the Hoosac Tunnel manager, Mr. Sampson, Ida, and now, perhaps, the Crispins.
    â€œWhat do you suppose they’re up to?” Alfred asked.
    â€œWho?” Daniel responded.
    Alfred tilted his head in the general direction of Marshall Street. “The China boys.”
    Daniel shrugged, both of them agreeing there was no real way of knowing.
    The China boys were, at that moment, finishing up their dinner with their customary bowls of green tea. The two cooks were washing bowls and chopsticks in the makeshift kitchen. Some of the older boys lit pipes. Others fingered whittling projects in their pockets, trying to decide whether to work on them. The talk was of their days so far and the strange ways and sounds of the pegging machines, thepeculiar smell coming off Mr. Sampson’s clothes, and the friendly girls in the sewing room with their strange hair and even stranger skin. When one called them White Devils, another responded, “White Devils I could get to know,” and the older boys laughed while the younger ones glanced around, too wary to ask for clarification.
    Charlie sat on a bench, his back against a wall. What had he been thinking, bringing these boys here? As consolation, he reminded himself that they would be living among whites in California as well. But he discovered little solace in this thought, since a small town such as this offered none of the anonymity or support of a city like San Francisco. He closed his eyes. What could come of this commingling of the races except for what his ancestors had warned?
    The cooperating