Calico Palace (63 page)

Dwight’s two rooms were each eight by ten feet, spacious for San Francisco. One was a bedroom, the other was furnished with a couch, a bookcase, a chair, and a drawing table. Between the rooms Dwight had left a narrow hallway, which he used as a closet for his clothes and other possessions. They knew they were lucky to have such a haven. But they knew also how much they had lost. Rosabel crumpled up in a corner and cried helplessly. Marny let her own poke of gold fall on the floor, and stood looking down at it, despair on her soot-smudged face. Kendra went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. Marny turned with a bleak smile.

“Maybe I should have stayed home and married a college professor,” she said. “Think of all the thrills I’d be having now, pouring tea for the faculty wives.”

Kendra gave Marny’s shoulder an understanding squeeze. No matter how much this new defeat hurt her, Marny would raise the Calico Palace again.

By eleven o’clock in the morning most of the fire had been put out, though from the windows they could see smoke clouds hovering over the ruins, and here and there little flames still fluttering in piles of red embers. About noon Dwight came in, bringing a lunch of cold greasy beef and cold greasy potatoes. With a sad grin he said he knew the stuff was not fit to eat, but it was all he could get, and he had brought some good wine to help. As the girls had had nothing to eat since yesterday, they washed down the food with wine and thanks while Dwight told them about the destruction.

The fire had devoured the richest blocks in town, from Dupont Street to Montgomery. All the gambling palaces around the plaza were gone. So were Blossom’s flower garden and the most sumptuous of its rivals. And not only these, but banks and hotels and stores and warehouses, and merchandise worth millions of dollars. The fire had been halted before it reached Chase and Fenway’s, but the
Alta California
building was gone and so was Hiram’s bank. Pocket’s library had barely escaped, with a side wall of the building badly scorched. There had been no tally yet, said Dwight, of the persons who had been killed or hurt in the fire.

When they had finished lunch, while Dwight and Marny talked about their own plans, Kendra went to a window. As she looked over the stretch of smoke and rubble she felt sick.

She felt sicker still when Marny told her more of the news Dwight had brought. He went out, and Rosabel, who had drunk rather more of the wine than was strictly necessary to wash down the beef, curled up on the couch and fell asleep. Marny and Kendra sat by the table and talked.

Yes, said Marny, this fire had been like the first fire, but worse. And there was another hideous difference.

The Christmas fire had been a tragic accident. But this fire of May was no accident at all. Somebody had started it on purpose. Some fellow who had been lucky at looting last time and wanted to do it again. Or maybe one who had not been lucky last time and thought he might do better if he gave himself a second chance.

There was no question about it. Walking around San Francisco right now was a man gloating over the horror he had caused.

“Or maybe two or three men,” said Marny. “Buddies. One to look out, one to pile the tinder, one to strike the match—”

“Oh, stop!” cried Kendra. “I don’t believe it.”

She stood up. She was still wearing the Chinese robe of quilted satin, scorched and dirty now. Marny’s robe of brown wool was equally scorched and dirty. Neither of them had anything else to wear. Clothes, though, were trivial. Kendra had lost little in this fire because she had little to lose. But she thought of Marny’s Calico Palace, of Hiram’s bank, of all the other property turned to ashes, of death and torture in the flames. She thought of what that other fire had cost herself, and she thought of the people whose lives had been blasted last night as her own life had been blasted last winter.

Such anguish was bitter enough when you knew it was nobody’s fault, when everybody around you wanted to help. But for any human being to be so empty of humanity as to cause this with deliberate hands—she wanted to cry out that such a thing could not happen.

She walked to the end of the room. Rosabel, sound asleep on the couch, drew a deep easy breath. Kendra walked back and stood in front of Marny.

“I don’t believe it,” she said again. “Marny, people
can’t
be that wicked!”

“Oh yes they can,” Marny snapped back. “It’s been tried before. Didn’t you know that?”

No, Kendra had not known it. Marny was surprised. The whole story had been published in the papers. But this had been shortly after the first fire, at a time when Kendra had been too numb to read a paper or to remember any news she might have heard. In a voice harsh with anger Marny told her what had taken place.

About four o’clock on a January morning the customhouse watchman, making his regular round, had caught sight of smoke coming through a window of an unfinished house near by. He had sounded an alarm, and men living in the neighborhood had rushed out to join him in putting out the fire.

It was plain to them all, said Marny, that the fire had been set. Scattered over the floor of the half-built house had been a lot of chips and shavings left by the carpenters when they quit work the day before. The arsonist had pushed these chips and shavings into a pile, under an opening made for a window but not yet glassed in. He had put a match to the pile and slunk off to wait.

But by good fortune a drizzle had begun. The drops blowing in through the window had not been enough to quench the fire, but the shavings were dampened so that they smoldered and smoked instead of burning, and the watchman saw the smoke in time to give the alarm. There had been no damage to speak of, only a plank or two scorched. But the fact was there. Some scoundrel had tried to repeat the Christmas holocaust.

The same thing, said Marny, had happened last night. This time the arsonist had chosen his location more carefully. He had set the fire in the “building” called the United States Exchange, the one that had been run up in eleven days so Mr. Denison could hurry back into business. After closing time, two faro dealers had heard a noise and smelled smoke. Investigating, they had found a pile of flammable stuff—including some rags soaked in oil—burning under an open window. They had shouted an alarm, but nobody could stop this fire. There was no drizzle last night. With its wafer-thin walls and its room dividers of cotton blankets, the place had burned like kindling. The buildings on either side, not much more sturdy than the Exchange itself, were sizzling within a minute or two after the men had given the first alarm.

Like Kendra, Marny stood up and went to the window and looked over the ruins.

“If I knew who did it,” she said, “I’d like to kill him.”

Kendra, sitting in the chair by Dwight’s drawing table, shrugged wearily. “What good would that do?”

“At least he couldn’t burn up the Calico Palace again.”

“Somebody else could,” said Kendra, with a cynicism she had never felt before. “If one man is so evil there can be more.”

“Well, a good shooting would ease my temper,” Marny retorted. “And right now that would be reason enough.”

For the next few weeks they lived in the Gresham Hotel. Marny shared Dwight’s room, while in the other room Rosabel slept on the couch and Kendra on a mattress bought from Chase and Fenway’s and laid in the middle of the floor. They were not comfortable, but they were less uncomfortable than most people in town, and they were thankful.

Hiram and Pocket came up the day after the fire. Hiram consulted with Dwight about a new building for the bank, and both he and Pocket offered the girls their services.

Hiram, who had been living over the bank, was now sharing Pocket’s quarters in the library. In spite of the loss of the bank building Hiram was cheerful. He said he and his partner Eustis had rescued the safes, with most of their coins and dust and valuable papers. Now all they needed was a shelter for their business. Maybe it was too much to ask that the shelter be fireproof.

“It’s not too much to ask,” said Dwight. His voice was stern with resolution. “There
are
such things as fireproof buildings. I’m going to build them. But not,” he added fiercely, “in eleven days.”

Hiram grinned. He admired such forcefulness. “Nobody asked you to,” he said.

Taking lists of what the girls needed, Hiram and Pocket went off to Chase and Fenway’s. Before long they came back laden with packages. Later the same day Mr. Fenway called. He told Rosabel the store had just received three fine new pianos, and he would be happy to have her come in any time it suited her, to try them and choose one for the Calico Palace. Rosabel said she would love to try the pianos as soon as she had a dress to wear, and while she was sewing on the dress would Mr. Fenway
please
make sure the pianos were in tune. Mr. Fenway solemnly promised to do so.

Kendra asked him to take a note to Serena Watson, asking if Serena would do some dressmaking. The next morning Serena came in to say she would be glad to have the work. A little extra money was always handy. (Serena was joyfully pregnant, but she was too kind to say she did not have to spend her time making baby clothes because Kendra had given her the clothes her own baby had left when he died.)

Almost shyly, Dwight asked Kendra if she would prepare meals for the four of them. He said her cooking, which he had sampled at the Calico Palace, had spoilt him for the meals served in the restaurants. He would gladly pay her whatever she asked.

“Don’t be silly,” Kendra exclaimed. “Of course I’ll cook if you’ll set up a kitchen. As for pay—aren’t you giving me a place to live?”

But Marny told her privately, “Please let him pay you a little dust, Kendra. He wouldn’t feel right otherwise. Dwight’s the proud sort. And right now he’s ashamed of himself.”

“Ashamed? What for?”

“For the way his buildings went down in the fire. He’s going to put up some fireproof buildings if it kills him. When he gets them up he’s likely to set the town on fire himself, just to prove they won’t burn.”

So Kendra accepted a salary of half an ounce a day, which was the usual pay for barmaids. Dwight wanted to give her more, because cooking required more skill than pouring drinks. But he was providing the food, and Kendra said that as he was giving her both board and lodging she would take no more. Dwight laughed, and offered Rosabel a salary to be Kendra’s assistant. Rosabel was no expert at cooking, but she said she would like to learn. They managed very well.

For their kitchen, behind the hotel Dwight set up an iron house twelve by sixteen feet. These iron houses were brought out from the States in pieces. The edges were grooved, so that the parts slid together easily, and two men could put up such a house in a day. There was an opening for a stovepipe and others for windows, and Dwight put in panes and shutters. Kendra found it an adequate kitchen, not attractive to rats.

Every morning, before the wind began to blow up the dust, Kendra and Rosabel went out with baskets on their arms and guns at their belts, to buy their dinner. Often they stopped at Chase and Fenway’s. While Kendra shopped, Rosabel played one of the new pianos, to the enjoyment of both Mr. Fenway and herself.

Not long after the fire, Kendra received two letters by the steamer mail. One came from Eva at Hampton Roads, the other from Loren’s brother Clifford Shields in Boston. Both were written in response to Marny’s letters telling about the deaths of Loren and the baby, and both were written to offer Kendra a home.

Eva’s letter was graceful and gentle. “I know you are suffering heartbreak, my dear girl. But you are young, and life is still open to you. If you can come to us, you will be welcome. Your friend Miss Randolph did not mention your financial situation, but if there is any problem here, Alex will gladly defray your expenses.”

The letter from Clifford Shields had a tone of real affection. He said Loren had written him about his happy marriage, and he was grateful to Kendra for having made it so. “I shall always regard you as my sister,” wrote Clifford. “If you can come to Boston, my wife and I will be happy to receive you.”

As she read the letters, Kendra shook her head.

—Thank you, she thought, but no. I am not going to accept anybody’s kindness. Here with Marny and the Calico Palace, I’m independent and I’m
wanted.

She declined the offers as graciously as she could, and went on doing the work she liked to do.

Marny too was working. As they had done when the Calico Palace burned for the first time, she and Norman and the Blackbeards had rented space in the hotel for their gambling tables. Norman had taken a bedroom in the hotel, and invited Rosabel to share it, but she thrust out her lip at him and refused. “You’ll let me stay with you, won’t you?” she asked Kendra. “I’m mad at Norman.”

“Of course you can stay with me,” Kendra answered. She said no more, but she thought—You poor silly girl, can’t you get it out of your head that Norman is going to marry you? He’s not going to.

In their free time Norman and Marny conferred with Bruno Gregg about pictures, and bought equipment for the new Calico Palace. Sometimes Kendra went to the auction rooms with them. She enjoyed seeing the mirrors and hangings and fine furniture, and hearing the spiels of the auctioneers, and listening to Blossom and Blossom’s colleagues outbidding each other for trappings to embellish their parlor houses.

Dwight spent many hours on his plans for the new building. He moved his drawing table into his bedroom so he would not be disturbed by Kendra and Rosabel. Two small buildings, both banks, though in the heart of the fire, had withstood it.

“That proves,” Dwight said vehemently to Marny, “buildings
can
be made fireproof.”

Marny was taking a rest from the card table while Kendra and Rosabel prepared dinner. Dwight sat by the drawing table, Marny stood looking out of the window. In the sunset light she saw the burnt-over district. The new buildings were shooting up as fast as before, most of them no better than those that had gone down in the fire. And yet, as Kendra had said, some villain might start another fire; or, careless as men were with their cigars, anybody might start one. In a voice of exasperation Marny exclaimed, “Won’t people in San Francisco ever learn?”