Outrun the Moon (14 page)

A LOUD BOOM CRACKS IN MY EAR, SO palpable it seems as if the air is ripping apart. For a moment, I wonder if I'm being struck down for my blasphemous thoughts, or lies, or deceit. But if that's true, why take it out on the goldfish?

The trembling under my feet becomes a shudder, and then the entire ground shifts and slips, like a giant wave is passing under me. I land hard against the pavestones, and my breath whooshes out. The sound of glass breaking mingles with a chorus of screams.

I fear the end of the world is drawing near.

Are we are under attack? Has a meteorite fallen from the sky?

A madrone tree crashes down not two paces from me, throwing dirt in my face. I scream and claw the particles from my eyes. Before another tree falls, I try to get up, but it's like standing on the back of a galloping horse. Bricks rain down in thunks. It seems the very ground is breathing.

Earthquake!

I do the only thing I can, which is cover my head and hope nothing lands on me. The smell of wet dirt mingles with the scent of my own fear. I cower, trying to make myself very small.

We've felt tremblers in Chinatown before, but never like this.
The worst that ever happened was the incense falling off the altar. It may have caused an affront to the ancestors, but it was nothing an extra offering of millet wine couldn't fix.

Ma believes earthquakes happen when the
yam
tiger, guardian of the people, challenges the
yeung
dragon, guardian of emperors who are thought to be descended from heaven. The tiger and the dragon keep each other in check, and if one grows too powerful, a fight will ensue until order is restored. Something terrible must have happened in heaven for a fight of this size.

After a count of sixty seconds—which feels more like sixty years—the trembling stops, at least from the earth. The shock rattles me deep in my bones. It feels as if my spleen is in my throat, and my teeth in my stomach.

Panting, I unfold myself, and pray to the Christian God that Jack, Ma, and Ba are okay. I never knew an earthquake to extend farther than a few blocks, and with Chinatown over three miles away, hopefully the dishes didn't even rattle.

Through the broken windows, the excited, panicked chattering of girls punctuates the eerie silence that follows.

I struggle to get to my feet, but the earth lurches again, bringing with it the sound of splintering wood and more breaking glass. Moments later, Katie, Harry, and Francesca emerge from the courtyard door. They spot me, and run over.

“The front door collapsed!” yells Katie, helping me up.

Harry spots the dead fish lying around the fountain and goes as white as the pillow she's carrying. Most of the water from the fountain has sloshed out or seeped through the cracked bricks. Only a few blackbirds twist around in the placid, impassive sky
now. More bricks drop off the building, pushing us farther into the garden.

Francesca gasps. “Look!” The herb garden, with its meticulously weeded rows, looks like a massive rodent tunneled through it, turning everything under. The orange tree that protected the herbs with its canopy shudders as if uttering its last breath, and collapses.

“We need to get out of here. The hedge! There.” I point to where a tree has sliced the boxwood in two. I hold back a branch, and the others climb through the split, one by one. The boxwood grabs at my quilted jacket as I pass through to the sidewalk.

Before I have squeezed my body out completely, Francesca clutches at me. Her startled cry is a distant sound in my ear as I emerge onto the street.

Sweet Angels of Mercy, the world has broken apart.

THE FRONT DOORWAY OF ST. CLARE'S HAS buckled in on itself. There will be no returning through that portal. My nugget of gold has slipped away, and no amount of shaking will bring it back.

An ugly fissure begins from the stoop and jags into the street. Slash-like cracks rip the school's facade, and all the windows have been punched through. I gape at the houses along the street, some sunk into the ground, some missing their chimneys.

The claws and barbed tails of the tiger and dragon have laid this street to waste.

Ma's prediction about her own death winds through me, as slippery and venomous as a water eel. I shudder, pushing that thought away. I didn't believe in Chinese superstitions before, and now would be a terrible time to start. I picture Ma in bed, slumbering with her toes stuck out of the quilt. Any minute now, she'll wake and start heating the
juk
for Jack.

My fingers find the penny. Jack is as safe as the coin in my pocket, I tell myself.

Girls stand in the street in various states of undress—some still in their nightgowns; others wrapped in shawls or blankets.
Neighbors mill around as well, clinging to others, chasing children. Some stare in shocked silence at the ruin of their houses, while others talk in agitated voices.

A keening rises higher than the chatter, loud and shrill enough to make my teeth ache. I look for the source and spot Minnie Mae, struggling toward the school while several hands restrain her.

“Ruby!” she screams.

I hurry toward them. “What happened? Where's Ruby?”

“The wall collapsed on her bed,” gasps one girl, wringing her hands. She glances at Minnie Mae and whispers, “Neck snapped. I
 . . .
I think it was quick.” Her blue eyes fill with tears.

My insides roil and cramp, as if I just drank a bucket of icy water. I cover my mouth, still scarcely believing Ruby's gone. Only an hour ago, she was laughing alongside us. I remember her shortened jade column, her fate line. If I were an actual fortune-teller, perhaps I could have foreseen her untimely death. But not even Ma could've stopped the earth from shaking.

Poor Ruby, who will never travel now, husband or no husband. I wish I had spent more time getting to know her. People so often expressed that sentiment at the graves of deceased, but not until now do I understand how they felt.

Minnie Mae stops fighting, and the keening turns to sobs that shake her bony shoulders. The other girls whisper soothing words, while farther away, Elodie stands rigidly holding her pearly purse.

God help us all.

The dust particles sting my eyes as I thread through the people, searching for Headmistress Crouch. Regardless of my personal feelings for her, the girls need their guardian.

Francesca appears beside me.

“Have you seen the headmistress?” I ask. We survey the crowds, but there is no sign of the crusty administrator. She must still be on the premises.

The girls huddle together in shock, weeping. I groan, realizing no one else is going back for her. Why should I care? She was going to toss me out.

“I'll look for her,” says Francesca.

I sigh. “No, I will. You should try to account for the others.” She knows all the girls, and they trust her, at least more than they do me. “Meet you back here.”

“Okay.” She hurries away.

I head toward the break in the hedge, but someone grabs my arm. “Why are you going back in?” Katie says breathlessly.

“To find Headmistress Crouch.”

“You think she's in the house?”

“No. I would have seen her pass me. We left the laundry together. She might've gone to the chapel.” It occurs to me that I haven't seen Father Goodwin, either.

“Then we'll use the street entrance. Father Goodwin always keeps it open after the time someone left a baby on the doorstep.”

As I follow her down the street, her gaze flits to me. “You lost your accent. You talk
 . . .
like us.”

“I was born here.”

“Yes, but I thought
 . . .”
Her cheeks pinken, and she shakes her head. “I'm sorry you had to lie.”

“And I'm sorry for my deception.”

She smiles, nudging something askew in my heart back into place.

We reach a door with a push bell. There doesn't seem to be any damage to the door frame, at least from this side.

“You might want to stand back.” I tug open the door, praying the brickwork stays intact.

To my relief, nothing falls. We venture into the short hallway, which also appears undamaged, though that only makes me more nervous. This whole time, we thought we were standing on solid earth, but the ground was as rotten as a summer squash come winter.

“Father Goodwin?” I call.

Katie knocks on the only door in the hallway. When no one answers, she attempts to open it, but it doesn't budge. Just when I think it's jammed for good, it swings open, causing a small avalanche of ceiling particles.

While Katie tears dust from her eyes, I venture in, but stop in my tracks so quickly that I nearly lose my balance. “Father?”

On the bed, Father Goodwin lies curled against a woman with his face buried in her graying blond hair.

So Father Goodwin does—or
did
—have a cocotte. A chunk of ceiling impales the unfortunate pair, and the bed has fallen to the floor, held up by a single bedpost.

Katie shrieks, then slaps a hand over her mouth. I feel her trembling beside me. “They're, they're
 . . .”

“Yes, they're gone.”

Katie doesn't want to get any closer, but I move in. “Oh no,” I breathe.

There are Madame Du Lac's delicate features—the aristocratic nose, the high brow—frozen in a last expression of peace. The night of my lark, I saw her by the convent. I remember the
chuen pooi
she longed for—to make her more attractive to her younger lover.

Despite my dislike for the woman, no one deserves such a gruesome death. She was a mother to someone, and even if I don't like
her
, either, there is no pain like losing a family member.

My thoughts return to my own family.
Whoever is listening, Mary, Joseph, or Jesus, keep them safe. May this be the only street in San Francisco torn apart, may that fighting pair have taken their struggle somewhere far away, somewhere without people.
The walls of this windowless room seem to squeeze in on me, and the scent of death hangs heavy, like flowers kept too long.

“God keep us in Your palm, sinners and all,” I whisper, reciting one of Mr. Mortimer's platitudes.

We make our way into the sanctuary. The roof has crumbled on one side, leaving the pews covered with rubble. There doesn't look to be anyone left inside, but then I hear a moan.

I hurry to the woman's side. “Headmistress Crouch!” She's stretched out on one of the benches, one hand grabbing the back of the pew, the other covering her heart. Her face is bright red and drenched with sweat. Is she having an attack?

I help her to her feet. “Can you walk?”

She nods. “It's my blood pressure. Gives me dizzy spells. It'll be the death of me.” She lifts her gaze to the crumbling ceiling.

And us, too, if we don't leave now.

“Get my cane, girl.”

I find it under the pew along with her gray felt hat.

Headmistress Crouch plunks the hat onto her head and uses the cane to drag herself forward. She comes to a halt in front of Father's chambers. “So thirsty. I need water.”

“But, we should leave,” I protest, thinking about what, or
who
, lies beyond the doorway. “It's not safe.”

“If I am going to heaven, I shall not go parched.”

Katie passes me a look of exasperation.

“I'll get it. You stay here,” I say. While the thought of seeing those dead lovers again makes my stomach roil, I suspect it'd be easier to remove a stuck nail than get Headmistress Crouch to budge. I hurry into the bedroom and grab the man's pitcher, which is still half-filled with dusty water. I quickly turn to leave.

But Headmistress Crouch is in the doorway, frowning at the scene. Behind her, Katie shrugs at me helplessly.

I help the headmistress drink from the pitcher, and when she's finished, she grimaces. No doubt the bad taste in her mouth comes more from the grisly spectacle than the water. The drink revives her enough that she shakes off our help and stumbles to the exit on her own. “God help Father Goodwin and whoever she was. We shall not speak of this matter to anyone.”

Katie's green eyes go round. Was it possible Headmistress Crouch didn't recognize Elodie's mother? Her face was half buried in a pillow.

We leave Father Goodwin with his dark secrets and return to the others.

I hardly notice the chaos around me, with the horror of that scene still fresh in my mind. I'd seen lots of corpses in my time at the cemetery, but they were always carefully arranged, and I never knew any of them personally. Despite his questionable choices, Father Goodwin struck me as a kindly sort, the sort you'd think God would keep around, especially as one of His biggest advocates.

Francesca hurries over when she sees us. “Headmistress Crouch, are you all right?”

“I can walk, can't I?” the woman growls.

Francesca nods deferentially. “Ruby Beauregard was killed in her bed.”

The headmistress takes in a quick breath, then she shakes her head. “God rest her soul.”

We turn our collective gaze to Minnie Mae, ten paces away, whose shoulders continue to tremble. One of the senior girls, a handsome and sturdy lass named Georgina, puts a blanket around her shoulders.

Francesca adds, “All the rest are accounted for, except Father Goodwin.”

“He is dead,” Headmistress Crouch says simply.

Francesca blanches, and she wrings her hands so hard, I hear knuckles crack. I decide I can never tell her the truth about him. Some memories are best left untouched.

Headmistress Crouch signals Katie for more water, and after
another draft, she says, “Our emergency plan is to meet at Golden Gate Park. Let us be off.”

Grimly, Headmistress Crouch leads the way toward the park, a wooded strip of green that runs from the center of the city to the western edge. Her water girl stays up front with her, and Harry tags along with them. Francesca and I bring up the caboose.

We slog down Hayes Street, gaping at the destruction and trying not to twist our ankles on newly fallen obstacles like tree branches and broken glass. A length of the cable car track crimps to one side where the earth has buckled.

Before I left, I explained school policies to Ma, including the evacuation plan. But as we continue making our way to Golden Gate Park, it's clear that the damage is more widespread than just our street. What if Chinatown was hit like St. Clare's, or worse?

I send up another prayer for my family's safekeeping. It's Wednesday, so Ba must have been on the return ferry from dropping laundry in Oakland. And Tom
 . . .
may he be far away from this part of the world by now.

I catch snippets of the girls' conversations.

“It's awful, awful—”

“Mother says the '92 quake only hit Tassock Lane. The rest of the city was fine.”

“We'll take a cab to the train depot—”

“There may not be any cabs. Besides, we don't have any money.”

“Think on the bright side. No comportment.”

“
Your
parents will come for you. But ours live in Boston.”

The earthquake seems a fickle beast. If you tilt your head and squint, some houses still look okay, while others suffer broken windows, sunken stoops, and cracks snaking up the sides. A pair of Victorians leans toward each other, like two heads about to gossip. Another house looks like someone took a giant hatchet and chopped it in two, splintered lumber and rubble obscuring the insides. An old man holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose cries someone's name.

Every new scene brings a fresh wave of worry for my family. The buildings in Chinatown aren't half as nice or as sturdy as those in this neighborhood. Our walls are made of thin composite that lets in every street sound, with windows that rattle when someone coughs too loud.

What if Ma and Jack are trapped under piles of debris right at this moment? Who will save them?

My breath comes in short huffs, and I wonder if I'm having some sort of fit of anxiety. I glance at Francesca, taking long strides beside me, her gaze fixed ahead and strangely calm. “You worried about your family?” I ask her.

“My parents have been living in San Jose since Christmas. Mother was getting too old for the damp here. My brother would have shut the restaurant to spend an extended Easter vacation with them. He doesn't believe in working too hard.” She plods resolutely ahead.

“I'm sorry about Father Goodwin.”

She nods. “He was one of God's finest servants.”

A family of three children and a mother stands next to their
roof, which is now on the front lawn, looking like a giant book that has fallen from a shelf. It doesn't seem possible.

“This is dreadful,” says Francesca.

I murmur assent and feel my feet slow. “I need to see my family.”

“It's too dangerous. Let's just go to the park and wait to hear more from the police.”

I sit on my worries, like fidgeting hands. Hastily dressed men on horseback trot by, and Headmistress Crouch flags one down with her cane. “Young man, what news?”

“I fear for the worst, ma'am. Phone cables are down. Man rode into the station hollering about City Hall crumbling away.”

Headmistress Crouch gasps. “Dear God.”

“We're off to see what can be done.”

Another girl in our group starts to cry, setting my teeth on edge. Headmistress Crouch sallies forth again, though this time, I can't will my feet to move.

Francesca looks back at me standing motionless.