Outrun the Moon (22 page)

WE CARRY BRISKY PAST A GROVE OF PINE trees, where men are installing hammocks.

“So, who is Mrs. Lowry?” Elodie asks after a while.

I gape at the burrs stuck to the back of her hair and almost stop walking. “How do you know about her?”

“You talk in your sleep. You've said things like, ‘Mrs. Lowry says, if you don't like the rules, change them.'”

Well, that's a revelation, and a notch disturbing. I'd take snoring over sleep talking, even if I don't have many secrets worth guarding. “She wrote a book called
The Book for Business-Minded Women
. It taught me a lot about life
 . . .
and business. For example, she says, ‘Adversity makes a great teacher.' I've had to use that one a lot lately.”

She stops in the shadow of a bush with popcorn flowers. “Brisky needs a rest.”

We sit side by side and watch people lighting fires and brushing the ground with branches of longleaf pine. I suppose it is the natural thing to do—make house, even when you don't have one. Ma said, a clear mind starts with a swept porch.

Most folks have tents by now, and some have personalized theirs with ribbons, flowers, or even pussy willows. Sonoran
women in bright shawls fan themselves with magnolia leaves, while their children play hide-and-seek. A white woman approaches one of the children—a girl about five—and offers a basket of crackers. Before she can take one, the girl's mother places a firm hand on her daughter's shoulder. The two women lock gazes, and though no words are spoken, a complex tide of emotions ebbs and flows between them: sorrow, embarrassment, pride, empathy, and gratitude.

At last, the Sonoran woman nods, and her daughter takes a cracker.

Maybe some of the invisible walls are beginning to crack.

“I had nothing to do with that prank with your uniform, you know.” Elodie's gaze is fixed straight ahead on a baby crawling in the dirt. “I think maybe Letty did it. But I don't know for sure. She was never happy about moving rooms.”

To my surprise, I don't feel angry at Wood Face. It doesn't seem to matter anymore. “Why do you think Headmistress Crouch made us room together?”

“Papa requested it. He thought it would be easier for you to keep your secret that way. And he said I might learn something from you.”

“That was nice of him.” The baby waves her fist in the air.

“Self-serving, you mean. As I recall, he had a stake in your secrets.”

“Why did you hate our arrangement so much? You and your mother wouldn't have to work if your father was making more money.” I take turns rubbing both arms, which feel like they've stretched a few inches longer since we picked up Brisky.

“Maman wasn't working because she
had
to.” Elodie's voice turns scornful, but for once, the scorn is not directed at me. “She wanted to keep her hand in the business. She was trying to protect herself.”

“From what?”

“From
him
.” She shakes her head. “When Maman came down with arthritis in her hip, Papa started traveling to New York, and sometimes when he came back, his clothes would smell of honeysuckle. Maman confronted him about having a mistress, and he said if she didn't like it, she could leave.”

The baby has crawled closer and finally notices our dirty selves. He begins to cry. A woman rushes over to pick him up, giving us an apologetic and slightly confused smile.

“Of course, there's no place in our circles for a divorced woman—a cripple, too. It was better for her to stay, and save for a rainy day.” Elodie's eyes cut to me.

Her mother was probably finding ways to skim, something I might do, too, if I were in her situation. I wonder if Elodie would be horrified or relieved to find out she did find comfort of a sort in the church.

“I'm sorry.”

She plucks at the grass and tosses it away. “I hoped Papa would give me the business one day, so I could help her, but he never listens to anything I say.”

No wonder she despised me. Her father was taking a risk on me, a stranger, which means he had faith in my abilities. “So you weren't really second-in-command.”

“In name only.”

Then all that work we did at the association meeting would not have mattered, anyway. I should be angry, but all I can manage is a disappointed sigh.

She levels her gaze at me. “I would have fought to hire those workers, though. It
was
a good plan.”

I nod. A corner of her journal peeks out from her beaded purse. “What have you been writing in there?”

She pushes it back into the bag. “I wrote Maman a letter, telling her how sorry I was that I wasn't there when she died. I wish I knew how it happened.”

I will never tell, but I can't help wanting to give her some resolution, the sort I would like to have.

“My ma was a fortune-teller, and she believed you could see someone's character in their face. Your mother's face was narrow, which means she was practical, and disciplined. I bet she wasn't the type of person to sit and feel sorry for herself. When life dropped an eggshell in her omelet, I bet she just picked it out and moved on.”

Elodie nods, her chin resting in her palm, eyebrows tightly furrowed.

“Her eyes were clear and open, which means she was intelligent. And there were no hollow spots underneath, which means she had a loving relationship with her child. Her daughter probably meant the world to her.”

Elodie turns away for a moment, and I can hear snuffling.

My eyes grow moist again thinking about Ma, whose eyes also had no hollow spots underneath. What was her last thought as she died? Did she know how much she meant to me?

“Brisky stinks,” Elodie says after a moment. “We should get him to the pot.”

I take up my end again. “Chinese write messages on little slips of paper, then burn them so they reach the dead. You could burn the letter.”

She looks up at the sky, and I wonder if she's trying to see her mother in the shifting clouds. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking for mine, too.

As we pass the Sonoran women, I invite them to our dinner. They nod politely, not making any promises. Maybe our bloody appearance worries them. But they do have many mouths to feed.

We pass the carousel and approach the field. At last, I can see our little encampment from here. The Pang family's tent rises on our left, cheerfully adorned with drying laundry. I wonder if
they
will show up tonight. Maybe this whole dinner will be a bust.

My thoughts are cut short when I see Ah-Suk chatting over a pot of tea with Headmistress Crouch. I nearly drop my side of the beef. He lifts his teacup to me and nods. Headmistress Crouch, caught mid-sip, lowers her cup, and her face seems to curdle, the way cream does when you squeeze lemon onto it. Did she find out about the leeches, and if so, why would she be taking tea so civilly with Ah-Suk? And if she doesn't know—again, why would she be taking tea so civilly with Ah-Suk?

Perhaps her love of tea outweighs her dislike of barbarians. As for Ah-Suk, maybe his loneliness outweighs his distrust of foreigners. Whatever the case, seeing them together reminds
me of two chess pieces from opposite sides of the board meeting in the middle.

Minnie Mae meanders in our direction leading Forgivus. The girl seems to have weaned herself from Georgina, and now spends nearly every minute with the cow. She can move her beef faster than we can move ours, even with Forgivus stopping to mow down every dandelion she sees.

When they get close enough, Minnie Mae barely seems to notice our bloodied selves, focusing more on our sack. “I hope that's not one of Forgivus's brethren,” she whispers, as if she actually thinks the cow can understand.

Elodie practically growls. “It better be or someone's getting a taste of my fist.”

I grimace, having had a sample of that before. I try to quickly change the subject. “Has the army brought any more supplies?”

“No, but the Red Cross brought blankets, candles, a washtub, and clothes.” She ticks them off on her fingers.

“What about food?” I ask.

“They said food would be coming by tomorrow.”

Forgivus moos, and Minnie Mae checks her faucets. “Milking time.” She scratches the cow on her ears. “Good girl, you've been giving milk all day. We should start calling you Saint Forgivus.”

As we make our way into our campsite, I see the place has been transformed. A line of pinecones draws a wide circle around our four tents. On the painter's cart, a boot full of irises forms an odd but striking centerpiece. Francesca fries something on one
of the stoves, while Harry and Katie are hanging a wagon wheel from a tree with rope. One end of a flowered bedsheet has been gathered around the wheel, forming a privacy curtain. Now we don't have to use the bushes for a privy.

Wouldn't Tom have liked to see
that
bit of ingenuity?

I picture him aboard the
Heavenly Blessing
, as resolute as a masthead with his jaw pointed north. Or maybe word has traveled and he's pleading with Captain Lu to reverse course. I miss him as much as a flame misses its shadow.

We are fine, Tom. Your father is a hero and in good spirits. Wherever you are, do not worry. Just take care of yourself.

Georgina and the Bostons huddle by their tent, rubbing rags over fruit jars and an assortment of utensils. They came through for us after all. Their kittens huddle together in a pie pan, a pile of black and orange fur, still managing to hold on to life with four claws. One of the girls tickles a kitten with a soaked rag, and the animal flips onto its back, trying to suck at it. The girls squeal.

Just having something to fuss over is good for the spirits, like Minnie Mae and her cow. Jack knocks at the door of my mind again, but I don't let him in this time. There is work to be done.

Francesca finally notices us trudging over and beams. “What'd you bring us, hunters?”

“His name is Brisky,” I say.

She points with her spoon to the painter's cart. “Set your friend on the table.”

Elodie and I drag Brisky to the finish line. My shoulders are
aching, and my hands are cramping into pincers. Brisky might've had an easier time carrying
us
back than the other way around.

“On three, ready? One, two, three!” We heave. The wagon creaks at the added weight but holds steady.

Harry and Katie finish their project and join us. Harry pushes up her spectacles. “You two don't look so good.”

Elodie snorts. “You're not exactly a Monet painting yourself.”

“What did you do?” Katie pokes her finger at Brisky. “Drag it off a battlefield?”

I shrug. “We did have to fight for it.”

Katie gapes. “You
fought
?”

Elodie smiles at me. “Once they knew we meant business, it was all downhill.”

She may be a pampered peacock with the temper of a rattlesnake, but she has her moments.

In the distance, two men carry a felled tree by the ends toward us.

Francesca expertly flicks her wrist, and tomatoes do a dance in the air before landing back in her pan. “Well, you can't come to dinner like that. I will ask Mr. Fordham to fetch you some water in our new tub. We'll throw in one of the hot bricks to warm it, and you can test our new privy.”

As I wonder who Mr. Fordham is, the men with the log step over the pinecone boundary and set it down between two tents.

“Mr. Fordham?” Francesca calls to them. Mr. Fordham pushes his floppy hair out of his eyes. He smiles at Francesca, the dopey kind of smile babies make when they're releasing gas.

I recognize the young man from the family we shared our spaghetti with last night.

On Mr. Fordham's heels follows another young man, well-dressed in a light suit and boater hat with a red and blue band.

“You will remember Miss Mercy Wong from last night, and this is Miss Elodie Du Lac.” Francesca introduces us. “Mr. Nate Fordham, and his friend, Mr. Oliver Chance. They were kind enough to bring us a bench for tonight's dinner.”

“Hello,” I say, unsure of myself. I did not learn the proper way to present myself to young men in my brief time in comportment. I rub my sticky hands on my pants in case I need to proffer one, but no one offers. Instead, the men bow to us and murmur “How do you do?”. Mr. Chance lifts his hat. His dark blond locks taper smoothly around the sides of his head, the work of a good barber. He is slow to remove his gaze from me, but when I lift a challenging eye, he looks away.

Elodie, who has been examining her red-stained palms in disgust, tilts her head to a practiced degree and curtsies. “
Enchanté.
” Even with her hair tangled, her sleeve ripped, and a smear of blood across her cheek, she still manages to dazzle the boys. You'd think they were being introduced to the Queen of England by the way they stammer and shuffle about.

But it is Francesca who puts the primary twitch in Mr. Fordham, judging by how his puppyish eyes keep sliding to her, how he keeps shifting his feet around, as if the grass is too hot to stand on. His kidney
yeung
must be flourishing, as Ma would say—spring fever has sprung.

“Would you mind fetching some water from the lake for us? There's a washtub over there.” Francesca points her spoon again.

“Sure thing, Miss Bellini,” says Mr. Fordham. The boys hop to the task.

“And make sure there are no leeches!” Katie calls after them.

CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS according to Headmistress Crouch, but I would rather be clean than godly any day of the week. After our baths, Elodie and I shiver in my tent while rummaging through the pile of donated clothes.

Katie and Harry poke their heads in and hand us jars of milk. I slurp mine down greedily.

With a grin, Katie punches her fist in the air. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled clothes longing to be cleaned.” She eyes Elodie, who is measuring one of several blue army shirts against her front. “I guess I'll clean yours, too.”

“You don't have to do that,” I tell Katie. “We'll wash them.”

Despite my protests, Katie snatches our soiled clothes and leaves with Harry, who carries away our empty milk jars.

While I might not have received a full St. Clare's education, somehow I picked up something better. Friends who care enough to knock on your pumpkin and make sure you haven't gone mushy inside. Maybe God realized how selfish it was to swipe Ma and Jack, and He's trying to make amends. If that's how things lie, maybe I will reconsider believing in Him. And if I find Ba, then He shall have my full attention again.

Elodie's nose wrinkles at a stain on one of the shirts. “It's like they thought only men and boys would need clothes
 . . .
these look your size.” A shirt and trousers sail my direction. The shirt must be a boy's size and fits just right, but the trousers hang loosely around my waist.

Elodie pulls on a twin outfit, then braids her hair, even pulls a daisy from a bouquet hanging outside and pokes it into the braid. I tuck my own blunt edges behind my ears, which is as fancy as it gets on my rooftop.

“If your father left on Friday, then he couldn't have made it as far as New York before getting the news. If he took the first train back, he might be here soon.”

Her eyes shift. “I suppose.” With a sigh, she shakes her head, and the daisy falls from her braid. “He didn't deserve her.”

“Maybe so. But he'll still need you. You're all he has left.”

“He'll still have his
business
in New York.” She laughs bitterly, then plucks the petals off her daisy, one by one. “You remember I asked Papa to take Maman and I to see
Carmen
for my birthday?”

I nod.

“I was hoping if we spent more time as a family, he would forget about his mistress. As you can see, he had other plans.”

“I'm sorry about that,” I murmur. “Some parents bring their children up and, I suppose, others let them down. At least we can choose our friends.”

She nods. “Are you worried about your father?” Her words come out stiffly. She is not used to caring about me.

I fold each item of clothing into neat piles. “Yes.” I checked
the Missing People Books while Elodie bathed, and the number of books had tripled. Several of my countrymen were included among the dead, but I didn't see Ba's name. “If he doesn't come by tomorrow morning, I'm going to look for him myself.”

She pulls her knees into her chest. “You can't do that. They say everything east of Van Ness is burning.”

“I have to do something.”

“What if he came here looking for you? You'd miss him.”

“Dr. Gunn will be here.” I align the sleeves of one shirt parallel to each other, like Ba taught me.

She grabs one of her boots and begins polishing it with an army shirt, obviously not caring that someone might need to wear it. “I still don't think it's a good idea. The streets are filled with criminals and riffraff.”

I scoff, remembering how her mother used that very word on me. “Some consider me the riffraff. And I doubt there are any more criminals than there were before the earthquake. There are probably less, owing to the casualties.”

She stops polishing and lifts her head. “Why did they name you Mercy?”

“It was the first word my father saw when he held me: Mercy General Hospital.” He fitted the Chinese words for “beautiful thought” around it,
mei-si
.

She smirks. “General would've fitted you just as well.”

“Hardee-har.”

In the muted light of the tent, her violet eyes look like the last bits of sky before the stars come out. In them, I find a strange comfort. It's like wearing someone else's shawl when
you're cold. I may never be best friends with Elodie Du Lac, but at least we are no longer enemies.

Outside, Francesca has expertly cut the meat, and the stewpot is giving off smells that make my mouth water. Katie and Harry thread cubes of meat onto wet sticks for grilling over the fire, something Francesca calls “kabobs.” Near their tent, the Bostons are sandwiching the cheese and salami between crackers and arranging them on a tray made from the seat of a porch swing.

My eye catches on a sign leaning against the boot with the flowers. It says
Kitchen of Mercy
in beautiful calligraphy. Ma would be
tsk
ing her tongue at the use of my name. Chinese people frown on drawing attention to yourself. But a worse offense would be pointing out a mistake that is well intentioned, so I return the smile that Francesca is beaming my way. “It's perfect.”

“Harry and Katie thought of the name, and Elodie wrote it while you were bathing.”

People are beginning to arrive, and my heart begins a jig. We're not quite finished with our preparations yet. At least I don't see any uniformed army men lurking about. May the soldiers have their own stomachs to attend to and leave us alone.

A subdued Headmistress Crouch returns from her tea on the steady arm of Ah-Suk. Does she require his assistance to walk, or is it something more?

She barely acknowledges me. Maybe it's for the best. Tragedy can give the pot a good shake, not only causing the good bits in us to float to the surface, but the nasty bits, too. Maybe it's better to skim off the nasty parts and let them go.

Francesca sends Harry and Katie to collect mint and parsley
for garnishes, then wipes her hands and helps me greet our guests: first Nate's mother, Mrs. Fordham, and his young sister, Bess; then an old man with a dog; then a handsome black couple named Mr. and Mrs. Gulliver and their baby.

Mr. Gulliver gives me a warm handshake and looks around, perhaps wondering if any other Negro families will show up.

The dimple-cheeked Mrs. Gulliver sways on her feet, the way people holding their babies always do. “Sure appreciate you having us.”

“It's our pleasure. What's your baby's name?”

Mrs. Gulliver kisses the baby's forehead. “We've been calling her Milagro, but she's not ours. We found her crying from the first floor of a fallen tenement. Couldn't find her people, so we took her with us.”

An orphan. I give the baby my finger, and she squeezes it. “We have lots of milk for you, Milagro.”

Mr. Gulliver rubs his wide hands together. “Well, it's a miracle you pulled this all together so fast. It's only been a day. Where did you get all these victuals?”

Francesca piously lowers her head. “God provides.”

A family of Italians arrives with three boys around Jack's age. The rim of the father's too-small bowler hat moves like another mouth when he talks. “I'm Sergio Vita. This is my wife, Adrianna, and these are our boys, Davy, Danny, and Donny.”

The wife, a tall woman whose square face indicates a dominant nature, pushes a brick-shaped object wrapped in a towel at Francesca. “My last fruitcake.”

“Thank you very much,” says Francesca.

Mr. Vita shakes his head. “I grabbed our coats and hats, and she takes that.”

“It's been standing in whiskey for three months; I wasn't going to leave it behind.” She folds her rolling pin arms. “You've done a lovely job here.”

“Again, thank you, but all the credit goes to Miss Wong. It was her idea.”

“How interesting.” Mrs. Vito's unconvinced eyes travel down me and stick on a rip in my pants.

Francesca clears her throat. “Are you from North Beach?”

“No, we live by the Ferry Building,” says Mrs. Vito.

An anxious bubble rises in my chest. “Do you know if the ferries are still working?”

Mr. Vito scratches the top of his hat. “Far as I know. But the place was like a shaken beehive. Don't tell me you're planning to cross town.”

I shake my head. “I believe my father was on a ferry when the earthquake hit.”

“They're directing all traffic from there to the Park,” says his wife with the air of a know-it-all. “Better you stay here and wait.”

That old contrary side of me flares to life, and I feel myself wanting to make tracks to the Ferry Building right now. Francesca steps closer and drops in my ear, “Have patience. The best thing you can do for your father is to stay safe.” She squeezes my arm.

I nod, forcing my anxiety back into its hovel. She's right. Ba has already lost one child and a wife. Plus I can't leave right now, with everyone expecting a feast.

More people press in: a family of clog-wearing Swedes with
melon-yellow hair, an elderly couple who look to be in their seventies, and men wearing coveralls smelling of fish.

I don't see the Pangs, or any other Chinese. I give the willing a handshake and do my best to ignore any strange looks. Perhaps it is odd to see a Chinese girl socializing so freely among the other girls of St. Clare's. People bunch up behind me, awkwardly standing around, not talking to each other.

Two Sonoran men appear, wearing broad straw hats and woven shawls covering their arms. Under the shawls, they each appear to be holding something bulky with a pointy end that I can't help thinking could be a rifle.

“We're so glad you're here,” I tell them, hearing my voice go high.

The men grunt. Any developing threads of conversation stop. People make way for them as they migrate to the painter's cart, where the Bostons are still working. One by one, the Bostons find somewhere else to be.

Mr. Gulliver gets up from his spot on a nearby bench next to his wife, who is holding a fussy Milagro. The man's hands twitch, as if he's preparing for a dustup. The Swedes grasp their children to them, their blue eyes fixed upon the Sonorans, while the elderly man puts a protective arm around his wife and steers her away from our camp.

I reach for my penny, squeezing it so hard I can almost hear the Indian head gasp.

What was I thinking? You can't just throw ingredients into a bowl and hope it makes
spaghetti alla gricia
. For the first time in my life, I wonder if I have bitten off more than I can chew.