Outrun the Moon Page 15

  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 Kat
ie 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.

  “I have to make sure they’re okay.”

  She starts to say something, and I think she’s going to try to stop me again. She glances at the departing girls and then back at me. “I’ll come with you.”

  I protest, but she is already marching down the street.

  22

  AS WE DESCEND TOWARD DOWNTOWN, each block toys with my emotions. The damage is minimal on one block and I go back to thinking that the earthquake only hit the corner of the world on which St. Clare’s stands. But one street later, an entire row of wooden houses lies in shambles—foundations sunk and piles of rubble standing where walls used to be—and I’m back to fearing the worst.

  A woman paces on her front lawn, hugging a hatbox, while her husband packs a valise full of bric-a-brac such as wax flowers and conch shells, even a brass cigar box. I can’t help being fascinated over what folks deem worthy of saving in an emergency. For once, I’m glad that my only possessions are the ones on my person—my Chinese clothes, and Jack’s penny. Less to worry over, less to carry. Mrs. Lowry’s book is gone, but I’ll always have the words safely tucked in my mind.

  A woman in a dressing gown clutches at Francesca. “Please help me find my Lula!”

  Francesca passes me a questioning glance.

  “How old is your daughter?” I ask the woman.

  “She’s my parrot,” she says hoarsely.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry.” Birds can take care of themselves.

  Dust is everywhere, making us sneeze and cough. Francesca holds a handkerchief to her nose, while I shield my face with my hands, trying to ignore the raw, chalky feeling in my throat. I remove my quilted jacket and tie it around my waist, wishing I’d had a drink of water before I left.

  We pass countless broken store windows and, in some cases, entire front facades lying in heaps. I’m hit by the scent of sausages as we pass by a store with a green awning. Strands of bratwurst hang in the window, and barrels of sauerkraut line the walls, ten cents a pound. The glass storefront burst and the roof slid backward, but impossibly, the door remains intact. Bottles of sassafras lie in a broken pile among the shattered remains.

  I spot an unbroken bottle gleaming in the morning light. Francesca stops beside me.

  “Would it be stealing if I swore to return one day and pay for it?”

  “Under the circumstances, I think that would be okay.”

  I think Mrs. Lowry would approve. The only way to survive in business is to survive, first and foremost. I pick it up.

  “There’s no bottle opener,” Francesca points out.

  “We don’t need one.” Tom was always looking for ways to pry off bottle tops. A simple solution is always on hand for those who search, he loved to say. A metal ring on a hitching post does the trick, and it only takes me three tries. I offer a drink to Francesca. She takes a few sips, then lets me guzzle the sweet liquid. We trade sips until the last drop.

  We press on toward downtown, not speaking because to do so would waste the moisture in our throats. Traffic thickens and the unmistakable odor of burning wood adds to the soup of dust in the air. The destruction forces us to take a circuitous path.

  With every step, it becomes sickeningly clear that the earthquake cast a wide net, and any hope that Chinatown was spared fizzles away. I feel for Jack’s penny, entreating it to bring me luck, to somehow keep Jack and Ma safe.

  “You should go back.”

  “Only if you do,” Francesca retorts.

  We turn onto Market Street and stop short.

  “Oh my God,” Francesca moans, reaching for my hand.

  It’s as if someone picked up one end of Market Street and shook it like a rug. Whole buildings have been leveled, and the road lies fissured and swollen, with bricks flung about in heaps as far as the eye can see. The debris forces the masses of moving people and animals—even a cow or two—into the streets.

  Farther down, I s
ee that flames have overtaken the right side of the street, and plumes of smoke make it impossible to pass. Even from a hundred yards away, the heat licks at my face. Despite the heat, a brass sign for Fourth Street remains unscathed, mocking me.

  I shiver. Today is the fourth day of the week, Wednesday, in the fourth month of the year, April.

  “This way,” I say grimly.

  Francesca nods, and rivulets of sweat streak down her sooty face. We backtrack a street, then change course, winding our way north to Chinatown. The frantic beat of my heart is compounded by our frustratingly glacial pace. Streets are broken pipelines of rushing humanity, pushing us backwards. One more block, and then another.

  “—the Call’s on fire, too—” I hear one man tell another as we hurry by.

  The newspaper building? The San Francisco Call was our city’s tallest building, fifteen stories. If that one goes, its neighbors, Mutual Bank and the Chronicle, will fall, too. Then what hope is there for our shabby tenements?

  “Francesca, wait.” I retrace my steps after the men, hoping for more news.

  “—wait ’til the firemen get here. We’ve got the best brigade in the country.”

  “Then where are they? Whole goddamn place is gonna burn.”

  “They’ll be here.”

  “Excuse me!” I call loudly to their backs as people swarm by. “But do you know if Chinatown was hit?”

  One of the men turns to answer me. I watch his mustache move. “Don’t know for sure. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  Francesca has come up beside me, and she grimaces. A baby screams at my back, and I step aside to let through a woman holding her infant. By the time I turn around again, the men are lost in the crowd.

  I continue toward Chinatown, only to be met with a new horror scrabbling toward us on tiny, clawed feet. Rats. So many it appears that the floor is moving. Francesca and I grasp each other as they spill and run over our boots, emitting shrieks of terror. I never knew rats could scream.

  “Good Lord,” moans Francesca.

  When the stampede thins, I shake her off. “Go back to the park!” I say hoarsely. She can do nothing for me now and will only get herself trampled, or catch the bubonic plague.