Outrun the Moon (18 page)

“Is that from the Bible?”

“No.” Her grin widens. “Shakespeare. If you think we can do it, Mercy, I'm in with both feet.” She wipes her hand on the front of her dress, then holds it out. I place mine on top.

Katie adds her hand. “Pile on the pancakes. Come on, Harry, pour on the syrup.”

Harry seems to startle at hearing her name. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and stares at our hands. Then, with the solemnity of a judge being sworn to office, she tops off the pile.

Another explosion booms from far away, and a siren begins to wail. But we don't let our hands fall.

INSIDE THE TENT, HARRY AND FRANCESCA lie between Katie and me, the warmest bodies of the bunch. The cold never bothered me much. Ah-Suk says it's because I have good energy, which I got from Ma.

Francesca rolls onto her stomach. “Should we invite the other girls to join us in making tomorrow's dinner?”

“They may not want to because of the looting order,” Harry says quietly.

I tap my chin. “So we give them a choice. Leave it to me.”

“We'll find some other groceries. But not like Gil's.” Francesca looks at me darkly.

“We can't bring the crates,” I say. “Too obvious.” Grass pokes my cheek through the canvas floor. “Remember the deli on Hayes where we got the sassafras? It looked intact, except for the windows.”

Francesca nods. “Maybe they'll have some crusty old bread, and I'll make chicken parmigiana with the bread crumbs.” She's so close I can feel the warmth of her breath. “Of course, we'd need to get a chicken for that, and a good knife. One chicken normally feeds about four people, but with pasta and small portions, we can stretch it.”

Jack loved chicken, especially chicken soup with lots of ginger and red dates.

I try to focus on her chatter to keep my mind off him, but it's impossible, like holding up a crate of bricks for too long. The memories come falling down. The careful way he folded his only shirt. The time he walked seven blocks with a cone of sugared ice that had melted down his arm by the time he finally found me to share it with. If only I hadn't been in such a rush to go off to school, I would have been there when the earthquake hit. I could have saved them.

Or died trying.

Dawn breaks like a duck egg, spilling a golden light into the fog. Ash litters the grass, a bleak reminder that though we may not see the destruction from our park haven, it is real just the same.

Did Ba sleep last night? I wonder again if he is safe. I wonder if he thinks I'm dead. The burned tang of smoke still hangs in the air, and the sirens have started up again, or maybe they never stopped. Maybe those sounds and smells have become part of the landscape here, as permanent as the fog and the hills.

I crawl out of our tent and am surprised to see Elodie sitting cross-legged on the wet lawn, drinking the last of the water from our fruit jar. A journal lies open on her lap, pencil in the seam.

I nod to her and rub the sleeves of my Chinese jacket. At least she could've thought to start the fire. “Good morning.”

“If you say so.” Plum-colored circles underscore her eyes.

“I heard about your mother. I'm sorry for your loss. If there's anything I can do—”

She ticks her head to the side, and her greasy hair, no longer in its elaborate hairdo, shifts in clumps. Boy does she need a bath. “You can't do anything except stop yapping,” she says sharply. “You're like my mother's old terrier, yap and yap and never give up.”

My temper flares, and my mind floods with all the insults I could hurl. That she should do something useful, drag her sorry butt up and refill the water pot or strike a damn match. That if I had a nickel for every time she rubbed me wrong, I could start a mint. That at least my mother wasn't carrying on with a priest!

But Mrs. Lowry's word
unsinkable
flashes through my mind as bright as a marquee, and I let the moment pass. We may not like each other, but now we are sisters in mourning.

“Why don't you go back home? Wait for your father there?”

She laughs, but not in a funny way. “Didn't you hear? Nob Hill is a pile of rocks. I don't have a home.” Her defiant eyes linger on me for a moment, then she tosses back the last of the water and picks up her pencil.

So it's true. Even Nob Hill has fallen. Mr. Mortimer was fond of saying that all cards return to the deck at some point—kings, queens, and even twos. He was talking about death, but it strikes me that catastrophes have the power to equalize us, just as well.

I revive the fire and set our cold pot of rice porridge on top. The mush has acquired a top layer of dust and a few bugs, which I skim off. Francesca emerges from the tent and stretches her
fists to the sky. Unlike Elodie, she looks impossibly fresh, with a rosiness to her cheeks and a brightness to her eyes. She seems more at home here than the wainscoted halls of St. Clare's.

“Good morning,” she says. Her eyes fall to Elodie. “Oh, hello.”

Elodie barely glances up. What could she be writing in there? I try to get a glimpse, but as if sensing my intent, she pulls the journal closer to her.

I lift the empty pot and wrap my arms around it. “I'm going to fetch water before the line starts up.”

“I'll come,” says Francesca.

The cow is still tethered to the gnarled cypress tree, thank goodness, and looks like it will need some relief soon. Something around the cow's neck catches my eye. It's a bit of yellow ribbon tied in a loose collar. “Look!” I whisper.

We approach the animal, which is pulling out a weed, tail flicking at flies. On the ribbon, someone has written words in dark pencil lead. It's Minnie Mae's hair bow.

“It says, ‘Forgive us,'” Francesca breathes.

“She found a way to write her letter.”

We work our way to the pump, which lies closer to the Children's Quarters. The fog is beginning to lift, revealing the continued growth in population, and not all of them with proper tents, either. There are tents made of blankets, of clothes, of crazy quilts hung over tree branches. Some folks have no cover at all and are simply huddled together for warmth. A man in a swallowtail coat approaches a woman wrapped in a blanket. He holds up a birdcage full of kittens. “Their mama ran off. If you could just take one of the babes, it would help a lot.”

The woman gets to her feet, and her blanket falls away, exposing a stomach you could balance a tray on. She rubs her belly. “Sorry. Got my own babe to worry about.”

I grab the pump handle and pull. “What's taking that army so long? Did they get lost?”

Francesca's brow ruffles. “Maybe they're fighting fires. The firefighters must be overwhelmed since they're having such a hard time getting water.”

I grimly dispense another pump, wondering if our use here is somehow costing a life. But if we don't drink it, someone else will, and we can't very well survive without it.

We slowly carry our pot back to the camp, trying not to spill a drop.

“Did you feel all those tremblers last night?” Francesca asks.

“I was hoping it was you twitching.”

More people are waking. We pass a couple of young men, who watch us port our load with interest. Or rather, they watch Francesca. Her uniform hangs primly, and she's swept up her hair into a knot.

“Won't your young man be looking for you? Marcus, was it?”

“Knowing him, he's joined the volunteer army already. He likes to order people around.” Water sloshes over the lip of her side of the pot.

“You don't like him.”

“I like him in the way that a seagull likes a rocky cliff, I suppose,” she says bleakly. “He makes a good place to roost, way up high, which of course is the reason my parents wished me to go to St. Clare's. Not everyone wants a dago in their family—we're
too loud, drunk, or garlicky for proper society. We were lucky Headmistress Crouch convinced the board to let me in.”

No wonder she has a soft spot for the woman. “The French are pretty garlicky, too,” I mutter. The pot is slipping, and I adjust my grip. “Well, the thing about seagulls is that they were born with wings. Means they can reach those rocky cliffs all by themselves, if they want, and maybe go even higher.”

Francesca shares half a smile. “I suppose.”

I consider telling her about Tom, but it's too complicated. I wonder what he is doing now. Once he hears about the earthquake, of course he'll come back, won't he? He wouldn't let a little fight with Ah-Suk stop him. Though it still might take him weeks. He'd have to find transportation. Maybe he'll swoop in on a flyer, like some rare bird. But how will he find us?

All the girls are milling about the campfires by the time we return. To my surprise, each of the Bostons have their hands snowballed around a tiny kitten. The man in the swallowtail coat found some patsies. I sigh. More mouths to feed, assuming they last the night. At least we have the cow.

I don't see Headmistress Crouch among the girls, and she is usually the first up. I consider waking her but decide against it. Let the woman sleep as long as she can.

In the distance, Katie is showing Minnie Mae how to milk the cow. Harry has taken the porridge off the stove and is stirring it cool. Folks on their way to the water pump gaze hungrily at our pot. The looks don't go unnoticed by the girls, who stare awkwardly at one another. The time has come to speak.

When Katie and Minnie Mae return with the milk, I step up
onto a crate. “Good morning, ladies.” The girls stop what they're doing and look up at me, all except Elodie, who continues scribbling in her journal. “We have all had a shaky twenty-four hours, but we have survived, and, God willing, we will emerge from this park stronger for having gone through it.”

The Boston girls observe me with suspicion marking their teapot faces, their tiny mouths pursed small as embroidery knots. Georgina regards me with her typical unsmiling, no-nonsense demeanor.

“As Mr. Waterstone loved to remind us, a St. Clare's girl comports herself with unselfish regard for the welfare of others. This holds true even when we are using the rules of comportment to wipe our shady sides.” That gets a grin out of Georgina. “So my tentmates and I have decided to make a feast for forty-four guests tonight, free of charge, good while supplies last.”

My gaze travels to Elodie, who has stopped writing. Her narrowed eyes meet mine, then she puts her nose back into her journal.

“How are you going to get enough food for everyone?” asks one of the Boston sisters. She leans her face against her fist, pushing creases into her frail cheeks.

Headmistress Crouch's cane pokes through her canvas cocoon, followed by the rest of her. Her long sleep doesn't seem to have done much for her humor. Her face is still overly bright, her lips bent into a tight frown.

I clear my throat, trying to remember what I was talking about. “We are still working out the particulars. We will ‘borrow' if we have to.”

Georgina pulls at her rope-like braid. “You mean loot? Mayor Schmitz ordered looters to be shot on sight.”

A few girls gasp, but I continue before any chatter starts. “It's only a rumor. And we don't expect any of you to help us, but we do invite you all to partake.” I smile brightly. “It will be a night to remember.”

Georgina raises her hand. “I will help. Just tell me what needs to be done.”

“Thank you. The twig forks have been helpful, but we could use real cups and forks. Maybe even some dishes.”

Another Boston sister raises her hand. “We only have four pots, and some must be reserved for water,” she says primly. “I don't see how this is possible.”

Francesca looks up from where she is stirring milk into the porridge. “One time at the restaurant, our stove broke, but we continued serving dinner. We did cold cuts and cheese and olive plates, and it was one of our best nights. There's always a way.”

“What do you think will happen if one of you
does
get caught?” says a gravelly voice from the back. Headmistress Crouch peers at me through the hoods of her eyes. Now everyone is looking at me with the same dubious expression.

The moment becomes two, then three. I don't have an answer for her. All I know is that it would be a very sad world if it was every man for himself. We are our brother's keeper under Christian rules, and Buddhist, and probably Hindu and Zulu, too. I skirt around her question. “When a law isn't just, I believe it's okay to disobey it. In fact, I believe we are morally obligated to disobey it.”

Headmistress Crouch stamps her cane. “We all know your penchant for breaking the rules. But laws exist for a reason. The army will arrive soon, and when they do, they will feed us. People should not be allowed to turn a profit on a tragedy.”

Her words hammer thin my patience. “We would not be doing this for
profit
.”

She approaches me with labored footsteps. “You are risking the lives of these girls to prove a point!”

My breath spills out of me. “What point?”

“You want to force the doors of self-respecting institutions like St. Clare's open for all the heathens and Mongols, and maybe the monkeys, lions, and bears, too!” She stamps her cane again hard, as if trying to spear a worm.

“I don't, I—”

“You have already looted, Miss Wong, stealing from this tragedy for your own personal gain.” The woman's eyes are bulging, and her face glistens with sweat.

“Headmistress Crouch!” Francesca says sharply.