Outrun the Moon (20 page)

Voices yell from somewhere behind me, but I don't move.
Maybe if I play dead—vertically dead—the dog will leave me alone.

“Get away from her!” yells Francesca. A rock glances off the concrete, but the dog doesn't notice, so fixed is he on his prey: me.

“Give me a little break today,” I coo, though my voice shakes. “I know you're hungry, but I'm tough and stringy. I'll probably give you a bellyache.”

The voices grow louder.

“Hold on!”

“Don't move! Hank, grab the pole!”

“Forget that—just pop it.”

I don't hear the rest, for the dog leaps at that moment, biting me in the arm.

Francesca screams.

Surprisingly, it doesn't hurt like I thought it would, but maybe it's the shock of the moment blocking the pain. As the dog and I wrestle for my arm, I realize that the dog hasn't bitten
me
, exactly. It's the salami he's sunk his teeth into. In my terror, I forgot about the extra arms in my sleeves.

“Okay, okay, let go, and I'll give it to you!” I cry. But the dog won't let go, and neither will my jacket sleeve.

A sound explodes in my ear.

THE DOG GOES LIMP, THEN SLUMPS TO MY feet. I grab at my ears, which ring with pain. Francesca grabs me, but I can't hear what she's saying.

“It didn't bite me; it wanted the salami,” I tell her through my tears.

Lying curled at my feet, the dog doesn't look as big as it did before. Its ears are flopped over its eyes, and its paws look like pink clovers.

The two soldiers say something to me, but they may as well be speaking Spanish.

“You didn't have to shoot it!” I cry, though my voice sounds very distant. “It was just hungry. It didn't mean any harm.”

The soldier holding the gun frowns. I should let the matter go so we can be on our way. If they discover that we're loaded with loot, we might be their next victims. But it rankles me how quickly he pulled the trigger. It's making it hard to breathe.

How easily life can end on a misunderstanding. How fragile we all are, like spider silk on a branch of thorns.

I wipe my eyes on my arm. The salamis are still hidden. Amazingly, Francesca's hat is still fixed in place, and her mushrooms are pressed tight against her chest.

She speaks, and I listen hard for the words. “If you'll excuse us now. We've all been under much stress.”

“Why, is that you, Miss Bellini?” says the sunburned soldier. “It's me, Private Smalls.” He tips the brim of his military hat and gestures to his comrade with the gun, an older man with ears that drip like candlewax. I don't catch Candlewax's name.

Francesca lifts her chin a notch, one eyebrow raised. She still hasn't recognized him.

“Er, I'm Marcus's friend? I mean, Lieutenant McGovern's friend.” He licks his chapped lips.

“
Lieutenant
McGovern?”

“Just promoted him this morning. They need officers. He's been worried about you.”

“As you can see, I am quite well.”

“It's a wonder the babe could sleep through all that commotion.” Private Smalls leans in to take a look at Francesca's bundle, but she holds the mushrooms tightly to her.

“Yes. He can sleep through anything.”

“It's not yours, is it?”

“Of course not, Private Smalls,” she says icily, drawing herself up so that she stands almost as tall as he does. Her nostrils flare like a mare encountering a snake.

“Right, of course. Where are you staying? I'll let Lieutenant McGovern know.”

“In the park, with the rest of my classmates.”

“But what of your parents?” He scratches his whiskers with an overgrown thumbnail.

“They were in San Jose with my brother, God have mercy. I expect they shall come and fetch me any day now. Tell Marcus that I'm sure he has much important work to do, and not to trouble himself over me. I'll be fine.”

“You shouldn't be walking out here with a baby, all by yourself.”

“I'm not by myself.”

The soldier's colorless eyes wash over me, probably unconvinced that I am somebody. Candlewax pushes his boot into the dog's lifeless body.

“Still, the place is crawling with criminals looking to steal whatever they can,” says Private Smalls. “We've been told to keep the order.”

“When will the army do something useful, like bring food to the people in need?” I can't help asking. Francesca shoots me a warning look.

He frowns. “We're all doing our best,” he says in a voice weighed with condescension.

Francesca takes me by the arm. “Well, our schoolmistress expects us back, and this baby needs her milk.”

“I thought you said it was a
he
.” Candlewax gives the checkered cloth a hard stare.

I stop breathing. All he has to do is reach out and touch the package in her arms to know it is not a baby.

Francesca starts jiggling the bundle. “I was referring to the baby's mother. He needs
her
milk.” Each syllable is cast like a knife. I almost expect to see nicks on his skin. “Now, if you don't mind.”

Private Smalls tips his hat, and I begin to breathe again. “I will let the lieutenant know of your whereabouts.”

Judging by the look Francesca gives me, that is not welcome news.

By the time we reach the Missing People table, my ears have not stopped ringing. It must be well past noon, and the area is overwhelmed with worried faces. I want to see if Ba's entry has been updated, but I will wait to empty myself of our loot.

“You sure you're okay? We can call off the dinner—”

“I'm fine. Remind me never to get between you and your mushrooms,” I joke, wishing she would stop worrying. We definitely will not call off the dinner now that an innocent life has been taken in its preparation. I've kept my feelings about the dog to myself. It was shot in a misguided attempt to protect me, and to complain seems ungrateful. Francesca's brow wrinkles, so I add, “I just hope we can pull it off. We didn't get enough food for forty-four.”

“Anything will be better than nothing.”

I don't disagree, though to me, the number matters greatly. I want four to stop haunting me, but more importantly, I want to turn forty-four around for Ma so it doesn't follow her into the afterlife. If such a thing does exist, I want to ensure that hers will be more abundant than the life she had here.

Francesca adjusts her hat. “I'm more worried that soldiers will show up and wonder where we got the food.”

“We'll just have to eat the evidence before it can be inspected. It seems outrageous that they would shoot a bunch of girls just for trying to feed others, but all it takes is one nervous finger. Who was that soldier?”

“One of Marcus's friends from Wilkes College. I didn't recognize him in the uniform.” She stares through the grass. It's no longer neatly trimmed, but trampled with mud slicks. “They're all rich boys wanting to play soldier, and here's their chance.”

Something catches her eye. “Look!” She points.

Fifty yards away, a line has formed near Minnie Mae, who sits on a crate milking Forgivus. I don't know what shocks me more, the sight of the Southern miss with sleeves rolled up and a determined look on her normally fragile face or that Forgivus seems to have the world's most bountiful teat.

“How much milk can one cow give?” I wonder aloud.

“All the farmers I know milk once in the morning and once at night. This one must be a special cow.”

The deaf man's image returns to me, his sad eyes and large hands, the neatly pressed overalls. “I think that man knew it, too.”

She shakes her head. “It's a miracle he showed up with her when he did.”

“And there's another miracle right there.” I nod toward our camp, where a small two-level cart has been parked. Katie and Harry are pulling tarps out of it, and half a dozen paint cans occupy its bottom level. The camp is deserted except for Elodie, who has finally stopped writing and is looking at the sky,
head cradled in her hands. Her formerly splendid boots are now caked with dirt.

When they see us, Katie and Harry hurry over. Before they ask any questions, Francesca peels back the picnic linen and gives them a peek at her sack of porcinis.

Harry looks suspiciously at my chest. “That's all you got?” she asks.

Francesca sighs. “
These
are from Parma.”

“We got a few things,” I tell her with a glance at Francesca's hat. “You just have to know where to look.”

“Well, you can put them on your new worktable.” Katie sweeps her arm toward the cart. The girls remove the last of the supplies—cans of paint, miscellaneous brushes, and a ladder.

Francesca unswaddles her porcinis. “Wherever did you get this?”

“Found it in the street. Harry and I pulled it back all by ourselves.”

After we've unloaded everything, we stand back to admire our plunder: porcinis, garlic, crackers, pasta, herbs, dried tomatoes, dried apricots, two Abbiati salamis (one with bite marks), cheese, cinnamon, wooden spoons, and a bag of rice. Last, I remove the oranges.

Francesca frowns at the bounty, which looks a lot more meager than it felt to carry. My heart droops. This will never feed forty-four people. I'm so hungry, I could polish off the whole pile in one sitting. Perhaps I will need to ask Mr. Pang to show me his fish-caning techniques. I shudder, thinking about the leeches.

Katie leans down and sniffs the salami. “Wish we could sample this right now.”

I sigh. Why not? If the lion eats a mouse now, he might have strength to catch a sheep later. “One end of the salami got damaged. Let's eat that.”

Francesca unrolls the meat from its waxy package. “I wish we had a knife.”

Katie pulls a tool from her pocket. “What about a painter's knife? I washed it.”

Francesca takes it from her and wields it by its wooden handle. The rectangular blade attached to the handle doesn't look very sharp.

She neatly cuts off four circles of salami while I take back one of the oranges. Chinese make offerings of oranges to the dead, and I'm tempted to keep this one for Ma. But Katie stares as if she was attempting to peel it with her eyes, and I know Ma wouldn't begrudge us for eating these particular fruits. Ma had her beliefs, but she was practical at heart.

One orange yields ten wedges: We each get two, with two remaining. We save the second fruit for our feast. Not bothering to sit down, we munch our salami in silence, though Francesca moans now and then. All of us save the orange slices for last.

Elodie has propped herself up on her elbows, watching us. With a subtle tick of my head, I gesture toward her. Francesca's chewing picks up, and Katie makes a face. We all know the charitable thing to do, but it's hard when the object of charity has never thrown more than salt in our direction.

“She hasn't done anything but decorate the lawn all day,” mutters Katie.

Francesca licks her fingers and surveys the rest of the park. “Where is everyone else? I need to get started. Lots of prep work to do.”

Katie rocks back and forth on her feet. “We sent Georgina and the Bostons to scrounge up dishes. We were going to go with them, but Harry overheard someone talking about a butcher's shop. It was very hush-hush.”

“What butcher shop?” I ask.

Harry's cheeks bloom. “There's a rumor that a shop on the corner of Lincoln and Second might give away its meats since they're going to spoil.”

“Then we better get there before the rumor becomes fact.”

Francesca wraps the remaining salami. “I'll go with you.”

“No, you need to start cooking, and Katie and Harry can help you.” I turn my back to them. “Elodie.” My voice slices through the air. “You look a little peckish. We have a few extra snacks here. Interested?”

“I don't take charity.”

“Suit yourself.” I turn back around. Through the reflection of Harry's glasses, I watch Fancy Boots's pride wrestle with her stomach. It only takes five clock ticks for her to pick herself up and skulk over. With a placid expression, Francesca slices a piece of salami and Harry gives her the remaining orange wedges. Elodie downs the food so quick, I doubt her tongue got a taste. She even licks her fingers.

After she chases it with a drink of milk, I tell her, “Now it's time for you to pitch in.” I remove all traces of pleasantness from my voice. As our fishmonger always said, “The sooner a fish jumps back into the stream, the better its chances of living.” I tell her, “If heaven made him, surely earth can find some use for him.”

“What's that drivel supposed to mean?” Elodie's violet eyes shrink.

“You and I are going to fetch the main course for our dinner.”

“No, thanks.” She begins to leave, but I grab the back of her dress.

“How dare you.” She whips back around.

“No, how dare
you
.” I look pointedly around our neatly swept campground and then at our hard-fought bounty on the painting cart, anger whirling in my chest like a frenzied bird.

Katie wears a satisfied smirk, and Francesca, ever the lady, is discreetly tidying the supplies. I take a breath and flap my jacket a few times to cool myself. “I need the kind of help that only someone like you can provide, and I would be grateful”—the word nearly gets caught in my throat—“for your assistance.”

Without waiting for an answer, I march south past Elodie's tent and continue toward the footpath that meanders to the southern border of the park. After the past few weeks of butting heads with Elodie, I am learning that the best way to get anywhere with her is to simply turn around.

Soon, I hear footsteps behind me. I slow a little to let her catch up, remembering when we undertook a similar mission
only five days ago. We both walked differently back then, our dreams making us tall and sure-footed. She had her mother's proud nose, and I, Ma's bossy cheeks.

Who are we now, without mothers to define us? Where will our paths lead? I don't actually believe Fancy Boots can fetch meat better than the others, but something tells me she needs me more than she thinks.