In the Shadow of Blackbirds(46)
“I said I’m sixteen, not six.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Instead of responding, I opened the wide mouth of my mother’s black bag and crammed it full of books.
The librarian ducked below the counter. “Here.” She stood up straight again and slid a red pack of garlic-flavored gum across to me. “Take a stick or two. I can’t stand the thought of sending a kid across town without some flu protection.”
“You sound like my aunt. If she had her way, I’d be bathing in onion soup every night.”
“Just take it, please. Take the whole pack. I can buy another.” She folded her slender hands on the counter. “It would be a shame to waste all that curiosity to the flu.”
I took the pack, and to make her feel better, I even slipped my mask down for a moment and popped one of the foul sticks of gum in my mouth. Instant tears careened down my cheeks. “Ugh.” I spit the gum out in my hand. “This is awful.”
“Just chew it, OK? Stay safe out there.” She nodded toward the exit. “Now go on. I’m getting tired of crying over kids who don’t have anyone to watch over them anymore.” She turned away from me and stooped down to a collection of books on a low shelf behind her.
I hesitated, soothed by the taste of concern trailing off her, almost tempted to stay. She looked back to see if I had gone, her eyes shining with tears, so I thanked her and slipped away.
I GAGGED ON THE TASTE OF THE GARLIC GUM WHILE A bright yellow streetcar carried me along the rails to the hills above San Diego. Three businessmen in smart felt hats rode with me, probably on their lunch break. They buried their gauze-covered noses in the San Diego Union, and one of them read the October influenza death tolls out loud.
“Philadelphia: over eleven thousand dead and counting—just this month. Holy Moses! Boston: four thousand dead.”
The use of cold statistics to describe the loss of precious lives made me ill. I crossed my fingers and hoped that Portland wasn’t a big enough city to mention. Hearing the death toll up there—worrying about my father in that crowded jail—would have probably killed me.
“New York City: eight hundred and fifty-one in just one day—eight hundred and fifty-one! Can you believe that?”
“Laurel Street,” called the conductor from his post by the center doors.
I pressed a fancy little nickel-plate button inlaid in mother-of-pearl, relieved for the chance to escape. The car came to a gentle stop on a flat part of the street.
“Where’s the bridge to Balboa Park?” I asked the conductor before heading down the steps.
“Straight to the east.” He pointed with a long arm, and like the librarian, he added, “You can’t miss it.”
He was right. A nearsighted person without glasses could have spotted it from more than a block away: an elaborate arched concrete bridge spanned a pond and a canyon, and on the other side of the hundred-foot drop rose a city of Spanish colonial palaces, straight from the pages of a fairy tale.
I walked briskly across the bridge, eager to reach the Red Cross House and urged on by a feeling in my gut that someone there would be able to help me with Stephen. I ran below curved balconies, wrought-iron railings, and plaster pillars sculpted with intricate flowers, grapes, and rambling vines. It would have been amazing to simply stand there and gape at the architecture, but not when I had a mission.
The building I sought stood out like a beacon, for a large red cross marked its roof. I slowed my pace as I approached the daunting entrance, my heart thumping as if I were about to come face-to-face with Stephen himself.
Inside, the main room must have stretched two hundred feet across, and bandaged, wounded men were everywhere. They read and slept on sofas and padded leather chairs, or hobbled about on crutches. Others were confined to wicker wheelchairs. A few groups who didn’t look as battered as the rest huddled around tables and played cards. Canaries sang from wire cages. Two open fireplaces warmed the air. No one, save those warbling canaries, made much noise.
Along with the garlic fumes heating my tongue, the rancid taste of suffering drenched my mouth, as if someone were pouring week-old soup prepared with spoiled meat and stagnant water down my throat. I yanked off my gauze and threw the wad of gum into a wastebasket.
A woman with eyes as amber and narrow as a cat’s came my way in a white Red Cross hat and clip-clopping heels. She straightened her flu mask over a nose that appeared rather large, smoothed out the crisp apron covering her pressed gray uniform, and took a long look at my doctor’s bag.
“I’m not a doctor,” I said. “I’m just carrying some library books in the bag.” I tugged my gauze back over my mouth and nose. “It belonged to my mother.”
“Oh.” She blinked like she didn’t know how to respond to such an introduction.
“My name is Mary Black,” I tried again, omitting the “Shelley” to avoid associations with Frankenstein and Germany in an American Red Cross building. “I’d like to volunteer to help the men.”
She surveyed my appearance, from the childish white ribbon tying back my hair at my neck to the worn-out Boy Scout boots that were coming unlaced. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen. And a half.”
“That’s a little young to be witnessing the state of some of these men. Most of our volunteers are married women who’ve seen a bit of life already. They’ve experienced childbirth. They’ve lost husbands.”