In the Shadow of Blackbirds(80)

“Do you have the flu, too?” asked the man on our way down the stairs. “You sound feverish.”

“No, I’m fine. I just haven’t slept in twenty-four hours, and no one would come get her, and Stephen’s waiting for me.”

He maneuvered Aunt Eva out the front door. “Where is someone waiting for you?”

“He’s probably shivering down in the shadow of blackbirds again … um … Coronado, I mean. Did I just tell a stranger about the blackbirds?”

Something rustled in the white branches of the eucalyptus when we passed beneath its long, fragrant leaves, and I wondered if Oberon was perched up there, waiting for the door to open again so he could fly inside.

“Where are your parents?” asked the man. We were halfway back to his house.

“Gone. Dad said the flu wouldn’t be so bad in San Diego with all the warm, fresh air, but that’s not the first time he made a mistake. Why are you helping my aunt when you must be sick with worry about your wife?”

“It’s better than thinking I allowed someone to die.”

“That’s good of you.” Goodness—there was still goodness in the world. “I started thinking I was the only one left alive.”

The ugly officer waved at us to move faster. “Hurry up—we need to get going.”

The man nestled Aunt Eva in the back of the ambulance, squeezing her between his shaking wife and a white-haired woman with a face too young for her hair. They all wore dainty ivory nightgowns. Three sleeping angels. The last thing I saw before the officers shut the door was three pairs of bare feet, lined up in a row. Aunt Eva’s looked darker than the others.

“Wait!” I lunged for the door. “Her feet looked black.”

The ugly officer grabbed my arms and pushed me away. “We can’t wait any longer.”

“Her feet looked black.”

“It’s too dark to tell.”

“They looked black. Let me see.”

“We’ve got to go!” He forced me down to a seated position on the street. “Stay right there, and don’t you dare get up. You’re not helping anyone right now.” He took off toward the driver’s seat.

“Let them go.” The man who had carried my aunt seized my elbow before I could shoot back toward the ambulance. “Your aunt is in good hands.”

“Her feet looked black.”

“It may have just been the lack of light.”

“I didn’t even say good-bye.”

“She’ll be all right … It’s all right.” The man put his arm around my shoulders and led me over to his crying children and the grandmotherly woman, while the sirens blared. “Do you want to come inside with us? None of us are feeling well, but at least we can be sick together. You seem to be alone.”

I shook my head. “Stephen told me in that letter about the war to be careful offering my trust to people. He’s waiting for me. If I’m going to drop dead from the flu, I need to go to his house while I’m still able. I’m so tired.”

“Why don’t you get some sleep before you find this person? You really look like you’re getting the flu.”

“I’m not sick. I’m just tired.” I pulled myself out from under the man’s comforting arm and backed away. “Thank you. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to help someone before I die. My mother didn’t lose her life just so she could send a useless girl into the world. There’s got to be something more.”





BACK IN MY BEDROOM, I STUFFED MY MOTHER’S LEATHER doctor’s bag full of my treasures—Stephen’s photographs, his letters, my goggles, The Mysterious Island, my mother’s coin purse, Dad’s note. I crammed everything inside the cloth-lined compartments with the same urgency as when I had packed for San Diego the night my father warned me people might be coming for him. The brass gear necklace with the lightning burn went over my head and shimmered on the bodice of my best dress—the black silk taffeta one I’d worn to Stephen’s funeral. The garment still smelled of sulfur and sorrow, but my plans for the morning required my finest clothing.

Downstairs, I put on my coat and tucked an onion in my pocket. And a potato. Our next-door neighbor in Portland, Miss Deily, insisted a potato in the pocket would scare away the flu, and I was willing to do absolutely anything to buy a few more minutes. I tied my flu mask in place and lifted my leather bag by its handles.

Outside, the sky to the east blushed pink, a color that would have looked brilliant in a chemist’s glass flask. I pulled my coat around me and headed south to the center of the city, feeling like the earth’s sole survivor. Smoke hung across the sky in a cloud that sprinkled ashes on the silent streets and sidewalks. I didn’t know if I was smelling chimneys battling the November chill or crematoriums disposing of the dead, but the city looked and felt like the Germans had just bombed us. The stacks of coffins in the undertaker’s front yard spilled out to the sidewalk, and the stench was overwhelming. I held my breath and kept walking.

Death bit at the backs of my ears. I told you I was coming. Get ready. I’m here.

“You’re not here yet,” I said. “I’m still upright and walking, aren’t I?”

I clutched my mother’s bag and walked five more blocks to Mr. Darning’s photography studio, not far from the site of the Liberty Loan drive where Aunt Eva had purchased my goggles in another life. The red automobile that had been parked outside our house during the photographer’s visit sat next to the curb.