Outrun the Moon(48)

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 Katie 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.