Outrun the Moon(49)

A woman paces on her front lawn, hugging a hatbox, while her husband packs a valise full of bric-a-brac such as wax flowers and conch shells, even a brass cigar box. I can’t help being fascinated over what folks deem worthy of saving in an emergency. For once, I’m glad that my only possessions are the ones on my person—my Chinese clothes, and Jack’s penny. Less to worry over, less to carry. Mrs. Lowry’s book is gone, but I’ll always have the words safely tucked in my mind.

A woman in a dressing gown clutches at Francesca. “Please help me find my Lula!”

Francesca passes me a questioning glance.

“How old is your daughter?” I ask the woman.

“She’s my parrot,” she says hoarsely.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry.” Birds can take care of themselves.

Dust is everywhere, making us sneeze and cough. Francesca holds a handkerchief to her nose, while I shield my face with my hands, trying to ignore the raw, chalky feeling in my throat. I remove my quilted jacket and tie it around my waist, wishing I’d had a drink of water before I left.

We pass countless broken store windows and, in some cases, entire front facades lying in heaps. I’m hit by the scent of sausages as we pass by a store with a green awning. Strands of bratwurst hang in the window, and barrels of sauerkraut line the walls, ten cents a pound. The glass storefront burst and the roof slid backward, but impossibly, the door remains intact. Bottles of sassafras lie in a broken pile among the shattered remains.

I spot an unbroken bottle gleaming in the morning light. Francesca stops beside me.

“Would it be stealing if I swore to return one day and pay for it?”

“Under the circumstances, I think that would be okay.”

I think Mrs. Lowry would approve. The only way to survive in business is to survive, first and foremost. I pick it up.

“There’s no bottle opener,” Francesca points out.

“We don’t need one.” Tom was always looking for ways to pry off bottle tops. A simple solution is always on hand for those who search, he loved to say. A metal ring on a hitching post does the trick, and it only takes me three tries. I offer a drink to Francesca. She takes a few sips, then lets me guzzle the sweet liquid. We trade sips until the last drop.

We press on toward downtown, not speaking because to do so would waste the moisture in our throats. Traffic thickens and the unmistakable odor of burning wood adds to the soup of dust in the air. The destruction forces us to take a circuitous path.

With every step, it becomes sickeningly clear that the earthquake cast a wide net, and any hope that Chinatown was spared fizzles away. I feel for Jack’s penny, entreating it to bring me luck, to somehow keep Jack and Ma safe.

“You should go back.”

“Only if you do,” Francesca retorts.

We turn onto Market Street and stop short.

“Oh my God,” Francesca moans, reaching for my hand.

It’s as if someone picked up one end of Market Street and shook it like a rug. Whole buildings have been leveled, and the road lies fissured and swollen, with bricks flung about in heaps as far as the eye can see. The debris forces the masses of moving people and animals—even a cow or two—into the streets.

Farther down, I see that flames have overtaken the right side of the street, and plumes of smoke make it impossible to pass. Even from a hundred yards away, the heat licks at my face. Despite the heat, a brass sign for Fourth Street remains unscathed, mocking me.

I shiver. Today is the fourth day of the week, Wednesday, in the fourth month of the year, April.

“This way,” I say grimly.

Francesca nods, and rivulets of sweat streak down her sooty face. We backtrack a street, then change course, winding our way north to Chinatown. The frantic beat of my heart is compounded by our frustratingly glacial pace. Streets are broken pipelines of rushing humanity, pushing us backwards. One more block, and then another.

“—the Call’s on fire, too—” I hear one man tell another as we hurry by.

The newspaper building? The San Francisco Call was our city’s tallest building, fifteen stories. If that one goes, its neighbors, Mutual Bank and the Chronicle, will fall, too. Then what hope is there for our shabby tenements?

“Francesca, wait.” I retrace my steps after the men, hoping for more news.

“—wait ’til the firemen get here. We’ve got the best brigade in the country.”

“Then where are they? Whole goddamn place is gonna burn.”

“They’ll be here.”

“Excuse me!” I call loudly to their backs as people swarm by. “But do you know if Chinatown was hit?”

One of the men turns to answer me. I watch his mustache move. “Don’t know for sure. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Francesca has come up beside me, and she grimaces. A baby screams at my back, and I step aside to let through a woman holding her infant. By the time I turn around again, the men are lost in the crowd.

I continue toward Chinatown, only to be met with a new horror scrabbling toward us on tiny, clawed feet. Rats. So many it appears that the floor is moving. Francesca and I grasp each other as they spill and run over our boots, emitting shrieks of terror. I never knew rats could scream.

“Good Lord,” moans Francesca.

When the stampede thins, I shake her off. “Go back to the park!” I say hoarsely. She can do nothing for me now and will only get herself trampled, or catch the bubonic plague.