Outrun the Moon(54)

Elodie hasn’t moved an inch from her pine tree. I say to no one in particular, “If any feel inclined to collect firewood while we are away, that would be very helpful.”

Headmistress Crouch surveys our activity while hunched over her cane, lips puckered in disapproval. “What if there are bandits? The place is in chaos. Young ladies walking about, unattended . . .”

“We have nothing to steal. Only our hair.” Katie considers her auburn strands.

Harry scratches her leg with her other foot, looking uneasy.

Headmistress Crouch stamps her cane, sending up a cloud of dirt. “It is not your hair I am worried about,” she says through clenched teeth. The pouches under her eyes look especially prominent. “The city is full of desperate men. Who knows what could happen.”

“We won’t survive long without fire for heat and boiling water. I’ll take one of these.” I retrieve a brush from one of the crates and stick it in my waistband.

Katie says out of the side of her mouth, “If they take our hair, we can brush it for them first.”

I didn’t think I would ever smile again, but one wants out. Before it escapes, I lead us over freshly cut grass to a stone-lined pathway. I can tell by how the shadows fall that it must be three or four o’clock, not as late as the gray skies might suggest.

A group of Irish refugees are busy digging holes in the ground. I shudder to think of what, or who, they could be burying. Farther away, a congregation of Spaniards kneel with their heads bowed, and a hundred paces beyond them, several Negroes are erecting some sort of lean-to with crates.

And so, the neighborhoods are built.

We continue to the eastern edge of the park, where a dozen or so people have gathered around a table. We angle for a better look.

Francesca, the tallest of us, stands on her toes. “They’re looking at a book.”

I put down my end of the crate. “Harry and Katie, you stay here.”

Francesca and I thread our way into the crowd, and a woman in a stovepipe bonnet asks, “You have someone to report?”

“Report?”

“Missing, deceased, or found.”

“Oh. Well, yes.”

She hands me a book, and a shaved pencil. “The names are listed alphabetically. Indicate status with M, D, or F, and add your location so they know where to find you.”

I look for Ma, Ba, Jack, and Tom, but there are no entries under any of their names. Francesca and I write down everyone we can think of at St. Clare’s. I add entries for my family, and for Ah-Suk and Tom, including their Chinese names, in case anyone’s looking for them. I turn to follow Francesca back to the others, but at the last minute, I remember another entry.

“One more, please,” I tell the woman.

She gives me back the book, and I write Madame Du Lac, D. Then I hand it back to her. “There are people near Alvord Lake who I am sure would like to know about these books.”

Her bonnet wags up and down. “I will see to them.”

May the news fall as gentle as snow on Elodie.

Collecting Harry and Katie, we march to the edge of the park. Francesca briefs the girls on the Missing People Books.

The path leads us a few hundred more feet to the mouth of Haight Street. On the flat corridor, the cable car tracks run straight to Market, then up to the Ferry Building. But the cars are tucked away in their barn, probably for a long sleep. We step over debris, following the tracks. Seven thousand dollars used to buy one of the attractive Queen Anne homes here. Who knows what they’re worth now, or what anything in this city is worth, for that matter?

Maybe no one will want to live here anymore, with the ground so shaky. Maybe even the houses on Nob Hill will go for a song. The notion that I could afford such a residence now that Ma and Jack will never need walls around them again cuts me deeply. Jack will never need to work at Ba’s shop, so I no longer need a business. I am empty of purpose, like the kite without its string.

Before tears come, I distract myself by looking outward. Most of these Victorian houses seem to have suffered no more than broken windows and busted “frills.” The street reminds me of a clothesline of tattered dresses the day after a rousing party. Despite their intact homes, residents camp out on their front porches, some wailing, some talking, some sitting in silence. It’s hard for anyone to trust the roof at this point. An elderly woman watches men pull a velvet sofa from her front window. If the apocalypse has come, might as well have somewhere comfortable to sit outdoors.

The wail of a siren threads the background, and plumes of smoke fan out across the skyline, some diffuse, others still sharp, as if drawn by charcoal.

I wonder how long it will take Ba to find me. Assuming his ferry arrived, it will be difficult to cross town with all the fires and traffic. He’ll be thirsty and tired. Will he remember the emergency location? It might be days, even weeks, before we find each other.

We stop for Harry, who wipes her foggy glasses. “It’s so sad, all these people. What will become of us?”

“I told you, Harry, you can live with Gran and me. She’s got enough bedrooms to sleep in a different one every night of the week.”

Harry picks up her end, and we start moving again. “One day we’re all swimming in the same pond, and the next we’re dumped into the ocean.”

“Living in Texas is much better than living in the ocean.”