Outrun the Moon(56)

The four of us look like a box of sugared doughnuts. The only parts not covered by a layer of dust are our eyeballs. Harry peels off her glasses, revealing a swath of skin in the shape of her spectacles.

Somehow I managed to hang on to the yellow can. I blow dust off it. “Well, this creamed corn better be worth it.”

Francesca floats a feather of a smile. It’s contagious in the way smiles can be, and after a few snorts, we’re all holding our sides, laughing.

The rice has spilled from the bag, but we salvage what we can. Katie scoops handfuls off the ground, taking along pebbles and dirt. “My gran makes the best creamed corn in Texas, maybe the country. She said if I ever touched the canned kind, she would know and the angels would weep.”

“We make polenta at the restaurant, which is a hundred times better than that canned stuff.” Francesca sacrifices one of her hairpins to cinch the bag of rice closed.

I sweep up my nose. “Well, you ungrateful souls, I guess I will have it all to myself, then.”

Katie laughs. “You won’t get very far without a can opener.”

We distribute the remaining groceries into the crates, then lift them onto our shoulders to begin the trek back to the park.

The crates are heavy, and we must stop often to catch our breath. I pinch my shoulders, which are bruising where the poles rub them.

An explosion comes from somewhere behind us, so deep and booming that it rumbles through my soles. In the distance, a black cloud roils toward the heavens, blocking out what remains of the sun. We stare at the conflagration, all lightheartedness forgotten.

“God save us,” murmurs Francesca. “It’s like hell on earth here.”

Harry whimpers, and Katie squeezes her around the shoulders.

“What if it never stops?” Harry says in a shaky voice.

“Mr. Mortimer used to say, ‘It is only in darkness that one finds light.’” It was one of his platitudes, but it always seemed to comfort the mourners.

We pack up again. I keep my eyes open for Ba, as if he might come strolling through this very street at any minute. I don’t see him, but I do see plenty of men who could be him, with their stooped shoulders and shuffling gaits. Dust covers everyone, concealing skin color and making everyone’s eyes look haunted.

“Who is Mr. Mortimer?” asks Katie.

“He was the director at Laurel Hill Cemetery, where I used to work.”

Katie gasps. “Laurel Hill? You were a mortician?”

“Nine Fruits, no. We got them after they got fitted with their wooden overcoats. We’d sink them, then make their plots pretty for loved ones.”

“My uncle Paul was buried there,” says Francesca. “My aunt chose a plot that faced the Pacific Ocean, because he was a sailor.”

“Captain Paul Bellini? ‘Into the blue yonder do I sail’?”

“Yes,” Francesca murmurs, sounding somewhat awed.

“I always remember the unique headstones.”

“How did you get a job there?” asks Katie.

“Mr. Mortimer hired me on the spot. Jobs there were under-taken.”

Harry’s chuckle is cut short by another explosion, this one farther off but just as sobering. I wonder how many people have died so far.

Maybe if I keep up the chatter, it will prevent us from imagining the worst.

“I liked working there. It was peaceful, and green. I never saw any ghosts, but I saw a lot of other things. Like a little girl named Mary Ellen, whose favorite doll was buried in a plot beside hers. And a cad named Cay Pepper, whose headstone reads, ‘I always thought I’d die at the hands of a jealous husband.’”

Behind me, Francesca doesn’t say anything, probably scandalized, but Katie guffaws so loud, her crate nearly falls. “You are not serious?”

“Oh, yes. The cemetery is a funny place. You think it’s all tears and mourning, but people laugh there all the time. Sometimes, it’s the only way they can handle pain.”

I feel their gazes traveling to me.

On I slog, not turning around. To do so would acknowledge that I am talking about my own pain that I have buried deep down in my molten core.





26



WE ARRANGE OUR BRICKS IN A CIRCLE three layers deep and find we have enough left to make a second small fireplace. To the relief of my poor shoulders, Georgina and the Bostons have gathered enough firewood to last the night through. They’ve also filled our two pots with fresh water from a nearby pump, whose line stretches twenty or thirty people long.

May we not pump the earth dry before we are rescued.

Withered leaves serve as kindling, and soon two fires smoke and cough to life.

Minnie Mae has not budged from her spot several paces behind the southern tent, though at least now she’s standing. Georgina sits by her side once again.

I approach them. “Where is Elodie?”

Georgina says in a low voice, “A woman came around to have us log our missing or deceased. Elodie found out her mother did not survive. She went into her tent and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

With Georgina watching, I creep toward Elodie’s tent and listen. If she were sleeping, she would be snoring, but there is only silence. The fasteners have been tied shut. I imagine her sitting in the darkness. “Elodie?”

“Go away.”