Outrun the Moon(59)

Next to me, Harry scratches at her leech bites, not seeming to care or notice when her skin starts to bleed. She watches Francesca mix noodles with two sticks, but there’s an emptiness to her expression that worries me. Maybe it’s the loss of Ruby, or the trauma of seeing our city in ruins. Or maybe the leech attack went deeper than the surface. Maybe it’s none of the above. Harry’s deep-set eyes have always been difficult to read.

Minnie Mae helps Georgina bring over armfuls of cleaned-off sticks that we can use as forks. Georgina’s resourcefulness reminds me of Tom. People like that don’t wait to be asked to get things done, they just do it.

Minnie Mae looks apprehensively toward the cow, with bruise-like half-moons under her eyes and shoulders drooped in defeat. “I wish we had a barn,” she says sadly. “What if someone takes her while we’re sleeping? If the man returns, he’ll think I didn’t take care of her. To rub salt in the wound.”

“It’ll be fine, Minnie Mae,” Georgina assures her. “Cows can take care of themselves.”

“Maybe I will write him a note or something.” Minnie Mae casts her long lashes in my direction, and I study the mud caking my boots. I know it’s unfair to be so irritated with a girl who just lost her sister, and besides, I don’t dislike Minnie Mae, I only envy her freedom. I would like nothing more than to lash out at the world the way she can, but doing so would only feed into the notions that Chinese people are barbarians. Plus, isn’t there already enough ugliness and sorrow here to fill an ocean?

Francesca pronounces the three sweetest words in any language: “Dinner is ready.”

Harry hands out sturdy magnolia leaves, still wet from being washed. The girls line up and hold their leaves for Francesca to fill, thanking her in turn. She has gained a new estimation in their eyes. Whether because of her cooking, or because the earthquake has not just leveled our school but also our petty grievances, I am not certain. Maybe both.

I take a leaf of pasta to Ah-Suk, who has pulled his tent closer to a Chinese family. Earlier, I asked him to join our group, but he did not think it appropriate.

At his camp, a bitter and fishy smell rises off a frying pan. A man shakes it over their stove made from a converted five-gallon oilcan. I marvel at the simplicity of the invention—all it took was an oilcan and a knife to cut out a ventilation hole. The cook glances up, and I recognize the man we saw caning for fish.

I offer Ah-Suk the leaf, and he takes it with a bow. “Thank you.” To the family, he says, “This is Mercy Wong. Her ba is Wong Wai Kwok and her ma is Lei Ha. And these are Mr. and Mrs. Pang, and their father, Mr. Pang, elder.”

“I hope you are well.” I bow my head respectfully.

“We knew your ma,” says Mrs. Pang, whose face reminds me of the moon with its dark spots. “She told us we would have sons, and we did. We are sorry for your loss.”

I nod, finding it suddenly hard to speak. A flake of ash hovers in the air before me, and I blow it away.

The cheerful-looking Mr. Pang lifts his pan to show me the contents. “May we offer you some dandelion with perch? I call this dish Earthquake Harvest.”

“Thank you, but I have too much already.” It is impolite to refuse food, but they have so little, and my own leaf of spaghetti will have to be enough. My stomach cramps at the thought of it. The milk has thrown a bone at my hunger but won’t keep it at bay for long. With a promise to visit again, I trot back to the girls.

I arrive as Francesca is beginning grace. Slipping in beside her, I fold my hands. Though remembering my grudge against God, I refuse to close my eyes.

“Father, we thank You for this meal, and pray that You guard Your flock in this time of upheaval. Comfort those who have lost their loved ones, and let us be content with the knowledge that through hardship, You prepare us to do extraordinary things.”

My mind wanders to my earthly father. I visualize where he could be, and what he could be doing right now. His ferry might’ve returned to Oakland instead of continuing to San Francisco. I imagine him pacing the pier with his red-painted cart, looking for a ride back.

Francesca crosses herself. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.”

I hold the noodles on my tongue, guiltily savoring the taste of food for as long as I can. It tastes better than I ever thought spaghetti could, salty and oily with tiny bits of bacon to suck on, all seasoned liberally with hunger. The girls gobble their dinners, moaning with the joy of it, and licking their leaves.

A girl of eight or nine nears our camp, probably summoned by the scent of food. She stares longingly at our group, then begins to cry. Her mother pulls her away.

Nudging Francesca, I nod toward the departing pair. She swallows her mouthful and puts down her stick fork. A look of mutual sympathy passes between us. Without saying a word, we rise and follow.

We pick our way over the clipped grass, our leaf plates held with both hands to prevent the noodles from sliding off. My spaghetti taunts me. Eat me! Don’t worry about those people. Someone else will provide.

But of course, I know that’s not true. Even God has not proven reliable as of late.

We finally catch up with them near their campsite, a clearing filled with a dozen tents and people milling about. “Excuse us!” I call out.

The mother and daughter turn around, regarding us with amazement.

“I am Mercy Wong, and this is Francesca Bellini. We had extra.” I hold out my plate to the woman. A young man about our age joins them.