Outrun the Moon(62)

She ticks her head to the side, and her greasy hair, no longer in its elaborate hairdo, shifts in clumps. Boy does she need a bath. “You can’t do anything except stop yapping,” she says sharply. “You’re like my mother’s old terrier, yap and yap and never give up.”

My temper flares, and my mind floods with all the insults I could hurl. That she should do something useful, drag her sorry butt up and refill the water pot or strike a damn match. That if I had a nickel for every time she rubbed me wrong, I could start a mint. That at least my mother wasn’t carrying on with a priest!

But Mrs. Lowry’s word unsinkable flashes through my mind as bright as a marquee, and I let the moment pass. We may not like each other, but now we are sisters in mourning.

“Why don’t you go back home? Wait for your father there?”

She laughs, but not in a funny way. “Didn’t you hear? Nob Hill is a pile of rocks. I don’t have a home.” Her defiant eyes linger on me for a moment, then she tosses back the last of the water and picks up her pencil.

So it’s true. Even Nob Hill has fallen. Mr. Mortimer was fond of saying that all cards return to the deck at some point—kings, queens, and even twos. He was talking about death, but it strikes me that catastrophes have the power to equalize us, just as well.

I revive the fire and set our cold pot of rice porridge on top. The mush has acquired a top layer of dust and a few bugs, which I skim off. Francesca emerges from the tent and stretches her fists to the sky. Unlike Elodie, she looks impossibly fresh, with a rosiness to her cheeks and a brightness to her eyes. She seems more at home here than the wainscoted halls of St. Clare’s.

“Good morning,” she says. Her eyes fall to Elodie. “Oh, hello.”

Elodie barely glances up. What could she be writing in there? I try to get a glimpse, but as if sensing my intent, she pulls the journal closer to her.

I lift the empty pot and wrap my arms around it. “I’m going to fetch water before the line starts up.”

“I’ll come,” says Francesca.

The cow is still tethered to the gnarled cypress tree, thank goodness, and looks like it will need some relief soon. Something around the cow’s neck catches my eye. It’s a bit of yellow ribbon tied in a loose collar. “Look!” I whisper.

We approach the animal, which is pulling out a weed, tail flicking at flies. On the ribbon, someone has written words in dark pencil lead. It’s Minnie Mae’s hair bow.

“It says, ‘Forgive us,’” Francesca breathes.

“She found a way to write her letter.”

We work our way to the pump, which lies closer to the Children’s Quarters. The fog is beginning to lift, revealing the continued growth in population, and not all of them with proper tents, either. There are tents made of blankets, of clothes, of crazy quilts hung over tree branches. Some folks have no cover at all and are simply huddled together for warmth. A man in a swallowtail coat approaches a woman wrapped in a blanket. He holds up a birdcage full of kittens. “Their mama ran off. If you could just take one of the babes, it would help a lot.”

The woman gets to her feet, and her blanket falls away, exposing a stomach you could balance a tray on. She rubs her belly. “Sorry. Got my own babe to worry about.”

I grab the pump handle and pull. “What’s taking that army so long? Did they get lost?”

Francesca’s brow ruffles. “Maybe they’re fighting fires. The firefighters must be overwhelmed since they’re having such a hard time getting water.”

I grimly dispense another pump, wondering if our use here is somehow costing a life. But if we don’t drink it, someone else will, and we can’t very well survive without it.

We slowly carry our pot back to the camp, trying not to spill a drop.

“Did you feel all those tremblers last night?” Francesca asks.

“I was hoping it was you twitching.”

More people are waking. We pass a couple of young men, who watch us port our load with interest. Or rather, they watch Francesca. Her uniform hangs primly, and she’s swept up her hair into a knot.

“Won’t your young man be looking for you? Marcus, was it?”

“Knowing him, he’s joined the volunteer army already. He likes to order people around.” Water sloshes over the lip of her side of the pot.

“You don’t like him.”

“I like him in the way that a seagull likes a rocky cliff, I suppose,” she says bleakly. “He makes a good place to roost, way up high, which of course is the reason my parents wished me to go to St. Clare’s. Not everyone wants a dago in their family—we’re too loud, drunk, or garlicky for proper society. We were lucky Headmistress Crouch convinced the board to let me in.”

No wonder she has a soft spot for the woman. “The French are pretty garlicky, too,” I mutter. The pot is slipping, and I adjust my grip. “Well, the thing about seagulls is that they were born with wings. Means they can reach those rocky cliffs all by themselves, if they want, and maybe go even higher.”

Francesca shares half a smile. “I suppose.”

I consider telling her about Tom, but it’s too complicated. I wonder what he is doing now. Once he hears about the earthquake, of course he’ll come back, won’t he? He wouldn’t let a little fight with Ah-Suk stop him. Though it still might take him weeks. He’d have to find transportation. Maybe he’ll swoop in on a flyer, like some rare bird. But how will he find us?