Outrun the Moon(68)

I help her, but the drum won’t budge. What would Tom do? A simple solution is always on hand for those who search, I hear him say. “Wait. I have another way.”

Glass shards and dried pasta crunch underfoot. With great care, I step around a spilled jar of pickled onions, fetch the broom outside the deli, then work my way back to her. “I better hear angels singing when I taste these mushrooms.” Using the broom’s handle, I knock the sack off the shelf into her waiting arms.

She wraps it in one of the picnic linens, and in her arms, it looks just like a swaddled infant. I help her fix her hat of pasta and crackers back upon her head, and then we move to the exit.

We pick our way through the ruptured streets, edging around felled trees and nests of cables. More than smoke seasons the air—the scent of burning rubber, of newly exposed earth, of sewage. At the intersection, we head south back toward the park, passing a pack of old ladies holding chickens, and one brass bust of Theodore Roosevelt.

“You suppose they’re looting?” I whisper.

Francesca snorts. “The chickens? Or Teddy Roosevelt?”

I am about to answer chickens, but then again, why not Teddy Roosevelt? If the earthquake has shown me anything, it’s that it is not always easy to predict what people value. Francesca would risk a fall off a barrel for a bag of mushrooms. Harry grabbed her pillow. I have my penny, and that’s all I need, though I suppose it would’ve been nice to have another pair of socks.

A pair of horses kicks up clouds of dust as they gallop by. When the air clears, I spot two soldiers across the street in dark shirts and tan trousers, with utility belts around the waist and brown hats with wide rims. Rifles are slung across their backs. They’re bent over, wrapping something into a tarp. A body.

“Francesca,” I hiss.

She sharply inhales.

“Just walk casually,” I tell her. They would suspect us for sure if we turned around. They would question us, maybe search us, and then what?

Each step is a torment. Though I want to flee, Francesca can only walk so fast with her hat full of crackers and pasta, and the baby in her arms. The salamis prevent me from bending my elbows, but I try to look natural.

The soldiers glance up as we approach. May the object of their interest be Francesca’s beauty rather than, say, her booty. When their glances become stares, fear drags a cold finger down my back.

Dear God, why did we take such a risk? If we hadn’t been so greedy, we wouldn’t be walking at such a glacial pace.

The next street lies another twenty paces ahead. We’ll turn a corner, ditch the hat, then run. Another step, just another step.

To our right, houses have been jolted forward so they look as though they’re leering at us with their broken-window eyes and gaping-door mouths.

After another few paces, we pass the soldiers, and soon we’re rounding the corner.

With a snarl, something leaps from one of the broken windows and comes flying toward us in a blur of brown and black fur.

“Oh my Lord!” Francesca stumbles into the street but manages to keep her hat on her head. I try to follow, but the dog circles me, barking like crazy. Saliva drips from its jaw, a jaw I can’t help thinking would easily fit over my head. “Easy, fella.” My voice quavers, and I try not to look it in the eye.

Voices yell from somewhere behind me, but I don’t move. Maybe if I play dead—vertically dead—the dog will leave me alone.

“Get away from her!” yells Francesca. A rock glances off the concrete, but the dog doesn’t notice, so fixed is he on his prey: me.

“Give me a little break today,” I coo, though my voice shakes. “I know you’re hungry, but I’m tough and stringy. I’ll probably give you a bellyache.”

The voices grow louder.

“Hold on!”

“Don’t move! Hank, grab the pole!”

“Forget that—just pop it.”

I don’t hear the rest, for the dog leaps at that moment, biting me in the arm.

Francesca screams.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt like I thought it would, but maybe it’s the shock of the moment blocking the pain. As the dog and I wrestle for my arm, I realize that the dog hasn’t bitten me, exactly. It’s the salami he’s sunk his teeth into. In my terror, I forgot about the extra arms in my sleeves.

“Okay, okay, let go, and I’ll give it to you!” I cry. But the dog won’t let go, and neither will my jacket sleeve.

A sound explodes in my ear.





31



THE DOG GOES LIMP, THEN SLUMPS TO MY feet. I grab at my ears, which ring with pain. Francesca grabs me, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.

“It didn’t bite me; it wanted the salami,” I tell her through my tears.

Lying curled at my feet, the dog doesn’t look as big as it did before. Its ears are flopped over its eyes, and its paws look like pink clovers.

The two soldiers say something to me, but they may as well be speaking Spanish.

“You didn’t have to shoot it!” I cry, though my voice sounds very distant. “It was just hungry. It didn’t mean any harm.”

The soldier holding the gun frowns. I should let the matter go so we can be on our way. If they discover that we’re loaded with loot, we might be their next victims. But it rankles me how quickly he pulled the trigger. It’s making it hard to breathe.