Outrun the Moon(70)

“How much milk can one cow give?” I wonder aloud.

“All the farmers I know milk once in the morning and once at night. This one must be a special cow.”

The deaf man’s image returns to me, his sad eyes and large hands, the neatly pressed overalls. “I think that man knew it, too.”

She shakes her head. “It’s a miracle he showed up with her when he did.”

“And there’s another miracle right there.” I nod toward our camp, where a small two-level cart has been parked. Katie and Harry are pulling tarps out of it, and half a dozen paint cans occupy its bottom level. The camp is deserted except for Elodie, who has finally stopped writing and is looking at the sky, head cradled in her hands. Her formerly splendid boots are now caked with dirt.

When they see us, Katie and Harry hurry over. Before they ask any questions, Francesca peels back the picnic linen and gives them a peek at her sack of porcinis.

Harry looks suspiciously at my chest. “That’s all you got?” she asks.

Francesca sighs. “These are from Parma.”

“We got a few things,” I tell her with a glance at Francesca’s hat. “You just have to know where to look.”

“Well, you can put them on your new worktable.” Katie sweeps her arm toward the cart. The girls remove the last of the supplies—cans of paint, miscellaneous brushes, and a ladder.

Francesca unswaddles her porcinis. “Wherever did you get this?”

“Found it in the street. Harry and I pulled it back all by ourselves.”

After we’ve unloaded everything, we stand back to admire our plunder: porcinis, garlic, crackers, pasta, herbs, dried tomatoes, dried apricots, two Abbiati salamis (one with bite marks), cheese, cinnamon, wooden spoons, and a bag of rice. Last, I remove the oranges.

Francesca frowns at the bounty, which looks a lot more meager than it felt to carry. My heart droops. This will never feed forty-four people. I’m so hungry, I could polish off the whole pile in one sitting. Perhaps I will need to ask Mr. Pang to show me his fish-caning techniques. I shudder, thinking about the leeches.

Katie leans down and sniffs the salami. “Wish we could sample this right now.”

I sigh. Why not? If the lion eats a mouse now, he might have strength to catch a sheep later. “One end of the salami got damaged. Let’s eat that.”

Francesca unrolls the meat from its waxy package. “I wish we had a knife.”

Katie pulls a tool from her pocket. “What about a painter’s knife? I washed it.”

Francesca takes it from her and wields it by its wooden handle. The rectangular blade attached to the handle doesn’t look very sharp.

She neatly cuts off four circles of salami while I take back one of the oranges. Chinese make offerings of oranges to the dead, and I’m tempted to keep this one for Ma. But Katie stares as if she was attempting to peel it with her eyes, and I know Ma wouldn’t begrudge us for eating these particular fruits. Ma had her beliefs, but she was practical at heart.

One orange yields ten wedges: We each get two, with two remaining. We save the second fruit for our feast. Not bothering to sit down, we munch our salami in silence, though Francesca moans now and then. All of us save the orange slices for last.

Elodie has propped herself up on her elbows, watching us. With a subtle tick of my head, I gesture toward her. Francesca’s chewing picks up, and Katie makes a face. We all know the charitable thing to do, but it’s hard when the object of charity has never thrown more than salt in our direction.

“She hasn’t done anything but decorate the lawn all day,” mutters Katie.

Francesca licks her fingers and surveys the rest of the park. “Where is everyone else? I need to get started. Lots of prep work to do.”

Katie rocks back and forth on her feet. “We sent Georgina and the Bostons to scrounge up dishes. We were going to go with them, but Harry overheard someone talking about a butcher’s shop. It was very hush-hush.”

“What butcher shop?” I ask.

Harry’s cheeks bloom. “There’s a rumor that a shop on the corner of Lincoln and Second might give away its meats since they’re going to spoil.”

“Then we better get there before the rumor becomes fact.”

Francesca wraps the remaining salami. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, you need to start cooking, and Katie and Harry can help you.” I turn my back to them. “Elodie.” My voice slices through the air. “You look a little peckish. We have a few extra snacks here. Interested?”

“I don’t take charity.”

“Suit yourself.” I turn back around. Through the reflection of Harry’s glasses, I watch Fancy Boots’s pride wrestle with her stomach. It only takes five clock ticks for her to pick herself up and skulk over. With a placid expression, Francesca slices a piece of salami and Harry gives her the remaining orange wedges. Elodie downs the food so quick, I doubt her tongue got a taste. She even licks her fingers.

After she chases it with a drink of milk, I tell her, “Now it’s time for you to pitch in.” I remove all traces of pleasantness from my voice. As our fishmonger always said, “The sooner a fish jumps back into the stream, the better its chances of living.” I tell her, “If heaven made him, surely earth can find some use for him.”