Outrun the Moon(76)

Minnie Mae meanders in our direction leading Forgivus. The girl seems to have weaned herself from Georgina, and now spends nearly every minute with the cow. She can move her beef faster than we can move ours, even with Forgivus stopping to mow down every dandelion she sees.

When they get close enough, Minnie Mae barely seems to notice our bloodied selves, focusing more on our sack. “I hope that’s not one of Forgivus’s brethren,” she whispers, as if she actually thinks the cow can understand.

Elodie practically growls. “It better be or someone’s getting a taste of my fist.”

I grimace, having had a sample of that before. I try to quickly change the subject. “Has the army brought any more supplies?”

“No, but the Red Cross brought blankets, candles, a washtub, and clothes.” She ticks them off on her fingers.

“What about food?” I ask.

“They said food would be coming by tomorrow.”

Forgivus moos, and Minnie Mae checks her faucets. “Milking time.” She scratches the cow on her ears. “Good girl, you’ve been giving milk all day. We should start calling you Saint Forgivus.”

As we make our way into our campsite, I see the place has been transformed. A line of pinecones draws a wide circle around our four tents. On the painter’s cart, a boot full of irises forms an odd but striking centerpiece. Francesca fries something on one of the stoves, while Harry and Katie are hanging a wagon wheel from a tree with rope. One end of a flowered bedsheet has been gathered around the wheel, forming a privacy curtain. Now we don’t have to use the bushes for a privy.

Wouldn’t Tom have liked to see that bit of ingenuity?

I picture him aboard the Heavenly Blessing, as resolute as a masthead with his jaw pointed north. Or maybe word has traveled and he’s pleading with Captain Lu to reverse course. I miss him as much as a flame misses its shadow.

We are fine, Tom. Your father is a hero and in good spirits. Wherever you are, do not worry. Just take care of yourself.

Georgina and the Bostons huddle by their tent, rubbing rags over fruit jars and an assortment of utensils. They came through for us after all. Their kittens huddle together in a pie pan, a pile of black and orange fur, still managing to hold on to life with four claws. One of the girls tickles a kitten with a soaked rag, and the animal flips onto its back, trying to suck at it. The girls squeal.

Just having something to fuss over is good for the spirits, like Minnie Mae and her cow. Jack knocks at the door of my mind again, but I don’t let him in this time. There is work to be done.

Francesca finally notices us trudging over and beams. “What’d you bring us, hunters?”

“His name is Brisky,” I say.

She points with her spoon to the painter’s cart. “Set your friend on the table.”

Elodie and I drag Brisky to the finish line. My shoulders are aching, and my hands are cramping into pincers. Brisky might’ve had an easier time carrying us back than the other way around.

“On three, ready? One, two, three!” We heave. The wagon creaks at the added weight but holds steady.

Harry and Katie finish their project and join us. Harry pushes up her spectacles. “You two don’t look so good.”

Elodie snorts. “You’re not exactly a Monet painting yourself.”

“What did you do?” Katie pokes her finger at Brisky. “Drag it off a battlefield?”

I shrug. “We did have to fight for it.”

Katie gapes. “You fought?”

Elodie smiles at me. “Once they knew we meant business, it was all downhill.”

She may be a pampered peacock with the temper of a rattlesnake, but she has her moments.

In the distance, two men carry a felled tree by the ends toward us.

Francesca expertly flicks her wrist, and tomatoes do a dance in the air before landing back in her pan. “Well, you can’t come to dinner like that. I will ask Mr. Fordham to fetch you some water in our new tub. We’ll throw in one of the hot bricks to warm it, and you can test our new privy.”

As I wonder who Mr. Fordham is, the men with the log step over the pinecone boundary and set it down between two tents.

“Mr. Fordham?” Francesca calls to them. Mr. Fordham pushes his floppy hair out of his eyes. He smiles at Francesca, the dopey kind of smile babies make when they’re releasing gas.

I recognize the young man from the family we shared our spaghetti with last night.

On Mr. Fordham’s heels follows another young man, well-dressed in a light suit and boater hat with a red and blue band.

“You will remember Miss Mercy Wong from last night, and this is Miss Elodie Du Lac.” Francesca introduces us. “Mr. Nate Fordham, and his friend, Mr. Oliver Chance. They were kind enough to bring us a bench for tonight’s dinner.”

“Hello,” I say, unsure of myself. I did not learn the proper way to present myself to young men in my brief time in comportment. I rub my sticky hands on my pants in case I need to proffer one, but no one offers. Instead, the men bow to us and murmur “How do you do?”. Mr. Chance lifts his hat. His dark blond locks taper smoothly around the sides of his head, the work of a good barber. He is slow to remove his gaze from me, but when I lift a challenging eye, he looks away.

Elodie, who has been examining her red-stained palms in disgust, tilts her head to a practiced degree and curtsies. “Enchanté.” Even with her hair tangled, her sleeve ripped, and a smear of blood across her cheek, she still manages to dazzle the boys. You’d think they were being introduced to the Queen of England by the way they stammer and shuffle about.