Outrun the Moon(78)

My eye catches on a sign leaning against the boot with the flowers. It says Kitchen of Mercy in beautiful calligraphy. Ma would be tsking her tongue at the use of my name. Chinese people frown on drawing attention to yourself. But a worse offense would be pointing out a mistake that is well intentioned, so I return the smile that Francesca is beaming my way. “It’s perfect.”

“Harry and Katie thought of the name, and Elodie wrote it while you were bathing.”

People are beginning to arrive, and my heart begins a jig. We’re not quite finished with our preparations yet. At least I don’t see any uniformed army men lurking about. May the soldiers have their own stomachs to attend to and leave us alone.

A subdued Headmistress Crouch returns from her tea on the steady arm of Ah-Suk. Does she require his assistance to walk, or is it something more?

She barely acknowledges me. Maybe it’s for the best. Tragedy can give the pot a good shake, not only causing the good bits in us to float to the surface, but the nasty bits, too. Maybe it’s better to skim off the nasty parts and let them go.

Francesca sends Harry and Katie to collect mint and parsley for garnishes, then wipes her hands and helps me greet our guests: first Nate’s mother, Mrs. Fordham, and his young sister, Bess; then an old man with a dog; then a handsome black couple named Mr. and Mrs. Gulliver and their baby.

Mr. Gulliver gives me a warm handshake and looks around, perhaps wondering if any other Negro families will show up.

The dimple-cheeked Mrs. Gulliver sways on her feet, the way people holding their babies always do. “Sure appreciate you having us.”

“It’s our pleasure. What’s your baby’s name?”

Mrs. Gulliver kisses the baby’s forehead. “We’ve been calling her Milagro, but she’s not ours. We found her crying from the first floor of a fallen tenement. Couldn’t find her people, so we took her with us.”

An orphan. I give the baby my finger, and she squeezes it. “We have lots of milk for you, Milagro.”

Mr. Gulliver rubs his wide hands together. “Well, it’s a miracle you pulled this all together so fast. It’s only been a day. Where did you get all these victuals?”

Francesca piously lowers her head. “God provides.”

A family of Italians arrives with three boys around Jack’s age. The rim of the father’s too-small bowler hat moves like another mouth when he talks. “I’m Sergio Vita. This is my wife, Adrianna, and these are our boys, Davy, Danny, and Donny.”

The wife, a tall woman whose square face indicates a dominant nature, pushes a brick-shaped object wrapped in a towel at Francesca. “My last fruitcake.”

“Thank you very much,” says Francesca.

Mr. Vita shakes his head. “I grabbed our coats and hats, and she takes that.”

“It’s been standing in whiskey for three months; I wasn’t going to leave it behind.” She folds her rolling pin arms. “You’ve done a lovely job here.”

“Again, thank you, but all the credit goes to Miss Wong. It was her idea.”

“How interesting.” Mrs. Vito’s unconvinced eyes travel down me and stick on a rip in my pants.

Francesca clears her throat. “Are you from North Beach?”

“No, we live by the Ferry Building,” says Mrs. Vito.

An anxious bubble rises in my chest. “Do you know if the ferries are still working?”

Mr. Vito scratches the top of his hat. “Far as I know. But the place was like a shaken beehive. Don’t tell me you’re planning to cross town.”

I shake my head. “I believe my father was on a ferry when the earthquake hit.”

“They’re directing all traffic from there to the Park,” says his wife with the air of a know-it-all. “Better you stay here and wait.”

That old contrary side of me flares to life, and I feel myself wanting to make tracks to the Ferry Building right now. Francesca steps closer and drops in my ear, “Have patience. The best thing you can do for your father is to stay safe.” She squeezes my arm.

I nod, forcing my anxiety back into its hovel. She’s right. Ba has already lost one child and a wife. Plus I can’t leave right now, with everyone expecting a feast.

More people press in: a family of clog-wearing Swedes with melon-yellow hair, an elderly couple who look to be in their seventies, and men wearing coveralls smelling of fish.

I don’t see the Pangs, or any other Chinese. I give the willing a handshake and do my best to ignore any strange looks. Perhaps it is odd to see a Chinese girl socializing so freely among the other girls of St. Clare’s. People bunch up behind me, awkwardly standing around, not talking to each other.

Two Sonoran men appear, wearing broad straw hats and woven shawls covering their arms. Under the shawls, they each appear to be holding something bulky with a pointy end that I can’t help thinking could be a rifle.

“We’re so glad you’re here,” I tell them, hearing my voice go high.

The men grunt. Any developing threads of conversation stop. People make way for them as they migrate to the painter’s cart, where the Bostons are still working. One by one, the Bostons find somewhere else to be.

Mr. Gulliver gets up from his spot on a nearby bench next to his wife, who is holding a fussy Milagro. The man’s hands twitch, as if he’s preparing for a dustup. The Swedes grasp their children to them, their blue eyes fixed upon the Sonorans, while the elderly man puts a protective arm around his wife and steers her away from our camp.