Outrun the Moon(84)

The shadows from the single lamp in the tent hide our expressions. No one points out that angels don’t usually get beat up by humans.

“I don’t think he was an angel, Minnie Mae, but he did us a good turn, and he should be thanked for that.”

“Will you go look for them, Mercy? I really want to tell him I’m sorry.” Her shoulders quake as she begins to cry. “I wish it had been me. Oh, Ruby, I wish it had been me.”

Her sobs dig a hole in me, reaching through to the place where I hold my own grief.

Francesca pats her blanketed leg. Elodie gets up, and Katie helps Minnie Mae lie down. The tent suddenly feels suffocating, like a coffin. I duck out, and suck in the sweet night air. Harry is no longer singing, but a guitar has started up.

Elodie comes out behind me, followed by Francesca and Katie. Georgina spots us from where she’s talking to a knot of young people and hurries over.

“Minnie Mae—?”

“She’s resting,” says Katie. “But she might need watching over.”

Georgina nods.

I work my way back through the crowd to our own tent. There will be no sleeping tonight until the guests leave. And part of me thinks that if I can resolve some of Minnie Mae’s pain, some of mine might heal, too. Grief can make people irrational, seeing angels in men and sisters in cows, but maybe it takes an irrational mind to bring us back to reason.

I’ll need a lantern. I rummage through the crate of supplies beside our tent.

“You’re not actually going to Strawberry Hill at this hour, are you?” Elodie asks.

Katie squats down next to me. “I’m coming with you. As long as we’re not going to any cemeteries.”

Francesca pulls the extra lantern out of our tent. “Is this what you’re looking for? I’m coming, too.”

Harry appears out of the darkness, her face more animated than I’ve ever seen. “What’s happening? You all disappeared.”

“We’re going to find Forgivus and the deaf man up Strawberry Hill,” says Katie.

Harry blinks. “Strawberry Hill?”

“You don’t all have to come. What about the party?” I say.

Francesca glances around at all the people, whose voices have melded into one loud roar of conversation. “They won’t even notice we’re gone.”

“You’re all touched.” Elodie plunks down beside the crate and gathers her knees to her. There are grass stains on her trousers. “That place is haunted. The Lady of Stow Lake lost her baby in the water fifty years ago. I heard if you say ‘White Lady’ three times, she’ll appear. She’ll ask if you’ve seen her baby, and if you say yes, she’ll haunt you for the rest of your life.”

“What if you say no?” asks Katie.

“She’ll kill you.”

I laugh. “Well, then I guess we won’t be calling her name three times.” I can’t help being amused at this new side of Elodie, the side that doesn’t walk as heavy as I thought.

Francesca lights the lantern, and Katie stuffs an extra candle and some matches in her pocket.

Elodie’s mouth falls open. “You’re still going?”

I tighten the laces of my boots. “You don’t have to wait up.”

The trembler moved us in mysterious ways, shifting underlying assumptions about social rank and order. At school, the girls always treated Elodie with the deference that a minnow would give a shark swimming in the same tank. Now, without her cronies, it’s unclear if the shark still has its teeth, and the girls mostly ignore her.

Elodie scowls, and a hint of her old fire flickers across her face. She unfolds herself. “Well, I’m not afraid of a spooker. And it isn’t as if I have anything better to do.” The lantern squeaks as she takes it from Francesca, then Fancy Boots marches into the night.



Elodie leads us west across the park. In the dark, we can no longer see the smoke burning along the skyline, but the unnatural warmth of the air remains, sure as the sweat beaded on our skin. I guess it will continue to warm as the fires gorge themselves on our city. I hope they leave our park oasis alone. We trek past hundreds of refugees in tent cities, doing their best to build castles from sand. Most are wearing a mix of odds and ends like us, but some are suited up in their Sunday best, with ties, and frock coats, and crinolines, and gloves. I can’t help wondering if they were expecting the world to end and wanted to look their best to meet their Maker.

The wheezy notes of a harmonica play from somewhere high, and I look up to see a man sitting in a tree, playing taps. Even the harmonicas have lost their joy. I’ve always considered them to be happy instruments, but tonight it sounds like the notes are crying.

Ba always said that if he died, he wanted someone to play taps at his funeral the way it’s supposed to be played—on the bugle. It would be the least America could do after making all those laws against us.

A few paces in front of Francesca and me, Katie and Harry chatter about tonight’s feast. There’s an easiness to Harry’s steps, a bigness to her movements as if she has started taking up more room on this planet. Maybe singing has released some of her demons, and whatever troubled her before no longer has a hold. Maybe the best kind of healing comes from within, nurtured by time. Her transformation gives me hope.

Francesca leans close to me. “Mr. Chance needed to leave early to check on his grandfather. But he asked me to bid you good night on his behalf.”