Outrun the Moon(88)

Katie and I grin at each other like we just discovered teeth. All this time, I’ve been rubbing elbows with the great woman’s granddaughter, a girl who, in her own way, was a needed candle in my dark moments. If Katie’s gran being Mrs. Lowry isn’t a sign that the universe is beginning to mind its posture, then I don’t know what is.





40



THAT NIGHT, WHILE THE OTHERS RUMBLE and sigh, I barely sleep a wink. Somehow, it seems that destiny was leading me, like a fish on a line that’s just slack enough not to feel the tug. Ba would say God was holding the pole, and I own it could be true. Or maybe, as Ma believed, a not-so-random sequence of events conspired to carry me here.

If I hadn’t gotten the job at the cemetery, I would never have discovered Mrs. Lowry’s book. Without her book, I would never have considered going to St. Clare’s. If I hadn’t attended St. Clare’s, I would not have met these girls, including Katie.

Though I won’t be going to Texas just yet, I know I will meet Mrs. Lowry one day. I can feel it in my bones, the way one knows a sneeze is coming. Surely, if anyone knows how to operate a business that gives away its product for free, it would be her.

Feasts every night, people sharing, children laughing.

Children like Jack. My brave little soldier, you’re the reason for the Kitchen, you and Ma. The world lost something good when you died, and if it takes the rest of my life, I will put that good back where it belongs.



Something wet nudges my nose. A black kitten. Francesca is no longer beside me, only Katie and Harry, snoozing back to back. I prop myself up onto my elbows and let the kitten wander into my hands. “Guess you took a wrong turn.” Guess we all did. I scratch it behind the ears. But we’re still here, aren’t we?

Ma and Mrs. Lowry were right. It matters not how many wrong turns you make, but that you keep moving. Eventually we’ll find our way out, given enough time.

I set the kitten down and roll over, feeling something hard on my back. It’s Elodie’s journal. I hesitate a moment, then open the book. She ripped out the first half. All the remaining pages are blank, except at the top of the first page, in her precise penmanship, she wrote: For your letters to the dead.

The sound of low talking filters through the canvas walls. Beyond the open flap, I can see Ah-Suk and Headmistress Crouch sitting on crates eating breakfast. Something Ah-Suk says makes her laugh, the kind of laugh that falls out without effort.

What an unlikely pair. I never thought either of them were the sort to have friends, or any kind of companion for that matter. After Ah-Suk’s wife died when Tom was ten, we always assumed he would remain a bachelor because of the laws prohibiting Chinese women from immigrating. As for Headmistress Crouch, I pegged her as the type who wouldn’t have a mate, either because of her exacting standards, or because she ate him for dinner.

The nutty scent of oatmeal reaches me, and my stomach groans. I grab my Chinese pants, jacket, and shirt, and quickly change. Then I scoop up the kitten and crawl out of the tent.

Francesca stirs a pot, humming to herself. On the painter’s cart, the irises are laughing. Two new crates lie beside the cart, filled with sacks stamped with words like oats, apricots, and jerky. I also spy several bottles of tinned milk, and ale. God bless the US Army. It came through after all.

Francesca gives me a bright smile, and I want to speak with her before the others, but Headmistress Crouch calls to me in her schoolmarm’s voice, sharp enough to bridge the twenty paces between us. “Good morning, Miss Wong. I would like a word with you.”

Ah-Suk greets me with a nod.

“Yes, ma’am.” I return the kitten to the Bostons’ tent, then hurry back to where Ah-Suk is helping her to her feet. Has Francesca told her about the Kitchen Part II, and will a scolding be unfolding?

The headmistress grabs my arm much like a bird of prey grabs a stick. “Walk with me.”

She steers me through the campsite. Harry and Katie poke their heads out of our tent, solemnly watching as if witnessing a man being wheeled to the gallows. Headmistress Crouch glares at them, and they disappear back inside.

“Are you feeling well, Miss?” The woman’s breathing seems even, and her cornflower eyes are clear as a looking glass.

“Don’t play the simpleton with me, Miss Wong. I’m quite aware of what you did.”

I glance back at Ah-Suk, serenely staring into the fire. Did he tell her about the leeches? I swallow hard. “You are?”

“Dr. Gunn and I had quite a long chat about my condition.”

“You did?”

“Yes.” The word comes out sounding as if she is holding a knife between her teeth. “What you did was brazen, and it is well within my right to be quite furious.”

I try to read her expression. There are the permanently arched eyebrows of disapproval and the square cheekbones giving dimension to her papery skin. The pencil dots of her pupils unnerve me more than anything, like the iron sights of a firearm that she’s continually aiming at the world.

She doesn’t say a word, and so I ask, “So . . . are you furious?”

“As a matter of fact . . .”—she pauses long enough for a sweat to gather on my brow—“no. I’ve never felt better in my life. I have to admit, the idea of sea horse in my tea still makes my stomach buckish, but it worked, and you were right not to tell me, else I would have watered the ground with it. Close your mouth; we are not goldfish.”