Outrun the Moon(92)

“Ah-Suk, I need to borrow Winter,” I say.

He looks up from the journal and frowns. Before he can say no, I continue: “It’s been two days since the quake. I want to ride to the Ferry Building and see if I can learn anything about my father.”

Mr. Cruz stops eating. “It’s a madhouse there,” he says in English. “Everyone is trying to leave the city. It’s too dangerous in the streets. They’re blowing up houses to keep the fires from spreading. Fools don’t understand that gunpowder is flammable.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “A few sparks jumped, and the Palace Hotel burned like ghost money.”

I wince at the vision of the sumptuous stone mansion, where Jack and I saw the Tiffany lamp, reduced to black wisps.

Searching for Ba seems hopeless.

Something tickles at my memory, like a stray hair on the face that you can’t see, only feel. The last time I saw Ma, after the association meeting, she told me the Valencia Hotel had agreed to let Ba do their laundry. He’s already dropped some of his more bothersome clients.

I thought Ma had meant Ba dropped the cheap clients, those who expected things for free. But Ba had clients who were bothersome in other ways. Not because they were cheap, but because they required him to travel long distances, like to San Mateo, or across the bay.

What if Ba wasn’t in Oakland the morning of the earthquake? My hands shake, and I nearly fumble the water sprite I’m still holding.

Francesca’s gaze flits to me, and her mouth curves around a question.

“I need to get to the Valencia Hotel,” I say to no one in particular. Ba could be anywhere by now, but I need to start somewhere. Ah-Suk looks up from the journal. “Ba had started to do their linens. He could have been there that morning. May I please take Winter?”

“He could’ve been many places,” Ah-Suk says gently, reaching for his tea packet. “I recall he had many clients on Nob Hill, too.”

I shake my head. “He always got back from his rounds at six. The earthquake occurred at quarter past five, and the Valencia is South of the Slot, a forty-five minute walk away.” The area below Market Street lies two miles southeast as the crow flies.

Ah-Suk sets down his cup and gives me a hard stare as if assessing my mental fitness. “Very well, you may take Winter. But only because I know you would go anyway, horse or no horse.”

Headmistress Crouch shakes her head, the way people do when they’re actually agreeing.

He continues, “But it would be safer for you to go with someone. It would be highly inappropriate for myself or Mr. Cruz to double ride with you. And Headmistress Crouch is in too delicate a condition to be your chaperone.”

“I’ll go,” says Francesca, as she always does.

I try to muster a smile, but it’s hard to keep it in place. I wish I didn’t have to put her through the trouble.

Headmistress Crouch rubs a spot on her temple. “I can’t allow that, Miss Bellini. I have not abdicated all my responsibilities to your parents, you know.”

“I’m afraid you can’t stop me . . . ma’am.”

Headmistress Crouch’s eyes widen at Francesca’s unexpectedly bold stance.

Ah-Suk’s shrewd gaze cuts to me, then he pats Headmistress Crouch’s arm. “Girls nowadays. They are very independent.”

“I’ll say.”

“You have taught them well.”

That seems to halt further protest for the moment. Then Ah-Suk says, sternly, as if to assure Headmistress Crouch that he is on her side, “Go quickly, Mercy. Mr. Cruz and I must meet with Mr. Ng and Just Bob to discuss what is to be done.”

I bow my head. “Yes, Ah-Suk. I will be quick.”





42



FRANCESCA RIDES AT MY BACK, NEWLY outfitted in army trousers. Winter is steady as a barge—slow as one, too—but his careful feet port us over the broken streets faster than ours could. Detour after detour forces us down a circuitous path, past houses standing out of plumb, remnants of tottering chimneys, cables hanging down like jungle vines. I’ve become jaded to the destruction. Every time we must re-tread our steps because of a felled something, my irritation grows.

“What does your father look like?” asks Francesca.

“Five foot six, brown skin like a potato, wiry, covers up his balding head with a gray cap. He pulled a red laundry cart the size of our painter’s cart.” Ba let me choose the color. He even let Jack and me put our handprints on the bottom in yellow paint.

The soldiers seem to have multiplied overnight, adding an extra measure of anxiety to the dark emotions stewing inside me. They must make Francesca uneasy as well, for I feel her grip on me tighten every time we see one.

“Everything all right back there?” I ask.

“Marcus is persistent. If he doesn’t find me at camp, he’ll be looking for me. I’m not ready for him to find me yet.”

“Why would you marry someone you don’t like?”

She shifts behind me. “Lots of women marry men they don’t love.”

“‘Don’t love’ is not the same as ‘dislike.’ ‘Don’t love’ is how I feel about cats—but they’re cute sometimes, even if they’re a little cocky. ‘Dislike’ is how I feel about squirrels. They scamper up your walls and down your clotheslines, always making a nuisance of themselves.”