Outrun the Moon(94)

A man runs up to me toting a bucket. “Move away, girl! The hotel’s going to drop soon, and you don’t want to be under it.”

“My father’s under here!” I scream at him.

“That building fell the first day. If he’s under there, he’d be long gone. Unless you want to join him, move away!”

I don’t listen. Instead, I climb through the pile and peek into any openings I can find, jamming my hands in, hoping to feel something. Dust blinds me, and the roar of people and the wind make my body hum. If I could just touch him, he’ll know I’m here.

Oh, Ba!

It all started with him. He bought me sugared peanuts after they refused to let us ride the boats. As I licked my sticky fingers, he told me I would have my own boat one day. I believed him.

Above and behind me, groaning sounds warn me to flee, but I ignore them.

“Move aside!” yells a voice.

“It’s gonna fall!”

It doesn’t matter what comes now. All that matters is getting Ba out.

A hand yanks me by the arm. “Mercy, it’s no use!” Another yank, and Francesca wrenches me off the pile. “He’s gone.”

“No.”

We stare at each other. Me, half crazed. Her, strangely calm.

“You have us now,” she says simply.

The words lift me from my stupor.

She pulls me away, and my traitorous feet follow. Tears stream down my face, and the collapsed balloons of my lungs strain to suck in air.

A loud crash like an exploding cannon deafens me. I stumble, holding my ears, while debris pelts me on the back. I whip around just in time to witness dust and fragments rising from the spot I was digging a moment earlier.

The Valencia Hotel officially lies in shambles.

If Ba wasn’t dead, then he is now. The horror of it sickens me, and my stomach bucks.

Francesca hugs me to her.

“I was too late.” I want to cry, but no tears come. I just feel numb and cold, like the day-old fish the fishmonger displays on ice beds.

All those plans I’d been hatching only hours ago flutter like moths and disappear.

I am nobody without my family, and that is the earthquake’s cruelest trick. It reminded me what was important, and then it took it all away.

“He was gone already,” Francesca is saying, sounding out of breath. “You heard the man. That building fell two days ago. It would’ve been quick, Mercy. He probably didn’t feel a thing.”

At least he did not know about Ma and Jack. It is one tiny blossom among a heap of ashes. I will return to the Valencia Hotel as soon as I am able and retrieve his body, or whatever remains.

Francesca hugs me again. “Come on, let’s go back to the park.”

She fetches Winter, who miraculously has not bolted.

Shakily, I begin moving, hardly noticing her beside me. I want to feel hard pavement under my feet, would give anything to mute the pain of having survived. Broken stones jab my soles, and still I don’t feel. Hugging myself, I soldier on. Pain moves us forward.

Ba’s ears were rigid. He was dependable, formidable, a warrior armed with his weapons of dolly and tub. He was fighting for our future, an endless, wearisome battle for a decent life. No man should have to work sixteen hours on his feet. He barely had time to sleep.

And now, sleep, he shall.





43



WHEN FRANCESCA AND I WALK WINTER past the music store again, the bugle is still there, winking at me, begging for me to play Taps.

I need that bugle, not just for Ba, but for Ma and for Jack. I don’t have their ashes or remains, but I’ll go to Laurel Hill Cemetery and burn paper for them. And after that, I will play taps. Anyone can play the bugle; there are no slides or valves. All you need is hot wind.

I dig into my pocket and pull out my five-dollar bill. The hang tag says one dollar, but I don’t need change.

“What are you doing?” asks Francesca.

“Buying a bugle.” I look around for somewhere to put the money. There’s no cash register. Someone must have taken it.

“Don’t you dare go in there. It’s like Gil’s Grocery. The ceiling could fall any minute.”

She’s right. As I stand in the doorway, debris snows from the ceiling. After the building collapses and catches fire, the money will burn, another offering for the dead. I place the money in the window, near the tuba, but Francesca retrieves it. “We’ll keep it. One day, we’ll find the owner and pay him.” She steers me away.

Lifting the bugle from its place in the broken window, I tuck it under my arm. The brass feels warm.

Francesca has begun to limp.

“You ride.” I hold Winter steady.

“Only if you do.”

I sigh. Her cheeks are rather bossy as well. “After you.”

We mount up, Francesca in front this time, and make our way back through the streets.

The smoke finally thins after we cross Market Street and continue west. The neighborhood, though crowded with people turning their houses inside out, looks positively idyllic when compared to the hell that is South of the Slot. Directly overhead hangs a cocoon of a sun coiled tight with gray clouds.

It must be past noon. Ah-Suk will be worried. Minnie Mae, Katie, and Harry must have already left. We never took that last walk.

People seem especially excited on this block, but maybe it’s because they’ve heard about the nearby fires and are anxious to save their belongings.