Outrun the Moon(98)

“Did Mrs. Lowry say that?”

“No.” I polish up my best grin. “I did.”

Together, we watch the world spin under us.

The dragon and tiger have declared a truce and no more fires blaze. More than four square miles of San Francisco burned in four days, according to reports. But that number has lost its grip on me, because for every bad turn it throws my way, somehow I keep bobbing up to the surface again. It must be my magical floating shoes.

It will take years to rebuild San Francisco, but it will get done. And we will do our part, one meal at a time. More than a thousand people have passed through our Kitchen in the past few days. Georgina has been keeping track.

“You moved a mountain,” Tom says quietly.

“I wasn’t the only one with a shovel.”

“No. But you were the one with the ‘beautiful thought.’”

As the breeze tickles my nose, I think back to Ma’s prediction that something propitious would happen for me this year. Did she mean the school? The feast? Or maybe the best is still yet to come.

Once the city stops crumbling, I have big plans. I will help Headmistress Crouch restore St. Clare’s. We’ll provide an annual scholarship in memorial to Ruby Beauregard. Then one day, I will help Francesca, Georgina, and Elodie start a restaurant of our own, maybe at the top of a hill, where meals will always be free to those in need. I never backed down from a challenge before, and I don’t intend to start today.

“I’m sorry about Seattle.” Tom has decided to stay and help Ba and our countrymen rebuild Chinatown, which will take a few years. He’ll miss out on his big chance.

He shrugs. “Earth first, sky later. Maybe I’ll build my own flyer, and then I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

“Let’s start with Texas. We’ll visit Katie and Mrs. Lowry’s ranch. Then maybe New York to watch Harry on the stage. After that, I want to visit the moon.”

“You never make it easy for me, do you?”

“Ma said you can’t outrun it, but she never said anything about outflying it.”

We’re high enough now to see the jade ocean gaze up at her lover, the sky.

Tom places a kiss on my head, one that trails down to my mouth. “We’ll have to land soon. Now would be a good time.”

I let go of his hand and untwist the lid of my jar. Looking west, I imagine Jack and Ma as they were before death claimed them—dark jacket and pants on her, long johns on him. His hair sticks up, and a smile reveals a budding tooth. They look peaceful, even radiant.

The fragments of my letter float away, just a few more ashes in a city already covered with them. Salty ocean air rolls in on the breeze, and my soul lifts like a great blue heron.

“Let’s go, Mercy!” I hear Jack’s cheerful voice in my ear.

Let’s go.





AUTHOR’S NOTE

After the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906, many community kitchens like the Kitchen of Mercy sprung up around San Francisco. In the wake of disaster, old divides fell away, and a wave of altruism swept through the city. Strangers collaborated to help those in need, without regard to class distinctions, race, or creed. It was a time of goodwill and inclusiveness.

It did not last forever. Walls were rebuilt, and people moved on. Yet, it is a testament to the indomitability of the human spirit in the face of disaster. In the words of Thomas Jefferson, “Do you want to know who you are? Don’t ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.”





AUTHOR’S SECOND NOTE IF YOU’RE STILL READING

I am a writer of historical fiction. Stories made from my head set in a world erased by the marching of time. I take a snapshot of a place, in this case, April 1906, and weave a story through it. My goal is to entertain in as authentic a setting as possible.

Sometimes, absolute historical accuracy gives way for the larger purpose of story. For example, the burning of Chinatown occurred later in the day on April 18, 1906, but I have described it as occurring in the morning to amplify the drama of the moment. Also, it is doubtful that a girl from Chinatown in 1906 would have had the means or the knowledge to get into a white school (though, I note that Madame Chiang Kai-shek, the dynamic wife of Chiang Kai-shek, the President of the Republic of China between 1928 and 1975, came to the United States in 1907 for an education at a private school in New Jersey, and later, Wesleyan). It is also doubtful that the Chinese Benevolent Association would have allowed two girls to plead a case before them. And it is highly doubtful that a boy would go looking for his love in a hot air balloon.

However, history is a general overview, and overlooks the story, the possibility of the individual. If we are confined by the strict margins of what is “known” to be true, we would never explore the power of what could be true. We would deny our ability to create our own stories, to make our own magic.

And what is life, without that?

To Avalon and Bennett for sitting unquietly at my desk while I work, and without whose loving distractions this book would’ve been finished in half the time. To Jonathan, for giving me the space to create. I love you. And finally to God for giving me a fanciful mind, a decent laptop, and a good set of arms to hug all of the above.