“In any event, it will not be charity. I am not as spry as I used to be thanks to this cursed high blood pressure, yet I have a number of things to get done, and you are quite obviously someone who gets things done.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My mind struggles to make sense of what she is proposing. She wants to give me a home. She wants me to help her rebuild the school. I search her face for signs that she is joking, but this time there is no hooked eyebrow.
Is this the same woman who whipped me so hard her ruler broke? Who banished me to the attic? Could I really live with someone for whom rules and order are like a religion, for whom even the simple act of sitting violates the rule against bad posture?
Father Goodwin’s words from the confessional return to me. Rules are meant to keep us safe. You must think of Headmistress Crouch as your protector.
She rises, using her cane to stab her way back to the camp. I walk meekly beside her.
A family says grace around their dining room table, complete with six chairs, tablecloth, and candlesticks. If Headmistress Crouch is surprised by the scene, she doesn’t let on. “You will have comfortable room and board, and most importantly, you will have me to instruct you in the art of gracious living. However, there will be rules. In particular, the rule against sneaking about, which should only be the prerogative of old women.” Her lips bend in wry amusement. “I trust you found the attic comfortable?”
“You were the ghost in the attic?” I ask, incredulous.
She shrugs. “I might have gone up there occasionally when my knee wasn’t acting up. It’s a good place to ruminate.”
“Was that your parasol?”
“Yes, of course it was mine.”
“Why do you keep it there?”
“The same reason people braid hair into flowers and wear them on their chests: sentimental reasons. Only, Carl didn’t have much hair to spare.”
I remember the young man Francesca mentioned, the one who called Headmistress Crouch “Annabel.”
“What happened to him?”
“I turned him away, and that is all you need to know.”
For a moment, she seems lost in a thought. Then she stretches her rounded shoulders to her ears and releases them again. “It would not have been a peaceable pairing, and anyway, a well-seasoned life includes a little bitter and a little sweet. Consider my offer, Miss Wong.”
41
WHEN WE RETURN, AH-SUK IS PULLING the leaves out of his teapot with one of the tools. Nearby, Elodie has emerged from her tent and is eating oatmeal with Harry and Katie.
Elodie glances up at me, and I mouth thank you, thinking of her journal. She nods.
Francesca hands me a tin of oatmeal. “A military truck was dispensing food on Stanyan. Nate, er, Mr. Fordham”—color rises to her cheeks, and her eyes dart to Headmistress Crouch—“and Mr. Chance were kind enough to bring us these crates before everything was gone.”
“And the peppernuts are from Mr. Chance,” Katie adds with a grin, holding up a pink packet tied with twine. “For you.”
The dining room set didn’t surprise Headmistress Crouch, but that tidbit does. Her eyebrows lift to heights on her face seldom visited.
Heat rings my collar, and I focus on stirring my oatmeal. Now would be a good time to ask about Kitchen of Mercy Part II. “Headmistress Crouch, given the success of last night’s dinner, we were hoping we might do it again. Tonight.”
“Tonight? But these girls must get home.”
Francesca moves the pot off the fire. “We could make a difference here. Folks are still hungry.”
“So we’ll share what’s in those crates.”
“It’s not the same as cooking for them,” Francesca pleads. “Cooking is caring. Headmistress Crouch, you must have felt it last night. The way everyone came together. It was almost like taking communion.”
Headmistress Crouch frowns, and her black pupils flicker about, as if to mirror some inner wrestling.
I set down my oatmeal. “People lost so much, but we helped them laugh, and dance—”
“And sing.” Katie looks at Harry.
“What about your parents, Miss Bellini?”
“My brother put Lieutenant McGovern in charge of my welfare, and he knows where to find me,” Francesca says with a whiff of sarcasm.
“Do not jeopardize your relationship with Marcus McGovern.” Headmistress Crouch’s voice becomes sharp, just like old times. “He may be hotheaded, but he was trying to look after you, however misguided were his attempts.”
Francesca lowers her gaze. “Yes, ma’am.”
Katie clasps her hands together as if in prayer. “I know Gran’s on her way, and I wager my socks she gets here faster than Harry and I can get to Texas.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Quinley, but I need you and Miss Wincher to accompany Miss Beauregard back home. The Boston girls will be taking a northeastbound connection, while the three of you are going south, and I do not want her traveling by herself, especially in her condition. I secured you tickets on the noon train.”
“Yes, Headmistress Crouch.” Katie and Harry exchange a mournful glance.
A quiet falls over our camp. Ah-Suk’s tea leaves sizzle when they hit the fire, then release a soft, smoky perfume.
Elodie scoops herself more oatmeal. “We can still do it. I have no family to receive me, only business colleagues of Papa’s who don’t even know I’m here. As far as I’m concerned, I can do what I want. That’s three of us.”
“Four of us,” says Georgina, who has emerged from her tent, her braid swinging thick as sailor rope.
“What do you say, Headmistress Crouch?” Francesca nudges gently.
The Headmistress looks at each of us in turn, and when she gets to Ah-Suk, she makes a hmph noise, and her posture slumps.
Ah-Suk arranges cups onto a tray made from the cover of the comportment book. “Suggest letting girls do what they want. Much has been lost. Give them this.”
Headmistress Crouch’s mouth loosens, and she sighs. “Well, I suppose . . . since we do have some food now.”
A rare grin fans across Elodie’s face. Francesca hands Georgina a plate of oatmeal, then begins picking through the crates. “I’ll start planning the menu.”
Katie sighs, and Harry scrapes at the bottom of her tin. I squat beside their crates. “We have a saying that good friends never say ‘good-bye,’ only ‘see you again.’”
“That’s nice. Gran always says, ‘Now shoo with you.’”
“There is still time for a last walk together. You can help me spread the word.” This time we’ll cast as wide a net as possible. Maybe Ba will hear about St. Clare’s Kitchen of Mercy. He’ll know just where to look for me.
Ah-Suk unbends himself from where he’s arranging the cups and rolls out his wrists. “Before you go, Mercy, will you do me the favor of fetching more water sprite tea leaves?”
His request both honors and puzzles me, but I don’t hesitate. “Of course, Ah-Suk.”
A sadness whispers around his dimpled temples, and a triangular puckering of the skin underneath his eyes almost looks like tears. He must be suffering more than he lets on. Chinese tend to hide their pain so that others will not be inconvenienced, and Ah-Suk has always been particularly stoic.
Katie pulls Harry to her feet. “We’ll take the pedestrian path, Mercy. Catch up with us when you’re ready.”
I carry myself off to Ah-Suk’s tent, knowing it is Tom that troubles him. Surely Ah-Suk has forgiven him, how could he not, under the circumstances? It would be like an ant trying to hold onto a crumb while the rug gets shaken. Sometimes you have to let go in order to hang on.
I exchange greetings with the Pangs, then duck into Ah-Suk’s tent. The canvas in the herbalist’s tent is pulled tight as a sail. A rolled blanket nestles against the suitcase, the only two items in sight.
I set down the dishes to undo the clasps on the case, which only grudgingly give way. The waxy packages inside give off complicated earthy aromas. Ah-Suk packed this medicine chest for Tom, even including his best high-shelf tea set.
“He misses you more than you know,” I whisper.
A folded paper lies flush with one side of the case. I recognize Tom’s perfect handwriting—it’s the note he left his father. I finger the crisp paper. Just seeing his writing twists me sideways, and squeezes out my breathe. My emotions take little jabs at me, like a hundred fists. Regret, love, anger, fear, and even a little bit of longing, though I hate myself for that last one. Don’t wait for me, he said. Don’t wait.
Letters are private.
Yet . . . did Ah-Suk want me to find it here? Is that why he sent me on this unusual errand? I stroke a finger over the fold in the parchment.
Perhaps I’ll just skim the contents for anything important about where he might be.
The crinkle of paper sounds like the tsch of Ma’s tongue.
I skip the parts where Tom apologizes to his father, as well as remembers his mother. My eye catches on the characters of my name, which includes the word for heart.
I have thought about what you said about Mercy. It is true, she deserves a husband with good prospects and a dependable job, someone who commands high respect in the community. But you taught me there are many ways to treat a cough. Different formulations can arrive at the same result, like paths to a city.
I cannot be an herbalist, Ba. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make something good of myself. In fairness, I will not put hopes in Mercy’s heart. I will only endeavor to make my own path and hope it leads me back to her one day.
The letter drops from my hand like a hot freshly ironed shirt. Tom didn’t think he was worthy? Of me? I’m caught between a laugh and a moan.
Sometimes, Tom, your head really is in the clouds.
I sniff loudly and read it again. Then I carefully replace the letter in the case.
I should’ve seen through Tom’s last words to me. He wore his lie like an itchy shirt, even half lies made him scratchy around the collar. I’d known he wasn’t acting himself. Ah-Suk must have felt so guilty when Tom left, never expecting that his words would drive his son away.
When at last I throw open the tent flap, clutching the water sprite tea, the midmorning breeze stings my still wet face, and I feel as exposed as a shellfish spit up from the sea. Maybe everyone can read the joy smearing my cheeks, or the worry that sits on my chin.
Like that day at the beach, I had let go of Tom’s hand, but Tom had not let go of mine. He cares.
I repeat it over and over until I finally believe it.
The sight of Elodie leading a black horse toward the lake cuts me off at the knees. It’s Winter, Ah-Suk’s draft horse. I hurry to them.
Elodie wipes a hand on her trousers. “Someone needs to teach this horse some manners. It just slobbered on me.”
“Who brought him?”
“Mr. Cruz—”
The astonished eyes of strangers track me as I run the rest of the way back to camp, the tea clasped tightly to my chest. Maybe the Portuguese man has news of Ba.
Three crates have been arranged in a conversational triangle with Ah-Suk and Headmistress Crouch on two of them, and Mr. Cruz on the third, his leg stretched to the side. Soot clings to the folds of his neck. His straw hat is singed at the back, and the scent of smoke and sweat radiates off him.
Despite his worn-out condition, he manages to laugh. “Why am I not surprised to see you entertaining the ladies while the rest of the world is falling to pieces?” he barks in Cantonese.
Headmistress Crouch stares at the newcomer with the openmouthed look of someone who has seen a two-headed goat. Though Mr. Cruz is half Chinese, he looks more Portuguese with his strong nose and hairy face. It must be strange for her to see him speak our tongue.
“Ah, here’s Mercy,” says Mr. Cruz, switching to English. “I am glad to see you well.”
“Si-foo, have you seen my father?” I blurt out.
Mr. Cruz shakes his head. “No, Mercy. Your father has not been accounted for.” He pulls a journal out of his jacket pocket. “I’ve been keeping my own records in here. I’m afraid our association has been disbanded. Ng and Just Bob are at Jefferson Square. Leung and Chow did not make it.”
For a moment, I can hear nothing but the beating of my heart. Mr. Leung and Mr. Chow were honest and kind, and I hope it was quick, though I fear it was not. Ah-Suk stares through his worn shoes. We do not discuss the fallen men in front of strangers since that would be disrespectful to the dead.
Francesca briskly stirs a bowl of oatmeal, then hands it to Mr. Cruz, who nods his thanks.
Ah-Suk takes the journal from Mr. Cruz and studies the pages. For a moment, the only sounds are his grunting as he reads interspersed by the flipping of pages.
“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?”