by Stacey Lee
“I’ll watch her; you go eat,” I say quietly, giving Francesca an excuse to leave. No need for both of us to suffer.
“Okay. How long do you think they’re going to take?”
“Half an hour? An hour?” Ah-Suk’s appointments never lasted longer than that.
“That’s good. We have a dinner to plan. I’ll be back soon.”
The seconds drag on. Every time a siren goes off or a trumpet blares, I jump, worried that she will wake up and find me leeching her.
I think about Ba again. Maybe I can somehow telegraph my location to him. All he has to do is make it to the park. He’ll see the Missing People Books and figure out where I am. And if he doesn’t, I will look for him.
Soon enough, Francesca pokes her head back in. “I have some porridge for you. Come out and eat.”
We carefully trade places. Once I’m outside, I inhale the cold San Francisco air. The porridge is still warm, and despite my disgust over the leeches, I find my appetite has boomeranged back to me. I down it hungrily.
“Mercy!” Francesca hisses from inside the tent.
Back I go. The first of the leeches is starting to pill. I hardly breathe, counting the seconds, silently urging those leeches to snap the buggy whip. If Headmistress Crouch woke up right now, there’s no explanation for what we’re doing that doesn’t sound worse than what we’re actually doing. She could have us arrested for unlawful leeching. If there wasn’t already a law, they’d make one up special for me.
The leech rolls off, and I drop it into the bag while Francesca dabs the compress of cooled tea onto her back. One by one, the other leeches haul anchor. We dry her back, freezing at every pause in her breathing, every twitch of her nose.
When all the wounds have stopped bleeding, we redress her, moving with painstakingly slow movements.
Finally, when every button is secure and every ribbon tied, Headmistress Crouch starts to snore. Francesca tosses me an exasperated look. Guess Ah-Suk’s sleeping potion really did pack a wallop.
The sun is on full glare by the time we leave her tent.
Ah-Suk is showing the girls a game of stone tossing, using very good English. Elodie, however, is still writing in her book. I wonder if her hand, the book, or her pencil will give out first. Georgina hits her mark with a stone, and the others begin clapping.
When they see us, Ah-Suk, Harry, and Katie hurry over. Ah-Suk glances inside Headmistress Crouch’s tent then tells me in Cantonese, “Best physician now is Dr. Time.”
“Thank you, Ah-Suk.”
He nods, then sets off back toward his camp.
“What happened? Is she still sleeping?” Katie asks.
“Yes. All’s well for now.” I hold the bag of leeches behind my back. The thought that it’s filled with Headmistress Crouch’s blood picks up the hairs of my skin. Now all that’s left to do is sacrifice a pig and tie a hairy gourd to my leg and I will be the “heathen” she wants me to be.
“We’re ready to start ‘borrowing’ whenever you are,” says Katie.
Harry shivers and crosses her arms tightly. Her sleeve buttons are missing, exposing arms covered in itchy leech welts, and her spectacles hang crookedly on her nose. Maybe taking her isn’t such a great idea. There’s a rawness about Harry lately that makes me want to protect her, like a turtle whose shell is still soft. But wherever Katie goes, Harry goes.
“The two of you should stay here,” I tell them. “We need someone in charge of the ground troops. Someone to make sure the firewood gets collected. We need to invite guests and spruce up the place.”
Katie wrinkles her nose. “We could put Georgina in charge of that.”
I catch Francesca’s eye and give her a meaningful look. It doesn’t take her long to catch on. “But Georgina doesn’t know the first thing about milking a cow,” she says in her calm way. “And ours looks like she could use some more relief.”
Katie looks in the direction of the cypress tree, where Minnie Mae is trying to feed the cow some long grass. “I nearly forgot about Forgivus! The more you milk a cow, the more it gives, you know. Cows are nice that way.”
Forgivus? I suppose it’s as good a name as any.
“Maybe we had better stay. Are you sure you don’t need us?”
“We’ll manage,” I assure her. “We’ll be less conspicuous if there are only two of us, anyway.”
“Okay, then, good luck.” They make their way back to the twin fires.
“I need to throw the leeches in the river,” I tell Francesca.
She makes a face. “And I need to borrow Headmistress Crouch’s hat. We might need a cupboard for the goods.”
Fresh wounds plague the street with the delicatessen where we first found the sassafras: A felled tree, tipped-over streetlamps, and a mountain of bricks spill into the street. The tiger and the dragon must have returned here, and traffic has ceased completely. We pick our way through the rubble.
The deli is still standing, though the broken bottles in front of the shop have been swept to the side. Francesca eyes a broom leaning against the outer wall. “Someone tried to clean up.”
“They must have realized it’s a losing battle.” Inside, the place looks even messier than before. The green awning has fallen completely, hiding the door like a giant fig leaf.
“Maybe they’ll be back.”
“Well, let’s not waste time.” I quickly glance around before ducking in, sweeping my gaze over every dark corner and hidey-hole. The place seems deserted.
A moment later, Francesca follows.
The reek of sour wine mingles with the woody scent of sawdust. We stick to the front should the ceiling begin to collapse like last time. I stop at a barrel full of salami and hard cheeses while Francesca rummages through a basket filled with picnic linens and packaged herbs.
“Take the salamis from Abbiati. The Abbascia is too peppery.”
I have to squint to make out the fine writing along the salami wrappings. They look exactly the same minus a few letters. “Does it really matter?”
She gives me a hard look. I manage to find two Abbiati salamis and stuff one up each sleeve. This will impede movement, but as long as I remember to hold my sleeves, I can keep them from shooting out. Into my boots, I slip wooden spoons. I hide two oranges, well, in the most logical place to put two oranges. No one will be the wiser. Last, I jam two packets of cheese into my pants pockets.
Francesca removes her hat and places a bag of pasta on top of her head, plus a round container of crackers that fits in the bowl of the hat perfectly. She pulls the hat down to cover her ears. The pockets of her dress outsize my pants pockets, and she is able to stuff in several packages of dried red discs she says are tomatoes.
Weighing a few pounds heavier than when we came in, I ask, “You ready?”
Francesca tucks in the strings of her bag of pasta, which are dripping onto her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a mischievous glint in her gaze. “Do you have room for this cinnamon?”
“If it’s small enough, I might be able to slip it in my sock.”
Carefully, without upsetting her hat, she crouches, tucking the slim packet of cinnamon sticks into my sock. She rises just as slowly. I frown at the bag of pasta creeping over her forehead, while she eyes my new chest.
“I never felt so womanly in my life,” I say.
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“Don’t make me laugh. Your pasta’s showing.”
“Oh!” With one hand clasped to her hat, she points to a spot high on the shelf. A hairline fracture jags along the wall, and my heart clutches, wondering if the ceiling is about to fall.
“Did you hear something?”
“No. It’s dried porcini—my favorite kind of mushroom!”
I peer up at the sack, which is the size of a loaf of bread.
“I can’t reach
it. I need a stool.” Her gaze sweeps around the room, landing on a barrel.
“Er, I love a good mushroom, but where are you going to put that?”
“I don’t know, but I must have it. These are the best porcinis, from Parma. They’re heaven on the tongue.” Her eyes gleam, and you’d think that sack contained a pound of jade by the way she was looking at it. She takes off her hat and tries to push the barrel, but it’s heavy and smashed in on one side.
I help her, but the drum won’t budge. What would Tom do? A simple solution is always on hand for those who search, I hear him say. “Wait. I have another way.”
Glass shards and dried pasta crunch underfoot. With great care, I step around a spilled jar of pickled onions, fetch the broom outside the deli, then work my way back to her. “I better hear angels singing when I taste these mushrooms.” Using the broom’s handle, I knock the sack off the shelf into her waiting arms.
She wraps it in one of the picnic linens, and in her arms, it looks just like a swaddled infant. I help her fix her hat of pasta and crackers back upon her head, and then we move to the exit.
We pick our way through the ruptured streets, edging around felled trees and nests of cables. More than smoke seasons the air—the scent of burning rubber, of newly exposed earth, of sewage. At the intersection, we head south back toward the park, passing a pack of old ladies holding chickens, and one brass bust of Theodore Roosevelt.
“You suppose they’re looting?” I whisper.
Francesca snorts. “The chickens? Or Teddy Roosevelt?”
I am about to answer chickens, but then again, why not Teddy Roosevelt? If the earthquake has shown me anything, it’s that it is not always easy to predict what people value. Francesca would risk a fall off a barrel for a bag of mushrooms. Harry grabbed her pillow. I have my penny, and that’s all I need, though I suppose it would’ve been nice to have another pair of socks.
A pair of horses kicks up clouds of dust as they gallop by. When the air clears, I spot two soldiers across the street in dark shirts and tan trousers, with utility belts around the waist and brown hats with wide rims. Rifles are slung across their backs. They’re bent over, wrapping something into a tarp. A body.
“Francesca,” I hiss.
She sharply inhales.
“Just walk casually,” I tell her. They would suspect us for sure if we turned around. They would question us, maybe search us, and then what?
Each step is a torment. Though I want to flee, Francesca can only walk so fast with her hat full of crackers and pasta, and the baby in her arms. The salamis prevent me from bending my elbows, but I try to look natural.
The soldiers glance up as we approach. May the object of their interest be Francesca’s beauty rather than, say, her booty. When their glances become stares, fear drags a cold finger down my back.
Dear God, why did we take such a risk? If we hadn’t been so greedy, we wouldn’t be walking at such a glacial pace.
The next street lies another twenty paces ahead. We’ll turn a corner, ditch the hat, then run. Another step, just another step.
To our right, houses have been jolted forward so they look as though they’re leering at us with their broken-window eyes and gaping-door mouths.
After another few paces, we pass the soldiers, and soon we’re rounding the corner.
With a snarl, something leaps from one of the broken windows and comes flying toward us in a blur of brown and black fur.
“Oh my Lord!” Francesca stumbles into the street but manages to keep her hat on her head. I try to follow, but the dog circles me, barking like crazy. Saliva drips from its jaw, a jaw I can’t help thinking would easily fit over my head. “Easy, fella.” My voice quavers, and I try not to look it in the eye.
Voices yell from somewhere behind me, but I don’t move. Maybe if I play dead—vertically dead—the dog will leave me alone.
“Get away from her!” yells Francesca. A rock glances off the concrete, but the dog doesn’t notice, so fixed is he on his prey: me.
“Give me a little break today,” I coo, though my voice shakes. “I know you’re hungry, but I’m tough and stringy. I’ll probably give you a bellyache.”
The voices grow louder.
“Hold on!”
“Don’t move! Hank, grab the pole!”
“Forget that—just pop it.”
I don’t hear the rest, for the dog leaps at that moment, biting me in the arm.
Francesca screams.
Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt like I thought it would, but maybe it’s the shock of the moment blocking the pain. As the dog and I wrestle for my arm, I realize that the dog hasn’t bitten me, exactly. It’s the salami he’s sunk his teeth into. In my terror, I forgot about the extra arms in my sleeves.
“Okay, okay, let go, and I’ll give it to you!” I cry. But the dog won’t let go, and neither will my jacket sleeve.
A sound explodes in my ear.
31
THE DOG GOES LIMP, THEN SLUMPS TO MY feet. I grab at my ears, which ring with pain. Francesca grabs me, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.
“It didn’t bite me; it wanted the salami,” I tell her through my tears.
Lying curled at my feet, the dog doesn’t look as big as it did before. Its ears are flopped over its eyes, and its paws look like pink clovers.
The two soldiers say something to me, but they may as well be speaking Spanish.
“You didn’t have to shoot it!” I cry, though my voice sounds very distant. “It was just hungry. It didn’t mean any harm.”
The soldier holding the gun frowns. I should let the matter go so we can be on our way. If they discover that we’re loaded with loot, we might be their next victims. But it rankles me how quickly he pulled the trigger. It’s making it hard to breathe.
How easily life can end on a misunderstanding. How fragile we all are, like spider silk on a branch of thorns.
I wipe my eyes on my arm. The salamis are still hidden. Amazingly, Francesca’s hat is still fixed in place, and her mushrooms are pressed tight against her chest.
She speaks, and I listen hard for the words. “If you’ll excuse us now. We’ve all been under much stress.”
“Why, is that you, Miss Bellini?” says the sunburned soldier. “It’s me, Private Smalls.” He tips the brim of his military hat and gestures to his comrade with the gun, an older man with ears that drip like candlewax. I don’t catch Candlewax’s name.
Francesca lifts her chin a notch, one eyebrow raised. She still hasn’t recognized him.
“Er, I’m Marcus’s friend? I mean, Lieutenant McGovern’s friend.” He licks his chapped lips.
“Lieutenant McGovern?”
“Just promoted him this morning. They need officers. He’s been worried about you.”
“As you can see, I am quite well.”
“It’s a wonder the babe could sleep through all that commotion.” Private Smalls leans in to take a look at Francesca’s bundle, but she holds the mushrooms tightly to her.
“Yes. He can sleep through anything.”
“It’s not yours, is it?”
“Of course not, Private Smalls,” she says icily, drawing herself up so that she stands almost as tall as he does. Her nostrils flare like a mare encountering a snake.
“Right, of course. Where are you staying? I’ll let Lieutenant McGovern know.”
“In the park, with the rest of my classmates.”
“But what of your parents?” He scratches his whiskers with an overgrown thumbnail.
“They were in San Jose with my brother, God have mercy. I expect they shall come and fetch me any day now. Tell Marcus that I’m sure he has much important work to do, and not to trouble himself over me. I’ll be fine.”
“You shouldn’t be walking out here with a baby, all by yourself.”
“I�
�m not by myself.”
The soldier’s colorless eyes wash over me, probably unconvinced that I am somebody. Candlewax pushes his boot into the dog’s lifeless body.
“Still, the place is crawling with criminals looking to steal whatever they can,” says Private Smalls. “We’ve been told to keep the order.”
“When will the army do something useful, like bring food to the people in need?” I can’t help asking. Francesca shoots me a warning look.
He frowns. “We’re all doing our best,” he says in a voice weighed with condescension.
Francesca takes me by the arm. “Well, our schoolmistress expects us back, and this baby needs her milk.”
“I thought you said it was a he.” Candlewax gives the checkered cloth a hard stare.
I stop breathing. All he has to do is reach out and touch the package in her arms to know it is not a baby.
Francesca starts jiggling the bundle. “I was referring to the baby’s mother. He needs her milk.” Each syllable is cast like a knife. I almost expect to see nicks on his skin. “Now, if you don’t mind.”
Private Smalls tips his hat, and I begin to breathe again. “I will let the lieutenant know of your whereabouts.”
Judging by the look Francesca gives me, that is not welcome news.
By the time we reach the Missing People table, my ears have not stopped ringing. It must be well past noon, and the area is overwhelmed with worried faces. I want to see if Ba’s entry has been updated, but I will wait to empty myself of our loot.
“You sure you’re okay? We can call off the dinner—”
“I’m fine. Remind me never to get between you and your mushrooms,” I joke, wishing she would stop worrying. We definitely will not call off the dinner now that an innocent life has been taken in its preparation. I’ve kept my feelings about the dog to myself. It was shot in a misguided attempt to protect me, and to complain seems ungrateful. Francesca’s brow wrinkles, so I add, “I just hope we can pull it off. We didn’t get enough food for forty-four.”
“Anything will be better than nothing.”