Outrun the Moon

by Stacey Lee

  Just having something to fuss over is good for the spirits, like Minnie Mae and her cow. Jack knocks at the door of my mind again, but I don’t let him in this time. There is work to be done.

  Francesca finally notices us trudging over and beams. “What’d you bring us, hunters?”

  “His name is Brisky,” I say.

  She points with her spoon to the painter’s cart. “Set your friend on the table.”

  Elodie and I drag Brisky to the finish line. My shoulders are aching, and my hands are cramping into pincers. Brisky might’ve had an easier time carrying us back than the other way around.

  “On three, ready? One, two, three!” We heave. The wagon creaks at the added weight but holds steady.

  Harry and Katie finish their project and join us. Harry pushes up her spectacles. “You two don’t look so good.”

  Elodie snorts. “You’re not exactly a Monet painting yourself.”

  “What did you do?” Katie pokes her finger at Brisky. “Drag it off a battlefield?”

  I shrug. “We did have to fight for it.”

  Katie gapes. “You fought?”

  Elodie smiles at me. “Once they knew we meant business, it was all downhill.”

  She may be a pampered peacock with the temper of a rattlesnake, but she has her moments.

  In the distance, two men carry a felled tree by the ends toward us.

  Francesca expertly flicks her wrist, and tomatoes do a dance in the air before landing back in her pan. “Well, you can’t come to dinner like that. I will ask Mr. Fordham to fetch you some water in our new tub. We’ll throw in one of the hot bricks to warm it, and you can test our new privy.”

  As I wonder who Mr. Fordham is, the men with the log step over the pinecone boundary and set it down between two tents.

  “Mr. Fordham?” Francesca calls to them. Mr. Fordham pushes his floppy hair out of his eyes. He smiles at Francesca, the dopey kind of smile babies make when they’re releasing gas.

  I recognize the young man from the family we shared our spaghetti with last night.

  On Mr. Fordham’s heels follows another young man, well-dressed in a light suit and boater hat with a red and blue band.

  “You will remember Miss Mercy Wong from last night, and this is Miss Elodie Du Lac.” Francesca introduces us. “Mr. Nate Fordham, and his friend, Mr. Oliver Chance. They were kind enough to bring us a bench for tonight’s dinner.”

  “Hello,” I say, unsure of myself. I did not learn the proper way to present myself to young men in my brief time in comportment. I rub my sticky hands on my pants in case I need to proffer one, but no one offers. Instead, the men bow to us and murmur “How do you do?”. Mr. Chance lifts his hat. His dark blond locks taper smoothly around the sides of his head, the work of a good barber. He is slow to remove his gaze from me, but when I lift a challenging eye, he looks away.

  Elodie, who has been examining her red-stained palms in disgust, tilts her head to a practiced degree and curtsies. “Enchanté.” Even with her hair tangled, her sleeve ripped, and a smear of blood across her cheek, she still manages to dazzle the boys. You’d think they were being introduced to the Queen of England by the way they stammer and shuffle about.

  But it is Francesca who puts the primary twitch in Mr. Fordham, judging by how his puppyish eyes keep sliding to her, how he keeps shifting his feet around, as if the grass is too hot to stand on. His kidney yeung must be flourishing, as Ma would say—spring fever has sprung.

  “Would you mind fetching some water from the lake for us? There’s a washtub over there.” Francesca points her spoon again.

  “Sure thing, Miss Bellini,” says Mr. Fordham. The boys hop to the task.

  “And make sure there are no leeches!” Katie calls after them.

  35

  CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS according to Headmistress Crouch, but I would rather be clean than godly any day of the week. After our baths, Elodie and I shiver in my tent while rummaging through the pile of donated clothes.

  Katie and Harry poke their heads in and hand us jars of milk. I slurp mine down greedily.

  With a grin, Katie punches her fist in the air. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled clothes longing to be cleaned.” She eyes Elodie, who is measuring one of several blue army shirts against her front. “I guess I’ll clean yours, too.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I tell Katie. “We’ll wash them.”

  Despite my protests, Katie snatches our soiled clothes and leaves with Harry, who carries away our empty milk jars.

  While I might not have received a full St. Clare’s education, somehow I picked up something better. Friends who care enough to knock on your pumpkin and make sure you haven’t gone mushy inside. Maybe God realized how selfish it was to swipe Ma and Jack, and He’s trying to make amends. If that’s how things lie, maybe I will reconsider believing in Him. And if I find Ba, then He shall have my full attention again.

  Elodie’s nose wrinkles at a stain on one of the shirts. “It’s like they thought only men and boys would need clothes . . . these look your size.” A shirt and trousers sail my direction. The shirt must be a boy’s size and fits just right, but the trousers hang loosely around my waist.

  Elodie pulls on a twin outfit, then braids her hair, even pulls a daisy from a bouquet hanging outside and pokes it into the braid. I tuck my own blunt edges behind my ears, which is as fancy as it gets on my rooftop.

  “If your father left on Friday, then he couldn’t have made it as far as New York before getting the news. If he took the first train back, he might be here soon.”

  Her eyes shift. “I suppose.” With a sigh, she shakes her head, and the daisy falls from her braid. “He didn’t deserve her.”

  “Maybe so. But he’ll still need you. You’re all he has left.”

  “He’ll still have his business in New York.” She laughs bitterly, then plucks the petals off her daisy, one by one. “You remember I asked Papa to take Maman and I to see Carmen for my birthday?”

  I nod.

  “I was hoping if we spent more time as a family, he would forget about his mistress. As you can see, he had other plans.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” I murmur. “Some parents bring their children up and, I suppose, others let them down. At least we can choose our friends.”

  She nods. “Are you worried about your father?” Her words come out stiffly. She is not used to caring about me.

  I fold each item of clothing into neat piles. “Yes.” I checked the Missing People Books while Elodie bathed, and the number of books had tripled. Several of my countrymen were included among the dead, but I didn’t see Ba’s name. “If he doesn’t come by tomorrow morning, I’m going to look for him myself.”

  She pulls her knees into her chest. “You can’t do that. They say everything east of Van Ness is burning.”

  “I have to do something.”

  “What if he came here looking for you? You’d miss him.”

  “Dr. Gunn will be here.” I align the sleeves of one shirt parallel to each other, like Ba taught me.

  She grabs one of her boots and begins polishing it with an army shirt, obviously not caring that someone might need to wear it. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea. The streets are filled with criminals and riffraff.”

  I scoff, remembering how her mother used that very word on me. “Some consider me the riffraff. And I doubt there are any more criminals than there were before the earthquake. There are probably less, owing to the casualties.”

  She stops polishing and lifts her head. “Why did they name you Mercy?”

  “It was the first word my father saw when he held me: Mercy General Hospital.” He fitted the Chinese words for “beautiful thought” around it, mei-si.

  She smirks. “General would’ve fitted you just as well.”

  “Hardee
-har.”

  In the muted light of the tent, her violet eyes look like the last bits of sky before the stars come out. In them, I find a strange comfort. It’s like wearing someone else’s shawl when you’re cold. I may never be best friends with Elodie Du Lac, but at least we are no longer enemies.

  Outside, Francesca has expertly cut the meat, and the stewpot is giving off smells that make my mouth water. Katie and Harry thread cubes of meat onto wet sticks for grilling over the fire, something Francesca calls “kabobs.” Near their tent, the Bostons are sandwiching the cheese and salami between crackers and arranging them on a tray made from the seat of a porch swing.

  My eye catches on a sign leaning against the boot with the flowers. It says Kitchen of Mercy in beautiful calligraphy. Ma would be tsking her tongue at the use of my name. Chinese people frown on drawing attention to yourself. But a worse offense would be pointing out a mistake that is well intentioned, so I return the smile that Francesca is beaming my way. “It’s perfect.”

  “Harry and Katie thought of the name, and Elodie wrote it while you were bathing.”

  People are beginning to arrive, and my heart begins a jig. We’re not quite finished with our preparations yet. At least I don’t see any uniformed army men lurking about. May the soldiers have their own stomachs to attend to and leave us alone.

  A subdued Headmistress Crouch returns from her tea on the steady arm of Ah-Suk. Does she require his assistance to walk, or is it something more?

  She barely acknowledges me. Maybe it’s for the best. Tragedy can give the pot a good shake, not only causing the good bits in us to float to the surface, but the nasty bits, too. Maybe it’s better to skim off the nasty parts and let them go.

  Francesca sends Harry and Katie to collect mint and parsley for garnishes, then wipes her hands and helps me greet our guests: first Nate’s mother, Mrs. Fordham, and his young sister, Bess; then an old man with a dog; then a handsome black couple named Mr. and Mrs. Gulliver and their baby.

  Mr. Gulliver gives me a warm handshake and looks around, perhaps wondering if any other Negro families will show up.

  The dimple-cheeked Mrs. Gulliver sways on her feet, the way people holding their babies always do. “Sure appreciate you having us.”

  “It’s our pleasure. What’s your baby’s name?”

  Mrs. Gulliver kisses the baby’s forehead. “We’ve been calling her Milagro, but she’s not ours. We found her crying from the first floor of a fallen tenement. Couldn’t find her people, so we took her with us.”

  An orphan. I give the baby my finger, and she squeezes it. “We have lots of milk for you, Milagro.”

  Mr. Gulliver rubs his wide hands together. “Well, it’s a miracle you pulled this all together so fast. It’s only been a day. Where did you get all these victuals?”

  Francesca piously lowers her head. “God provides.”

  A family of Italians arrives with three boys around Jack’s age. The rim of the father’s too-small bowler hat moves like another mouth when he talks. “I’m Sergio Vita. This is my wife, Adrianna, and these are our boys, Davy, Danny, and Donny.”

  The wife, a tall woman whose square face indicates a dominant nature, pushes a brick-shaped object wrapped in a towel at Francesca. “My last fruitcake.”

  “Thank you very much,” says Francesca.

  Mr. Vita shakes his head. “I grabbed our coats and hats, and she takes that.”

  “It’s been standing in whiskey for three months; I wasn’t going to leave it behind.” She folds her rolling pin arms. “You’ve done a lovely job here.”

  “Again, thank you, but all the credit goes to Miss Wong. It was her idea.”

  “How interesting.” Mrs. Vito’s unconvinced eyes travel down me and stick on a rip in my pants.

  Francesca clears her throat. “Are you from North Beach?”

  “No, we live by the Ferry Building,” says Mrs. Vito.

  An anxious bubble rises in my chest. “Do you know if the ferries are still working?”

  Mr. Vito scratches the top of his hat. “Far as I know. But the place was like a shaken beehive. Don’t tell me you’re planning to cross town.”

  I shake my head. “I believe my father was on a ferry when the earthquake hit.”

  “They’re directing all traffic from there to the Park,” says his wife with the air of a know-it-all. “Better you stay here and wait.”

  That old contrary side of me flares to life, and I feel myself wanting to make tracks to the Ferry Building right now. Francesca steps closer and drops in my ear, “Have patience. The best thing you can do for your father is to stay safe.” She squeezes my arm.

  I nod, forcing my anxiety back into its hovel. She’s right. Ba has already lost one child and a wife. Plus I can’t leave right now, with everyone expecting a feast.

  More people press in: a family of clog-wearing Swedes with melon-yellow hair, an elderly couple who look to be in their seventies, and men wearing coveralls smelling of fish.

  I don’t see the Pangs, or any other Chinese. I give the willing a handshake and do my best to ignore any strange looks. Perhaps it is odd to see a Chinese girl socializing so freely among the other girls of St. Clare’s. People bunch up behind me, awkwardly standing around, not talking to each other.

  Two Sonoran men appear, wearing broad straw hats and woven shawls covering their arms. Under the shawls, they each appear to be holding something bulky with a pointy end that I can’t help thinking could be a rifle.

  “We’re so glad you’re here,” I tell them, hearing my voice go high.

  The men grunt. Any developing threads of conversation stop. People make way for them as they migrate to the painter’s cart, where the Bostons are still working. One by one, the Bostons find somewhere else to be.

  Mr. Gulliver gets up from his spot on a nearby bench next to his wife, who is holding a fussy Milagro. The man’s hands twitch, as if he’s preparing for a dustup. The Swedes grasp their children to them, their blue eyes fixed upon the Sonorans, while the elderly man puts a protective arm around his wife and steers her away from our camp.

  I reach for my penny, squeezing it so hard I can almost hear the Indian head gasp.

  What was I thinking? You can’t just throw ingredients into a bowl and hope it makes spaghetti alla gricia. For the first time in my life, I wonder if I have bitten off more than I can chew.

  36

  MR. GULLIVER CROSSES HIS TWITCHY ARMS, and his face grows stony. “What you got under there?”

  The Sonorans don’t answer, only glance around at all of us. Perhaps they don’t understand English. I drag my feet over to them. What now? On the cart lies the half-finished assembly of crackers and cheese. I pick up two. “Appetizer?” If they want the crackers, they’ll have to set down whatever they’re holding.

  Francesca leaves the fruitcake she is cutting on an inverted crate and approaches, holding her knife by her side. Mr. Gulliver moves closer as well.

  One of the Sonorans studies the crackers. Then he flips back his serape.

  I wince, bracing myself for I don’t know what.

  To my surprise, he is holding a bottle of wine. I let out a shaky laugh, and sighs are released all around me. The Sonoran turns the bottle so that I can read the label, then smiles, showing me his square teeth. I nod vigorously, though I haven’t the foggiest idea what constitutes good vintage. “How very generous.”

  The man sets down the wine, then pops both crackers into his mouth, crunching loudly. His countryman unveils a second bottle of wine, and someone calls for a corkscrew.

  I feel a tug on my pants, and am surprised to see the Sonorans’ families joining our group. One of the Sonoran children, a stubby-haired fellow, blinks his dark eyes at me. “You got candy?” His mother approaches with more freshly scrubbed children attached to her colorful skirt. She chastises her son and tries to pull him away by hi
s wiry arm.

  “That’s okay,” I tell her. “We’re so glad you could make it.”

  “Gracias, thank you for we coming.” Her English is broken but sincere.

  I bend to her son’s level. “I’m sorry, I don’t have candy today.”

  His face falls, and it twists my heart as he reminds me so much of Jack. “What’s your name?”

  “José.”

  The other guests stand about, stiffly holding their elbows.

  Maybe what we need is a way to oil the works. “Do you like games?” I ask José.

  He stuffs his hands in his armpits, and his shirt comes untucked. “I guess.”

  One of his sisters breaks away from her mother. “I like games.”

  Like many families in Chinatown, the younger generation is fluent in English. “Well then, gather round,” I say loudly, beckoning to the Vita boys, the Swedish children, and Mr. Fordham’s little sister, all of whom have been eyeing one another curiously. Mrs. Vita frowns, but her boys hurry over with the rest. “Line up in back of José. We’re going to play Two Frogs on a Stick.”

  The half-sizers fall in line, neat as piano keys. “Once upon a time, there were two frogs going opposite ways on a branch, and neither would let the other pass. So they decided whoever could make the other laugh first would earn the way past.

  “Here are the rules: No touching. No closing your eyes. First to make the other crack a smile is the winner, and winner plays next in line.”

  The adults watch us, some half-smiling, some edging closer, and some, like Mrs. Vita, nibbling on fruitcake. I catch Oliver Chance casting me a long gaze as he swirls a jar of milk three paces away. He hooks a thumb into his oiled belt, which, unlike Tom’s, is free of creases.

  I kneel in front of José. “Ready?”

  José clamps his mouth tight, his chocolatey eyes zeroed in on mine. I should go easy on him. He’s just a puppy, and he’s not even pulling any funny faces. You’ll never topple a kingdom if you don’t draw your sword, kid. The others fall out of line and gather around us.