Tapestry Of Tamar

by Reece, Colleen L.

  Gordon insisted on going down to help and came back hours later, grimy and heartsick. “So many dead and hundreds injured! Chinatown was gone by noon. The North Beach Italian quarter’s burned. There are refugee camps at the Presidio and in Golden Gate Park.” He spread his hands wide. “I can’t and won’t order any of you,” he told his servants, “but they need all the help they can get.”

  Veronica cast one look at the home she’d worked so hard to get, then set her lips in a straight line. “Will the fire reach Nob Hill?”

  “Yes, but we’re alive.” Gordon dropped an arm around his sister’s shoulders. He didn’t dare add the question hovering on his lips, but knew she understood his concern for Tamar.

  Veronica squared her shoulders and said, “So be it. We can at least help others.”

  The first night saw rich and poor, old and young alike joined in a common cause. No fires nor candles could be lit even in undamaged houses. Quickly constructed stoves made of brick stood outside, and what little cooking San Francisco did was on those. The injured moaned, the bereaved cried—and all prayed for rain that did not come.

  For three days Nob Hill residents worked with Chinese, Italians, and refugees from all over the city. Gordon never passed a blanketed figure or wounded person without a quick prayer that it wouldn’t be Tamar. Once he burst out to Veronica, “I could stand all the rest, losing our home and office building and possessions, if only I knew she were all right.”

  “You don’t know that she isn’t.” Veronica took both his hands in hers and looked deeply into the tortured gray eyes.

  “But the death toll is nearing seven hundred.” Gordon groaned and pulled free. “They say three hundred thousand have lost their homes.”

  Veronica looked at the wrecked, wretched city and said soberly, “It’s a miracle it isn’t seven thousand or seventy thousand dead. Have faith, Gordon.” The shine of tears softened her tired face.

  “I’m trying.” He brushed his hand across his eyes and left her standing there among the injured, where she’d been almost twenty-four hours a day since the earthquake.

  ❧

  Tamar had suffered a blow to the head in the initial tremor. Along with the rest of the city, her boarding place shook and lurched. Dazed from falling plaster, she managed to stagger from her room as great chunks of ceiling fell around her.

  “Miss Donald?” her landlady’s husband called. “Gather your things quickly.” His worried face appeared at his door. “We’ll have to get out if. . . .”

  She was too dazed to hear the rest of his sentence. Her fingers came away bloodstained when she touched her aching forehead. She pressed a handkerchief to it, remembered the water in her pitcher, and stepped over debris until she could wet her handkerchief. She quickly grabbed the faithful Mexican bag, checked to be sure her tapestry lined the bottom, and hurriedly stuffed in whatever clothes she could find, glad that her hoard of money remained pinned inside her garments where she kept it.

  “Folks are camping in Lafayette Square,” she learned when she got outside. “We’ll go there.”

  Tamar weaved through the next days like one in a never-ending nightmare. With all her heart she longed to rush to Nob Hill and find out what had happened to Gordon Rhys, to Carlos and Veronica—even Lorraine. How trivial and foolish her trials seemed when compared with the human misery around her! Yet duty called. Except for a lump on her head and a slight cut that stopped bleeding within minutes, she had come through the inferno unscathed. Other had not. Praying for added strength and courage, she did what she could under the direction of those more skilled than she, dreading every new patient for fear it would be someone she loved. She also vowed that if God allowed her to survive the continuing threat of danger, as soon as she could leave those who needed her, she would go to Gordon and Carlos and no longer hide. The promise sustained her. The work she did was the hardest and most menial she had ever done, yet in a way it was also the most satisfying.

  All around her, indomitable people spoke of rebuilding their city once the crisis was over. The spirit of San Francisco burned like a torch of hope, brightening even the darkest hours. Yet many times Tamar cried to God, praying that her family and Gordon had been spared, wishing passionately she could know, yet refusing to desert her post.

  ❧

  And in another part of the city, Gordon experienced the same pangs, only to a greater degree. Although his Nob Hill residence had burned, Tamar could find him if she chose through anyone who knew him. He had no idea where she might be. Day and night, words he had spoken long ago returned to haunt him. If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll find her—and when I do, only God Himself will ever take her away from me. . . .

  Was that what had happened during the terrible earthquake and fires? Had God taken Tamar? If that were so, was life worth living?

  eleven

  The Nob Hill mansions had burned like gigantic torches, gobbled up by the fire that blew toward Russian and Telegraph Hills. According to rumor, Caruso had snatched an autographed picture of President Teddy Roosevelt, then hired a wagon for three hundred dollars and driven over shattered streets to the outskirts of town; once he was on a transcontinental train out of Oakland, he swore never to return.

  Cracked streets and twisted streetcar tracks served as grim reminders of the earthquake’s power. Help poured in from other parts of the country and martial law helped enforce the mayor’s proclamation that looting or other criminal acts would result in death. Tens of thousands had left the city, but many more stuck it out, even singing around a rescued piano in Golden Gate Park in the evenings.

  The spirit of San Francisco waxed strong and those who had lost fortunes predicted, “Our city will be stronger and more beautiful than ever. Steel-reinforced buildings will be built.”

  Tamar did not keep her vow. Her selfless giving to others took a toll on her body. As long as she had to keep going, she did, but when the dead had been buried and the last of the injured no longer needed her attention, the faithful helper crumpled into a heap in a Red Cross makeshift hospital.

  For days she didn’t know where or who she was. The few times she opened her eyes, she stared blankly at the nurse who hovered over her and demanded, “Where is Tamar?” again and again. Sometimes she called out in delirium, “The tapestry. I must have the tapestry.” But when the nurses and doctor questioned her, she only mumbled and tossed.

  “She worked herself nearly to death,” a kindly nurse confirmed. “I never had to tell her more than once what to do.”

  “What’s this tapestry she keeps crying for?” The gruff doctor’s shaggy brows drew together.

  The nurse shook her head. “No one knows. We searched the vicinity she worked in and found nothing. When we undressed her, we discovered money hidden in her gown but that’s all.”

  “Well, we don’t have time now to hunt for relatives, God knows.” The weary doctor sighed. “Without having examined her at the time it happened, I’d say she’s experiencing a delayed reaction to that head injury, compounded by lack of sleep and too much hard work. Keep her warm, give her all the broth she’ll take, and if you’re a Christian woman, pray. It’s all we can do.” He shook his head. “I suspect she was carrying some kind of burden before she got hurt.”He rested a toil-worn hand on Tamar’s slender one where it lay on the coverlet. “Child, whatever’s troubling you, forget it.” The strain around the sleeping girl’s mouth lessened just a little. “Remember, there’s nothing to worry about. We’re taking good care of you.” He turned abruptly. “I’ll be back this evening if I can leave the others. If there’s a change, send word immediately.”

  Fathoms deep in her fatigue, Tamar occasionally heard voices but they meant nothing to her. Again and again, she lived the horrendous days and nights following the earthquake. In her nightmares, faces from the past plagued her tired mind. Carlos. Lorraine. Dick. Why, she’d forgotten her own bro
ther in the turmoil and now even in her dreams, she gave a thankful prayer he’d been away at school, far from the stench of fire and death. The memory of his smiling eyes strengthened her. She quieted but thrashed when Gordon Rhys’s haggard face came to the front of her thoughts. She’d never seen him so worn and worried. Tamar, where are you? He repeated over and over until she struggled out of the clutching shadows and whispered brokenly, “I’m here.”

  The overworked doctor lifted his eyebrows when the nurse reported his patient’s mumblings. “Hmmm. First she asked where Tamar was and now she says ‘I’m here.’ Unusual name. It shouldn’t be hard to trace her family.” He scowled down at her pale face surrounded by the wealth of red-gold hair. “Pity, but that hair’s going to have to be cut. Those masses are too much for her right now.” He shook his head. “Don’t cut all of it, just enough to get rid of the weight.”

  “Yes, doctor.” The motherly nurse waited until he finished his examination, then fetched scissors. Tress by tress, the silken hair fell to the coverlet until Tamar resembled nothing so much as a medieval page boy. Still her nervous fingers plucked at the air, and the good woman sighed. Would they find relatives in time to bring this lovely child back from the edge of death? The nurse’s keen eyes and years of experience told her how slim a chance her patient had unless something drastic happened soon. With the faith born of early teaching and increased by her work, the woman bowed her head, took the restless hands in her capable ones, and prayed aloud, “Father, be with this, Thy child. For Jesus’s sake, amen.”

  ❧

  Six days after the earthquake, while smoke from the smoldering buildings still filled the air, Mayor Schmitz called a committee of leading citizens to plan how to rebuild shattered San Francisco. The United States Congress had already promised to replace or repair lost and damaged government buildings. Oakland newspapers spit out disaster news to the rest of the country, and it would become a matter of history that no one went hungry or thirsty in the aftermath of the juggernaut.

  Gordon Rhys, Carlos O’Donnell, and dozens of other well-off citizens donned overalls and flannel shirts and grabbed picks and shovels. Gordon was also beset by claims and rejoiced when most insurance companies paid off on the burned properties. The daily hard work created a happy, cooperative spirit, but Gordon avoided the quickly thrown together dance platforms; instead, in the few free hours he allowed himself, he combed the city.

  He and Veronica found shelter with friends whose home had been spared, although fire had crept to its doorstep before the wind shifted. Always he asked those he met, “Did you run across a girl named Tamar O’Donnell, or one called Joy Darnell?” Negative head-shakes and looks of sympathy accompanied his listeners’ responses. Sometimes he wondered if she had safely fled, then reminded himself she had actually been in San Francisco the night of the seventeenth. He fought a war within, torn between wanting to let Carlos know he had see Tamar, yet unwilling to add more misery to the other man’s burden.

  “Don’t ask me why or how she thinks this way, but Lorraine blames me for our losing our mansion,” Carlos confided in Gordon when they worked side by side on the clean up crew. No longer the Spanish grandee, the new Carlos that had risen phoenix-like from the ashes commanded more respect in overalls than he ever had before.

  “You’ll rebuild, won’t you?”

  Carlos shrugged and his white teeth gleamed in his sweaty face. “Perhaps. Only Dios knows.” He relaxed his furious digging for a moment and leaned on the shovel handle. “At least I’m thankful Tamar wasn’t here. I’d give my life to know she’s safe somewhere, though.”

  “So would I.” Gordon cleared his husky voice.” I still hope to find and marry her.”

  “I wish you well. Nothing would please me more.” A shade of bitterness crossed his face. “Even Lorraine would find you acceptable.” His look of understanding took any sting from his words, and he resumed work as furiously as if he alone must restore the city by the Bay.

  Gordon held his tongue and continued to ask God to care for Tamar. For the first time he truly understood Paul’s admonition to the Thessalonians, “Pray without ceasing.” Not only Tamar but thousands of others needed prayers, and every waking moment found Gordon drawing close to his Lord, upholding those in need. He realized how much nearer to God he had grown through all the turmoil. So had others. Grateful for life itself, many who had frantically implored God’s mercy now took a stand for Him.

  One particularly weary evening, Gordon turned his steps in yet another direction. He had methodically mapped out the city and planned to search it all. Only then would he accept that Tamar might be one of those hastily buried in the first wave of death. If she had died while living under an assumed name, authorities would be unable to notify her family. A dozen times he asked his question, but no one had seen her. When he reached the point of exhaustion and reluctantly turned back, knowing he must rest in order to make it through the next day, he raised his face to the heavens and cried, “Oh God, please! Just a word of her. That’s all I ask. I have to know. If she’s dead, I’ll accept it and try to go on and live for You, but I can’t stand this terrible uncertainty.” He paused, whispered an amen, and slowly walked to his temporary home.

  Three days passed and nothing changed. On the third evening when he dragged in from work, Veronica met him at the door. “They’re here. Gordon, come!” she snatched his arm and literally dragged him into a small reception room off the main hall. “They just came and I haven’t had time to talk with them, but maybe—”

  Gordon had never heard his sister babble so. He stopped short in the doorway. “George, Gilda, you’re safe!” Wrenching free from Veronica’s hold, he strode across the room and shook hands with them both, noting new lines in George’s round face. Gilda’s blond hair lay in simple waves instead of the high, tortured hairdo she had worn at the Pantages.

  Veronica asked the question forming on Gordon’s lips. “Have you heard from Tamar?”

  Gordon felt the world stop for the heartbeat before the Smiths shook their heads. “Not a word, but—” Gilda broke off and dug in the large bag she carried. “We found this wrapped around an injured child in Golden Gate Park.” A soiled, crumpled piece of fabric dangled from her fingers.

  Gordon snatched it. His eyes burned as he fingered what had once been a scarlet, emerald, and white design. “Tamar’s?” Could that be his voice, broken, filled with fear?

  “Yes.” Gilda’s brown eyes misted with tears. “Her most cherished possession, all she had left from her parents.”

  George took up the story. “We’d been praying for Joy-Tamar and doing our bit in cleaning up, when we saw the child in his mother’s arms, the tapestry wrapped like a blanket around him. It took some persuasion, but when the mother realized how much this meant to us, she insisted on giving it to us.”

  But I found no trace of Tamar in the park,” Gordon protested.

  “The child’s mother said a kind lady had wrapped him in the cloth while they were in Lafayette Square,” Gilda explained. “Later they moved on to Golden Gate Park.”

  “How long ago was this?” Gordon clutched the dirty tapestry until his knuckles showed white.

  “We’re not sure. The poor woman had lost track of time. We tried to find out more, but we had no success.” Sympathy breathed through George’s words.

  An odd shiver ran up Gordon’s spine. “When did you get the tapestry?”

  “Three days ago.”

  Three days? The shiver increased. “Exactly three days ago I came to the end of my hope and cried out to God for just a word about Tamar.”

  Veronica gasped. Gilda’s eyes overflowed. George nodded. “It happens that way. We had no idea Joy-Tamar was back in San Francisco. Had she just arrived? If not, why didn’t she come to Gilda and me?” Pain showed in the way his face worked.

  “We’ll never know that until we find her,” Gordon
said. He glanced out the window into the dark fog. “Tomorrow we’ll find her.” New confidence rose in him until he wanted to jump and shout. He looked down at the tapestry. “May I keep this?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Gilda told him.

  Veronica spoke for the first time since she had asked about Tamar. “Give it to me and I’ll have it cleansed.”

  Gordon hated to let it go. Somehow, the feeling of Tamar’s presence hung about the stained tapestry. Yet if—no, when they found her, this symbol must be as bright and lovely as ever. He laid it in Veronica’s arms as if it were a casket filled with the richest jewels and gold the world could offer. In her eyes he saw the same gladness that bubbled like a fountain inside him.

  The final stretch of the search proved to be anticlimactic. Some intense questioning turned up clues that led to Tamar’s bedside. Before Gordon, the Smiths, or even Carlos was allowed in to see her, the doctor had a long talk with them. He eyed each sourly, and Gordon felt accused, tried and convicted of some heinous crime against the patient.

  “She got a mighty whack on the head, pushed herself until others no longer needed her, gave away everything she had. Probably didn’t eat or sleep enough to keep a sparrow alive,” the doctor bluntly told them. “I’ve seen them before, these martyrs who forget themselves because others need them. I also suspect something far deeper, an inner conflict that’s keeping her disturbed.” His brows drew together in a thatch that made a roof over his eyes. “Do any of you know anything about that kind of thing?”

  Carlos took it like the man he had become. “It’s all my fault.” He went on to tell the whole story, with Gordon and the Smiths piecing in the things they knew.