FIRE AND FOG (10 page)

I drove rather too fast back to the Presidio. Perhaps if I found
Jim Albright promptly he would have time to invite someone else to
accompany him to the variety show. I stopped at the gate and asked
the soldier on duty how to locate Private Albright.

"He's assigned to D Company, miss, but he's not in the barracks
or on base. He went out a while earlier, and he hasn't come back.
Leastways, I haven't seen him."

"Oh, dear." I certainly didn't want to brave the male bastion of
the barracks to leave a note, nor did asking this soldier at the
gate to deliver a personal message seem quite the thing to do. So I
said, "Very well. I shall have to try again later." I reversed and
headed for police headquarters. I had postponed this business of
the Sorensons for too long. Surely I could take care of it, pick up
some supper for myself and Alice-as I had told her I would-and
still have time to run back to the Presidio before meeting Meiling
at seven.

"I should like to report an error in your records," I said to
the policeman at the desk. His uniform made me think of Mrs.
O'Leary as I'd last seen her, clutching the portrait of "Himself,"
her late husband, in his police captain's regalia. I felt, for a
moment, a sense of loss so strong that it stole my breath; I'd all
but given up hope of ever seeing Mrs. O. again.

"What sort of error?" The policeman reared back and looked at me
through rimless glasses that magnified his pale blue eyes. He was
young and kinetic. A nervous type.

I explained, "A few days ago I read in the paper a list of names
of people thought to have died in the earthquake. Two people were
listed in error. I am virtually certain of it, and I felt it was my
duty to make a report."

"I see." He poked at the inside of his cheek with his tongue,
frowning. "What's your name?"

"Sorenson," I said, and then realized yet another mistake. "No,
I misunderstood you. Sorenson is
their
name, the name of the
people who aren't dead. My name is Fremont Jones. I'm a driver for
the Red Cross."

As I had hoped, the latter statement gave me some much-needed
credibility. "Have a seat," he said, jumping up from the desk.
"What part of the city are we talking about? Where would these
Sorensons have been located?"

"I don't know where they live, but they had a place of business
on Sacramento Street, east of Van Ness. That's where I saw
them."

"Wait here, I'll see what I can do." He took off into the
crowded room behind him.

I perched restlessly on the edge of a hard chair, looking
around. The police, like most people, were housed in temporary
quarters. The room was noisy, its atmosphere oppressive. Electric
lighting would have improved the gloominess but not the smell, a
fuggy combination of sweaty wool and old wet ashes.

I had never been in a police station before, temporary or
otherwise. Being somewhat interested in crime and detection, I felt
favorably disposed toward those who did these things for a living.
However, I wondered why there were so many policemen in the room,
some sitting at desks piled high with papers, some leaning against
the walls and conversing loudly, with every now and then a burst of
raucous laughter. Shouldn't they be out on the streets?

The policeman with the rimless glasses returned. "Sergeant
Franks will see you, Miss Jones. Second row, third desk." He
pointed, and I made my way down the row until I stood before the
desk indicated.

"Sergeant Franks?" I expected the sergeant to rise in greeting,
but he did not. Instead, he merely tipped his chair onto its back
legs and stared up at me. He was a fleshy man, gray-haired, with a
neck so short and thick it almost did not exist. He had undone two
brass buttons at the top of his dark blue uniform, and the rest of
them strained across his broad chest.

"You're Jones? What was that first name again?"

"Fremont. I'll get right to the point because I haven't much
time. There has been a mistake about Theodore and Krista Sorenson,
who were listed as having died in the earthquake. Two mistakes,
actually. To begin with, they were man and wife and so their names
should have been recorded as Mr. and Mrs., not Mr. and Miss.
However, that is unimportant, because they should not have been on
the list at all. They did not die in the quake. I am rather
surprised that no one else has brought this to your attention,
since I read it in the papers on, um . . . I'm sorry, I can't seem
to remember what day it was."

"Never mind, I know when we gave it out." He narrowed eyes that
were already too close together. "What makes you so certain these
people aren't dead?"

"I saw them,
after
the earthquake. You see, I had been at
my office, it's-I mean it
was
-on Sacramento Street over a
bookstore owned by the Sorensons. They were my landlords, they own
the whole building. As I was leaving, I saw the Sorensons coming up
the street. I'm sure it was they, because they are both unusually
tall and blond. I wanted to stay and speak to them, but-"

"You're sure you saw them on Wednesday?"

"Of course I am, the day of the earthquake; I could scarcely
misremember that!"

"What time was it?"

"I'm not sure. My watch was damaged-well, at that point I didn't
know it was damaged, I just couldn't find it because everything in
my room was topsy-turvy-" I broke off, aware how awkward I sounded.
I wished he had invitedme to sit; I felt exposed, standing in a sea
of desks. In addition, I was the only female in the room, which
ordinarily would not have bothered me but did on this occasion.

"Miss Jones. It is Miss, not Mrs.?"

"Yes." I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin.

"You're the one's made the mistake. Go on about your business.
You're wasting my time." He turned his head away and took up a
sheaf of papers, stacking them, lining up their edges in a fussy,
officious manner.

"I beg your pardon," I said evenly. "I know what I saw."

He glared at me, his face reddening, and flung the papers down.
They scattered across the desk. I stood resolute, lifting my chin
higher. An expression of disgust came over his face. Apparently he
had decided I would not go away, for he asked, "Sacramento
Street?"

I inclined my head in assent, not trusting myself to open my
mouth at the moment. I was angry; there had been no call for him to
be so rude. Plus there was viciousness in the way he'd flung those
papers. I quite got the message that he would have liked to throw
something
in my face.

"All right," he snarled, "you want the nasty details, I'll give
them to you. It just so happens,
Miss
Jones, I was the
officer on duty on Sacramento Street that day. My job was to be
sure all the people got out of the path of the fire. I remember
that bookstore very well, and the rooms upstairs. Those people were
there, all right, and they were dead as doornails. A big blond pair
with their heads bashed in where the wall fell on them. Now are you
satisfied?"

I wasn't, but I was a little shaken. "Wh-where were they? What
room were they in?"

"I don't recall. I was kinda in a hurry," he sneered.

"How do you know they were Ted and Krista Sorenson? You must
have removed the bodies-who identified them?"

"You know what you are, lady?" Now he stood up, curled his
fingers into fists, and leaned over the desktop with his weight on
his knuckles. His whole demeanor was threatening. "You're a
busybody, that's what. You're so smart, you tell me how the hell
anybody had time to get bodies out of a building with the fire
roaring lickety-split up the street!"

I backed a step away, shaking my head. I was intimidated, I
admit it.

"We identified them. I don't remember how. I could look it up,
but I won't. Like I said a good while ago, you're wasting my time.
Now get out of here.
And don't come back!"

A silence had fallen over the room. I felt all eyes on me as I
turned and walked up the aisle with as much dignity as I could
muster. My knees trembled and my hands were like ice. I wished to
high heaven I had not come, and I left no longer so favorably
disposed toward the police.

I was astonished to consult my pocket watch and find that so
much unpleasantness had taken only half an hour. My confidence in
my powers of observation-no, more than that, in
myself-
was
shaken. I sat for a while in the Maxwell, exceedingly
discouraged.

I ticked off days on my fingers-I was reduced to that, counting
on my fingers like a child-Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday,
Sunday, and now Monday. Six days since the quake, three of them all
fire. A small time, but it seemed like a century. Everything had
changed, including myself. What had happened to me? Where was the
old Fremont who went barging through life, admittedly in a willful
and eccentric fashion, but confidently? Now I could not even keep
my thoughts straight!

Keep moving,
I told myself. I had forgotten to crank the
motor and so, of course, the auto would not start. "Dolt!" I
exclaimed, climbing out to do it. A man in a bowler hat passing by
on the sidewalk turned and looked at me. "I did not mean you," I
said hastily, "I was talking to myself." He lifted his hat politely
but did not smile. Perhaps he thought me an idiot. Perhaps I
thought so too.

Keep moving: those two words had become the litany of my life,
this new life that I was living without the faintest notion of how
to do it properly, like a person who learns to swim by being thrown
into the water to do it or drown. I climbed back into the auto, set
it in gear, and kept moving.

To distract myself, since the word had come into my head, I
thought about swimming as I drove. I hadn't had to learn that the
hard way: I'd taken swimming lessons at Sutro's Baths during the
winter. I had always wanted to learn to swim, but the skill was not
deemed necessary for proper young women in Boston. (I believe a
ridiculous low opinion of bathing costumes had something to do with
that.) Sutro's plunges were heated sea water, a pleasant contrast
to the nippy winter air. I had quickly caught the knack of
swimming. At first, it is truly amazing to find that one does not
sink. Soon I was kicking and moving my arms with the best of them.
What a splendid feeling, to glide through the water like a
fish!

Of course Sutro's, being constructed principally of glass, was
ruined now. Well, they would fix it eventually. I would swim there
again. Probably. Maybe not. Gloom threatened to reclaim me.

I turned onto Fell Street and headed toward the Haight. I am not
normally a Gloomy Gus. Somehow, surely, there would be some good to
come, for all of us, out of so much loss. I had lost Mrs. O'Leary,
at least temporarily, and I felt Michael's absence keenly, but I
was making new friends. Dr. Anson Tyler, for one; Alice Lasley, for
another. Then there was Meiling, who saw this disaster as an
opportunity, and I was privileged to help her take advantage of it.
Aha! Yes, I had known that if I thought long enough I was bound to
find some good. With a lighter heart I drew to a stop at the corner
of Haight and Ashbury streets.

I sniffed the air and smiled. Something smelled delicious; I
realized I was hungry. I felt in my pocket for the money Alice had
given me to buy our meal and retrieved a lidded pot from the back
seat. All over the city, outdoor kitchens had sprung up. I had not
patronized this particular one before, but I expected to do so
again because it was handy to Alice's house. I joined a line of
rather subdued people, all of whom looked tired. A mother nursed
her infant right there in public, and no one batted an eye.

The cooking fire was confined in an enclosure built of brick
from the rubble, covered over with a sheet of metal that became the
cooking surface. Large iron pots bubbled away, releasing their
fragrance into the air. A door on sawhorses formed a serving
counter, presided over by a large, florid, friendly-looking man.
Hanging down in front of the counter was a hand-lettered sign:
mickey's kitchen.

"Are you Mickey?" I asked, as I handed him my pot to fill.

"That I am, pretty lady, that I am. Mickey Morelock, at your
service, late of Mickey's Pub and Restaurant, which is no more,
alas." He did not seem to lament its demise; he grinned and so did
I, for he was so clearly Irish that he reminded me of my former
landlady. "And would your pleasure tonight be the beef stew or the
fish chowder?"

"A choice!" I crowed with delight. "That's the first time I've
had a choice of what to eat in so long that I don't know what to
say."

Mickey leaned toward me across the makeshift counter with his
ladle aloft. He whispered and gave an exaggerated wink. "I'd have
the stew if I was you."

"Thanks for the tip," I said softly, and more loudly, "The stew
if you please, Mr. Morelock."

"Just Mickey, pretty lady." He ladled a generous helping into my
pot and finished with a theatrical flourish. Then he reached into a
box behind him and brought out a parcel wrapped in newspaper. "A
bit of bread for free, to show you Mickey's heart's in the right
place. There ya go!"

I paid, and happily lugged my purchase away. Alice and I would
feast tonight.

"I must go," I said three quarters of an hour later. I felt full
as a tick.

"But you just got here!" Alice exclaimed.

"I am working on a special project," I said, having anticipated
her objections, "and will have to be out in the early evenings for
the next couple of weeks. I trust it's still convenient for me
to bring my belongings over tomorrow morning? Did you speak to your
maid about moving the furniture?"

Alice chewed on her lower lip and ducked her head. "Well,
there's a problem."

My heart sank. "You've changed your mind."

"Oh, no! Never! It's just the maid hasn't come, so I couldn't
ask her to get someone to do it. To move the furniture, I mean. I'm
feeling so forlorn, Fremont. Everyone has deserted me, even the
maid! I had to clean up this whole house today all by myself."