FIRE AND FOG (13 page)

"No, I do not think so. The primary person in my family who
might concern himself with my activities, or yours in helping me,
is the cousin I am expected to marry. These days he keeps himself,
how do you say, stuck to-"

"Glued to?"

"Glued to my grandmother's bedside, waiting for her to die. He
reproaches me that I do not do the same, but for many months now I
have been often out conducting the family business, as I was taught
by my grandfather. For all anyone knows, including the cousin, I
continue to do the same."

"Then why are we digging in secret? Why do we mask our
faces?"

"Because, this way, we could be anyone. We are not Meiling and
her friend looking for something."

"Speaking of looking ..." A huge grin spread over my face
beneath the black scarf. "I do believe I've found it!"

I returned to the house on Haight Street in a state of elation.
The object I'd found was round and hard and as big as the tip of my
little finger. I'd dropped it into Meiling's palm for her to do the
honor of wiping off the black dust. It was indeed one of the
pearls, and we soon found the rest, eighty altogether, none of them
burned. Meiling said pearls are like teeth, they can survive most
anything short of being ground to bits.

I allowed that I knew little about pearls, aside from the
unbelievable fact that they are made by irritated oysters, at which
Meiling laughed. "These should bring a good price," she said. That,
I certainly believed. I had seldom seen such large pearls; their
size could only increase their value.

We had worked on past nightfall, using starlight and our sense
of touch to guide us. It was not difficult, merely time-consuming;
once the first pearl had been found, the others lay nearby. When we
returned to the Maxwell, Meiling counted out ten pearls, which she
attempted to give to me, but I refused to take them.

"Let me keep the outfit, especially the trousers," I said; "that
is payment enough for helping a dear friend."

Meiling had inclined her head in her grave way of
acknowledgment. She kept a silence that I did not break-I supposed
she was thinking about fulfillment of her plan-until I dropped her
off on the other side of Golden Gate Park. A quarter moon was just
rising. By its pale light Meiling made me a promise: "I will see
you again, Fremont, before I leave San Francisco."

Now the thought of Meiling's leaving put a damper on my elation.
If only I could have rushed up the stairs and burst in upon Alice,
showering her with the good news of how Meiling and I, against
great odds, had found her treasure! Of course I could not do such a
thing. I had to keep Meiling's secret, and in any event Alice and I
were not close.

I undressed, wondering when I would ever wear the trousers
again. Certainly not until they were washed; they were quite
filthy, as was the tunic, but even in that state the fine silk was
luxurious to the touch. My aubergine cape, which I had been wearing
to cover my dangerous Ninja outfit in the auto, was also in need of
cleaning.

I slipped into my robe and went up to bathe, making rather more
noise on the stairs than necessary. If Alice were awake, perhaps
she would come out of her room and we could have a conversation. I
was all keyed up; in such a state it is difficult to be alone. But
Alice's door remained closed.

A hot bath would have relaxed me, but there was no hot water. A
cold splashing got me clean, and that was all it got me excepting
goose bumps. I prepared for bed but knew I would not sleep; I
decided to read for a while by the light of the kerosene lamp in my
bedroom, once the dining room. My book was a collection of tales by
Nathaniel Hawthorne. I chose one called "Rappacini's Daughter,"
which I had not read for several years and recalled as engrossing.
It did indeed hold my interest, but because it was all about
poisons, it did nothing to calm my nerves.

The tall-case clock in the parlor began to toll, startling me
nearly out of my skin. I counted its strokes: twelve. Midnight. The
final chime reverberated, sharpening the edge of silence. Beyond my
circle of lamplight lay a dark void. I closed the book and put it
aside. Leaving the lamp beside my bed, I walked into the
darkness.

8.

From Death Springs New Life, and Vice Versa

Behind me I closed the pocket door between my bedroom and the
office and waited in blackness until my eyes adjusted. Slowly then,
I went to the wide bay window overlooking the street. Here I would
hang my sign, whenever the overworked sign painter produced it; I
had already removed the lace curtains in order to give the room a
more businesslike appearance. Therefore I had an unobstructed
view-such as I could see of it. I stood off to one side, staring.
Little by little, the street scene revealed itself in subtle dark
shadings. An animal, probably a cat, streaked by, its motion making
it easy to separate from the black background. That gave me an
idea. . . .

Using the thin line of light at the bottom of the door to guide
me, I went back to the bedroom and rummaged among my things until I
found my trusty weapon. It is a walking stick that conceals a long
thin blade, something like a sword. Last year I'd had need of a
weapon, but lately I'd used the walking stick only for its overt
purpose, at which it functions admirably on San Francisco's hills.
I fingered the secret mechanism and drew out the blade in a
practiced motion that I was pleased not to have forgotten. I took
up my set of keys in my other hand, taking care not to jingle them,
and blew out the lamp.

The total darkness that immediately enveloped me was a bit
unnerving, but I soon got used to it. The edges of the bay window
were just barely discernible. I headed for it, then turned to my
left and felt my way to the front door, which I unlocked and opened
stealthily. I did not go out, only looked to be sure that the steps
were clear. They were. Good. The nasty gift-giver had not yet made
his visit. I intended to keep vigil and, when he appeared, I would
be ready for him.

I closed the door without locking it; I wanted to be able to
spring forth upon the enemy like a fury, brandishing my blade with
a bloodcurdling yell. Pausing to unlock the door would rather ruin
the effect. I inched my way back to the bay window and waited,
straining my eyes and ears.

The grandfather clock made an informative companion, melodiously
marking each quarter hour and tolling a count of the hours. Until
two o'clock I stood, then my legs gave out and I sat in a straight
chair. My eyes played tricks on me. I thought I saw moving shadows
more than once, but when I blinked and cleared my vision, they
disappeared. I kept hearing things that made me jump, until I
ascertained they were only the sounds all houses make in the night.
Once Alice cried out in one of her nightmares, but she ceased, and
all was still.

Morning came, and with it a heavy mist, not quite a fog. I awoke
with a start. I had fallen asleep sitting up in the chair; my
trusty blade had slipped to the floor beside me. Fudge!

I leapt up, my body protesting with a wrench of pain, ran to the
front door, and flung it open. Damn it all to perdition, the
wretched perpetrator had been here again, and I had slept through
it!

"Oh, dear God," I said as I spied what he had left. I turned my
head away, grasping the doorframe for support. When I had regained
a modicum of composure, I forced myself to approach the dead
dog.

It was the kind of small terrier that women keep as pampered
pets, which made its death all the more gruesome. It had long,
silky, silver hair that was now matted with blood. Its perky little
face was perky no more; that lolling pink tongue would lick its
mistress's hand never again.

"At this rate," I muttered angrily, "we will have a horse on the
steps next!"

I wrapped the little dog in a kitchen towel and put him in the
trash, feeling as if I were the criminal. Probably I should have
buried him, but I had no more heart, nor energy, nor anything. I
went back into the house, washed my hands, got into bed, and slept
far into the morning.

"That Dr. Tyler's sweet on you," Nurse Bartlett remarked as I
worked alongside her in the afternoon. We were sorting clothes that
had been donated for the homeless. This particular batch had come
by train from Sacramento.

"Nonsense," I said, feeling my cheeks color. "We are barely
friends. I've scarcely seen him since I reduced my Red Cross hours
to part time."

"That's because I've been needing him in the mornings, and he's
been seeing patients at his own office, wherever that is, in the
afternoons when you're here."

"He has a consulting room in his house in the Mission District,
on Valencia Street."

"Been there, have you?"

"Not inside," I said firmly, in response to her suggestive tone,
"I only drove him home one day."

"Hah!"

I changed the subject. "Have you been able to find out anything
about Mrs. Maureen O'Leary, my former landlady?"

"Bless you, child, you aren't still worrying about her, are
you?"

"I am. I've tried not to, but-"

"The only thing I can tell you, Fremont, is that if she was ever
here in Golden Gate Park, she's not here now because we've got the
names. You mustn't worry. We know she's not among the dead or the
injured. I expect she's gone to relatives outside the city."

I folded a very nice pair of trousers and added them to the pile
of men's clothing. "She does have a sister, but I don't remember
where. I'm sure she told me once, but I just can't remember. Nor
can I think of the name of the church she always attended-if I
could, I could ask the priest. You know, Mrs. Bartlett, my mind
doesn't seem to work as well as it ought. I keep forgetting things.
My body doesn't work as well as it ought, either; I cannot count
the times I've bumped my elbow, or tripped, usually over nothing. I
never used to be this way, and it's very disconcerting. I don't
know what's wrong with me."

The nurse gave me an appraising look. "From the circles under
your eyes, I'd say you haven't been sleeping well."

I sighed, rolling socks into a ball. "That's true."

"How's your appetite?"

"All right. I don't really mind having to buy food from the
outdoor kitchens, since I am only a passable cook. Alice ate like a
bird at first, but I must say she has quite picked up in that
department. She will get chubby if she keeps up as she has been. We
get most of our food from Mickey Morelock, and it is on the heavy
side."

Bartlett gave me the once-over again. "Not much chance of you
getting chubby, is there?"

I grinned at her, rather enjoying her close attention. "I doubt
it. I am by nature on the thin side. I have sometimes thought it
would be pleasant to have curves."

Bartlett snorted. "You've got curves enough to suit Dr. Tyler,
anyway."

I swatted at her playfully with a sweater. "Stop that! You are
only teasing me."

"No, I'm not, but I'll get back to Dr. Tyler in a minute. First,
tell me how that typewriting business of yours is coming
along."

"Not well at all. When I leave here this afternoon I'm going to
try to-forgive the expression-light a fire under the sign painter.
If I could get a sign up, that would help, but I'm not sure how
much. Haight Street is residential, not exactly on the beaten path
of those who could use my services. I expect I shall have to
advertise." I sighed heavily. "And I do hate to spend money on
advertising. I don't have much, and what I do have has to
last."

"Hmmm," said Bartlett. She stopped her work and stared at me in
a way that made me stop also. "Fremont, I know what's wrong with
you."

"You do?" I was incredulous.

"Unless you've got some symptoms you haven't told me about-"

"I don't," I said hastily.

"Well then, it's like what they call in the military battle
fatigue. I saw it in the ones who came back from the
Spanish-American War. It happens when you've been through something
really traumatic, like a war ... or an earthquake followed by a
fire that destroys half your town."

I laughed halfheartedly. "In other words, it's not an illness.
Well, that's good news, I must say."

"No, Fremont, it is a kind of illness. In a way it's the worst
kind because we don't really know how to treat it. The best cure is
to be with people who care about you, with whom you feel safe. And
then you need to get plenty of rest, plenty of good food, and set
yourself a regular routine that's not too demanding."

My eyes filmed with tears. "The people who, um, who care about
me and with whom I feel safe are gone. Mrs. O'Leary was one of
them. I suppose that's why I keep thinking about her."

"And the others?" asked Nurse Bartlett softy.

"The other was, um, had to go away. . . ." My voice trailed off
as I thought about Michael, how much I missed him and how I had
always felt safe with him, even back when I'd scarcely known him,
even when there had seemed to be reasons not to trust him. ... I
cleared my throat, blinked, and went on. "Of course, there's my
friend Meiling, she's still in San Francisco, but I don't get to
see her very often." And she would soon be gone, too, but I could
not talk about that. Not even to Bartlett.

"I guess I don't need to ask about that Alice."

"Alice is something of a mystery," I said with a forced smile.
"In that way, she does keep me entertained. If I understand you,
Mrs. Bartlett, you are saying that my lapses of memory and so on
are the result of this, whatever you call it, this disaster
syndrome."

"Um-hm." She nodded, and set her wrinkles rippling. "What I
prescribe for you, Fremont, is to take life easier. I can help you
with that, though I hate to do it to myself."

I looked at her questioningly.

"We can manage without you now. As of today, I relieve you of
your duties as a Red Cross volunteer, Fremont Jones. Your time is
now your own. Just promise me one thing."