FIRE AND FOG (22 page)

I picked one up at random and read:

Awaken me, my ruddy love, As dawn awakes the morning,
And 'pon my lips your kisses drop Like new day's dew aborning.

"Aborning?" It went on in that vein. Sounded like Alice, all
right. This poem was handwritten and I thought I recognized the
penmanship as well as the style. "Ruddy love"-if I were still
puzzling over her husband, I'd have pounced upon that description
as a likely indicator that he was a redheaded man. Perhaps he was,
perhaps he did exist and was her partner in the crime of poisoning
the aunt, and perhaps Alice really had been looking for him when
I'd found her. The hell of it was that now I'd probably never
know.

I continued to shake out books, and when I'd been through them
all I'd found forty-three poems, including the twenty I'd typed for
her the previous year. I got tears in my eyes; silly, maybe, but
what had happened to her, as well as what she likely had done,
seemed a terrible waste of humanity.

Still, I had not found a journal or any of the family records
I'd hoped for, and time had run out. I left the bankbooks where I'd
found them, locked all the pie-shaped drawers, and put their key in
the box that resembled a little coffin. An appropriate resting
place for it. Then I gathered up Alice's poems. I had decided to
keep them.

What I would do with them I had no idea; publish them, someday,
in a volume tided something like
Love Poems of a Slain Mad
Murderess?
I giggled insanely at the thought- this night of
much tension and no sleep had me deranged. Nobody would want to
publish, much less read, anything so lurid; some people say our
society is depraved, but surely we are not
that
depraved
yet!

As I dressed in the half-light of coming dawn, I realized I was
lightheaded and jangly-nerved. Nevertheless my mind clicked along
smartly. Before leaving the house I drowned the fire in the stove,
then wrote a note to the milkman:

We are going away. Please cancel our order until
further notice.

I signed it
A.L.
I put it under an empty milk bottle by
the back door as I left that way, scurrying around the far corner
of the house and down Haight Street on the lookout for a cab.

Damn and double damn! ("Fudge" had quite outlived its
usefulness, considering the gravity of my situation.) The guard on
duty at the Presidio gate was none other than Private James
Albright. I'd had the cab driver drop me half a block away,
thinking that somehow I might sneak in without attracting
attention, but now I realized that would not be possible. I strode
purposefully forward, ignoring the way Albright's eyebrows rose and
his jaw hardened at the sight of me.

"Good morning, Private," I said. "I have come to retrieve the
Maxwell from the garage. There is an emergency in which the auto
and I are both needed. I trust you have no problem with that?"

"No problem, Miss Jones," he said stiffly, saluting.

My cheeks burned as I passed through. It was a long hike from
the gate to the garages, and I was huffing like a steam engine by
the time I got there. If the auto refused to start up, I would have
a hissy-fit of major proportions.

"Come on, Max, I need you, start for me," I crooned, cranking.
It was really ridiculous how fond I had grown of this automobile-I
had actually missed it, and it seemed to have named itself inside
my head while we'd been apart.

Perhaps Max was as glad to see me as vice versa, for "he"
started and we chugged off. Private Albright stood in the road as
we approached, but I did not slow down, rather waved with false
gaiety, and at the last moment he stepped aside. Actually I was
rather glad he was on duty-at least he could not follow me this
time.

The sky was grayish and overcast as Max and I returned to Haight
Street. The sun had not yet risen, the streets of San Francisco
were quiet except for the auto's steady chugging. I planned to be
out of Alice's house by full daylight. I did not park on the street
but drove around back and bumped into the yard, out of the
neighbors' sight.

In my haste, the clumsiness that had accompanied my forgetful
period some weeks ago returned-with worse results. I had not really
hurt myself back then; now, I did. With my arms full of clothes, I
tripped going down the steps and turned my left ankle. It hurt like
the dickens, but I ignored it. Limping, I nevertheless finished
loading my possessions in record time. Last of all, I took down my
fremont jones typewriting services sign and pasted in its place
another that I'd hand-lettered on cardboard: closed for relocation.
sorry for the inconvenience, fremont jones. Then I limped out the
back, locked the door for the final time, and made my getaway.

Unfortunately, it was not an entirely clean getaway: as I
crossed Ashbury Street, Mickey Morelock flagged me down. I did not
want to stop but felt I should, on account of his having been so
kind as to get me the pistol.

"What's all this, pretty lady?" he asked, putting a foot on
Max's running board. "Don't tell me you're leaving us!"

"Not exactly. It is only that my living arrangements did not
turn out to be quite what I'd hoped, so I am moving on.

He cocked his large head. "Got something better, didja?"

"Well, no. I expect I shall be living in Golden Gate Park for a
while-assuming there's a tent available." Suddenly the enormity of
my situation burst in on me-no home,
again,
and no office,
which meant no income-and I felt quite deflated. "I honestly am not
quite certain what I will do."

"Tell you what. It's early yet, but I got the coffee made.
Whyn't you park that auto over here where we can keep an eye on
it-say, what's that you got there?" He leaned over, peering across
me at the passenger seat.

"It's a typewriter. I have a business, a typewriting service, if
I can only find a place to set up again."

"Oho! So you're smart as well as pretty. I shoulda known,
shoulda known." He winked and smiled, and I smiled in return. He
continued, "Like I was saying, whyn't you park where we can keep an
eye on your stuff and tell ole Mick all about it? Who knows, maybe
I can help."

Probably the last thing in the world I needed at the moment was
more coffee, but Mickey's warm-hearted Irish manner, so reminiscent
of Mrs. O'Leary, was irresistible.

There was no one else around other than Mickey and me, so I felt
safe. "All right," I agreed.

I parked the auto and got out, forgetting about my ankle. A
blinding pain shot up my leg, all the way through my body and up
into my head. I staggered and would have fallen without Mickey's
brawny arm suddenly coming around me.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked. I allowed myself to rest for a moment
against his comfortable bulk.

"I'm quite all right," I lied, pulling back. He frowned but did
not question me further. I gritted my teeth and without much of a
limp made it to a stool near the huge sheet of metal that was
Mickey's cooking surface.

"Here ya go." Mickey handed me a steaming mug of coffee, then
turned away, bending over so that his ample backside was almost in
my face. He looked so comical that I, feeling suddenly quite giddy,
could barely restrain myself from laughing. Rummaging around, he
mumbled, "Now let's just see what we've got here. . . . Yeah.
That'll do, that'll do the trick." He straightened up with a
covered pan in hand. "Last night's leftovers-corned beef hash. How
about I fry us up some? It'll only take a minute."

"Thank you, that would be lovely."

My ankle hurt so much that I didn't see how I could eat, but I
did. Not only that, I enjoyed it. Mickey was really an excellent
cook. I engaged him in conversation about the restaurant he'd lost
in the earthquake, his plans for its rebuilding, and so on.

After a while Mickey said, "Now looky here, you got me to
talking all about myself, when this was supposed to be about how I
could help you out."

I felt so warm and cozy, replete with good food, that I really
did not want to think about my problems, much less talk about them.
I demurred: "You're very kind, but I expect I can work things
out."

"What kinda things?"

I laughed. "Oh, the usual. Where to live, where to have an
office so that I can earn my livelihood. Little things like
that."

Mickey nodded sagely. "Things like that, I can help. I know
lotsa people, got plenty o' contacts. Do anything in the world for
ole Mick, they would, or so they tells me."

I believed him, but I didn't say anything. I was fresh out of
hope.

"So what's it to be, pretty lady? You want I should find you a
coupla rooms, a nice apartment maybe?" He wrinkled his brow, and a
calculating look came into his eyes. "Typewriting service, you
said. That means you'd want to be near the business district, on
the beaten track like they say.

"Ideally, yes. But, Mickey, I must tell you the truth: I haven't
much money." I knew that rents had gone sky high overnight.

He waved my remark away with a big hand. "On Fillmore, that's
where you wanna be, that's where the best business is going on
these days. Think you could come up with a deposit on a coupla
days' notice?"

"As I said, if it's not too large."

He winked. "Don't worry your pretty head about that. You just
give me about a week and I'll see what I can do."

I was virtually certain that he would never find anything I
could afford, but I said, "I would be most grateful." Then I got to
my feet, gingerly, because a few customers were straggling in.

Mickey called out over his shoulder, "Be with ya in a minute!"
Then he placed a hand on my arm. "Where can I reach you?"

"I expect I'll be in the park. Considering its crowded state, it
would be easiest for me to contact you when a week has gone by. Now
you must let me pay you for that excellent breakfast."

"Nope, that was on me. My pleasure." "I can't-

"Yeah, you can. But one thing before you go, pretty lady. I
don't even know your name."

Amazingly enough, that was true. I'd never told him, yet I felt
as if I'd known Mickey Morelock for years. "Fremont Jones," I
said.

"Fremont, huh?" He gave my arm a squeeze before removing his
hand. He winked again and leaned toward me confidentially. "Any
relation?"

I grinned-this man knew the history of his state. "Yes. Fremont
was my mother's maiden name. John Charles Fremont was her
cousin."

"Well, fancy that! See ya later then, Fremont Jones."

My ankle had ballooned up to thrice its normal size. It looked
positively grotesque. I had removed my shoe and doubted I could get
it on again.

"Well," said the nurse at the aid station in Golden Gate Park,
"I've found a tent for you, but we have to do something about that
ankle. For sure you have to stay off it."

I wished Bartlett were here. This nurse was named Annie Fuchs,
and I had never met her before. She was young, certainly not older
than I, but I had to assume she knew her business. I said testily,
"I can't very well stay off it. I have to unload my things."

"Don't worry about that," said Annie, sitting opposite me and
taking my foot into her lap. "We have plenty of volunteers around
here to do it for you. Let's hope your ankle isn't broken. Can you
move your toes?"

I moved them, nearly passing out from the pain.

"Um-hm. How did you say this happened?"

"I tripped coming down the steps with my arms full. I just
turned my ankle, that's all. I can't imagine why it hurts so
much."

"You stay here and keep that leg elevated." She propped my foot
on the chair she vacated, then slipped a rolled blanket underneath
it. "It's probably only a sprain, but I think the doctor should
take a look."

"No, please!" I yelped. "I really would rather not have a
doctor."

The nurse looked at me strangely. "Why not?"

Why not, indeed? Because the doctor might turn out to be Anson
Tyler, and he was about the last person I wanted to see in my
semi-helpless state. But I couldn't tell her that, so I shrugged.
"I just don't much like doctors."

She smiled. "A lot of people feel that way, but there is nothing
to be afraid of. Anyway-even if you can walk on it, which I doubt-I
can't take the responsibility of letting you go to your tent until
a doctor has examined that ankle. Be back in a minute."

Luck was with me: the doctor who came was not Anson but another
whom I'd driven and knew slightly, an older man called Dr. Stuart.
He manipulated my foot, pronounced the ankle unbroken, and told me
not to put my weight on it for twenty-four hours, after which he
would examine me again. He gave me a supply of pills for pain- by
that time I was so glad to have them that I did not even ask what
drug they contained-and summoned two brawny young men to carry me
to my assigned tent. I suffered the indignity in silence; bantering
words came to mind but I could not utter them on account of biting
my lip so hard against the pain.

Nurse Annie Fuchs had perhaps been taking lessons in generalship
from Bartlett, for she stood in my tent barking orders: put this
here, that there, bring more pillows, set her down carefully, and
so on. While I had been with the doctor, she had found someone to
unload the Maxwell. The canvas cot that I was placed upon by the
brawnies seemed as comfortable as any bed.

I sighed, "Thank you."

"Get her a pitcher of water," Annie barked.

"Ay, ay, sir," said one brawny, who soon returned with it.

"Thank you so much," I said again, with tears in my eyes for
their kindness, "all of you."

The young men left, and so did the older volunteer, who had been
carrying my things into the tent, but the nurse stayed. She
supervised my swallowing of two pills, fluffed pillows behind my
head and beneath my injured foot, covered me with a blanket, and
said to me: "Rest."