FIRE AND FOG (23 page)

I did; but not until I had made sure that my bag was where I
could reach it and my pistol was inside. My last thought as I fell
asleep was:
I
must learn how to shoot that thing!

I dreamed I was playing a game of hide-and-seek, but this game
was not fun. I was child-sized in a world built for giants; instead
of finding a secure hiding place I kept getting lost in this huge
castle full of long corridors with many tall doors and long windows
whose white curtains billowed out in a most threatening manner. I
did not want to play anymore, I did not want to be "it." The scene
shifted, in the abrupt manner of dreams, but I was no better off.
Now I was outdoors in a maze of dark hedges higher than my head,
and I could not get out no matter which way I went. Outside the
maze there were people laughing and talking, making a happy sort of
racket, but I could not find my way to them. I ran and ran, until
finally I realized that I was dreaming and managed to wake myself
up.

For a panicky moment I did not know where I was, but my ankle
soon reminded me. Sunshine glowed through the canvas walls of my
tent, turning them quite golden. Golden, for Golden Gate Park. The
happy racket I'd heard in the dream came from all the people
outside, thousands of them. "There is safety in numbers," I
murmured, and went back to sleep.

When I next woke, it was to the feel of a cool hand on my brow
and a voice that said, "Hmmm." I opened my eyes to the prune face
of Nurse Bartlett, and smiled up at her.

"I am glad to see you," I said.

"Wish I could say the same to you, but under the circumstances,
I can't. What happened, Fremont?"

I struggled up on my elbows; the effect of the pain pills had
worn off, and I winced. "The short version is that I decided I
could no longer stay at Alice's house, and in the process of moving
out I fell and turned my ankle."

"Turned? More like halfway wrenched your foot off from the looks
of it. You must have been running to fall that hard."

"I suppose I was." I leaned back against the pillows. Sitting up
was too much of an effort.

Bartlett clucked, shaking her head, and poured a glass of water,
which she handed me with two more pills. "Take these. I'd like to
hear the long version but it will have to be another time. There's
someone outside who wants to see you.

"I don't really-" I started to say, but too late. Bartlett had
already pulled back the tent flap and Anson, ducking his head, came
in. He looked formidably grave.

"I have already seen a doctor," I said.

He sniffed; I remembered that pinched look around the nostrils
too well. "When I saw your name on the list of patients, I felt I
would be derelict in my duty if I failed to look in on you."

"I understood that you never wanted to see me again."

A faint flush chased along his cheekbones. "Words said in anger
are seldom meant once the anger fades. You should know that,
Fremont. Now I will examine your ankle."

"I really wish that you would not be nice to me," I said through
clenched teeth. Actually, his present idea of "nice" was quite
painful, as he manipulated my foot. Anything else I might have said
vanished clean out of my head.

"I am not being nice, I am being what I am, a doctor. Fremont,
at what time did this accident occur?"

"About five o'clock this morning," I said, gasping. Then he
released my foot; the relief was tremendous. "Why?"

"I'm concerned about the amount of swelling. If I had been on
duty when you came in, I would have insisted that this ankle be
packed in ice. Perhaps it isn't too late, although it's almost
noon. How did it happen?"

"I tripped and fell, that's all," I grumbled. I did not like the
idea of having my foot iced; I had been enjoying the cozy warmth of
my tent.

"Was there anyone else involved?"

"You mean did anybody push me? Of course not!"

"You cannot have forgotten that I know your situation. Were you,
perhaps, running from someone?"

"No, Anson, I was only clumsy. I did this all by myself. And
before you ask, Alice did not return, and I simply felt it was time
for me to leave her house."

He left my foot and came closer to my head. The old kindness
beamed from his eyes. "Other than the ankle, you are in no distress
of any kind?"

"No," I said shortly. I did not want to become involved with him
again, and if that meant I must be somewhat rude, I would.

He put his fingers on my wrist.

"I don't need my pulse taken."

"Sssh."

I sighed. The pills were making me groggy again.

"Your heart is beating strongly and evenly."

"I could have told you that."

"I am only doing my business."

"You are not my doctor. Dr. Stuart is."

"We share patients here. The treatment is free, so who is the
doctor of whom does not matter."

"It does to me. Anson, you and I will be far better off to stay
out of each other's way. I would not have come here if I'd had any
other place to go."

"Actually, I'm glad you're here, Fremont. I presume you have
some medication for pain? Ah, yes, I see." He picked up the small
brown bottle of pills. "This will do. When did you last take your
medication?"

"Bartlett gave it to me right before you came in, and it's
working. I believe my eyes are beginning to cross."

He chuckled. "You haven't lost your sense of humor. That's good.
All right, I'll leave you now, but I'm sending a nurse with ice to
pack around your foot. We'll see if we can't get that swelling
down."

I stood the ice until nightfall, by which time I had decided it
was less a cure than a vengeful torture of Anson's devising. I
hopped to the tent flap and distributed melting ice chips outside
under cover of darkness. Fear of fire loomed large in this
encampment; we were each allowed one oil lamp, which lit the tent's
interior well but did not penetrate beyond. Many people had gone to
sleep with the setting sun, and their tents were dark; but many
more glowed like Chinese lanterns of peculiar size and shape. The
tents were only about six feet apart. Mine was on an outside row so
that the forest that occupies so much of Golden Gate Park loomed on
one side. Ordinarily, because of my liking forprivacy, I would have
been glad of this location; as it was, I would have preferred to be
somewhere in the middle.

Standing on my right foot and clutching the canvas for balance,
I gazed into the dark wood. By listening hard, I was able to
separate the dull hum of conversation in the tents from other night
sounds: the soft whir of summer insects, a far-off cry of sea
gulls, the sighing of the wind in the trees, and once, a liquid
spill of notes from a songbird who did not want to tuck its head
under its wing and go to sleep. I leaned down rather precariously
to pick up the basin that had held the ice and went back
inside.

Much to my dismay, there was no way to secure the tent flap. I
supposed it did not matter, as canvas would offer little resistance
to a determined intruder, but I would have felt more at ease had I
been able to lace or button myself in. The safety-in-numbers theory
did not seem to work for me at night. I told myself there was
nothing to fear, the intruders-the murderers-would not have
followed me here. They were not interested in me, they would only
be glad that I had vacated Alice's house. But it did no good; I was
still afraid.

I decided to take no more pain pills. That damn ice torture had
kept me awake all afternoon in spite of the pills, and now I longed
for sleep. I hopped back to the canvas cot and arranged the pillows
so that I was more or less sitting up, with my left leg propped
higher than the right. The sprained ankle looked disgusting; in
fact, I didn't have what you could properly call an ankle anymore.
I smiled grimly as I compared the injured one to the other. I have
heard that men are attracted to ankles; in this condition I might
perhaps attract half a man.

Both feet were bare and, with the night chill in the tent,
uncomfortably cold. I covered them with the blanket and wondered
what I could do to keep myself awake. My book of Nathaniel
Hawthorne's tales lay on the floor by the cot; I'd tried to read
during the afternoon but had not been able to concentrate. I took
it up again. Then I bent down once more and rummaged in my bag for
the pistol.

The feel of the metal in my hand gave me false confidence-I
supposed false confidence was better than none. I turned the weapon
in my hand, admiring the way the silver surface gleamed in the
lamplight. Perhaps I should load a bullet into it, perhaps I could
fire if need be without having practiced. No, particularly in my
rather fuzzy state of mind, I should settle for the false
confidence, plus the likelihood (no matter how remote) that the
sight of the pistol would discourage an intruder. After all, it had
worked last night and I'd only yelled through the door.

But, Fremont, how many times can you bluff?
I have often
observed that the small voice we all have inside has a most
perverse way of telling us things we do not want to hear.
Fortunately, when I so choose, I am quite good at ignoring it.

With the pistol in my lap, I began to read . . . nodded .. .

I snapped my head up and my eyes flew open in the same instant.
There was a scratching sound at the flap of my tent, and a low
voice I could scarcely hear over the terrified thumping of my
heart. I seized the pistol, forgot my ankle, and was up from the
cot in a flash with my weapon held stiff-armed in front of me. I
opened my mouth to say, "Go away," but no sound came out.

Someone drew back the tent flap; I saw a black triangle of
night. A dark suit of clothes, a dark head, bent down.

"Don't come any closer or I'll shoot!" My voice miraculously
reappeared, so harsh and threatening that I did not recognize it as
mine.

14.

What Fools These Mortals Be!

"Fremont, no!" The intruder was through the flap. Hands went up
in front of his face, palms out.

I was panting, sweat pouring down my neck from pain I felt but
distantly, as if it were someone else's pain; my elbows were
locked, my fingers clamped upon the gun like a vise. There was
something familiar about this man, but in my terror I shouted
again, "Stay back!"

"Good God, Fremont, what's happened to you? Don't you know
me?"

I shook my head. I blinked in disbelief. I lowered my arms.
"Michael?
Michael?"

"I see you were expecting someone else," he said dryly, folding
his arms across his chest. He stayed where he was, on the other
side of the tent.

"I, ah, no. You should have told me you were going to shave off
your beard. You look different." Actually he had a very nice chin,
with a depression like a thumbprint in the middle of it. He had
kept his dark sideburns.

"I tried to tell you about the beard, among other things. I
wrote you a letter, which was eventually returned to me stamped
Addressee Unknown.
That letter's round trip from Monterey
and back took three whole weeks. Can you imagine how I felt?
Fremont, I have been concerned about you.

And now I'm even more concerned. What are you doing with that-"
He crossed the floor and attempted to take the pistol from me, but
I held onto it like a leech. I believe I was in some sort of
shock.

"It is a single-shot Deringer, with one
r,
not an
imitation," I said haughtily, raising my chin.

He withdrew his hand. He was looking at me curiously, his
changeable eyes very blue at present. "I see. So you know all about
it."

"Of course." I took a step sideways; my ankle was killing me but
I'd be damned before I'd let him know it. "Have a seat, Michael. I
must admit I've wondered if I would ever see you again. I am sure
you found my note."

Michael sat on the folding chair, and I lowered myself to the
side of the cot. I would have liked to put my leg up but did not
want him to see my grotesque ankle. Suddenly I was all too aware of
my appearance-I must look disreputable, I had not attended to
myself or looked in a mirror all day.

"What note?" he asked.

"The note I left on the bed in your room at the Presidio." Which
said that I'd gone to Alice's, so how-

"There was no note on my bed. I've been looking all over San
Francisco for you for two days. If I hadn't by chance recognized my
Maxwell tonight at the edge of the park, by that aid station, I
would not have found you yet. This was the first place I came
looking for you yesterday, and you were not here then."

"That is true. I was not here yesterday." I put the pistol down
next to me on the cot. My ankle was throbbing so much I could
hardly think. Was it possible I hadn't written that note but had
only meant to? I wasn't quite myself then, but-

"Fremont, never mind." Michael's voice went soft. He leaned over
and took my hand, brought it to his lips, kissed my knuckles.

I looked at the hand he'd kissed as if it belonged to someone
else. I felt decidedly odd. My head was spinning.

"Let us start over," he said. "I'm just glad I found you. I
don't care why you left or where you've been or any of that.
Someday I might like to know, but not now. I'd like to tell you
what was in that letter, if I may, and something even better that
has come up since then."

"Pray, do." I took back my hand and interlaced my fingers in my
lap. He was smiling at me, and while I had been rather fond of his
beard, I liked his clean-shaven face even better. I tried to smile
back, but in truth I was feeling so very unwell that I could not be
sure I succeeded.

"I wrote to you of my discoveries, such as: the Monterey
Peninsula, which has other little towns on it in addition to
Monterey, is even more beautiful than San Francisco."

"No." I shook my head and immediately wished I hadn't. "That is
not possible. Nothing is better than here."