FIRE AND FOG (24 page)

"I did not say better, I said more beautiful, in terms of the
natural surroundings. If you go up into the hills and look down on
Monterey Bay, you will see the sweetest curve of white sand, the
bluest water, not to mention an abundance of fish in the water.
Monterey is now primarily a fishing port, Fremont, but the town has
a distinguished past. Your famous ancestor, and his wife, who I
hear was quite a character in her own right-"

"Jessie?" I perked up a bit. "The family did not approve of her.
They would never talk about her and I've always been curious."

"The colonel and Jessie Fremont lived in Monterey when
California was voted into the Union. There are people still living
there now who remember them. I wanted you to come down, Fremont,
that is why I wrote."

"All this is in the letter I did not get?" The tent was going
around and around. I stiffened my backbone, clenched my hands
tightly, and forced my eyes open as wide as they would go.

"Yes, but I suppose it's just as well because in the meantime I
visited Carmel-by-the-Sea, an artists' colony on the other side of
a great hill with a magnificent forest. That's an even better place
for you, because there are writers in Carmel-novelists, poets,
journalists. Where there are writers, you may be sure a typewriting
service will flourish."

"I live here," I pointed out. This conversation was not making a
lot of sense to me.

"We will come back to San Francisco in time. This would be a
temporary thing, while the earthquake repairs are going on. The
Monterey Peninsula is a kind of haven, Fremont, and I've wanted-one
might even say needed-to find a haven, for longer than I like to
think about." Michael reached into my lap and took both my hands,
the hands I had been gripping as if somehow they were keeping me
upright. He said earnestly, "Come with me-"

I am loath to admit it, but I fainted dead away.

I do not know how long I was unconscious, but for certain it was
too long, for when I came around there was another man in my tent.
It was Anson Tyler, and he was arguing with Michael in low tones
but a heated manner. I could not quite make out what they were
saying.

I leaned up on one elbow, and a nurse pushed me back down. There
was a veritable crowd in my tent. "What happened?" I whispered to
the nurse. Her name tag said
Rose,
but whether that was her
first or last name was anyone's guess.

"You must have overexerted yourself, and as a result you
fainted. Dr. Tyler is furious with your visitor for allowing this
to happen. Are you feeling better? Would you like a drink of
water?"

"Yes, please." The water tasted good. "This is my fault, not my
visitor's. For one thing, I did not have any supper. I couldn't go
get it, and no one came by, so I thought I'd just wait until
breakfast. Then, ah, when my friend came I didn't want him to see
my ugly ankle, you know how it is ..." I said in a chummy fashion,
though I was not entirely sure why I suddenly felt a desperate need
to have this Rose on my side.

"Well, no wonder!" she said. "I think I could rustle up a
sandwich for you. Would you like that?"

I was rather torn; the thought of food made my stomach rumble,
but I did not particularly want to be left alone with Michael and
Anson and their disagreement. My stomach won. "Yes, I would like
that, if it isn't too much trouble."

"Not a bit." Rose left, and both men came over to my bedside,
keeping a wary distance between them.

"I wish you had told me you are not well," said Michael grimly.
"I wish you had told me a few other things, too."

"What other-"

"Fremont," Anson interrupted, "it's very important for you to
have peace and quiet and plenty of rest at this time. I have filled
Mr. Archer in on the particulars and he has agreed to leave."

"But-"

Michael turned to Anson. "You have no objection if I kiss her
goodbye?"

What in the world was going on?

Anson took a step back. Michael bent down and kissed me on the
lips, the first time he had ever done so, and he did it tenderly,
but I could hardly enjoy it under the circumstances.

I grasped his lapel and whispered, "Michael, please-"

He placed his finger on my lips. There was an odd expression,
almost of sadness, on his face. He murmured, "It's all right,
Fremont. I understand." Then, so that only I could see, he drew
something silver-my Deringer-part way out of his pocket and
murmured again, "I'm taking this with me because you are in no
condition to have it."

"I beg your pardon!" I said loudly, suddenly irate.

Michael paid no attention. He turned his back on me, and a
second later he was gone.

"What did you say to him?" I demanded of Anson, fiercely.

Anson picked up the little brown bottle and peered inside. "When
did you last take these?"

"I don't remember, and you haven't answered my question."

"If you had taken them on schedule, you'd be getting the proper
rest and would not have had this recent problem."

"If
you
had not prescribed that foot-torture-by-ice, I
would have had quite enough rest this afternoon! As it was, I was
extremely uncomfortable, and for nothing! Just look at my ankle!
The swelling hasn't gone down one single bit, and it hurts like
hell, and, and-" My fury spent itself and left me speechless.

Anson chuckled in his mellifluous manner. He tucked the blanket
around my feet and brought it up to my waist, where he tucked it in
again. I glared at him. He said, "You do have a temper. Now, if the
storm is over, I suggest you take your medication and get a good
night's rest. Dr. Stuart will see you in the morning."

I took the pills obediently. I no longer cared if Jack the
Ripper himself were to materialize on this side of the world, in my
very tent. At the mention of Dr. Stuart, though, I wondered:
"Anson, what are you doing here at this hour of the night? And by
the way, what time
is
it?"

He consulted the watch that he kept in his vest pocket.

"It's a few minutes before ten. I was here to deliver a baby,
which I did, not long before you fainted. I was at the aid station,
washing up, when your friend came running like a bat out of hell
and yelling that you needed attention. I must say, he is a rather
impetuous fellow."

At that moment, Nurse Rose came through the tent flap with my
sandwich, and I decided I would rather eat than have anything more
to do with Anson. I had never felt so depleted, physically and
emotionally, in my entire life. Not to mention confused.

The pills did their job: I slept.

I was awake the next morning long before any nurse came around,
and in spite of the sandwich I'd consumed at a late hour, I was
starving. I lay on the cot, listening, as the encampment came to
life around me, and tried to remember what had happened the night
before. Normally my memory is quite reliable; I can reconstruct a
conversation word for word long after it has taken place. Yet the
inner workings of my mind now gave me only vague flickering
pictures, like a moving picture show of remarkably poor quality.
Perhaps if I kept trying the words might come through.

Michael had come, and he no longer had a beard. I smiled, seeing
that clearly enough.
Most likely,
I thought,
he grew the
heard in connection with his spy activities, for with it he looked
older and slightly sinister.
In a cleanshaven state Michael was
devastatingly handsome. Yet no matter how hard I tried, I could not
recall a single word of what he'd said to me. I did recall how I'd
felt: glad to see him, and also quite ill.

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed. I thought,
How humiliating, I
fainted!
I, Fremont Jones, who have always believed that
females cause themselves to faint for frivolous reasons. Certainly
in the future I should not be so quick to judge.

I realized that my face was burning, and raised a hand to it. My
skin felt hot, which I put down to embarrassing thoughts, and went
on trying to reconstruct events. Anson had been in my tent when I
woke out of the faint, and he and Michael had not got along. He'd
made Michael leave. Michael had kissed my lips. . . .

I thought about that for a long time, wondering why the memory
of the kiss did not please me more. If only I could remember what
he'd
said!
There had been more times than I could count when
Michael had kissed my forehead-or my cheek, but usually the
forehead, in a fatherly manner- but I had greatly desired a kiss on
the lips instead.

Finally I recalled asking Anson exactly what he'd said to
Michael. He had not given me a straight answer, which was really
very irritating. I decided it did not matter, since all I had to do
was ask Michael when he came again.

"Oh, damnation!" I had just called up a vision of Michael taking
my pistol, its silver winking at me from his pocket. He had no
right to do that, none at all! Just wait until I saw him again, I
would give him a piece of my mind and no mistake.

The trouble was that Michael did not come back. Dr. Stuart did,
and pronounced me healing nicely although for two days I ran a
slight temperature. Anson came and checked my ankle as if he did
not trust his colleague, which I pointed out was rather rude of
him; but he only smiled and acted kind, which made me more
uncomfortable than the ankle.

By midweek I was itching to get out and go somewhere. I hobbled
to the aid station and found Nurse Bartlett on duty. I asked her
how long I was to be an invalid.

She felt my forehead and placed her thin fingers along my cheek.
"Your fever's gone," she said.

"Yes," I agreed. I extended my foot for her inspection. "The
swelling has also gone down. As you see, I was able to work a
stocking over it this morning."

"Hmmm. Well, I never thought you'd be content to sit around in
your tent for very long. Tell you what, Fremont, I'll bind your
ankle to give it support. You can watch and learn how to do it
yourself."

"A splendid idea."

"But mind you," she said as she removed the stocking I'd worked
so hard to get on, "you must take it slowly. The longer you put
weight on this injured joint, the more it will swell, and you could
be right back where you started."

"I understand." I watched her work, admiring the deftness with
which she wrapped a narrow strip of white cloth under my instep and
around and around the ankle itself. "It feels stronger
already."

"Um-hm. Today you can walk around here a bit, get an idea how
much activity you can take. You must not push it, Fremont. Strength
of will, which you have in abundance, cannot force an injury to
heal faster. Though I admit the lack of it seems to be a deterrent
to healing. Now stand up and see if I made the binding too
tight."

I stood, shifting my weight and testing. "It really is much
better. I will take all your cautions to heart, Mrs. Bartlett.
Thank you."

"You are entirely welcome."

On my way out of the treatment tent I paused. "Mrs. Bartlett, do
you remember Michael Archer?"

"To be sure, I do. What about him?"

"I don't suppose you've seen him around here lately, have
you?"

"No, I can't say that I have. I thought you told me he'd gone
someplace out of the city."

"He did, but he came back. He visited me and I was expecting him
to come again. I was thinking-" I bit my lip, as it had begun to
quiver.

"Come on, Fremont, out with it. This is old Bartlett here, you
can talk to me."

"Well, I was thinking that perhaps Michael had been here and Dr.
Tyler had turned him away. They had a kind of disagreement in my
tent, though I'm not sure what about."

"Oh ho ho! The plot thickens."

I blushed. "I do not believe it had anything to do with what
your tone implies."

Bartlett came up and put her hand on my shoulder. She had a
mischievous expression peeking out from among all those wrinkles.
"For such an intelligent young woman, you are remarkably blind in
some areas, Fremont."

I frowned at her, unable to think of a rejoinder.

"At any rate, I haven't seen Michael Archer, but if I do you may
be sure I won't let Dr. Tyler run him off. Now get along with
you."

"Thanks again."

I moved at first cautiously, and then more confidently, out
among the people who were always milling about the place. I felt
rather as if I were at a summer camp for adults; in spite of our
dire situation, there was a kind of holiday atmosphere. I supposed
it came of having no jobs to go to at present.

I decided that I might as well make sure that Max was where I
had left him. He was, and there was a note tied to his steering
wheel.

How interesting! I recognized Michael Archer's handwriting as I
untied it and pried open the envelope.

Dear Fremont, If I know you, and I believe I do, as soon as
you are well enough you will want to be out and about, and that
will bring you to the auto. I want you to
keep the Maxwell,
my dear. Consider it a gift in recognition of the coming event.
With every wish for your happiness, Michael.

My heart leapt. "Max," I said, "you are mine!" I climbed in and
sat there, touching the wheel and the controls and smoothing the
leather of the seats with an affection now tinged by pride of
ownership. I did not have the ignition key with me, or I would
immediately have gone for a spin.

I decided to go back to my tent and get it, and along the way my
delight subsided enough that I began to think about the exact
wording of Michael's note. I stopped where I was, oblivious to the
jostling I got from someone in a hurry to get past me, and read the
note again. What "coming event"? And while I was certainly glad
that Michael wished for my happiness, it did seem an odd way to
end. "He has probably gone away again," I muttered; "the note has
that ring to it."