FIRE AND FOG (5 page)

I folded the paper and tucked it under my arm as my turn came up
for coffee, bread, and butter. I would have killed, nearly, for a
piece of fruit. Everyone was all smiles and happy chatter this
morning. You would think we were at some enormous outdoor picnic,
quite a change from the tense atmosphere of previous days. I did my
own share of smiling, though I declined to chat; found a place to
sit and resumed reading the paper while I munched passable bread
and drank perfectly awful coffee. The best you could say for the
latter was that it was hot. Also, I mentally amended, free.

On the back page, set off by a black border, was a listing of
the names of people now known to have died in the earthquake. I
read it with an eye especially alert for Chinese names. I was quite
concerned about Meiling Li, because I'd seen the devastation of
Chinatown. I'd looked for Meiling as much as I could while keeping
up with the rounds set for me and the Maxwell, but I had not yet
found her. The names were listed alphabetically, and I relaxed a
bit when I passed the Ls without seeing hers. Then I came to the
Ss.

Mr. Theodore Sorenson. Miss Krista Ingrid Sorenson.

What? I blinked, put down my coffee mug, and read the names
again. Those could not be
my
Sorensons, for Ted and Krista
were husband and wife, therefore Mr. and Mrs., not Mr. and Miss.
But could there be two sets of Ted and Krista Sorensons in San
Francisco? I thought not. I also thought the newspaper had made
another mistake, because I knew the Sorensons had not died in the
earthquake. I had seen them on Wednesday morning, coming toward me
on Sacramento Street.

I should tell the police,
I thought,
they will want to
know that they have made a wrong identification.
How I wished
that Michael had not rushed me off before I could speak to Ted and
Krista. If only I'd spoken to them, I could offer that as proof
they were still alive.

Then I remembered something that, in the press of fleeing the
fire, I had forgotten: the contraband in the back room. Again, if
Michael had not rushed me, I would have had time to tell him about
it or, better yet, to take him by the hand and show him. I supposed
all the fascinating artifacts were burned up now, like everything
else in that part of town.

Quite unreasonably, I felt it was somehow Michael's fault that
the Sorensons' names were wrongly on this list of the dead. I knew
I felt that way because I was still irritated with him for leaving
San Francisco, but that knowledge didn't lessen the irritation one
whit. I didn't care that Michael had been sent on a mission,
couldn't appreciate that he'd taught me to drive and turned his
precious Maxwell over to me. Did I really want to be doing all this
driving? No, I didn't. I wanted-
longed for
-some space, just
a little space, a closet would do, where I could set up my
typewriter and be fremont jones typewriting services again! Most
embarrassingly, my eyes spouted tears. I left the mess tent in a
hurry.

Later, of course, I was ashamed of myself for that outburst of
self-pity. I drove along the now familiar route to the Red Cross
station set up just outside Golden Gate Park, thinking about the
Sorensons and whether or not I should go to the police. Being
somewhat distracted by these thoughts, I did not immediately see
the figure that stepped into the path of the auto, and had to apply
the brakes sharply.

Did my eyes deceive me? Was this tall person in the traditional
Chinese garb of long black coat and narrow trousers who I thought
it was? Yes!

Joyously I cried, "Meiling!"

She abandoned her accustomed dignity and ran to the auto.
"Fremont, I have been looking everywhere for you."

"And I have been doing likewise, for you. Get in, please. I
cannot tell you how glad I am to see you." I did not exaggerate,
for I am a great admirer of Meiling Li. Though she is my own age or
perhaps a year or two younger, she had been the pillar of her
family since her grandfather's unfortunate demise the previous
year. And though Chinese society is even more repressive of females
than Bostonian society, Meiling manages a considerable degree of
independence.

She smiled at me and lowered her head slightly in just a hint of
the bow that is her people's form of greeting. "I should not be
surprised to discover you at the wheel of an automobile."

"It is Michael Archer's," I said, putting the auto in gear.

"Ah. That does not surprise me either."

"He taught me to drive it and then he left town."

Meiling laughed her silvery laugh. "From what I have heard of
Mr. Archer, that too is not surprising."

"Um-hm. I recall that your family has known Michael longer than
I have. Meiling, I hope you won't mind riding along with me, as I'm
due at the Red Cross station. We can talk as we go, and after I
receive my assignment, I'll drive you wherever you like. Is that
acceptable?"

She inclined her head again. "Yes, that is most acceptable."

"I've been in the vicinity of Chinatown several times during the
last few days. I know that your splendid house is gone. I'm sorry
for your loss, Meiling."

"Thank you."

"Were you able to save anything? Is your mother all right, and
your grandmother, and the other members of your household?"

She shook her head; the wind generated by the auto's motion
stirred her long black hair and flung strands of it across her
face. "No," she said, scraping her hair back, "my mother is dead.
She was not killed in the earthquake, but when we went to get her
to leave what remained of the house, we could not rouse her. I
thought she had only drugged herself insensible, which as you know
would be nothing new. But she was dead. Grandmother thinks she
drank poison."

"How terrible!"

Meiling lifted her shoulders and let them fall, a grave sort of
shrug. "It is not really so terrible. Life has been unbearable for
her for many years. I am only surprised that she did not take the
poison before. She must have been- what is the correct word, not
'keeping' exactly, but-"

"Hoarding?"

"Yes, hoarding it for some time. The earthquake was her great
excuse to use it. Now Mother does not suffer anymore. But
Grandmother . . ." Meiling broke off with a most uncharacteristic
sigh.

I glanced at her. We were nearing the park, but Meiling clearly
needed to talk. I pulled into a side street and cut off the motor,
explaining, "I can be a little late. Pray continue."

"Grandmother is so frail. I think she does not have the heart to
start over. She will not get up from her pallet. I am sure she has
decided to die, and her will is strong. She will die soon. I have
had so much to think about, Fremont."

"With the proper medical attention, perhaps your grandmother
will change her mind. I've been driving doctors to and from various
places for the Red Cross, and nurses; I can see that she gets good
help. Where are you staying?"
>..

"We are camped out in a little park in the Sunset District. I
appreciate what you are offering, Fremont, but it would be
disrespectful of her wishes if we were to bring a doctor to my
grandmother. She is a very old and honorable woman. My mother's
death was an act of weakness, but it will not be so with my
grandmother. I am preparing myself. That is why I was looking for
you."

I did not quite understand, so I inclined my head in a gesture
of acknowledgment and waited.

"I am the last direct descendant in my branch of the Li family.
Since Grandfather died last year, I have been expected to marry,
even though it is well known that I do not wish it. I am supposed
to take a husband and produce a lot of little Lis, preferably male.
Only my grandmother's affection for me has kept her from arranging
a marriage. Now she feels that she has failed in her duty and seeks
a promise from me, a promise that I cannot bring myself to
give."

"Whom does she want you to marry?"

"He is a close relative, in English I think one says a cousin;
his name would not mean anything to you. I do not particularly like
him, but even if I did, I would not marry him. I am a most
dishonorably disobedient woman." Meiling turned and looked me full
in the face with her lustrous dark eyes. She did not appear at all
regretful. "I am going to make a new life for myself. The
earthquake was not so much a disaster for me as an opportunity. No
one must know what I am planning, but I need help. Will you help
me, Fremont?"

"Meiling, you know that I will."

We arranged to meet at the end of the day, when I would have
more time to hear Meiling's plan and my part in it. She declined my
offer of a ride back to her camp, saying that she preferred to
walk. Excited by the prospect of helping Meiling, I chugged up to
the Red Cross station in quite the highest spirits I had enjoyed
for some time.

"You're late, Miss Jones," said Mrs. Bartlett, the nurse who
gave me my assignments.

"I'm sorry, but I met up with a friend whom I hadn't seen in so
long that I was beginning to think she hadn't survived the quake. I
really had to take the time to talk with her."

"Well, I can understand that." Mrs. Bartlett had a face like an
old prune, but she was a warm-hearted person.

"What am I to do today?"

"First, you can take Dr. Tyler back where you came from, to the
Presidio. Some of the refugees there need attention."

"Can't the Army doctors do that? After all, they're right there
on the spot."

"Apparently not, they're short-handed or something. All I know
is the request came in, and Dr. Tyler's ready to go. Or at least he
was-where do you suppose he got to?" She contorted her long,
wrinkled neck to such an extent that I thought, like an owl, she
would turn her head clear around backward. "Oh, drat!" she
expostulated.

"Never mind, I'll find him." Dr. Tyler was already kind of a
favorite of mine; I didn't in the least mind looking for him.
Besides, in the process I could continue my search for Mrs.
O'Leary. She had to be somewhere among the homeless at Golden Gate
Park, but thus far I had not seen her or any of her friends whom I
might recognize on sight.

"Wait, Fremont," said Mrs. Bartlett, snatching with her skinny
fingers at my sleeve. "Let me give you the rest of your assignment
in case I get busy with something while you're off after Dr. Tyler.
When you've dropped him at the Presidio, you're to go to the train
station."

I nodded. The train station, though south of Market, had, with
heroic effort, been saved from the fire. Now a steady stream of
supplies arrived there daily. Communities around the state and
across the country were being very generous to San Francisco.

Mrs. Bartlett tipped up the little round watch pinned to the
flat bodice of her shirtwaist. "Have you the pocket watch I gave
you?"

I fished in the pocket of my skirt and produced it.

"Good." She nodded, which set off a wavy motion among all the
wrinkles in the vicinity of her chin. "Let us synchronize our
watches. I have nine fifty-seven."

I pulled out the fob of my watch and made a two-minute
adjustment. Mrs. Bartlett was notoriously precise. "Nine
fifty-seven it is."

"There is a train due in from Sacramento at ten-thirty with a
load of donations. You are to pick up the blankets and bring them
here. Nothing else, just the blankets, as they are urgently needed.
Others will be along with wagons for the rest, but loading the
wagons will take some time and I want those blankets right away.
Understood?"

"Understood." I grinned. I felt I should salute. Mrs. Bartlett
would have made a great general if she had been of the opposite
sex. She already had a good deal of the lingo, and I was picking it
up myself, both from her and from the Army types at the
Presidio.

"Carry on," she said, and I did.

"I do wish you would call me Anson," said Dr. Tyler. I had found
him with no trouble but could not say the same for Mrs.
O'Leary.

"Very well. Thank you,
Anson."
I glanced over my shoulder
and smiled at him. He was a lanky fellow, as soft-spoken as he was
clean-shaven, with light brown curly hair that had already receded
to the crown of his head, though he did not appear to be much over
thirty. His eyes were a darker brown than his hair, liquid as a
puppy's and always full of kindness, which was why I instinctively
liked him.

"I keep thinking that we should be in church," he said, "though
I'm sure the rescue work is more important."

It was a measure of how much I liked Dr. Anson Tyler that I did
not acknowledge my own lack of religion. Instead I said, "I expect
God will understand."

"I'm sure you're right, Fremont."

Mrs. O'Leary was still on my mind; the church she usually went
to was called for two saints-Peter and Paul, I thought it was. At
any rate, her church was in the vicinity of North Beach and so must
have burned on the third day of the fire. If it had not, I was sure
she would manage to get there somehow. "If I am not being too
inquisitive," I ventured, "what church do you go to?" There was a
small chance he might attend the same one as Mrs. O'Leary.

"I live in the Mission District-fortunately, in the part that
did not burn-so I usually go to the Basilica Church at the Mission
Dolores. I was brought up Methodist, but since coming to San
Francisco I've become interested in the Catholic faith. I expect I
will become a convert someday. Perhaps soon. The earthquake has
speeded up my thoughts on the matter."

"I can understand that. I visited the Mission Dolores on one
occasion last year and had quite an interesting chat with the
priest there. I rather preferred the little Mission to the large
church."

"Yes. I prefer the intimacy of the Mission myself, but it is no
longer large enough for the congregation. We will all be crowded
into the Mission for services now, however, because the Basilica
sustained a lot of earthquake damage while the old building came
through with only minor cracks. I find that fascinating."