Into the Firestorm Page 3

  Nick noticed something else. The store was closed and there was a handwritten note.

  He read it aloud. “‘Out on delivery. Will return shortly. Please be patient and look at the sky or sing. The wait will be worth it!’”

  Nick found himself grinning. He stood in front of the store for ten full minutes. Then he began to pace. A new idea had come into his head, and he turned it over this way and that, trying to find the courage to carry it out.

  Nick walked to the corner of Jackson and Montgomery, then back again. He walked in the other direction, to Sansome Street, where he could see a large, official-looking building, with clerks and businessmen streaming in and out.

  He crossed Sansome and headed back toward the store, up a narrow alleyway called Gold Street. Gold Street. Gold had been discovered years ago in California, he knew. This seemed to be a good sign. Maybe his luck would change.

  Nick kept a careful watch for police officers. He didn’t want to get chased away by someone like Bushy Brows. No, not yet. Not until he tried out his crazy idea. Back on Jackson, Nick was disappointed to find that the stationer’s store was still closed. Where was Mr. Pat Patterson? Nick wondered.

  A sandy-haired girl about eight years old came out of a store and passed close by, carrying a small packet. Then she turned, stopped in front of Nick, and planted her feet.

  “Hullo. I saw you standing here a few minutes ago. And now you’re back. Do you live here? Are you moving into the rooming house on the corner there?” she demanded, pointing toward Montgomery Street. “That’s where my mama and I live.”

  Nick shifted his feet and shook his head without speaking. Something about this girl made him feel off balance. It took him a minute to realize what it was: one of her eyes was a hazel brown, the other a pale gray-blue. She wore her hair in braids. Her plain blue dress was threadbare but clean.

  “That’s too bad.” The girl with the strange eyes made no move to leave. “I’d like it if you did. It’s mostly grown-ups and old sailors in there now. At night the old man in the apartment next to ours coughs and spits.”

  She demonstrated, making a loud, coughing sound. Then, expertly, she spat on the ground.

  “My grandmother said girls shouldn’t spit,” Nick told her. “Why don’t you go home now?”

  He wished she’d go away. He’d made up his mind to talk to the owner of the stationer’s store—this Mr. Patterson. And he had to go over in his head what to say. Nick didn’t want to take the chance of this girl ruining his plan with her chatter or awful spitting.

  The girl didn’t seem to hear his question.

  “If you did move in, we could play together. I’ve always wanted a big brother to talk to,” she said brightly. “Of course, you’d just be a friend. Because once you’re the oldest, you usually can’t get a big brother. My mother wishes I had a big sister, someone to show me how to be a lady. She says I talk a lot—too much for a girl.”

  “Maybe she’s—” Nick began.

  But the girl had only stopped to catch her breath. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters at all, so I have to talk to people I meet.” She bounced from one foot to the other, then leaned forward as if to tell him a secret. “Everything is going to change, though. Soon I will be a big sister.”

  “Won’t your mother need that parcel you just bought?” Nick tried again. He could imagine why this girl’s mother sent her on errands.

  “Oh, no. She’s taking a nap. She said very clearly, ‘Please don’t bother me for thirty minutes.’ And that was only about twenty minutes ago, I think,” the girl went on, hopping up and down again, first on one foot, then the other. “I have a lot of energy. I’m exactly eight now, and of course I never take naps. Even when I was little, I didn’t. But when a woman is about to have a baby, she has to take lots of naps. Did you know that?”

  “Uh, no, I didn’t.” Nick glanced down the street. He wished the owner would come soon.

  “I like talking to you. My name is Annie. Annie Sheridan,” she told him. Not only were her eyes different colors, Nick realized, but they bulged out a little, like a fish’s. Her face was so much eyes it was hard to notice anything else—except her chatter.

  “That’s a nice name,” said Nick automatically. He wondered what was in her parcel. Could it be food? Maybe she would have a kind heart. He wondered if he should ask her for something to eat.

  “My daddy is gone on a boat, but he’s coming back,” Annie went on, rocking from one foot to the other. She stuck her nose in the air and threw back her shoulders. “I’m in charge until then, especially when I’m not in school. I really am. I have to look after Mama. Do you believe me?”

  “Sure, I believe you,” said Nick. “Where did your father go?”

  “Out to sea somewhere—I don’t know for sure.” Annie waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the bay. “The sea is very large. It’s scary to think about a little boat on a big, big sea. Sometimes I lie awake at night and fly to the North Star so I can look down at my daddy’s boat and help him find his way.”

  Despite himself, Nick couldn’t help grinning. Something about her persistence seemed familiar. “So, Annie of the North Star, does that work?”

  “I won’t know, will I? Not until Daddy comes back,” she said a little crossly. “But I’m sure he will. He promised. He says it’s important not to give up believing in people. Sometimes believing is what makes things happen.”

  People disappear all the time and don’t come back, Nick wanted to tell her. But he didn’t. She seemed so certain.

  Of course, considered Nick, she might be making it all up. It might just be a story she told herself at night. The girl’s father might not be at sea at all. It was more likely that he’d taken off, like Pa had, leaving Annie and her mother to fend for themselves in the city.

  Annie frowned and looked at him. She pointed at the hole in his pant leg. “You talk funny. You look poor and dirty. I bet you don’t have many friends. I suppose I could be your friend, even if you don’t live in my rooming house. What’s your name?”

  Nick was getting anxious. He wanted to be standing alone in front of the beautiful stationery store when the owner arrived. He had to get free of this persistent girl.

  “I don’t need any friends. I just need a job,” he said quickly. It wasn’t hard to be mean; he’d gotten good at it at Lincoln. He hadn’t let anyone be friends with him then. He’d never admitted to being an orphan like the rest of them.

  Nick took a breath. “Go home now, will you? You’re bothering me.”

  Annie flashed him a look, her large, strange eyes wide with hurt. Then, shoulders slumping, she walked slowly down the street in the direction of the rooming house.

  Looking after her, Nick was suddenly reminded of little Rebecca, picking cotton in the fields with her small shoulders bent against the pain.

  He sighed and called out, “Hey, Annie. My name’s Nick. Good luck being a big sister.”

  Annie turned sharply. She waved, her face lit with a big smile. Then she skipped toward home, hopping from one cobblestone to another.

  This little girl really was like Rebecca. Nick reached into his pocket to touch one of his coins. He wondered where Rebecca was now. Probably still on Mr. Hank’s place as a migrant field hand or some other farm like it. After all, it was April again, planting season. Nick swallowed. Spring. His first spring without Gran.

  “Well, I may be a road kid, but I’m not in the fields anymore, Gran,” Nick whispered. It was the first time since before he could remember when he wasn’t planting cotton seed. Planting first. Then came thinning the young seedlings and chopping to keep weeds away. And then in the fall came the harvest, the picking.

  It was funny. Up to now, everything—what he ate, how much food they had, even whether he went to school or not—was tied to cotton. But here in the city, most folks probably didn’t even know what a cotton plant looked like or what it felt like in your hands. Why, most likely they bought their clothes ready-made from a stor
e without even thinking where the cloth came from.

  I could go back, Nick thought. If I can’t find a job here after all, if Bushy Brows or some other policeman catches me, I could go to an orphanage or some poor farm. Or I could go back to the fields on my own.

  He was good at picking cotton. He could earn his own living. Living in tents with other migrant workers, maybe working his way back up to a sharecrop…

  Nick looked down at his hands, callused from field work. Hours and hours, days and days. Hot, flat fields.

  No. Nick shook his head. No matter what, he didn’t want to look up into the same empty wide sky again.

  Here the sky wasn’t empty. It was broken by tall buildings that rose high into the air. The newspaper building—the Call Building, people called it—must be two or three hundred feet high, Nick thought. You glimpsed the sky and the sun between the buildings, but the sun didn’t press down on you. People had made this city. It was lively and noisy and full.

  Whatever happened, he didn’t want to go back to the fields.

  PARIS OF THE PACIFIC

  Just when Nick was ready to give up waiting in front of the stationery store, a man turned the corner. He strode jauntily down the street, wearing a sharp gray suit, a round derby hat, and shiny black shoes. He was whistling merrily, tipping his hat at people he passed. By his side trotted the most beautiful golden dog Nick had ever seen.

  As the pair strode by, Nick couldn’t help smiling. The man threw a quick, quizzical glance at him, raising his eyebrows into little sideways question marks. Then, still whistling, he stopped in front of the stationery store. He drew out a key from his pocket with a flourish and put it in the lock in one quick motion.

  Nick didn’t move. He kept smiling. He could feel his palms getting sweaty.

  The man stopped whistling and turned around. “Hullo. Scat, kid! I’m sorry, but I’ve nothing to eat. This isn’t a grocery or a charity kitchen, you know. We sell paper and pens, not pumpkins and porridge.”

  Nick flushed. At that moment the golden dog trotted over and planted himself on Nick’s shoes. His feathery tail whisked back and forth on the sidewalk with a soft, swishing sound. The dog stared up at Nick with friendly brown eyes. He whined a little, deep in his throat. Then he opened his mouth and smiled right at Nick.

  Nick grinned and scratched the dog’s head. “I think he likes me.”

  “Humph,” said the dog’s owner.

  Nick looked more closely at the man. He had dark brown eyes, set wide apart. They gave him a surprised look even when his eyebrows weren’t raised. Maybe that’s why he whistles, Nick thought. He looks like someone who has a hard time being serious.

  The man swung the door open. “Nice try, but I’m not impressed. This dog likes everyone, don’t you, Shake? And why not? You’re the friendliest dog in San Francisco. I believe you’d trot home with every customer if I let you. Come on.”

  Nick moved forward.

  “Not you. I was speaking to Shake here. As I explained just seconds ago, I don’t have any food for beggars.”

  Nick took a breath. “Don’t give me food. Give me a job.”

  “A job? Good heavens. What kind of a job? I don’t need a helper!” The man seemed genuinely startled.

  Nick could feel his heart beating hard. “But you do.”

  The man’s mouth fell open. His eyes grew wider than ever. “I do?”

  “Yes, sir. You do. You need me, sir. I’ve been standing here for at least fifteen minutes, waiting.” Nick spoke quickly, the words tumbling out. “Why, suppose I was a rich gentleman in need of a new pen or a journal for my business. Or a clerk from that big building down over on Sansome Street. Or what if I was a lady who wanted a beautiful inkwell? What then?”

  “What then?” the man repeated, striding across the floor to the counter.

  “Well, you’d have lost a customer then, wouldn’t you?” Nick said, stepping through the doorway. He took off his hat and felt his hair spill out onto his forehead. “Please, sir. Why don’t you try me out for just a few days? I’m a hard worker. I can sweep and clean up. I can do the deliveries while you make important sales.”

  Nick crumpled his cap in his hands. He wasn’t sure if the man was even listening, but at least he hadn’t thrown him out—yet.

  “I like drawing and paper and writing. My penmanship is good. Real good. Even Miss Reedy said so, back in Texas. She had an inkwell, too, like those shiny ones in your window. Maybe I could help demonstrate your pens and your ink.” Nick searched his mind for something, anything, to say. “Why, I’d even like to learn how to write fancy. What is it called? Oh, calli…calli…”

  “Calligraphy?” suggested the man, a slight grin turning the corner of one side of his mouth.

  “Yes, that’s it. Calli…calligraphy.” Nick stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “It’s that beautiful, fancy writing, like art, like what the Chinese people do with their…designs.”

  At last, Nick ran out of breath. The man walked over and stared down at him. Nick couldn’t read the expression on his face.

  “Characters.”

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  “They are called characters, not designs. Chinese characters.”

  The man went to a table in the corner, took out a journal, and began to make some notes. Nick stood quietly, waiting, trying not to breathe too loudly.

  “Quite a salesman, aren’t you?” the man said after a moment. “What are you, kid, about ten years old?”

  Nick drew himself up taller. “I’ll be twelve this month—April twenty-third.”

  “Hmmm…Today’s Monday, the sixteenth. That’s next week. I’d say you don’t have a very pleasant birthday coming up. No, it’s not my idea of how to spend a birthday at all, sleeping in an alley and so forth. Which, I gather from the look and smell of you, is what you have been doing.”

  The man put down his pen, turned around, and folded his arms. He leaned back against the table, crossing his shiny shoes, and considered Nick. “Run away from home? South of the Slot somewhere?”

  “I didn’t run away from home, exactly. I…I came from the fields,” Nick sputtered. He supposed a county poor farm was the fields.

  “You came from the fields?” Mr. Pat Patterson turned toward his dog. “Did you hear that, boy? He came from the fields!”

  Nick tried again. “From a county poor farm in Texas. An orphanage, really. I was sent there after I lost my gran. But I’ve wanted to come here for a long time. So I ran away.”

  “Why here?” Mr. Pat Patterson spread his hands wide.

  “I just…I had a feeling about it. Like the city was a bright light that I needed to get to…Like I belong here.”

  When he tried to put it into words, it sounded silly. But Nick went on anyway. “I want to live in San Francisco because it’s the Paris of the Pacific.”

  The man threw his head back and laughed out loud, a bright sharp guffaw, his brown eyes twinkling. Shake barked along with him, a wide grin lighting his face. “So, you came from the fields to live here, in the Paris of the Pacific. Let me ask you, then: how do we know where we belong?”

  Nick stared at the floor, his mind a blank. No one had ever asked him such a question. At first he couldn’t imagine that the man actually expected an answer. But when he looked up, Mr. Pat Patterson was still staring at him, eyebrows raised.

  “Well, sir. I think maybe people are like plants, at least a little.” Nick struggled to find the words. “Different plants need different places. Like cotton. Cotton needs warm weather. It wouldn’t grow in a chilly, foggy place like San Francisco. Today, this morning, anyway, it’s been nice. But there’ve been some days when a cold, chill mist seems to settle over everything.”

  Nick shivered a little, thinking about how hard it had been to get warm on those mornings. “Cotton wouldn’t like that kind of weather at all. It wouldn’t grow. So, maybe…maybe people are like that, too. Some places just fit us better than others.”

  Mr. Pat Patterson didn’
t laugh this time. He looked Nick up and down. “At this moment, it doesn’t appear that this glittering city where you think you belong is treating you so well. We’re right near Gold Street, you know,” he went on. “Lots of people have come here looking for gold. But they haven’t always found it.”

  Nick shifted his feet and looked down at his hands. They were dirty, with dark ridges under his fingernails. He should have tried to clean himself up better. This wasn’t going to work. Mr. Pat Patterson was toying with him, like a cat with a field mouse. Nick twisted his hat hard.

  “Have you ever worked, young fellow?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve worked.” Nick looked up then. He squared his shoulders and looked straight into the man’s eyes. His voice was firm. “I’ve worked since I could walk. Once—once I even picked a hundred and seven pounds of cotton in a single day.”

  A HUNDRED POUNDS

  That bag of cotton had been the heaviest one Nick had ever dragged behind him. By sundown on that last day, when folks started weighing up, Nick felt sure he’d have good news to bring to Gran.

  Mr. Hank, the boss, had been waiting by the wagon where the weigher was hooked up. Mr. Hank was a thin rail of a man with a sharp voice. His eyes were small and close together. Sometimes Mr. Hank stared at Nick so hard he felt guilty, even if he hadn’t done anything wrong.

  Nick had hung back, wanting to pick the last row clean. This bag is so heavy it’s just got to be a hundred pounds, he thought.

  “Come on, kid. I ain’t got all night,” Mr. Hank bellowed.

  Nick made his way awkwardly to the wagon, his breath coming in short pants. Usually a few people slumped nearby or sat on the ground, hoping Mr. Hank would give them a ride back to camp.

  That night the crowd seemed larger than usual. Ten or twelve people stood solemnly together. They stared at Nick, almost as if they’d been waiting for him to finish.

  Nick wondered how they knew this was an important weighing for him.