Into the Firestorm Page 5

  “I heard! I heard everything he said,” she chortled.

  Nick frowned. “Where did you come from? Were you spying on me?”

  She pouted. “I couldn’t help hearing. I was just coming out of the alley. Besides, I already guessed. I saw you, Mr. Pat, and Shakespeare on your way to the store this morning.”

  “So you know Mr. Pat?”

  “Everyone knows Mr. Pat. He’s very funny.” Annie paused for breath and waved to a tall young man entering a building on the corner of Jones Alley and Jackson Street. “Oh, and there’s Mr. Lind! Hello!” she called out.

  “Hullo there yourself, Annie. Who’s your young friend?” Nick was surprised to see the man stroll over and greet Annie with a little bow.

  “This is Nick, Mr. Lind. He’s new. Mr. Pat has hired him, and he’s going to live here forever and be my friend,” Annie explained importantly. “Nick, this is Mr. Ed Lind. He works a lot. He hardly ever has time to talk on account of he’s practically in charge of Hotaling’s there. That’s the whiskey warehouse—and it’s the best whiskey in California!”

  “Thanks for the compliment, young miss. But I hope you haven’t tried our whiskey yourself,” Mr. Lind teased.

  “Of course not! Sometimes the men in the rooming house come home at night smelling of whiskey. It’s awful.” Annie scrunched up her nose.

  “Well, I’d better get back to work.” Mr. Lind tipped his hat. “Nice to meet you, Nick. You’ll enjoy working for Pat. He and that dog of his really light up this street.”

  Annie watched Ed Lind walk back to the warehouse. She twirled one of her braids around her fingers thoughtfully. “I think it’s important to have a lot of friends in our neighborhood. It’s almost like having a bigger family. Mama says making friends is my special gift. What’s yours, Nick?”

  “Mine?”

  Annie stared up at him with her bright, mismatched eyes. “Your special gift. Something you do better than anything.”

  “I don’t know, Annie,” Nick lied.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Annie went on, barely pausing for his answer. “Hey, I know something. You’re good at shopping. I see you have a new set of clothes. And I bet I know how you got them, too. Mr. Pat! Did he take you to the Emporium?”

  Nick nodded. Mr. Pat had marched him into the huge department store on Market Street. Nick’s jaw had dropped in amazement at the sparkling lights and displays. Mr. Pat had finally reminded him to close his mouth.

  “I’ve never had ready-made pants and shirts before,” Nick told Annie.

  He had to admit it was nice to have someone to talk to. Of course, it would be a lot better if he had a real friend his own age to talk to rather than this small, chattering girl. As soon as Mr. Pat got back, he’d go visit Tommy Liang to share the good news about his job. Chinatown wasn’t far.

  “I’m glad you’ll be my neighbor,” Annie said, hopping from one cobblestone to another. “I just knew it when I saw you yesterday. Will you come meet Mama soon?”

  “Sure, if I can get time away from my duties,” Nick said, feeling important. “How is your mother?”

  Annie bent down, wrapped her arms around Shakespeare’s neck, and giggled as he licked her face. “All right, I guess. She’s been cleaning floors and doing fine sewing for some ladies who live in big houses up on Nob Hill. But with the baby coming, she only wants to do sewing. It’s hard for her to walk up the steep hills now, so I’m her delivery girl.”

  Then in a voice so low Nick could barely hear, she added, “But the jar is getting awfully light.”

  The jar. Nick didn’t need to ask Annie what that meant. Gran had kept a money jar on the top shelf in the kitchen. He didn’t remember that it had ever been heavy. Sometimes, when Gran did some extra laundry or sold some eggs, she let him open it and drop the coins in one by one.

  After Pa left, Nick discovered that Gran had another, secret hiding place for money. One evening, Gran had reached into the back of a drawer and pulled out two faded white gloves wrapped in tissue paper.

  “I wore these gloves the day I married your grandfather,” she told Nick, slipping her fingers partway into one of them. The glove no longer fit Gran’s rough, work-worn hand.

  Gran drew out a few bills and some coins. “Not that I ever meant to be mean about keeping things hidden from your father, you understand,” she said, patting the small glove gently. “But my own mama told me a girl should always try to put a penny or two aside for herself and her babies. ‘A penny that won’t ever get drunk.’ That’s how she put it.”

  Gran’s secret stash hadn’t lasted long. She’d bought Nick the cap he still had. And the money had helped tide them over until they found work on Mr. Hank’s farm. On that last day, Gran had given Mrs. Turner one quarter to pass on to Nick. Two bits. The coin was probably all that was left.

  Nick reached into the pockets of his new pants. He’d been careful to take his two special coins out of the old pants and put them in his new ones.

  He wondered if Annie and her mother were getting enough to eat. Once the baby came, it wouldn’t be easy for Mrs. Sheridan to have time to do enough fine sewing to pay their rent. Nick’s hands closed around the quarters, one coin in each pocket. But then he let go.

  “Well, good night, Annie of the North Star. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Shakespeare and I have work to do.”

  “Come on, boy, time for bed.” Shakespeare padded downstairs ahead of him, tail sweeping the steps like a golden broom.

  “I’ve never had a dog before,” Nick told him. Shake pricked up his ears, almost, Nick thought, as if he could understand. “We didn’t have any pets. Not that you’re mine, exactly. But we can be friends.”

  Once, when he was about seven, he’d begged to keep a kitten when Mr. Greene’s brown tabby had a litter. But Gran had shaken her head, and Nick had known not to ask again.

  Outside Mr. Pat’s locked office door was a small room, furnished with an old sofa, a bedroll on the floor, a bookcase, and a table with a pitcher of water and some bread, cheese, and fruit. A narrow hallway led to a toilet and sink.

  “The guest room,” Mr. Pat had announced with a flourish when he’d showed it to Nick the night before. “I hope you’ll find it to your liking, young sir. Of course, it’s not nearly as grand as the Palace Hotel. Not even a curtain on the window, I’m afraid.”

  “Mr. Pat, is that you?” Nick had stood before a small photograph of a family on the top of the bookcase. It was a formal, old-fashioned portrait. The parents looked kind but serious. But the boy was slightly out of focus. Even though the mother had her arm around her son’s shoulders to keep him steady, he must have moved at the last second.

  Nick had felt in his pockets and touched his two quarters. He wished he still had the photograph of his mother. But Mr. Hank had been harsh. He’d sent for Mr. Kelly to haul Nick off to the orphanage without even giving him a chance to sort through Gran’s belongings. Nick sometimes imagined that maybe little Rebecca and her mother had found it. They might even be keeping it for him, thinking that sooner or later, he’d turn up in the fields once again.

  “Is that me in the photograph?” Mr. Pat asked, pulling blankets out of a cupboard and looking over his shoulder. “Yes, indeed. Poor Mother, bless her soul. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep me still.”

  He turned back, his voice muffled by the blankets piled in his arms. “They never did get out from Boston to see the store. Now, then, I think these will keep you warm, Nicholas.”

  On Monday, Nick’s first night with Mr. Pat, Shakespeare had bounded onto the corner of the tattered green sofa, yawned, stretched, and broken into a wide doggie grin.

  “Any room for me?” Nick asked, grinning back. Mr. Pat had warned him that Shakespeare might not be too keen on sharing his favorite spot in the entire world.

  “I hope you won’t mind a bedroll,” he’d said. “Later, once he gets to know you, perhaps Shakespeare will consent to your taking over the sofa. But he�
��s a creature of habit. He’d probably just plop down on top of you. I’m not sure how well you’d sleep with a sixty-pound dog on your chest, panting into your face at all hours.”

  Tonight, with Mr. Pat gone, Nick expected Shakespeare to go straight to his place on the sofa again. Instead, as Nick stretched out on his blankets, the dog stood over him, legs apart, breathing hard. His chocolate eyes gazed into Nick’s. He whined low in his throat.

  “What’s wrong? Do you miss Mr. Pat already?” Nick scratched the dog’s head and pulled gently on one ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

  Nick stared up at the ceiling.

  “I’m here, Gran,” he whispered out loud. “Safe. Safe in San Francisco. I even have a job and a place to stay, for now, anyway. Mr. Pat might keep me on if I take good care of Shakespeare and his treasures while he’s away. So you don’t need to worry about me.”

  Nick frowned. Well, it really was too soon to tell what would happen with Mr. Pat Patterson. He was such an unusual sort of person. He seemed to streak through each day like the stars Nick and Gran had watched flash through the dark August sky—moving fast, almost too quick to see.

  “I wonder if Mr. Pat took me on only because it was convenient. After all, I showed up at just the right time. He needed to go away and didn’t want to be bothered to take you with him,” Nick said, sitting up on the bedroll and addressing Shake. “Maybe, come Thursday, he’ll decide to send me on my way.”

  Shakespeare didn’t seem to be listening. He whined, settled himself to the floor with a heavy sigh, and then after a minute got up again. The dog’s nails clicked as he walked across to the stairs. He stood for a minute, listening, then trotted back to Nick.

  “Settle down, boy. You’re making me nervous. I’m trying to sort things out,” Nick told him. He kept one hand on the dog’s head, scratching idly.

  It did seem to be a good sign that Mr. Pat was taking a chance on him. After all, not everyone would let a strange boy keep watch, even if the office and the shop were locked up tightly. And he had bought Nick those clothes.

  Nick yawned. “What do you think, Shakespeare? Will Mr. Pat keep me on?”

  Shake tilted his head, his ears pricking up at attention. He wagged his tail, which Nick decided was a good sign.

  “Well, at least I know you like me, Shake. And I sure would love to learn this business. Did you see those folks who came in today to buy newspapers and magazines?” Nick went on, yawning again. “Mr. Pat said they were poets, writers, and newspaper reporters. It would be something to get to know people like that.”

  As he thought about the shop upstairs, Nick’s sleepiness seemed to evaporate. He suddenly felt as jumpy as Shakespeare.

  What if someone tried to break in? Would Nick be able to hear noises from down here in the basement? Would Shakespeare?

  Nick peered into the darkness. Shakespeare had finally hopped up to his usual place on the sofa. He seemed asleep, but when he noticed Nick, he gave a few gentle wags of his tail.

  Then, unexpectedly, he jumped off the sofa and paced around the room again, making the same whining sound deep in his throat. Finally he curled up on the floor next to Nick and put his head on his paws.

  “That’s it, boy,” Nick said, throwing his arm around the dog. “Everything’s going to be all right. Let’s go to sleep now.”

  CRACK

  BOOM

  Nick woke suddenly, with no idea where he was.

  The light was dim, but it was morning. Early morning. Half asleep, Nick felt confused. His first thoughts flew to Gran. Where was she? Had he missed the bell calling Mr. Hank’s workers to the fields?

  Then, more awake, Nick realized where he was. Still, something was wrong. A deep, horrible rumbling. A high-pitched whine. That, at least, made sense. Shakespeare! Yes, he was in Mr. Pat’s basement. The dog must need to go out.

  Nick tried to pull himself up. Bam! He was thrown back onto the floor. And then the floor itself began to twist, shake, roll. The room erupted into a sick, violent motion.

  CRASH

  RUMBLE

  CRACK

  Nick’s world shifted. Fast, faster. Everything began shaking faster than Nick could take in. He felt tiny, like an ant caught in a tumble of motion.

  Nick saw things fly through the air, though his mind couldn’t make sense of it.

  First the table. The table shook and turned over. The water pitcher shot across the room and shattered, splashing water everywhere.

  The bookcase in the corner toppled over, sending books and the photograph of Mr. Pat and his family crashing to the floor.

  Something hit Nick’s head. Plaster from the ceiling. From somewhere beyond his little room he heard rumblings, thunder-like roars, cracklings.

  Get out. I need to get out. The building’s falling down.

  Shakespeare! Nick tried to shout the dog’s name, but his voice didn’t seem to work. He tried to find him, to stand, but he couldn’t control his body.

  SLAM

  He fell back. His elbow banged hard.

  The room trembled. Floor, ceiling, walls, objects, everything seemed to be dancing, rolling, moving.

  For a second, the shaking let up. Then it started in again, violent and more twisting. An image flashed through Nick’s mind of Gran wringing clothes over the wash tin with her rough, strong hands. That was it. The earth was being wrung out of shape.

  Nick shivered. He was in a tiny boat being tossed and rolled on a great stormy sea. At any second, a hole would open and he would fall through. Fall through and disappear, disappear into black emptiness.

  Nick cried out.

  He’d never been so terrified. It wasn’t like seeing a snake writhing toward him in the grass. Or even the fear of Pa’s temper after a Saturday night in town. This was bigger. A terror of something enormous, violent, menacing, unknown. It was all happening so fast, Nick couldn’t give it a name.

  And then from somewhere, his brain coughed up a word.

  Earthquake! He was in an earthquake.

  Earthquakes. Miss Reedy had talked about earthquakes in California, something about the pieces of the earth, shifting deep underground. In a way, just naming it made Nick a little less scared.

  Earthquake. The world’s not really ending. It’s an earthquake.

  And then, in the next second, everything shifted again. The shaking stopped. The air, the ground went still.

  Nick coughed. The little room was filled with dust. He didn’t know how long the fierce trembling had lasted. Thirty seconds? A full minute?

  I’m alive, he thought. I’m still alive.

  “Shakespeare?” Nick called.

  Nick looked around, suddenly panicked. “Shake? Here, boy!”

  The room seemed empty. Then all at once Nick heard a scuffling noise. In the gray light he saw Shakespeare emerge from behind the sofa.

  The dog’s dark eyes looked bright and wild. He planted his feet far apart, as though trying to steady himself. His long, feathery tail was tucked down between his legs. Suddenly Shake raised his muzzle and howled once. Then he barked at the air and ran toward the stairway.

  Nick’s knees were shaking so hard he didn’t think he could walk. He fumbled, half crawling, across the dim, dusty room. At the top of the stairs, the door had flown open. Before Nick could stop him, Shake had darted out into the street.

  “No, wait! Shakespeare, come back. Here, boy,” Nick yelled.

  He’s looking for Mr. Pat, Nick thought, springing into action.

  Nick reached the street. Shakespeare was nowhere to be seen.

  AFTERSHOCKS

  “Shakespeare?” Nick called. “Shake. Here, boy!”

  Jackson Street was empty and suddenly still. Nick looked up and down. He couldn’t see anyone, not a dog or another person. Nick had a terrible thought: What if everyone else in the city got swallowed up?

  He shivered and stuck his hands in his pockets. Yes, the coins were still there. And then all at once he missed Gran so much it hurt. He co
uld almost hear her voice. “Land’s sake, that felt like the earth was no more than a rat a little dog got hold of and tried to shake to death. But now let’s get to work and right things.”

  That’s what I should do, Nick told himself. Get to work and right things.

  But it was hard to move, hard to trust that the shaking wouldn’t begin again and throw him down.

  Nick heard a cry.

  “Come on, Tim. Don’t fuss. Keep up now,” a woman scolded. A family of five or six emerged from a nearby doorway and began to rush toward Montgomery Street. The smallest boy trotted behind his mother, bawling loudly.

  I’m not alone, Nick realized with relief. Other people had made it, too. And Jackson Street was still here. There were bricks in the road and shattered glass from broken windows littering the sidewalk. But at least in this small corner of the city, things looked fixable. The solid brick buildings were standing.

  He shook his head to try to clear it. He had to think. He had to find Shakespeare. Where would the big dog go?

  Nick looked toward Montgomery Street. That was the way Mr. Pat liked to walk downtown. Yes, he should go there first. Shake might have gone the same way out of habit.

  “Is that your father’s shop, son?” a police officer yelled to Nick as he ran past. “Better get those valuables out of sight. We’ll have looters out soon, mark my words.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Well, something else had changed. He didn’t look like a runaway anymore. Nick tried the front door of the store. It was still locked. But that didn’t matter. The shining plate glass window was gone. Sweeping bits of glass away, Nick climbed through the empty frame.

  “I’ll just grab the most valuable objects and hide them, then go find Shakespeare,” Nick said out loud. He didn’t know why. Maybe just to break the eerie silence in the deserted store. Nick looked closely at the clock on the wall. It had stopped at exactly 5:12. Early morning.

  Most people had probably been home in bed. A few hours later, the streets would have been bustling with people, carts, automobiles, and horses. It was lucky the quake had struck so early. He didn’t like to think of horses rearing and panicking and running wild with fear in the crowded streets.