Sugarman saw me to Rose’s front door and handed me his lantern. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I wasn’t allowed to enter that way—no, with him watching, I had to turn the great brass knob and go in.
How odd to be alone in her foyer. To sit in her velvet chaise with my dusty boots hanging over the side. To sneak a heel of bread from Tan’s larder, to open and close his treasured drawers.
I roamed from one dark room to the next, then went upstairs to check on Pie. She was fast asleep.
My shadow, cast by Sugarman’s lantern, moved as I moved, elongated and bold. With no one to stop me, I went to Rose’s room and set the lantern on the mantel. The quake had made a mess of things. The drawers and closets thrown open. I began sorting. Starting with the wall of closets, I addressed her gowns. The silks and satins, the chemises and Oriental dressing gowns embroidered with flowers or dragons or vines. I returned each to its proper padded hanger, the arms of which were stuffed with lavender. Next, the shoes. Short boots with matching buttons, of leather and crocodile and silk and satin. I restored them to their special nooks. Next, I knelt before a pile of scarves and folded them. Her underclothes of four-ply silk required special handling. She was abundant, my Rose. I didn’t know her. The gizmos of whale bone and wire required to lift her breasts and flatten her gut necessitated deep, capacious drawers. What was the message in her intimate underthings? I wrapped them in yards of tissue paper, scented with lemon verbena and geranium, that she kept in a separate drawer.
It was in the back of that drawer of paper that I discovered the box tied with ribbon, undisturbed by quake or dust. A collection of baby things—little dresses with bodices of lace, a quilted blanket, a pair of silk booties. I knew at once they were mine. I couldn’t believe she’d kept them. Maybe they’d been there so long she’d forgotten. Maybe not. What secrets did they have to tell me? I turned them over and held them up to the light, as if Rose’s and my story were writ on them—or better yet, our future.
Tan
I wondered what shenanigans Tan would bring with him. I didn’t have to wonder for long.
By the second day, the caravan of people fleeing the fires had become a mass migration of some two hundred thousand refugees—all seeking shelter and something to eat. Much of this movable city had to pass by Rose’s house. Tan took advantage of his prime location. There would be plenty of customers who wouldn’t settle for the gruel served in the slow-moving relief lines. These folks had to eat, and why shouldn’t Tan feed them?
That first day and night, he offered all comers a free meal. It took no time for news to spread that a Chinese servant who was mean with a cleaver and great with spices was serving free grub in Pacific Heights. Soon folks were standing in line with their plates and chipped cups.
Then, on the second day, Tan changed the rules.
“V, hurry. Come look.” Pie pestered me relentlessly. Her coughing fits made it unsafe for her to venture outside in the smoke. Instead, she watched a new world rising from behind Rose’s upstairs windows.
“Hurry-hurry,” she pleaded, until I dropped what I was doing.
“What now?”
Pie pointed at the curb. Tan was at work in his outdoor kitchen. He now had an enormous cauldron of tea boiling on the iron stove. A gateleg table from Rose’s parlor had been recommissioned; he’d covered it with a decent cloth, not too good but good enough to give a semblance of polish. Mindful of the day when he’d return to being Rose’s snooty butler, Tan thought to protect the wood. From the mismatched parts of the witch’s cap, he’d laid a series of boards and fashioned a counter—one end for his customers and the other for his cooking.
“Well, he wasted no time,” I said. “Looks like he snuck inside the house last night. What’s he serving them?”
“Roast beef. But that’s not it. Keep looking,” Pie urged.
I touched my nose to the glass. Lifang had stitched a canopy using several of Rose’s flowered tablecloths; they flapped in the smoke-choked breeze. There were stray chairs and a couple of oil lamps they’d snatched from the bowels of Rose’s beneficence. Come evening, I supposed, they’d illuminate the place.
“You mean the canopy?”
Pie shook her head. “Look again.”
“You mean the bread?” Some half dozen loaves were neatly stacked.
“No, he bartered for those. I think he’s trading Rose’s spoons and plates for goods.” Pie stomped her boot. “Oh, V, are you really so blind?”
“What? Tell me.”
“Jupiter Christmas—the sign! Read the sign!” She pointed to the board nailed to a post, with a drawing of a teacup and plate, and underneath, written in a steady hand, “10 cents.” “He’s charging our neighbors!”
Sure enough, Tan had tied a sack around his waist to hold the coins he was collecting. I wasn’t fooled for a minute to think he was raising funds for our mutual benefit, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was impressed.
Despite the smoke and hot winds, and the relentless musket blasts of the fire, popping and banging and roaring as it consumed yet more houses and stores—despite the heat as fierce as any furnace—Tan’s line of customers snaked to the far end of the block. Mrs. Haas in her wide-brimmed hat and Mrs. Sugarman with the two youngest Sugarman boys were among the patrons.
“I don’t know, Pie. Can they really be called our neighbors?”
“They’ll think we put Tan up to— Oh, if James were to see this? If he thought we were taking advantage of folks in bad straits… he might never—” Pie’s coughing kept her from finishing the sentence.
“Never what?”
“Marry me! As if living in a whore’s house
