“Yah? Should I whip this good servant who was only holding a place for me and my sister,” I shouted, “two girls who lost their mother in the quake, and our house burned, and how is it for you ladies with your fine parasols and attitude?”
Pie, her cheeks rosy with indignation, looked into the women’s faces and said, simply, “Shame.”
“Well, I never,” the matron remarked, as if Pie had been the one to strike her.
“I hope you never,” I added. “I hope for everyone here, you never.” And nodding to Lifang, I sent her back to the house, while Pie and I assumed her place.
Now the matrons turned their backs to us, but their voices carried.
“Our square is done, Emily. From here out, it’s low-bred squatters and foul Chinese,” said the one to the other.
Her friend groaned in agreement. “Why, you know, they’ve taken to calling it Millionaire’s Camp on account of the views. Millionaire’s indeed! Eck, I fear we’ll never be rid of them.”
The pair sighed from the tops of their shirtwaists to the bottoms of their corsets.
“And the mayor!” the matron went on, glaring at the soldiers who were putting up another row of army tents. “He’s no help at all. Why, I hear he’s running about, this way and that, gaping at the fire. He might as well play his fiddle.”
“What do you expect from a con man? Bought and paid for, to our great regret,” her friend replied. “And I never did like his music either.”
“Pie,” I said, loud enough so they’d hear. “This afternoon, let’s call on Mayor Schmitz. I’d like to speak to him about this bad business in our square.”
“Good idea,” Pie said. “He might be able to help us find James and—”
The women turned as one and spoke to Pie. “What did you say your name is, dear?”
“She didn’t say,” I snapped.
But Pie, ever gracious, introduced us, then added, “Would you ladies have heard any mention of a James O’Neill? He’s my fiancé—” Pie coughed; she couldn’t help it. The women shielded their faces.
“Poor girl. You don’t imagine he’s on the Call’s list, do you? They’ve just posted today’s, it’s over there.”
“Oh, no,” Pie exclaimed. “He’s not on any list of dead.”
“What part of town are his people from, dear?”
“Well, they have a small shop—”
“Oh, a shopkeeper, is he? And what kind of shop would that be?” The one named Emily gave Pie the up-down.
I’d had enough. I flashed Pie the orange, so she’d know I was going to search for Ricky.
“V, wait—” Pie begged, wagging her finger at me as she went on yattering with the ladies.
Ignoring her, I headed toward the grove of trees at the top of the square.
“V, for heaven’s sakes. Stop!” Pie wheezed as she marched behind me. “Look, now you’ve made us lose our place in line.”
I wheeled round to face her. “I won’t stand by listening while those snobs nettle you. I’d like to pull out that lady’s tongue—that would teach her. In fact, I’d like to pull out your tongue. Really, Pie, shame? Is that the best you can do? You won’t catch me singing Lifang’s praises, but at least she showed some spine.”
We were at a standstill—literally—poised between two rows of tents. Nearby, a family of some six souls perched in the grass, eating out of a shared bowl and watching us. They had staked their claim by placing a rug and a basket in front of their tent. Beyond the tent, the mansions of Washington Street, and beyond the mansions, yes, those million-dollar views of the bay.
Pie eyed the strangers watching us. “I said I was sorry,” she pressed.
“Are you? For which part?”
Pie shook her head. “That bit about the mayor, were you serious? I’d like to see Eugenie, and the mayor may have news about James—”
“James and Rose,” I said. “Tomorrow we’ll walk down—” I stopped. Someone was calling Pie’s name.
As if possessed, Pie ran toward that voice, searching one row of tents and then another.
“Pie? Pie Johnson!” It was James’s mother. She was with his sisters, each of them holding an empty pail or basket.
Pie tried to embrace them, banging her pails with theirs as she wrapped her arms around them. “Oh my golly. I can’t believe it’s you!” she cried. “James, where is James?”
“I expect he’s at our tent,” his mother said. “Here, we’ll show you. It’s just over there. We were lucky to get one of the good perches, on the hill with a bit of a breeze.”
She led us through the rows till we reached their tent. James O’Neill, his shirt filthy but his wool vest buttoned, was banging the dents out of a pot that had a hole in its bottom.
He looked stunned, diminished. Pie saw none of this. She dipped her head and barreled into him, fiercely hugging her James. Her questions spilled out in a rush. “Did you try to find me, oh, James, is the shop all right? I was so worried about you—all of you. But look, here you are. James, it’s all so awful. Did you see my note? Morie. Oh, James, you don’t know about Morie—” Here she ran out of steam and began to sob.
James’s mother watched from a distance with her arms folded. Soon she was explaining that they had suffered too, not a loss of life, but the shop, their house, everything they owned—and a good deal they didn’t own, having borrowed from the bank. They’d barely made it to Lafayette Square ahead of the flames.
“Oh, darling,” James said. He shut his weary eyes and patted Pie’s back.
“Where are you girls taking shelter?” his mother asked. “Did you manage to claim a tent?”
Pie lowered her gaze to the grass.
“We’re staying with a relation,” I offered, “in a house just across the way.”
“Oh, how wonderful for you,” his mother remarked, her tone suggesting that they had no people.
James released Pie
