 
Between the Dark and Dawn

A Novel of the Great San Francisco Earthquake and Fire

by

Jack Forge

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 John Stephen Rohde

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Contents

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter 2: Spring in the City

Chapter 3

Chapter 4: The Earth Be Moved

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11: The Seventh Circle of Hell

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20: Rain of Joy and Sorrow

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26: Phoenix

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31: Epilogue

"While there is life, there is hope."

~Terence

Chapter 1

Prologue

At midnight three days after Easter Sunday in 1906, flames blew out of a cannery in San Francisco. The warehouse fire roused three alarms, and firefighters fought the blaze for hours. One of them was Leo Brown. It was about five o'clock that morning when he and his cohorts finally put out the flames, but not before they had demolished the structure. After extinguishing any live embers hidden in the debris, Leo and his fellows jumped aboard Engine 9 and rumbled away from the burned out building.

His face streaked with soot, Leo stood shivering in the windswept truck, his clothes still damp. The battle had chastened him. He had never become accustomed to the fear he felt when braving an outlaw fire. He knew such fear was healthy for a fireman, but a massive breath of relief heaved from his chest now that this one was dead. Although a man of good size, on the back of that firetruck with his handsome face dirty and his chestnut hair blown back, he curiously resembled a boy playing at being a savage but he was far too weary to play.

The clattering horses' hooves on the pavement soothed him, and he desperately wanted to rest. A warm bath and bed beckoned. Yearning for home, his weary eyes tracked aimlessly over the predawn streets as they rolled past, eerily quiet and calm now beneath rosy gray strokes across the eastern sky.

When the firetruck swung onto Van Ness, a wide avenue that bisects the central city from the western section, Leo jumped off at Lombard Street and waved farewell to his partners. On that unusually warm yet dark Wednesday morning in mid-April as he walked slowly up the street toward his flat, he was thinking again of his loneliness, about his family's concern that he find a good woman and make a family of his own. He did not entertain such thoughts; they simply invaded his conscious mind, especially when he was alone early in the morning or late at night. He tried to think of other things, such as his mother, his home, his job, but the empty place inside made him hunger for another kind of sustenance. Not just love. He had love in his life. Not just companionship either. He had good friends and neighbors. What he hungered for was the fundamental blend that only a mate can provide. Mate. He made the word again in his mind and relished the sound and the meaning. That was it--a partner for life--someone with whom he could grow old and die, to share the joys and the sorrows of a lifetime, and someone with whom he could feel closer than he did even to his mother. That is what a good strong spousal relationship can give people, Leo Brown believed--the lifelong sharing of existence in this world. Nothing better, he thought. He glanced back at the eastern sky but felt sad. No sign of anyone on the horizon of his hopes.

Thoughts like these tormented Leo's mind and he tried to exhale them while trudging through the dark before dawn. So preoccupied was he with this loneliness, this chronic worry of dying alone and childless, this trouble that nagged him almost daily that he was unaware of his surroundings. He did not notice dogs barking in the distance. Did not hear nor see the flurries of birds that together burst out of several trees along the street. Only when he felt the ground shudder beneath him and heard a sound like distant thunder did he stop brooding and listen to the strange noise, a vague rumbling roar that he could not immediately place. Cocking his head to one side, he perceived that the sound seemed to be approaching from the west--a faraway storm but coming closer and coming fast.

Chapter 2

Spring in the City

April is a sweet time of year along the California coast. The chilly rains of winter have abated, and the searing heat of the great inland valleys has yet to form fog over the sea and draw it through the Golden Gate like an overheated giant sucking cool air into his massive lungs. Mild ocean air blesses San Francisco with a glorious climate; snowmelt from the castled Sierra Nevada along with the swirling tides of the Pacific Ocean fill and feed the great bay. The sun shines on many spring days of absolute clarity. Even the occasional clouds cooperate with the sky, decorating it with magnificent cottony clusters and shedding sprinkles to cheer new flowers. April is a good month to be alive in many places on Earth and an especially good time to be in San Francisco, a time when people find the charming city most clement. So it is today. So it was in the first decade of the twentieth century.

In the western section of the bustling coastal city, Leo Brown was rushing around his flat. Excited about spending Easter Sunday with his family, he had sent his housekeeper, Ah Sung, home to her husband for the weekend, so he had to replenish the food and water for his menagerie of rescued animals. While doing so, he recalled the relieved look on his housekeeper's face upon hearing she would escape this chore that day.

Leo had something to say to each of his charges: two birds--three finches and a parrot, and two cats--one old, one young. He knew from looking at them that Ah Sung would have no difficulty finding good people to adopt them, even the old cat. She had a knack for it. Although she objected every time he brought an orphaned animal home from a burned out building, he believed she cared for the creatures as much as he did. He assumed this from the kind way she treated them, her diligence in finding them good homes, and her reluctance when giving each one away to some stranger.

Through a window of his back porch, Leo scanned the neighborhood. Yellow, blue, and red flowers were blooming in gardens, on trellises, and fences, as if celebrating the season. Yes, the weather had been quite warm, even hot in the afternoon, unusual for San Francisco. Already sweating under his high-buttoned collar and tie, he was eager to sit down in his mother's house and loosen his clothing.

"You be sowy, Reo," a raucous voice called to him from one of the cages.

Leo laughed when he heard Gabby talking like his housekeeper. That parrots could talk had always amazed him, but never before had he heard of one that could speak with two accents. He found it even more interesting that, when the bright green bird spoke to Ah Sung, he sounded like Leo himself; but when he spoke to Leo, he sounded like Ah Sung. Gabby had not yet quite mastered the human female and male pitches, but Leo would not be surprised someday to hear the voice of his housekeeper and wonder which one was speaking.

"Sowy, Reo," Gabby said.

"I forgive you, Gabby. Now be good while I'm gone." Leo handed the parrot a peanut, pushed his thick arms into his suit coat, donned his bowler hat, and stepped lively through the small flat to the front porch.

A picturesque day for celebrating the renewal of life on Earth. As if to compliment the blooming flowers, trees all over town were leafing out as bright harbingers of summer. The warm air was clear and clean. The city itself appeared to appreciate the time of year. When Leo walked down the steps, a neighbor waved to him from his front stoop and hollered: "Beautiful day!"

"Gorgeous!" Leo shouted back. "Family coming over, Fred?"

"Sure thing. Can't keep 'em away. Spending the day with your mother, Leo?"

"On my way there right now." Leo headed down the street.

"Give her my best wishes for the day."

Leo waved. Looking around the neighborhood, he saw people coming and going among the houses. All dressed for the vernal festival: men strutting in their new spring suits; boys acting a little awkward in theirs, trying to look like the men; women strolling around in new dresses of pink and yellow and white like clusters of wedding bells. Their voices chirruped in the air, echoing the birds gathered in the resurrecting shrubs and trees.

A new motorcar growled down the street, disturbing the idyllic scene. And people looked awestruck at the noisy machine as, filled with pastel passengers, it rumbled past. The riders waved with a superior attitude at pedestrians along the street. Although many people resented and feared the advent of this newfangled mode of transportation and hoped it would not last, many others coveted the rattle-bang-smoking things as if they were the most prized possessions one could acquire in life.

Leo, however, did not show any particular notice of the vehicle, since he and his fellows were used to riding both horse-drawn and gasoline-driven engines all over town. So he was glad to be able to walk leisurely for a change without feeling the need to rush to a burning building. He was proud to be a public servant but he relished his leisure, time with his family, time to stroll along the ocean, time to lounge in his favorite chair and read a book. A simple but good life.

As he walked in long strides down Lombard toward Bay Street to catch a cable car up the hill to his family's house, the preoccupying subject again invaded his mind. In his third decade and still a bachelor. Leo was not the sort of man to entertain self-pity; yet, in his stomach a recurrent anxiety. He could not forget what his old spinster aunt, Emily, often said about how she regretted never having married and brought children into the world. He did not know if there was a word other than bachelor for a male counterpart to spinster, but he knew he did not want to be one. He also did not want to face his family with the subject. Whenever that particular aunt saw an opening, she would pounce on him relentlessly urging him to find a nice young woman and settle down.

Settle down. Leo laughed at the thought as he headed up Bay Street. He had been settled for years. Ever since his days in the army during the Spanish War he had wanted to be stable, and being a fireman was all the outlet for his adventurous spirit he needed. His home was sacred to him and he wanted nothing more than to raise a family in it. He gazed over the bay to Angel Island and the mountainous Marin coastline. Shredded clouds were dragging their shadows across the bay, dappling the dark bluegreen water that embraced the peninsula. Leo's bluegreen eyes reflected the color of the sea. As he imagined the island becoming an angel rising from the bay and ascending into heaven, he grinned at the whimsy.

Probably something from the Spanish, he said to himself about Angel Island. They had named the city and most of the surrounding area. He made a mental note to look up the history of that little isle in the middle of the bay and to take a boat trip there again soon. He remembered last summer hiking to the top of the island peak and wondering at the panorama of....

The musical clanging of the cable car turning around at the bottom of Powell Street interrupted his daydream. He ran to catch it amid a host of eager passengers and jumped on at the last minute. Standing on the running board, he watched the island and the bay recede and fall away as he rode the rickety car up toward Russian Hill. The passing breeze cooled his ruddy face. Pulling at his collar to let the refreshing air at his neck, he never felt comfortable dressed up, but his mother enjoyed seeing him look like a proper gentleman.

As the car jerked to a stop at Union Street, he jumped off and headed east up the hill to his mother's place was on the north slope. By the time he arrived at the white frame house, modest among others on Russian Hill, he was flushed and sweaty. He noticed the white flowers bursting around her front fence. Tugging at his collar, he bounded up the steps to the front porch, the slats under him squeaking familiarly. Before knocking, he gazed again around the great San Francisco Bay. He inhaled the air of a moist breeze that swept off the water and blew gently over the hill.

"I thought that was you stomping on the porch," a woman said loudly behind him. "Happy Easter!" He spun and found his sister's arms around him; her lips cool on his hot cheek. "Happy Eas--" she started to repeat. "Yuck! You're all sweaty. What'd you do--run all the way up the hill? Afraid we'd eat up all the fixin's?" She laughed like a monkey.

Her laugh made him laugh. "Warm day, Molly."

They looked each other over for a moment in silence: the big brother and the smaller but older sister. She inspected his suit of clothes. "You look sharp today, brother mine. Not often I get to see you in fine duds. Sharp."

He nodded and sized her up as unobtrusively as he could. His sister had always been a little daunting to him, but not because he felt her to be superior. He was close to her in many ways. Yet that ample voice booming out of her large body imposed a dominating presence. Molly Dickerson was more like their father than he was. He smiled inwardly at the paradox of a female somewhat cowing a big, brave fireman who faces death. It had been so, as far back as he could remember.

When she bowed her handsome head close to his face and looked into his eyes, he caught the scent of her freshly washed hair pushed up on top like a crown. He noticed a shiny pink ribbon wrapped around the crown and streaming down her back. A surprisingly girlish touch to such an ungirlish woman. He said, "You look like Easter."

At first, she thought he was referring to her weight and was ready to jump on him, but then she realized he meant her little adornment. Touching it gently with her strong hands, she grinned and nearly reddened. "Oh, the ribbon! Why, thank you, Mister Brown. I put it on specially for you--and my husband of course."

"Of course," he said.

She hooked his arm with hers and led him to the door. "Now, be forewarned," she whispered. "You're in for a good grilling. We've been talking about you, so get your answers ready."

Leo gulped. He knew what she meant. He would have to endure the standard interrogation about his lacking love life. Standing tall, he stepped through the door behind his sister. Immediately the warm, familiar odor of the house and the fragrance of his mother's home cooking eased his apprehension.

"Look who I found loitering on the front porch," Molly shouted as she turned with a flourish to present her brother.

"Hi, ma!" He grinned. "Happy Easter."

"Happy Easter, my boy!" Mary said.

Mary Brown, her sister Emily, their sister Eleanor McCarthy, Molly's husband, Michael Dickerson, and their twins, boy and girl, were sitting in the front room--all looking at Leo. He felt on stage but relaxed when they offered greetings of the day, the children's voices squealing above the rest. On a coffee table lay a bowl of gaily-tinted eggs that the children had earlier found in the garden around the house. They had been playing quietly with toys but now pretended to admire the eggs while sneaking small pieces of candy in a bowl. While Leo stood in the center of the parlor, his affluent brother-in-law, Michael, examined the fireman's clothes. Emily and Eleanor remained poised in their seats as if no one special had entered the house. However, Emily cut into him with her narrow eyes and started to speak. To block her words Leo picked up the boy and girl in each arm and kissed them one after the other repeatedly until they squirmed and giggled like puppies. He enjoyed their candy-scented breaths. When he set the children on the floor, they wiped their cheeks and returned to play near the table of delights. He gazed at them, as they looked at the candy then at him and smiled sheepishly, but he nodded and smiled back, remembering the ecstasy of extra sweets at Eastertide.

"You look like you could use a cool drink," Leo's mother said to him. "I have a jug of tea on ice--" and she hurried into the kitchen, through a swinging door that made a rather rude laughing sound as it swung back & forth. "Let me get you a tall glass."

"Would you refill mine, Mother Brown?" Michael said, lifting his nearly empty.

"Fetch it yourself, Michael," Molly said.

He shrugged, tossed his head, and craned his portly body out of his seat. "Just thought I'd get a little service over here," he groaned at his wife. "Can't get much at home, I dare say."

She glared at him, but affection softened her face around her eyes. "Big boy like you can serve himself." He nodded to her and stepped into the kitchen behind his mother-in-law. The door guffawed twice.

"Your mother was wondering what happened to you, Leo," Eleanor said. "I told her you were probably talking to some pretty young thing in her new Easter finery. Am I right?" She winked, an act that suited her nymphic appearance. If she had been dressed less demurely, she would have resembled a figure in a Fragonard painting.

Leo winked back and echoed with an angle in his voice, "Right."

"Right," Michael echoed too as he peeked out from the kitchen.

Molly shot a smile-veiled reproach at him, and he disappeared behind the laughing door.

Eleanor slapped Leo's arm. "Naughty boy," she said, "keeping us waiting here on Easter Sunday, while you gallivant with the ladies. Shame on you."

"Don't blame me, Aunt Eleanor--I can't seem to keep 'em off me."

"Oh, don't give me that load o' blarney, Leo Brown," Emily said. "You haven't as much as said howdydo to a pretty young thing in your entire life." The spinster of the family was a wiry woman with a surprisingly jaunty way about her.

Molly enjoyed watching the three of them. Eleanor laughed more wistful than wanton, but Emily's eyes became even thinner lines. She raised her tall, bony frame to her full height in the chair and nearly yelled at her nephew. "When are you going to settle down, Leo?" she growled. "Get married and have some little ones of your own? You know, you're going to be too old soon to have a family. No proper young woman wants an old...."

"For heaven's sake, Aunt Emily--" Molly said. "Let him catch his breath and relax before you start with the third degree."

"Third degree!" Emily snapped. "What do you think I am--a cop? Just because Eleanor married, one doesn't mean I want to be like him. One in the family is enough to keep us safe--and full of blarney." They all pushed out some laughter to defuse any tension.

"Let the poor boy sit and take some refreshment," Mary said as she re-entered the room with glasses of iced tea. She handed one to her son and the other to Emily. "Here, girl--cool yourself down." Emily looked at her younger but more dominant sister, took the glass obligingly, and returned to her seat. Grumbling to herself, she set the glass on a table with a clatter. "You too, Ellie--" Mary said, "give him a chance to settle in for the day."

Eleanor turned away sharply. She did not like anyone but her husband calling her Ellie. Out of the mouth of any other person, the name seemed demeaning: meant for a shy wisp of a girl with no gumption, not for her. Undignified for a woman of her stature. Yet, secretly she liked her husband calling her Ellie. She tolerated her sister using the name, but no one else. Mary glanced her way with an expression that sustained the bond between them but said nothing. Instead, the matriarch focused her bright blue eyes on her son. "Sit, Leo, sit," she said as she pointed to an old sofa, its overstuffed cushions sagging from the weight of countless burdens.

"Yeah, take a load off," Michael inserted.

Leo obeyed and dropped onto the comfortable piece of furniture on which he had lolled for many hours as a child. The old couch groaned.

"Still falls onto the furniture like a wrecking ball," Eleanor said with a cackle.

"Still feels as good as ever," he sighed. "I could lie here forever." His mother watched him nostalgically.

When Emily said, "Shouldn't have become a fireman if you want to lie around all day," Mary shot a look at her sister. Emily knew the look and dropped her eyes. She was older and bigger and stronger than her sister was yet she knew who ruled that house. But Mary had sent her message with no strings attached and was now ready for the day. She alighted among her family.

"So--Aunt Eleanor--when do we get to see Uncle Bobby?" Molly asked.

Eleanor was proud of her husband and pleased that her family liked him. Despite her pluckiness, though, she always worried about him before he came home each day. "Hmm--he should be here by now," she said, looking at a grandfather clock standing against a wall that separated the living room from the dining room.

The old honored timepiece had stood there for decades, and its long brass pendulum swung precisely without fail day after day. The quiet ticking from its inner mechanism set a rhythm to conversations and filled the silent spaces with reassuring beats. The clock was the first object people saw upon entering the house. Leo's father had built the imposing piece, as he had built so many fine pieces of furniture that filled the family home. Whenever any of them looked at the clock, they thought of Leonard Brown.

"I must admit I do worry about him," Eleanor said, looking out a window for her husband, "especially when he's late."

The others glanced at each other, hoping one of them would say the right words. Leo tried his hand. "Uncle Bobby's too smart and strong to let anything happen to him, Aunt Eleanor," he said. "He's probably giving directions to a tourist--or helping some child find a kitten."

Eleanor tittered and hid her lingering anxiety. "Oh, I know he's probably all right. But ever since your father's death, well, I--"

Another silence dampened the group, as if clouds had suddenly covered the sun. But Mary knew how to handle such a pall; she had recovered from her husband's death, maybe more fully than had her son and daughter. "Leonard's death means no bad luck for your husband or for any of us, Eleanor," she said. "We were lucky to have him with us for so many years." She took a quick breath. "He was a fireman. Firemen sometimes--fall in their work." She glanced at her son. "We all know that. We have lived with that fact for generations. Haven't we?"

Leo and Molly looked at their mother, and then as if on cue nodded to each other. The family regarded her with profound respect; to them Mary was their Mother Superior and Guardian Angel combined. Her father had built her house. She had grown up in it, raised her children, and lived in it for more than fifty years. While her husband had been alive, she had acquiesced to him as the leader of the family, but everyone knew her word was righteous law. As with so many strong and lasting families, the woman was the discreet power at the other end of the table. Her eyes sometimes misted when she thought of Leonard now, but such a subtle display of emotion served her honorably. She contained a fine combination in humans--strength tempered by sentiment. She was the sheltering elm. After pausing a moment to lock in her self-control she said, "We can endure anything that happens to us."

While the others were staring at her and feeling an urge to applaud, an urge they quelled, heavy footsteps fell onto the front porch. As if on cue, Big Bobby McCarthy pushed through the front door. A muscular man he stood imposing in his police blues, his hat a bucket upside down on his head, the huge badge on his chest gleaming as if in the midnight sky.

"Hey! Any vittles left?" His voice boomed as he sniffed the air. Catching the scent of baked ham, he laughed like a great ape. Spotting the bowl of colored eggs, he swiped one, wiped off its dyed shell, and popped the entire pink-stained ovum into his mouth.

The grand entrance startled everyone, including Eleanor. But the indulgence did not. She had always known him to be boisterous: one of the main reasons she had fallen in love with him. He made her feel like a teenage girl with the high school star athlete for a boyfriend. Nevertheless, she enjoyed reproving him in front of the family as if he were a little boy. "Good gracious, Robert! Have you no manners?" she said, unable to conceal the pride in her voice.

The big man dropped his hat onto the floor, unbuckled his holster, and absently looped it over a chair. Mary, noticing the little boy glance at it with keen interest, jumped out of her seat, and grabbed the deadly thing before its leather could uncoil like a snake. "Let me put this someplace--out of the way--" She opened a closet and laid the weapon on a high shelf. "Makes me nervous," she said, closing the door on the lethal thing with more bang than usual.

"Only as dangerous as the man using it," Big Bobby said as he unbuttoned his jacket and spread it over the chair. "Whew! Almost hot today! Earthquake weather." When he fell into the chair, it groaned under his bulk. Officer McCarthy was a man of abundant muscles built by years of lifting weights. He opened his big arms to his wife and said, "Comere, doll--give us a kiss."

Eleanor blushed and swiped her hand at him as though he were a large boisterous dog, but she did not resist. Unable or unwilling to refuse him, she drifted into his embrace and sat on his beefy thigh. Gently he took her chin in his meaty hand and turned her face to him. "I missed ya, ol' girl." He kissed her long and hard. Despite her obvious enjoyment, she felt compelled to extract herself from his bear hug and straighten her dress. When he patted her ample buttocks, she slapped his arm in mock anger. "Now don't you go being nasty, Robert McCarthy--" she squawked, "in front of other people!"

He roared with laughter and infected the others with it, even Emily. Eleanor would not conceal her delight. She loved her man despite her show of bristling modesty, even took pride in his adolescent shenanigans.

"Ellie, my girl," he said. "You make a man eager to return home every day."

Again the others laughed. When it subsided, Mary announced: "Time to eat."

"I knew I came to the right place," Bobby shouted.

Uttering a lot of animal noises, everyone crowded into the dining room. There they saw, in the middle of a great oak table covered with white linen, lying between vases of spring flowers, a silver platter that bore a glistening ham studded with cloves and surrounded with spiced crabapples. Arranged on the table around the platter, as if in deference to the main victual, lay bowls of scalloped potatoes comforted with melted cheese, butter-drowned green beans with onions and almonds, creamed corn, trays of browned biscuits and butter, a jug of cold water, and iced bottles of German wine. In a chorus of delight, the family seated themselves around the holiday board.

***

After dinner the women chattered up their bonds while cleaning dishes and carefully stacking them into cabinets. The twins took the opportunity alone in the parlor to count their remaining candy and to contest the quantities. The men escaped the domestic chores and gathered on the front porch to smoke cigars, sip brandy, and posture.

Bobby and Michael particularly relished their after meal treats, talking more and more animatedly with each swallow of liquor and puff from their cigars. Leo, being less indulgent than his brethren are, enjoyed more the aroma of the liquid and the sight of it gleaming in the glass against the evening sky. As he stared at the smoke spiraling upwards, he instinctively fixed on that sign of disaster he had learned to fear. He pondered how something could be both awful and beautiful at the same time.

The smoky ribbons led his eye to the constellation Leo, brilliant in the clear April sky. The sight of that particular configuration of stars which bore his name, a constellation constant no matter how radical the changes of life on Earth, had always comforted him. Seeing him stare into the endless heavens the others likewise lifted their eyes to the firmament. After a moment of quiet, the men soon lowered their heads and gazed over city and bay.

In the half-light just before the cloak of night draped the land, the broad expanse of water gleamed metallic. The rolling hills to the east blended into the evening sky as it imperceptibly went up in flames to the west. Lamps in houses all over the hill started shining in windows as if sustaining the spring season into the dying of the light. As the men gazed at the beauty that surrounded their city, they looked like boys having discovered a new and fantastic land. Bobby was the first to break the spell, being uncomfortable with too long silence and sentiment. He turned to Leo with, "So--nephew-in-law--how's the firefighting business?"

"Hot as hell."

Leo looked at his brother-in-law. "How's the law business?" As soon as he said it, he realized he could have directed the question to either man.

"To which area of the law do you refer, Leo--" Michael asked, "the street or the courtroom?" Bobby guffawed good-naturedly.

"Either, both," Leo retorted to cover any social error as he sent equitable looks to each relative. Michael and Bobby regarded each other without expression. Then Bobby nodded to Michael and sucked hard on his cigar. A rope of blue smoke rose in front of the big policeman's broad ruddy face.

"Always more than I can handle," Michael said, "as long as property owners and businessmen need their interests protected."

Bobby shook his big head with a hint of concern of what was likely to transpire between his companions.

Leo nodded. "I'd almost rather face a burning building than come between two men and a pile of money."

Bobby roared.

Michael looked as if he did not appreciate his brother's-in-law allusion to any greedy taint on his profession. "It's not always about money, Leo."

Leo grinned then straightened it out. "Of course not." Bobby's eyes jumped between them with sparkle. He liked a good fight.

"We provide a public service," the attorney said.

"Of course you do, Mickey," Leo said. "Of course you do. I didn't mean anything personal. I was just thinking about those rumors of scandal about the boys at City Hall--Mayor Schwartz and his crony Burt Cash."

Michael, like Eleanor, did not appreciate the familiar diminutive of his name, except when his wife, Molly, used it. Out of respect for the day, though, he refrained from complaining verbally, allowing only his eyes to do it for him. The other men caught the look but made nothing of it. They might have done so if they had been able to see into his heart, for Counselor Michael Dickerson feared and resented being connected even loosely with any corruption. "Scandals? What scandals?" he asked with too much credulity to be entirely convincing.

Leo relished the opportunity. "Well, we've seen a lot of burned out structures that were apparently not built according to code, and I hear some of the owners are suing the builders and the city."

"I've got nothing to do with those cases."

"I know you don't. I didn't mean...."

"Sure thing, Michael," Bobby inserted in his big baritone. "We all know you well-dressed boys of the bar serve us good and just. Have another drink, lad." Michael looked into his glass and accepted the suggestion, draining the last of the amber fluid. Bobby filled the awkward gap with a cloud of smoke and said, "We serve the public in our own ways, now don't we, Mickey?" Michael smacked his lips to hide his irritation. Wanting to avoid any unpleasant confrontation, Leo dropped the subject and again surveyed the bay. The others did likewise, finding the sight far more agreeable than ornery discussion.

Darkness was dropping its curtain on the end of a grand performance. Another Easter Sunday was closing, another spring properly commenced. A cooling breeze swept through the Golden Gate and fanned the men's faces. Leo felt his skin tingle at the touch of the sea air and revved at the sensation. Finishing his brandy he dropped the remains of his cigar in a brass receptacle on the porch. The other men watched with a little sadness at the ending of indulgence, as the butt fell into the container. "Guess the women have finished in the kitchen," Leo said as he bent over and looked in a window laced with white curtains. He saw his mother waving him back to the fold. "Yep. I can smell ma's coffee."

The other men looked at each other. Word of Mary's coffee focused all their attention. Michael too dropped his cigar stub into the can, but Bobby drew one last lingering drag before surrendering his to the trash. Hastily he blew the smoke off to one side as he stepped into the house behind the other men.

"You fellas aren't bringing that stink in here, I hope," Mary said.

"We saved some for you, ma," Leo said. "I know how much you like good tobacco." He pretended to blow smoke into the room. The men laughed, but not the women, especially not Mrs. Brown, and without her participation the mirth collapsed.

"Go on with ya, Leo Brown--" she said, tossing her hand at her son, "like to poison us with that filthy stench." Bobby roared with laughter, but the others now only tittered or stifled their feelings. "Sit yerselves down and relax," Mary said. "I've filled yer cups. Let's have a nice visit to finish the day."

The men scurried to their seats, and the family reached nearly in unison for their cups full of Mary Brown's brew. She was famous in the family and even throughout the neighborhood for her coffee. No one knew how she made it, but it tasted more like the nectar that people fancied coffee to be rather than the bitter extract of the bean most drink with gusto. Mary's creation tasted beyond coffee. The aroma, as it drifted from her kitchen through the rooms of her house, out the open windows, into the neighboring yards, reminded everyone of roasted nuts. Its color was not the blackish mud of most concoctions but a dark chocolaty color, and its flavor was a boon to the mouth.

Many had tried to discover the secret of Mary's coffee, but none had been able to crack her code. She kept the recipe locked in her mind. Some had guessed at it and tried to replicate her mixture. A few had attempted the obvious: coffee with chocolate, coffee with molasses, and coffee with exotic liqueurs. Others had tried fantastic combinations of spices. Some had even tried brewing the bean in wooden bowls, but ended up creating only a cloudy kitchen and a smoky flavor that made their coffee taste like sap from a tree after a fire. So Mary Brown's brew remained a mystery.

No one said a thing as they concentrated on sipping the after-dinner delicacy in the fragile china cups, reserved for special occasions. They neither needed nor wanted larger cups, for the coffee was not only delicious but also potent. One demitasse and they were alerted for several more hours in the day. Mary always finished her dinners this way to leave her guests lively and talkative as they went out the door at the end of an evening.

Leo savored the drink and studied the dainty floral design on the porcelain vessel. Since childhood, years before he was allowed to partake, he had admired the beautiful china. He had longed to taste it as he would watch his father relish every sip. The family beverage was such a significant feature of the Brown household that upon Leo's crossing the threshold into manhood at the age of sixteen he was offered the brew for the first time. He remembered that event less for the changes in his body or the gifts long forgotten than for the opportunity at last to participate in Mary Brown coffee. "Mother," he said, "never better."

Not to be outdone, Molly tossed her compliment on top of her brother's. The others followed. The twins looked in desirous awe at the enthusiasm over a treat about which they had yet no clue except the fragrance filling the room and the pleasure it roused among the family.

Mary beamed in the soft light of the parlor. She valued the praise of her culinary work. With satisfaction bright in her eyes, she watched them all, as they fell silent while sipping the brew. The hostess had brought in cream and sugar for those who wanted to adulterate her coffee; she did not mind. Such additions neither improved nor lessened the flavor but merely modulated it. Michael hesitated but quickly poured a thick white splash and followed that with two crystalline cubes, each plopping into the cup with more splash than he wanted. He glanced at the others for any disapproval. There was none. Emily frowned at him a moment, but everyone else continued enjoying the treat without a word.

The twins' attention to Michael's indulgence, however, was more than curious. Having caught sight of the sugar bowl as soon it entered the room, now that one of the elders had used the pure sweet, they scooted close to the table and stared eyelevel at the little rock candy mountain before them. The boy was transfixed. The girl, being wily, looked at her grandmother with a smile that usually charmed all within range. When Mary reflected the smile, the little girl believed she had a chance and took it. "Grandma, could Mickey and me try one of those pretty little white boxes," she said with as much maturity as she could muster for one still in the single digit age. "I don't believe we've ever tasted one of them before. They look so cute."

Mary smiled at her grandaughter and spoke in the way she used when denying someone something, "Oh dear, Maggie--I'm afraid your mother may think you've had quite enough candy for one day." Mary cast a look at her daughter that indistinctly though unmistakably mixed inquiry with insistence.

Molly had no choice. "No, daughter--" she said, trying to make the decision look as much her own as possible. "You have your Easter candy. You don't need the sugar from grandma's cupboard too." She tittered and touched her husband's arm as she glanced at the faces around the room. "I'm afraid she has my sweet tooth."

Big Bobby, about to suggest a break for the twins, nearly blurted out a contrary message but held his tongue; he knew better through years of experience with the Brown family than to cross the matriarch.

Another easy silence drifted around the room. The children withdrew from the table without a fuss and sought something in the rug until a new idea for play entered their minds. They had tried and lost this time, but they would try again some other time and maybe win the prize.

Mary looked out the window. Nightfall was quickly obscuring much of the detail beyond the pane, but she observed leaves fluttering on a tree next to the glass. "I'm glad for being neighbor to the sea when these scorchers visit us in spring. Nice breeze always cuts into the weather, no matter how hot it gets."

"Earthquake weather, I tell ya." Bobby smirked and sat back in his chair like a big Teddy bear. "Usually like this when...."

"Oh, tush!" Eleanor said. "You always say that when it gets warm."

Mary nodded. "My Leonard used to say the same thing, Bobby. Sure enough we'd often have a good shaker soon after a heatwave." Bobby's head bounced with clownish self-importance as he looked around the room for corroboration.

"The odds are pretty good that would happen anyway, Mary," Emily said, "since we get quakes all the time in California. How in the world could temperature be a sign the earth is about to shake?" she continued. "The heat of the day comes from the sun of course, not from the center of Earth."

"Of course," Leo inserted, "from the sun and a lot of dangerous places on the surface of the Earth." He thought about stopping there but went with the fireman's urge to warn of danger. "Too many places in this city. I dread the day when we have to fight a big fire, especially south of Market Street; worse if something cuts off our water supply."

The women's faces dropped. They did not want to think of such events, even though the twin furies of earthquake and fire had been a part of their lives in the city, as they had for the people of San Francisco since its founding during the Gold Rush more than fifty years earlier.

"Well, now, Leo--" Mary said, "yes, yes--I know your father used to say the same thing--but nothing terribly tragic has happened for a long time."

Leo leveled his eyes at her. "Much of this city is a pile of bricks and tinderboxes waiting for a shake and a spark, ma."

A shadow fell across Mary's face: sad remembrance of her personal loss. Leo spotted the look. He felt her sorrow at the death of her husband; his father and he knew her worry about him, in spite of her efforts to control it. So he tried to mitigate his frightening words, improve the mood. "You're probably right, ma--fires often break out in unexpected places--but we always beat them down, don't we?" he said with as much conviction as he could manage to push through his lack of total belief in such a concept.

Despite her private doubts, she accepted his consolation. She would not allow herself to become morose, not for a second. Besides, this was too joyous a day for darkness, regardless of the dangers in the world.

"Cities burn," Michael said, unaware that others may have wanted the subject dropped. "Look what happened to Chicago."

"Chicago was a doozy!" Bobby boomed.

"Yes, and we've had more than our share of fires in San Francisco," Emily said, "but we've always come out of them."

Leo wanted to squelch the image of their city burning down, as had the great Midwestern city, but since much of San Francisco had burned several times in the town's short history, he had to admit the possibility. He felt compelled to add: "More than our share--especially with the condition of our buildings." He glanced at Michael then cast his eyes across the room at nothing in particular.

"What condition?" Eleanor asked.

"Oh," Michael scoffed, "Leo seems to think we haven't properly constructed the city buildings--that they could go up in smoke if a big fire swept through the town." He tried to smile but sarcasm cracked through his normally stern face.

Molly touched his arm to quell any discord that might occur between her brother and her husband. She loved them both, but knew they were not the closest of brothers-in-law. Always suspecting each was jealous of her attention to the other, she would go back & forth between the two, and then withdraw, hoping they would become closer. Sometimes she would play one off the other to see the reaction. Occasionally the air would become too charged, however, and she would have to step between them. This time though she said nothing, but only watched for any sign of smoke coming out of their ears.

Emily was watching too but enjoying it for a different reason. She took a perverse delight in the spats between married couples. One of her favorite excuses for not marrying. She always said matrimony was a battleground waiting for the next fight, even though she had seldom seen Mary and Leonard do more than argue politely. She found men attractive but, since they apparently never her found her so, she had developed a distrust of all men and marriage, usually blaming men for the trouble in families.

Eleanor was quite the opposite. She loved Leo and Michael and all men in the family and she could not bear to see them suffering the slightest disagreement. However, she need not have concerned herself this time. Leo would never allow himself to fight with anyone in his mother's house. If they had been in any other place he would have been in Michael's face as if fighting a flame, but not in his parents' home. Instead, he slurped the last of his coffee, set the cup down carefully on the table, and lounged in his chair. "Well, ma--this has been a great day," he said. "A day pa would have enjoyed from his red head to his big, flat feet. You did yourself proud--as always."

The others offered their agreement and finished their coffee. Mary stared at Leo. "I can see him in you sitting in that chair, son." She blinked back incipient tears. She felt it unseemly to be morose. Anything even bordering on it she had to squelch as soon as it reared its dark head.

"Leo does look more and more like pa as he gets older," Molly said, "doesn't he?" She glanced around the room for agreement.

Eleanor and Bobby and even Emily nodded instantly. Michael shrugged. A silence swooped among them that could have made everyone uneasy and dampened the ending to a good and happy feast. However, Mary would not let such a thing happen. Tipping the last drop of coffee into her mouth, she set the cup gently onto the saucer and slapped her thighs, a signal for the end of the gathering. "Well, we've had a wonderful time together." She stood up, looked down at the children, and smiled. "And you two have yourselves enough candy to last till Christmas." She bent down and kissed them one after the other several times as Leo had done. The children giggled and wiped the affection off their faces. The girl leading, they wrapped their arms around their grandmother.

"Well--" Mary breathed.

At the word made significant by Mary, all lifted from their seats with surprising zest for a family having feasted on such a cornucopia of rich food. Of course they owed their liveliness almost entirely to the potency of Grandma Brown's Brew. Their eyes fairly sparkled. Momentarily they chattered among themselves the way groups of people do when they have nothing much important to say but are not yet ready to separate. Molly made the first move to go.

"Ma--" she said, throwing her arms around her mother, "you're a queen."

The children slid out of her arms to the floor, as Mary rubbed her daughter's back and spoke in her ear words inaudible to everyone else. Molly pulled her head back, looked into her mother's eyes, kissed her, and hugged her again. "Thank you for making the children's day special, ma."

"A pleasure, dear. They make it good for all of us."

"Hey--" Bobby inserted his bombast, "you gonna let the rest of us get to Ma Brown?" He was not the suavest of men but certainly one of the most enthusiastic. Molly stepped aside with an inviting look. Spreading his gorillarms, Bobby gently enfolded Mary in them and laid his massive head beside hers.

"Don't get lost in there, ma," Leo said.

Bobby threw his great head back and roared. Mary started but recovered with a sharp slap on the big man's hands as she clasped her small ones over and under his huge paws. Leo then had an opening to his mother but deferred to his spinster aunt. Emily, never one for exhibiting affection, stepped toe-to-toe with her sister, leaned toward her, and pecked her once on the cheek. Before she could step back, Mary grabbed her head with both hands and kissed her full on the lips. "Good to see you, Emmy--" Mary whispered. "We don't enjoy enough of each other."

Emily brushed off the sentiment but, as it had for the children, the good feeling found its way to a place inside her. "Lovely dinner, Mary," she said to cover her awkwardness.

Leo next looked at Michael and nodded him in the matron's direction. Michael obviously did not appreciate any directives coming from one he considered his inferior by profession but he acquiesced. He did care genuinely for the man's mother. "I always enjoy myself immensely in your home, Mother Brown," he said, as behind him his wife gathered up their children. Mary embraced him. "You know you're always welcome, Michael Dickerson." She patted his cheek. "You're family--and the father of my beautiful grandchildren." For a normally reserved lawyer, he grinned like a boy and back-pedaled toward the front door, where his wife had corralled the twins.

Eleanor next made her way to her mother. No lack of enthusiasm between these two. They had been close buddies since childhood. Of like minds and spirits, they scarcely needed any show of affection. Always ready for physical contact, they joined in a hug that seemed permanent. They looked into each other's eyes without words, knowing the depth and breadth of the bond.

When Eleanor stepped back into her husband's big, reassuring arms and smiled, Leo knew the next move was his. He always maneuvered to be the last in line for his departing gesture with his mother. Their arms enveloped each other like the limbs of venerable elm and oak trees growing close.

An observer might have assumed that Molly would have been jealous of their relationship, but, rather than envy her brother's closeness to their mother, she cherished it. She knew herself to be no less a part of the family than was Leo and she was wise enough to know that the tie between mother and son is naturally unique. She had known such a relationship with her father, the man to whom she was so similar, but he was gone. Now, instead of resenting her brother's closeness to their mother, she treasured it even with sizable envy. Although they had lost their father, they still had their mother, and she her brother. The family, torn as it was, would hold. Mary whispered something to her son.

"Yes, ma--I know," Leo said softly. "I will."

"Well, that's quite enough mush for one evening." Mary stepped to the door.

They walked out onto the porch and down the front steps, while Mary stood in the doorway and waved to them, voicing their familiar farewells as they walked away from the old frame house: Eleanor and Bobby to their buggy, Emily to hers, Michael and Molly with their children to their new car, and Leo on foot heading down the hill alone. He turned to look back to look at his mother in the doorway of the old house on the slope of Russian Hill and waved once before Michael's car rattlepopped past him like an unearthly beast, Molly's hand fluttering as they passed. Those in the buggies steadied their horses that reared at the bumptious competitor before clopping away into the balmy night.

Watching them go, Leo scanned the town from the hillside. He always enjoyed looking at San Francisco day or night: the way it perched on that broad stretch of sand like a fabled city. Born and raised there he knew no other place, cared to be in no other place. He wanted the city to remain for the rest of his life much the way he had known it, with all of its hectic pulsating streets, crowded houses, overlarge buildings, and teeming people. The city was roughhewn and ramshackle but a jewel on the tip of land that formed a splendid lip across from that of the Marin promontory. Satisfied, Leo Brown descended the hill, jumped onto a cable car, and made his way home.

Chapter 3

In the Valencia Hotel south of the slot, Marianne Durand was preparing for Easter. Market Street, the main thoroughfare that bisects the town from Twin Peaks in the center of the peninsula to the Ferry Building on the bay, was known as the slot because of cuts in the road for cables that pulled cars up and down the long street. In her modest home, Marianne was looking forward to celebrating a particularly happy Easter this early year in the new century. A pretty young nurse she had worked at a city hospital for two years before meeting Thomas Durand. They became fast friends and within a year they married. Moving into simple rooms in the humble hotel, they planned, as do all young married couples, for a long and happy life together. And when their first child was born, they considered themselves doubly blessed.

The Durands had been saving for months to enjoy the holiday. They dyed eggs purple and pink and nestled them in a wicker basket full of yellow straw. Even though the baby appeared too young to appreciate them, Marianne put the basket in front of him. He patted the colorful eggs as if applauding her handiwork and giggled with spontaneous glee. Marianne had made herself a new yellow dress, and Thomas had bought her a bonnet full of flowers to adorn her auburn hair. The new family went to church on that archetypal morning of hope Easter to mingle with the gaily-clad congregation.

Later that afternoon while the aromas of a home-cooked meal were scenting the Durand home, the young mother nursed baby Tommy and put him to bed. She looked at him long in his crib as she always did to make sure he was comfortable. "Under covers, now, and think sweet thoughts," she said musically. Her green eyes glittered. With the tiny boy quietly resting, she decorated a small table with lilies and the colored eggs. On the table she laid a sizzling ham amid steaming bowls of roasted potatoes, boiled cabbage, and candied carrots. Thomas opened a bottle of Hungarian wine, a wedding gift he had been saving for such an event, and they toasted their small but good fortune. "To a long and happy life together," he said.

"To our new family," she added.

Holding his glass a long time between them, he concentrated on her eyes.

Reading his look she said, "I love you too, Thomas." Her sentiment reminded her of other loved ones in her life. "I wish my folks were here," she said. "I wonder why they didn't...."

"I'm sure they tried," he said. "Something must have come up. You'll hear from them soon--don't worry."

He put his face close to hers. They kissed, sipped their drinks, and pitched into the feast, enjoying the simple meal together as if it were a royal repast. Despite her pleasure, though, Marianne could not get the nagging worry about her parents out of her mind.

The next day was another warm one of spring beauty. Thomas rose at dawn and left for work at the Call Building. A proofreader for the city paper he had ambitions to become a reporter, so he always arrived there early to mingle with the staff. After breakfast, Marianne with the baby in her arms waved her husband off to work. When he was out of sight, her apprehensive mood came back from the previous day. Just as she was turning to go upstairs, a young voice called to her from the street: "Excuse me, ma'm--"

When she turned to see a delivery boy on a bicycle, she felt a chill in her breast.

"Does a--" the messenger looked at the envelope. "Does a Marianne Durand live in this building?"

Her heart nearly stopped. "Yes," she said barely audible, "I'm Marianne Durand."

"Cable for you, ma'm."

When she hesitated, the boy leaned his bike against a post and stepped up to the front porch to hand it to her. She stared at him. Baby Tommy also stared at the delivery boy, absorbing new information. The boy restrained his own smile. "Please sign here, ma'm," he said with a deepened voice as he pulled a paper and pencil out of his pocket, wet the tip in his mouth, and held them out to her.

Adjusting the baby on her hip, Marianne signed the paper, took the telegram as if it were dangerous, and stared at it. The envelope trembled slightly in her fingers.

The boy stood looking at her, until she realized he was waiting and reached into her apron pocket for some change. She pulled out a coin, dropped it into his hand, and noticed his attention to it. "I'm sorry," she said distractedly, "that's all I have--but I can go upstairs and get more."

"Oh, no, ma'm--" the boy said sensing her distress. "This is fine, thanks." He turned and bounded down the steps, jumped onto his bicycle, and wheeled away whistling down the street.

Marianne could not take her eyes off the yellow paper in her hand. She kept staring at the envelope as if afraid it would catch fire. Normally missives from her mother and father were occasions for joy; this time, though, as she returned to her rooms, she felt intense foreboding. She laid the baby on the bed beside her and tore open the envelope. The words, usually full of gossip and good news, suddenly magnified on the page and struck her with fear.

"Father had heart attack."

Heart attack! The phrase echoed in her head like a malediction. She had known such deadly events among her patients for years, but the fact of it happening to her father was a shock of reality altogether too close. She continued reading, terrified of what more she would discover.

"Unable to be with you and family. Sorry not to inform you of condition sooner. Showing signs of recovery. Please come if possible. Mother."

Marianne rapidly read the cable again, then two more times. When she felt she got all she could from the few black words on the sallow page, she sighed with some relief, sank onto the bed beside her baby, and wiped her eyes. Little Tommy ogled her with his blue eyes as if trying to understand her emotion. He made her smile, and she drew him close.

When Thomas arrived home from work that evening, Marianne with the baby in her arms was waiting for him as usual in front of the hotel. Full of eagerness to embrace his new family he leaped up the steps, but halted at the sight of his wife's face. She seldom looked dejected. "The baby!" he cried.

"No, no, dear--the baby's fine, but--" her throat clenched on the words.

He jumped to the top step, touched his wife and child, and sought reassurance in their faces. "Then what--?"

"Father--a heart attack."

"Heart attack! No! Is he...?"

"He's alive. Thank God! But probably very weak. He needs rest and proper care. Mother's there of course but she needs my help."

He studied her and the situation as he walked into the building. "Go, Marianne. Go to your father and...."

"But the baby, Thomas. He may be getting the sniffles and shouldn't make such a trip now...."

"Leave him home with me. We boys'll do fine together. Old Mis'ess Jenkins downstairs can help if I need it."

She smiled through her sadness and held her husband for a long time. She was torn, feeling the need to be with the old family but wanting to stay with the new.

While packing her travelcase, she kept going into the other rooms to look at her husband and their child as though to imprint them on her mind. Thomas, reading the newspaper, tried to encourage her, but she felt a nagging uneasiness about going all the way to Sacramento and leaving them without her. They had not separated for more than a workday since their wedding, but now she would have to break that pattern.

***

The next morning promised another bright, warm day. The young Durand couple was trying to be cheerful on the way through town. When they arrived at the ferry building, Marianne kissed the baby and handed him to her husband. She looked at them both a long time then hugged and kissed them repeatedly.

"Now, you have plenty to eat in the icebox," she said. "Be sure to...."

"Don't worry about us," he said smiling. "Go and take care of your father. We'll be happy and well fed when you come home."

She kept looking at them, trying to make a permanent picture of them in her mind. A breeze off the bay puffed the baby's hair, and he grimaced. His expression made her laugh slightly, which nearly opened the way for tears. "Oh, dear--I'm not sure I should go...."

"We'll be fine. When you know that your father is well enough and you return, we'll have a picnic in the park."

She cheered at the thought. At first as a couple then as three they had enjoyed in their regular picnics in the park--times of pleasure and play--that had become a minor ritual. "Let's do," she said, trying to keep her voice from quavering.

Thomas embraced her with the baby between them and said, "We'll see you soon, my darling." They kissed until the boat whistle blew.

She boarded the gently rocking vessel and kept looking back at her family, at her handsome young husband waving their baby's tiny hand, at their child giggling over the water bubbling beneath the bow of the boat as if it were all a game. She laughed and cried while the boat pulled away from the dock. She walked to the bow and waved at them, until the ferry turned around and headed across the bay. Despite the chilly wind, she trotted to the stern and gazed at them again until they became smaller and smaller, until only tiny specks on the pier, until she could no longer see them.

***

On the train from Oakland to Sacramento Marianne fretted about having left her husband and child, about her father's condition, and about a vague anxiety that made her squirm. She closed her eyes and told herself not to be silly; it was not like her to be so worried. Still, her father's heart condition filled her mind with foreboding. At least in a few hours she would be at his side and caring for him. Then she would feel better. She always felt better when tending to someone.

Looking out the window, she sighted San Francisco across the bay, the city shining in the late day sun: a grand monument to civilization. She felt fortunate--lucky to be married to a fine man, to have a beautiful baby, and to be living in such a good place on Earth. She forced herself to settle into her journey. The train ride was pleasant with the comforting sway of the car and the rhythmical click-clack of the wheels. She gazed at the curve of the bay until the train snaked eastward and tracked the estuary up the American River.

Abundant birds along the way were arriving from the south on their annual migration with the warming season. The farmlands were showing strong new growth in the spring heat, their young shoots silvery in the waning light. The air was so clear Marianne imagined she could see the snowy peaks of the Sierra Madre beyond Sacramento. When the train arrived in the central valley town, she was full of both anxiety and alacrity. Upon spotting her mother at the train station and seeing a smile on her face, Marianne knew her father was out of danger. "Hallo, mama!" She waved from the doorway of the car. "Mother. Over here!"

When Sarah Brady, a handsome, dignified woman, spotted her daughter on the steps of the train, her face widened with a smile: a clear signal that all was going well at home. Besides, the sight of her youngest child always pleased her. "Marianne--darling!" she shouted. They embraced and kissed each other exuberantly, each out of breath with excitement. "You have only the one bag, dear?"

"I can stay only a day or two, mother--Thomas and the...."

"Yes, yes, of course. How is that handsome young man of yours and that darling grandchild of mine? You know how much we wanted to be with you for Easter, but father was stricken early in the week, so I knew we couldn't...."

"Of course, mama. I only wish I'd known sooner."

"I thought of contacting you earlier, but I didn't want to spoil your holiday."

"Holiday! Mother, I want to know anytime one of you is ill. There can be a real holiday only if we are all well."

"Oh, I knew he was going to recover, so I didn't want to worry you."

"I understand. But I'm a grown woman, mama--and a nurse. Remember? I can deal with it."

"Well, you're here now. That's what matters. Everything will be fine." She stopped up to a shiny new automobile and said, "Here we are." Restraining a grin, she opened the door for her daughter.

"Mother! When did you get this--and when did you ever learn to drive one of these contraptions?"

"I wasn't going to let your father have all the fun. And now when Jonathan is ill, I'm glad I can do it."

Marianne put her bag on the backseat and stepped into the vehicle, bobbing like a boat on water. "I really hope these things don't become popular. They're too noisy and dirty--and dangerous."

"I'm afraid they're here to stay, dear." Her mother said as she cranked the engine, tied her bonnet to her head, and drove the motorcar rumbling and rattling out of the station.

The car headed out on a dirt road out of town, growling and kicking up dust clouds like a team of unruly beasts of burden. As the rickety thing headed toward the American River, the women tried to talk but when unable to hear each other over the racket so they submitted to the noisy machine for the rest of the journey.

Soon the automobile bounced into a long driveway leading to a large white country house surrounded with sycamore and elm trees. "The old place looks good," Marianne shouted, as the car ground up the gravel path.

"What's that, dear?" her mother shouted.

"I say--the place looks nice," Marianne shouted more loudly.

Her mother merely smiled and nodded an acknowledgement. She stopped in front of the house in a billowing dust that drifted across the front yard then dissipated among some trees. Marianne stepped onto solid ground, said, "What a trip!" then coughed and stood unsteadily for a moment.

Her mother laughed, stepped out, and slammed the door. She looked over the facade of the house and said, "Yes, we've done a lot of work on the old pile. Had to keep busy. It's been too quiet for us since you children left."

"I should think you'd be glad for the time to rest."

"I can rest for eternity. I want my family and friends around me--the noisier the better. Then I know we're alive."

"Let's go see father."

Sarah Brady led the way upstairs. "He's been as frantic as a corralled stallion waiting for you, Marianne."

Portraits of the Brady family lined the staircase. Marianne's was the first at the bottom step. Then her sister, Agnes. Her brother, John. Her mother. Jonathan's portrait at the top. Marianne looked fondly over the familiar pictures and focused on the image of her father looking as strong as a horse in his younger days. She cringed at the thought of him bed-ridden. He had always been too active to take even a midday nap.

A light breeze blew through the master bedroom and billowed chiffon curtains off a high window that overlooked the extensive grounds around the house. Jonathan Brady was lying in a four-poster bed looking more like a boy frustrated at not being allowed to play with his friends than an older man with heart trouble. To prevent showing too much concern, Marianne hurried to his side. She was good at this, through much practice.

"Papa--"

A ruddy-faced man with a shock of hair thick for his years, Jonathan opened his arms to her. "Marianne, my girl. Come here and let me love you." He embraced his youngest daughter and held her tightly for a long time, as if fearing either he or she would vanish.

Marianne wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

"Papa--" Marianne whispered in his ear. Her eyes reddened but she held back the emotion. "You look as rosy-cheeked as ever."

"I feel well enough. How are you, daughter?"

"Fine, papa."

"And your two Toms?"

She tilted her head from side to side, affecting gaiety. "My two Toms are fine, but I hope they miss me."

"I'm sure they do."

"Oh, papa--I'm so sorry you're not feeling well." He smiled to reassure her though uncertain that it was working. "Has the doctor been here recently?"

"He was here last evening," Sarah said, stepping close behind her. "He comes by nearly every day after supper."

Marianne felt her father's forehead, took his pulse, and listened to his heart. "What did he say?"

"Told me to stay in bed. Says I can't do as much as I used to anymore. That right, Marianne? Am I going to be a damned invalid now?"

Sarah wrapped her arms around herself. Marianne turned to her while speaking to her father. "No, of course not." She faced him again and smoothed the blankets around him. "You'll be up and around in no time. You just need to rest for a few weeks."

"A few weeks! I can't be lyin' abed that long. I've got work to do--windows need fixin', paintin'--there's the garden, and...."

"Well, I'm afraid they'll have to wait," Marianne said sternly.

"John is coming to stay with us next week," Sarah said. "He and I can take care of all those things, father. And I've written to Agnes."

"John's coming?" Marianne said. "Oh, I wish I could see him. It's been so long--since Christmas, I think." She smiled at her father. "You see--the family comes together when needed. So you can rest and get better. There'll be plenty of work for you to do when you're well."

Jonathan Brady grumbled quietly but did not pretend to hide his enjoyment that his clan was gathering on his behalf. He patted his daughter's hand. "Why don't you get yourself settled in, dear? You're probably tired from the trip. Say, how'd you like ridin' in that newfangled jalopy?"

Marianne looked at her mother and grinned. "Certainly was a wild ride. And Mother showed a side of herself I never knew."

"She thinks now that I'm laid up she's gonna take charge of that machine and be buzzin' all over town."

"Day and night," Sarah said. "And I plan to make a driving tour of the entire state."

Daughter laughed but husband shook his head with as much disapproval as he could force. Still, he resented her having more fun than he could for the time being. "Get on outta here, you two, and let a man get some rest. I'm s'posed to be seriously ill, ya know."

Marianne squeezed his hand. When she stepped away from the bed, Sarah kissed her man tenderly on the mouth and whispered something, something intimate that only husband and wife should hear. He laughed lasciviously. Marianne smiled through a slight blush. She and her mother stepped lightly out of the room as if to avoid disturbing Jonathan, but he would not let them get away so easily. "When's dinner?" he roared. "I'm hungry as a bear!"

Sarah waved him off, as she ushered her daughter out of the room. "Hungry enough for plenty of vegetables I hope," she said while closing the door, "because that's the menu Doctor Kensington ordered for your evening meals."

"He's ordered! Who does he think he is, my chef? Vegetables--bah!"

"Shush now," Sarah said.

"Get some rest, father."

Sarah closed the door on the man's growling complaint and descended the stairs.

"He's definitely recovering," Marianne said.

"Sometimes I wonder if he feigned the attack just to get some extra attention--like a school boy." Marianne snickered at the notion, not putting it past her wily father. "He's so glad you're here," Sarah said with a jerk of her head toward the bedroom, her coils of gray hair bobbing slightly, "even though he acts as though we're wasting his time."

"I wish I could stay longer but I don't want to leave Thomas and the baby too long without me. I hated to leave them at all."

"I know, dear, and I really do appreciate you coming all this way."

"I feel so much better now that I'm here with you and father." She scanned the old house. "This place looks as good as ever. I'll sure be glad when we can buy a home of our own. The hotel was fine before the baby, but now we're a family, I wish...."

"And I hope it comes true soon." Sarah walked into the kitchen to prepare supper. "You deserve it."

Marianne followed her. "Were you serious about the doctor ordering a vegetable diet?"

"Absolutely." Sarah pulled some pans off hooks above the stove.

"I'm surprised--and glad to know a few physicians are caring more about good diet."

"This one sure does. And your father is not at all happy about it. As you know, he's always enjoyed his porterhouse steak with little else than potatoes and bread."

"Maybe he's enjoyed it too much." Sarah did not respond as she bent down to light the stove. Marianne realized she might have touched a nerve. "You know I don't blame you, mother."

"I could have been more careful about what I fixed him to eat."

"Father wouldn't have stood for anything other than his meat, potatoes, and gravy."

"I s'pose not."

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, dear--please bring me that squash on the back porch," Sarah said, rinsing some potatoes. "I can get him to eat plenty of squash but little else that grows from roots--other than salad of course. He's come to love a fresh green salad."

"You're making me hungry." Putting two acorn squash on the counter by the sink, Marianne washed and sliced them in half, scooping out the seeds. "I wonder what Tom is going to have for dinner tonight."

"Does he cook?" Sarah said with surprise.

"Oh, he cooks--unwillingly. He prefers to dine out, if I don't make his meals. But now with the baby he must make do with what we have in the house."

"Meat and potatoes?"

Marianne laughed. "I put a couple of chops in the icebox. But I doubt he'll take pains to peel the potatoes. Probably fry a chop, butter some bread, and open a bottle of beer."

Sarah chuckled. "Like father, like son-in-law."

Marianne started to laugh in turn, but the portent of this particular similarity between her husband and her father who lay upstairs in bed with a serious heart condition struck her rather unpleasantly.

Reading her mind, Sarah said, "Well, one or two days of bread and meat won't kill him. Then you'll be home to make sure he eats well again."

Marianne smiled at her mother with relief. "At least the baby's diet is simple so far. Mother's milk and he's out like a light."

Sarah buttered, salted, peppered, and sprinkled nutmeg on the squash halves then slid them into the oven. "He's such a good baby. Just like you when you were that age. Whatever happened to you, daughter?" Sarah snickered and started to peel the potatoes.

As Marianne playfully protested and stood beside her at the sink to help, she looked out the window into the back yard. The afternoon sun was throwing long shadows off the greening trees and across an old wooden shed. The place looked like a playground for sprites. "The garden is beautiful, mama."

Sarah glanced out the window and smiled. "Yes, your father and I have spent a lot of time out there--" The words caught in her throat.

Marianne put her arm around her. "He'll be fine, mama. And able to join you in the garden again. He simply has to take it easy--no heavy lifting for...."

"Oh, but you know how he is, Marianne. He prides himself in his ability to work like an ox from sunup to sundown."

"Well, he'll just have to pride himself in working like a turtle to live longer. That's more important to all of us than a big, strong, hardworking short-lived father. Besides, he's supposed to take it easy now--at this time in his life. He deserves a little ease."

"He certainly does. But I'm not sure what would be worse for him--too much physical activity or too little. I'm afraid he won't enjoy living if he has to curtail his work much, and then...."

"Well, he'll have to find ways to be productive without straining his heart. He can do that without working himself to death."

Sarah set the potatoes onto the stove. "Yes, then he'll have to, won't he? I don't want to lose him." She wiped her cheeks with her apron.

The fragrance of the squash cooking in the oven filled the kitchen and mingled with the scent of lilacs beneath the window over the sink. Marianne stood in the center of the room and surveyed the garden and the dining room beyond the kitchen. Memories of her childhood flowed into her mind. She too felt the sentiment. The potatoes began to boil.

"Oh, dear--I can't be wasting time feeling sorry for myself," Sarah said. "I've got supper to make." She took a large jar of tomatoes out of the pantry and poured bright red preserves into a saucepan. Into that she put some herbs & spices. Soon the aroma of a spicy tomato sauce was mingling with the other savory scents in the kitchen. "Would you hand me that bread in the box there, dear--I want to warm it up on the stove."

Marianne gave the loaf to her mother and watched her prepare the tomato sauce. She had always admired the woman's artistry with food. With only a few simple items she could put together a feast for peasant or prince. As a child, Marianne would for hours sit on stool in the kitchen and watch her mother make the meals. She always tried to cook such excellent meals for Tom the way she had known her mother to make them, but she had so far not been able to equal the master. She watched her mother stir and taste the sauce. "That smells wonderful!"

"Yes, and it's going to be even more wonderful to eat."

"Such simple fare, but...."

"It's not the fare, my darling--it's the cook." She threw her head back and cackled musically. "Would you set the table for the two of us? I'll prepare a tray for the man."

Marianne went to the dining room, pulled a drawer out of an oak credenza full of dinnerware, and laid utensils and dishes on a big oak table.

"Let's you and I have a little treat tonight, dear," Sarah whispered from the kitchen. "Just the two of us. There's a bottle of claret in one of those lower shelves. Uncork it as quietly as you can. What he doesn't drink and doesn't know we drink can't hurt him."

Marianne searched for the bottle, while Sarah took the tray with a plate of steaming food upstairs. By the time Marianne decanted the dark red wine into two glasses, her mother had returned. They sat down at the big table and relished the meal and the company.

After dinner they all gathered in the bedroom to have coffee with Jonathan. Despite his dissatisfaction with the dinner lacking his favorite ingredient, he was cheerful and enjoyed being the center of so much attention; although, he would never admit it. He sipped his coffee and smacked his lips. "No one makes a cup of the bean like your mother."

"Yes, well," she said, "I put a little extra milk in it to help you sleep."

"Milk!" he complained.

"You've got to cut back on fatty foods, father," Marianne said. Be glad you can have coffee at all."

He started to grumble but was too happy to let such an insignificant matter bother him. He took another sip. "So tell me about that new grandson of mine. He stuck with milk too or is he gettin' somethin' good to eat yet?"

Marianne laughed lightly. "Just beginning to take solid food. Likes it too--especially meat and potatoes." She added this falsehood to please him.

"Chip off the old bloke," Sarah said.

"Good!" Jonathan roared. "Good for him! He's a Brady to the bone."

"He does have his father's eyes," Marianne said with a twinkle in her own.

"And Tom?" he said. "How is that young man? Fine lad, Tom. Comes from good stock. Like you."

"He's fine, papa. Been working hard though."

"Good. Man's gotta work hard for his family. His duty in life."

Sarah clucked but understood the attitude, having lived with it all her life with her father and then her husband.

"Yes, well, then he's certainly doing his duty," Marianne said. "I just don't want him to wear himself out before his time. I want to grow old with him."

"Bah!" he said. "Hard work makes a body stronger, Marianne. Isn't that true, mother?"

Sarah nodded, but her concern about his health showed on her face. "If you say so, father. But I understand Marianne's feelings." She tried to mask her concern with a pleasant face.

Jonathan cleared his throat and slugged his coffee. "Well, you ladies catch up on your lives before it gets too late. Marianne is tired from her trip. And I know you want me to rest--even though rest is about all I've been getting out of life lately."

"Oh, don't go feeling sorry for yourself now, father," Sarah said. "Besides, I'll be back later to keep your feet warm."

He raised an eyebrow like an aging satyr. Marianne, slightly abashed, rattled her cup as she jumped up to leave the room, hearing her mother to giggle behind her. "Now look what you've done, old boy--you've embarrassed your baby daughter." Marianne slowed down to regain composure.

"Why should she or any of our kids be embarrassed about their mother and father showing a little affection to each other? Simply evidence of how they came into this world." He chuckled, pleased with himself.

"I'm quite sure they don't need any evidence of that from you and me."

"Maybe I should leave you two alone," Marianne said as she stepped out of the room and peeked around the doorway. "On the other hand--maybe I shouldn't."

Sarah looked at her daughter then at her husband and waved him off. "Don't be silly. We're too old for such foolishness." She squeezed his hand, smiled at him, and left the room.

"Speak for yourself, woman."

Marianne laughed. "Good night, papa."

"Good night, daughter. Sleep well."

"See you soon, dear," Sarah started to close the door.

"Leave it open, Sarah. I want to hear any secrets you two have saved up for this visit."

"Hah! Your ears will catch fire," Sarah said and left.

"Hot stuff, huh?" he hollered from his bed as he reached for the book he kept on the nightstand. Robert Browning--one of his favorites. He liked to read himself to sleep with poetry.

"Too hot for you, old man," Sarah hollered back to him. The women heard him laugh into the books' pages as they descended the stairs.

In the family room, Sarah put Enrico Caruso on a phonograph machine. Despite the scratchy sound from the primitive device, the strong lyrical voice of the great tenor filled the room. A Puccini aria from LA BOHEME. The women sat together on a sofa and listened quietly for several moments.

"He's in San Francisco this evening, you know," Marianne said.

"Yes. I was hoping to see him in CARMEN while we were visiting you." She sighed. "I shouldn't be disappointed about such things at a time like this."

Marianne put her hand on her mother's arm. "Of course you should, mama--these days it means more than ever."

"I'm so glad you're here, Marianne. But now that I know father's all right I feel I shouldn't have taken you away from your husband and especially the baby."

"They'll be fine. And I'll be back in a couple of days. I had to see papa and know that you two are getting along all right."

"Oh, we'll be fine. You know how tough your father is...."

"Not as tough as you. We've always seen your strength hidden behind that tender facade." Sarah squeezed her daughter's hand. "We have a good family, don't we?"

"We do." Sarah held her daughter's hand, as the melody from the tenor's voice consecrated the room.

The women again sat quietly to listen, revering the music, while it adorned their mutual affection. As the evening dimmed, they were comfortable together without saying a word. They watched the late sun paint the sky in the west with a swath of warm colors. While listening to the passionate tones they felt a sense of peace pervade their minds. The room becoming dark, Sarah lighted some fixtures, and they sat longer to listen to the music and reminisce about their lives in the house. Long before their remembrances became up-to-date, Marianne yawned.

"You go on up to bed, dear. I know you're exhausted."

Marianne yawned again and said, "Yes, but I want to help you clean up."

"Nonsense. Get under covers and think sweet thoughts. I'll take care of the mess."

"Get under covers and think sweet thoughts. I say the same thing to baby Tommy every night. Just like you used to say to us when we were children." Arms around each other, they walked to the bottom of the stairs. "Do let me help you in the kitchen, mama, you fixed such a nice supper for us...."

"No, no, no--I'll have it spruced up in a jiffy. Go on with you now." She nudged her daughter up the steps.

Marianne hesitated but, realizing that her mother could not be dissuaded, slowly ascended. "I'll just peek in on papa first."

Sarah went into the kitchen and quickly made the kitchen tidy--everything in its place, ready for the morning.

Upstairs, Marianne slowly opened the door to her parent's bedroom and saw her father breathing evenly, his eyes closed behind his glasses, the book open on his chest. After gently closing the door, she tiptoed down the hall and stepped into her bedroom. Turning on a light she gazed around the space in which she and her sister had grown to womanhood. She looked at the wallpaper with the simple floral design, at the sloping ceiling around the window through which she had talked to her young friends, at the dresser at which she had stood to ready herself for school, at the stuffed animals on her bed, still in the same positions she and Aggie would always arrange them, at the framed photograph on a night table of her younger mother and father. She picked up the picture of her parents and studied it for a long time, noticing her own eyes in the glass. It was going to be nice to sleep in her childhood bed that night. Although she missed Thomas and the baby with a persistent longing, she was glad to be there in that grand, old, creaky, cozy house with the scents and sensibilities of nearly two score years to remember at home.

Downstairs Sarah had turned off the lights and stood staring out the window over the garden. The landscape lay silvery soft in the moonlight. She breathed deeply, trying to gain some contentment. When she finally went upstairs and entered their bedroom, Jonathan stirred but did not waken. She disrobed and gently slipped into bed beside him. After gently removing his glasses and putting the book back in its place, she laid her head on his shoulder as she had for countless nights and listened to his breathing, felt his heart beating. Reassured of his peaceful rest, she let herself slip into a soft, warm world.

In her room Marianne lay in bed staring at vague lights flickering across the ceiling until her eyes lost focus and she too drifted into the delicious darkness. Despite the anxiety that had ached in her about her father's attack and about leaving her husband and child, she relinquished herself to the temporary oblivion that refreshes body, mind, and soul. While she slept, her long auburn hair coiled gracefully around her head, and she fell presently into another world. Before long, she was dreaming.

Inside a huge egg exquisitely formed out of spun sugar, baby Tommy lay on a field of satin like an exotic infant prince. Above the magnificent oval confection, her husband hovered as a glowing sun god protecting his loved ones. Beatifications of Marianne's personal cosmos. And in their presence she slumbered contentedly.

When the image in her mind suddenly shuddered as if jolted by electricity, she did not stir. Dreams change. But, when the egg cracked its full length, she began to fret in a dream becoming nightmare. And when the vision suddenly shattered and rained through space like a meteor shower, panic surged through her body, but she could not move to catch and save the pieces of her life falling around her. Not until her mind overloaded with a stormy cosmos threatening to disintegrate into chaos, and she felt herself tossed violently in that alien space, did she wake in terror.

Chapter 4

The Earth Be Moved

Our planet is a living thing. Her surface is like skin, ever changing--shifting, pushing up mounds of terrestrial flesh large and small, and shedding layers as if suffering growing pains. Tremendous forces range around her magnificent body, forces that gradually build up titanic stress slowly to distort terrafirma. Eventually a weak place in the integrity of the planet's tectonic plating can no longer resist the overwhelming strain, and the plates dislocate. Disturbingly. Sometimes catastrophically. Events like that have happened many times around the globe, especially in the Ring of Fire; along the Pacific Rim, which includes the state of California. One such major episode happened there in the spring of 1906: an event of a magnitude maybe never before known in the history of the United States. The movement began in the ocean right off shore along the San Francisco peninsula. Just short of a quarter past five o'clock in the morning of Wednesday, April 18, a foreshock of impending doom rattled the entire bay area. A terrific monster erupted from beneath the sea, shaking the earth for hundreds of miles in all directions, and rolled into the city by the bay with a profoundly fundamental power.

While walking up Lombard Street after helping to put out the warehouse fire, Leo Brown sensed it. He heard the noise of the approaching storm; he listened to what sounded like distant thunder and detected the ground surging beneath his boots. Instinctively he looked down and stared at the pavement. He felt then saw the sidewalk rise and fall beneath him and he heard the noise of the approaching storm, a cacophony that at first sounded like distant thunder.

When the trembling ceased more quickly than it had started, Leo settled into a momentary calm, sudden hope mollifying his concern. He knew, however, that hope can be as temporary as a glint of sunlight on water. The thunder quickly increased to a deafening din as if a locomotive were roaring out of a long tunnel at the far end of the street--but there was no tunnel in that part of town and no locomotive.

Seconds later a massive temblor, far more powerful than its harbinger, heaved through the streets and rocked the entire city, a cataclysmic fit of the earth growling and grinding everything from the Golden Gate to the bottom of the peninsula, from the bay to the open sea. Buildings swayed then toppled to the ground. Whole facades shattered. Brick and stone teetered on the ends of bared beams and plunged into the streets. Collapsing walls hammered and crushed people rushing for open space, as if the hand of a great demon had arbitrarily decided to mangle them into lifeless matter, to smash them to nothing. Backwards, forwards, sideways the earth shook. Buildings wobbled crazily. Explosions blew through the streets. As if great ocean swells were rolling beneath San Francisco, the surface of the Earth bucked and twisted her broad back: streets and walkways rippled, buckling concrete slabs as though mere crusts of bread.

Before realizing it, Leo was flat on his back in the middle of the roadway, the pavement pulsating beneath him: a great fiend trapped beneath the surface and straining to burst from the bowels of the earth. Looking around wildly he saw buildings shuddering, reeling, and twisting on their trembling foundations.

Inside buildings all over the city, beds, chairs, sofas, pianos, book cases danced demonically through rooms, slammed into walls; pottery flew out of closets and smashed onto waving floors. Windows burst. Bricks, mortar, stone, and glass showered and boomed on the trembling ground. Chimneys lurched and crashed through roofs, tumbling upon people still in their beds. Structures cracked, crushed, and collapsed upon themselves, their lower floors disappearing into the turbulent earth. Dust and debris blew into the predawn air: explosion clouds raining shards of glass, blades of timber, and chunks of plaster. People screamed from their windows and ran terror-stricken into the streets and yards around their crumbling homes, many not escaping the chimneys and facades that crushed and buried them. Walls pealed off edifices, laying rooms bare like dollhouses. Stairways crumpled under people's feet; wood and stone fell upon their heads, smashing some beneath massive structural weight.

Leo looked up and saw through great clouds of dust a house rocking and swaying on its foundation. At every pitch nails creaked, painted woodwork snapped, and lumber groaned. A din arose from the house that pierced his ears to the brain and charged his heart with terror. Buildings on both sides of him were also waving, wobbling, and cracking on their foundations. Bricks fell from roofs around him. Buildings tumbled; others split open and fell to the sidewalks or bashed into their basements. More facades slid crashing to the ground with resounding bomblasts. Crash upon crash rent the air and filled the street with clouds of dust that mushroomed high into the sky to dim the coming dawn.

Leo's stomach was pushing into his throat, and he felt deep in his gut an agonizing terror. Nausea. Sweat. He looked into the barely lightening sky as if to find in heaven the reason for such torment. The end of the world? He had never been a religious man but knew the mythology and now wondered if the Book of Revelation were actually coming true.

His strange imaginings were shattered, when more people tumbled out of their rooms onto the sidewalks, where bricks and mortar instantly buried them as soon as they hit the street. Screeching cries tore through the explosions of falling stone. More people ran screaming into the street, some of them immediately entombed like those fallen from their rooms. Wailing horses clattered here & there through the tumbling ruins, many disappearing into the dust. The violent shaking seemed never to end. Pandemonium was rampant.

Leo turned over onto his hands and knees. Filled with horror at the dead and dying as much as fear for his own life, he vomited onto the roiling street. He felt his guts would come through his mouth, that he would turn inside out like his city. With fluid dripping from his mouth and nose, he rose to his knees and lifted his eyes to capture some air amid the swirling dust. Clenching his hands together like small animals clinging to each other for life, he prayed: "Dear God Almighty!" he shouted, though not hearing his voice in the roaring and booming noise. "Save us! Save...."

The crash of frame buildings, collapsing on more frantic people scrambling into the street, obliterated his words. The agonizing cries of the hurt and dying assaulted his brain. He struggled to awaken outside of his fear and come to his senses but could not escape the terror. Believing he was about to die, he thought of his mother and sister, his family, his friends, Ah Sung, the menagerie, and the wife he would never know. He begged forgiveness for anything he had ever done to anyone or anything on Earth. Staggering to his feet, he took a deep breath, coughing on the dust, and awaited his end.

The tremendous tumult in the earth roared from coastal sea eastward like the apocalyptic horsemen galloping through the sleeping city. The planet had split open for nearly three hundred miles along the great San Andreas rift that ran northwest to southeast through California. Earth had ripped open at nearly 6000 miles per hour. The massive terrestrial shudder rumbled for about a thousand miles from Oregon to Los Angeles and as far inland as central Nevada. The ground cracked and split into fissures. North by northwest of San Francisco a gap in the surface of the globe had opened about twenty feet. That part of the continental United States east of the rift had shifted southward of that part west of it.

As unexpectedly as it had begun, the great quake ended. After suffering what seemed an interminable forty-five seconds of shaking earth, people lined the sidewalks in mass confusion. When they looked around to get their bearings, they saw something else, something that most of them did not at first register as danger, an even greater danger: pale ribbons gracefully rising all over the city.

Panic infused the pandemonium. No one knew what to do, which way to turn. Slight aftershocks jolted more fear into their terror. With each tremor, people rushed to the middle of the streets and stayed there long after the shocks had passed. Some families camped in their backyards, where they made fireplaces by digging holes and surrounding them with bricks and putting tin over the bricks for stovetops, but most people wandered the streets in total bewilderment.

The aftermath stretched for miles around. Ruin lay upon ruin. More than half a century of structural work had come to rest on the breast of the Earth whence it had risen. Bent steel girders clawed the dust-clogged air like the talons of maniacal dragons; huge blocks of sculpted stone lay amid the rubble as if remnants of an ancient age. The still intact faces of gargoyles from building cornices now lay in the rubble, frozen in terror: stupefied witnesses to Judgment Day. Buildings all over town had collapsed and tumbled to the ground. Amid the rubble people, barefooted and night-gowned, ran helter-skelter. Some knelt on sidewalks as if praying. Some simply stared at the sky as if to know from God an explanation for what was happening. God did not reply. But the Devil would.

Across the length and breadth of the city, a huge cloud hung among the housetops in the still dark morning air, but it was not an atmospheric cloud of the sky. It was dust--the heavy dust of brick and mortar and concrete pulverized in the hands of an angry titan. And it was smoke.

Realizing he had survived, Leo shook dirt and debris from his clothes and dizzily spun around to get his bearings. He thought of home. He ran up the streets to his flat. Miraculously his place was intact. Mother! He thought of his family, his friends, Ah Sung. Fearing for them and simultaneously realizing his duty, he turned and climbed Gough Street to overlook the city. What he witnessed nearly felled him like a powerful aftershock: the grand metropolis was in ruins.

The once beautiful city of San Francisco was now the capitol of Chaos. The lower portions of the city, mainly where the buildings had been resting on filled ground, took the worst damage. Much of the region south of Market Street was badly shattered. Hotels had caved in and killed or injured many of the inhabitants. An old, small three-storey hotel, the first storey had partly sunk into the earth, while the second and third had fallen into the street. The five-storey Brunswick Hotel with its three hundred rooms, all reportedly occupied, had collapsed. Part of the Cosmopolitan House had come down with the first shock. The Royal House caved in and buried some of the lodgers. The four-storey Wilson House with eighty rooms tumbled to the ground in a heap, and few persons survived. The Portland House also collapsed, entombing sixty souls, but many of the residents were saved and taken to the Mechanics Pavilion, a large wooden structure ordinarily used for exhibitions and prizefights. Now a hospital and morgue. The same fate struck most of the lodging-houses south of Market where few occupants escaped. The cries for help of people trapped in these structures resounded for blocks away. Fortunately, men who happened to be close to the scene rescued many of them.

North of Market Street the crowded abodes came through the ordeal in only slightly better condition. The quake badly shattered both the Lick House and the Russ House. It rocked the St. Nicholas Hotel on Market, and when the residents jumped from their beds, they found the floors flooded with water from a roof tank. Tons of brick from an adjoining building crushed the three-storey Luxembourg Hotel, where a man and a woman perished.

In Hayes Valley the earthquake did considerable damage to buildings and chimneys. The tremendous shock badly cracked most of the old structures all the way to the waterfront. Around City Hall, badly shaken, an eerie cloud of dust hung ominously around the building long after the quake, partially obscuring a fragmented dome.

From his high position on Gough, Leo Brown peered into the cloud around the city building but saw nothing of the familiar landmark. As the dust settled, he glimpsed the United States flag hanging on its pole standing atop the civic pile. Tons of steel had shifted from the original position, and even though the bulk of the structure lay crumbled in the street below, the skeleton of the building was still standing. When wind blew the dust away to reveal the entire building, Leo saw what remained of the great dome: a gigantic birdcage silhouetted against the dawnlight.

His eyes slowly scanned the devastated city. He saw crowds of stricken citizens, nearly naked, huddling in the centers of streets. Some crying out in agony, many weeping, some even laughing like lunatics as if the whole event were a macabre game, yet terror contorted their faces, showing their real states of mind. Mothers searched frantically for their children, and children wailed for their missing parents. Grown men howled like babies. No one seemed to know what to do, which way to go, so much did massive destruction, injury, and death surround them. The entire city seemed to have sunk into hell. To make it even worse, aftershocks repeatedly rattled the peninsula. As each one struck, insane panic spread through people like bolts of electricity. Their faces contorted with fear, their eyes bulged with dread of impending death. And bells began tolling from different parts of the city, signaling the advent of another ferocious horror.

The first sign of the new and more terrible trouble was the coming of the dogs. Only a few at first. Then scores of them ambled out of the lowlands of the city. Big and small, purebred and mongrel. Running in a tremendous pack, they headed up the streets to the high ground. They carried their heads down, tongues lolling out of dripping jaws, as they plodded along the way dogs do, relentless to reach what they needed, not knowing where to find it. They looked spent but kept moving. Having come far, they ran slowly, loping as if hunting some exotic plains animal. Without looking back many of them whined and whimpered as they panted steadily up the hills. One filthy, little mongrel stopped beside a piece of wall to rest. He sat there panting. An old man walked over to him and said, "It's all right fella." The dog snarled. He trusted no one. The man let him be.

A skinny cocker with a huge bone in his mouth saw Leo and ran up to him, as if they were old friends. Leo bent down and looked into his big soft eyes. "What you got there, boy?" The dog was obviously hungry but he seemed mostly to want human kindness. He lay down at Leo's feet, put one paw on the bone, and looked into Leo's eyes for a sign of good will. The dog had probably traveled many miles with his treasure and acted as if he had found someone he could trust. Leo slowly reached down and patted the cocker's head. "Where in hell did you come from?" He looked at the other dogs and saw that many of them were carrying bones and bits of garbage.

With whatever they could scavenge they were fleeing the heart of the city, fleeing a terror that all feared. Some of them were likely seeking their masters; others were only heading for a place far away from danger. The dogs knew something most people did not know. And knowing it, they were running instinctively to the heights of the stricken city. They were hurrying to escape something every animal fears. They ran whining and whimpering, panting and salivating up the steep hills to find respite from old and new horrors engulfing the prostrate city.

As if the dogs had shown the way, people too were taking to the hills. Some were dragging trunks, others hauling baggage on their shoulders. A few carried things strange for the streets. One woman was toting an ironing board and a bell. Another was carrying an empty and bottomless parrot cage in one hand and in the other a bundle of linen. Another person walking in a daze was wearing nothing but underwear yet he was carrying his clothes in his hands. Most, though, were bearing beloved pets or small children. Nearly all, conscious of the universal suffering, were helping each other.

Watching these people, Leo again thought of his family. Mother? Instinctively he looked northward toward Russian Hill. "God, please let her be alive!"

He ran down streets, up streets without stopping until he arrived at her house. "Mother! Mother!" He cried and pounded on the door until she answered.

"Leo!" As soon as she opened it she rushed into his arms. "Thank God you're alive! I was so afraid." Her face was pale. Dammed up tears glistened in her eyes.

"You're all right, ma?"

"I'm fine," she whispered. "Shaken up and wobbly but all right."

"And the rest of the family? Have you heard...?"

"Not a word. The lines must be down." He nodded and stared at her afraid to let her out of his sight. "Bobby was on duty downtown this morning," she said. "I'm worried sick. I have to get in touch with Eleanor. And Emily. Molly and Michael too."

"I'll check on them, ma. You stay here and keep alert. There could be more danger."

She stared at him a moment then as if reading his mind she instantly knew to what he was referring. "Oh, God!"

He nodded pathetically. "I'm afraid so. It could be bad too--real bad."

She shook her head. She had seen this before but had never gotten used to it. "The quake did a lot of damage, didn't it?"

He nodded at his shoes.

"Oh, my--oh, my--" She bit her fingertips until they turned white.

"Much of the city is in ruins."

She gasped. "I knew it had to be bad. Such a big one--so long. I thought it would never stop."

"Neither did I. Thought it was the end."

She forced a smile along with an effort to be noble. "We aren't going that easy."

"No." They again embraced and held each other a long time. "Lots of people in big trouble all over the city, ma. Homeless. Many look like they've gone mad."

"I'm not surprised. Probably be settin' up camps in the parks like they did in '89."

"Prob'ly."

They yielded to a brief silence. Leo did not want to leave his mother but knew he had to report for duty. The fire company, the city would need him.

"Well, I gotta go, ma--"

"Yes. I know." She hugged him again. She did not want to release him.

Leo kissed her forehead and backed away. "I'll let you know what I find out about the family."

She raised both her hands to him. "Be careful, son."

He tossed his hand into the air and headed down the hill. As always she watched him until he was out of sight, but this time despite her strength she put her hand to her heart and let herself privately and quietly weep.

Chapter 5

Hundreds of thousands of people were fleeing the city. Completely surprised, they escaped with scarcely the clothes on their backs. A few lucky ones carried trunks full of whatever possessions they could scrape together. Others pushed wheelbarrows piled with their belongings. Many wore simply the nightclothes they had on when the quake struck. Now that a new disaster was following the other with its unique brand of fury, they had no time to collect anything more than their lives. The disaster favored no one. Rich and poor, young and old, strong and weak, ignominious and famous--all ran for their lives.

Considering the collapsed remains of the supposedly strong buildings that housed the orphans of the city, miraculously few of them died. Roofs tumbled down, furniture splintered, window glass shattered and sprayed everywhere, and panic ran rampant among the children, yet nearly all were saved. The most devastated was the Marcia Kit Orphanage. One hundred-twenty-five children lay in bed at the time of the shock. Chaotic terror flew through the establishment. Mrs. Eileen Spanworth, the superintendent, and her aides raced from room to room, trying to restore order. The superintendent hurriedly tried to communicate with the Board of Directors, but unable to locate them she took the responsibility of removing her wards. After much effort she and her aides got the little ones adequately clothed, herded them out of the collapsing building, and gathered them into a vacant lot.

When young Henry Stark came out wearing only underpants, he started to cry. His fifteen-year-old brother, Oliver, said, "Don't worry, Henry, I'll get your pants." Then without another word or thought, he climbed a water pipe up the side of the building.

One of the children pointed him out to Mrs. Spanworth; she looked up and saw the boy scaling the crumbled structure. "Come down from there, young man!" she shouted. "You'll be...." She withheld the word for fear it would prophecy the boy's doom.

Ignoring her, Oliver reached the third floor and re-entered the condemned structure through a broken window. Kicking blades of glass out of the frame, he jumped into a dark room.

On the ground below, the superintendent, her assistants, and the children forgot to breathe. Frozen they silently watched the window until the boy reappeared with a pair of pants and waved them, a flag of victory. Cheers drowned out sighs, while the superintendent gently but firmly ordered the little hero down from the building. When he hit the ground, everyone smothered him with hugs, as he helped his brother put on his pants. Mrs. Spanworth took the children to the dock and ferried them over to Marin County. Not one suffered injury during the escape.

The night before the quake the great tenor, Enrico Caruso, had sung in Carmen at the opera house. Pleased and contented with his performance he went to bed on the fifth floor of the comfortable Palace Hotel where many other artists were staying. Not a heavy sleeper, when feeling restless he would often get up before dawn and take a walk. This morning he awoke shortly after five o'clock in the morning to follow his habit, but before he could get out of bed he felt as though he were in a ship on the ocean. He might have thought he was dreaming of sailing back to his beloved Italy and for the moment could have enjoyed the fantasy if he had not been starkly awake.

When the motion continued, he got up, went to a window, and looked out over the city. What he saw made his knees buckle and his husky body tremble with terror. Buildings were toppling into the street onto horrified people shrieking into the predawn air. Wishing he was having a nightmare, he tried to keep his footing, while his room rocked. During the many seconds of the temblor, countless thoughts and memories passed through his mind, including his first operatic appearance and his most recent--maybe his last. Realizing the danger, Caruso called for his valet.

The little man rushed into the room. "Do not worry, sir--" he said with surprisingly no quaver in his voice, "it is nothing." He thought a moment. "Perhaps, though, you should quickly put on some clothes and go outside into the open, just in case the hotel falls and smashes us into paste."

At that moment they felt something falling on them and looked up to see ceiling plaster showering down and blanketing the bed, the carpet, and the furniture. "Yes, perhaps we should go--just in case," Caruso said.

The valet grabbed any clothes available and practically threw them at the singer who hastily put them on, while outside masonry continued to fall past the window to the street. Fearing more and more with each heart beat that the building would collapse and crush them, half-dressed they bounded down the stairs and dashed into the street. There the valet said, "Sir, you must remain here where it is relatively safe. I shall go back and get your things."

"No!" Caruso tried to stop him.

The servant was too fast for him as he ran back into the hotel. Inside the disintegrating room, he stuffed the star's things into trunks and dragged them down six flights of stairs to the street. When he had delivered one to safety he went back for another. Each time his employer tried to stop him, but the valet was determined to save as many of the star's personal belongings as he could.

While Caruso stood guard over those goods delivered, a man approached him and said, "Excuse me, sir--I believe those are my trunks." And he promptly tried to drag them away.

"No!" the tenor bellowed in a dominant tone. "Those are mine."

The intruder paid no attention to the great luminary of the operatic stage but persisted in trying to take the luggage.

Caruso spotted an army officer nearby and called to him. "Soldier, I am Enrico Caruso, the artist who sang in the opera CARMEN last night. These are my trunks, but this man wants to take them from me. Would you please make him straight?"

"Why, yes, sir, Mister Caruso, of course." The lieutenant bowed slightly. "I recognize you. Saw your performance. And a very good job of singing you did, sir."

The singer nodded rapidly in impatient appreciation.

"Now then," the soldier said to the interloper, "take your mistaken ideas, leave Mister Caruso's belongings, and be gone with you."

When the stranger protested, the soldier took out his pistol and pointed it at the man, who quickly dropped the baggage and scurried down the street.

"Much thank you, sir," Caruso said. The soldier touched the front of his cap and walked away.

When the valet had saved all the star's traveling possessions, Caruso hugged him, and together they hurried to Union Square. There the tenor spotted some of his singer friends, who rejoiced in their good fortune to have escaped with their lives. "I see you have saved your things, Enrico," one of them said.

"Yes, thanks be to my good and brave valet here." Caruso patted his man on the back.

"Well, I lost everything except the clothes I wear and my voice," the other said. "Thanks God I still have that."

Another one said, "We must find a building that has not fallen and...."

"Buildings are not safe," Caruso said. "No place is safer than this open square. I prefer to stay in a place where there is no danger of San Francisco burying me alive."

Able to go no place else for the time being, they sat down in the square to rest, the tenor's valet looking after the luggage. After a short time Caruso looked up at the windows of the surrounding buildings and saw smoke pouring from them, then fire licking through the smoke. "My God!" He shouted. "The city looks to catch fire."

Hurrying out the square, he and his valet wandered hurriedly around the town, trying to escape the impending peril, but everywhere they turned, people and soldiers hindered them. They looked for a vehicle in which to transport themselves and their luggage to the Ferry Building where they could catch a boat to Oakland but were unsuccessful. Forced to return to the square, Caruso tried to lie down on the bare ground, but his limbs reacted painfully to the hard surface; he was unused to so coarse a bed.

Not giving up the search for transportation, his valet finally found a man with a horse and cart and stopped him in the street. "Can you take us to the ferry?"

The driver looked at the two well-dressed gentlemen. "Sure thing, fellers--for ten dollars American--five fer each of ya."

Ten dollars was an extreme fee, but Caruso did not hesitate to pay it. He and his valet piled the luggage onto the cart and climbed on top. Before they were seated, the driver whipped his horse into action and rolled out of the square.

Along the way to the Ferry Building, they witnessed structures in ruins with flames leaping into the morning sky amid huge clouds of smoke. The driver, in no hurry, apparently found fascinating the horrendous sights of the stricken city. However, Caruso thought them terrifying and was extraordinarily eager to escape the place. "Sir, I would be most grateful if you would move the horse a little more faster."

The driver did not respond but continued gawking, as they plodded down the streets to the waterfront. When they arrived at the Ferry Building, Caruso and his valet hastened to unload their baggage and, among a great crowd with the same purpose, they ran to catch the next boat leaving the afflicted city. When they reached Oakland, they hurriedly boarded a train to New York. Once in that city far from the disaster on the other side of the continent they happily embarked on a ship for Italy and their families. Enrico Caruso, at last safe at home with his wife and boys, never again visited the California city.

Chapter 6

When the quake hit Sacramento, Marianne leaped to the floor of her bedroom, as the bed bounced beneath her, and she struggled for footing. Her legs buckling, her body thrown off balance, she grabbed the bedpost and reached for a chair, a dresser, and then the door. Worried about her parents she tumbled like a drunken person into the hallway and stumbled to their bedroom. At the same moment, her mother lurched from the room and ran into her arms. "Earthquake!" they yelled in unison.

The big house groaned and creaked like an old giant disturbed in his long slumber. The noise of crashing dishes gushed out of the kitchen and dining room. Furniture slid across the floor. A plate escaped a kitchen cabinet intact and rolled errantly into the living room. Outside the rattling windows, trees were shuddering, their new leaves fluttering in predawn light like thousands of nervous hands. A few loud bangs sounded on the roof--bricks dislodged from the chimney.

Marianne took her mother in her arms and scanned the quivering ceiling and walls. Fearing they may be about to die, she grasped her mother, locked onto her eyes, and said, "Papa!"

"I propped pillows around him but...." Sarah ran back into the bedroom, Marianne right behind her.

The old man lay in bed as if in a bobbing boat. He was gaping at the two women, his mind racked with confusion, the quake having so rudely roused him from sleep. "What a shaker!" he shouted with a hint of boyish excitement.

The women sought each other's eyes in the semidarkness and smirked; they would have laughed at his boyishness had fear been less rampant in their minds. The women hurried to his bed, one on each side. All three held hands and stared at each other until the shaking stopped. "Papa--"

"I'm all right, daughter," he looked back & forth between them. "You girls...?"

"We're fine, dear," Sarah said, "but I think the old house has taken a thrashing."

They had just let go of each other's hands when an aftershock rumbled through the building. Immediately they rejoined and watched the walls and listened for things smashing. On a dresser water had sloshed out of a pitcher, soaked the cloth beneath it, and was dripping onto the floor. Jonathan looked at the pitcher then stared at the wall. "The gas!"

Marianne shot a look at him then ran to the door. "In the backyard?"

"On the west side--" he said. "Next to a lilac bush--there's a wrench in the shed." Marianne bounced through the doorway as he spoke and ran down the hall to the staircase.

"Be careful, Marianne!" Sarah cried.

She caromed off the banisters while taking the stairs two by two. The family pictures hung askew on the wall beside her, some fallen and broken on the steps. The dining room floor was littered with bits of glass that had danced into fantastic shapes on the shockwaves. She started to go through the kitchen but halted at the sight of fallen pans and broken dishes. Bolting out the front door, she stumbled down the steps and fell to the ground. Scrambling to her feet, she ran to the side of the house and found the gas valve. Wrench. She spun around and spotted the shed. Dashing to it, she grabbed the tool and ran back to the valve. Studying the assembly of pipes and meters a moment, she whimpered in frustration but quickly found the main inlet valve and cranked it closed. Breathing relief, she dropped the tool and ran around the structure. The big quake had ceased, but aftershocks were trailing it, reluctant to abandon the fury. She scanned the windows and the walls and the roof to make sure no fires had started in the building. Satisfied that nothing was aflame, she hurried back into the house.

"No fires?" Jonathan said when she entered the bedroom.

"No fires," she said, panting.

"Good girl."

Now Marianne was preoccupied with another more distant but personal concern. Reading her mind, Sarah put her arms around her and drew her to the bedside. "The worst of it could have struck far from the city," her mother said. She could not be convincing, though, and their faces showed it. Marianne glanced out a window to the west. Her mother saw her daughter's anxiety. "Let me take you into town where we can get some news," Sarah said. "We're so isolated out here."

Marianne looked at her father. "Papa--?"

"I'll be fine, daughter. Go and see what happened."

The automobile bounced so roughly down the road that the women did not feel the aftershocks. And they stared straight ahead without uttering a word. On the edge of town, they saw some men talking in a group by the road. When Sarah pulled over to the side, the men eyed her with more concern than surprise.

"You men hear anything from San Francisco?" Sarah shouted to them.

One burly fellow stepped to the car, looked it over, nodded, looked the women over too, and spoke in a deep voice. "Destroyed, mebbe."

Marianne stifled a scream. Sarah looked at her, then at the man. "How do you know that?" she said.

The man, noticing the women's reactions, said, "Only rumors so far, ma'm. Lines are down. Can't get word in ner out."

The women looked at each other and knew what they had to do. Without another word Sarah wheeled the car around and headed back to the house. The men watched them disappear in billowing dust then resumed their talking and signifying about the supposed magnitude of the disaster and the possible consequences.

"Let's go see if the trains are running," Sarah shouted over the noise of the machine.

Marianne nodded but only stared straight ahead, afraid to speak lest she burst into tears. Without expecting an answer, Sarah swung toward the station, the weight of the jalopy lifting slightly over two wheels.

When they got to the station, Marianne jumped into a cloud of dust and ran to the ticket booth. A crowd was milling around the building and the loading platform. She had to push her way through. Breathless she said to the stationmaster, "When's the next train to San Francisco?"

The beleaguered man looked over his glasses at her, ready to growl his practiced answer. Either finding her invitingly comely or being sensitive to her anxiety, he softened. "'Fraid I don't know, ma'm. Tracks damaged down the way--and the lines are out. No trains until further notice, I 'magine."

"Further notice!"

"Maybe later this morning."

"Later? How much later?"

"'Fore noon, I hope."

"I see--"

"Come back in a couple of hours. I think we'll be seeing a train 'fore too long. We're working as hard and fast as we can to get 'em runnin' again. Many people on the move, ya know. You come back in a couple of hours, young lady. Maybe you'll be lucky."

"I'll be back in one hour. Can I buy a ticket now?"

"Sure thing."

With her ticket in hand, she ran back to the car and told her mother about the situation. Sarah raced the automobile back to the house. Again, they said not a word. When they arrived, Marianne hurried to the door but stopped short. "You'd better not say anything to papa for now about the lines being down, mama. It could strain his heart."

"Of course, dear. I'll tell him you were simply worried about Thomas and the baby. He'll understand."

Marianne threw her things together and went to her father's room. After stopping at the door to compose herself, she stepped in with the best imitation of a smile she could muster.

"I know you've got to go home, Marianne," he said as soon as she entered the room. "Don't fret about me. Look after your family."

"You're family too, papa."

"That's why I want you to go. You may be needed more with your husband and child."

She took his hands in hers. "I don't think I could bear it if something happened to any of you."

He caressed her hair and looked at Sarah standing in the doorway. Raising his head he kissed Marianne's forehead. "Go now, daughter--go to your home and see about your loved ones there. We'll be fine here."

She looked long into his friendly gray eyes and said, "Oh, papa--I'm so scared."

"Now, now dear--you must be brave. With luck and God's help, you'll rejoin your little family."

She tried to smile through her tears then rose, embraced her mother, and went downstairs. Sarah and Jonathan connected through their eyes as they had so long by habit. "I won't be long," she said.

"Go," he said in a firm but gentle way.

Sarah followed her daughter back out to the car. Jonathan listened to the machine grind out of audible range. Alone in his room he thought about the terrifying spirit that had shaken the earth. Having lived in California all his life, he knew quakes. He knew the shock, the terror, and the damage they could cause. He knew how quickly lives could be extinguished. He knew how buildings could collapse to rubble. How fire could flare up from broken gas lines. He had seen such devastation level whole parts of towns. He knew the disastrous possibilities for people living in the state. He knew all this and he prayed without words that the disaster had spared people, that his son-in-law and his grandson had survived. He looked out the window at the April dawn spreading lovely over the land, enlightening the trees in the yard, enlivening the birds to song. That dawning day on his grounds belied any evidence of calamity a hundred miles to the west, invisible but starkly imaginable. He sought in his mind to see the city on the bay quietly awakening to a new day and his beloved daughter rejoining her husband and their child. He sought that image with all the power of his mind but could not keep it there no matter how he tried.

When the women rolled back into the station, they were dejected to see no train. Stopping the vehicle in view of the platform and the tracks to the west, they prepared to wait and wish for the sound of a whistle with all the force of their wills. Neither of them dared to look at each other with the slightest expression of despair. "It'll be here soon, dear," Sarah said. "Just wait and see."

Marianne smiled obligatorily but saw through her mother's forced confidence. "How ironic. I never want to leave you when I come visiting. Now that I have to leave, I can't go."

"I know how worried you are, Marianne, but the train will come, and you'll be on it going home soon." That was too much for the young woman. She started weeping. Her mother curled her arm around her and held her close. In the automobile they sat quietly facing west and waiting the way the faithful watch for the return of loved ones. They sat like that for an hour or more, afraid to speak or to move.

Before it registered with them, a distant sound came through the tree like a musical tone. When it went silent, Marianne sat upright and listened. Then she heard it again and knew it was the train. Embracing her mother, she wanted to scream her mixed feelings of fear and joy. "I hear it, mother! The train! Do you hear it?"

"Yes, I knew it."

As the whistle grew louder, it sounded to the women more like a crescendo of music. When they saw steam rising above trees beyond the station, they leaped out of the car and ran to the platform. Spotting the locomotive, they wanted to cheer it as they had when as children they first saw the great iron horse chugging into town.

When the train rolled into the station and steamed to a stop, scores of people crowded to get in and out of the cars--many escaping the disaster zone, others trying to get into the midst of it to find friends and family. The rumor of disaster spread among them like a plague. Some were weeping uncontrollably, others wailing with anguish at the thought of the horrors that might have struck those they knew and loved. Anyone observing the scene from outside of the quake area could have thought the chaos of war had erupted in the state.

Marianne pushed with her mother in silence among the roiling throng before boarding the train. Sarah looped her arms with her daughter's and too said nothing, her presence encouraging enough to the young woman.

When the conductor cried for all travelers to board the train, Marianne looked into her mother's eyes, seeking something beyond the reassurance she had always found there. Sarah smiled with a countenance as calm as the spring morning around them even though inwardly she was on the verge of falling apart. "We must have faith, Marianne. That's what binds us in times like these." With that, she held her daughter close and kissed her forehead as if in blessing, oblivious of the panic swirling around them.

Marianne forced a smile in reflection of her mother's struggle to be strong. "Wish me well, mama."

"With all my being."

Marianne stepped onto the train and before entering a car glanced back at her mother once with the look of an anxious child. Sarah waved to her when she saw her at a window and stood watching until the train left the station and a huge cloud of steam drifted between their eyes before dissolving into the clear blue sky. Only then did her eyes show the abiding anxiety she had been concealing for hours.

On the train, bleak and despairing conversations around Marianne assaulted her. Passengers speculated on the disaster and proclaimed their knowledge, however incomplete, of the event and its consequences. People bemoaned their fate and the futility of finding anyone alive in the stricken city. She wanted to hold her ears, to scream at them to quit their caterwauling, to sit in silent prayer, to hope, to believe that all was well back home in San Francisco.

The return was interminable. The train no longer a soothing transport but a stubborn iron mule cautious of the path before it. At each bend in the track, Marianne strained to see a glimpse of the city. When she did sight a great dark cloud in the distance, she talked herself into believing it was only heavy fog. However, when she arrived in Oakland and saw in panorama the broken and burning city across the bay, clouds of smoke rising out of it like an evil jinn, flames stretching to the invisible sky, the vision paralyzed her. Tragically, the man on the road, the one she and her mother had spoken to in Sacramento, had guessed right. The city was in ruins.

Chapter 7

The quake had severed all public telephone and telegraph communications across the peninsula. For the first time in her history the golden city was completely without communications. Realizing the havoc that could occur if such a condition continued, Hank Reech, wire chief of the Western Union Telegraph Company, immediately took action. After finding no instrument that responded to his efforts that morning, he checked the wires that extended from the end of a pier on the east side of the bay to various stations leading out of the state but he found them dead. Greater than the huge monetary loss to the company because of such an interruption in service was the calamity of the city cut off from the world.

Along the entire pier the wire chief climbed poles at intervals and tested the lines to find the break. Eventually on the shore at West Oakland near a place called Land's End, he ascended the last pole. After trying each wire separately and coming close to the last one, he finally found the severed point and detected a response from Sacramento.

While perching precariously on the thirty-foot pole, Reech sent the capital city the first story by wire of the disaster. Then by relays in quick succession, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Denver, and other cities across the United States heard of the catastrophe that had crushed the western metropolis. For eighteen hours Reech held onto the pole and struggled to straighten out the wires that the chaotic lurching of the temblor had entangled. From his perch the wire chief called upon the neighboring towns and cities to rush to the wrecked area all the telegraph instruments they could spare.

Needing some kind of center of operations, Reech found a cottage near the water and persuaded the woman who lived there to allow him to place communications equipment in her parlor. Eventually the place soon became too small for expanding operations, so the company occupied a dining room in an old hotel nearby. There Western Union took on business three times that of normal.

Postal communication also fared badly. In the office at Seventh and Mission Streets, walls fell into the middle of the rooms. In the main corridors marble split and cracked; mosaics shattered and plunged rattling to the floor. Chandeliers, rent and twisted by falling arches and ceilings, smashed into rubble. With such damage and continuing danger, mail delivery stopped indefinitely.

Even in the silent fields of the dead, monuments toppled over crazily in different directions. The midsections of some cemetery memorials moved one way, while their capstones moved another. Down a gravel road the statue of a city dignitary was moved forward about six inches at a right angle to the base. The dignified figure appeared to have taken a step forward and about to topple over if it lifted another marble foot. One monument that had shattered into a thousand pieces lay in a bed of flowers. A cow grazing near the graveyard appeared placidly oblivious of the violent events.

The titanic quake had razed most San Francisco structures, including those at the cultural centers. At the Memorial Museum in Golden Gate Park, bombs of bricks blew through skylights. Egyptian mummies, having survived thousands of years, finally disintegrated to dust. Ancient Chinese vases broke into irreparable bits. Priceless statuary fell and shattered.

When the dome of the California Theater and Hotel collapsed, it crashed thunderously through a fire station downtown. Nearly all hands were in bed. The roof and the second and third floors smashed through to the cellar. On the third floor slept Fire Chief David Flanagan and his wife. He was thrown from his bed and smashed against a radiator. A pipe snapped, and steam cooked his body. Everybody else rushed for the stairs; one man jumped into a coal chute. Only when the crash of the building subsided could people start frantically digging desperately for Mr. and Mrs. Flanagan.

The steam from the broken radiator was spurting all over the chief, yet he somehow managed to free himself and walk out of the rubble. Two men assisted him into the St. George Stables and drove him to a hospital at 14th and Mission Streets. Soon afterwards they carried Mrs. Flanagan into the California Hotel, where a doctor attended her. She was all right, but not the chief. His right hip was badly lacerated and his body was covered with bruises and scrapes. He had a slight fracture of the skull and several broken ribs, and one of them had punctured a lung. Steam and scalding water from the radiator, though, had caused dreadful burns. At the U.S. Army General Hospital in the Presidio, Fire Chief Flanagan suffered miserably four days before he mercifully died.

The chief was not the only firefighter killed in the quake. In a station on Howard Street, Fireman Frank O'Leary had risen early to draw water for the horses. To his shock, the entire brick wall of the adjacent four-storey American Hotel crashed through the station roof, squashing him and the horses to death.

In contrast to the rough and ready servants of the city, some of the most vulnerable people were helpless against the temblor. At the Receiving Hospital of the City Hall building on the morning of the quake resided several mentally ill patients. When the Hall began to rock and the walls began to break down, those poor people already stricken with irrational fear during normal times now shrieked with a rational terror that they were being sent to hell. "Save us!" they screamed. "Save us from the hands of Satan!"

Hearing their frightful cries, police Patrolman Edward Fast ploughed through the wreckage with his bare hands to rescue the poor souls. When he reached them, they were too disoriented and terrified to see him as anyone other than a fiend in a blue suit come to take them to perdition. Managing to calm them with quiet reassuring words, thought, the officer helped them escape the collapsing building without serious harm and took them to the Mechanics Pavilion.

Chapter 8

In the Valencia Hotel on the evening of the day Marianne left for Sacramento, Thomas Durand had put the baby into his crib and pulled it close to his bed. He kissed his child as he always did and lay down to read. "Sleep well, Tommy, my boy."

He delighted in his wife's scent arising from the pillows. Looking out a window to the east, he thought of how happy she must be in her childhood home. He was fond of her parents and considered them as his own, since his father had died, and his mother had remarried and gone to live with her new husband in Boston. He had never gotten close to his stepfather which, combined with three thousand miles, kept him away from his mother. So the Bradys had become satisfying surrogates.

Missing his best friend and lover on the bed next to him for the first time since their marriage, Thomas immersed himself in Mark Twain's ROUGHING IT. Nothing like good humorous journalism to soothe a longing heart. Following the author's early days in San Francisco Thomas read until sure the baby was sleeping peacefully before letting slumber overtake him. He closed his eyes with a wish that time would blink past until Marianne returned. While sleeping he naturally dreamed of her, but it became a very disturbing dream, not one at all conducive to a restful night.

At Ocean Beach she was lying on the sand with him and the baby. Without warning she picked up the infant and ran into the waves. "Come back!" he heard himself shout. "The baby! You can't take him into the sea. Don't--!" The baby was laughing in her arms; even though, high surf was splashing over them. "Get out of the water, Marianne!" he screamed, "Too dangerous. The baby! You will drown!"

She simply turned and stared at him as if she were in another world and saw him as an alien being. Thomas tried to run to her, but she disappeared into a crashing comer. The baby flew into the air and tumbled slowly over and over above the water. Thomas ran into the surf and snatched his son before he went under, but could not find his wife in the turbulence. The breakers boomed, the wind roared into a hurricane, and the wild ocean tossed him like meaningless flotsam. As if fractured, the sky suddenly broke into pieces and fell around him in white shards.

Thomas opened his eyes to see the ceiling of his bedroom falling upon him, to feel his bed bouncing beneath him. Earthquake! Instinctively he threw himself onto the baby's crib. As the hotel shuddered and shook to its unstable foundation, he clung to the little bed. He had no more time to protect himself, no time to think. In moments, plaster covered him, bits of paint and dust burned his eyes, choking him. Quickly he stretched the baby's blanket over the crib and spread his own body on it to shelter the child from the falling debris. He struggled to collect his wits, to ensure their survival: the child first and himself if possible. The boy his primary concern, he felt a force surge inside of him, energy to hold up the entire hotel if necessary to save his son. In the midst of flickering hope that they could survive, the entire building moved. Swayed, shuddered, and fell into the earth. Thousands of bricks snapped the rafters like twigs. Wanting to scream, Thomas held his breath in a foolish effort to keep from scaring the child. The roof caved in and the walls fell on him, as the entire floor descended with them to the ground. Rock hard plaster and mortar and splintered wood dropped on Thomas, snapping his backbone, crushing his skull, and forcing the last hopeless exhalation of breath from his seared lungs.

When he opened his eyes he saw the wide ocean lying utterly calm before him, and he took flight toward the setting sun. He looked around to find his wife and child but did not see them. Undaunted he raised his eyes to the bright horizon and flew into oblivion, hoping, believing he would find them safe there beyond the end of the world.

The hotel, built on a filled-in swamp known as Lake McCoppin, had sunk into the soft ground as if the entire building were being interred. Scores of people died when that structure collapsed: some crushed, some drowned after a water main broke and inundated them; only a blessed few would miraculously survive.

Hundreds of people similarly died in or around buildings. During the quake the ground liquefied beneath many structures south of Market Street, buildings such as the Valencia Hotel; many caved in or tumbled over at nearly the same time. Tragic exemplars of the proverbial houses built on sand. Landfill had expanded the urban area into the bay for years. The fill had been pushed into the water from the Ferry Building up Market Street to Montgomery Street then spread laterally north and south. Now these hapless people suffered the tragic consequence of such human folly. Unwarned of the quake and caught sleeping, most people had little or no time to climb out of the wreckage before the second curse, greater than the first, attacked them in the jumbled tinderboxes of their homes.

The shuddering Earth had annihilated hundreds of people without consideration of person or position, but many of them in the tenements south of Market Street. And China Basin had become a wasteland. Thousands of people fled from there, as did others elsewhere, with nothing but what they were wearing. All decorum was abandoned. Many looked as wretched as rats driven out of their holes. Some went out of their minds. No matter how miserable or fortunate these people were they had to face with few resources the worst calamity of their lives.

Only the modern tall steel frame buildings in the city withstood the Earth's violent mood. They swayed precariously during the near minute that the ground shook but stood the test of the quake. But few buildings assembled with solid brick and cement endured the catastrophe without serious damage. Many of the buildings were made of poorly bonded work, some without even a pretense of bonding. Too many architects had applied to numerous large buildings a trendy style that consisted of a veneer of dressed stone backed by a wall of brick or concrete. Instead of being thoroughly bound together, the two often ran up a building the height of a storey or more, unfastened. Thus, when the quake hit, they fell perilously into the streets. Worse, some contractors had swindled the city by laying foundations with mud made to look like cement. Such deadly fraud was now painfully evident in many streets. Death traps waiting for victims. Eventually their ghosts would haunt some of the corrupt city officials caught in lawsuits over such shoddy construction around the time of the disaster. Many people died in terrible ways but not all so ignobly.

Before dawn on the morning of the quake, Big Bobby McCarthy was walking his beat on Mason Street. When he drew opposite the Essex Lodging House, a seven-storey brick building, he stopped and stood thinking about getting off duty soon and going home to have breakfast with Eleanor. They had unfortunately had a tiff the day before and he was eager to go back to her and make amends. While considering how he would make up with his wife in his uniquely affectionate way, he heard the roar and felt the ground shake. Looking down he marveled to see ripples passing beneath the sidewalk and the street. Hearing loud cracking sounds, he looked up and saw the front wall of the Essex House hotel lurching forward. At the same moment, he saw a woman run out of the building to the sidewalk. "Look out!" he shouted to her and pointed at the swaying structure.

She stood still right in front of the building and stared at him. Seeing her in frozen terror, he rushed to her. At the moment he pushed her out of danger, the whole front of the hotel tumbled onto the sidewalk. The woman ran back inside the building and escaped the avalanche; she was unhurt. But the caving wall fell on Bobby, burying him beneath tons of brick. At the same time, a girl in an apartment five stories above the street panicked and jumped out a window. She fell on top of the pile that had buried McCarthy and she lay splayed on the bricks, blood oozing from her ears, nose, and mouth.

When the forty-seven seconds of earth-shuddering occurred, hundreds of trapped people died in collapsing buildings all over town. Many of the buildings, especially the tenements and hotels south of Market Street, were not only standing on unstable ground but were also fire traps, so if they ignited, people inside could not be rescued but would be cremated within their own homes.

In one such hotel, Thomas G. Durand, Jr. lay under his father's cadaver. The baby was crying, and his wail carried throughout the area. On the street people who might have stopped to listen in their headlong flight of terror would have heard the unmistakable, undeniable, gut-wrenching scream of an infant in extreme distress. Yet no one stopped, for no one heard, no one listened. Mayhem prevented them from seeing or hearing anything but the blinding, deafening flash through their minds of unbridled panic. When smoke arose from the city ruins, and flames began to taste the jagged lumber of the collapsed buildings, their panic born of chaos became full blown. The baby continued crying, but not a single person in the street immediately responded.

Chapter 9

At dawn a messenger dashed into Fort Mason with orders from Brigadier General Theodore Huston to send all available men to Mayor Schwartz at the Hall of Justice. The general first rushed army troops to the mayor; soon the companies of the coast artillery, soldiers of the cavalry, and batteries of the field artillery started patrolling downtown. Seventy-five soldiers took positions in the Financial District, and another seventy-five held posts along Market from Third Street to City Hall.

Later, fifty citizens met to advise and assist the Mayor, Chief of Police Edgar Thornton, and a few United States military authorities. Because of the ruin of City Hall, the civic leaders had to meet in the basement of the Hall of Justice. While the conference was going on, cornices were crashing down and windows were falling in fragments around them. Soon they would have to leave the building, as before long explosions would blow up the structure in a vain attempt to stop fires flaring up in the northern section of downtown.

The citizens at the conference were dreadfully aware of the danger of fire, the city having burned so many times, so they decided that to prevent a colossal conflagration all citizens must use means other than gas and electricity for lighting and heat. Chief Thornton directed his men to announce in every quarter of the city that in case of defective chimneys people light no fires in stoves or grates anywhere within buildings.

To make things worse, a few unscrupulous people were compounding the misfortunes of others. When a councilman at the conference told the mayor that hustlers were charging $30 a load to haul goods and that such a rate was prohibitive to the poor, the announcement provoked great indignation. "Tell your men," the mayor said to Chief Thornton, "to seize the wagons of all such extortionists and use them for the public good. The question of recompense will be answered later." To accommodate refugees the mayor then directed 2,400 tents be erected in Jefferson Square, Golden Gate Park, and the Presidio.

That morning General Huston also conferred with Mayor Schwartz. After placing his troops at the mayor's disposal, from that time until conditions in the city became as near normal as possible, the soldiers were to work with the police to preserve order and distribute provisions to the destitute and the homeless. A substantial military and police presence was necessary throughout the city, because violence erupted more often than usual during the calamity and confusion.

One notorious incident involved an officious young man named Stephen Bennett. He had come from a respected family, his father being Colonel Edward Bennett, lately a pre-eminent businessman. Young Bennett was a graduate of the State University, a retired officer of the National Guard, and a civil engineer. Immediately after the earthquake, he put on his uniform and joined the soldiers detailed at the waterfront.

On the afternoon after the quake, Howard Fredrickson of the San Francisco Chronicle and Melvin Burroughs, a well-known businessman, noticed some soldiers on Battery Street acting drunk. Indignant they hastened to the military headquarters and reported their observations to Bennett, who returned with them to the scene. When the trio arrived, they found the soldiers gone but observed a different man carrying chickens down the street. Suspecting the man of having stolen the birds, Bennett spotted a sentinel in a naval uniform and shouted, "Sailor!"

"Yes, sir." The navy man turned and started to run to the officer.

"See that man with those chickens?" The sailor stopped and looked. "Tell him to drop those birds and go help people save the city."

The sailor did so, but the man ignored him and continued walking away with his plunder.

Outraged Bennett said, "Make the point with your bayonet, sailor!"

The sailor raised his long knife at the man. The stranger dropped the chickens but attacked him, wresting the rifle from his hands. Then he gathered up the chickens and continued his departure, now with birds and rifle.

"You rotten thief!" Bennett shouted. "Stop!" The man did not stop, so Bennett fired several shots into the man. The stranger staggered then fell to the street--dead.

Bennett was surprised when the police arrested him for murder. "I saw the man with the chickens and believed he had stolen them. So I ordered the sentry to take them away from him. After he did so, the man stole his rifle and turned toward me. Convinced he was about to shoot me, I shot him in self-defense." Bennett obviously felt it necessary to embellish his story. He seemed to think, as did many other people, that martial law prevailed, and so he believed he was under orders to kill anyone caught stealing. Despite his claim to this common belief, a state of martial law never existed during the entire disaster.

That night one of the officers of Bennett's unit ordered two soldiers to tie some pieces of iron to the body of the unknown man and throw it into the bay. Since the stranger's body was not recovered, the city attorney had no body as evidence and could only charge Bennett with the alleged murder of John Doe. Bennett retained Burt Cash, right-hand-man to the mayor, to defend him.

After hearing the evidence, Judge Louis Grofton dismissed the charge against the defendant. But many people believed the court should have punished Bennett, so the police again arrested him. After listening to the evidence, one Judge Carl Strait saw the case differently and held the defendant to answer before the Superior Court. But the jury found Bennett not guilty and set him free. The chickens ended up in a food distribution center. No one ever discovered either the identity or the body of the tragically stubborn man.

Rumors spread that such shootings by soldiers and police were rampant, but military authorities denied killing any thieves. This despite the reports that reached the mayor's makeshift headquarters in the Hall of Justice that thieves were plundering wrecked stores and deserted homes and that men were breaking into saloons and helping themselves to liquor. In the Mission district, someone, maybe a thief, apparently desecrated the body of a dead woman, leaving her corpse without a finger. Evidently the brigand had cut it off for a valuable ring.

Although the mayor had not established martial law, any person suspected of stealing was in danger of instant execution. In fact, immediately after the earthquake Mayor Schwartz ordered looters to be shot. Because the jails were unsafe, the mayor ordered all petty offenders released and the more serious ones sent to San Quentin State Prison across the bay in Marin County. Since the police were busy conveying the wounded to the temporary hospitals they had neither time to arrest thieves nor places to jail them. Therefore, the mayor issued what he called a 'law of necessity':

As it has come to my attention that thieves

are taking advantage of the present deplorable

conditions and are plying their nefarious

vocations among the ruins in our city, all peace

officers are ordered to kill instantly any one

caught looting or committing any other serious

crimes. Let it be reported that three men have

already been shot down without mercy for

looting. Let it also be understood that I have

ordered all soldiers and policemen not to hesitate

to do likewise to anyone who takes advantage of

this terrible misfortune.

The uniformed officials to whom the mayor turned for assistance acquiesced to his 'law'. Police Chief Thornton saw to the posting of printed proclamations of the order and distributed throughout the city. However, besides the alleged chicken thief, reportedly only one looter was shot. According to Police Captain William King, a crowd caught this unlucky looter at Shreve & Co. jewelers at Post and Grant Streets and turned him over to a soldier. The soldier promptly shot him in the chest and left his body in the street to burn.

Others needed no proclamations or law to take matters into their own hands. Not long after the quake, Hubert Huntington, a member of the California National Guard, was stationed at Cedar Avenue and Post Street, when Tom Riley, a grisly, drunk veteran of the Philippine war, accosted him. "Who in hell do you think you are, standing there lookin' so high and mighty?" Riley asked belligerently, apparently disapproving of the man in uniform. "Why, you ain't nothing' but a tin soldier!"

Huntington, obviously displeased by the remark, without warning flew at Riley and slammed his rifle into the drunk's chest. Riley grabbed the weapon and wrenched it out of the guardsman's hands. Spotting his cohort in trouble, another nearby guardsman, Richard Rush, raised his bayonet and attacked Riley. However, the tough veteran grabbed his rifle too and tried to yank it out of his hands. Rush panicked and fired point blank into Riley's chest. The veteran soldier tumbled backwards a few wobbly steps, stared at them in disbelief, then fell. He died before he hit the pavement.

Rush claimed he had been justified in approaching Riley with his bayonet drawn, because a fellow soldier was in trouble; and he swore that he had fired in self-defense, because Riley was trying to disarm a soldier on duty. The case was dismissed.

Even though police had established protective service around the city, several men organized a 'Citizen Patrol' of watchmen, armed with pistols and rifles. These men had no authority to act as police, and their self-importance inflated an already highly dangerous condition. Robert Merriman, a popular merchant, known for his amiable personality, was one of their hapless victims.

After the great catastrophe, Mr. Merriman was among the first citizens to volunteer for the Red Cross Society. Night and day he drove his large automobile, carrying the sick and injured to places of shelter from the storm. One evening he left work to visit his own family in San Mateo, a few miles south of San Francisco. After leaving his family, he and his companion, Acting Lieutenant Martin White, were driving up Guerrero Street in the Mission District south of Market. Under a large Red Cross flag flying from the automobile, they reached 24th Street about midnight.

A man in civilian clothes shouted at them to halt, but when he observed the flag, he permitted the car to pass. Farther up the road at 22nd Street, another person in a group of men called out to Merriman: "Halt! Stop! Stop there!" Merriman, believing that they would see his flag as had the other one, did not heed the command and continued on his way.

From the corner the men immediately began firing their revolvers at the vehicle. White responded by emptying his own revolver at them but took a slug in his arm. Glancing at Merriman, he saw him slump onto the steering wheel. The car swerved and slammed into the curb, jolting to a stop. "Jesus Christ!" he cried, as the men on the corner ran to the car. "He's dead!" White screamed at them. "You've killed him, you stupid swine!" The three men defended their actions as members of the Citizen Patrol. However, neither Lieutenant White nor the police saw it that way. They arrested Edgar Handy, Michael Mortimer, and Bernie Tangle and charged them with murder.

When their trial began, Mayor Schwartz testified that he had issued an order for only official guardians of the peace to kill thieves or persons committing any serious crime. Handy testified that the Citizen Patrol had detailed him at the corner of 22nd and Guerrero Streets and ordered him to stop all persons to know the nature of their business. He also stated that he was under the impression that the mayor had declared martial law. "At about midnight," he stated, "Mortimer and Tangle came along on foot. After halting them, I learned that they were fellow guards. At that moment I spied an automobile speeding down Guerrero Street, and I noticed that the driver ignored the command to halt that my fellow guard had given two blocks away. Believing that the two men were in a stolen vehicle, I too shouted for the driver to stop. When he only increased his speed, I fired a shot in the air as they passed. Then the other man in the vehicle started firing at us, so in self-defense I emptied my revolver into the machine. Tangle also fired one shot from his rifle."

Judge Henry Gerble in his instructions to the jury said,

This is an extraordinary case, arising under

extraordinary conditions. As a matter of law

at the time in question, martial law did not prevail.

The state law was supreme and mere proclamations

could not make laws. No soldier or police officer

had any right to stop citizens without legal cause,

and ignorance of the law is no excuse. But the

Penal Code expressly excepts from persons

committing crime, those who commit an act under

a mistake that disproves criminal intent.

entire community believed that martial law

prevailed during the great disaster. Therefore,

if the defendants honestly believed they were

acting under martial law, and the evidence proves

that the mistake removes any criminal intent,

then the defendants were incapable of committing

this alleged crime. The question to be decided is:

Did the defendants honestly believe at the time of

the firing of the shots that the automobile was

stolen and that they were preventing the further

commission of a felony? If so, they were justified

under the law.

The jury deliberated only a few minutes before returning a verdict of not guilty for the three men.

Despite such stupid and reckless acts by a few self-appointed protectors of the city, firefighters and police performed many heroic deeds during those dreadful days following the great quake. Most of them worked day and night with little nourishment and no sleep; at the same time some of them did not even know if the disaster had destroyed their homes, or if their own families had survived.

Officer Stewart Kelly was once such person. After the quake he ran home to find his house flattened. Thinking his entire family dead, he was distraught with grief but managed to stay on the job, helping people find their loved ones and protecting them from looters. A week later he heard his family had escaped across the bay, and he finally found them safe and sound in Vallejo.

Another policeman was not so lucky. On the evening of the day after the tremendous tremor, Officer Thomas Battle was about to enter his home on Hyde Street to save some of his things in the advent of the flames. The fire having burned his uniform, he was wearing civilian clothes. Just as he was stepping up his front stairs, two men burst out of the house through the front door. He demanded of the men to know what they were doing there, when one of the men slammed his fist into Battle's face, knocking him to the floor. He then kicked Battle's head, splitting his ear. Blood streaming down the side of his face, the officer pulled out his pistol and shot the man in the heart. He tumbled down the steps and sprawled onto the sidewalk then rolled over onto his back, blood bubbling out of his chest. He twitched for a second then lay stone dead. The other intruder escaped, his identity never to be known.

Besides issuing the order against looting, Mayor Schwartz made other proclamations to protect the people. On the night after the earthquake, the town was eerily dark; but because of further fire danger, city officials allowed no flamelights inside of buildings. However, realizing the people's needs, the mayor clarified the order by allowing lights in houses between sunset and 10 PM. But because chimneys were often damaged by the quake, no fires were permitted in houses. Because of this prohibition, most people moved their kitchen stoves to their backyards or into the streets, where they cooked their meals for many days. Others refused to obey the order.

As a result of numerous chaotic incidents, Major General Gerald Harding of the United States Army, General Franklin Waite of the National Guard, and Mayor Schwartz held further meetings in the Hall of Justice and decided that to maintain order both military and police would patrol the city. Eventually the police took complete control of the situation, and the army took charge of distributing all food and clothing shipped to the beleaguered citizens of San Francisco.

Chapter 10

As Marianne Durand stepped onto the ferry in Oakland on the day of the quake, she felt she would suffocate from fear. While the boat slowly plowed the bay water, she could not look away from the horrible sight. What she had left only the day before as a complete city teeming with vibrant people, was now nearly unrecognizable as the civilized settlement she had known. Flames were flashing hundreds of feet skyward, and a towering cumulonimbus of black smoke enshrouded the city. Most familiar buildings were invisible, obscured, or consumed. Only the ferry clock tower, its mechanism stopped at about a quarter past 5, stood untouched in the foreground like a beacon. Still she wondered if it signaled the way home or the path to hell.

As the ferry docked, Marianne's memory of her husband and child waving goodbye swelled in her breast so much she felt it would burst. With all she could imagine she tried to see them standing there waiting for her to come back to them, to where she belonged, but she could not make them materialize. Only hope against fear kept her looking forward, debarking the boat, and heading for home.

At the end of Market Street, she stood and scanned the devastated city. What had been a thronging boulevard was heaped with fallen bricks and stone, the whole scene obscured. Dust covered everything like a veil through which she could see only clouds of smoke billowing around the lashing flames. For a moment she stood there in disbelief that another completely alien place had so radically replaced her familiar world. Shocked, she felt paralyzed, but she knew her duty; she would have to help care for the injured. Many would need her, unbelievably many sick and wounded persons who would be desperate for her help. Before going to the hospital, though, she had to go home. She knew she should report right away to the doctors and help them care for all the people, but at the same time she felt unbreakable cords wrapped around her, drawing her homeward. She could not go fast enough by the fallen buildings and through the burning streets to the Valencia Hotel to know if her family was safe.

When nearly exhausted, she came to the place where the hotel had stood, the hotel that been the supposedly strong and secure abode for her little family as well as for many other people. Once on the site she halted as if a bullet had struck her and stared aghast at the sight of the collapsed building, its hideous remains lying jagged out of a pool of muddy water. At first she cast her eyes around the neighborhood to make certain she was in the right place. This pile of flaming rubble half submerged in a swamp could not be where she lived. Yet any hope she might have conjured to free herself from the inevitable fact she faced quickly disappeared from her heart like the blood from her face. She clasped her hands on the sides of her head and screamed.

Marianne's own heart-wrenching cry awoke her to the undeniable truth of the tragedy, the horror now bitterly personal before her eyes. She ran to the edge of the burning mound of debris to find a sign of her husband and child but even before looking over the remains of the building, she suspected, feared her effort was futile. Nevertheless, she climbed onto the jagged mountain of broken wood amid the fire leaping around the shattered stone and cried out as loud as she could: "Thomas! Tommy! My love! My life! You can't be dead! I won't believe it! I will not!"

Passersby, intent on surviving their own troubles, paused to look at her, knowing her trouble, comprehending her desperation, understanding how she could stand there screaming and braving the flames. They paused out of compassion and respect but then moved on, brethren in sorrow yet too weighed down with their own misery and fear to help another soul as stricken as themselves.

Despite her cry of disbelief at what she saw, Marianne knew something unthinkable had happened to her family. She glimpsed amid the smoke the remnants of their apartment--charred pieces of furniture, parts of the bedding, even baby Tommy's crib--but no sign of her husband or child. Alive? The hopeful image swirled through her mind. Yet how could a tiny baby survive such a crushing blow? She shook her head. Thomas? Maybe her husband had survived. He was resourceful. He had been in tight spots before. He had fought in the Philippine War and escaped certain death. Maybe he had lived through this too. Maybe he had saved himself and the baby and wandered to some shelter until she arrived. Her inherently hopeful nature surged into her mind, blocking out despair. Maybe he had actually saved himself and the baby. But where were they? Hospital! Now her duty as a nurse doubled and tripled and compounded into infinite importance. She felt an impulse to run back to her parents, tell them of the tragic event, disappear into their comforting arms but she had lives to nurse and save, maybe the lives of her own dear husband and child.

Leaping off the fallen timber and stone as the last embers of the fire were crackling on the skeleton of the building, she ran down the street. She tried to speak to every person she saw, to ask if anyone had seen her husband carrying a small child, but most people ignored her. Some looked at her as if she were crazy. Others looked at her with abject sympathy. Terror blanked all eyes. No one had seen her husband or her child. Spotting a man in uniform patrolling the street, she ran to him. "Soldier! Sir! Please--can you help me?"

He stopped, raised his rifle, and looked at her, as if sizing up her mental state. Perceiving her to be stable and no threat, he said, "Ma'm--?"

"I'm looking for my--have you seen--? I've got to go to the hospital. I'm a nurse. Can you help me--get there?"

He looked her over again and decided she was genuine. "Most of the wounded are at the Mechanics Pavilion, ma'm. Too many for the hospitals--the ones still standing." Without another word he stopped an automobile and commanded the driver to take her to the pavilion.

Reluctantly the driver allowed her to get into the car. As he sped down the street, they looked at each other but did not speak. Marianne was too preoccupied. The man too fixed on his own private purpose. Unable to stop near the pavilion because of the people thronging the building, he let her out at the end of the block. She jumped out of the car, started up the street, then thought of something. Turning back to the driver she said, "Thank you. I'm looking for my family." Knowing what she meant, he nodded, and then drove away.

Marianne ran down the sidewalk, dodging debris from fallen buildings. On Market Street she was horrified to see the streetcar tracks twisted and curled into grotesque shapes. Working her way through the jumble, she reached the big building and dashed inside. But stopped cold. The injured, the dying, and the dead filled the pavilion's great ballooning space. Its vaulted ceiling echoed with the groans and cries of the suffering. More than three hundred souls. Scores of doctors and nurses had hurried to the scene and volunteered their desperately needed aid. They had invaded drug stores for medical supplies and ransacked department stores for pillows and mattresses to ease the injured. But it was a fearful scene not readily eased. Broken and bleeding bodies continually filled the operating tables. Mothers entered carrying in their arms infants burned and bleeding, often dead. Persons, caught by falling walls, were monstrously mangled, their broken bones jutting bloody through torn flesh. Pushing her way into the center of the vast room, Nurse Durand scanned the place for the chief surgeon. Seeing a colleague, she ran to her and called out breathlessly, "Dora--"

Dora Trenchon, an imposing woman, turned and with bloodshot eyes smiled upon her fellow nurse. "Oh, Marianne--it's so good to see you--" she said with a trick in her resonant voice. She nearly broke down weeping but fought it back. I--I...."

"I know, Dora--it's horrible. I'm just glad you're all right. Where is Doctor Stillway? I want to find--to help."

Nurse Trenchon scanned the masses that spread across the grand pavilion floor from wall to wall. Her narrow eyes stopped on a figure bent over a cot against one of the walls. Pointing, she said, "There--"

Marianne followed the line of her arm and, seeing the Chief Surgeon, she ran to him. "Doctor Stillway," she shouted with trembling urgency.

Still bending over a patient, he turned his head to look at her. Recognizing his favorite nurse, he stood up and tried to smile, but managed only a strange grin. He stood tall in a gown that had once been a brilliant white but was now smeared with blood.

"Mar--Nurse Durand. I'm so pleased you're here. I was wondering if you were--" he caught himself in the midst of all the morbidity that inundated the pavilion floor.

"I was lucky to get back, but--" She hesitated to tell the doctor of her fears for her family but decided no better confidant could be found. "I went home first--"

He nodded with no expression, expecting her to begin working with him without further fuss, but then he realized where her home had been. He had heard about the sinking of buildings like the Valencia Hotel. His face darkened.

"I don't know where they are." Tears filled her eyes but she swallowed the sobbing.

He put his arm over her shoulder, careful not to touch her with his bloody hand. She wanted to put her head on his chest but held off. Such familiarity had not been customary between them and was inappropriate in their present situation, no matter how much she needed solace.

"We'll find them, Marianne--we'll find them," he said, his eyes disagreeing with his words.

She bowed her head and nodded. Then she drew a deep breath and stood straight before him. "Where would you like me to start?"

He looked into her eyes and recognized the spirit that he had known in her for years. He smiled without the previous rigidity and said, "Right here, nurse. Right here. No one in this place needs our attention more than this young man."

They hovered over the mangled body of a young boy whom a collapsing building had crushed. Despite his destroyed condition, his eyes were stunningly calm and clear as they watched the doctor and nurse with all the hope common to youth. Doctor Stillway examined the boy's wounds, while Nurse Durand put her hand on his dirty forehead and took his pulse with the other. "Don't worry, young fellow," she said, choking back her tears, "we'll take good care of you."

Throughout the pavilion doctors, nurses, and voluntary aides from all walks of life worked feverishly to help the sick, the hurt, and to comfort the dying. The sounds of the suffering arose from the expansive floor as if forlorn wails from a plateau in hell. To work sensibly in such an atmosphere required near superhuman strength. Yet they worked beyond exhaustion to succor the invalids of the great disaster, already the worst any of them had ever known. And they were not yet fully aware of even worse to come.

Chapter 11

The Seventh Circle of Hell

After the earthquake many people thought the crisis was over. Aftershocks rumbled through the wreckage of the city all day--seventeen in all--from the first before daybreak till the last that evening, but none of them approached the magnitude of the big one. Indeed, people in their hopeful way thought the worst of their troubles was behind them, even though the grand agony for San Francisco had only begun.

While Leo Brown was making his way from his mother's house to the fire station after the quake, he looked around and saw people wandering like souls of the damned--aimless, hopeless, confused, condemned. While he scanned the fallen metropolis, his experienced eyes looked to the south of Market Street. As the dawning sun was barely lighting the terrestrial disaster, he saw ribbons of smoke rising out of bright glowing places in the mangled bowels of the fallen city. Only glimmering places at first, hot spots behind broken walls, but they were growing. And he heard a rumor spread through the people like a curse out of Hades, a rumor he had known so many times in his life, a rumor that meant the greatest danger of all.

Fire!

The earthquake had started fires. Many fires. Now that principal power of the universe, not the quaking Earth, threatened to destroy the rest of San Francisco. Immediately following the great temblor, burning sprites found rife areas all over town, and soon flames were spouting from them. Electric wires had ignited some; broken chimney flues and upset stoves and oil lamps had ignited others. More than fifty fires erupted in different locations simultaneously on the morning of the quake.

As soon as firefighters could arrange their apparatus and catch the horses that had run away, fire companies in different parts of the city began to seek out the fires in their respective districts. They were easy to find. The quake had destroyed the whole alarm system, so no warning was ever sounded for one of the greatest disasters ever known to human civilization. Not only that, but communication was dead among the fire companies, making their task all the more daunting. Yet they met the enemy.

Leo knew too well the significance of that ominous glare growing in several distinct places around the city; those incendiary serpents rising from the earth meant impending doom. He saw their tongues hurl out of the rubble and threaten the sky. He heard the frightful crackling that would soon become the deafening roar of a tempest.

Others knew it too. It had happened many times in San Francisco. The people froze in a fearful silence, for they knew what was coming was more terrible even than the quaking earth and the collapsing city. Word of it hissed from their mouths as a warning of war; a rumor that soon swept through the town like wind ahead of a storm: "The city--" a woman screamed. "The city is on fire!"

"We'll all burn to death!" an old man cried.

"It's the end!" another one shrieked. "The end of the world!"

"God--dear God, save us!" a young woman wailed.

Like many others Leo too was sick to his stomach with fear. He knew fire. He had fought fire and had beaten it many times but this time he had little confidence to stop the beast. He guessed the water mains and reservoirs were probably destroyed and when he saw smoke wreathing the remains of buildings downtown, he realized the entire city was vulnerable. In less time than it took him to catch his breath he counted several small burgeoning fires, most of them in the poorer section below Market Street. Even though the fires were localized, he knew how completely the city lay at the mercy of that demon. Before long, great clouds of angry smoke were rising as if from fissures to eternal ruin. Soon the horror flared so brightly in so many places that he could easily see the heart of the city illumined by abysmal light two miles away.

Leo knew his duty and he would go to the station house to join the impending battle, but first he had to see to the rest of his family. He hurried first to his sister's place in Pacific Heights and found her safe. Their house had lost its chimney, a few windows had blown out, and many of their dishes and ornaments had broken. The quake had savagely knocked around Molly and Michael and their children, but they were not seriously hurt. She met him at the door. "Ma--? she asked as soon as she saw him.

"Ma's all right. Have you heard from Aunt Eleanor?" he asked.

"No. And I'm worried about Bobby. He was on duty...."

"I know."

Michael appeared from another room. "That guy's too big and--well, like you said, Leo--he can take care of himself."

Leo glared at him but ignored the comment and continued with his sister, as if her husband were not present. "I'll go down to his station house and see if he's all right."

"Yes," she said, her eyes wide. "I know Aunt Eleanor is probably worried sick." He hugged and kissed her. "Be careful," she said and looked at her husband. Michael said nothing, but his eyes showed his undeniable concern.

Leo nodded then leaped down the steps from the front porch and ran toward the central city. Michael put his arm around his wife as they watched him go. "He'll be all right," he said. Molly looked at him with a feeble smile. She knew her brother might not be all right. Many people in the city were not all right. She shivered. He wrapped his arms around her, and she pressed against his chest.

When Leo arrived at what was left of the police station where his uncle Bobby worked, he stopped to catch his breath before entering. He had to be ready for the worst. He knew that cops like firefighters live precarious lives, so they have to be as prepared as possible to hear bad news at any time. After sucking in a chest full of air, he stepped into the building.

As soon as the sergeant at the desk saw Leo, he looked down at his papers. Leo knew instantly that something was wrong. "Joe--you seen Uncle Bobby?" Joe did not want to answer. "What happened?"

The officer looked at him as if wishing to cry. "He's gone, Leo. I'm sorry." He looked at his papers again and tried to make himself busy.

Gone! Leo just stood there gawking at him. He could say nothing for a few moments as he struggled to catch his breath. "What do you mean gone?"

The officer answered without looking up from his work. "Terrible thing, Leo--terrible thing. I'm so sorry--you lost your uncle."

"Lost? Dead?" The sergeant nodded sadly. "How'd he die?" Leo asked, not really wanting to know but guessing his Aunt Eleanor might want to hear some of the details.

"Died a brave man." Leo felt no relief at hearing that. The sergeant went on. "Tried to save a woman from a falling building and he--" Leo could not speak but let the sergeant continue. "Just like Bobby--the big dope. Always gallant to the ladies."

Leo forced a smile but could not share in the man's attempt to relieve the tension. "Yeah," he said. "Is the woman--?"

"She's all right. Made him a hero, she did."

"I'd rather he was alive, Joe, and not a hero."

"Yeah." The officer again looked down at his papers. "I understand, Leo."

Leo quietly cursed the floor and turned to leave. Then an afterthought. "Thanks, Joe. Your family okay?"

"Dunno. Haven't had time to find out." His eyes twitched with worry.

"I'll say a prayer for 'em."

"Thanks, Leo. Same for you. I guess a lotta people are prayin' today."

When Leo left the station, he headed for his Aunt Eleanor's place but he had to push himself up the street, wishing someone else could tell her. Even though bad news often came with his job, he never liked delivering it. Yet it had to be done. His aunt had to know. She would be wondering and worried. And knowing nothing could be the worse than bad news, even terrible news.

As he walked the cluttered streets to her house, he saw the faces of many people who had suffered losses of one kind or another--property, cherished possessions, friends, pets, family, children. Like a canopy over the dust of the quake and the smoke of the incipient fires, a great invisible pall hung over the city, a pall of grief and despair. Leo wondered how many people had killed themselves in the horrendous aftermath, understood how they could feel like escaping so much misery and pain. He thought about his own father's death.

Although not a child when the man died, Leo had always felt he was too young to lose his father. Remembering his mother's face when she heard the news, he shuddered. He had never seen her look so miserable. She was always such a cheering light in their lives, but when her husband died, it shook her profoundly. Yes, they had always known he worked in a dangerous profession. And that knowledge had been part of their living and breathing. Yet the man seemed immortal. At least that is how Leo had always thought of his father, and Molly certainly revered him as a god.

A big man, Leonard Brown held within his chest, as do many physical men, a gigantic heart. Born in Ireland, he had come to New York a poverty-stricken youth like numerous others at that time. A strong man, he quickly found work as a laborer but knew he wanted to be of service to the new country that had graciously taken him to her breast. When fires raged in Manhattan, as they often did, he would watch the firefighters combating the blaze. He would think nothing was more exciting and worthy in the world and no one more useful and important than one who rushes into a burning building and beats down a blaze to save property and people. He would have joined the department right then and there if not for the adventurous spirit that intoxicated the young man's soul.

Now that he was part of this new and wonderful country, he wanted to travel across her great body of land and get to know her for himself. That way, he figured, he would really belong to America. After winding across the width and length of the country, he ended up in San Francisco, the farthest west he could go in his journey. When he got there, he saw the golden city on the edge of the Pacific Ocean as a newer version of New York. Fitting then that a young man would make a young town his home. Soon after his arrival, he joined the city fire department. Became a minor legend for his camaraderie and dogged pursuit of duty. Before long he met Mary Tully; they fell in love and started a family.

Leonard had never talked fearfully of his work; nor had he talked much about the injuries or deaths of his comrades. Leo now knew that his father could not have discussed such matters with the family. It would have aroused concern among them for his safety, and they would have worried too much when he went off to work every day to face the demon. So in his way he would hint at something or other happening to one of the men but never go into details. Since it was always happening to someone else, Leo and Molly never thought much about it. Of course their mother knew otherwise; she knew the danger and she knew the odds. The longer her husband fought fires, the more likely he would be hurt or killed, but she too never brought up the subject. That was only a black chance in an unacceptable future. Since they were all alive and well for now, their days and nights needed to be as bright as possible. Leo's parents had made their home that way, and he loved them for their spirits. Nonetheless, he thought about his father as he made his way across the stricken town and he wished the old man were around to help him get through this bad time--maybe the worst time of all for the Browns and most of the other people of San Francisco.

He was nearly upon his aunt's place before realizing it. When he looked at the modest little frame house, he saw her standing in the doorway. She had been watching him come up the street. Even though he could not see her face, he knew the expression it bore. Apprehension become tangible. When she could see clearly his expression, foreboding flew from her face, horror quickly to replace it. "Oh, God, Leo--don't tell me!" Leo wanted more than anything else not to have to tell her. "It's my Bobby, isn't it?"

Leo jerked his head into a pathetic nod and sought the right words. "I'm sorry, Aunt Eleanor. I'm so sorry." She shrieked and ran into the house. Leo stopped, unsure whether he should go to her. But he was there and he was family, and she needed him, so he climbed the porch as quietly as he could and opened the screen door. The main door ajar, he heard her crying. Pushing it open, he peered into the living room.

Eleanor lay prostrate on a sofa and was crying wretchedly, her face buried in a pillow. Leo stood still in the middle of the room. He did not know what to say but he knew he should stay with her for a time, for as long as she might need him. He waited for her to collect herself. He knew the gut-wrenching nausea and weakness such news brings to a person bereft of a loved one. He had seen it too many times and had never become used to it, so he waited for it to pass in its own time. After many moments of wailing, she quieted some and, lifting her head from the pillow, she looked at it.

Tittering incongruously she said, "This is Bobby's pillow. He always likes to put his big head on it when he lies on the sofa. I can smell him on it--" She again broke into uncontrolled crying but quickly struggled to regain her composure. She was a Tully. The Tullys were supposed to be strong. And she had to show strength in front of her nephew. Otherwise what would he think of her? What would her sister, Mary, think? She sat up on the sofa, pulled a handkerchief from a pocket, and wiped her eyes and nose. She would be all right. "I knew it," she said, stuffing the handkerchief back into her pocket. "When he did not come home this morning, I knew something bad had happened to him."

"Are you going to be all right, auntie?"

For a long time she did not answer. She looked at him, stared at him. "I just lost my husband, Leo. How could I be all right very soon?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I mean--the quake didn't hurt you?"

She looked out a window. "I wish now that it--" She stopped the welling self-pity short and turned her reddened eyes back to Leo. She had to behave herself; no matter how despondent she felt she could not let him think she was feeble. He was family. Family means strength. "I wish I had been there when, when he--" The word would not form in her mouth. "So I could have held his great big beautiful head on my lap and soothed his pain with kisses."

Leo fidgeted at hearing these personal words, words that he had never imagined would come from his Aunt Eleanor's mouth. She should be saying such things only to her sister, to a close friend, not to him. Eleanor realized his discomfort and smiled.

"I'm sorry, Leo." She sat upright. Straightened her clothing and her hair. "I shouldn't be pouring this out on you. Come here--" She opened her arms for him.

"That's all right, auntie. I know--" He did not really know how she felt and he was ill at ease upon hearing her mournful words but he was even more uncomfortable at going so close to her. She had never been physical with him, and not much more with his sister. He had always been amazed to see how affectionate she could be with Uncle Bobby. Nevertheless, he knew she needed him right now so he stepped into her arms and held her.

She clung to him for a long time without words. Leo had thought he would not want to be that close to her that long, but he found it very comforting, so he let her hold onto him as long as she wanted to do so. His eyes scanned the room, seeing evidence of his uncle everywhere: photographs of him adorned the walls. She was proud of her big, brawny policeman husband. Although they were childless, having married late, they never wavered in their attachment to each other. Leo felt like crying with her. He too had loved the big man.

Slowly she released him and said, "Thank you, Leo--thank you for coming to tell me. Knowing nothing is worse than facing the truth. I was sick with fearing something horrible had happened to him." Remembering the quarrel with her husband before he had left for work, she glanced back & forth quickly between Leo and the furniture to keep from losing control. "But I forget my manners. Sit, please. Let me get you something, some refreshment."

Leo started to decline but realized he was fiendishly thirsty. "That would be fine, auntie--if you're sure it's...."

"Don't be silly. I can still be hospitable." She stepped into the kitchen. "Please, come with me, Leo. I don't want to be alone even for a few minutes now."

He obliged her.

"Tell me--" she said as she opened the spigot on a jug kept for emergencies and ran water into a glass. "I wish I could put some ice in it for you, but...."

"That's all right, auntie--this'll be fine the way it is. Thanks." He took the glass and swallowed the liquid in two gulps.

"You are a thirsty lad. Here--let me fill it for you again."

He nodded, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and handed it to her. When she gave it back, he again drained the glass.

"Goodness. I hope the water holds out."

He handed the glass back to her and said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't take your...."

"Nonsense. That's what I have it for. Now sit yerself down and tell me how it happened." She sat at the kitchen table and motioned him to join her.

He was surprised to see her spirits suddenly rise. "Sure thing, but I don't know much about it--only what I heard at the precinct."

She took his hand in both of hers. "Tell me, Leo. Tell me. I need to know."

"Well, as far as I know Uncle Bobby saw a woman running out of a building when the quake hit and must have seen the front of the structure shaking loose and about to fall on her." Eleanor released his hands and put hers to her mouth. Leo looked at her to know if he should continue. She nodded. "He's a hero, Aunt Eleanor."

She stared stone still for a moment then nodded rapidly. "He always was--to me." Again, she took his hand as if to keep from drowning.

For another long time they sat in the kitchen together without saying a word. She only stared out the window and watched light playing on the shiny leaves of an evergreen bush. Leo found different things about the kitchen to study while waiting for her to come back to him. A big jar full of fresh cookies. She always had oatmeal cookies for Bobby. Leo saw the clean, clear counters. Towels neatly folded and hanging around the sink and stove. Flowers on the table. He noticed how tidy she kept the place, the way his mother kept hers, and he realized how little he really knew his aunt.

"Just like him to die saving a woman--" A sudden burst of sobbing engulfed the last word. Leo chortled and quickly stifled it. "Now who's going to save me?" She looked at him. "I was a spinster for a long time. Now I'm going to be a widow for the rest of my life." She buried her face in her hands.

Her nephew felt foolish for having shown any sign of humor and started to reassure her by disagreeing but he knew she was probably right. She was no longer a young woman, even though she was several years younger than her sister. So he said nothing but only looked down at the table, his fingers following the pattern of the tablecloth. "More water?"

"Oh, no--thank you, Aunt Eleanor. That really helped."

She stared at him with a warm smile glowing on her tear-streaked face. "Call me Ellie." He was stunned, knowing she had always snapped or glared at anyone who called her by the familiar name, especially if they were of the younger generations. "Now that Bobby's gone I need to hear my name in a man's voice." That made Leo too uncomfortable to look at her. He had never even thought of his mother's sister as anyone other than Aunt Eleanor. In no way could he refer to her in the diminutive, so he simply smiled and nodded as if he had accepted the invitation and would address her so in the future. Inwardly, though, he reinforced a determination to sustain the usual practice in using her formal name.

Distant noises roused them from their close moment. People were shrieking but sounding faintly as if a mile away. At first, Leo and Eleanor ignored them as aberrant noises of the stricken city but soon realized they were personal voices, anguished voices. The realization changed their thinking and the mood. "What is that?" Eleanor asked, "People crying? Screaming?"

Leo looked out the window but said nothing. He knew what it was and why it was but he did not want to frighten his aunt, especially at such a grievous time. She read his mind, though, and knew why he said nothing. He was a fireman and like many firemen he did not want to talk about the one thing in the world that most terrified people.

"Fire." Her bloodshot eyes widened. "It's fire, isn't it? A big one." He nodded reluctantly. "Oh, God! What more do we have to endure?" She covered her face with her hands, trembling hands still wet from tears. "How can we--?"

Having not completely recovered from the fear of those very questions himself, he could not answer. "I'd better go." He stood up rather abruptly.

"Yes--yes, I know." From across the table she reached to him. "Be careful, Leo. We can't lose you too."

He tried to smile in gratitude for her concern but he was unsure if the sentiment showed through his fear. "I will."

"Oh--how's your mother, Leo? Is Mary all right? I should have asked you sooner. But I was so...."

"She's fine."

"And Molly? Have you seen Molly? And Emily?"

"Yes. I stopped at Molly's before--" He did not want her to think he had preferred to see his sister in his aunt's desperate time of need. "I saw her. She's all right. Her husband too. They suffered little damage. I'll check on Aunt Emily as soon as I can."

She poured some cookies out of the jar, wrapped them in a bag, and then started toward the front door. "Don't worry about Emily, Leo--she's too tough to let any earthquake knock her down. I'll go to her. Be the right thing to do. We have more in common now." Leo followed her out of the house as if a child respectful of an elder. On the front porch, Eleanor took him in her arms again and kissed him on the cheek. Warm. He had never realized how soft and warm she was, just like his mother. She handed him the bag of cookies. "Enjoy these, nephew--enjoy them for your Uncle Bobby."

He took them eagerly but again felt like crying. "Thank you, Aunt Eleanor--I will."

She touched his unshaven cheek. "You take care of yourself in the face of the demon. Remember what happened to--" She thought better of mentioning Leo's father. She was not a superstitious person but she believed it wise to avoid taunting fate.

"I will." He knew what was in her mind but said nothing about it. After leaving the house he looked back, waved, and said, "Bye, Aunt Ellie." He wanted to say more, to use words to talk her out of her grief, but he knew she would have to do that on her own. He had done his best, and that was better for her than he knew. He stepped hesitantly through her gate and headed down the street.

A little light shone through her sorrow when she heard him address her affectionately. "God keep you Leo, my boy." She kept waving to him after he had disappeared.

As Leo was running to his station in the Mission District, he headed down streets of hot bricks and iron and through air clouded with dust, smoke, and cinders. Fire was roaring into a riot. Soon the heat again roused in him a thirst. He looked everywhere for water, but there was none. Glancing at the bay for the first time in his life he wished it were fresh water. He looked up and saw smoke curling up and uncoiling into the morning sky and imagined evil souls ascending from their graves. This fire would be a many-headed monster, he thought, and thousands of wooden buildings would feed its insatiable appetite.

Absently dropping the bag of cookies onto the street he started running as if a man awakened on a planet too close to a star, for he soon saw the fire explode in the Mission District. The entire area blew into a blaze with gouts of flame leaping from block to block as though the buildings were nothing but paper huts. It was consuming Mission Street. Cinders floated down onto houses and spread a thin layer of gray and black all over the neighborhoods. Leo looked to the sky and saw the early sun shining blood red through a thick haze. The smoke burned his eyes and nose, the stink nauseated him. Survivors of the quake were now fleeing another and deadlier danger; in a steady stream they began pouring from the districts where most of the smoke was billowing into huge dark clouds. They were escaping the second disaster but leaving many people behind.

The city morgue was already overflowing with the victims of falling walls and trampling crowds. The target range of the Central Police Station had been turned into a makeshift emergency morgue; but when the fire approached the range, the bodies there were temporarily buried in Portsmouth Square. Of the hundreds of corpses recovered after the quake a huge number were unrecognizable in their mangled condition. Limbs were missing or twisted into unnatural positions. Heads squashed, and featureless faces smeared into masks of putty. Many were only fragments of their former beings. Some had disappeared in mountainous piles of masonry--no part of them ever seen again.

Now the fire. When it roared through demolished office buildings and homes, cadavers that remained in the rubble became grotesque, charred sticks or were instantly cremated into small piles of ash. No one knew how many died, nobody would ever know exactly.

When Leo reached Third Street near Mission, he saw people gathering around a building that had collapsed onto a man and pinned him to the ground. The trapped man was crying out to people as they hurried down the street. Hearing his desperate wails, Leo and a few others rushed to the stricken soul and tried to pull him free. They tore at the broken lumber and brick that nearly covered him, but they could not free the man. Leo heard crackling, looked up, and saw fire attacking the rear of the building. The trapped man heard the ominous noise too and felt the rising heat. Realizing that he would soon be burned to death, the poor soul looked frantically to Leo and to the other bystanders. "It's no use. You've got to kill me!" he screamed. "Kill me!"

Leo regarded the man in horror, looked at the threatening flames, then dropped his gaze, knowing the man was going to burn to death. He knew too well how bad such a death could be. For some reason the other bystanders looked at Leo. He looked back at them. All felt helpless. Leo bent down to the trapped man and said, "I--I can't--" His job was to save lives, not take them.

Everyone stepped back; some left the scene, unable to bear the misery. Behind them a large man loomed; he had been watching the whole event. As Leo stepped forward and tried to comfort the condemned man, the big fellow moved through the crowd and stood behind the fireman. "Let me talk to him," the man said in a soft baritone.

Leo moved aside as the man approached. Bending down, the big man talked quietly with the imprisoned one who nodded and bowed his head. Without warning the big man whipped out a pistol and shot the doomed creature through the brain. His head snapped backward, his body slackened. He knew not what hit him. The mercy killer checked to see the man was dead then turned to Leo. "I need a witness to accompany me to the mayor's office. Will you come with me, sir?"

Leo thought a moment. He glanced at the dead man and said, "Of course--I'll vouch for you. Only thing you could have done--under the circumstances."

On the way to the Hall of Justice, the man was silent. Leo thought to ask him his name, to try to ease the guilt with kind conversation but he knew the man did not want to talk so he kept his thoughts to himself. When they entered the Hall, the big man walked straight up to a police officer and said, "Could I see the mayor about a matter of life and death?"

The policeman sized up the big man and looked at Leo. Noticing him to be a fireman, he said, "Follow me," and led them to the mayor's quarters. He stopped at a door on which a scrap of board showed the scrawled words: Mayor Schwartz. The policeman knocked carefully.

"Yes--come in," a gruff voice responded.

The policeman opened the door to reveal the big man and Leo. "Mister Mayor--these men have an important matter to discuss with you."

The mayor looked up from a disarray of papers on his desk and regarded the men over his spectacles. His demeanor showed his impatience with any communication that was not necessary, but he trusted the officer.

"What is it, Daniel?" Removing his glasses and tossing them into the papers, the mayor motioned the two visitors to sit down. Leo started to take a seat.

"I'd rather stand, your honor," the big man said. In solidarity with his companion, Leo remained on his feet.

The mayor studied each of the men as he fiddled with his moustache. "Well, gentlemen--what is so damned important that you must interrupt me during this calamity?"

The big man spoke quietly and steadily in his husky voice. "My name is Jim Burke, your honor--a veteran of the United States Army." The mayor nodded with some impatience. "I must inform you that just twenty minutes ago I shot a man to death." The mayor blanched, put an elbow on the desk, and dropped his chin onto his fist. His dark eyes pierced the man for a sign of truth, and then he looked at Leo.

"Leo Brown, your honor--fireman with Engine Number 9. I saw the entire action." He looked at Burke.

"I had to kill him, your honor," Burke said. "He was trapped in a fallen building. Fire was about to burn him alive. He begged someone to end his suffering. I was there with my pistol. I asked if he knew what he was asking of a man. He looked me straight in the eye, your honor--calm and clear as a summer morning--and told me he was sorry to put me through such an ordeal. I asked him to make his peace with God. He said a prayer. Before he could say another word, I shot him in the head." The mayor's eyes widened then narrowed and pinned Burke's dark eyes. Leo looked back and forth between them. Burke dropped his huge head onto his chest and closed his eyes to hide the feeling that showed in them. "I had to save him from the horror of the fire, your honor. I'd seen many men die slow, torturous deaths during the war. I could not stand to see another man suffer such misery."

Leo nodded. "He had no choice but to kill the man, your honor." The man was trapped. We tried to save him, but it was useless. The poor fellow begged one of us to kill him. None of us could bring ourselves to do it." He looked up at his companion. "None but this man--this angel of mercy."

"Angel of death--" The mayor's eyes explored the big man's face. Burke kept his eyes down, and Leo searched the mayor's face. He was wondering if at the next moment the mayor would call the policeman back into his office and have Burke arrested, and he was wondering even more what the big man would do in such a case. However, the mayor called no one, and his face softened into compassion. "Sometimes the angels work through our humble hands, Mister Burke," the mayor said and paused contemplatively. "I believe you did the right and decent thing. I might have done the same. Do not trouble yourself too much about it, my good man." The mayor paused again and smiled. "Now go and get some rest. We need men like you to save our city." Burke could not contain his tears. The mayor rose from his desk and stepped close to him. When the civic leader extended his hand, the big man shook it, nodded to him, and left the room. Leo looked in gratitude at the mayor and followed his companion out of the office. Burke hurried out of the building.

On the front steps, Burke stopped and took Leo's hand. "Thank you--"

"Leo. Leo Brown."

"Thank you, Mister Brown." With that, he quickly turned away and walked down the street.

The fellow's quick departure startling Leo, he smiled slightly as he watched the big man walk away, stopping once and to look around to get his bearings then heading toward the smoke and fire. Leo watched him till he disappeared. He never saw Jim Burke again. Soon after leaving City Hall, Leo found Engine 9 and jumped aboard, heading back toward the Mission District.

Chapter 12

The flames that had flashed almost simultaneously in several places shortly after the earthquake, were now well on a warpath to burn wildly throughout the city. The old buildings south of Market were going up like paper houses in a gigantic bonfire for some unearthly coven, the flames fast eating holes into the blackened walls. Men like Leo Brown and Jim Burke threw themselves into the fray. Despite their heroic efforts, the fire spread. Many more people were running for their lives. Men, women, and children now fled the flames as they had from the quake: poorly clad, clutching family pictures, carrying obscure relics, toting bundles of bedclothes and bags, or dragging luggage. Some carried in little carts or toy wagons all they had left of their lives. Countless people trudged toward the hills to makeshift bivouacs. They fled the scorching terror to whatever safety they thought they could find in destinations unknown. Once they reached some safe zone, somewhere in the middle of the open air, they christened their sudden settlements with names such as Camp Gratitude and Salvation Valley.

The grim rush of humanity poured out Mission Road to the cemeteries, over the hills to Golden Gate Park, and on to the beach. One mighty surging wave of living grief and throbbing despair. They fled as a terror stricken horde, for behind them, east and west, north and south, flaming serpents were roaring through the city. Sociable beasts that they are, the serpents found their kin and gradually formed one vast thriving medusa of fire.

An extravagant amount of wood from the great and ancient California forests around the bay had been used to construct the city. So whenever such a building caught fire, flames roared into the tormented sky, as if spewed from an ecstatic dragon bursting out of Earth. Many such blazes could not be stopped, so the entire area south of Market Street was doomed. Not only in the Mission District, but even as far as the county line to the south, and the Richmond District to the west, and throughout the mercantile districts on both sides of Market--fires danced macabre.

Their furious tentacles devoured a saloon below Market then coalesced with another fire on nearby Howard Street. In a Chinese laundry the night before the quake someone had left a furnace burning all night, so when the earth moved, the furnace fell apart and flames ignited the wooden building. This fire spread in both directions. It also extended its arms east, where firefighters took it on with water relayed from local cisterns. However, another blaze erupted on nearby Folsom Street. A bakery joined the fire on Howard Street. And flames from a rooming house in the area fused with both of them.

Because of the chemicals in drug stores, many major fires originated in those places both north and south of Market. In such retail stores and in huge wholesale companies fires exploded. Fortunately two policemen managed to extinguish a blaze that had spawned in the basement of a drug store beneath a hotel. When a fire broke out in a dry goods store, threatening a broad residential district, men from six engines working there for hours prevented it from spreading.

However few incipient fires could be stopped. As far away as Twelfth Street to the southwest, flames shot out from another drug store and joined the multiplying monster. At the San Francisco Gas & Electric Power Plant near Market, a fallen smokestack exploded and united with a fire in a collapsed home. Flames from another hotel also consolidated with the power plant fire. These fires were born to meld with fires to the south, east, and west.

All during the day and night after the quake, citizens and firefighters worked to stop the fire as it headed south; nonetheless, it proceeded unchecked as though determined to destroy the entire city. It crept crazily on crackling feet along Mission Street, then clawed its way west. By that evening the ferocious thing was burning farther south. That night it extended its red tendrils all the way south to Eighteenth Street at Valencia. Firefighters tried to stop the blaze by back burning but failed to prevent buildings on the north side of Nineteenth from catching fire. They found water in a hydrant on a nearby hill but could place no apparatus there to stop the fire. Horses were unable to pull the engines up the hill, so volunteers had to drag them up. Soon water was streaming into the blaze, and for the moment there at least the situation looked less bleak.

Unfortunately, careless people compounded the tragedy by starting many of the fires in the city. Near a building on O'Farrell Street, north of Market, some soldiers had built a campfire to brew coffee. The fire escaped and gave birth to a new blaze that burned not only that building but also roared through two large furniture stores around Union Square. From there it traversed O'Farrell Street to the Orpheum Theater and spread west.

Worse than the careless ones, arsonists started some of the fires that broke out immediately after the huge temblor. They did it for money. Most insurance companies would not pay fire losses if earthquake had damaged buildings. So some people ignited their own houses to get the insurance coverage for their destroyed buildings.

Worst of all, though, an unknown maniacal incendiarist intentionally started one of the fires south of Market. It joined other fires and grew into a monster that swept over one of the last territories still intact below the slot. It jumped several streets in an easterly sweep, then burned rapidly farther south and threatened wooden freight sheds near the bay.

On a different street near Mission, a fire started in yet another frame lodging house. It burned rapidly and spread south and west, igniting the Sperry Flour Company warehouse that occupied the whole block. That fire raced to the south, crossed Mission to a lumberyard, and burning farther south, attacked yet another lumber Yard. Both yards exploded into a flaming storm.

Leo was there when all these fires were blazing. When he saw the buildings on both sides of Mission Street threatened, he ran to his engine leader with an idea he had stored in the back of his mind. "Captain!" he shouted against the din. "Captain--O'Donnell! We've got plenty of water--in the bay. Let me get to a tug boat and we can fight this monster."

His captain snapped a look at him as if on the same wavelength and shouted back. "On yer way, lad. And don't come back without the goods."

Leo ran down Mission Street to the waterfront and found the tug, Governor Irwin, at the wharf. Leaping on board he shouted, "Where's the captain of this boat?"

A small but stocky man stepped out of the pilot house. "Lookin' fer me, son?"

"I'm lookin' for water, my man. And you can deliver it."

"How's that?"

"Let me hook a hose to your boat pump."

The little man scratched his beard, looked at the burning city, and jerked his head. "Hook 'er up."

Drawing water out of the bay the tug sent a steady stream to Engines 1 and 9. Leo ran back to Engine 9 where he and the others played streams of saltwater on the fire and halted it at that section of Mission. He and other firemen of Engine 9 with water pumped by tugs also prevented the fire from burning farther south and stopped it at the waterfront, saving the Mail Dock.

However, they could not stop the fire spreading southwest. In the manufacturing district south of Market, a fire leaped to the west, and a different fire from the west burned south and east. Flames gained the Shot Tower and crossed Fremont Street near Market. After men fought formidably to save the Palace Hotel with a private water supply, the beast embraced the building with its incendiary tentacles. Soon the entire structure was ablaze. As though an unfathomably infectious disease, flaming cinders from that hotel ignited the Grand Hotel.

Meandering fires had crisscrossed Market and joined those progressing west then gradually headed southwest. By using bay water, firefighters had kept flames from burning farther southeast. It had zigzagged from Eleventh to Fourteenth Streets and from Harrison Street to Howard, but a successful fight with another private supply of water choked it to death. However, in its westerly attack it reached Capp Street where the buildings, mainly wooden in this part of the city, only fed the hungry flames, so it swept westward unchecked.

During the same time a fire farther south of Market also roared farther west and burned up and down the east side of Dolores Street. That evening fighters stopped the flames north of Dolores at Clinton Park with water from a hydrant. The great work of citizens assisting the Fire Department, working on the extraordinary width of Dolores, prevented fire from crossing it to the west; thus, it became the final western boundary of the burned out Mission District.

Farther south firefighters found water in an old cistern at Nineteenth and Folsom Streets, and with engines in relay they pumped water from this cistern to Capp Street, for the moment the easterly limit of the fire. At only one spot did the flames traverse Twentieth at the southeast corner of Valencia; even though from there they spread to the south and to the east, firefighters summoned near heroic efforts to stop this fire. More engines and hoses conveyed water to the fireline six blocks from the cistern at Nineteenth and Folsom and from the hydrant at Twentieth and Church Streets. However, they were unable to extinguish the fire there till the day after the quake, but then no more flames crossed Twentieth Street to the south. In spite of this, there was no real sense of victory. Most of the city on the south side of Market from the Ferry Building westward was burning to the ground. All this on the first day of the quake.

Chapter 13

After fighting the Mission fires, Leo, aboard Engine 9, was headed for new battles down Valencia Street when he saw people surrounding the collapsed hotel. The fallen structure had been a four-storey frame building, consisting of stores on the ground floor and rooms on the upper three. The top floor had completely collapsed upon and crushed the three lower floors, so the structure now looked like a one storey bunker. The quake had ripped open the street about seven feet in front of it. People standing above the rupture could look right into the cable car slots and tunnels as if into the guts of the city. The temblor had twisted apart a twenty-two inch water main on one side of the street and a sixteen-inch main on the other side, so that both were spilling muddy water into the sunken hotel and down the gutters to cesspools, overflowing them, thus raising the specter of infectious disease as yet another curse on the city.

When Leo saw people tearing apart the remains of the Valencia Hotel to rescue as many trapped victims as they could, he was compelled him to aid them. He hollered for the driver of the fire engine to stop at the site. Leaping off the engine as it rushed away to another fire, he plunged into the debris. Among police and volunteers dragging corpses from the wreckage, he searched the rubble for survivors. Momentarily he thought he heard faint cries coming from the wrecked building but he shrugged it off and continued searching for survivors. But he heard them again. A cat? Heading toward the sound, he yanked away pieces of wreckage in search of the stricken animal as he had done in other fires. All life is precious. Flames were licking at his face but he would not retreat as long as he heard the cries of a living thing in the ruins.

Before long, the searing heat forced other rescuers away, but Leo persevered. Disregarding his own well-being and desperately drawn to the heart-rending cries of the trapped creature, he worked quickly to find the source of the desperate little voice becoming fainter by the moment. Then it hit him. A Cat? "That's no cat--that's a--" He became frantic. The wrecked building was catching fire. With bruised and bleeding hands, he pulled and yanked lumber out of the chaotic pile. Smoke billowed around his head, choking him, obliterating his shape from the view of other rescuers who had given up and were standing in the street. They could not hear the cries of the trapped thing and could no longer see Leo so they simply screamed warnings at him:

"Leave it, man! Leave the building!"

"Get out of there!"

"Don't be crazy!"

"You'll die!"

Leo could have died. He knew that. But he continued to focus on the cries. Uncertain of what kind of being was making them, he knew that he had to reach the trapped animal or whatever it was before the last bones of the building exploded into flames and smothering smoke.

Before Leo realized it, the crying stopped. Regardless he continued to tear into the wreckage. He was out of his mind by now. After lifting a broad piece of ceiling he stared at a body, a man's mangled corpse lying on its belly, hunched over something. At first Leo thought the cries had come from the man before he died. He had heard many times how strange terrified voices could sound in a burning building but then he heard the cry again, a tiny whimper as if a prayer.

Easing the man's broken body aside, he saw a dim shape and peered through the smoke for a clearer look. When he finally saw the object of his search, his burning eyes widened with surprise. There, the corpse mostly covering him, on his back in a squashed crib lay not a cat but a human baby less than one year of age. He was no longer crying, but appeared to be sleeping, comatose, or dead. "A baby--" Leo whispered as if not to waken the child. Then he stood up and screamed, "A baby! It's a baby!" The infant opened his eyes and looked at him with a succession of shock, curiosity, and terror. Weakly he started again to cry.

The spectators looked at each other and uttered the same question almost in unison: "A baby?!" then fell to murmuring words of wonder among themselves.

Leo bent down to the baby and examined the situation to see if he could lift him out of the debris. The child was lying on a small mattress in the crushed bed but was unencumbered. Helping a policeman lift the corpse off the infant, Leo drew him to his chest. Turning to the crowd, he raised the baby into the air, as if offering him for christening, and showed him to a throng that had gathered to watch the rescue and removal of bodies. The people howled in amazement, as Leo carefully made his way out of the wreckage to the street. Dropping his jacket and removing his shirt, he swaddled the child and cradled him in his arms. People gathered around him to look at the baby. "Is--is it alive?" one woman asked.

"He--seems--very much--a-alive." Leo was gasping for air.

"Is he hurt?" another asked.

Leo looked the child over. "I--I don't think so--lucky--a man's body protected him."

"A man's body?" one asked.

Leo nodded his head in the direction of the fallen building and stammered, "Up there--dead. Found the baby--under him--as if--the man--covered the baby--to shield him--"

A collective moan of awe and dismay arose from the crowd, as a soldier and two policemen put the corpse on a wagon of the dead. Leo looked around for the fire engine or firemen. None. Spotting a car driving slowly by the scene, he saw a man gawking out the window and shouted to him. "Hey! Hey, there! Could--could you give me--give us a ride?" The driver hesitated and looked as though he were going to move on but had a second thought, stopped, and waved for Leo to get into his car. As someone tossed him his jacket, Leo slid into the vehicle and held the baby close to him. "I need to get to my--home--fast."

The man quickly pored over his blackened face and shirtless body. Respecting him as a fireman the man said, "Where's that?"

"Take Van Ness--to Lombard," Leo said still struggling to catch his breath.

As the car pulled away from what was left of the Valencia Hotel, the spectators watched it leave. Murmuring among themselves they slowly dispersed, carrying the memory of the scene with them to be galvanized into their private legends.

The driver looked at Leo and the baby and said, "You guys are doin' a helluva job, ya know."

Leo shook his head and said, "Thanks, but I don't know if we can save it."

"Terrible thing." The man offered his hand and said, "George Olson here."

Leo extended his hand while keeping his arm firmly around the baby. "Leo Brown. Thanks for the help."

Olson looked at the baby again, then at Leo and thought for a moment. "There's a hospital down Lombard, isn't there? Maybe at the Presidio?"

Leo's eyes flashed from thoughts racing through his mind. He blurted out "No. Yes, I know. But I'm taking him to my place first--so I can--my housekeeper used to be a midwife. I want her to look at the child. She will know if he needs medical care."

Olson glanced at him curiously and grinned. "You married?"

Leo shook his head and turned away. He watched the passing scene of collapsed and burning buildings. He wanted to give the man his pat answer about being too busy to make time for a woman but kept it to himself this time.

Olson continued grinning but said no more. He would not inquire into this man's private life. Leo was a fireman trying to save property and lives in their city. He would not pry into the life of such a man at this terrible time, so in silence but for the fire raging around them he drove Leo and the baby down Van Ness and turned onto Lombard.

After a few blocks, Leo said, "Here's the place," and he opened the door before the driver could stop the car.

"Hey, don't fall out and get yourselves killed after saving the kid." Olson pulled to the curb and stopped.

Leo stepped out and lifted one hand off the baby to wave. "Thanks again, buddy. I hope I can return the favor some day."

"You're doing it right now, Leo--good luck to you and the youngster."

As Leo headed down the street, Olson watched him till he turned a corner. He shook his head and uttered a sound of mild amazement then drove away from the burning city.

Leo trudged up a hill to his house. Pushing through his front gate, he called out: "Ah Sung! You here, Ah Sung?"

A small Chinese woman, well into her middle years, opened the front door. Upon seeing Leo, she smiled but, upon spotting the bundle in his arms, frowned with concern. "Mista Reo--you wost you cwothes? What you cawy? You cwothes? What in cwothes, Mista Reo? You find wost dog again?" She started to shake her head in disapproval. "Ah Sung no can...."

"No, no, Ah Sung--no dog this time--" He stepped onto the front porch and lifted a corner of his shirt off the baby's face.

Ah Sung put her hand to her lips and uttered a small cry of surprise. "What you save now--Mista Reo? No dog dis time."

"No, Ah Sung, no dog this time."

"That baby awight--but, but whe' mama?" She looked behind Leo as if to see the child's mother standing below him on the steps.

"I don't know, Ah Sung--" he said sadly. "I'm not sure where his father is either."

Again, the woman put her hand to her mouth. "Oh, my, my, Mista Reo--you save big ting dis time. Small but big ting." She looked the baby over and reached to take him from the fireman's arms, but he would not immediately let go of the child. She looked up at the man and smiled. "Now, Mista Reo, you save baby awight. Ah Sung take baby and make happy."

Leo looked into her dark brown eyes and smiled. "Yes, Ah Sung-- you take care of the baby." The little woman took the child from the big fireman's arms and carried the infant into the house. Leo watched her scoot through the doorway and followed right behind her.

Inside the flat the aftermath of the quake was still evident from the debris strewn around Leo Brown's home. Obviously Ah Sung had been working hard to tidy up things, but bits of glass and plaster dust remained around the edges of the floor as evidence of the disaster. "Watch you step, Mista Reo. Ah Sung not finish cwean yet."

"You've done wonders, Ah Sung--" he said as he threw his jacket onto a sofa. Place looks much better than most others I've seen today."

"Yes, Mista Reo--big shake in city," she said as she took the baby to the bathroom.

"A very big shake--and now a very big mess." He did not want to tell her about all the death and the spreading fire.

She laid the baby on the floor and removed the shirt and the infant's dirty, torn clothes. "Baby boy, Mista Reo," she said with a big smile. "You save baby boy."

Leo stood in the bathroom doorway, looked down at the child, and grinned more at himself than at her. "Oh, really? I didn't even think about that."

She looked up at the towering man and laughed. "You busy awight, Mista Reo. Lotsa busy." She waved him off. "Go now. You west. Ah Sung good to baby."

Leo sighed deeply and said, "Yes, you're right. I've gotta go back to help fight the fire." He caught his slip too late.

Her eyes flashed at him. "Fi-a?!"

He wished he had not even thought of the word when he saw worry threatening to invade her smiling face. Then, for the first time since his search at the collapsed hotel, he realized something very important about another person besides himself and the baby. This tough little Chinese woman had been keeping his house for nearly two years, yet he knew almost nothing about her life. He only knew the Chinese struggled in San Francisco, not only with the new language, and the ever-pressing need to make a living, but mostly with the hostile bigotry they constantly faced from "white" people in the city.

Since the Gold Rush, San Franciscans had ignored or at best looked askance at the Chinese as undesirable beings from an alien world. They had denied their rights, restricted their housing, and attacked them with both bare fists and the leaden blow of racist self-righteousness. Now the quake and fire had hit the Chinese harder than others. Leo knew that many of them had died and hundreds of others had lost their homes. The disaster could devastate Chinatown.

Like many Chinese women, Ah Sung had to care for herself and whatever family she had while working in the houses of strangers. But Leo did not consider her strange; quite the contrary, he had nearly come to think of her as a family member even though he seldom made her aware of this attitude. Nonetheless, she worked hard without complaining, and, while she was less than a score of years older than he was, she treated him as if he were her own son. "Ah Sung," he said softly, "what about your family? Are they all right? Maybe you should go to them. I can take care of the child."

Ah Sung shook her head and her black hair streaked with premature gray flopped about her face. "Husband awight, Mista Reo. We go pawk and be safe. Man good. No chirdwen. Famry arwight." She spoke with all the conviction she could raise.

Leo knew she was worried and regarded both her and the baby with deep concern. No children. A question about that nearly escaped his lips but he sucked it back; none of his business. Now more than before, he felt she needed some time off work. "Maybe I should...."

"No wo'wy, Mista Reo. Ah Sung be good you baby."

Leo thought she did not understand his concern and was about to clarify his words when he considered the reference to the baby being his. He liked the idea but shook it out of his head. "Not my baby, Ah Sung."

"Who baby?" She knew it was not his.

"I don't know," he said sadly. "I'm afraid he doesn't have--" Realizing the deep water he was wading into, Leo smiled at his gentle housekeeper and went into the bedroom. "I better get another shirt."

She watched him go and thought about his feelings, wishing she had the words in English to comfort him. Shrugging off the frustration, she turned her attention to the child. After undressing the baby, she bathed him and medicated his wounds. Fortunately, miraculously he had only minor scratches on his face, hands, and feet. When the baby was fresh and pink, she wrapped him in a big towel and carried him into the living room where she laid him on a sofa and put some cushions around him. After staring at him for some time, imagining what it would be like to have a child of her own, she went into the kitchen and opened a tin of peaches. She mashed them with a spoon till nearly nectar and fed it to the baby. The child ate ravenously, obviously starved for food and water. With the food and spoon in one hand, Ah Sung carried him to Leo's bedroom. Perhaps he would like to feed the baby.

She knocked. He did not answer. She peeked through the doorway and held the baby out for Leo to see. When he did not respond, she looked into the room and saw him sprawled across the bed. She turned slowly and tried to leave the doorway, but the floor creaked beneath her.

"Wha--?" Leo muttered as he lifted his head to see.

Ah Sung turned back into the bedroom and bowed with the baby in her arms. "So sowy, Mista Reo. I...."

"No--it's all right, Ah Sung," he grunted as he wiped his face with the palms of his hands and pushed himself to a sitting position. "Laid down--to rest my eyes and--dropped off--like a drunk off a wagon."

She cocked her head at him but did not inquire into his verbal imagery. Although she did not comprehend everything he said, she nearly always figured out the necessary meanings of his words. "You boy eat good, Mista Reo."

Leo looked at the boy whose mouth was open and his head bobbing for the next spoonful of mashed peaches. Laughing he said, "Good appetite--good sign."

"What boy name?"

Leo had not thought of the baby's name anymore than to whom he belonged. He had only concentrated on saving him and bringing him home. He pondered a moment then said, "Cat," as if referring to another animal he had just found. "Neither quake nor fire could kill the lad. Nine lives he's got, Ah Sung. I'm callin' him Cat."

"Cat," Ah Sung echoed, trying to guess the meaning in Leo's eyes. Such a name being applied to a human confused her, but when she saw Leo smile, she reflected it as if agreeing to the name. She looked at the baby nodding off in her arms.

Leo scooted to the edge of the bed and touched the boy's cheek. "You've fixed him up clean as a nozzle. Again, the imagery mystified her but, not showing it, she only smiled. "Well--gotta get back to work," he said as he put on a shirt. "I'll find out who he belongs to and come back for him when I know." He heard himself say the reassuring words to Ah Sung but knew in his heart that he wanted to keep the baby. Nonsense! He also knew in a nagging place in his mind that such a situation would be impossible.

Standing next to Ah Sung with the baby in her arms, Leo looked at the child with plain yearning on his face. She saw it and wanted to say something, words that would make the yearning change to fulfillment but what she wanted to say could be said well only in Chinese, and so she remained silent, only smiling at him in her reserved but tender way.

Leo snatched his jacket to cover his feelings. "I'll be back as soon as I can." He waved himself out of the room. With a deep but laconic sigh, he pushed through the doorway and tromped down the front steps to the street. Again to battle the foe.

Ah Sung with the baby now sound asleep in her arms stepped onto the porch and watched the fireman walk down the street and turn a corner. Lifting her eyes above the rooftops on houses still standing, she saw great clouds of smoke blackening the sky as if some ferocious war were raging on the Gold Mountain. She and the people of her part of the world had always thought of San Francisco, the whole of California as a treasured place where poor persons like she and her husband had a chance to make something good of their lives. To do so they had suffered hardships she never mentioned, not even to herself. Now the gold was turning scarlet, but not the red that she and other Asians had always believed boded good fortune. Not only was her world shaken but also it threatened to go up in smoke around her. She thought of her husband, Chung Hee. Shaking her head and holding the baby to her small bosom, she stepped into the house and closed the door on the dreadful sight of the city in flames.

Chapter 14

Afraid the fire would devour the entire city, mobs of people panicked and fled across the bay and down the peninsula. Fortunately the Southern Pacific Railroad provided free transportation for many. Even so, many others were now homeless, and those that remained in the city could only set up camp in the public parks and graveyards, where even the sepulchers of the dead now supplied shelter for the living. Many people gathered around the city on hills at safe distances to watch the fire, as if the devil had it created for their entertainment. Most of them quietly stared in awe at the burning of their city aglow in the evening, and a few talked and signified among themselves. "Gotta blast the fire out," one portly middle-aged man said as he stood gawking at the flames.

"Naw--no good." A thin, younger man on his haunches countered. "Gotta get water outta the bay. Plenty there."

"Outta the bay," the fat man said. "Not a bad idea. How ya s'pose they gonna do that?"

"I dunno," the slender man said. "Must be usin' pumps. I dunno." The other man looked at him and nodded his head as he considered the idea. They both gazed over the water between San Francisco and Oakland.

"If the fire chief hadn't died," the older man said through a dense moustache, "the fire woulda been out b' now."

"Right--" the younger man said, "he knew the need for lotsa ready water in such a disaster. But they wouldn't listen to him."

"No. Now look at us."

At a loss for further words, the men silently stared at the inferno roaring out of a widening area of the city. The wind from the mountainous flames blew back their clothes and hair. Smoke billowed hundreds of feet above the peninsula, draping a black cloak over the city, darkening the sky deeper than night, and blocking out the moon and stars. The fiery light reflected off the faces of the refugees, in their haggard eyes, as though they were standing on the edge of hell and staring into their abysmal future.

As if the city had not suffered enough, as if God were punishing the people for generations of evil ways, yet another curse was threatening to accompany the hammer and the furnace. A curse straight out of the myth and history of mankind--famine. Since the morning of the earthquake, officials knew they had to take quick action to prevent a critical lack of food. The police seized all available conveyances and loaded them with goods from grocery stores in danger of being burned. Days and nights they delivered the goods from hundreds of stores to evacuees.

Again, indications of martial law appeared throughout the disaster zone. When the day after the quake several large ships, heavily loaded with provisions prior to the disaster, were about to leave for foreign ports, police commandeered the vessels. Lieutenant Lambert Halstead with eight officers secured a tug to blockade the harbor exit until more provisions arrived by train. In so doing, they stopped the threat of hunger. Fortunately the danger of disease did not materialize to any serious degree, but not so the danger of drought.

When the earthquake hit, much of the water stopped flowing through the peninsula. The thirty-eight inch San Andreas pipeline into town was split open. Still there was water. Despite the San Andreas fault line that passed through both the Upper Crystal Springs Dam and the San Andreas Dam southwest of San Francisco, no water escaped from either of them. Both dams had been constructed with cores made to withstand earthquake, so even though the two of them lay astride that great crack in the Earth, the only visible effect of the quake was dislocated fences around the dams. However, the quake had demolished the Pilarcitos pipe from the Crystal Springs Reservoir, a line that had been laid nearly along the fault, so no water was coming into the city from the reservoir. The city of Alameda across the bay to the east pumped water into the pipeline to supply San Francisco, but it drained out at the point of damage in the line. Many days passed before repairs made it useful. The quake had also torn a considerable section of a forty-four inch pipe from its trestle just below South San Francisco. And the shaking had snapped another forty-four inch line on Harrison below 14th Street. Consequently, the immediate city reservoirs had drained dry. Fortunately at Lake Merced just southwest of the city the only damage was a broken steamgate. When that was replaced, the pumps were working by late in the afternoon of the quake day, furnishing three million gallons of water to slake the people's thirst and to fight the voracious blaze.

The greatest trouble, however, with broken mains occurred in the filled area around the city, where the ground sank and caused numerous ruptures. For many days after the fire struck the city, since water was flowing through precious few pipes in that district, wagons normally used for sprinkling the streets distributed what little water they had to people for drinking and cooking.

Unknown to the firefighters, however, there might have been plenty of water. An untapped salt-water line supposedly ran from the bay up Market and alongside the Palace Hotel, and they could have found ample water at hydrants throughout the city if they had been able to reach them. In fact water may well have been abundantly available, but there were not enough men to fight the blaze, and when the fire flashed out of control, the biggest difficulty was neither lack of water nor shortage of men--but heat.

The conflagration became unbelievably hot. As hot as Venus! In spots it spiked to 2,700 degrees Fahrenheit, quickly reducing buildings to ashes and vaporizing all living things. By the time firefighters could get to any of the hydrants, their engines were sizzling, so they had to abandon them. Police and volunteer firefighters had to arc streams of water continually onto firemen covered with wet sacks to keep them from burning. They looked like phantom angels fighting the devils of the damned. When they actually got a steady stream of water flowing into a blaze, the heat would boil it to steam before any of the precious liquid could reach the fire.

Men worked like supermen to combat the demonic fury as it rushed and roared through one building after another. Police, firefighters, and soldiers fought the merciless monster as heroically as men had ever fought any enemy in times of war. When one firefighter would inevitably drop exhausted, another would quickly take his place. However, their heroic efforts were largely futile and disheartening, as the incendiary beast raged out of control. Suggesting a will of its own, the fiendish thing would not be stopped. It stormed through the city like all the demons out of hell, burning wantonly for lack of that one grace, the only blessing from God powerful enough to stop it--water.

Because too little water was readily available, the demons were rioting in all directions. In the northern part of the city, north of Market and above California Street, the monster was crawling westward from one street to another. A well-organized fireguard kept it from crossing Washington Street, but such forces working valiantly to save the city were unable to keep the predator away from untouched buildings, and so it spread. Becoming desperate, some people turned to a last resort--dynamite.

The United States Army first decided to use dynamite to prevent further destruction. A squad of men under Lieutenant Ronald Ruckles attacked the fire with the explosive. Under his direction men blew up buildings between California and Sacramento Streets but that did not stop the progress of the beast. Regardless of their effort, it broke loose at Sacramento and spread west and south and north--above Market Street.

The fire rapidly followed the dynamiters with its insatiable appetite for fuel. It rolled along Sacramento, coiled back south, and then heaved west to Kearny Street. Before long, much of the northern section of the city was flame, char, or ash. Soon the dynamite crews exhausted their immediate supply of explosives and had to use what they called Giant Powder. With that, they blew up a drug store on Kearny, but someone in a lodging flat above the store threw ignited bedding onto the street, exposing Chinatown to flames.

Meanwhile, firebrands had sailed across Market from the south and their horrendous blooms burned out the Crocker Building. This fire joined the blaze from the north, and thus amplified spread west, reaching the Chronicle newspaper building the night after the quake. By the end of the first day, nearly the entire retail section of the city had gone up in smoke.

Because the disaster had caused a severe drought, Assistant Fire Chief Lyle Conklin also decided that dynamite was the only weapon to fight the fire and save the fallen city. Soon frequent blasts were rocking sections all over town. Even buildings that had so far escaped the fire were blown to bits. But the flames, as if freed for further chaos, vaulted through gaps the explosions made and devoured one building after another. Still, official dynamiting squads continued operating near the fire lines. With the explosive as their new weapon, policemen and soldiers leveled great structures to the ground. Sometimes people.

Captain of Police Dennis Stephens and Lieutenant Carl Thomas of the U. S. Army commanded one such detail. They placed a heavy charge in a building near Market and lit the fuse. It flashed its warning to run, but before the officers could escape, the blast blew them into the street, where flying pieces of the building fell upon them. Both men, knocked unconscious, were carried to the Mechanics Pavilion hospital.

In the Hall of Justice the mayor prepared another order directing everyone to remain at home at night for the protection of families and property during the continuance of the terror. He also ordered all saloons closed in the districts yet unburned. Because of the countless liquor bottles shattered during the quake, flames were exploding and flashing even higher from the flowing booze. Whenever someone ignored this order, he directed every ounce of liquor on the premises poured into the sewer. Not until the era of alcohol prohibition would there be such a depletion of potable spirits.

While the mayor and his men were at work, the dynamiting of a building a block away from the Hall of Justice echoed the earthquake and knocked glass and cornice work off the structure. Pieces fell past the windows, bounced off the ledges, and crashed around the building. Someone in the mayor's office shouted for him to move to another place, that his life was too valuable to risk remaining there. All agreed and rapidly adjourned to meet again at the Fairmont Hotel farther away from the flames and blasts.

The police also evacuated the Hall, taking their valuable records to Portsmouth Square. There Detective Daniel Pyle and others covered the records with canvas but they had no water with which to protect them. Rapidly the fire surrounded the square and imprisoned them. The heat was hellish. Falling cinders were constantly igniting the canvas. Spying a saloon across the street, they raided the place for bottled beer that they carried back to the Hall and poured over the canvas to keep it from igniting. Detective Pyle and his men saved the records.

Before long fire too threatened the City Hall building, the Central Emergency Hospital in its basement and forced it to be moved to the Mechanics Pavilion. In that vast building hundreds more the patients were laid on cots, on long rows of mattresses, and even on the floor. Many of the injured had head wounds or broken bones, mostly from bricks falling off chimneys, but now also first, second, and third degree burns.

Clergymen, physicians, and attendants worked as calmly as conditions allowed around the impromptu beds and operating tables in the great space of the pavilion. As assistants to Chief Surgeon Arthur Stillway, Doctors Dutton, Herzog, Kellin, Durham, Blendage and fifty or more volunteers operated on the injured. Catholic sisters worked side by side with Salvation Army women. Priests, ministers, and rabbis walked among the countless beds, giving the comfort and solace to the hurt and dying.

Of course the nurses were there too. The unsung efforts of those caregivers became legendary during the crisis. Young women from the hospitals, graduates from the nurses' homes, neighbor women, and those who drove their private automobiles to the door of the pavilion--all lent their hands to the work. Among them was Marianne Durand, working as the right hand to Doctor Stillway as well as supervising volunteers.

She managed to keep her mind on her work but could not ignore the feeling in her bones that Thomas was gone, that he and their lovely child were gone forever, lost in the tragedy that had befallen their beloved city. She could barely think of them without weeping. Yet, she denied despair. Just as she kept up the spirits of the ill and hurt with constant words of comfort and hope, she tried to bolster her own spirit. She had to live for the sake of the dead. She knew that truth. For her the truth was not the end of the world but the continuance of life, so, despite her profound suffering, disregarding her impulse to collapse, along with her city, she went on nurturing the patients. A Nightingale heir.

Passing from bed to bed on the floor of the great room, she cared for one after another of the suffering souls. Seeing one man particularly bruised and bloody, she stepped to him, and bent over his tortured body. Looking into his eyes, she saw the reflection of her own misery. He returned the gaze and lifted his trembling head as he whispered, "What--has become--of my wife?"

The question startled her in its echo of her own heart. For a moment she thought the man could read her mind and she was about to break down with grief. Yet she contained her senses, forced a reassuring smile, and said, "We'll find her. You just lie back and rest till the doctor comes to you. We'll find her." She was speaking to herself as much as to him.

He looked at her with eyes like those of a sick child to his mother, nodded, and then slowly lay down his head. As she was looking at him, another person was dying behind her. Many around her were groaning from intense pain, some moaning even more from the heartache of being permanently maimed. Others were dazed or unconscious, mercifully oblivious of their perilous predicament. Those who fortunately had come through the calamity intact were quietly and tenderly ministering to those wounded. As Marianne passed among them, they followed her with their eyes and hoped for some small regard.

She was the kind of nurse for whom patients watched and waited. When she entered a room, she drew all eyes to her presence. They wanted her to look at them, to smile, to speak, to touch them gently. They felt her touch was magical. The warmth that flowed through her fingertips seemed to relieve agony and to rally good health in the suffering. None appreciated her ministrations more than the firefighters whom their brethren in droves were carrying into the hospital.

George Wells was one such fireman who had arrived with a crushed leg. When his partners delivered him, they told Marianne that he was a most courageous man and begged her to save him. He had worked day and night since the flames began devouring the city. He had fought to save people and buildings and even other animals from an agonizing death. He had personally rescued several persons trapped in a collapsed warehouse. Doctor Stillway had tried to save his leg, but it was too damaged, so he had to amputate it at the hip. However, because Wells himself had become trapped inside that warehouse for many hours, the surgeon had not been able to make the cut soon enough. Gangrene had set in deeply, and Wells was dying.

Marianne nursed him from the time he arrived. She administered morphine to ease his mind-twisting pain; she cleansed his wound; she bathed him; she supervised his medication and his nourishment. He thanked her with his fading eyes and tried to thank her in words. "Hush--" she whispered. "Save your strength so you can get well and go home." Marianne laid her soothing hand on his forehead. She hovered over him like a guardian angel till he died in her arms. When he passed, she wept quietly for him, for her husband, and for her child. She cried only briefly, though, then wiped her eyes with her apron, and went back to work nursing the other many patients who were continually arriving. There seemed no end to the disaster.

As if all this were not enough, even more trouble was coming to the sick and wounded, trouble that would show no mercy. The blazing tide was racing toward the pavilion. The wooden structure was easy prey for the marauding flames, and soon fiery tongues were licking at its vulnerable walls.

***

By the second night after the quake most of the city was one colossal furnace incinerating the lower section of Market Street, Chinatown, and Nob Hill. Thousands of flames were lashing hundreds of feet into the firmament. A profane flower bursting out of damnation. Crackling timbers and plunging buildings roared as if the whole city had become Armageddon. And the second day the great fire raged more furiously than on the first day. Smoke completely covered the condemned city. The indefatigable beast was on a quest for total destruction.

Firebrands and flames were flying everywhere, sweeping everything before them with a storm of their own breathtaking creation. Clearing an infernal path that left the business section entirely devastated, they shifted at will and leaped into the residential parts of the city. As the hood of the second night was descending around the glowing metropolis, flames were eating their way into the North Beach section. And swooping anew to the south, they roared along the shipping section down the bay shore, hurdled the hills, and again swept into areas south of Market. More warehouses, wholesale houses, and manufacturing buildings fell like cardboard boxes to the fangs of fire.

Right below Market, a blaze broke out in a small frame house and spread north to the Grand Opera House. Burning to Market, it destroyed buildings along the south side of the boulevard. There and then the Call newspaper building caught fire. For a while men checked the blaze with water pumped from the sewers but they could not contain it.

On the north side of Market, a fire in a basement on Sansome Street exploded out of the place and spread to adjoining buildings. This fire also spread south and invaded the Mutual Life Building. Unlike the steel frame structures in which fire burned room by room, this particular building was tall and made of brick with an interior of wood so it became an immense chimney up which one massive fountain of flame rose as through a satanic incinerator.

Dynamiting seemed only to cause the beast to feed on the explosive. Coalescing with another fire from nearby streets, it burned the whole block bounded by California, Pine, Sansome, and Battery, then crossed Battery to the east and burned toward Front Street close to the bay. The fire blazed to the bay shore right up to the seawall, consuming everything along much of the shoreline. However, naval forces and a few fire companies with a supply of cistern water held it there for hours and saved a section of the waterfront at the foot of Telegraph Hill. When the earthquake had hit the California Fireworks Company near the bay, an independent fire exploded. This one burned west and north then mingled with another moving west. Burning ferociously, this gigantic part of the beast burned northward to the south side of Telegraph Hill.

All these blazes were dreadfully destructive but they were merely preludes to one that started in Hayes Valley, a notorious fire that became the mightiest monster of the entire holocaust. It destroyed more of humanity than any other fire in the city.

As the story goes in a house on Hayes Street east of Gough, a hapless woman lighted her stove to cook ham and eggs for breakfast. The earthquake had damaged the chimney of her house, as it had so many others, so the fire escaped and attacked her building and those adjacent. Firefighters engaged the flames but could not stop them. The fire crossed a block to the west, a block to the east, and Hayes Street to the south, then proceeded practically unhindered on its own path of massive destruction. Soon it devoured the St. Nicholas Hotel at the intersection of Market and Hayes and consumed the Franklin Hotel, which blazed for only minutes before falling in a heap onto Market Street. As inevitable as death, embers flew from building to building, giving spark to new fires along the way and eventually igniting the Mechanics Pavilion. A few firebrands on the roof--that was all it took.

Inside the huge old structure a patient on his bed looked up, saw a wisp of smoke crawling along the high ceiling, and screamed, "The building is on fire!"

Nurse Durand had been back to work only ten minutes after a brief nap when she heard the words that everyone in the provisional hospital had been silently dreading. Looking up, she saw flames tasting the rafters. A policeman, who had been standing his post in the hospital, climbed to the ceiling and stepped across a beam below the rafters. With his night stick he poked and pounded at the incipient fire till it went out, then he descended into the cheers from the people below. But, when ten or fifteen minutes later another fire started at a different part of the roof, renewed cries of dismay arose from the floor. This flame-up quickly grew into an uncontrollable blaze. Within that huge, open, wooden structure that would be mere kindling for the full force of the firestorm, hundreds of patients lay helpless.

Doctor Stillway, coming from the front door, ran to the middle of the crowded space and signaled for attention. "We must remove the patients," he said with calm, determined authority. He shouted: "Marianne--!" She was already at his side. In a surprisingly subdued voice, the doctor bent to her ear and whispered, "Every patient must be instantly taken outside to safety--the fire could engulf the building."

Her eyes flashed in reflection of the subtle terror that lay behind his quiet words. Drawing her with him he went out to the street and began calling for volunteers and commandeering automobiles. All kinds of vehicles--cars, carts, buggies, and wagons--quickly gathered around every exit. The medics inside the building instantly formed an ambulance corps, collected the patients around the doorways, and rapidly hauled them to the waiting vehicles.

The patients were amazingly calm, being so vulnerable. While one of them was waiting his turn, he spotted a place where a cinder lodged in the broad roof and caused a new flame to flare up. As he watched some heroic firemen trying to reach the newly started fire, he spoke to Nurse Durand with surprising composure. "Do you think you will get us all out of here in time?"

She smiled at him despite her fear and haste. "Yes--yes, we will." She wanted her patients to believe what she herself deeply doubted.

Doctor, policeman, and ordinary citizens--all flesh and blood guardians--helped patients who were crippled or bedridden, often blissfully unconscious. They carried a few, pushed some in cots, and toted others on mattresses. Men gathered around these pads, slid their arms under them, clasped hands, and carried the patients out, evacuating all of them from the doomed building. Outside they put the invalids into the various conveyances and, before the heat became too intense, they had safely removed all those living to other hospitals at secure distances from the fire.

A few hours after the first flames had flickered on the roof of the pavilion no live human was left in that huge hall of so many thrilling performance events of the past--the last event, more terrifyingly savage than most anyone had ever seen. All that remained inside were about twenty cadavers, corpses no one had time to remove, stacked in one corner of the building. As the monster engulfed the structure, those bodies were summarily cremated, and soon the heat and ash erased even bloodstains on the floor, remnant marks of suffering and death.

Some of the evacuees were taken to the General Hospital, where many tents sat on the grounds as storage and issue rooms. Lieutenant Colonel Lloyd Wheeler, Deputy Surgeon General in charge of the depot, secured a large circus tent for an activity center. From there he dispensed food, bedding, and clothing to persons in need. Additionally, a federal hospital corps came from Washington Barracks, D.C., and set up a field hospital in Golden Gate Park to care for the sick and injured when all other facilities overflowed.

Doctor Stillway and Nurse Durand accompanied patients to the park hospital where, until tents could be erected, they simply laid them on the grass. Many kind people took some patients into their nearby houses and cared for them, but most of the invalids lay in the open air, smoky and fouled with the noxious odor of the burning city. There with the holocaust glowing on their hunched backs and gleaming in their sweaty brows, Nurse Durand and her band of angels tended to the infirm. Racing to & fro among the prostrate patients, she administered medication, soothed anxiety, and wiped away blood and sweat from anguished faces.

Forty-eight hours after the quake, huge numbers of patients were flowing into the Golden Gate Park field hospital. A sailor, suffering with a gunshot wound inflicted while he was trying to stop a looting, stumbled into the camp. Derelicts and harlots from the Barbary Coast, who could not get their morphine from the usual sources, came there to beg for it. Marianne turned them away, informing them, though they would not listen, that those hurt from the quake and fires needed the drug more than they did.

When not attending to patients Marianne poured milk from large cans to accompany what little bread she could find for the refugees to eat. All the while, she scanned the grim and grimy faces of the evacuees for the recognizable features of her husband. She looked twice at anyone who vaguely resembled him, each time hoping she had miraculously found her man. Each time for a moment her heart would leap in her chest, but every instant upon closer look, she found yet another poor exiled soul, not her husband. She thought she saw him everywhere, yet she saw him nowhere except in the wishful visions of her mind.

That night, homeless herself, Marianne Durand bedded down among the patients in the park. Having slept little since the quake, she was exhausted so she fell asleep quickly and slept soundly till exploding dynamite shocked her awake. Between blasts she could hear the roar of the flames devouring the city. Despite the horror, she forced herself to rest till daylight, aware that she would need all the strength she could rally for the next day. All the while, she thought of Thomas and their baby as if by keeping them in her mind she were keeping them alive. During the dark hours before dawn she remembered and savored every special day of their lives together--their courtship, their wedding, the news of her conception, the christening, Christmas, Easter--until, as often happens right before daybreak, without realizing it she finally fell asleep.

When she awoke later that morning, at first she was frightened, disoriented in the strange surroundings. Her initial thought was to get word to her parents, but knowing the lines of communication were down she wondered how she could notify them. While this dilemma raced around in her head, she saw a policeman carrying a wounded comrade and her primary concern flashed back into her mind. Throwing a blanket over her shoulders, she ran to the policeman. "Officer!" Either not hearing her or ignoring yet another of thousands of pitiful entreaties for help, the policeman continued walking without looking back. But Marianne would not be ignored. She shouted, "Officer--wait!" and grabbed his arm.

Caught, he stopped and pinned her with fierce eyes. Noticing she was a nurse, his expression softened; he became more compliant, expecting her to help him with his comrade. "Yes, ma'm--I have...."

"I'm Marianne Durand, Nurse Durand--" She led him to a tent.

"Yes?"

"My husband and baby child were in the Valencia Hotel. Do you know...?"

"The Valencia--?" he stared at her then looked away.

"Yes, I know--it collapsed and burned, but...."

"Your husband and baby--they were in the hotel, ma'm?" He saw that Marianne's eyes were red with tears. "I'm sorry, ma'm--"

"I never found them--I don't know where they are or if they...."

"Durand, you say?"

"Yes," she said hopefully as she helped him lay the injured man on a cot.

"I don't know of anyone found there named Durand. We did find a lot of bod--a lot of people in the hotel. Terrible thing that. We took a bunch of them to, to the morgue--you know--but when the fire erupted, we had to move them to the shooting range, but there were so many we finally had to bury them in Portsmouth Square. So I don't...."

"Of course--" She looked down to keep from crying. "You wouldn't necessarily know...."

"I don't believe we found any babies in that building. Some children, but no little ones. Are you sure your...?"

"No, officer, I'm not sure, I'm not sure of anything. That's why I'm asking you. I don't know where else to turn."

He looked at his injured comrade, worry disfiguring his face.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to snap at you. Here, let me help you with him." Together they attend to the patient. "I know how hard you've been working to help the people in this horrible time. It's only that I...."

"I know, ma. I know. I've lost some good friends too. No family, thank God--but some friends. I understand a little how you feel. If I knew anything at all about your husband, I would tell you."

She nodded and lowered her eyes to the patient. "How'd it happen, officer?"

"Frankie was helping people get out of their houses, ma'm, before the fire caught them. He's always doin' things like that. The quake must've shaken loose a chimney--part of it fell on him."

"Oh, dear." She scanned the young man's body for wounds. "Where was he hit?"

"The head, I think--a brick--"

Without a word she examined Frankie's head and checked his eyes, while the policeman shifted from one foot to the other. When she straightened up and smiled at him, he felt his breath escape as if he had been holding it since the accident. "He's going to be all right, ma is--?"

"He should be fine. It's a bad cut but there's only a little swelling. The brick might have struck him a glancing blow, enough to daze him but hopefully not enough to do any serious damage--maybe a concussion--but not too bad." She glanced at the patient. "We won't know for certain, though, till the doctor sees him--and your friend wakes up."

He stared at her in silence for a moment then said, "Tell you what--I'll check the records of the--of the dead, Mis'ess Durand. I'll see if anyone found a man with a baby."

"Oh, would you, officer? Thank you so much--" She could not contain the tears.

He hesitated, wary of giving her false hope. Still, he wanted to comfort her. "Now, now, ma is--maybe they got out alive. Some did, you know. Maybe he's in some shelter and wondering where you are. Maybe he's looking for you right now."

Marianne smiled at his effort to encourage her and squeezed his arm, but despite her undaunted hopefulness, she felt in the pit of her stomach that something very deleterious had happened to her husband and child. Ignoring her fear, she nodded to affirm his intentions and said, "Yes, yes--please see what you can find out. I'll be tormented till I know for certain. His name is Thomas Durand. Our son is Tommy Junior."

He looked at her intensely and said, "I'll do my level best for you, ma'm. I'll let you know--anything I find out--as soon as I can. I promise you."

"Good news or bad, officer--I need to know," she said while working over his friend.

"Soon as I know. Count on Jimmy O'Doul." He stood still behind her, not wanting to leave his wounded comrade. Seeing his worried vigilance, she hastened to dress the wound of the fallen officer. O'Doul stood there staring at his buddy as if trying to will him into consciousness.

"You don't have to wait, officer--he could be out for several hours."

"I...."

"Come back tomorrow, Officer O'Doul. We may know something by then."

***

The next day, while Marianne was changing the bandages on the policeman, Officer O'Doul entered the tent. She was so busy with her work she did not hear him. "How's he doin', nurse?"

Startled, Marianne fumbled with the bandage. "Oh--" she uttered and whipped her head around to see the man in blue standing in the doorway. "You scared me, Officer O'Doul," Marianne said. "You step like a cat."

"Comes with the job, I guess," he said with a nervous laugh, but his eyes quickly lost the momentary mirth, as he became silent and looked at his partner.

"Doin' fine, Jimmy, 'cept fer a brutal headache," the injured officer said. "Didn't even get drunk to deserve it." He snickered. O'Doul laughed a little with relief but something else was on his mind, something dark, dragging down his spirit.

Sensing his mood Marianne looked into his eyes. Instantly she knew what he was thinking. "What? Is it?" Her face dropped with the realization. Oh, no--!"

"I'm afraid...."

"You needn't be afraid, officer. Go ahead. I'm familiar with bad news." She raised her hand to indicate the hospital tents around them and swallowed hard to keep down the grief surging through her body.

He nodded to proceed. "I'm sorry, ma--your husband is dead. I'm truly sorry--"

"Dead--" She gripped his arm. The word pounded in her brain.

"Buried in Portsmouth Square--in an unmarked grave, I regret to say."

Although she had known the likely fact of Thomas's death in a dark secret place inside her, Marianne nearly swooned when she heard the words--dead and buried. They boomed in her mind like the rumbling of a kettledrum. The searing truth of her husband's death, the inexorable reality that she could never look into his handsome eyes, touch his living body, or talk with him hit her hard. She slumped to a chair. Officer O'Doul reached out to keep her from falling to the floor. "I'm--I'll be all right," she muttered. "Thank you." She was afraid to ask the next question but had to know. She could not meet the policeman's eyes this time, and the words stuck in her throat, but she had to force the question into the open. "And the baby--what about my baby?"

"Baby, ma'm? We found no baby--only a crushed bed and pieces of blankets."

She shot a look straight at him, her eyes inquisitive, her thoughts whirling. "No baby? What do you mean?" She of course knew what he meant, but her brain was not sending coherent messages for her to speak.

He understood her perplexity and remained patient without saying a word, only staring at his shoes. He noticed how scuffed and dirty they were and felt an urge to polish them. A gust of wind blew into the tent. Even though it was not cold, Marianne shivered and wrapped herself in her arms. O'Doul thought about putting his arm around her and even raised them toward her but quickly pulled back. She did not notice his gesture, being too absorbed in grief and wonder about the fate of her child. Alive? Could he...? She barely dared to think of the possibility now for fear the very thought would jinx it.

O'Doul continued the thought for her as if he had read her mind: "I don't know, ma'm--maybe he survived--somehow."

She grasped at his words as if at a lifeline tossed to her floating hope. "Survived?" she heard herself ask and by doing so fastened it in her mind.

The policeman realized that he might have crossed a forbidden boundary, having learned from painful experience never to encourage too much hopefulness. If fears for bad turned to facts for good, then he would go with them, but to stoke a grieving person's wish for a miracle was unfair and sometimes cruel. He had no intention of hurting this good woman. He had already said too much. "I'm sorry, ma'm." he said. "I just don't know what happened to the lad. I wish I could tell you something to make you feel better, but I...."

"I know, officer, I know." She offered him her sweet smile. "Thank you for your kind efforts to find out about my family." She extended her hand.

He took her slender fingers in his broad palm and held them as if they were the broken wings of a fallen bird. She gently squeezed his fingers and slowly slipped her hand back to her lap. Then she stood up, wiped her eyes, and straightened her gown. "Well," she said struggling to be valiant, "I must get back to work. People need me."

"They do, ma'm. They need us both." He tipped his hat and bowed respectfully. "Thanks for taking care of the lad there, ma'm." He looked at his comrade. "See you later, Frankie." The young man waved weakly but tried to look tough as O'Doul stepped out of the tent.

As she watched the policeman leave, Marianne knew she would probably never see Officer Jimmy O'Doul again but would not forget him. So engrossed was she in her gut-wrenching grief that she failed to notice Doctor Stillway entering the tent right after him. Perceiving her state of mind, he quietly cleared his throat. Upon seeing him, she wiped away her tears as if embarrassed. "Oh, doctor--I'm sorry. Do you need me?"

"Always, Marianne--but you seem to need time to yourself."

"No, I'm fine, doctor. Just a little twinge from all the suffering. I'm all right."

"Good. I really need your assistance in fourteen." He stepped out of the tent. She followed him.

The morning atmosphere was hazy and stinking with smoke. The park looked more like a campground for the lost than a place for rest and recreation. Dull moaning sounds arose from the tents like a chorus of the damned, and sometimes a ghastly scream tore the air as if from a soul falling interminably to her death. Together doctor and nurse walked silently across the trampled grass to a nearby tent and disappeared into the misery and suffering that awaited them.

Inside the tent Marianne froze momentarily when she saw the bloody and broken bodies, as she imagined how Thomas appeared when they had found him. The doctor allowed her time to gather her senses. Unable to think about her personal tragedy any further for fear her mind would slip into a dark place, Marianne shook off despair and threw herself into her life-saving work with the sick, the hurt, and the dying that lay before her.

Alive? The question about her baby stuck in her mind and repeated itself like a mantra while she attended the patients. She could not remove it, nor did she want it to leave. It was her prayer, the only thing she had left. Although Doctor Stillway did not know of her prayer, he knew of her suffering, so he kept his eye on her all the time he was caring for his patients. His nurses were his right hand. He would keep them strong any way he could. He wanted to help Marianne out of her lonely anguish but he knew she had to work through it herself. In any event, he was always handy for reassurance. He touched her shoulder in a way that made her feel better. Affection was part of that touch and a little healing but it was more firm support from another human being who knew and understood profound suffering.

The good doctor had long born in his heart more than a professional interest in the pretty and proficient nurse but out of respect for her marriage had kept it secret. A lifelong bachelor he seldom had the time to socialize with women, at least that is what he always told himself. Besides, of all the women he had known personally he had never become acquainted with a woman whom he appreciated as much as this one who worked steadily by his side, but who was oblivious of his fondness for her. Or so he thought. Once he had heard that her husband was among the missing, he could not help but feel hope rising in his breast that something more could come of their relationship. This feeling troubled him some, for he feared being ghoulish in his attention to her, yet he could not and would not deny the feeling. If she were a widow, which he thought was likely, she would be missing the companionship of a loving man. He believed she liked him, maybe more than as a doctor. He would bide his time and be there for her should she turn his way. For the time being, though, they had work to do.

Chapter 15

The fires continued raging. Three major parts of the city were now caught in the flaming storm: south of Market, north of Market, and Hayes Valley to the west. Besides a gigantic swath of fire that extended south of Market, the Hayes fire raged south, then east, engulfed the Mechanics Pavilion, flamed into a wing of the City Hall, blew north, and flew furiously farther west. Within twelve hours all these fires fused into one infernal tempest that hurled flames, sparks, and smoke hundreds of feet into the sky across a vast area of San Francisco. The night became luminous with a fantastic radiance. A city of fire that made real Dante's vision of the seventh circle of hell.

The Hayes eruption itself was now spreading a scarlet tsunami over much of the northern section of the city. It had started to burn its way west of Van Ness Avenue, but there firefighters beat it to a halt. They also held it east of Van Ness, but it spread south to Geary and headed even farther south, back into the already ravaged Mission District. Most of the fires north of Market reunited in a hellish cabal and reached Kearny Street. Then the Stauffer Sulfur Refinery exploded into a torrent, and its flames blasted north into Chinatown.

Raging westward through Chinatown and the rest of the retail district, the fire expanded along other streets farther north. The insatiable monster destroyed building after building till on the next day it mysteriously halted above Pine Street. Not for long. A lull in terror can be illusory. Soon it erupted out of its own embers like an immortal beast, reared its horrible head, burned around the Fairmont Hotel, and then ignited the St. Francis Hotel. Bellowing farther north, this fire joined its kindred fiend from Kearny, and firebrands flying from the firestorm threatened St. Mary's Church on California Street.

The fire department had for a long time considered Powell Street an admirable place to put out any ordinary fire because of its width and location among the hills of the city, but this was no ordinary fire. The open block of Union Square also ought to have resisted the flames. As should have escaped the block above Post Street that was only partially developed with excavations for a new edifice. As if sensing a challenge, flames encircled these untouched places.

Buildings along the north side of Market, buildings firefighters thought they had saved when the south side was aflame on the day after the quake, were now burning. The Flood Building, that had withstood the onslaught so far, succumbed when flames violated its eighth floor. By then nearly everything north of Market Street was going up in smoke, and the fire was marching inexhaustibly westward.

When flames traversed Powell, the street that the firefighters had hoped to make the western limit of the vast conflagration, they had to abandon all thoughts of stopping the fire east of Van Ness. Moreover, the west wind so common in that city failed to blow against the flames and help the firefighters in their wearisome fight.

Firefighters had also hoped they could have easily saved the block the Stanford House occupied around Nob Hill. North of California Street stood the magnificent new fireproof Fairmont Hotel. When a wooden church steeple caught fire, that broke the chain of fortification, making the entire block vulnerable. Everything there, regardless of value, went up in smoke. The relentless force worked its intractable way westward, wasting everything in its path. With that devastation, the district that contained so many officially avowed fireproof buildings was annihilated, the St. Francis Hotel being the last.

Now, to the west lay block after block of residences: family hotels and flats helpless beneath the onslaught of the blazing blitz. Among them was Leo Brown's home.

During the second day after the quake, furious flames lashed off the ridge of Nob Hill and bore down toward Russian Hill. With no regard for the fine fancies of humanity, the fire raged into the Mark Hopkins Institute of Art. Leo's entire battalion rolled up Nob Hill to fight the flames there. For a long time, using water from cisterns on top of the hill, they struggled with enormous effort to save the building. The captain of Engine Number 9 directed Leo and the firemen to stream water onto the institute and surrounding buildings, but the cistern went dry.

Without waiting for permission, Leo unhooked the impotent hose from the engine and ran into the building. "I'll look inside for water," Leo shouted to the captain. While flames were shooting above the walls, he searched frantically around the courtyard and found a cistern, from which he ran the hose outside to the engine. For a while, they were able to keep the precious liquid supplying the hoses.

As they were working to save the historic structure, Mayor Schwartz unexpectedly arrived and walked up to the building. He watched them working for some moments then stepped close to the captain. "You're doing God's work, men, God's work. I know you'll try your level best to save the building."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," the captain said. "We're doing all we can."

Leo stared at the mayor and wondered why the he apparently felt the need to urge them to work as hard as they could. Was it not obvious to anyone who had two eyes that they were exhausting themselves fighting the fire? The mayor watched a moment more in silence then left the area. The firemen did not see him leave. Leo was glad he was gone so the fireman could concentrate on the struggle.

They continued working until the fire surrounded them and threatened their lives, then they had to retreat from the battle. The landmark of art and education burned to the quake-shattered ground, except for a piece of wall that jutted into the smoky sky like a huge blade, a final image of protest against the destruction of man-made creation.

After devastating the Institute of Art, the fire swept west, destroying the residences of the rich and famous on Nob Hill. It again circled the Fairmont to the north and invaded the hotel from the west, driving city officials to yet another location. From there the beast thundered west toward Van Ness, east toward the Barbary Coast, and north toward Russian Hill and the Brown family home.

Below Geary Street the fire raced west and met its breed from Hayes Valley. Dynamiting did nothing to stay the brute's progress. It devoured everything. The fire was sweeping north as well as west and, finding an endless supply of nourishment, it was gradually, relentlessly moving west toward that residential area of the city.

Firefighters dynamited more buildings and started backfires on the east side of Van Ness to stop its westward advance. South of this area, they had water and were ready to take on the fire when it reached that area. That long, wide avenue had become, because of its dimensions, the boundary of the fire in the northwestern part of the city; but soon the line of flames was burning buildings along even Van Ness.

The beast was poised at any moment to cross to the west of Van Ness, for the Spreckels stable on Sacramento Street was afire, as were the adjacent buildings. Eventually the fire crossed Sacramento and burned westward; however, dynamiting combined with water relayed from Laguna Street halted the fire along Franklin Avenue. As the more northern fires approached Van Ness, firefighters denied them a crossing too, and thereby protected all areas west of Van Ness from danger. The firefighters might be able to save the residential district of the Western Addition. The concerted efforts of the fire department and volunteers were beginning to throttle the life out of the unruly thing that had been making war on their city. The broad width of the street made it easier for them, but without their mighty effort, the flames would have prevailed.

Unfortunately around Russian Hill the fire was disintegrating the entire region south of the hill and as far west as Van Ness. East of the Hill it burned to the north till it reached the base of Telegraph Hill. Except for those flames south and east of Russian Hill, though, the great fire seemed finally stoppable.

South of Market its western boundary held along Dolores then followed an irregular line across Market to Van Ness. Even the northern boundary was so far unchanged at Russian Hill, a number of citizens stopping its northern movement from Russian Hill to Van Ness. For a while the section to the north seemed saved, but over-zealous fire fighters along Van Ness, exerting all their efforts to stop the flames from leaping across that thoroughfare to the west, dynamited the Viavi Building at Van Ness.

They had at this time a long line of engines and hose from the tug Slocum at the foot of Van Ness and they believed they could save the western section from any harm with explosives. Unfortunately, the dynamiting proved unnecessary. Worse, it blew more firebrands into the northern section that residents had worked so hard to save. At this time a strong west wind, the very wind the city had wanted for two days to halt the western progress of the fire, arose, and soon spread the flames into the last remnant of residential section east of Van Ness Avenue.

The fire pressed northward along Van Ness to Lombard and veered eastward to join the fire that had burned north to Telegraph Hill. Up to the time when the Viavi Building fire came up Russian Hill, the Fire Department had a long line of hose from the tugboat, Golden Gate, at the foot of Stockton Street and they were working relentlessly to stop the fire at Lombard. They had to get their apparatus out of the way, though, for the west wind was driving the fire toward them at a phenomenal velocity.

Firefighters tried to hold the fire at Columbus Avenue on the north end of the city, fighting it long and hard until flames came from Russian Hill to the west of their position, burning opposite the direction it had burned earlier in the day. They used dynamite again, but as usual, that only made the fire more furious; so they again had to move their apparatus out of the way by hand. The flames had found an open path up Russian Hill and a clear shot to the northern bay shore.

Chapter 16

After dragging themselves away from their defeat at the Art Institute, Leo and his cohorts again rode their engine into battle at Van Ness Avenue. They stared mutely at the devastated city smoking and smoldering to the east and south and glumly watched the flames leap through the smokestrewn sky along Van Ness. Suddenly someone screamed, "The cathedral is burning!"

Leo looked up and saw flames attacking the steeple of St. Mary's Church. Grabbing an ax, an extension of his arm, Leo strapped it to his belt and leaped off the truck. He dashed up the street ahead of the engine. The firemen got off the truck and surveyed the situation. To their dismay they saw the church tower blazing. "My God!" another person shouted. "Someone's got to save it!"

For a moment none of the firemen knew what to do, at least took no action to do it. Only Leo, the ax bouncing on his thigh, bounded over a fence and scaled the wall of the building. He climbed to the top of the tower where he chopped furiously at the woodwork. Flames blazed around him. At some moments he disappeared behind the smoke and fire as if they had consumed him.

One man pulled out a telescope and focused to find the fireman. "There he is!" he shouted and pointed at the small figure high above the street as he clung to the tower and cut away the blazing wood.

Amid the flames Leo appeared and disappeared, his ax flailing at the tower. Pieces of burning wood flew off the structure and plunged crazily leaving long smoky trails to the street. For more than an hour he fought to save the church, then almost miraculously the flames retreated, the smoke cleared, and Leo stood victorious atop the building. He had saved the cathedral.

Everyone on the street cheered, as the fireman practically tumbled from the tower. Falling into the street, he was battered and burned. Nonetheless, he hugged his mates and tried to scramble aboard the engine. Seeing his serious wounds, they grabbed him just as he passed out and laid him on top of the engine. The big machine rumbled down Van Ness to Lombard and headed for the medical camp in Golden Gate Park.

Before the engine stopped in the park, four firemen carried Leo off the vehicle and ran with him into the nearest tent. Inside, Marianne Durand was working with a patient, her back turned. Turning to see them with the wounded fireman, she sized up the man's condition and said, "Follow me." She led them to another tent, where the men helped her put Leo onto a cot. She checked the patient's pulse and looked at his unseeing eyes. "Tell me what happened."

They looked at each other to see who would answer; the eldest spoke up, his dirty white moustache twitching. "Likely burned, ma'm--took in a lot of smoke too--fightin' fire on top of St. Mary's."

A younger man standing by his side added, "He's beat too."

Marianne looked the men over and felt a gasp rising in her throat. They looked like the walking dead: their clothes torn, scorched, and filthy; their faces ghastly beneath a layer of smeared ash that hid their bruises and burns; their eyes red as if they could drip blood. Standing close together, the men appeared to be keeping each other from falling. "I see what you mean," she said. They glanced at one another, and when a younger one nodded, the others did too. "Maybe you all could use some medical attention." Again they looked at each other, and when the elder shook his head, the others did too.

"We're all right, ma'm," the older man said, his moustache fluttering. "Just see to Leo. He's a brave man. We don't wanna lose him."

"I'm sure you're all brave men." Her eyes convinced them of her sincerity.

Too uncomfortable with this praise to acknowledge it, the firemen looked at their fallen comrade as if they might never see him again. Knowing the feeling too well they resigned themselves to leave him in the nurse's hands.

"We'll take good care of him," she said.

"Fix him up, ma'm." The elder spoke as if commanding her then looked awkward about his intensity.

"We'll do our best."

The man nodded, scraped his big hand over his dirty face, and led the others out of the tent. Marianne watched them go out one by one, each bowing slightly in gratitude.

"Oh, by the way--" she said to the last one to leave. "Did he save the church?"

"Sure did ma'm--God bless 'im." He touched his hat and left.

She gazed at Leo's dirty, scorched face with both pity and awe. Not one to waste a moment, the nurse cut away her patient's clothes and wiped off his body. Seeing his strapping build, she showed no special interest; only the cuts and the bruises on his torso momentarily stopped her. She had seen many men's bodies in the hospital during her career and had grown to consider them more or less scientifically--human individuals to be saved and treated for illness or injury--nothing beyond that. Thomas had not been particularly muscular, she remembered, but his body had been lean and tight. She had always enjoyed moving her small hands across his chest, his arms, and his legs. He was a man, her man, and she loved every inch of him. When she saw Leo's wounded body, though, she felt more compassion than usual for the plight of this stalwart man who had fallen in the line of duty. She had treated many such men and women, but she was particularly drawn to this one.

Since the patient was unconscious, she could indulge herself in a little hero worship. Who is he? Where from? Any family? Someone know he's hurt? Such questions raced through her mind as she felt his pulse, took his temperature, checked his blood pressure, and prepared a chart on him for the doctor.

When Doctor Stillway entered the tent, he startled Marianne. She felt embarrassed like a young girl sitting too close to a boy on the divan in her parents' parlor. "Well, what do we have here, nurse?" he asked rather coldly.

"Oh, yes, doctor--a new patient--a fireman wounded while...."

"I heard he's some kind of hero--"

"Yes--"

"I understand this young man saved one of the churches--singlehandedly and nearly died doing it. The camp is abuzz with the story. How's he doing?"

"He's unconscious, doctor--lacerations, contusions, and burns. I don't know what else."

"Let me have a look." The doctor examined Leo quickly but carefully. Then he stood straight and exhaled loudly to emphasize an important pronouncement. "We'll have to watch this man closely, nurse. The cuts and bruises look bad but aren't life threatening. However, he inhaled too much smoke, I suspect. Better see that he gets enough oxygen. Hope his lungs haven't been too badly seared--or his brain badly affected. After you treat his wounds, keep a close watch. I'll check back in the morning."

When Doctor Stillway pushed out of the tent, Nurse Durand watched him leave with a look of wanting him to stay, to do something more for this man, to be sure to save his life. But she knew the doctor was too busy to care long for any one person, considering the scores of people being brought into the park every hour, and he had to allocate his time to help most those in dire need. Many patients she had to nurse back to health on her own, and this man lying in a coma in front of her was not the least of them.

During that day Marianne had many duties with other patients, helping her fellow nurses, and assisting the doctors, but she always returned to the tent where Leo lay. To see if he was still breathing, still alive. Something in this young man stirred more in her than her conditioned nurturing response. She saw him as a magnificent mystery she wanted to solve, to salve, and his presence seemed to assuage her grief for Thomas that was clawing at her insides. That night she sat in the tent where Leo lay and looked upon him as an exalted peer struck down while trying to do much what she was trying to do--save bodies and souls from hell. During the night she fell asleep in a chair but slept little for she had thousands of sick and wounded on her mind, all of whom this fireman symbolized.

Home. She thought of Thomas and the baby boy. Embracing--close in a familial triad. Unshakable and full of joy. The flowers of spring exploding. The April weather warm, even hot for the coastal city. Three hearts beating enough to move the earth, their love on fire. When she dozed for brief periods she often dreamed and muttered in her sleep, completely unaware of the involuntary thoughts that spilled from her mouth: "Thomas--Tommy--home--Easter bouquet--mother and father--heartache, attack--husband--baby, Thomas--family--Earth churning--Where?--What in hell?--falling, falling--Thomas!--the baby! Baby! Oh, God! Save them! My baby!"

On the cot in front of this fretful sleeper, Leo lay unconscious, apparently dead but for his slow breathing and the surreal sequence of images that flowed deep within his own mind like an epic but chaotic motion picture of disaster.

Great swells from a bloodred sea were heading into the peninsula, rolling beneath the coastal sand that sparkled like pulverized glass--the swells combing eastward through the sleeping city as if a gigantic Pleistocene mole were plowing from the ocean to the bay--deafening subterranean thunder booming into the predawnair--the streets waving like giant sheets of rubber--structures rocking and crumbling and crashing to the groaning ground--mindrending screams tearing through the quiet darkness--bomb clouds of dust billowing into the sky--fissures opening into hell--flaming demons escaping the infernal depths, firebrands flying from their snaggletoothed mouths--the crimson antigod of the underworld arising in the midst of the city, his flaming raiment flashing in all directions, fiery tentacles grabbing everything in his diabolic grasp--avalanches of stone crushing people in a race for their lives or lying prostrate with exhaustion, all pleading to heaven through the billowing smoke--lost souls wailing, tumbling into the fissures, their freefalling bodies cremated to vapor--the Stygian brute roaring like the spew from a volcano, challenging God for dominion over Earth and its creatures--the magnificent orb of life turned inside out--the sun becoming nova--the end of the world--

Leo's brow beaded with sweat. His lips trembled. His eyelids twitched erratically, as the mad motion picture in his mind continued.

A baby crying, falling into the broken and burning bowels of the earth--he, the fireman, diving into a fissure, flying through the flaming chasm, seeing the falling child, catching him in his smoking arms, then soaring out of the abyss--the fireman flying out of the stricken city, heading over the open sea--soaring into the clouds--laying the baby on amorphous pillows in the sky--lying back to rest--breathing deeply and gazing long into the limpid air--then the vast canopy becoming hazy, darkening....

"Ba-by--" he muttered in response to some vague, faraway plea. "Baby, where--?"

Marianne had fallen asleep, but her instinct never slept. Sensing something changed around her, she roused after she heard garbled, unidentifiable words. When she realized she may have been talking in her sleep, she started with a jerk and fearfully scanned the room. Her eyes rested on her patient, his face.

Leo took another deep breath and opened his eyes to see a dark blurred space directly above him. He tried to speak but could say nothing. Straining to turn his head to find something, he felt pain shooting through his body. He cast his eyes around to see something recognizable in this strange world. But could see nothing. Panic struck his heart and surged throughout his flesh. Blind?! Then he saw the shadow of a person. He peered through the darkness and could barely discern the shape, the figure of a woman. He could not see her eyes but sensed, imagined that she was beautiful like an angel in an ancient painting. Heaven? He tried to speak to her but could utter no sound and could hear little except weird liquid, metallic noises all muffled in murmuring at a great distance.

"Well, well, sleeping prince--" the angel said.

At the sound of her voice, he smiled at hearing the spirit speak to him as out of a dream. "Are, are you an--an angel--?"

When she arose from her chair, he thought she was taking flight. As she stepped to his side, he closed his eyes and reopened them.

She laughed a little. "No, I'm not an angel. I'm a nurse and I'm here for you," she said. "My name is Marianne Durand. Don't worry--you're going to be all right." She laid her hand on his seared and scarred face. She wanted to soothe his journey out of the edge of oblivion and back into the world, brutal as it was.

Mary and--? He struggled to focus his eyes in the darkness but could barely see her face smiling on him, a face like that of the woman in Michelangelo's Pieta. He knew now that he could not be dead. Had to be alive! The living son of man. She may not be the mother of Jesus nor even an angel come to Earth but she appeared to be a nurturing giver of grace that he desperately needed. For a long time like a vulnerable child, he only stared at her. At last he spoke. "I'm not--in heaven?"

She laughed like a light breeze. "Heaven! My, my, sir, no--but you have been in hell." When she said that profoundly vile word, which perfectly stated all that had been happening in San Francisco for more than two days, she felt somber and sad yet kept her focus. "How do you feel?"

He tried to move. "Sore. And hungry."

Again the pleasant breeze wafted across his wounded face. She could see that he wanted to smile at her. "Hunger is a good sign. But your skin is going to feel very tight for several days--till it peels."

"What happened--?"

"You don't remember?" She was worried but knew how to conceal it.

"I--I remember--a church--on fire--"

"A church--yes."

"I felt like I flew from the steeple" he chuckled at the thought. "Or something--"

"Flew! Well, I'd like to have seen that. I've never seen a fireman fly."
"A flying fireman." He laughed in surprise at his whimsy but groaned from pain.

His weak but amiable appreciation of humor at such a time touched her, and she put her hand on his tortured head. "Why don't you rest quietly," she said. "I want the doctor to see you again." He tried to lift his hand to touch her arm. Sensing his intention she took his hand in hers. "Now, now--don't worry--Mister--"

"Brown."

"Brown. What a nice strong name." Firm like the earth." She tittered. "Well, that may not be the best image anymore, I suppose."

Again he tried to laugh. Again he groaned.

"You rest, Mister Brown," she said over her shoulder as she slipped out of the tent. "I'll find the doctor."

"Leo," he said softly when she left. He could not tell if she heard him. As he lay alone in the room that was slowly lighting with the new day, he thought about his nightmares, the voice he had heard, and the baby. The baby! Anxiety surged through him like an electric shock. He knew Ah Sung would be caring for Cat, and she would be worrying about him, so he had to contact her. He had to--somehow--get up, get out of bed--and go to them.

Marianne re-entered the tent with Doctor Stillway and said, "Hey, Firebird--you can't fly the coup yet!"

"I feel fine, nurse," Leo took one step then stumbled into their arms. "I have to get home to--" His aching lungs heaved and he started coughing violently.

Catching him before he fell to the floor, they helped him back into the bed. "We'll send you home as soon as you're patched up, young man," the doctor said. "You've suffered some pretty bad bruises and burns--probably lung damage."

Leo caught his breath and looked at the doctor then at Marianne. When he saw the kind and concerned expression on her face, he relaxed. While, the doctor examined him, Leo kept looking at Marianne for reassurance.

"He's the best," she said.

Neither Leo nor the doctor knew to whom she was referring, and each assumed it was the other but hoped it was himself. "He is," they agreed in unison.

Realizing the awkward situation, they all regarded each other with inquisitive looks then laughed self-consciously. Leo also cringed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mister Brown--" Marianne said. "It's that tight skin I told you...."

"Leo," he said quietly. She started to repeat the name.

"Yes, yes--" the doctor said. "He's banged up and a little toasted. Typical fireman's reward for hard work. Eh, Mister Brown?"

Leo was about to smile politely in response to the doctor's rather tart bedside manner but restrained himself and settled for a nod.

"A couple of days under Nurse Durand's tender care and you'll be ready to go home," the doctor said.

"When can I go back to work?" Leo asked.

The doctor looked at his nurse. "Well, if you must--in a day or two. Just be careful. You're not made of iron, you know."

"No, but he can almost fly," Marianne said.

Leo felt the beginning of worry that he was not ever going to live down his escapade on the church steeple. He detected with relief that the allusion briefly perplexed the doctor, who quickly recovered his professional demeanor. "Well, I've got a lot of other suffering people to see--so if you two will excuse me--"

"Certainly, doctor," Marianne said. "I'll be right with you."

"Take your time, nurse. God has blessed us with a rare lull in patients. Now that Mister Brown looks like he's going to recover, you should take a break. I hear the Red Cross has some good coffee." He looked at her for a response to indicate she would like to join him. When none was forthcoming, he glanced at the two of them with no particular sentiment showing in his eyes then left the tent.

Leo and Marianne stared at each other until in a moment both had to look away like a couple of shy school children. Although Marianne was still grieving for the loss of her dear husband, she felt a spontaneously growing affinity for this man. Maybe she idolized him a little for his heroic efforts in trying to save the city. Maybe she saw in him some good quality about which she was wanted to know more. Maybe she was fantasizing about her future in that spontaneous way people have when a pleasing opportunity arises before them. Just as quickly, as the warm feelings for Leo entered her heart, the remembrance of her dead husband and lost child displaced them and took over her mind. She sank into a brooding silence.

Leo sensed her change of mood but tried not to show it. He hardly knew this kind, gentle, attractive young woman and, despite the magnetism he felt for her, he would allow her space and time to behave as she wished. After all, he was at her mercy, depending on her for his recovery; he knew of worse situations. And besides, he much needed a respite from the battle raging for the life of San Francisco. Still, he was feeling somewhat guilty for enjoying himself in any way, if suffering in a hospital bed can be considered enjoyment. But Marianne made it so. Marianne Durand. The nurse was helping him lose his physical pain and, unknown to her, was helping him find a different kind of pang inside himself that he had never felt. He wanted more.

They grew closer quickly, experiencing that beneficent mixing of chemistry between people, which leads to fast friendship and beyond. When she entered his tent, he felt that phenomenal lightness of being that rushes through the body when a man is in the presence of a woman he could love. Whenever he looked at her, she felt warmth infuse the center of her being, a sign of trust important to a woman. Whenever she looked at him, he felt the same but did not yet understand it. They came to know each other quickly and soon behaved as if they had been friends for years.

However, they were each reticent to share some of the most intimate facts of their lives. Marianne did not tell him about her husband or child, the loss of whom was so devastating to her that she could barely think of them without breaking into gut-wrenching sorrow. Besides, she always tried to avoid negative or sad subjects with her patients; as a nurturing person by profession, she knew that a bright, hopeful manner was as good as any medicine for their recovery.

Not knowing the identity of the mother of the foundling he had saved, Leo did not tell this woman or anyone else about having found the baby and taken it to his home; something made him keep it secret. He knew he should have taken the child directly to a hospital. People could have been looking for the baby; his parents would be frantic for not finding him. But Leo was compelled to look after the child for now. He had no intention of keeping the infant; he planned on reporting his recovery to the police that day, but his accident and injury had intervened. Now he worried. What was Ah Sung thinking? Should he ask Marianne to contact Ah Sung, to let her know he was all right, to reassure her that he would see that the child was reunited with his family. Then again, what if the quake and fire had orphaned the infant? What if no one came forward to identify the child? Would not Leo have been right in taking him home and would not he be right in keeping him? These thoughts and questions entangled in his mind so much that bewilderment showed on his face.

"Why such a troubled look, Firebird?" Marianne asked as she carried a wash basin into the tent with a bit of a flourish. "You're mending well and will be going home soon."

"Home," he said. The word sounded many overtones in his mind. "Going home. I've never yearned for it so much." He looked at her and realized that he should get outside of his dilemma for her sake. "What about you, Nurse Durand? Don't you hanker for home? I see you here day and night--"

"I--I don't--this is my home until--well, for the time being. Where I'm most needed."

"You're family--?" A bit of wonder heightened his voice.

"They--oh, they're in Sacramento. Safe and sound," she said, avoiding the painful personal calamity she had not yet fully accepted. "Well, my father had a bout of heart trouble recently, but he's going to be all right."

Seeing no ring on her finger, unaware that she wore it on a chain around her neck when working, he stared at her, wanting to know if she was married but afraid to ask for fear of her answer. So he took a temporary detour in the conversation. "You're making San Francisco your home--?"

"Yes," she said, looking down and away.

"You and your husband?" He could not resist the temptation to know.

She neither nodded nor shook her head but only lifted it into the air to stop any tears that might have shown in her eyes.

He felt mortified for having pried into her life. Silence stretched a tender web between them till he said, "I really shouldn't be asking such questions."

"Oh, no, yes--it's--I don't mind." She looked at him with forced curiosity. "Is your home--? You live in the city too of course--"

"Yes."

"It's all right?"

"What?" he asked, his eyes locked on hers.

"Your home?"

"Just fine--so far, but...." He realized the danger to his flat and felt panic tighten his chest.

"Any threat to it?"

"I don't know. The fires have been approaching that part of town, but...."

"Well," she said, trying to remain sanguine. "I hope you find it as good as ever when you return."

He nodded in gratitude. "I believe I will. I have to--it's very important--you see, there's--" He suddenly wanted to tell her of the child. To tell her everything that had happened: the hotel, the man, the infant miraculously alive and thriving in Ah Sung's care. The story was about to burst out of him, and she seemed the right person to tell, but he caught himself on the edge of spilling his tale and by both will and fear forced the whole shocking and wonderful story back into the covert recesses of his mind. As much as he wanted to reveal his secret, he wanted even more to know all about her but was reluctant to ask more questions. He sensed her desire for privacy and respected it. He guessed she was the kind of person who obtained respect without demanding it. Deserved it.

She awaited his further words but heard nothing more. They retreated into silence. What else could they do? Each had stories they could not reveal: she because of the pain that rose into her breast whenever she even thought about her dear husband and beloved child; he because of the desire to preserve as long as possible the temporary semblance of a personal family he had acquired. At least he could feel that way till he went home and took the baby to the proper authorities. The police. He shuddered. Feeling the tension between them tightening until it would snap, she sought to relieve it by the optimistic words with which she had opened the conversation. "Yes, you may be in for good news." His eyes rounded but he felt unsure what she meant. "Doctor Stillway's coming by to look at you soon, so I'd better make you presentable." She put the basin on a table beside the bed, sloshed a large sponge in the water, and squeezed the excess liquid out of it.

Leo's eyes widened. A bath! She? Me?! His jaw dropped. "Uhhh--" He was quite uneasy about anybody bathing him but his mother and to his relief he could not even remember her doing that. Now the thought of this attractive young woman touching his naked body made him feel the urge to bolt from his bed, well or not. Too sore for such an action, though, he settled for squirming a little under the sheet.

Noticing his apprehensive wriggle, Marianne grinned. She was used to male patients' resistance to her bathing them, so she put him at ease in her usual way. "I bet you haven't had a sponge bath since you were a baby, have you?"

He could only shake his head. Had his eyes been marbles, they would have rattled in his skull. She struggled to keep from laughing. Laughing would not do at a time like this; however, a little light-hearted flippancy would. Without warning she flung the sheet off his body and said, "Now, let's take off that handkerchief you're wearing." Leo felt like clinging to the scrap of cloth that barely covered his body. It was not much of a covering but it was all he had at the time, and he was not presently inclined to let his personal parts be displayed, especially not to a pretty woman--nurse or not. Nurse Durand, however, was inclined to have her own way. "Roll over, now" she said, "so I can unfasten this thing."

Oh, God! He knew she meant business. He hesitated long enough to realize that showing his backside was less embarrassing than the alternative. He was reluctantly about to oblige the lovely medical practitioner, when she smacked him gently on the buttocks. "Come on, Firebird--you've got nothing to hide that I haven't seen before." She might have thought her casual approach to the body washing was disarming Leo's defenses, but he was not following her line of thinking at all. While he was racing through every possibility of escape from the situation, she was revealing his full figure and applying the warm wet sponge to his still tender flesh.

My God--that feels good! He nearly spoke the words. For a moment he was afraid he had.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

How did she--? He was forming the conviction that she knew what he was thinking and was beginning to wonder if there were any limits to this woman's power. Unable to resist and no longer apt to do so, he pretended to submit to the indignity while enjoying it.

"I knew you'd like it--" she said, "once you realized you were in the hands of an indifferent professional person who cares for her patients as her job."

Indifferent, eh? When he heard that one word, despite his lack of experience with women, Leo knew something special was brewing between them, for with all her deft treatment and proper demeanor she was not indifferent to him. He could sense the faint quavering of her hand when she touched him; he could feel something very much like electricity passing through the sponge from her hands to his body. More than the energy of a natural healer--it was all of that--but it was also the vitality of one who truly cares for the person she is nursing. He had not felt such affectionate energy since his mother soothed and bandaged his wounds after one of his rowdy days of boy-play. And this was an entirely different kind of affection.

When Marianne gently rolled him onto his back, he looked into her beautiful green eyes and wanted to see her soul. True, he barely knew this woman. Their accidental acquaintance was blossoming into friendship, but they knew too little of each other to be real friends. Yet, he wanted to spend time with her, time away from the nurse-patient relationship, maybe a long time. Feeling guilty, he tried to blink the thought from his mind. He had no right to court such an idea. She was probably married with a family--or she was a widow. He assumed she might have removed her wedding ring because of her work. The preferred word "widow" dwelt far in the back of his mind to be stored for the time being. He did not want this woman to be suffering; he already cared about her that much. Yet he could not deny a secret hope that she was not married. Being human, he wanted for himself first, sometimes at the expense of everyone else, but he also wanted what was right for this gentle woman. She had been genuinely kind to him; she had nursed him back to health with constant care. Yes, he believed he saw her soul and knew she was good, but he was not sure of his own goodness. Afraid a specifically prominent part of his body was instinctively going to respond when she bathed his front side, especially his stomach and thighs, he held his breath without realizing it. "You can breathe freely, Mister Brown--" she said. "I won't hurt you."

"That's not what I'm afraid of," he said, exhaling an immediate regret for having said that. He looked to see if her cheeks were flushed. Most of him hoped his clumsy remark had not embarrassed her, but part of him wanted to see a reaction. He thought that would be a sign if she felt any ardor for him. But he saw no evidence either way and was disappointed.

Marianne was a professional. She had worked over the bodies of men, women, and children for years. No handsome young hero was going to distract her from her medical duty; at least not so anyone else could notice, especially not a patient. "You sigh as though this were an ordeal." She cooed as she gently patted his tortured skin with the warm, wet sponge.

"No, ma'm--I assure you--this is not an ordeal. Surviving earthquake, fighting fire--those are ordeals. This, well, I can't remember being so comforted since my mother bathed me as a child." Again he wished he could retract his words. She laughed in her way that sounded like a melody played on a flute. He had not heard her emit such an uninhibited laugh. Smiles, plenty of those, of course. She had a face that showed smiles the way flowers show joy. Because he knew she had suffered in some way, he marveled even more at her spirit, so he had to say something. "I don't mean--I mean you're nothing like my mother."

"Thank you very much, sir."

"No, I mean--you're not as old--" He wanted to shut his mouth, to shut off his tongue with his teeth, but he could not keep the words from stumbling forth. "I mean--you're not old--you're...."

"I know what I am and I know what you mean, Mister Brown," she said in an easy way to prevent as much disturbance to his ego as possible. As she continued to bathe him--his chest, his belly, his neck, his arms, his legs--she concentrated on her work like an artist, and her face was that of one looking after her dearest duty.

Affection for her was warming his breast, emotion moistening his eyes. He longed to raise his arm and touch her face with his fingertips but dared not do so. Such an act, he considered, would be a violation. The thought of threatening her in any way was abhorrent to him. He shook at the thought.

She knew he was staring at her but she acted as if he were asleep or drifting into daydreams. She was good at such an act. Yet, having seen the scars on his body, when she looked at his boyish eyes, she could not completely contain her feelings. "You have suffered much in your profession, Mister Brown."

He did not want her to feel sorry for him. "A little misery goes with the job." He could see compassion on her face like a summer sunrise and he wanted to reflect it back to her. "I think you too might have suffered more than your share, Nurse Durand."

"Marianne."

Marianne. The word was more than a name, more than music, more than prayer. It was a blessing bestowed on children, the elderly, the ill, and the injured. Hope and love and family. The song of life. It was the sound of woman. Of a mother. Of a--He stopped his sentimental train. "Marianne," he said, doubling the music of her spiritual soprano with his earthy baritone. "A beautiful name!"

Now she did blush. Maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe the way he looked at her when he said it. Maybe she was hearing it spoken anew and realizing its loveliness. Whatever it was, she had to cover it. "A simple, common name it is."

"An excellent name--biblical. Like my mother's name."

Her face shone. "You flatter me, Mister Brown, but I am honored."

"Leo. If I'm to call you Marianne, you must call me Leo."

"Leo."

He felt exalted when he heard her speak his name. He had always been proud of it. The lion. The constellation. A manly name it was. But when she said it, he heard something he had never heard. He had always enjoyed the sound of Ah Sung's version of his name and he had always felt cherished when his mother called him by name, a variation of his father's, yet when Marianne said it, he heard an angel--no, a nymph calling to him from the shore of the sea. He was a voyager stupefied by his long and lonely days adrift, and she was calling him out of his own personal doldrums. Calling him home.

He felt a desperate urge to clasp her in his arms, to hold her to his chest for the rest of his days but he could not make such a move; nor could he hint at his intentions. Were he to do so, he thought, she would take off on frantic wings and fly in terror from his bedside. He would not allow that to happen.

She lingered over his body with a towel, till he was tingling from her touch. She knew, as he knew. She felt the current between them but she denied it. Still wearing widow's weeds as curtains around her mind, she could not imagine herself becoming physically or spiritually close to another man. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Besides, she had her baby to find. Tommy. He was her reason for living. Certainly all the sick and wounded justified her existence, but none of that constituted her true purpose for continuing to breathe air. She could not truly live again till she found her son. Tommy--the name was a drumbeat to her determination. She knew he was alive. When she gazed warmly at Leo, she tried to tell him with her eyes that she had a beloved child, lost somewhere in the city, but alive and wailing for her. She could hear her baby's plaintive cries, and her breast was bursting with the desire to answer them and aching with the unbearable woe that she could not do so. But she knew her job, and of all jobs in the world it did not allow for indulgence in personal feelings, so as usual she squelched her sadness and focused on her patient. "Well, Leo--" she said putting away her basin, sponge, and towel. "You should feel much better now."

His eyes told his gratitude, yet something else showed in them: the gleam of ardent affection. Marianne saw it there but made nothing of it for she had seen the look many times. Nurses often find that look in the eyes of their patients. She and her colleagues felt gratified and glad to be nurses because of it, but it never meant anything more to most of them. In time patients got over it. She thought Leo would do the same, but the thought of that eventuality saddened her this time.

Little did she know that Leo was already feeling as if he had found a treasure. Despite the apparent impossible obstacles between them, he felt she represented something he had long been hoping to find. He even went so far as to imagine them together, meeting his family, living in his home, bearing his children. Without realizing what he was doing, he lifted his arm and touched her hand. She smiled and said, "Now I know--"

She knows? He was beginning to believe she could actually read his mind.

"I know you're feeling well enough to go home. I'd like very much to stay and keep you company till the doctor releases you but I have other patients to see--people in need of me."

I need you! He wanted to shout that to her but knew better than to do such a foolish, a selfish thing. Besides, he did not really mean it in exactly that way. What he needed was fruition in his life. He felt like half a person, but his mother had raised him to understand and attend to the needs of others. His need was insignificant compared to her own and to those of so many other persons suffering around their beleaguered city. "Sure thing," He spoke with more enthusiasm than necessary. "You see to the others. I'll be fine."

She nodded but did not immediately leave; she stood beside the bed and stared at him. He fixed on her soft green eyes. They made her face glimmer. Her entire being was beautiful but her eyes were the stars in her countenance. He wanted to look at her forever, to hold her with his mind, but she turned away, slowly slipped around the foot of the bed, and walked to the exit. She stopped and turned to smile at him once then said, "Be well, Firebird."

Panic filled his breast as she stepped out of the tent. He could not let her go, get away from him, disappear from his life forever; he had to do or say something to keep a line open between them. Desperate, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "Don't go!" He felt like a child wanting the fun to go on forever.

She looked back inside with some consternation. "I must."

"I know. I didn't mean that, but--"

"But what, Mister Brown?"

He stammered, struggling for the right words. Fortunately at that moment she did read his mind. "Don't worry. We'll see each other again. When people meet who could become good friends they must make sure to meet again."

Friends. The word stuck in his brain. All the other words she had said faded from his consciousness. Only that word remained. It was like the sound of air escaping from a balloon. Friends. Of course. That was all they could be to each other, because she was unavailable. Bad luck. He had found the woman of his dreams, but she belonged to another man. He wanted to bury his head in his pillow but more than that, he wanted to appear strong at their parting. "Of course," was all he managed to say.

Herself deflated at hearing such a prosaic phrase last to leave his mouth, she smiled graciously, echoed the meaningless words, and left, the tent flap waving a farewell behind her.

Leo started to call out to her again but his feelings were overcrowding his mind and he was unable to utter one more word. Lying on his back he stared into the peak of the tent roof for a few moments then closed his eyes. He wanted to fall asleep immediately to escape the ache that exceeded even that of his flesh. He wanted for the moment to get as close as possible to oblivion, then to wake up, and, without remembering the sight or sound of Marianne Durand, go back to work. In work one can forget. Then he thought of the baby. Cat. He thought of him and smiled, but wonder about the woman was complicating his simple joy.

Later that day Doctor Stillway dropped in on Leo and examined him unceremoniously, as doctors do. "Well, young hero--you're fit to leave," he said. Leo was both glad and sad. "But you should take some time to rest--" Leo's look at the doctor was clear: that sort of luxury was not possible for either of them. The physician acknowledged with a slight nod. As the doctor left the tent he tossed off his standard farewell trailing behind him: "Take care of yourself now."

Leo lay still and looked again at the peak of the tent. Time to go. Sitting up with a groan, he went for his clothes. Not wanting to leave the hospital without seeing Marianne again, he went outside and scanned the nurses scurrying to & fro among the tents but could not catch sight of her. Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly he looked in the direction of his home and found his way out of the camp and the park.

Chapter 17

When Leo Brown walked up his street and opened the gate to his flat, Ah Sung with the baby in her arms swung open the front door. A troubled look showed through her normally calm demeanor, and she was bursting with words she had been wanting to say for days. Leo beat her to them.

"I'm all right, Ah Sung--I'm all right."

"Ah Sung newous, Mista Reo--feaw you dead," she said, her eyes glossy with emotion.

"Too tough to die," he said as he sprang up the steps and reached for the baby.

"You hu't--I see you hu't--"

"Only more bruises and burns--firefighter's medals." He nuzzled the child.

The boy giggled, a clear droplet beading on his little pink lips. Leo held the child above his head and said, "The Cat boy looks good. You've done well, Ah Sung."

She smiled around her residual concern. "You find baby mama and papa?"

Leo looked at her, then at the child, and thought about the question. With no pleasure on his face nor in his voice he said, "No--not yet--but I will, Ah Sung--first thing tomorrow." Drawing the infant close to him, he entered his home. Ah Sung scurried in behind him.

Inside the flat he sat down in his favorite overstuffed chair and laid the child on his chest. "Good to be home, Ah Sung--good to be home." He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. The doctor was right in his suggestion; Leo needed more rest.

Ah Sung watched him for several moments till she saw he was falling asleep, and then she eased the baby out of his arms and took the infant into another room. Leo relinquished the child confidently and slumbered in the chair until suppertime.

When the aroma of the meal filled the room around him, he opened his eyes, anticipating pleasure. "Smells mighty good, Ah Sung!"

"Arweady, Mista Reo," she called as she carried in a tray of food from the kitchen. "Ah Sung make speciar food fo' fi'man hewo."

Leo chuckled, wiped the drowse from his face, and went to sit at a table in the kitchen. He delighted in the sight of steaming rice, chicken, and fresh vegetables prepared in the Chinese style. The aroma made him grin the way a boy does when facing a favorite food. He held a deep affection for his mother's cooking but found this woman's exotic fare just as delicious, maybe because of its strangeness, but more likely because it was simply good. It was nothing like the Irish-American food his mother prepared. These Chinese vittles were simple like that but more adventurous. Even the rice, which he had nearly never eaten in his life, was intriguing. Raised on potatoes in various forms, he found the tiny, soft, white kernels a rare delicacy, especially when drenched in the dark aromatic and delicious liquid Ah Sung served in place of butter or catsup.

"You 'joy," she said.

Leo chuckled as he took a seat. "I always joy your cooking, Ah Sung."

She laid two lacquered wooden sticks on the table and looked at him as if to say, 'Let me see what you can do with those things, big shot.'

Leo picked up the chopsticks and plunged them into the rice. After scooping a pile onto his plate, he then swept some of the vegetable mix on top of the white mound and sprinkled it with soy sauce. Ah Sung grinned at his occidental crudity.

He looked up at her and said, "I know, I know--I eat like a 'Merican."

"Yes," she said, "you eat rike Mewican but okeedokee. You not Chinese. You Mewican man. I rike you Mewican."

"I like you too, Ah Sung." He looked at her awkwardly. "Now, you run along home and look after your family. I--we'll be fine."

"Mirk wedy in kitchen. I back tomowo--take ca' baby."

"Yes. Good. But don't be in a hurry. I'll wait for you."

The little woman bowed and backed away. "Tomowo," she said. "I back tomowo."

"Yes, yes," Leo said playfully, "now go on with you."

She nodded, grabbed her jacket off a hook by the door, and slipped out of the flat with little hurried steps. Leo watched after her a moment then dived back into his meal. He was famished. Fighting fire and nearly dying in it made a man powerfully hungry.

When he had polished his plate, he checked on the baby in the little bed Ah Sung had found for him. The child was rousing and would be hungry too. When babies awaken, Leo had learned, the first thing on their minds is food. And it had better be there promptly to allay any ear-splitting complaints, so he hurried into the kitchen and heated a bottle. He thought about the mayor's order to avoid cooking inside buildings for fear of more firestarting. The quake had knocked chimneys out of kilter at many structures in the city, so sparks and hot ash could escape the smoke shaft and ignite the woodwork around them. Leo had inspected his chimney right after the quake and found it not seriously damaged, but many people in neighborhoods all over the city were not so lucky and had to cook over campfires in the streets.

Leo reached Cat just as he was about to squawk. Lifting him out of his bed and cradling him in his arms, the fireman sat in his chair and placated the hungry child with warm nourishment. Watching the little thing suck the substance out of the bottle, Leo felt in his chest a warmth that made him all the more want a family of his own. When the child fell asleep, Leo changed his under garments and laid him in a makeshift bed beside his. Once in bed himself, he lay there looking at the little fellow, making sure the boy was safely in the soothing arms of sleep.

Leo thought about who this new little human's parents had been. He recalled the man who had been lying on the baby. As he was eying the child, he looked for a sign of the father in his face, the mother; a vague picture flared in the back of his mind but did not or would not come clear. And as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. Leo sighed and wondered if the babe's mother and father would ever be found. A small quiet part of him hoped they would not, but a bigger part of him, the part that housed his magnanimous heart wanted to see the boy back in the embrace of his parents. That was where he belonged, not in the dim, dusty flat of a bachelor fireman. He had seen something of this before in his life--children left homeless and alone after fires. He feared that for Cat. Orphans often suffer irreparable loss. Leo had found many luckless children while fighting fires through the years. Although saved from death, they would never again feel the security that only a complete family can provide. He felt such a loss when his father died so he could imagine how overwhelmingly bereft children must be when they lose both their parents. Leo hoped in the greater portion of his soul that the boy would be returned to his home. Of course he would never again dwell in the Valencia Hotel, but--

The dead man! His father? Of course! The concept struck him like a blow to the chest. Leo did not want to consider the possibility, so he forced the dismal thought out of his mind. His father had to be alive. His mother too. It had to work out fortunately for the boy, and Leo fell asleep begging God to restore the child unimpaired to his family. The man could sleep, because something in the back of his mind reassured him that all would be well. He was not able to pinpoint the exact reason for such faith, but he believed in it the way one believes in the rising sun.

Leo was utterly delighted to be in his own bed after lying in the hospital for so long. When the wings of sleep slowly embraced him with their warm feathers, he let himself descend into the downy bosom of insensibility before the dreams come, that place where memory and awareness fall easily off the edge of oblivion. There he needed neither to give nor take anything. All was perfectly suspended without time, for, even though only hours passed, that marvelously uneventful adventure seemed like an eternity. He always knew in the morning as every morning that he would be reborn. He did not sleep peacefully throughout the entire night, though, for in the deepest darkness before dawn nightmarish dreams plagued him.

He heard again the apocalyptic locomotive roaring towards him. He felt the earth shudder beneath his bed. He sensed he was falling. When he opened his eyes he saw sheer walls of gleaming rock rising into an indigo sky. He looked down and saw gaping beneath his feet an abyss of infinite darkness. Shortly all was eerily quiet. Then flames flew out of the chasm like evil birds of prey. He jumped for a ledge and scrambled to reach the surface before the fire overtook him. Flying he sailed over the cliff-edge, as flames seared his feet. When he hit the ground he started running just ahead of the scarlet tongues and looked frantically for high ground, for safety. Gasping, he gained a hilltop and fell to his knees, and then looking behind him, he saw the world in a turmoil of roiling earth and raging fire. About to collapse, he heard an infant cry. Facing forward he saw a church. The baby's voice was coming from inside. Running as if on air, he passed through the portico and stood in the middle of a grand nave. Through high windows, rays of golden light shone upon the floor around him. Looking toward the altar he saw seated on the steps to the tabernacle a woman with an infant in her arms. He stepped toward her and glimpsed that she was giving her breast to the child; he stopped and watched. The woman was gazing down at the baby with a loving look. When Leo stepped closer to the Madonna, he thought she might have been Marianne but could not discern her features. Slipping into a pew he knelt, entwined his fingers beneath his chin, and watched, not as a lascivious voyeur but as a pilgrim having finally arrived at his spiritual home after a long and arduous journey. The nursing mother slowly lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes. She smiled. The light from the high windows illumined her head. The light grew brighter and brighter till the entire inner sanctum luminesced. Again the baby cried. Apparently she had allowed her breast to fall from his mouth. The baby screamed. The woman disappeared, and the child was alone on the top step of the altar. Light saturated the church. The baby too disappeared but continued to cry, louder--

Morning sunlight through his window temporarily blinding him, Leo snapped upright when he heard crying. Searching the space he recognized his room. Realizing something vitally important had occurred to him in his dream, he tried to hold the vision in his memory before it slipped away but he could not concentrate. He wanted to write down the fading residue of it in his mind, not to lose it, but the baby's crying grew louder and more insistent. Cat! He slid over to the baby's bed and put his hand on the child. Fully to his senses, Leo knew the boy was hungry. He forgot the dream to care for the child.

What an appetite! He rose, fed the baby, changed his clothes, and put him back to bed. In the kitchen Leo washed some stale bread down with cold coffee. When he saw his housekeeper coming up the walkway, he grabbed his coat and greeted her at the door on his way out of the house. "Good morning, Ah Sung," he said happily. "I fed the baby--" Seeing the expected question forming in her eyes, he added, "Yes, yes--I will tell the police about him today. Don't worry."

She nodded, patted his arm, and stood in the doorway of the flat, as the fireman bounded down the street. "Ah Sung no wowy, Mista Reo," She smiled as she turned into the building and closed the door. "No wowy at aw."

***

As Leo reached Van Ness on the third day after the fire started, he sighted flames shooting over the buildings east of the avenue. When he spotted fire engines and a long line of men, he knew they were making a desperate stand to kill the raging beast. A beast like no other that any of them had witnessed even in their most vivid nightmares. The huge fires that ravaged downtown had combined into one three-mile front of fury--a towering wall of pure hell. The mercurial heat melted paint off adjacent buildings and seared the faces of the firefighters. Along the length of the wide avenue from Market to Lombard, the men stood their ground--a phalanx of fighters defending their homeland against the marauding enemy. With every engine, hose, high-pressure battery, and ounce of courage in their bones they fought the unforgiving foe.

For a moment Leo stood paralyzed with apprehension and awe. He knew he could be about to die, but the blood of the Browns rushed through his veins, blood that wildfires for generations had both chilled and heated. That lineage swelled his chest and rushed into his brain, as he threw on his coat and hat and ran to meet the enemy.

The men fought chaotically in the way of all fights. To make it worse, communication was still down in places. Repeatedly and doggedly, though, they attacked the flames then retreated from the severe heat and falling walls. Whenever they thought they were finally going to beat down a long tentacle of fire, water desperately needed from hydrants or cisterns would slow and dribble to a stop, and they had to search for another tap. As if those gremlins were not enough to hamper the firefighters, they could not get any help from the wind; whenever it whipped up it only compounded their plight. Sometimes wind would be their ally in fighting fires, but not this time. Their hope ebbed and flowed, unlike the fire, which despite losing some of its venomous velocity had scarcely abated since the quake.

As they stood up to the beast without retreating, the firefighters for the first time began to sense victory in the smoky air. By dynamiting buildings more carefully than they had in past days and by conserving their scant water supply they gradually began to extinguish the far ends of the great red force that had spread over city its blazing curtain.

At the north end of the firewall Leo jumped onto an engine battery and relieved the exhausted man at the high-pressure nozzle. The replaced fireman virtually fell off the truck and collapsed at one of the wheels. Two of his fellows picked him up and helped him to the side of the avenue away from the fire. There he curled up and passed out, not from any injury but from pervasive fatigue.

Finding the handgrips on the rotating mechanism, Leo continued the steady stream of water blasting hundreds of feet into a flaming building. As he watched the water shoot from the tip of the brass nozzle, arc toward the structure, and disappear into the vermilion violence, his mind slipped into the trance-like state he sometimes knew when fighting fires. He became completely focused and fearless. His body was one with the machine at war with the mythical monster. He felt his energy fuse with the liquid gushing from the hose and fly with it into the flames. He willed the extinction of the beast. That is what made him a magnificent firefighter. All the great ones have that zeal. When he became like that, none of his mates would speak to him; they knew better; for he would hear nothing but the pounding of the dynamo in his chest and the sizzling of water on the fire. He would man that nozzle till he too became exhausted and would have to be pulled from his post and laid aside to rest. The other firefighters knew how he felt for most of them at one time or another when fighting fierce fires had gone outside of themselves like that, out of their ordinary conscious minds. They had to do so if they were to continue as firefighters. Sometimes they had to respond to this cosmic beast as if they were robots; thus, they did not think too much at times like these. To ponder a crisis can be to die.

These people are of a special stock. No one but a person dedicated to the scarlet service would ever in a common frame of mind stand in front of a ferocious inferno hundreds of feet high and wide and try to knock it down. Only firefighters brave such an act. Being uncommon does not mean crazy. They know what they are doing. It is their job. They often revel in it, in the challenge of facing the greatest power in the universe. By working so close to death they feel most alive; by facing fire they beat the devil.

While Leo fixed the broad spray onto the blaze, his mind cinematically ran through, as it often would at such times, the milestones of his life, especially now the last two days. He thought of his mother and wondered if the flames were threatening her house. He wanted to go to her and protect her but he had a larger duty to protect the entire city. By natural association he thought of Marianne.

The time he spent with her flowed through his head like currents in the bay, unbidden and capricious. He heard her mellifluous voice but, at first, the words that came back to him meant nothing more than sweet memory. He remembered hearing the name Thomas or Tommy, but he could not discern which it was. Then the word Easter. He immediately thought of his family. He smiled despite the heat on his face. Mother--and father. Family. Father? Heart. Marianne. Husband--child. Baby. Thomas. No, Tommy. That was it. That what she said! Tommy. Must have had a baby. Earth spinning, wobbling--falling. Fire. The baby!

As the flames blazed up in front of him, his face glowed, his skin heated, but he appeared not to feel it. Something of immense importance was racing to the forefront of his mind, something vague but real; something he had to remember for dear life. He scoured his brain. His eyes glazed over as he stared aimlessly at the fire gradually dying before him. Picking through each particle of his memory, he quickly examined and discarded one notion after another. Then it hit him. Still vague at first, then coming clear like a picture into focus, he saw the truth. Leo nearly dropped the nozzle. "My God!" he said unheard amid the roaring din. "She had a baby!" That hotel! Her home? Her husband there--on the baby? "My God!" he shouted into the blazing roar. "Cat!" Did I save her baby?

He glanced around to find someone to tell of his epiphany, but they were all engaging the fire. He wanted to throw down the nozzle, leap off the truck, and rush to Marianne, to ask her if it was true, to tell her what, whom he had found, but he could not do so. Not then. Not yet. He knew the priority. First save the city, then see to his mother, then find Marianne. The uncertainty if the infant he had found was her baby did not change his mind; he ignored any doubts and faced the inferno with renewed vigor. He had to beat down the flaming monster as soon as possible, for he had other missions to fulfill, a mission not saving lives and property but reconnecting lives. He had to reunite a mother with her child. With this profound realization filling his being like cool mountain water, he fought the fire without wavering from fatigue or fear. At such moments, heroism is born, but Leo was not a hero, at least not in his own mind. He never thought of himself that way. He had work to do putting out fires. That was all. Soon, though, he would have another kind of work to do beyond his duty, and it would be an act of pure heart.

Chapter 18

For three days, fire swept a major part of the prostrate city and ravaged the yield of half a century of human energy, skill, and invention. However, even during the most hellish and hopeless of hours, success can happen like the breaking of a life-threatening fever. Forty-eight hours after the earthquake slammed into San Francisco, firefighters in their herculean efforts unassisted by favorable wind, hills or empty spaces, finally stopped the Hayes fire. On the third day after the quake, the United States Navy ran water lines from the bay, and at dawn of the fourth day, the resolute people of San Francisco stopped the biggest force of the fire.

The resulting damage was historic. The raging furies of earthquake and fire had demolished 28,000 buildings and flattened five hundred blocks. From Portrero Hill and the Mission District in the south to North Beach and Russian Hill in the north, from Van Ness Avenue in the west to the San Francisco bay in the east the fire destruction extended thirty miles, having burned down one quarter of the entire city. Greater than the Chicago fire in 1871, the San Francisco fire of 1906 was the most horrendous holocaust any city had ever endured in the history of the nation.

Then came the inevitable aftermath of such an epic disaster. Thousands of people newly homeless had trudged with blankets and meager provisions to Golden Gate Park, Twin Peaks, and Ocean Beach--anywhere to find shelter from the satanic storm. People in homes on the hills just north of the ravaged Hayes Valley had piled their things in the streets. Express wagons and automobiles hauled them away to sparsely settled sections. All 400,000 people in San Francisco had prepared to evacuate the city, believing it destroyed. Downtown virtually everything was in ruins: hardly a place of business still stood; theaters had crumbled into piles of charred wood; factories and other business buildings were smoldering ghosts; all the newspaper plants were incapacitated--besides the Call newspaper building, the Examiner building was almost entirely destroyed; hotels and houses had become lifeless heaps of ash.

Everywhere death and suffering. Pieces falling from buildings had struck down hundreds of people and crushed them, or flames had burned them to carbon: some 3,000 souls had perished, many of them never recovered. Hundreds of troops patrolled the streets and drove back the crowds of the living, while hundreds more assisted fire and police departments. Cavalrymen herded the curious like cattle in front of their horses. Masses had fled from the level residential districts to the hilly sections at the north end of the city.

However, in the hospital camp in Golden Gate Park the injured, sick, and dying were arriving in fewer numbers. The medical persons at first barely realized the lessening of suffering. When they eventually did notice the change, the fact hit them not as a stimulus to joy but as release to their pent up despair. During the crisis they had not allowed themselves to feel any loss of hope. Such a negative emotion they could not permit themselves lest it adversely affect their patients; so, when the onslaught of misery lifted a little and they knew the worst was over, they let the bad feeling to seep into their hearts. Some of them fell into uncontrollable weeping, others got drunk, a few went to bed and did not move for hours, many of them carried on with their work as if nothing had changed, and others wandered aimlessly away from the scene of so much misery. Marianne was one of them.

When Doctor Stillway told her to take a break because the crisis had peaked, she started for her tent to lie down and rest for as long as she could. Thoughts of her dear dead husband and her lost child imbued her mind more than ever, overwhelming her. Her work could no longer allay the grief. Fearing she would succumb to nightmares if she slept, even though she was exhausted, she kept walking. Without realizing where she was going she wandered out of the camp, through the park, heading west toward the place where the sun disappeared daily over the horizon. She walked for miles. It started to rain lightly, but she kept walking.

Stopping at the edge of Ocean Beach, she stood there for a long time gazing over the great limitless expanse of the ever-changing sea. The sight and sound of the random but constant rhythm of waves rolling and crashing onto shore soothed her. The memories of days with the family there became vivid as if happening before her eyes. Smiling strangely she walked without knowing where she was going, down to the edge of the water where she drifted along the surf. She followed the graceful curves of the foam, uncaring if the water wet her feet. Wanting to feel it against her skin, she stopped and removed her shoes. Despite the cold, she thrilled at the sensation and strayed into the water deeper and deeper, immersing herself, as if she were going to swim to the end of the Earth.

Chapter 19

When Leo and his cohorts had finally beaten down the fire and he was relieved from immediate duty, he raced to his mother's house. Despite oppressive fatigue he ran as fast as he could down Van Ness then up Russian Hill. On his way he could see the last stubborn flames creeping up the hill and slowly but continually eating at houses in their path. When he started hiking up his mother's street, he saw her neighbors beating backfire with any weapons they could find: water pails, rakes, ropes, flour sacks, and brooms--some of the tools igniting. Fighting fire with fire. He grinned inwardly at the ironic thought but the tragedy of the time kept it from forming on his face. His first concern now was his mother. And telling her about Uncle Bobby.

When he saw her house yet unscathed, he breathed relief and ran up the front steps. Banging on the door he shouted, "Ma!" then listened. Nothing. Oh, God! He called again: "Mother!" Hearing no response he dashed to the backyard and found the rear door open as usual.

Inside he ran from room to room, she was not there. Then it dawned on him where she would be. He left the house and returned to the place where the vigilante fire fighters were battling the final attack on their homes. Searching among the figures, dark in the smoke and its ominous shadow, he spotted his mother with a broom swatting at flames along a fence; the straw of the broom was smoking and about to catch fire. "Ma!" he cried. She did not hear him, so engrossed was she in feverish work to help save the neighborhood and her house. Running to her, he again cried, "Ma! Ma, what are you doing?" When he reached her side, he grabbed the broom handle and jammed the straw into the ground till the smoke stopped.

She snapped her eyes at him as if to fight him for her only weapon against the enemy flames, but when she recognized her son, she relaxed and put her hand on his arm. "Thank God you're all right," she gasped. "I was afraid...."

"Nothing to fear for me, ma--I'm all right. But I'm worried about you. What are you doing out here?"

"Defending my home--just as you and others in the city have been doing." Her reddened eyes showed a rare sign of tears that smoke as much as pain could have caused. "Trying to save something of our--" He wrapped his arms around her and held her for a long time without a word. "Our home," she murmured. Smoke streamed around them. Sparks flickered at their feet, but in their bond they felt for the moment impervious to any threat. But soon their instincts kicked in, when they heard wood crackling, and they backed away from the burning fence. "Oh, Leo," she said. "I know you're exhausted and hurt, but--could you--?"

Without hesitation Leo took the scorched broom to the enemy. He, his mother, and a phalanx of neighbors fought the flames till the fiery onslaught ceased and disintegrated into smoldering embers that they could stomp out victoriously. The people of Russian Hill with one fireman and his aging mother saved some of their beloved homes, one of them the Browns's.

When the battle ended, Leo again put his arms around his mother, and leaning on each other, they made their way back to their home. They said nothing along the way, feeling no need and finding nothing in their minds but gratitude and relief that required no words.

Inside the house they cast around as if seeing it for the first time. They looked at the warped wood in the walls, the sagging ceiling, the scuffed floor, and the ragged rugs; they looked through the bottle-bottom glass windows; they looked at the old clock, the scratched tables, the chairs and sofa concave from the shapes of all the people that had relaxed in them for decades; at the pictures of family on the walls, at father Leonard Brown, at the grandchildren. They looked at everything, remembered their lives together, and quietly wept.

"Oh, Leo," Mary whispered, "if I--if we had lost this place, I don't know what I--I just don't know--" She covered her eyes with her hands.

Leo enclosed her. "I know you'd survive, ma--you're immortal."

She tittered, uncomfortable with the silly remark. "Well, we got through it, didn't we?" He tried to keep his eyes on things around the house, anything to keep him from having to look into his mother's eyes, but she caught his troubled look and grasped his arms. "We did, didn't we? she asked. He had to look at her and leak the sorrow filling his eyes. "Oh, no! Who is it? Not...?

"Uncle Bobby."

"Bobby--oh, God! Not Bobby! Dead?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Ellie--my poor Ellie! Does she know?"

"I told her--sis too."

"My poor dear--she's alone now." He did not know what else to say. "I must go to her. And Molly--she's all right? And her husband?"

"They're fine."

She made the sign of the cross and kissed her fingertips. "I must go to her as soon as I can." She lowered her head and remained silent for a while. Leo was starting to worry and wanted to say something to comfort her, but the right words did not come. In a moment she raised her chin, blinked back tears, and gazed out the window. "Look--we can see the island again. After so many days of smoky skies I wondered for a while if the bay had been sucked into a giant crack in the earth."

The image flashed in Leo's mind. He saw the entire bay spiraling into a hole in the planet like water down a drain. His eyes lifted to the sky and he observed that the black shroud, which had covered the city for three days, was dissipating. Angel Island and the east bay hills gleamed in bright sunlight, a blessing long invisible from the stricken city. Patches of blue were showing through the slowly dissolving shroud. Vaporous white clouds floated above the smoke, where beneath them seagulls and a few pigeons sailed as always. Yet unknown to most people in town, rain clouds had formed over the sea and were heading over the city, not to be harbingers of gloom but heavenly grace. Leo stared at the revitalizing view for a few moments then snickered, almost cackled like a bird. "Seemed like the end of the world for a while--now it's like we have been reborn." For the first time in days, a genuine smile adorned his face.

"Seemed like the end of San Francisco at any rate--" Mary said. "But this city has been through many calamities in her young life. Countless quakes."

"Too many fires," he added. "Not the first time the city has burned--but definitely the worst."

"I hope the last."

"We'll just have to rebuild it better than ever." They stood close together in silence for a few moments before Leo remembered Marianne and his quest. "Now, you're going to be all right, ma?"

"Certainly, son--you go--but wait--let me get you something to drink." She stepped into the kitchen. "I have only some water I kept for emergency. It's not cold but...." She went into the kitchen.

"That's fine, ma. A glass of water these days is a blessing." He looked through a window to the northwestern sky. "Strange--having rain in April. Looks like it though. As if someone up there decided we've had enough misery for now."

"I should say." She returned with a tall glass of the precious liquid. He grabbed it as if it were a magic potion and gulped it down; he had not enjoyed a good swallow of water since visiting his aunt. Although he had sprayed plenty of it around the city, he had not thought to drink any. When he had drained the glass, he handed to his mother with a look like that of a child wanting more soda pop.

"Another one?"

"Nah--" he said with little conviction, "don't deplete your stash."

"I've been saving it for just such an occasion." She returned to the kitchen. "Think I'll have one myself."

When she returned with two glasses full, they looked at each other and thought of the same thing. Touching their glasses together with a bell sound, they drank in unison. After quaffing their drinks together, they laughed like children, wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands and sucking in the droplets that lingered on their lips. "That was delicious, ma--thanks. Now I must be on my way. Got something very special to do."

"Something less dangerous than fighting fire, I hope."

"No danger at all. Safe and sound--and beautiful." Her eyes brightened but she dared not say what she was thinking, hoping. He grinned shyly, hugged her, and turned out of the house. "Bye, ma."

She stood in the doorway and waved. "Bye, bye, son." Watching him walk away, she felt the same pang she always felt when one of her children left; the same twinge she had felt every day when her husband left for work. Although she could find plenty to do when alone, she always enjoyed having her family around her, especially at a time like this. Whenever they left, she always felt a little sad and lonely. Before she could lapse into self-pity, though, her sister returned to her mind. "Dear Ellie," she said to herself, "we're sisters more now than ever."

Before Leo dropped out of sight below the hill, he turned and saw his mother wave as if sending a signal that all would be well. The watch-woman of the Brown home. He glimpsed strands of her silvery hair afloat on the breeze that augured the coming rain. Above her head and beyond he sighted a few thin threads of smoke still weaving into the sky out of the incinerated city behind the hill. Yet the smoke was waning. The disaster was over. Now a new task, an immensely difficult endeavor lay ahead of them: reconstruction--rebuilding their city, their homes, and their lives.

As part of the renewal, Leo fixed his heart and mind on another relentlessly pressing purpose: to find Marianne Durand. He had to know if what he remembered about her and the baby was true or if it had been merely a wishful fantasy. Had she a child? Had she lost one in the quake? Cat--her baby? Could it be true? Despite his fatigue he ran down the hill and headed toward Van Ness. But a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks. He had promised Ah Sung that he would report the foundling to the police, but he had neglected to do that. He had never wanted to do it and now, if he had to give up the child, he wanted it to be into Marianne's hands. Wanted her to be Cat's mother. He dared not admit into his mind any further possibilities.

Leo knew Marianne was probably working at the makeshift hospital in the park so he would go there and look and ask around till he found her. If it took him all day and all night, he would find her again. He had to do so; much, maybe a life depended on it. He also had to hurry, for Ah Sung was with the baby. He did not want to cause her undue burden; she had already done so much for him, and he feared she would worry if he did not come home soon.

Turning west he hurried toward the park. He was on foot, as were most people, and his legs wobbled from unrelenting fatigue, but he had a mission in his mind that drove him forward. A mission that meant possibilities of sublime happiness for Marianne, for the baby, and, yes, maybe even for himself. He could not deny his selfish reason for proving the child's mother to be Marianne. The result of such a reunion between these two new persons in his life of whom he had become deeply fond overpowered him with a thrilling premonition. His ardor lifted his legs and carried him forward to find her.

Chapter 20

Rain of Joy and Sorrow

Fire destroys and creates. Water cleans and nourishes. After Earth and fire reminded San Francisco of her mortality, water reminded her of life. As if a denouement to the tragically dramatic parade of events, a small storm rolled into the bay area a few days after the quake and showered the peninsula. Leo imagined it to the handiwork of God. Mercifully these rare showers of spring subdued the remaining sprites of fire, quelled the embers, and settled the ash. People who usually hurried to escape the soaking sky now stood in the streets, the yards, and the parks with upturned faces and outstretched arms to welcome the cooling, salving, reviving rain.

While Leo was making his weary way through the devastated city to Golden Gate Park and Marianne Durand, he saw people in the streets celebrating as if at a primitive ritual in adoration of the heavens. As the moisture wetted their weary faces and dampened their hair and clothes, they wept with joy, their tears commingling with the rain. Leo laughed. He too would have felt like joining them, dancing in the street had he found Marianne. Determination pushed him onward to the park.

As Leo headed toward the hospital camp, he passed scores of people walking back into the city. Wearing everyday clothes they appeared at first glance to be shoppers or strollers of a Sunday afternoon, but unlike the celebrants in the rain their faces were pale and dour, their eyes dark. They moved nearly in unison with a grim determination despite the rain to see the aftermath of the horrendous damage Earth and fire had done to their city, to find what of their belongings might have been spared. Leo stared at the scene of all these people walking wide apart and headed in the same direction down the streets without speaking to each other but only facing into the dead heart of the disaster. A stark image set against the backdrop of huge, eerie structural skeletons, piles of brick and stone, and flagging bands of smoke that persisted among the ruins. To Leo these people seemed like spirits of the dead or zombies wandering back to their graves after having spent the night dancing in profanely in the hills around the cursed city. The sight of them made him shiver, and he quickened his pace.

Golden Gate Park was full of refugees. Dwelling in tents and shelters, they worked washing clothes and cooking meals around their makeshift homes. Shadowy smiles were now beginning to appear on their faces as they sensed the end of the days of doom. Leo ran from one hospital tent to another and peered into each to find Marianne. In every tent persons were lying in misery and pain: men without limbs, women with burned bodies, children with smashed and broken bones. All had expressions on their gaunt faces as if they had peered into the bottomless pit of hell and found the eyes of Satan. When Leo looked at them, they stared back at him, wondering if he were a messenger of bad news or good. They had suffered through such terrible times for so many days that they expected even worse to come, despite their undying hope for the best.

Leo ran from tent to tent but could not find Marianne. Panic invaded his breast, a gnawing fear that something had happened to her--something he could not bear to consider. So on he rushed through the vast refugee and hospital camps, growing more and more anxious along the way. Then, as if providentially, he spotted, stepping out of tent, a man that looked like the doctor who had treated him. Running to his side, he reached out to take the doctor's arm but thought better of it, held back.

"Doctor--?"

Doctor Stillway shot a look at him as if at yet another bearer of casualties into the camp. His eyes were weary beyond fatigue, his face set in stone to keep the suffering at bay. "Yes?" He spoke tersely.

"I--I'm Leo Brown--you took care of me when I got hurt. I'm a fireman."

"I'm sorry, Mister Brown, but I have seen hundreds of fireman in the last few days. Is there something I can do for you?" He started to walk away. "I'm really very busy...."

"Yes, yes, of course you are. I'm sorry to bother you, doctor, but I--I wonder if you--I'd like to know if...."

"Speak up, man--I've got patients waiting."

"I'm looking for Nurse Durand--Marianne Durand."

The doctor looked Leo carefully over to evaluate the intentions of this rather frenetic young fireman seeking one of the most valued members of his medical team, and even more valuable to him personally. He examined Leo's eyes less as a physician than a challenger. "I don't know where she is, my good fellow." He continued to walk away. Leo this time touched the doctor's arm not so much to detain him but to reinforce his urgency. The physician peered at him through narrowed eyes and glanced at Leo's hand, which he had already withdrawn. "Why, sir, do you feel such a pressing need to find Nurse Durand? Are you not well? If not, any of our nurses can help you. Here--let me find one for you...." He looked around the camp.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you, doctor. You did a great job on me. I don't need her--that is, I just want to ask her--to speak to her--"

The doctor stared at him for a moment then said, "I am sorry, Mister Brown. I'm sure you have your very good reasons for finding Nurse Durand, but I wouldn't tell you where she is if I knew."

Leo felt the hair on his neck bristle. "But--why...?

"It's not that I don't trust you, sir. I'm sure you're a good and brave person. After all, you've been fighting to save our city. But I must look after the well-being of my people. You understand. If I helped patients find nurses to whom they took fancies, I could compromise their safety. You understand, I'm sure."

Leo nodded but felt like grabbing the good doctor by his bloody smock and shaking the information out of him. Instead he made a slight, quick bow with his head, turned, and stalked away to continue his mission. "Thank you for your time, doctor," he let fall over his shoulder. The doctor watched him go for a moment, looking as though he was wondering if he had acted correctly, then, deciding he had, continued on his way.

Leo resumed his search but had to face the fact that he had no idea of how to find the woman, the possible mother of the child he had been harboring in his home, but being a man who did not give up easily he resolved to continue till he found her. So scurrying through the camp, he again peered into each tent and again stared into the unfathomable faces of agony. He had seen many bad things happen to people--as a soldier fighting his way up San Juan Hill and during his career fighting fires for the city--but this time he was more profoundly shaken than ever before in his life. Not only had the omnipotent forces of nature combined with the folly of man practically destroyed his home city, but also his people: so many of the people he had seen walking the streets, people he had devoted his life to protecting, people he had loved, countless people who were now sick, homeless, injured, or killed. He wanted to fall down on his knees from utter fatigue and abject sorrow but continued his quest.

He searched the hospital camp thoroughly. Afraid he had missed a place, he doubled back and checked the same tents two, three times but did not find her. Not locating the woman who had become the ideal image of his long sought love, he felt anxiety charging his mind. Gripping his brain, the fear that something dreadful might have happened to Marianne confused his purpose and sickened him. He felt nauseous at the possibility that she might have perished. Gagging on the thought, he felt he would vomit, but since he had not eaten in days, only a sour liquid rose into his throat. She cannot die! He spit the disgusting bile between his feet. She must not die! Her death would be far too devastating to bear. He had endured the death of his beloved father, now his uncle, plus the suffering and deaths of hundreds of men, women, and children. Such torment he could sustain. He was his mother's son and her resilient blood flowed in his pulsing veins. Yet to lose Marianne would be the final catastrophe. No! He could not allow the thought to taint his mind. He had to stay focused on his search and remain faithful to finding her.

Without realizing the direction, he threaded his way through Golden Gate Park, past people in their tents, refugees of the disaster, homeless people who were stolid and dark in the reflection of their tragic losses. He looked into the wide, wondering eyes of children. He smiled at persons who smiled at him; he searched their faces frozen in the fearful reality that the ground was no longer the firm and stable rock they had thought it was. Many stood with their feet wide apart, their arms stiff, as if expecting another liferattling shake at any moment. They were right to be ready. Aftershocks rocked the peninsula for days after the big one; that was the phrase people were passing around to describe the gigantic planetary shudder that rippled through San Francisco--'the Big One'. Ever since it had struck, lesser ones had shaken the land. As if the earth had not heaved enough, reminders of the hellish horror whipped through the already tortured surface like refrains from an evil curse and struck more terror into the hearts of the survivors.

Leo saw these people and felt their anguish but moved on to find the woman. He would search the entire promontory of land on which the city had been built if necessary. He had to find her; he would not consider any other possibility. Mindless now of his direction since he had not found her in the hospital camp where he thought she would be, he meandered through the park and headed westward toward the setting sun and the edge of the land. He did know exactly where he was going or why he was going there, but some unidentifiable magnet was pulling him toward the sea.

Marianne--Marianne--Marianne--Marianne--

Her name resounded in his mind like Gregorian chant to keep his spirit alive, his body moving forward. Like an automaton, despite his bone crushing fatigue, he wandered through the trees of the park and wondered that they could still be standing. Spirits of the Earth. At the western edge of the park, at the margin of the trees he stopped and looked over the great ocean that seemed to extend into infinity. How peaceful it's endless sparkling plane. Pacific. The ocean's name was strange to him now, for the swells rolling toward the shore reminded him of the terrifying waves that had rolled through the peninsula, under his feet, knocked him to the ground, and toppled the city only three days ago. He shuddered as a strong breeze blew rain in his face.

Marianne. He drew in a deep draft of saltair fresh off the sea and spoke her name on his exhaling breath: "Marianne." Saying her beautiful name aloud embedded her meaning into his mind. He had known her only for a few days, but she had become part of his world, his very being. Once he found her, he would never let her out of his life. Even if....

No! He would not allow darkness to invade his thoughts. She had to be alive; she could not die. She had to see the baby, and he had to see her face when she looked at him. He had to know if Cat was her lost child. She had to know if he had found the renewed meaning for her life. He had to know, to make sure of the meaning for his own existence. If he accomplished nothing else in his life he would give Marianne a chance to reunite with her child; he was no longer considering the possibility she was not the boy's mother. She was his mother, she had to be his mother--the boy had to be her child. He knew it as he knew his beating heart.

Musing thus, he stood stone still. A gust flipped his hair into his eyes, which he did not bother to brush it aside, because for the moment he was not seeing anything outside of his mind. Had he looked sharply at the scene around him, had he scanned the beach carefully along the wateredge he might have immediately seen a person walking along the strand. A lone woman. If he had seen her, his heart would have jumped in his chest and blood would have raced to his brain to reawaken him to his purpose, and he would have leaped into the air to run after her but he did not see her. Not at first. Despite his brave determination to find her he began to feel a dull pain swelling in his chest--the first pangs of lost hope. He should have known better. Chance a fickle thing.

The woman on the beach was walking slowly along the water, shoes in hand, letting white ribbons of surf wash past her body before they pushed onto shore and soaked into the sand. She seemed distracted, even indifferent to the magnificent flood that lay before her. On any other day when she had been with her husband and their child, she would have delighted in being at the beach; she had always reveled in their moments at the skirt of the great mother. For an instant she nearly smiled at the memory, but tears in her eyes mingled with the rain and dampened her fond remembrance. "Oh, my love! My child!" She choked on her tears. "Are you both really gone forever? We had so little time--"

The woman stopped and gazed over the water. Breakers rolled onshore in short intervals, great white-crested comers, one after another as phalanxes of a myriad army attacking the land to peel away its crusted pages one by one. Cresting rollers crashed upon their spent brethren, then collapsed into shallow sheets, lissome memories of themselves streaming toward the high sand to be absorbed or sucked into the mouth of another wave in the periodic interplay of sea on shore.

She never tired of looking over the sea, the wind-wrinkled sea, the arcing waves, their exploding ruins, and the tympanic surf trembling with countless bubbles now sprawling around her pallid feet. The ocean calmed her like nothing else in the world. She felt whole, peaceful, and complete when she was walking along those surging bounds. Turning to face the great origin of life on Earth, she stood dead still and tried to let the rain and the spray purge her pain, allow the breeze to carry it away, to cleanse her and render her indifferent to the eternity that lay before her own minor being. She felt the great spirit of the water draw her mortal spirit unto it. Her will let her mind go with the tide, and she felt her body follow her mood. Although the huge waves rolled toward her, she moved into them and sought the air as do gulls in currents off the swelling water. She looked down at the dark eddies swirling around her legs, catching her gown like seaweed. She felt the surge press against her belly where the baby had formed. She tasted salt in the foam that now churned around her neck. Soon the brine would wash her eyes, the ubiquitous liquid stop her breath; then her mind would sleep to dream of reuniting with--

Something was holding her back. Like a rope around her waist, it stopped her fast in the deepening surf. Annoyed, she would not be stopped just short of reaching the void where memory became personified. At first she thought it was a strong current of water and tried to push her way out of it but could not escape the pull. Kelp. She put her hands to her waist to remove the enclosing strands and jerk them away with a cry, but the thing holding would not let go. Touching them again, she felt human flesh, arms encircling her. She screamed.

"It's all right!" he said behind her. "I've got you!"

When she heard that deep voice sounding from the world she was trying to leave, she frantically struggled to break free but was unable she looked around to find the cruel being that held her fast, that kept her from reuniting with her loved ones. When she saw his face stricken with anxiety it nearly made her forget her own pain.

"I've got you," the face said again. "You're safe."

"What--?" Her closed mind did not immediately register his features as familiar. "I--I don't--I'm not...."

"Don't worry," Leo said. "I won't let you go."

Realizing her mindless quest for reunion in oblivion was futile and exhausted, she fell back limp in his arms. He carried her out of the churning surf and laid her on the wet sand just beyond the place where fringes of foam repeatedly circled in widening fans before slipping back into the sea.

"Marianne!" She did not answer. Fainted. Gently pushing coils of wet hair off her face, he checked her pulse and breathing, laid an ear to her chest to listen, then felt her breath on his cheek. "Thank God!" He removed his coat and laid it over her. He took her cold hands and held them in his as if he had captured some rare seabird. Watching over her, he waited till she opened her eyes. "Marianne?" he said softly. She looked at him but could not focus on his face. When coughing erupted from her, he raised her head and asked, "Can you breathe?" She nodded but could not speak. He raised her farther and let her lean against his chest. She coughed more then started breathing steadily. He sighed. "That's better." She found his eyes.

He smiled. "When I saw you in the water I was afraid I wouldn't reach you in time. The surf along this beach is treacherous. Every year many people--" Wrong thing to say. Realizing she was severely chilled, he pulled her to drier sand and wrapped his jacket tightly around her shivering body. She looked at him for a long time as though about to reprove him for saving her, but when her senses returned she smiled. When he saw that he laughed, he looked up at the sky and laughed as would a blind man who could finally see the sky. His fear abated, anger replaced his concern. "What on earth possessed you to do such a...?"

"Possessed?" She tittered. "I guess I was a little possessed."

His face was one big question. "By what?"

Her face darkened. "Miserable luck." She turned away. Tears fell from her eyes and joined with the rain and droplets of seawater that clung to her cheeks.

"No," he said, wanting to say more but only repeating, "No," then adding, "you're good luck." However, he had no idea how to explain what she meant to him or what he had in store for her.

Bewilderment replaced the sadness in her eyes as she expected him to elaborate, but he said nothing more. Feeling the need to move, he picked her up again, carried her to a higher place on the beach, where he laid her down against a stonewall. "There--this is better," he said.

"Afraid I'll break free and run for the water?"

He started to laugh again but held it in and sat back on his haunches. "I know you won't do that." He was not entirely sure.

She stared at him intensely then said, "You're right. I probably won't--not again."

He relaxed, feeling for the first time rather good about the situation. She was safe and he was with her. He only stared at her for a while, then his mission came back to him, a big part of the reason he had come to find her. Cat! Thoughts raced around his mind, as he wondered what to say, how to tell her about the foundling. If he blurted it out, she might get too excited, too hopeful. If the child turned out not to be hers, then she could fall into a very bad state of mind. Now that he had seen her recent behavior, he could not do anything that might make her again act that way. He refused to doubt the baby was hers, but he thought enough of her to protect her from unnecessary disappointment, so he silently pondered the dilemma.

She sensed his preoccupation. "If you need to be somewhere you can go. I'm fine--now." She really did not want him to leave. Sitting up she crossed her legs, looking like a child that had been playing all day at the beach. He felt affection rise in his chest and he wanted to hold her, to kiss her. She could sense that, and it pleased her.

He liked seeing that expression on her face but looked up to avoid her eyes. Getting late. He gazed at the sky through the clouds over the sea. The sun was close to setting. He looked over the ocean and faced the great yellow orb dipping toward the horizon, setting fire to the scalloped surface of the water as far as he could see. The irony of the image flickered inside him.

"Getting late," she said.

Her echo of his thought startled him, and he looked at her in awe. The rose of sundown was slightly coloring her damp clothes, her wet hair, and her face. She was beautiful. He wondered how much this strange woman knew of him, how much she had learned from his babblings when he had been delirious in the hospital. He stared into her eyes to see what she knew but all he could see was the warm sunlight reflecting her undefeated life.

She cocked her head slightly and asked, "Shouldn't we--? I really should be getting back to the hospital, the camp. The doctor may need...."

"I want you to come home with me." He blurted out the words despite an effort to restrain himself. Her eyes widened. "I mean I would like to show you a--a something."

"A something?"

"It's--well, it's a surprise." He had done it anyway. And it excited her. Damn!

"A surprise! Oh, I like surprises. It's a good one, I hope. I need a good surprise." She had second thoughts. "But I don't know, Leo--I really should...."

"I know you have to go back to the hospital, Marianne. I won't keep you long. And my housekeeper's there, so--" He wondered why he felt the need to mention his housekeeper.

She read his mind. "I'm not afraid of you, Firebird. After all, you just saved my life, didn't you?"

"I didn't save your life. Your life wasn't in danger." He stared at her. "Was it?"

"No. I was just going to take a walk on the water."

"You probably could."

She laughed a little. "I may be a nurse but I'm no angel." The look on his face showed his disagreement. She waited for the contradiction, but when it did not come, she shrugged and said, "Well--shall we go?" He watched her start to rise. "You wanted to show me a something?"

"Oh--yes--yes I do." He helped her to her feet, and together they strolled back toward the city. They could see wisps of smoke still hanging in the distant air. The bright red glow had finally faded, but the aftermath of the disaster lay waiting like a great scar across the body of the city.

"Is it far?" she asked.

"No. Well, a little, but it won't take long. Maybe we can catch a ride."

She tittered, took his arm, and laid her head against his shoulder. "It doesn't matter."

Like a couple of close friends or even reunited lovers, they walked off the beach, up the hill, and headed toward what was left of the town. Marianne was not entirely sure of this man she had known briefly, but she sensed that she could more than trust him, that she should go with him, for something good might come of it. All the way to his place Leo mulled over the action he was taking, fretting this way and that about whether or not he was doing right. He had no way of knowing the answer but had to take the chance.

Chapter 21

In Leo's flat Ah Sung was toweling the baby after his bath. He gurgled and dripped joy from his mouth. She took much delight in caring for the child. Never having had a child of her own, she found a little fulfillment in each one she could care for, even for a little while. "Baby not wowy--Mista Reo back soon. Find baby home." A shadow of sadness flitted across her face, but quickly disappeared beneath her stoic shield. "Baby need modda and fadda." The sadness returned and was not so easily removed.

As she dressed the child, laid him on her lap, and put the bottle of warm liquid into his mouth, she thought of things she never spoke of, events in her life in China and her life since coming to the Gold Mountain. The woman had suffered pain and loss that no one would ever know but she, for Ah Sung never spoke of it to anyone but her husband. The baby reminded her of her childhood, her mother and father, her brothers and sisters--some living, some missing, some dead, and gone but for the immortality of memory.

As the baby suckled, he became drowsy and finally let the nipple pop from his mouth. Ah Sung smiled at him. Setting the bottle on a table, she laid the baby over her shoulder. Patting him gently on the back, she waited till she heard a delicate rumble rise from his belly; then she smiled again, kissed him, and laid him in his bed.

After watching the child for a few moments to see that he was sound asleep, she stepped quietly out of the bedroom and sat down in Leo's big chair in the parlor. Laying her head back, she gazed out a window at the darkening sky and wondered where the man of the house was. She thought of her husband and his own wonder where she was. Not a person to become easily worried or impatient, she breathed slowly and deeply as she waited for Leo. He come, she thought. He come home.

She must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew she saw Leo crouching in front of her, a grin spread wide on his face, his eyes big with excitement. She jumped a bit at his brazen appearance but instantly realized who he was and that he was home. Ah Sung thought he looked almost comical. "Mista Reo--" She started to castigate him slightly for his tardiness but upon seeing a woman with him, refrained. "Oh, Mista Reo--you have guest." She smiled at the unknown person.

"Yes, Ah Sung--this is a friend of mine." He stood up. "She is--well, she is the woman who nursed me back to health." Marianne looked self-conscious at the exaggeration of her powers.

"Oh!" Ah Sung nearly shouted, "You--you de one!" She caught herself before revealing any presumption about this woman having anything to do with the baby sleeping in the other room. If the visitor turned out to be the child's mother, then Leo, she knew, would want to relate the good news himself.

By now, Marianne's eyes were full of questions.

Leo dropped a look of gratitude on Ah Sung for holding her tongue and said, "Ah Sung--this is Nurse Marianne Durand."

"So happy meet you, Missy Du-wan." Her eyes flicked between the man and the woman.

"Please, Ah Sung--call me Marianne." Ah Sung nodded agreeably but was not about to use such a familiar address to a stranger, especially one who was a friend of Leo. She looked at him for further understanding. He smiled and motioned with his head toward the bedroom. The little woman again nearly gave it away, so excited was she about the chance of having found the baby's mother; but she retained her composure, and Marianne was left to wonder about the mystery bouncing between these two. "So, Firebird--what's the surprise you dragged me out of the ocean to see?"

Ah Sung looked perplexed. She of course had no idea what the woman was talking about and for a moment felt a twinge of concern about the sanity of the possible mother of the child. She wanted to ask about the curious statement involving a bird of fire and the ocean but she felt her place was not to inquire about another person's strange words.

Leo partly wanted to sustain the suspense as long as he could but mostly wanted to rush the mother and child together for a glorious reunion. Still he had misgivings. Not at all certain the baby belonged to Marianne, he was wary of raising her hopes only to have them dashed upon discovering the child was not hers. He feared she would be devastated and that the ocean would become more attractive than ever. "Let me say first that I'm not sure I'm doing the right thing here. You see, I have it in my mind that something happened to you--or to your husband and...."

"My child--" Marianne's eyes rounded with a glimmering thought she would not allow herself to believe.

"And your child." He now believed more than ever that he was on the right track.

"But--but how do you know this? I don't think I ever...."

"I really have no definite idea exactly how I know. Whether I heard it or I imagined it--I can't be sure. But I think I know."

Her eyes, liquid, tried to bore into his mind. "My husband, Thomas and Tommy, our baby, were in the--" She had to swallow back her grief to continue. "They were in the Valencia Hotel when the quake--" She covered her eyes with her hands and started sobbing, her breast heaving. "They--my husband was killed--but my baby...."

The speculation he had harbored became a bright picture of fact in his mind. He could barely control his voice. "The baby--!"

She looked at him as if he held the answer to the mysteries of the universe. "My child--" She was beginning to see what Leo had in mind. "The surprise--? What--? What do you--?"

"I shouldn't have used that word. It may not be good...."

"What is it, Leo? You must tell me! Did you find--? Do you have--? Do you know something I should know?" Her eyes were ripping up the place. He could not explain or wait any longer. It would have been cruel. Ah Sung's eyes were flying between them.

"In here--" He stepped toward the bedroom. "I want you to see something--someone--"

Marianne glanced at the bedroom door then looked at him with an awkward smile as if afraid of a practical joke. From the look on his face, she knew he would not, could not joke about a subject that meant life and death to her. With trepidation shaking her body, she followed him closely. Ah Sung wanted to join them in the discovery but waited in the living room till they had gone into the darkened bedroom. Leo did not turn on a light.

"I can't see a thing," Marianne said.

Ah Sung swung the door open to allow light to shine into the mysterious room. It played on two beds: large and small. Leo stepped softly to the small one, looked inside, then stood to one side, staring at Marianne. His face composed a balance of fear and thrill. He wanted to say something to prepare her, to ease her way to the disclosure but did not know exactly what to say so he thought it best to be silent for the time being. He only stared at her without breathing. When she glimpsed the small bed, her heart palpitated; she flushed and lost her breath.

She looked at Leo with absolute astonishment heightened by anxiety; she was terrified that what she had longed for with her whole being these past few days would turn out not to be found, that what Leo had to show her was a heartbreaking mistake. Yet hope was blooming in her heart bigger than her fear, even though she dared not believe her dream had come true. She looked at Leo for reassurance that he could not give, but with confidence filling his chest he motioned toward the makeshift crib. So slowly she seemed not to be moving, she stepped to the side of the little bed, closed her eyes, and faced into it. Drawing in all the strength she could generate from her soul, she opened her eyes.

A baby! Tommy? The light was so dim she could not see him clearly. She was afraid to speak lest the little living thing be an illusion that she could disintegrate with words. However, she could not have uttered a syllable if she had tried. Wonder draped Leo's face. He wanted to show her, to ask her, to know but he waited, nerves tingling. Marianne's eyes, wide and bright despite the darkness, snapped between him and the little bed. "Oh--God!" she barely uttered. Still afraid it would disappear, she slowly bent over the infant. Even though Leo had said nothing to indicate the child might be hers, she was thinking of nothing else. At first she was afraid to blink or touch the baby but when she did, a jet of life flowed from her fingers up her arm to her heart pounding in her chest. He was real--and alive. Yet she still could not clearly see his face. Again she looked at Leo.

He had to speak. "Can you see him? Can you see who it is?" Wishing he had stopped his mouth, he murmured some distress at having cast the die. Now the baby had to be hers. If not--? He did not want to think about the alternative. Deciding to dive into the situation headfirst, he picked up the sleeping baby and held him in the light shining through the doorway. The infant's head flopped to one side as he continued his peaceful slumber of the innocent. A little drool wetted his lips; his cheeks rosy. "I've been calling him Cat."

Marianne started to scream as soon as she caught sight of the baby's tender face, but her motherly instinct controlled her emotions, and she covered her mouth then simply whimpered unintelligible sounds that quickly dissolved into profound weeping through laughter, an ecstasy that made her whole body shake. "My God! Tommy! Alive! My baby Tommy! My baby is alive!" She took the infant from Leo and drew him slowly to her breast as though still afraid if she moved too fast she might wake from a dream. Her head bowed over him, like a Raphael Madonna she stared at the child's face for a long time. Weeping quietly, she swayed to keep the baby calm in sleep but also wanting him to wake up and look at her. Glancing at Leo, then at Ah Sung, then back at Leo, she showed a face transfigured with gratitude and joy. "You found him!" Leo smiled and nodded. "How--? His father...."

"I know--and I'm sorry, Marianne--I am so very sorry. When I got to the hotel, your husband was--well, he was gone. But he had protected your child with his own--" Leo could not bare to tell her the details. "Luckily I heard the baby crying. Miraculously he was all right. I brought him home. I was going to take him to the police but I was afraid he was an orphan and would be put someplace where no one really cared about him. I'm sorry, Marianne--if I had told the police, you would have had him back in your arms sooner and you would not have suffered so much."

She looked at him with an undeniable awareness of that harsh fact. A slight resentment stirred uncomfortably in her breast, but she was so exhilarated to have her baby back in her arms she let it pass. "But why did--? How did you know I--? When did you...?

"I didn't--not at first--then it dawned on me from somewhere--or something you might have said, something I overheard--probably at the hospital when I was drifting in and out of consciousness. I don't know. Maybe I just wanted it to be so."

Her face fairly shone through her tears. "You made it so, Leo. You saved my baby. I shall never forget you for that. And I shall--" She stopped herself before expressing her deepest emotion, believing her gratitude might be inspiring an unrealistic affection for the man.

He put his arm around her and together they looked at the sleeping child. Each had his and her notion of the situation but neither said a word about them. There would be time enough for that.

Ah Sung had clasped her hands and too felt like crying quietly at seeing mother and child together but maintained her customary reserve. She had become fond of the baby, had always kept Leo in a special place in her heart, and now she was drawing close to the child's long lost mother. Happy, happy day! She would not say the words aloud to keep from disturbing the couple in their precious moment of reunion. Even she, that strong and steady woman of endless travail could not stop the emotion in her eyes. It was a picture of complete bliss--the four of them there. A moment for silence.

They sustained that picture in the darkening room for a long time, all wanting the sensation to last as long as possible. But it could not last. The demands of life interrupt the grandest of moments. Leo knew he had to go back to work, Ah Sung had to find her husband, and Marianne had to return to the hospital. This time, though, she was not returning alone; she was going back with her baby son.

Home. The word formed simultaneously in their minds. For Ah Sung home was with her husband. For Leo home was in his flat. For Marianne home was lost. Where would home now be for Leo and Marianne? Since the baby was reborn, and he had delivered the child into her hands, she felt a crucial bond with the man. How could she take the baby and leave him? This man had not only saved the child but with Ah Sung had cared for him, protected him; they had been like parents to him. Besides, she had no real place to call home, only living in the hospital camp. "My husband is dead." She did not know why she said that.

"I know," he said. "But you and your baby are alive."

"Yes." She looked at the sleeping infant and kissed him on his slightly parted lips. Ah Sung wanted to kiss him too. "Yes, he is--thanks to you, Leo." Marianne said and looked at him with ineffably high regard. "You are my heroic Firebird."

He blushed and was glad it was dark. He wished he could be above such boyish behavior but could not help it. He might not have cared so much if he really knew how charming a feature most people thought it was in him.

"Would--? Maybe you would like to leave Cat, er, Tommy with us--only until you get settled." He wished he had said nothing of the kind.

Marianne took his hand and squeezed it. "Thank you, dear Leo--but I can't do that. You--you and Ah Sung have done so much already. Now I have to take my son with me. Even though I am practically homeless, I must have my baby with me. You understand. After missing both him and his father, then learning of his father's death, and then fearing he might have died too. I had nearly given up hope, you know."

"I know."

"So I can't do without him now. He makes me want to go on--" She would not allude to herself wandering off to nowhere, a fading suggestion that if she had not found her child she would not have survived. "He belongs with me." These words sounded severe to her, but she meant no such thing. She added hastily, "Maybe we could come visit you--or...."

"Yes, of course--I want you, er, I hope to see you and the baby again. It wouldn't feel right not to see you again. Would it, Ah Sung?"

"Baby berong you bote now."

Leo and Marianne looked at each other awkwardly then at the same time smiled. Although they had not thought of it that way, they silently agreed with the woman's wise words.

"Now I have to be alone with my baby," Marianne said quietly. "You understand."

"Yes."

Ah Sung nodded emphatically.

"Where will you stay?" he said.

"In my tent at the hospital camp for now."

"But...."

"We'll be fine there. A few other nurses and doctors have taken to setting up their living quarters in hospital tents. Some of us have no place else to go."

"You can--" Leo was about to suggest a place for Marianne and the baby to stay, an idea that much excited him, but despite his eagerness, he held his tongue--for now.

"Yes?"

"Oh, I don't know--an idea came to mind, but I'd be speaking out of turn if I said anything."

She looked at him with a question on her face but brushed it off and bundled the baby to take away with her. The child kept on sleeping, wonderfully oblivious of events around him. "Do you mind if I take this bedding with me?" she asked.

Leo only shook his head. He was growing sad to know she was about to leave.

Ah Sung said, "You take branket, young woman--baby be comfy."

Marianne smiled at the word and looked at them both. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Leo on the cheek, and then she placed her face against Ah Sung's. "I can never thank you both enough for saving and caring for my child. You don't know what you've done for me. I was--" She stopped the thought before it escaped her mouth and melded with more tears. Rather reluctantly she turned to leave the room. Leo and Ah Sung followed her closely.

When Marianne was going out the front door, Leo asked, "May I go with you back to the camp? It's getting too dark for you to go alone."

She looked at him tenderly and said, "That would be lovely." He joined her, as Ah Sung waved them down the street.

***

The rain had abated, and a full moon was showing its face among the breaking clouds. Before Leo and Marianne reached the corner, she buried her face in the baby's bedding and began to sob. Leo gently touched her shoulder but was not sure what to say. Feeling he had to speak, to comfort her with whatever words he could find, he said, "Don't worry now, Marianne--you and your baby are going to be all right." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he thought how meaningless they were.

She looked at him, her face contorted with pain. "If I hadn't left them, maybe this wouldn't have happened. It's all my fault." She broke into uninhibited crying, a storm of grief and despair she had pent up for days.

Leo was distraught at seeing her so. "Your fault! How could it be your fault, Marianne? You didn't make the earthquake, you didn't make the fire." He was secretly glad she had not been in the hotel, for if she had, she probably would have died with her husband. And he knew enough to keep these thoughts to himself.

"But--but I went off and left them--when they needed me most." He wondered where she had gone but did not know how to ask about it without upsetting her further. She guessed the question in his mind. "I thought--I felt I had to go see--my father. He was sick. He had a heart attack, and I thought he needed me. But--my husband and child--they needed me more." She could barely speak from crying.

"Of course you had to go to your father. How could you have known such a disaster would strike? You were seeing to your family. In ordinary conditions, your husband and child would have been fine. You'd taken such a trip before, hadn't you?"

"Yes--but not since the baby was born."

He could sense something of her profound guilt. He knew she would not get over it soon, and anything he would say might only make her feel worse, so he fell silent and only squeezed her shoulder as he murmured words to comfort her.

He need not have bothered, for his mere presence comforted her, so that her crying became sobbing became quiet moaning became sighing. She looked at him, her face red, swollen, and wet. "I'm so glad you're here, Leo Brown. I don't know what I would have done, if...."

"You've done just fine, lady. You're stronger than you think you are."

She smiled gratefully at him and looked at her son. "Not as strong as he is apparently." A laugh nearly peeked through her distress. "He's a super baby."

"A cat with nine lives."

The laughter broke through her demeanor this time like sunlight through a smoky sky.

"Yes, a tough little bugger, he is," Leo continued. "A regular tomcat."

"I hope not," she said with a hint of humor in her voice. They laughed lightly together and headed westward to Golden Gate Park. For a long time they were silent. When they could see anything between the still-standing structures, they glimpsed segments of the vast open wound of destruction that spread across the city.

Only shadows of the few buildings remaining downtown were visible at night. The rest of the town was destroyed in a way only those a decade later would see in Europe after World War I. The sight of the demolished city had become so familiar to people by this time that they showed little emotion, but their eyes insinuated the pervasive sadness that was saturating everybody at the time. They cherished San Francisco, and seeing their beloved city in such a ruined condition caused them nearly as much mourning as the loss of friends and family.

Leo turned away from the sorrow of the city and stared at Marianne. Wanting to know as much about this woman as possible, he opened a new conversation. "So--your parents weren't hurt when the quake hit."

"No, it did a lot less damage in Sacramento."

"How lucky for them! Did they feel it much there?"

"Oh, yes--we did. Even that far away it was terrifying." Leo nodded at the reminder that she was with them and he was glad of it. "Scared the daylights out of me. Mother and father took it in stride though. Of course we had no idea of what had happened to--" The very name of the city was irrevocably tied to the personal tragedy of her family.

"Scared me nearly to death too," Leo said. "I was walking home after fighting a fire--when all hell broke loose." She looked at him with an aspect of wanting to ask more questions but held them for another time. "Would you like me to carry him for a while? He's a big boy."

"He's not heavy to me, Leo--he's my son."

"Of course. Just let me know if I can lighten your load." He winced at his choice of words.

She smiled her madonna smile at him, full of gratitude and affection. They walked in silence for a few more moments. Birds were chirping and rustling as they settled into the remaining trees for the night. She looked up at them. "Birds! I haven't heard them for a long time."

He looked at the trees. "That's right. It's a good sign." He was silent for another moment then said, "Is your father well now?"

"Oh, yes--thank God. He did have a coronary, but it was more of a warning than anything serious. He's tough as a range bull. Oh, but gentle as a lamb." She added the latter incongruity to dissuade Leo from fearing her father. She wanted them to meet and like each other, a desire she would keep to herself for the time being.

Leo chuckled. "Good stock, eh?"

She nodded over a rather self-conscious smile. Another short silence extended between them. "And your parents--" she said. "Do they live in the city?

"My mother does. My father is dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She had not considered that he too could have lost someone in the disaster. "I should have...."

"That's all right. He died fighting a fire years ago."

"You must miss him."

He did not have to think about it a second before responding. "Every day." She wanted to ask about his mother but held back. He guessed what was on her mind. "Mother lives alone in the family house on the other side of Russian Hill."

"Is it...?"

"It's still standing. She and the neighbors fought the flames off their homes. Saved a few of them. Hers too, thank God."

"She must be quite a woman."

He tossed his head like a stallion. "She is."

"I'd like to meet her."

"Oh, you will--I mean--" He was abashed for having been so forward. "I mean I'd like you to meet her. I know she'll be crazy about you." He wished he hadn't said that either. She knew despite the darkness that he was blushing but did not look at him to save him any added discomfort. Little did he know how she enjoyed that feature in him. "She likes everybody." He felt he had made it worse and wanted to kick himself. She raised a hand to her face to hide a grin. He struggled to salvage his dignity by talking through it. "She's a big-hearted woman who loves having her family around."

"How do you think she'd take to me, since I'm not family?"

He realized again that he had put his foot in his mouth. The more he tried, the more wedged it became. "Not yet." He winced at words that seemed without having properly formed in his mind to be rolling off his tongue.

This time she blushed and put her face in the baby's blanket, pretending to be snuggling him. She still could not completely believe he was alive and well and in her arms.

"God, I can't seem to say the right thing," Leo said. She touched his arm reassuringly. It prompted him to add, "I'm not very good at this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?"

"This--walking and talking to a woman, a beautiful woman."

She blushed again. She had never thought of herself as beautiful, even when Thomas has praised her for it; she had always considered her body something outside of herself. The important thing for her was what she felt inside, even though she was particularly curious about this man's taste in feminine features. "You must have saved many damsels in distress, Firebird."

"Well, yes--" He felt he had to add a disclaimer. "But none of them were beautiful. Not like you."

She stared at him with that look of incredulity a woman shows after hearing a man deprecate his attraction to other women.

"Many of them were old--or very young. I didn't talk to any of them. Not as we're talking now."

She felt like teasing him a little. "So you did talk to them."

"Yes, I had to ask them questions like: 'Are you all right? Do you want a doctor?'"

"Of course you did."

He nodded with more emphasis than was appropriate. "We--none of us ever carried on a conversation."

"Okay. I understand. It wouldn't matter if you had."

"I didn't."

Both of them simultaneously felt quite awkward, like a new young couple trying desperately to keep one another from becoming defensive or falling into a somber mood. Their best solution for them, as for most people, was to change the subject. For the moment, though, they became silent, and then Leo resumed the conversation with a subject in which he had a special interest. "You know what I'm thinking?"

"What?" She was actually trying to guess.

"I'm thinking you could stay with my mother--till you got back on your feet of course."

"Oh, I...."

"She'd love it."

"How do you know? She could hate it."

"Naw, not ma. She hates no one. She'd take you in as one of her own."

"Mothers of young men sometimes reject their son's women friends, you know."

He was not sure how he felt about being referred to as her friend but made nothing of it. "Reject you! Ma wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. I'm telling you she'd love you."

Marianne thought about the suggestion. It was attractive to her in the abstract. She liked the idea of a house to stay in instead of a tent, especially now with the baby back with her. She kept nuzzling him as she walked. Getting closer to Leo through his mother was an appealing possibility, but she would of course want the matron's approval. "Have you mentioned it to her?" Leo was caught. He should not have raised the subject before talking to his mother, but he had let the cat out of the bag, in this case the cat and his mother into the house before opening the door.

"Well, no, not yet--but I know she'll go for it." I think she will. Even before he finished speaking, he knew that the concept might not thrill his mother. She had lived alone for a long time since his father's death. Maybe she had gotten used to the situation. Yet there would be no turning back now; he had no choice but to carry the suggestion forward. "I'll talk to her. Don't worry. It'll work out fine. I'll talk to her and set it up for you."

"I don't know, Leo--I think it may not be such a good idea."

"Nonsense." He had not meant to use such a strong word so he repeated what he meant with what he thought was a gentler phrase. "Don't be silly." He regretted those words too, as soon as they escaped his mouth.

"I'm not silly. I know women. Even though I don't know your mother, I know women don't like anyone invading their territory, especially someone competing for--" She could not allow herself to reveal too much of her feelings for this man.

"Competing for what? You wouldn't be competing." He realized what she meant immediately after he spoke, and his face reddened even more. Such attention from a woman other than his mother, his aunts, or his sister was nearly unknown to him since his school days, at least as far as he knew. He blurted out something highly unusual for his self-effacing personality. "There's enough of me for both of you."

At first she did not know how to take this but soon laughed and said, "I know there is--you big Firebird." She would have hugged him if she had not had the baby in her arms; instead, she settled for squeezing his arm. "That's not really what I meant. Maybe she doesn't want to share you--or her house."

He smiled. "I was only joking."

"I know," she said with a look that acknowledged his spontaneity. She was beginning to cherish that in him, that youthful quality she had found so endearing in Thomas. A pang of grief shot through her breast when she remembered the man she had married and with whom she had conceived a child. It made her moan softly.

"Are you all right?" He looked concerned.

"I'm fine--just tired."

"Here--let me take the tyke for a spell." He reached for him.

Marianne let herself relinquish her treasure this time, for she was finally satisfied that he was alive and well. Besides, she thoroughly trusted this man with their lives and she was after all abysmally tired. Leo took the child in hand with alacrity surprising to Marianne, till she realized how many children he must have held in his arms while rescuing them alive--and dead. Without warning, a torrent of weeping burst from her.

"Marianne!"

"I--I'm all right. Forgive me. These feelings just spill out of me with no warning."

Holding the baby close to his chest, he looked at her long and hard. "We've all, all of us, suffered terribly. How could we be otherwise after what we've been through?"

She nodded and her tears abated. When she looked at him holding her child, they flowed again, not from pain or sorrow, a little from remembering her husband, but mostly from deep gratitude. He looked at her with growing concern. She smiled through her tears and looped her arm with his so that her hand touched the infant. "I'm fine. Really I am. It's just--you look so beautiful holding my baby."

He grinned like a schoolboy showing a straight A report card to his mother. "Do I fit the part?"

"Perfectly."

They walked silently for a few blocks.

She looked around. "I always thought this was a small city till now--when I have to walk across it."

"Lot of us on Shanks's mare these days."

"I miss the cable cars and the trolleys and the streets crowded with buggies--even automobiles."

"They'll be back," he said. "The whole city will rise again."

"Won't ever be the same, though."

"No. Better."

She smiled at him with her nurturing glow. "You have a lot of faith."

"I have to--I'm a fireman."

She pondered this truth then nodded, "So do I. So do I."

They continued in silence for another block or two.

"There's the park," she said, "and I see the hospital tents. Look--they're almost pretty in the moonlight."

"There they be."

"It's so peaceful now."

"Almost like a vacation campground--from here."

"Well, it's my home--for the time being."

"Yes." He wanted to comment on the temporariness of it but swallowed the words unformed. No sense pushing the point.

The evening was cool but comfortable. Stars, visible for the first time in days, were shining in the evening sky as if nothing unfortunate or of any major consequence had happened on this planet more or less than on any others of the countless spheres in the galaxy. While Leo and Marianne walked through the lantern-lighted tent city, people peered out at them as they passed. Indiscernible conversations were occurring inside the tents among the livelier patients. Doctors were making their final rounds for the day, and nurses were seeing to their wards for the night. Several persons waved to Marianne as she walked by, not noticing the connection between her and the baby in the unknown fireman's arms, but curious. Marianne made nothing of her return. Doctor Stillway saw her from across the grounds but made no gesture, no signal to her, too busy with his suffering minions to socialize. However, he did notice that she was with another man and that made him stop what he was doing. He studied the man a moment till he recognized him from earlier in the day; then he made a mental note of their presence together and went on with his duties.

When Marianne arrived at her tent, she raised her arms to receive her baby. Leo did not promptly hand the child over to her, feeling unconsciously natural with him in his hands. "I'll take him now," she said.

"Oh, yes, certainly--here--I didn't realize we were at your tent."

She smiled warmly as she took the baby to her chest. The child started to squirm. "He may be hungry."

"I, we fed him late this afternoon."

"Yes, then he will be waking up famished--as babies do."

"I know Ah Sung cared for him well."

"Of course she did. So did you. But now he's with his mother, thanks to you. I hope I still have milk enough for him." Leo swallowed and was glad she could not see his face clearly. However, she sensed his awkwardness and smiled to herself. Such a boy! "I'd better go inside." He stood looking at her as if waiting to be invited into the tent. "I'll see you tomorrow, Leo?"

"Oh--oh, yes--you will. I'll look in on you as soon as I can get away from the clean up."

"I hadn't thought about the mess the city must be...."

"I mean the fire clean up. We have to check for hot spots--to make sure the devil is back in his hole."

"Well, I've got to get back in mine, so--" She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. "Till tomorrow."

"Till tomorrow," he said with a slight quaver in his voice, happy that she wanted to see him again so soon. He stared at her as if afraid she would disappear from his sight and he would wake up and never see her again.

"Thank you, Leo Brown--for saving my baby--and me."

He choked, afraid he would cry. "I felt as if I was saving myself." He was not sure how these words struck her, but they were the best ones he could think to utter now. She laid her hand on his face and held it there for a long time without saying a word. They sought each other's eyes in the darkness and felt the energy passing between them then said nothing more. They had no need to do so. He simply turned and walked away, and she watched him fade into the darkness.

Then she ducked into her tent and lit a lantern. Sitting on her cot, she looked at her baby boy and whispered to him. "Welcome home, Tommy." The baby roused and wiped his little fists comically across his face. Without opening his eyes, he opened his mouth and searched from side to side. Marianne giggled, opened her tunic, and took her breast in hand. When she touched the infant's cheek with her nipple, the child eagerly sought and found it. Apprehensive, she watched him suckle. He opened his eyes, blinked, and looked at her while he fed. She knew he was getting milk. "I hope I have enough for you, baby. You seem bigger than you were when I--" Her eyes watered, but her joy at having her child at her breast overwhelmed the sadness. She became the picture all humanity most reveres: mother with child. In the amber half light of the lantern, she looked almost saintly as the personification of love and life and hope.

Marianne nursed her baby till he began to fall asleep; then pleased he was satisfied, she changed his clothing, cleaned him, and laid him on the cot. He gurgled through the entire procedure. After undressing and putting on her nightgown she slid under the covers next to him, then she turned to him and with her head on her arm watched him fall asleep beneath her fluttering eyelids. "Good night, Tommy, my love. Think sweet thoughts." Tomcat. She smiled slightly in her drowsiness as she recalled Leo's voice.

The fireman's face appeared in her mind. She studied it mentally and tried to replace it with Thomas's but could not do so; she could not call up her husband's face and hold it in her mind. Her brow tightened. Oh, Thomas! She did not want to forget her husband, the father of her child. She could not forget him, she would not allow it. She owed him that much. He had saved their baby boy. So had Leo. Both devoted to her child. How lucky she was to have known Thomas, to know Leo. The two men were very different, but in her semiconscious mind they became one, and the union did not disappoint her. While visualizing that pleasant fancy she drifted into a lovely deep sleep.

She probably dreamed many dreams that night--visions of bliss and maybe a nightmare--but remembered none of them, so collapsed was she with fatigue. In fact, she slept better that night than she had since the quake. Although her life was turned upsidedown, she had found her child. Whatever happened now she was mother again to a new human life, and nothing was more important in the world.

Chapter 22

The next day some of the people of San Francisco returned to their homes or to the vacant places where they once stood. When they saw what was left of them, at first they cried quietly in their grief but soon pitched into the work they had known for days they would have to do--rebuilding their city. Again. The people of San Francisco had rebuilt parts of their city many times in her short history since the Gold Rush. Maybe even this disastrous time would not be the last, but it was their city of homes and jobs, and they would rebuild it as many times as necessary. People picked up their lives as close to where they had left off as they could and proceeded with the tremendous task.

Refugees wandered back from the hills and campsites to locate their places of business and homes. They dug through the debris of their former lives to find whatever heirloom, memento, coin, or piece of jewelry might have escaped the ravages of quake and fire. But they could find little. Scavengers who preyed on the misery of others often snatched up what remained.

The police kept order as well as they could, while the fireman made sure the danger was past, and city workers cleaned up the city. People continued to camp outside of their homes till the fire department cleared them, so they could use or rebuild their chimneys. Many people who had lost their places of employment found new jobs rebuilding the city; businessmen who had lost their companies began again in their homes or in offices on the edges of destruction, places that tremor or flame had left untouched. Shopkeepers rebuilt what they could of their stores or set up markets in the street. Artisans started making things for homes and offices to replace the countless tables, chairs, beds, lamps, dressers, and dishes that had shattered or burned. Teachers met their students in makeshift classrooms. Doctors and nurses continued to help people back to health in the emergency camps and extant hospitals.

Leo's family mourned the death of Bobby McCarthy; Marianne's family mourned the death of Thomas Durand. They, like most of the families of San Francisco, pulled their loved ones together after the crisis and as always found in their unity the strength to make living enjoyable again. All over town, families were reunited in tragedy, memory, and hope.

Ah Sung now wanted to be with her husband. She checked on Leo's menagerie, locked up his flat, and hurried over to the tent town where Chung Hee was awaiting her. A patient man, he had finished work with clean up crews and was waiting at their camp in the Marina District. They had fled their tiny flat when the fire roared through Chinatown, and since then wondered what had become of their things. A poor couple they had not many possessions but what they had were dear to them. They had come from China many years ago, so the few things they possessed were priceless mementos of the old country.

They were childless and Ah Sung was becoming too old to conceive. This fact was a deep sore between them. Going without children, especially a son, can be a serious misfortune to most married couples, no less to the Chinese. But they did not blame each other. Rather they clung together more closely. Not only were they childless; they had few relatives in the new country: one or two siblings and a few cousins. In spite of this, they were happy; they had each other as friends and lovers. Their union was concrete.

Chung Hee was preparing tea when he saw his wife traipsing up the street to the park. He always liked to watch her walk, for she moved gracefully like a bird. He smiled and waved to her; she waved back and hurried to him. They did not embrace when they met but merely clasped hands tightly and shook them as they fixed their eyes on one another. Then in the Cantonese dialect--

"Good evening, mother."

"Good evening, father."

Despite their lack of children, having held the hope of offspring for so long, they simply got used to the respectful appellations. "We have tea," he said. They unceremoniously sat on boxes and sipped the steaming brew. Both would have normally eat little bean cakes with the drink but such things were luxuries now. The couple was grateful for the little they had. "Please stay, mother. I go see home."

She looked concerned, feeling certain the tiny flat they had lived in for many years was completely destroyed, but she wanted him to see for himself; besides, she knew she could not stop him. "You go. I fix supper."

Chung Hee nodded a farewell and headed east toward the blasted location Chinatown had once occupied. He too doubted they would find anything left of the place but he had to know. When he came in sight of the old Asian district, he spontaneously raised his hands and nearly cried out.

Chinatown was no more. The entire district had either collapsed or burned to the ground. He felt like weeping, but he plodded through the rubble to find the spot where his home had stood. That was no easy task for all the landmarks had disappeared; even the streets signs were gone. However, by his sense of the place, having lived there so many years, he found the general area of their former residence over the fish market. He witnessed others of his countrymen rummaging through the waste to find any scrap of their former lives. When he found his own place, he saw a strange man there, not an Asian, plowing through some things, picking out objects, and putting them into a flour sack. Drawing closer to the stranger, Chung Hee realized the man was at the exact place of his former home and was removing the contents of an old trunk Chung Hee and his wife had brought with them from China to San Francisco. The trunk was charred but had somehow survived the fire. He saw the stranger pick up the remnants of his wife's silk wedding dress and he saw the man desecrate it with his filthy hands but Chung Hee did not notice a pistol in the man's belt.

"Hey, mista--that mine. You take wife tings. Put down, prease." He hurried to confront the man. The stranger said nothing, did not look up, and continued with his scavenging. Chung Hee ran up to him and grabbed his arm. The man whipped the pistol out of his belt and swung it fast, striking him on the cheekbone. Chung Hee fell backwards, tried to keep his balance, but tripped over a protruding piece of burnt wood, and slammed onto his back among some blackened bricks. His silk jacket caught on the wood and ripped. He looked at his ruined clothes and rubbed his back.

"Stay there, Chinaman, and live longer," the stranger said, pointing the pistol at Chung Hee's head.

"No! Not wedding crothes. No take wife crothes!"

"And shut up!" The stranger resumed his thievery, plowing into the trunk, tossing the Chinese couples' dear belongings into the dirt and ash.

"Help! Help!" In Cantonese, Chung Hee hollered for assistance in protecting his property. Other Chinese persons in the area looked at Chung Hee and started to come to his aid, but when they saw the man with the gun, they halted. They merely stood their ground and stared at him, hoping he would not turn on them.

When the stranger was distracted as he put booty into the bag, Chung Hee scrambled to his feet and lunged at the offender, but the poor man slipped on a muddy spot and fell on his chest. On all fours he scurried to grab the thief's leg, but the stranger stepped back, took quick aim, and shot Chung Hee in the forehead. Without another glance at his victim, the man shoved the pistol back in his belt, swung the bag over his shoulder, and stalked off across the wasteland.

Chung Hee fell backward, sat still in the dirt, and then slowly fell onto his back. He looked into the sky. He saw the blue visible for the first time in many days. He noticed how clear it was but was surprised to see how quickly it was becoming dark. Feeling chilled he shuddered and blinked, then the world went completely black. He could not feel his body. Tasting blood in his mouth, he wondered where it was coming from. He remembered the stranger with the gun. He tried to turn his head to find him but could not move. No matter; the killer was gone. Chung Hee looked at the trunk, its lid flopped open, the precious contents violated. "Ah--Sung--" he breathed. His eyes did not close when he died but kept staring blank and blind into the bright blue canopy arcing over his body, the destroyed city, and the earth.

At their campground Ah Sung had finished straightening up the tent and was fixing supper. When evening came she wondered why her husband was not yet home but she went about her business putting rice on to steam, chopping onions and green leafy vegetables and heating oil in a pan on their campfire. She knew he would be home for supper, for he enjoyed her cooking too much to miss a meal. Chung Hee like eat, she mused. The woman laid a cloth over a crate and set a couple of bent pie tins with chopsticks. She looked around the park for flowers, wanting one for the center of the table, and found a few dandelions in a patch of grass. The bright yellow reminded her of the sun. Good. She always tried to make their home, however temporary, as much like home as possible.

When supper was ready, she cast her darkeyes around the campground and even stepped to its border in the direction of the way Chung Hee had gone to see if he were coming back from the ruins of Chinatown. Not seeing him but still believing he would return soon, she went back to their camp and sat down to the meal while fresh. She put some rice and vegetables on her plate, picked up the chopsticks, and gathered some food to her mouth. But she quickly lowered the sticks to the tin, unable to take a bite without her husband at the evening meal. "Chung Hee--whe' you?" She looked toward the way he had left but saw nothing of him.

Ah Sung waited for her husband at their makeshift dining table for more than an hour, long after nightfall, but he did not come home. Anxiety gnawing deep inside her replaced the hunger, so she went to find him but tried to deny the worry, to allow only hope for rebuilding their lives like a garden in her spring heart. They had lost their home but they would make a new one as they had done so many times. She would find Chung Hee probably gathering up the remains of their lost possessions. She would touch him gently and bring him back to camp to enjoy the evening meal, and then they would rest and plan their future together as they always had. There would be new days to make another place to live.

Chapter 23

As soon as the fires were extinguished, most of the people of San Francisco went back to the places where the buildings had been standing and continued to search for bodies and goods and to clean up the mountainous mess. With picks, shovels, and dynamite, workers blasted skeletal walls to the ground, removed twisted girders and chunks of masonry, and cleared lots for rebuilding. Although the ferocious furnace had incinerated many bodies of humans and horses and other animals to ash, men loaded the few recognizable ones onto carts and hauled them to mass graves or cremated the rest of them as quickly as possible. The stench of death was pervading the city; only the raging fire had prevented it from becoming too disgusting to bear.

Men cleared the cable car slots and opened them to reattach the cables. They excavated lots between the skeletons of burned out buildings for the foundations of new ones. They filled in the cracks in streets that had been laid on unstable ground and smoothed them over to enable traffic. Now that the terror was over, the movement of people was vast. Although most of the buildings downtown had become dust and ash, miraculously the Ferry Building had withstood both quake and fire. The clock tower was still standing, the great hands on the familiar face stuck on the time the temblor had struck the city, a frozen reminder for everyone returning to town of their last moment of freedom from panic, pain, and suffering. For the people of San Francisco that portentous period was a timeless gap between that dark April day before dawn and their now daily striving to renew their lives.

After cleanup crews removed debris from still-standing buildings, telephone and telegraph workers labored to reconnect the city to itself and to the outside world. Sitting on seats thrown together with barrels and planks, they resumed their jobs of helping people communicate with one another for the first time in more than three days. When Marianne heard communication with the outside world had been re-established she went to the telegraph company and sent a message to her parents.

Thomas killed. Baby alive. We

safe and sound. Don't worry.

Love, Marianne.

She could barely see to read the message before sending it. She feared the news would threaten her father's heart condition but she had to tell them. Knowing nothing would have been worse. She wished they were close so she could go to them and cry in their arms the way she had always done when as a child something had hurt or frightened her. Regret for having come to San Francisco crept for the first time into her mind. She had wanted to live there ever since graduating from high school; the excitement of the big city had always beckoned her. Now, however, she longed for a simpler time in the smaller Sacramento town where her family and old friends dwelt away from the hideous furies that had visited their wrath upon San Francisco. No. No use in thinking that way. She had made the city her home and married Thomas there to live with him for better or worse. To leave now would, she felt, almost betray his memory. All the way back to hospital camp at Golden Gate Park she pondered these thoughts and when she arrived and picked up her baby again she held him close to comfort them both and to reconfirm her choices in life.

***

Molly's husband, Michael, found the place on Market Street where a building had contained his law office, but the building was gone. Carrying a metal box and a crowbar, he ploughed through dust and ash till he found his safe. Although fire had blackened it, the steel cabinet was still in one piece; however, heat had welded the lock tight, so he had to pry it open with the crowbar. Inside, fortunately for him, important papers were undamaged, papers critical to his dealings with Mayor Schwartz, Burt Cash, and certain disreputable construction companies. He scanned the papers to make sure they were all readable: building permits and contracts. Money in the bank! Guffawing with delight, he stashed these papers into the box and put it into his automobile. Hurriedly he took is treasure home for future use.

People all over the city were scrambling to find the remnants of their past, locate their friends and relatives, and plan the reconstruction of their lives. Some simply wandered through the wasted town, many could not decide where to begin, so much damage lay in all directions for miles. Several persons broke down both physically and mentally. A few took advantage of the misery of others. Thousands left the city forever, but lots of the people picked up the tatters and fragments of their broken world and worked to make something out of them with which they could continue their lives.

Before the living could proceed, however, another more human ritual vital to people's peace of mind was in order--services for the dead. Funerals were many. During the last day of the fires, when the firefighters were finally beating them down, the funerals began and for days afterward, they seemed not to end. Few bodies lay in state, numerous individuals having disappeared in the flaming fury, so many of the bereaved attended only memorial ceremonies in churches, synagogues, chapels, and temples that still stood in the city. By the thousands, relatives and friends of the appalling number of deceased put on their dark garments and packed places of worship. When people found the physical remains of their loved ones, they formed long processions in following coffins to the cemeteries. In some burial grounds, people could only gather over mass graves to insert markers into the freshly turned earth. All around the city, bells intoned from remaining steeples, choirs filled the air with mournful song, and people wept and wailed in choruses of grief that displaced fire and smoke over the aggrieved city.

Chapter 24

When Ah Sung reached the wreckage that had been Chinatown, she scanned the deplorable remains of their former settlement. Locating the place where their home had been, with much the same instinct as her husband had been able to find it, she spotted amid the rubble the shape of a human. Afraid to discover the identity of the strange form but driven to find her man she stepped slowly toward the shape. In the darkness she could not clearly see the details of the body but on bending down she sensed a familiar presence. Looking closely she saw that it was the body of her husband lying in the filthy remains of their home. "Chung Hee!" She ran her hands over him to see if he were still alive, fearing, knowing he was not, but unable to face it. "Chung Hee!" she said as if commanding him to rise and stand. "Chung Hee!"

He would not rise. He did not move. He did not breathe. She bent down closer and peered at the hole--small, round, and black in the middle of his forehead. She saw no blood at first, only his eyes open to the sky without seeing. He was dead, but she would not believe it. He had been completely alive only a few hours earlier, but now he was sleeping forever in the middle of their broken home. She grasped his stiff shoulders and shook him. "Chung Hee! You no go! Chung Hee!"

Her tears fell upon his body like drops of rain. She touched his hands but recoiled from their coldness, and she laid her fingertips on his eyelids, closing them. Knowing that he would never awaken no matter how hard she cried for him, she bowed deeply and murmured a prayer for the dead. For a long time she rocked gently on her knees and sobbed for the soul of her man. For one last moment she was completely alone with him, with only his living image in her mind. Not the burned down house, or destroyed Chinatown, or the decimated city, none of the violent and beautiful world existed for her at that time. Only the memory of her husband and his kindly face looking upon her with friendliness, companionship, and love; that was all the meaning that remained. His body was nothing now but his soul she would keep in her mind as long as she walked the tumultuous earth.

Before long, though, something began displacing these thoughts of Chung Hee. A nagging thing at first, it was growing in her gut like a cancer, and then it burst and flowed through her veins, making her shiver. Panic. Casting her eyes about like a doe in tiger territory, she feared now for her own life. Behind every jutting girder, in every sinkhole, beneath every pile of debris she feared the monster lurking, the monster that had taken the life of her man, her best friend, her soulmate, her lover. Although God had never blessed them with babies, they had loved each other; they had known each other's minds. When they both survived the quake and fire, they thought the gods had blessed them. Now she was feeling cursed and becoming terrified, ready to bolt and run from the terror. But in Chung Hee's honor, she had to be brave and remain till he was properly placed into the ground.

She looked at his face distorted by death. Her tears wet his lips. She wanted to speak to him, to say more words between them before never seeing him again. Beneath his head she noticed that blood had mingled with the dust and ash. She saw the dark spot that had rounded out from under him in the shape of a strange hat. A few bubbles from his dying heart lay intact around his hair like rubies in the dirt. She prayed he had not suffered. Wondering if he had thought of her before he died, she castigated herself for being selfish, for he had never been selfish; he had put her first.

In the old country, Chung Hee had always offered his wife the best fruits of their toil. He had called her his ladylight. On the boat coming to America, he had kept her warm with his clothes at his own expense. He had never complained about all the time she spent taking care of Leo's flat, because he respected firefighters as did she, and neither of them ever thought of it as anything but a worthy service. "Go help fireman," he would say to her. "That good job."

She would smile, touch his rough hands, and go about her business. They had been partners, a team. No one but they knew how good they were together. They had kept away the loneliness and the fear from each other for years, but now he was gone. Her man was gone. She wanted to cry out loud, but her upbringing would not let her display any passion; inwardly, though, throughout her being she wailed for her lost lover. She knelt by him and rocked gently for hours over his stiffening body. Unable to leave him, Ah Sung gripped Chung Hee's ragged clothes and hung on to them to keep herself from toppling over into the dust.

The thought of joining his eternal sleep occurred to her but she was not one to give up easily; she would live--for him, if for no other reason. Yet she knelt there and rocked him in her arms till in the eastern sky strips of cloud laced in mauve the brightening air. When the sun showed its glorious head, she looked at it as long as she could endure its blinding light and she muttered again a prayer for the dead.

With the new day coming, Ah Sung knew she had to get her husband into the earth. Scanning the cluttered paths that used to be streets, she saw a soldier on patrol. Using a kind of sign language, she persuaded the soldier to follow her. When she showed him her husband's body, he at first looked at her with suspicion but quickly replaced it with compassion; he surmised the reason for the man's death and felt sorry for the woman. He removed his hat to show respect.

Her eyes were full of entreaty. "Buwy--husband."

"Yes, ma'm. Men will come. Carts for the dead. They will bury your husband." She tried to smile to show some gratitude. "Do you--?" He pitied this little woman alone with the body of her spouse in the wasteland. "Can I take you--?"

She shook her head. "I stay Chung Hee."

The soldier looked at her for a long time as if wondering what he should do about this new widow. Realizing she would not leave her man, he patted her shoulder and looked at her consolingly. "You stay then. Watch for men with a horse and cart. They will take him away--your husband. You stay."

Ah Sung bowed. He walked away, looked back once, and then left the woman alone with her dead man. She stared at Chung Hee's body to imprint his face on her mind forever: she saw past the dirt, blood, and distortion of death and remembered him as the young man she had married in China many years ago. Despite her grief, she briefly smiled.

Chung Hee had been a persistent youth, courting her relentlessly, even when she had repeatedly rejected him; but her parents found him desirable, so she gave him a chance. That was all it took. Once she opened her heart to him, he was part of her forever, and she never regretted it.

The clatter of cartwheels bumping over the rubble broke her reminiscence. She tore her bleary eyes away from the body of her man and saw a tired old white horse slowly drawing up a street the cart of the dead. She stood and waved, feeling awkward at the gesture. One of the two men on the cart spotted her and reined in the horse. The cart was nearly full of large loaded sacks haphazardly piled. Two men in filthy clothes jumped off the seat and approached her; one carried a large sack in his hand. Ah Sung felt afraid at first but took a deep breath to keep her strength. Dignity, she thought. Must be dignity!

"You have dead?" one of the scraggly men called. Ah Sung nodded but said nothing. When the two men reached her, they routinely looked around for the body. They said nothing to her, barely looked at her, for they had to keep their distance in doing such work. Seeing the corpse they promptly stuffed it into the sack, hoisted it onto the cart, and hauled it away with the others as if merely bags of stones. Ah Sung watched them carry the physical remains of her husband away and with them a portion of her being. Although she had lost many loved ones in her days and had not been able to bring new life into the world, she never got used to it. Now with the loss of her man she felt she could lose no one else, and she was alone, not knowing where to go.

Without thinking further, Ah Sung scanned once more the ruins of her former home and life then walked away from the rubble of Chinatown. Without considering her direction, she wandered as if by habit toward a familiar place. She walked for miles without realizing where she was going or how she was getting there. She rambled down one street after another mindlessly till she staggered up the street to Leo's flat. Indifferent to whether was home or not she clambered up the steps and perched on the porch to wait for him.

***

After leaving Marianne at her tent in the hospital camp, Leo checked in at the firestation to discover that he could get away for a time. The fires were finally out. Most of the hotspots were dead. Now was the time for people to clean up the city, and he could take a break so he grabbed the opportunity to see his mother. He not only wanted to know of her well-being; he wanted to know if she would be open to a temporary housemate with child. He had in the back of his mind his own idea of a domicile for the three of them someday.

As he walked along Van Ness to the north side of the city, he scanned the devastation as far as he could see to the east and south. Unbelievable! He had heard of the quakes and fires that had destroyed much of the city in years past, but he had never known of such widespread damage. He had seen massive devastation during the Spanish-American War, but this was far worse than anything he had seen in Cuba. He had always lamented the loss of innocent life, yet this was a death and destruction on a stupendous scale. He had also seen pictures of the ruins of Athens and of Rome; as a child he would pour over them in the library. That was fascinating, but this was overwhelming. Maybe because it was his own city, maybe because it happened in the modern world--his world. In any case this place that had once been a roaring metropolitan center thriving with people, the most dynamic center in the western United States, now looked like an extinct world. His eyes burned not so much because of too much heat and smoke but for the terrible, tragic loss to so many living things.

While walking northward across the remains of the city, he passed families taking meals at makeshift dining areas in the street. They cooked in tin cans and pans over open fires and ate from remnant tableware on planks and blocks scavenged from razed buildings. Dressed as well as they could with what little they had saved, they made curtains with strips of cloth and friendly signs with scraps of paper in an effort to find dignity and decorum in the wake of disaster. He saw children playing in the streets, reluctant as are all children to answer the call of mothers to go inside their homes to rest for the night. As Leo passed, they smiled at him, either because they knew he was one of their heroic firemen or because he shared in their common survival. When disaster strikes, life rallies.

Yes, life was going on despite the calamity. Now that the fires were out, people could regroup and plan for the future. Tomorrow they would have to straighten up their damaged homes, clean up their despoiled yards, and resume or renew ways to earn their livelihoods. Leo took heart in what he saw of his people. He knew they would make each day better than the one before and seeing their determination to succeed, despite the upheaval, instilled confidence in him for his own future.

When he arrived at his mother's house, he saw her lights out. Asleep? At first, as usual, he wondered if she were safe and well, but since the building was intact and fire no longer threatened the hill, he realized she must be peacefully resting. She would be exhausted, as he was, so he had better not disturb her. As much as he wanted to talk to her about Marianne and the baby, he knew enough to let it be for now. He would go home. A good night of sleeping like the dead was the best he could do for himself. So he took one careful look in the windows, and then, assured all was well, he turned, headed down the hill, and walked toward his flat. He wanted to see Ah Sung and thank her for all she had done for the baby.

The Chinese woman had arrived at the flat and sat trying to console herself only a short time before Leo arrived. As he was walking up the street, he saw her sitting in front of his place, her head down, face hidden by her hands. He knew something was very wrong, for Ah Sung had never shown any sign of pain or suffering. He started to shout a greeting but stopped himself, afraid of startling her. Halting at the front gate, he stared, studied her to determine the cause of her distress.

Realizing his presence, she raised her head and met his gaze. Her countenance was pale but reddened around bloodshot eyes; her mouth appeared to be melting into her hands. He moved quickly up the steps to her. "Ah Sung--are you ill?" She shook her head. "What happened?" She did not answer. "Ah Sung."

"Husband dead, Mista Reo--Chung Hee dead."

He was stunned. In all his concern for his own family and for Marianne and her baby, he had not given a momentary thought to Ah Sung and her own family.

"Oh, no--" He wanted to ask how it happened but he knew her; she would tell him about it, if she wanted him to know. He also knew she had come to him for a reason; although, he did not guess she had nowhere else to go. "Would you like to come inside?"

"Ah Sung no bodda Mista Reo?" She wanted desperately to enter his place.

"You are a pleasure to have in my home, Ah Sung. Please--" He motioned toward the door. "Come in and rest. You look exhausted. Let me get you some refreshment." He led her inside.

She was awkward to be in his home for any reason other than keeping house. The woman had never been an actual guest in any other than Chinese homes since she had come to America. Childlike she sat stiffly on the edge of an uncomfortable chair until Leo brought her a glass of water. Coveting the liquid for her profound thirst, she wanted to grab it from his hands but waited politely till he handed it to her.

"Here--this will make you feel better." Despite her restraint she took the glass from him rather abruptly. He smiled and said. "I have plenty more if you want it." Like everyone else he knew he had to ration water but he also found her too much in need to deny. Ah Sung drank as slowly as her thirst would permit and shook her head at the offer, even though she intensely wanted more. "Please--sit in this chair." He pointed to a big overstuffed thing deformed from the depressions of his body lounging in it for countless hours.

She smiled shyly and shook her head. "Dat Mista Reo's chaiw."

"No, please do. You'll honor me." He took her hand and led her to his favorite piece of furniture.

She stood in front of it and held onto the glass as if a treasure she would never relinquish. He had nearly to pry it from her fingers, till she tittered and let it go. "Tank you, Mista Reo. You kind Ah Sung." She stood before him with bowed head.

"Call me Leo and I am only returning the kindness you have shown me for years, Ah Sung. It's about time." He gently took her shoulders and eased her into his big chair.

She looked tiny as she sat squarely in the middle of the whopping cushions, her feet together flat on the floor, her hands clasped neatly on her lap. "Tank you, Mista Reo--chaiw comfy."

He nearly laughed at her charming expression but squelched it in remembering her loss. They looked at each other, until she found the link too intense and looked down at her hands. He observed they were small, graceful hands, but decades of hard work had roughened them to appear old. "You sit there as long as you like, Ah Sung. You stay here as long as you want."

She almost lost her self-control and sobbed. "Oh--"

He bent down to touch her shoulder. "I know, dear lady. I know." He stood close with his hand on her for a long time. Neither of them spoke a word, they did not have to say anything. Leo for many years had thought of her as a member of the family; Ah Sung had not consciously thought so but now she knew she was welcome in his home. She had become more than his housekeeper. Warmth gradually filled the cold empty place that had widened inside of her since she had found her husband's body. She shuddered and seemed about to faint. Her hands covered her face as she fell into weeping like water bursting from a choked spring.

Leo squeezed her shoulder and murmured, "There, there--you have a good cry." He felt an urge to cry with her but contained himself. She needed him to be strong now, and if he let her know of his own suffering, she would turn her attention to him and forget about herself. He did not want that; this was her time for mourning.

One of the cats, the young tabby named Lion, ran into the room and jumped onto her lap. Leo started to remove him, for Ah Sung never gave the members of his menagerie any undue attention, but she reached out a trembling hand and touched the cat's face. The animal purred, and she drew him close. At that moment Leo discovered something else he had not known about his diligent little housekeeper and it pleased him. They would be good friends.

Chapter 25

The next morning Leo rose without waking Ah Sung, made his own breakfast, and checked on his orphaned animals. They chirped, cried, and squawked when he entered the back porch, and one of the cats made figureights around his legs. Lion was still sleeping with Ah Sung. Leo handed Gabby a peanut. "Have a treat, old bird."

"Have a treat, old bird."

"Who you calling an old bird?"

"Old bird." The parrot screeched as if laughing at his own mockery.

Leo echoed the mirth and sat down at the kitchen table to write a note to Ah Sung.

Good morning, dear lady. I hope you

slept well. Help yourself to breakfast.

I took care of the menagerie. Going to

mother's. See you soon. Leo.

As soon as he signed his name, he remembered the woman might not be able to read English. He thought about this a moment and laughed at his foolishness but left the note on the table anyway. At least his words on paper would mean something; if necessary, he could read it to her when he returned.

Stepping quietly through the house, he saw Ah Sung still sleeping on the sofa, Lion curled around her neck. He stood there and looked for a long time at the image of them together. Then he stepped lightly out of the flat and went back to Russian Hill, eager to ask his mother about Marianne and the baby staying with her. Even though he knew she was upset about the loss of her brother-in-law, he thought she might jump at the chance to have a baby in the house. She cherished her grandchildren so maybe she would show the same interest in little Tomcat.

All the way to Russian Hill he wondered about her reaction and passed several scenarios through his mind. When he reached her house, he hesitated before knocking and called out to her: "Mother--" When she did not respond immediately, he raised his voice. "Ma--you all right?"

"I'm fine, Leo--come in," she said as she opened the door and searched his face for more news of the family. Leo stepped inside and started to sit on his favorite sofa but felt too anxious to relax. And she was far too nervous to sit, but stood rubbing her hands. Fear about yet another tragedy strained her face. He sensed the timing was not right to bring up the subject of a strange woman and child living with her. He wanted urgently to tell her about it but knew it would be inappropriate. He respected his mother's feelings, and his desires could wait. However, his mother in her inimitable way knew he had something more to tell her. Maybe this ability came from a lifetime of experience, maybe from raising children. In any case she often seemed to know what he wanted to say before he said it. Her face softened. "And how are you, Leo?"
"Fine, ma."

"Something has happened. You look different." He felt different than he had ever felt in his life.

"Tell me." She was not sure if he was bearing bad or good news but guessed that it would be all right.

"Tell you what?"

From that reply she knew he had nothing bad to report. "Don't be coy with me, son. I can tell when my children have something on their minds."

He thought of telling her about Ah Sung before saying anything about Marianne and the baby but decided against it in the wake of the bad news about her favorite brother-in-law.

"Well--"

"Spill it, lad."

He figured it best to begin with some background. "I--I was injured, ma." Shocked, she frowned and jumped to inquire about it. He worried he had started the story all wrong but proceeded as if a babbling stream. "It was nothing--I went to the hospital and...."

"Hospital!"

He struggled to slow the rush. "I was just a little unconsciousness--"

"A little unconsciousness!"

He wanted to swim against the current. "Oh, you know how they want us to go to the hospital for every little thing that happens."

"What little thing happened, Leo?"

"I got smoked on a steeple." As soon as the words slipped from his lips, he knew he had opened the dam.

"A what?!"

"A steeple. I was trying to save the cathedral--Saint Mary's."

She gasped. "Saint Mary's! Mother of Mercy!" She made the sign of the cross.

"Don't worry. It's intact."

"But yerself, Leo--you were badly hurt?"

"No, not really." He lied. He thought he had to, but his mother saw through it.

"You were injured badly and they took you to the hospital." She put her hands on him, looked him over carefully.

"A little bit, yes--but I'm okay, ma. Really."

"Surely?"

"Definitely. While there I met this nurse." She smiled for the first time since he had arrived. "Her name is Marianne Durand." He paused too long.

She snickered. "So you met this Marianne Durand and--?"

"Well, one thing led to another--"

"As such things do." She fought to keep a grin from sneaking across her face.

"Well, we got to know each other and--"

"Don't make a melodramatic production out of this, Leo."

"Then I showed her the baby."

"Baby!" Her hands rose to her open mouth. "What baby?"

"Oh, yeah--I forgot to tell you about the baby."

"Well, yes, indeed--you seemed to have neglected that little part of the story." She jammed her fists onto her hips.

"I--I found a baby."

"You found a baby." She was not entirely surprised since he was always finding animals and saving them from fires.

"A boy."

She nodded impatiently.

"In the Valencia Hotel."

She gasped. "He was all right?"

"Fine--miraculously." He refrained from adding information about the boy's father. Too much death. And he wanted to avoid that complication as long as possible.

"Praise the Lord!" Her mind raced ahead of his. "The baby is hers."

"Marianne's."

"Of course. The story wouldn't be so interesting if the child wasn't hers. So you reunited her with her baby?" Before he could answer, she threw her arms around him and kissed him on both cheeks. "Wonderful! I'm so proud of you." She had then to sit down, so exhausted from heartache and excitement.

He was happy to see her mind changed back into its normal lively state. Life redeems death. Now he could tell her the tricky part. "There's more to the story, ma."

"Of course there is." She fixed him with eyes full of query and curiosity. In another blink she figured out what was coming. "Let me guess...."

"No, please--let me tell you. It's my story, ma." She acquiesced with a smirk of playful indignation. "She's homeless, ma. She lost her home in the collapse of the hotel."

"But what happened to her husband, Leo?"

"He's dead, ma."

"Dead! How? In the...?"

"Yes, in the hotel--" He saw the look of remembrance in her eyes. "Saving his child's life," he added.

"She's a widow," she said to herself, looking down and away. Then she looked up and held his eyes. "And now...."

"She has no place to stay. Well--she does for the time being--in a tent at the field hospital in the park. But...."

"You think she deserves better."

"Yes, yes, I do--so...."

"So bring her over to the house, son. I'd like to meet this woman who has finally captured yer heart." She kept any unease at the situation from showing on her face.

"I didn't say that, ma."

"You didn't have to, son. I know what goes on with people. I haven't been your mother for thirty years without gaining a little insight."

He grinned. "Your a wonder, ma." He breathed deeply. "Marianne means a lot to me."

"Besides, she's just lost her husband, poor thing, and she has a baby to look after. A hospital tent is no place to take care of a baby. They need a righteous home."

"Till she can put her life back together."

"Of course. Till she gets on her feet." The woman regarded him with that knowing look she reserved for people with whom she had the upper hand. He swallowed her in his arms. "Whoa! Let an old lady catch her breath."

"Thank you, ma--you're a dear."

"Nah--only a pushover for a young widow with a baby." She grinned at him and hinted at more meaning behind the words.

He smiled so broadly his cheeks shone. "You always have been the best...."

"Now, don't go gettin' too mushy on me, son." Her eyes twinkled. "First, let me tend to your Aunt Ellie, and I have to see Emily--and Molly. Then I'll fix up your sister's room. Give me a couple of days--then you can bring her home."

He liked her use of the domestic word and wanted to jump into the air and shout but restrained himself. After all, he had no right to feel too much happiness in such a sad time. Again she guessed what was on his mind. "Now don't go feelin' guilty fer knowin' and carin' about this young woman, Leo. You deserve it. No one I know deserves it more."

He felt his throat swell and swallowed it down. "Thanks, ma. I know you'll love her."

"Well, maybe not as much as you do, but if you like her so much, she has to be a worthy woman."

"Oh, she is, ma--she is indeed."

Mary took her son's shoulders in her small hands and squeezed them. "Bring her, son--bring her to our home. Just remember that she needs time, maybe a lot of time. After all, she just lost the man of her life, and we know what that is like, don't we? So give her whatever time she wants. She'll love you for it all the more." Again he enveloped her. They held each other for a long time. The affection softening them, they slowly unwrapped themselves, and Leo stepped for the door. He was bursting with one of the most important messages of his life and wanted to rush to Marianne to tell her the good news. His mother gave him a nudge with "Go." Joy spread across his face and he bounded out the door then leaped off the stoop. At the bottom of the steps, he spun around and blew her a kiss with both hands, nearly falling. She laughed and returned the gift. "Be careful now, my boy. You don't want to go and break a leg. She'll have to nurse you all over again."

He laughed. "I can't think of a better way to suffer." Mary laughed more at her son's awakening to love than at his silly joke. Despite all the travail her family and the people of the city had been suffering, there was some good to come out of it. Always the good. No matter how bad things get in life, she thought, there's always the good.

Leo spun around again and ran down the street, leaping over bricks and boards in the road like a goat through a rocky plain. He headed straight for the park. Ironically little could detour him now that so many buildings lay flat in piles of stone and burned wood. Looking over the wasted city he wondered how one must have felt hundreds of years ago when the peninsula was only sand dunes and grass. With that thought in mind combined with his present purpose, he felt indeed like a wild thing bounding through primordial fields effulgent with spring.

Chapter 26

Phoenix

When Leo arrived at the hospital camp, he went straight to Marianne's tent. Inside he found her gone but the baby sleeping in a bassinet. Two off duty nurses--one large and older, the other small and younger--were looking after the child. He took notice of how homey the quarters appeared with flowers in a glass, embroidered cushions on the bunks, a chair, even some boxes, and a scorched board for a table. "Marianne--Nurse Durand. Is she on duty?" The nurses looked at each other and smiled.

"You must be Firebird," the large one sitting on the chair asked with a catch in her voice.

"I guess I am." The nickname sounded completely uncharming coming out of the mouth of anyone other than Marianne. He was not at all sure he was going to be able to live with it.

"Marianne said to watch for you," the small one said, her voice bubbling. "She's with patients now--but she'll be back for dinner soon. Would you like to wait for her? Oh, my name is Milly. This is Nurse Trenchon.

He nodded to each of them in turn, but he stuck on the bigger woman who was sizing him up with her dark, close-set eyes. "Sounds like luncheon," she said. "Sit yerself down, young man. If you don't mind keepin' company with a couple of gabby women."

"Not at all." He realized too late the rudeness inherent in his response.

The nurses appeared to take no notice of it. The small one picked up a stool and set it in front of him. "Sorry we don't have anything more comfortable for you, Mister Brown."

He was surprised and pleased she knew his name. "Oh, that's just fine. Being able to sit down in one quiet cool place is a luxury these days. Please--call me Leo."

"Yes, it has been a difficult time for us all, hasn't it, Leo?" the little one said. "I wonder sometimes if we are being punished for our sins or something. Seems God is very angry."

"Posh!" the big nurse said, sucking her teeth. "More like the devil's work, if you ask me."

"Certainly hellish," Leo said.

"Hellish for those poor people out there," Milly lamented.

"Yes, many lives lost, many hurt," he said.

"Well, we're fixin' 'em up good as new," Nurse Trenchon puffed.

"I hope so," Milly said.

Leo's eyes shined at them. "You're angels indeed."

Milly blushed, and even Nurse Trenchon had to adjust herself in her chair. "Why thank you, Leo," Milly said. "That's grand praise indeed coming from a hero such as yourself."

"Me? I'm no hero."

"Just doin' yer job--eh, Mister Brown?" Nurse Trenchon said.

"That's right--just my job."

"Above and beyond the call of duty, I'd say," Milly said. She was a sprightly little thing, in contrast to the other stalwart one. Leo realized that only women like these could perform the emotionally and physically demanding tasks nurses perform every day. He smiled at the little one to deflate gently her praise. He always tried to avoid any fuss made over him but appreciated her kindness. An awkward silence opened among them, while Leo glanced between the tent flaps to see if Marianne was coming. "She'll be here any minute, Leo," Milly said.

Nurse Trenchon added, "Don't worry--she'll come home for a meal--"

Home? He looked around the place. I'll give her a home.

"And for him." She motioned toward the baby. "Unless of course she's got an emergency," Nurse Trenchon added, "in which case she may not be back till dark."

"Till dark!" Leo looked at her then at the baby. "But who...."

"Always someone to look after the little one," the big nurse proclaimed. "We all know how to care for babies, you know."

"I'm sure you do. I only thought Marianne would want to see him and...."

"I'm sure she does. But her duty calls her just like yours, Mister Brown." Leo swallowed his stiff reaction to her attitude. He felt the rising urge to dash out of the tent and find her.

"Marianne always seems able to make time for her baby--and still do her job," Milly said, trying to soften the air between them. "She'll be here soon."

"Maybe she will, maybe she won't--we'll see," the big one added.

Leo forced himself to remain in the tent and thought hard to find another subject to discuss. Milly saved him the trouble. "I see men working already to clean up the city. Thank God the worst is over."

"Yes, yes--it is. We're gonna rebuild her--just like we always have."

"So I guess we have earthquakes and fires all the time in San Francisco? I came here only a year ago from a farm in Missouri. Wanted to know the big city and the ocean and all. We used to have terrible twisters there, and I thought I was gettin' away from the danger. But now...."

"Every place has its dangers." Nurse Trenchon shoved into the conversation.

"Well, we certainly have our share of trouble," Leo said. "Quakes and fires almost regular events out here, Nurse Milly. I don't mean to frighten you away. But you got to be ready for shaking and burning in this town."

"You mean this will happen again?" Milly asked with rounding eyes.

"Oh, it's not likely we'll be seeing such a temblor for a long time to come," he said. "This was the biggest one we ever had--far as I know. But we do have fires far too often. Maybe now, though, the city will finally learn a lesson about...."

"Humph," Nurse Trenchon grunted under her breath.

"Well, I certainly do hope so," Milly said. "I love San Francisco. I hope we can rebuild her better than ever."

"We'll have to see to that, miss."

"Yes--yes, we will, Mister Leo Brown. Yes, we will." The little one tossed her head slightly to put an exclamation point on the remark.

"Well, hello there, Mister Leo Brown," Marianne's voice sang as she entered the tent behind Leo.

Milly blushed at being caught in an animated conversation with her colleague's friend. Nurse Trenchon helped her escape. "Come on now, Milly--we've got work to do."

Milly rose with her large companion and stood strikingly small beside her. "Yes," she said. "Back to work. We've got people to comfort and save." Nurse Trenchon started to roll her eyes at her diminutive companion's melodramatic words but the good sound of them privately pleased her and prodded her pride. She stood straight and tall and stiff.

"A pleasure to meet you ladies." Leo bowed slightly.

The big nurse grunted amiably and left the tent.

"Pleasure was all mine," the little nurse said. "I hope we see each other again." Leo nodded, unsure what to say in response--if anything.

"Snap to, Milly," the big one's voice boomed from outside. The little nurse jumped out of the tent.

Marianne watched her go then regarded Leo with a deliberately crooked grin. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Seems you made an admirer, Mister Brown."

"She's a sweet young woman." He immediately felt the need to add more. "They both seem like fine nurses."

"Pretty too, isn't she?"

He agreed, though he knew as soon as he did so that he should have disagreed, then realized the best move would be to direct all attention to the baby. "So--how's Tomcat?" Stepping to the bassinet, he saw that the little fellow was rousing. "He's waking up."

"Yes, and he's going to be as hungry as a bear cub." She pulled back a light blanket, felt the baby's diaper, and proceeded to change it. The baby was building up a complaint. "Will you have dinner with us? Simple fare."

"My favorite--but I don't want to put you out any."

"Tommy won't mind, and I've got plenty--if you like stale bread, dried up apples, and cold tea."

"Sounds delicious." He found himself staring into her eyes too long after his words.

"You're a man of simple tastes, Mister Brown."

"I haven't had a meal in too many hours. Whatever you have will be a feast."

"All right then--help yourself." She took the food out of a box and put it on the makeshift table. "I'm sorry we don't have the amenities of home. A tablecloth would be nice." She worked a piece of bread into her mouth.

"Speaking of home--I have a proposal for you."

"A proposal?"

He blushed. "I mean a proposition."

"Really?" She was not sure what to make of this but felt the humor in it cracking her composure.

He blushed and blurted out, "I mean...."

She laughed. "What's your proposition, Firebird?"

"Well...." He watched the hungry infant working up to a big fuss.

"Here," she said. "Let me feed the baby while you tell me all about it."

As Leo was munching on the apples, crunching on the bread, and sipping the tea, Marianne picked up the child and sat down on a cot. Removing her breast from her blouse, she let the baby find the nipple. When he was contentedly sucking, she looked at Leo to continue. He had not noticed her nursing the child, so intent was he on devouring the food. She grew a little impatient. "So, then--what's your proposition?" When he turned around and saw her feeding the baby, his eyes fastened onto the breast. He wanted to look away but felt paralyzed for the moment, entranced. "You look as though you haven't seen a baby nursing before, Mister Brown."

Her statement broke his trance. He blinked several times and cleared his throat but still squawked a little like his parrot. "Yes--yes, of course. I just didn't...."

"Go ahead. Propose."

Turning away, he pretended to be more interested in the meager meal on the table than on her tumescent teat and the loaded word she had just dropped, so he sought escape in further eating. She smiled and gazed at her child. Talking between bites, his mouth full, he said, "I talked to ma--my mother."

"And?"

Too enthusiastic to keep his back to her, he turned and tried to ignore the naked breast. "Knowing you didn't have a decent place to live, I asked her if you could stay with her--for the time being. At least until you get back on your feet. Find your own place." He wished he had not added the last sentence. "I mean...."

"That's very thoughtful of you and your mother, Leo--but I shouldn't impose."

"You wouldn't be imposing. Ma loves women and children."

She laughed, which caused the nipple to pop out of the baby's mouth, but the young mother ignored it. After only a moment of frantic searching the child found the teat, and Marianne continued. "I'm sure she does, but we don't even know each other."

"You will."

"Someday I'm sure we will, but now I'm a total stranger."

"You're not a stranger. I told her all about you."

She laughed again. "Leo, you're a dear, but I barely know even you. So I can't go and live with your mother."

"Why not? You could live with someone else, couldn't you? You are right now." She had no immediate response. "How well do you know these nurses?"

"That's different."

"How?"

"I'm--well, believe me--it's not the same."

He felt he was losing ground so he tried another tack. "You'd be doing my mother a favor." She waited for the explanation. "She's all alone in a big house--since her husband, my father, is gone." She regarded him tenderly, her view of him broadening in her mind. "She loves children."

"And women."

"Women too."

"Strange women?"

"You're not so strange."

She laughed. "You're such a character."

He did not know how to respond to that so he adorned his persuasion. "She's getting older."

"Of course."

"She could use some help."

"I would be at the hospital all day. And I couldn't expect her to take care of Tommy."

He jumped at this one. "She'd love to, Marianne. I tell you she's crazy about kids."

"I'm sure she is, but when they live with you day and night, they can test your love."

"We already tested her and she passed splendidly."

"I'm glad you think so highly of your mother."

"She's the best."

"I feel the same way about mine."

It suddenly occurred to Leo that she may decide to go and live with her own parents. He had to cut this idea off before it formed on her lips. "I know you do. Just as your mother is looking after your father, my mother could look after your son." He saw the baby had let go of the nipple again and that her breast was fully showing. He averted his eyes despite his desire to look.

She laughed. "You could have been a lawyer instead of a fireman."

He ignored this. "So--what do you think of the possibility?"

She glanced down at her baby and saw he had fallen back asleep. Realizing she was now partly naked, she casually covered her breast. He pretended he had not noticed, but she knew he had and she was not uncomfortable but inwardly pleased. "I think I will think about it."

He had exhausted his arguments. "Good."

Another nurse came into the tent and said, "Ready for a break, Marianne?"

"You see, Mister Leo Brown--I have plenty of help from my sisters." The entering nurse smiled and stood still, uneasy.

"I see that," Leo said. "I'm glad." His honest concern brought warmth to Marianne's face.

The newly arrived nurse glanced back & forth between them, uncertain of this strange man alone with a woman and her baby. "Are you all right?" she asked of her colleague. She knew Marianne was probably all right but felt the need to say something.

"Wonderful!" Marianne put the baby back into the bassinet, covered him, and stepped close to Leo. "I guess I'm a lucky woman."

He wanted to embrace her, but since this was not a relative or a close friend, he kept his arms at his side, even though they ached with desire to envelop her. But she felt no such qualm. Rising to her tiptoes she moved her face toward his like planets in proximity. At first he thought she was going to kiss him on the lips and he was mildly disappointed when she veered off to the side of his face. "Thank you for caring, Firebird." She pecked his cheek twice the way a child does when playing. He was even more disappointed when it came to him that she was probably going to turn down his offer. Noticing the look on his face, she made a sympathetic expression.

"Well--" he sighed.

"Tell you what. How about if I meet your mother one day when I can get some time off?"

He brightened. "Yes. Yes, anytime."

"Maybe tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is nearly as good as today."

"Tomorrow then--if that will be all right with her."

"That'll be fine."

Each was feeling exhilarating electricity flowing through their bodies. The newly arrived nurse could see they wanted desperately to kiss and she had to look away to keep from giggling.

"Fine," Marianne said softly. "Till tomorrow then."

"Fine." He did not want to leave her. Wanted to spend every moment of the rest of his life with her. To watch her work, watch her eat, watch her feed the baby, watch her dress, watch her undress, watch her bathe, and watch her sleep. The hot surge of blood in his body surprised him. Not since high school had a woman excited him this much. Not since Allison Marshall, the girl on whom he had harbored a crush through his senior year, danced with him at a class cotillion. He had always preserved the memory of that thrilling experience and had ever since then wondered if he would know anything like it again. His days of wondering were over now. The thrill he felt standing so close to Marianne, feeling her body against his, inhaling her scent, fixing on her beautiful eyes was superior to anything he had known. He thought he must be in love. So this is what it feels like, he thought. No wonder everyone makes such a big deal about it. He wanted to touch her gently but he also wanted to squeeze her tightly and never let her out of his sight. The music of her voice enhanced his already delicious fancy.

"I do wish I could stay with you longer, Leo--but I must get back to my patients."

"Oh, yes, of course--I'm sorry. I shouldn't...."

"That's all right," she chirped. "You needn't be sorry. You haven't kept me--I'm tardy on my own account." She caressed his cheek and glanced at the nurse who found their behavior fascinating and Leo especially engrossing. "Thank you, Beverly, for looking after Tommy."

Nurse Beverly DeLong appeared to wake from hypnosis. "Oh, oh, yes--yes, of course, Marianne. I'll take ever so much good care of him."

Marianne smiled tenderly. "I know you will, dear. Well, must be off." She grabbed a cloak and made for the tent flap. Stopping there, she looked back at Leo. "See you tomorrow--about four in the afternoon. I have a break between shifts. Will that be all right?"

Leo for a moment was too stricken at seeing her leave to speak but struggled to show nonchalance with a smile and a wave. "Right. That will be fine." Grinning at his awkward attempt at poise, she waved back to him and danced out of the tent. He stood there as if frozen. Nurse DeLong looked at him and giggled. To break her own trance she checked the baby to see if he was sleeping well and that his blankets covered him properly. Her giggling startled Leo. Seeing her with the baby, he stepped closer to the bassinet and looked at him. "A fine lad." She glanced at him shyly and nodded. He knew it was time to go. "Well, I'll be off now."

"I'll take good care of your baby, Mister Brown."

Leo was halfway out of the tent when he heard her presumptuous words. He started to turn back and straighten out her thinking but on second thought liked the idea so much he decided to say nothing more than "I know you will."

All the way home he wondered if Nurse DeLong had teased him or if she actually believed he was the baby's father. He wondered if his mother and Marianne would get along well, if she would ever want to remarry, and he thought about where they would live. His flat would be small for them and Ah Sung. He speculated on all these ideas and more, but none of them prevented him from bounding down the street like a roebuck in spring.

Barely noticing now the wasteland that lay around him he saw only the bluesky and the flowers, which the buckling Earth and the raging fire had not damaged, could not destroy. Looking closely at one dandelion blooming out of a patch of broken sidewalk, he was amazed to see such an apparently fragile creature thriving in this bleak landscape after such a calamity. Peering into the new yellow blossom, he saw the sun shining and he knew that the people of San Francisco would bring forth a new city. The sadness that had infected him since that first morning of the terror was finally beginning to lift from his heart. Breathing more freely and deeply now, he could look at the devastated terrain and see new buildings rising out of the land and people going to & fro, resuming their lives almost as if nothing tragic had happened. That is the way of living things on Earth. A mighty disaster can nearly wipe them out, but they come back and thrive despite the chaos; and by their simple determined lives, they bring order back to their world. Phoenix! He remembered in the cluttered and unkempt memories of his childhood seeing the fabled Firebird's picture and reading its story in a book he had found in the library or received from his mother.

As he walked and looked into the heart of the city Leo imagined the residual smoke become a great mythical bird shoving its head out of the rubble then lifting its great wings from the embers. Standing taller than any hill, it peered with skyblueyes over the scorched and tumbled land, its wings shimmering with iridescent feathers of green, and its great golden feet binding the earth. As it waved its magnificent wings, fanning the dust and ash off the shattered landscape, it slowly took to the air above the fallen peninsula, dragged with its silver talons the broken and burned pieces of civilization high above the ground into a new and finer thing, then released it fully standing in the bright clean air. After a final glance down at the new city beneath it, the great bird flew into the heavens.

Leo sauntered home for the evening, honored by the name Marianne applied to him. He had until then thought it grandiose and out of keeping with his simple nature but when he realized he and all San Franciscans were firebirds, he was thoroughly pleased with the name.

***

That night in their beds across town from each other both Marianne and Leo lay awake a long time unable or unwilling to fall asleep. She could not rest for mulling over in her mind the idea of living with Leo's mother. While the comfort and companionship attracted her, she was not ready to make a commitment to join a new family. She thought Leo might soon ask her to marry him; she felt it as she understood the hearts of men and women; however, she had lost her husband only several days earlier; she was a widow, still grieving. Truly the reunion with her baby and the meeting of Leo as the good and kind instrument of that reunion had softened the grief, yet she had lost forever the only man she had ever truly loved and the father of her only child, so she could not yet join a new family. No. She could not go to live with Leo's mother. He would be disappointed but he would have to understand. He will understand. With some resolve she drifted away from her troubles and fell into a warm darkness.

Leo could not relax for worrying about her decision. Although he knew she would probably not go live with his mother, he persisted in believing he could persuade her to do so and thought over and over again what he could say that would clinch it. Of course such a move would be a big step for her, especially so soon after losing her husband, but he thought it would be best. Best? No. He knew it would not necessarily be best for her, but for him. He was being selfish. As much as he wanted Marianne in his life, he knew he had to let her find her own way to him. All he could do was keep his mind and heart open and leave it up to her. Yes. It would not be fair to urge her unduly to stay with his mother. He would just have to be patient and wait. She needed time, and he would show her how much he loved her by giving her that time. The intention made him feel cozy. Soon his lids became heavy, and he nodded off, comforted by renewed hope.

***

At dawn Leo was already up and getting ready for the day, maybe one of the best days of his life after so many bad ones. Ah Sung was making breakfast. The scent of coffee and toasted bread filled the house. He had enjoyed that combination of scents as far back as he could remember. It meant more than food, it meant home. "Good morning, Ah Sung," he said as he stepped into the kitchen. "Smells really good."

"Mo'ning, mista Reo. I fix you bwekfast."

"You don't have to...."

"Ah Sung be usefur."

He chuckled. She looked at him as if to question his response to her sincerity, so he spoke quickly. "You are more than useful, you are priceless." Not sure she understood the compliment, he added, "Worth more than all the gold in the world."

She understood the word 'gold' and grinned as cheerily as she could. Her husband was still most on her mind, but it was broad enough for others. "You take ca' men'gelie. I fix food."

"Ah, yes--the critters."

This latter one was a new word for her but she quickly gathered the meaning. "Yes--the cwit-tas." He thought about correcting her pronunciation as he entered the back porch and greeted his adopted friends but decided he was not one to teach her anything.

His furry and feathered pals met him with their usual greetings of squawks, chirps, and meows. Amazing how the members of his tiny zoo had come through the ordeal of the last several days. They had taken it all in stride as other animals do, perhaps because of being closer to the wild. Leo replenished their water and food then visited with them.

"Thank you, Mista Reo," Gabby said.

Leo laughed. Although he could not correct the parrot's pronunciation if he tried, he could laugh at it. For a South American bird in the United States to be speaking English with a Chinese accent was too funny for him to keep a straight face. Besides, the parrot's chatter always lifted his spirits. "You're welcome, Gabby. Have you been a good bird?"

Gabby bent his head to one side and looked at him with one eye. Hearing the cats crying, Leo looked down at them on the floor. He petted one, an older one that mostly slept, then picked up Lion and nuzzled his nose. The cat licked him once, the animal's breath bearing the scent of his food. "Fishy face."

Lion looked at the parrot. Gabby was too big for the housecat to bother, but the little finch in the adjacent cage was bite size. The cat, however, did not ruffle the little bird. Apparently he had grown up around a cat or he had never learned to fear one, behavior that much irritated Lion. After repeated rushes and leaps at the cage suspended from the ceiling, he could never get a rise out of the little thing. Because of this, Leo had named him after the king of beasts--his private joke. Lion did not seem to care about the name but came when called for either food or fondling. The name might have meant nothing more or less to him. Having almost certainly never seen a lion in his life, he naturally had no idea of the irony.

Leo carried Lion around with him while he surveyed his charges after seeing to their needs. Some birds used to fly into fits when they saw the cat but they all eventually got used to him and learned he was no threat, as long as plenty of steel wires separated them. Leo seldom took Lion into the other rooms, because Ah Sung had forbidden it--till her recent attachment to him. She had been adamant that cats and other creeping, crawling, flying things belonged in the wild or in cages, not in people's houses. She tolerated them in the back porch, because it was not really a living quarter but only a utility room, which to her was like one big cage for the menagerie. Finishing his chores, Leo put Lion down, patted the old one again, and went back to the kitchen.

Ah Sung, about to call him, was anxious for him to arrive before the food got cold. They sat down and enjoyed breakfast together. Leo wanted to talk about her husband but thought it better to let her bring up the subject. He also wanted to talk about Marianne moving in with his mother but, since he doubted Marianne would agree to it, he let that alone too. Since Ah Sung seldom initiated conversations, they sat opposite each other and spoke not a word during the meal, only looking up occasionally to smile at one another. The quiet between them, however, did not make them uncomfortable. Good friends can be close without words.

Chapter 27

When Leo left the house, thinking of Marianne and the baby and eager to see them again, he borrowed a horse and buggy from his neighbor and headed for the park. As he drove through the neighborhoods, he was pleased to see so many people working to clean up the overwhelming mess. They reminded him of ants that immediately move to rebuild their nest when flood, fire, or humans destroy it.

When he pulled into the hospital camp, she was ready with the baby but she had a distracted look on her face. As soon as he saw her, Leo knew she was not going to stay with his mother, but he sent a smile to her despite his disappointment.

"Did you and the Tomcat sleep well?" he asked, helping her into the buggy.

"Oh, Tommy always sleeps well. The slumber of the innocent. I did too once I finally fell asleep."

"I had the same difficulty--but feel good today."

As he helped her onto the buggy, she looked at him and hoped she could refuse his offer without objection, that he would accept her decision. "You know I can't live with your mother, don't you?"

"I do." He touched the horse to action, and they rolled out of the camp.

"And you understand?"

"I do." He was sad about the fact but happy to be with her. She snuggled close to him. Leo glanced at the baby. "He seems happy to be going for a ride."

"Yes," she laughed. "He's such an easy-going baby. Deals with everything good-naturedly."

"I could see that when I found him."

She looked at Leo long and was silent for some distance before asking a question. "Leo--I don't mean to impose on your generosity, but could we go by the cemetery?"

"The cemetery?"

"Portsmouth Square. I'd like to visit Thomas's grave." She looked at him with some concern that he may be uncomfortable.

With only a little hesitation he said, "Of course." and turned in that direction. She smiled and looped her arm into his.

When they arrived, they saw that the temporary cemetery resembled much of the city with the makeshift grave markers crooked, crazily ajar, and collapsed. However, bright sunlight shone on them as if nothing were more peaceful than this spot in the entire world. Leo tied the horse to a fence, and Marianne led him to the grave. "I'm not sure exactly where he's buried so I just put a marker in the ground that covers him along with many others." She pointed to an ordinary slab of wood jutting out of freshly turned soil, the slab inscribed with crude knife cuts:

Thomas G. Durand

1880-1906

Beloved husband of Marianne Durand and father of Thomas, Jr.

~~*~~

Died saving his son

Marianne knelt and showed the gravemarker to the baby. As Leo stood above her, he could sense her love for the man. Jealousy threatened his heart, but he fought it, for he had no right to demean the importance of their lives. He simply stood back and neither did nor said anything to spoil her mourning. After a few moments of contemplation and some inaudible words to the child, she looked at Leo. "I want Tommy always to know about his father." Leo nodded. "I want Thomas to be our son's hero, even though he never really knew him." He again nodded. She looked at Leo as if she had been testing him, but he waited and said nothing. She looked once more at the marker and remained on her knees without saying another word for a long time. Leo watched over them and waited. After several silent moments, she slowly rose to her feet, wiped her eyes, kissed the baby, and headed back to the buggy. Leo watched her go for a second then followed her.

They drove on to his mother's house without speaking of Thomas or his death. Leo knew that was a sacred subject for Marianne, one he had no right to invade. He had saved the baby's life but he had been no part of the lives of this young couple. He knew that considerable time would have to pass before Marianne would consider him not as a replacement for Thomas but as a new man with whom she could live the rest of her life. Rather than resent her devotion to her dead husband, he admired her so much he wanted to cheer. He considered himself rarely fortunate to know such a person. She caused him to examine his own worth, and he would have to become the excellent person she deserved.

As they pulled up to Leo's childhood home, his mother was standing on the front porch. When she waved enthusiastically, Leo knew she had been worried because of their late arrival. He tied off the horse and before he helped Marianne down with the baby, he reassured his mother. "We stopped at the cemetery, ma. Marianne wanted to pay respects to her husband."

His mother did not know much of Marianne's story and did not ask then but she was certainly curious to know more. Leo wished he had told her more about Marianne. Despite the mystery, his mother received the young woman and child into her home warmly. "What a lovely child!" she said.

"Thank you."

"Ain't he a beauty, ma. I call him Tomcat."

Mary and Marianne looked at each other, this man they both knew unsurprising to them; they felt like laughing but quelled it. Leo reddened and laughed for them.

"His name is Thomas," Marianne said.

"Thomas--a fine name," Mary said.

"His father's name." Mary put her hand on the young woman's arm, and Marianne felt a compassionate squeeze. "Well, come on inside." Mary turned and led the way, talking to them over her shoulder. "We'll have some refreshment and a nice visit. Ever since Leo told me about you and the baby I've wanted to meet you."

"I too."

Leo beamed. The two most important persons in his life seemed as if they would become fast friends. He could not have expected a more auspicious beginning and hurried behind them into the house with the gait of a boy trying to behave with the decorum of a man.

"Now sit yourselves down and I'll get us something nice to drink," Mary said.

While she was gone, Marianne looked around the living room at the objects of the family. Leo watched as she surveyed the place, bursting with eagerness to explain everything she saw, but she asked about nothing, only displaying an enigmatic smile.

When Mary returned with some tea, she sat next to Marianne and fixed on her eyes. "Now, young lady--why don't you lighten your burden and tell me what happened." Leo was surprised how forward his mother was with a subject he had refrained from bringing up with Marianne. He thought it too delicate to discuss, but his mother was deft at touching the right place in a person's heart to open up feelings.

Marianne unfolded her story like a bouquet of lilies. She told of going to visit her parents, of rushing home to find the hotel destroyed with no sign of her husband and child, of hearing that her husband was dead, of wondering and worrying about the fate of their baby, of meeting Leo, and of being reunited with the boy. When she finished, Mary held Marianne in her arms and the two quietly wept together. Leo was enthralled and pleased that he had been right in his instincts. The two women would become close. The baby of course was soon the center of attention between the women. Leo was delighted to see all this but not completely satisfied.

"Well, you certainly have endured more than your share of suffering." Mary looked at her for a long time between words. "And Leo tells me you have no place to stay."

Marianne glanced at Leo. "He exaggerates. I stay at the field hospital in Golden Gate Park."

"Well, I'm sure you're very lucky to have such a place in this terrible time. Yet I want you to know that I would be honored and pleased if you and your baby would stay with me--at least until you can get re-established. I know you want a place of your own and that you don't need a fussy old woman hovering about, but I have plenty of room. You can have my daughter's bedroom. I keep it nice for guests."

"You're very kind, Mis'ess Brown--"

"Please, dear--call me Mary. I feel as if we've known each other for many years."

Marianne looked at her softly. "You're so kind. I knew you would be." She looked at Leo.

Silence draped the room, and Leo squirmed, but Mary broke through the curtain. "Yes, I raised him like a son." The women lightly laughed into another silence, and Leo followed.

"I am quite tempted to take your offer, but--" Marianne again looked at Leo. His heart halted. Despite what she had said at the hospital camp, he had hoped she would change her mind upon visiting his mother. Marianne smiled at him and put her hand on his. "Since Thomas died only a few days ago, I feel I need--I mean I'm not ready to...."

Mary knew. "I understand, dear. You do what you think is best. But always know there's a place here for you."

"Thank you, Mis--Mary. You're...." She started to weep quietly.

Mary put her arm around the young woman and whispered to her. "There, there, child--" The older woman could see deep inside the younger one. "You've been through an unspeakably difficult trial. I know much of what you're feeling. And I understand your desire, your need to deal with things yourself. Even though you probably have family elsewhere, you should remember that you also have friends--and a place to stay--here in San Francisco--what's left of it."

Marianne let her tears flow. "Thank you. I--"

This time Leo comforted her, wanted to hold her in his arms. Mary sat back and admired this woman who had just lost home and husband and nearly her only child but could still be gracious. She looked at her son, pleased with him for being interested in such a woman. They remained in comfortable silence for a time before separating, each knowing the other required no further attention. The way of good friends and families.

"Yes, there's a place for you here," Mary said again. "I'd be very glad to have you stay with me. You see, since the children left, I've been lonely at times."

Leo was surprised to hear that for he had never thought of his mother being lonely. He knew she enjoyed the neighbors, her garden, and her books, so he had not realized that this bright and cheerful woman, as he had known her all his life, could be lonesome. Now he was even happier to think of Marianne living with her, but the look on the nurse's face suggested another outcome. He said nothing about it in front of his mother and was not aware that his mother too caught the look on Marianne's face. Neither mother nor son said anything more. They would let the young woman decide in her own time.

On the way back to the hospital camp, Leo and Marianne spoke little. He felt disappointed, and she knew it, but he was not resentful. Although he wanted her closer to him, he understood her feelings: she had to mourn, she had to reminisce, and she had to wait until the dead could be laid to rest in her soul. He did not tell her he understood, and she silently worried a little about his reaction to her unspoken decision but she had to let it be that way. If he really cared for her, he would allow it and await her readiness. Still, he was sad and showed it.

As the horse plodded along the dusty street, she snuggled the baby and watched the animal move in its rhythmically lumbering way. The methodic clipclop of the hooves eased her mind, and she fell into a serene state out of time and place. Leo sensed her mood and let her be, for he was happy enough to be sitting beside her. They rode like this all the way back to the park.

On the walk to her tent Marianne made sure the fresh green bond they had made between them would not break. "I want to return the favor, Leo."

His eyes were eager to know what she meant. "Favor?"

"I'm going to see my parents in a week or two, Firebird."

"That'll be good." He tried to conceal the twinge that he would miss her.

"I'd like you to come with me." She stopped and studied his eyes.

He was pleased then quickly nervous. "I'd love to--but--"

"What?"

He lowered his head. "Nothing." He lied. Despite his bachelorhood he knew from what he had heard that meeting a woman's parents was traditionally a critical step forward in a relationship. Such a meeting could make or break it.

"You worried they won't like you, Leo?" His brow wrinkled. "Silly, man. They'll love you. Just as--" She stopped her feelings as if corking an excited bottle of champagne. "Don't worry about a thing. We'll get along just fine. Besides, after having such an excellent visit with your mother, I won't be able to rest till we can have an equally good one with my mother and father."

"Fine then." He struggled to conceal his unease with enthusiasm. "That would be real nice."

"Oh, good! Well, I'm home safe and sound--again thanks to you."

They looked at each other intensively as if to seal the vision. She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you for such a nice time, Mister Brown."

"Anytime."

She smiled and picked up the baby's little hand to wave at him. He laughed and wanted to kiss them both but made no attempt to do so. Looking at him all the way, she ducked into her tent. He stood outside for a moment then, realizing that it was time for him to go his own way, he slowly walked back to the buggy.

Taking the seat, he stared into the darkening sky. 'Anytime.' The word resonated in his mind repeatedly in time with his pulse. Touching the reins lightly to the horse, he began a slow trek back to his flat. On the way he thought and wished for many things: all involving Nurse Marianne Durand, widow, and mother. He thought of the first day he opened his eyes and saw her sleeping in a chair beside his bed, he thought of her lying beneath him on the sand at the beach, he thought of the look on her face with her baby in her arms, he thought of her in his family home with his mother, and he wished for many more pictures in his mind that included the three of them. So engrossed was he in his fancies that he barely paid attention to the burned, broken city prostrate around him, but he would not have attended to anything tragic or ugly at that time because he was traveling for the first time in his life through that glorious country of the enamored heart.

Chapter 28

During the following days and weeks, San Francisco was gradually looking less like a war zone and more like a newly founded city. But a new storm was brewing. A political faction had leveled charges of corruption at City Hall and had initiated a struggle to remove Mayor Schwartz and his bunch from power after a huge scandal broke over the use of funds for rebuilding the city, a scandal that had ramifications reaching back into the days even before the disaster. Despite the political drama, though, people went about the task of restoring their businesses and homes. Money poured in from Washington, D.C., European countries, and China; and even though the Schwartz crowd skimmed off a lot of it, some actually reached the people in need. City workers repaired streets, filled in fissures and sink holes with masonry debris, set transportation back on track, connected communications, laid foundations, erected walls, attached roofs, repaired chimneys, and rebuilt houses. Neighborhoods regrouped, having memorialized their dead, families strengthened their ties. People went back to work and tended to their daily lives. Some left the city for good, but most of the hundreds of thousands that had left after the quake and during the fire came back when the dust settled and the smoke cleared. The disaster had left many homeless and bereft of loved ones, but many others also found hope in new friendships and renewed lives.

Marianne never took the Browns' offer to stay with Leo's mother, but made sure not to rebuff his continued interest. When she next took the ferry to Oakland and the train to Sacramento, she was not traveling alone. Although the memory of leaving that fateful day in mid-April twisted her heart and renewed the threat of guilt in her breast, Leo's presence bolstered her. They had become good friends. She was full of excitement to be taking him to meet her mother and father. Talking incessantly all the way, she further entranced Leo who was still amazed at his good fortune in meeting this remarkable woman. "Now remember," she said, "my mother is going to welcome you with her customary open arms, but my father is going to tease you. That's his way of testing to know if you're fit to be associating with his precious daughter." Leo constantly smiled at her, content to listen. "If my sister is there she is going to flirt with you, but don't let it bother you. It won't bother me; we have been affectionate rivals ever since teenage. If my brother is there, he will want to talk about business and how the businessmen in San Francisco are re-establishing their companies. He thinks business makes the world go round."

Leo looked at the roof of the train and laughed. "I have a brother-in-law who belongs to the same faith."

She did not respond to the remark but stashed it in her mind for future consideration and went on with her prelude to the family visit. "I think you're going to love the house. It's an old but noble place that's been in the family since the Gold Rush. My grandfather built it. He came from the old country. Became a gangster in Boston because he could find no other work, or so he said, but when he got enough money he quit in 1848 to travel west. He planned to buy land and build a ranch. When he got to the California Territory and heard that John Marshall had discovered gold along the American River, he caught the fever and headed into the foothills of the Sierra Madre. He was one of the first to find the precious metal for the pickings in placers and he found enough to buy a ranch where he raised cattle to feed the hordes of people that were swarming into the gold country from all over the world. When the gold disappeared and the rush dwindled he retired in Sacramento and built the old manse." Leo was looking out the window part of the time while she was telling the story, but the reflection in the glass kept their eyes connected. He turned to her to hear more. "Now don't think we're rich," she said. "We're not--except in the heart. My grandfather squandered much of his wealth on crazy inventions that went nowhere. Things like electric motor cars and bicycles with wings and underwater boats. He was lucky but not very practical."

Leo watched the locomotive through a window as it became visible in a turn. "Bicycles with wings. That's an interesting idea. Did they ever work?"

She crooked her head and looked up at him with the unspoken answer. Satisfied with this response to what she considered a silly question she continued with her introduction to the family. "My family will never let you rest about your exploits as a fireman. Father in particular loves adventurers and considers firefighters some of the most heroic adventurers in the world." Leo looked at his hands folded in his lap and hoped he would not let her father down. "Golly, I'm talking your head off. Even Tommy's getting bored."

Leo noticed the baby was staring at his mother the way babies do as if finding every word, every expression, every eye movement a fascinating lesson in life. "I doubt it," he said.

She grinned at him. Despite his occasional awkwardness, a quality he still did not know that she found charming, he usually knew the right thing to say. They were silent for a while as the train steadily rocked along on the track with that clattering cadence that makes riding them such a mellowing experience. When the whistle announced the approach to Sacramento Station, Marianne lit up like a child going to a party.

A conductor verified her expectation. "Sac-ra-men-to. Sacramento station."

"We're here!" She scooted to the edge of her seat and watched out the windows to catch sight of her parents, as the train ground toward the station buildings. She felt the advent interminable, till in a few minutes the long machine pulled into the station, steam spewing between the huge wheels of the locomotive and billowing about the windows of the passenger cars. Through gaps in the vapor, Marianne scanned the people on the landing, her face taut with anticipation. Then she spotted them. "Mother! Father! Here!" She called with no chance of being heard outside. "Here we are!" And she waved with little chance of being seen inside. Grabbing Leo's hand she hurried through the car to the exit where she flung her arm into the air, squealing, "Mama! Papa!"

Jonathan and Sarah hurried to her, also flailing their arms the way people do when chasing down a long lost pet. When they reached her, they could not decide on whom to shower the most attention, the mother or the child. Sarah took the baby from her daughter, then she and her husband took his little hands in theirs and made soft silly noises in his face. The baby gawked at them unsure whether or not to laugh or cry. He jerked his head toward his mother and looked at her for reassurance, then, seeing the broad smile on her face, he looked back at his grandparents and decided to join in the happy moment. When he flashed a wet, toothless smile at them, the elder couple cooed with delight. "Ooh--what a happy baby!" Sarah cried.

"See, mother--Tommy knows family when he sees you." Sarah could not nod her head more emphatically. They hugged and kissed the child till he began to lose his good humor and reached for his mother. Marianne came to his rescue but had to play a little tug of war to get him away from her parents. The family embraced and kissed and kissed and murmured inaudible words to each other till Marianne remembered Leo, who was standing like a sentinel behind her. "Oh, my! I'm sorry, Leo. Mother, father--this is Leo Brown."

"Well, well-- My, my--" her parents shouted in chorus.

"We are so happy you've come to visit us, Leo," Sarah said. "From what Marianne has told us about you, we've been wanting to spend some time together. Welcome." She embraced him.

"Good to meet you, lad," Jonathan said. Leo smiled and took his hand, as Marianne put her own hands together as if to applaud.

In the car on the way to the Brady house Marianne resumed her chatter to keep her nerves at bay. She said nothing of much importance, so the others did not feel the need to respond. The three simply sat in the rickety, rackety car amid dust billowing around their heads and listened to her voice as if at a song as they grinned bemusedly at each other.

Finding an opening when she took a breath, her father inserted a pent up comment loudly over the noise. "Marianne tells us you're a fireman, Leo."

Marianne looked at Leo as if she had just proven a little-known fact of life.

"Yes, sir," Leo shouted.

"I bet you have some exciting stories to tell."

"Well...."

"Oh, daddy--give the poor man a chance to relax. You've got him for the whole weekend."

Leo looked unsure if her words meant to protect him or present him for their entertainment. As the automobile grumbled down the road to the big house above the American River, he rehearsed in his mind any interesting stories he could tell that would not deflate their impression of firefighters. He felt uncomfortable talking about himself. Rather he wanted to know about them, especially to know if they would like him enough to join their family. That was the main thing on his mind and if he been able to read Marianne's mind he would have found the same thing there.

He need not have worried. Once they had baled out of the contraption and settled themselves in the house, they struck that home key the newly acquainted seek. The common chord sounded not only in their conversation but also in their silences, in the courtesy they unconsciously showed to one another, in the meal they enjoyed, in the very air they breathed. Leo felt welcome there as in no place other than his own home.

When they had finished supper, the women cleared the table and tended to the dishes, while the men stepped outside to take a walk in the garden that overlooked the river. "I hear you lost a family member too, Leo. I'm sorry."

"Thank you, sir. Many of us lost loved ones."

Jonathan looked over some flowers in the dimming light. "Yes. A terrible thing. We were heartbroken about Thomas." He stared at the blossoms as if to find something in them. "We loved that young man like our own son. Indeed, he was. Blessed lucky you were there to save baby Tommy. Divine Providence. I don't know what might've become of my girl if she had lost them both. Horrible to think about." He stared at one particular bright flower in the garden then after a moment took a deep breath. "Now the worst is over, God willing, and the people of San Francisco will make the best of it. They always have. Tough bunch out there. Pioneer stock."

Leo's eyes followed the river to the last swaths of color in the western sky. "We have to be tough to endure such disasters."

"Biggest natural disaster our nation has ever known, I read."

"I'm not surprised. But I don't know if it was all that natural."

Jonathan looked at him sharply. "I heard about some charges of scandal in the way many of the buildings were constructed. Mayor's involved?"

"'Fraid so. It's a huge mess." A momentary silence dampened that topic.

"You must have had your hands full, lad."

"Overflowing. I'm lucky to be alive. I can thank your daughter for helping to make me well again."

"God works through the hands of the nurse--I always say."

Leo thought the description particularly apt for Marianne. "There is indeed something special in those hands." He thought his words might have been inappropriate but made no apology.

"Pretty little things too, aren't they?"

Leo hesitated in the dimming light. "Yes, yes, they are." He was not at all sure how far he should take this.

"So--I suppose your interest in my daughter is not purely gratitude."

Leo looked at him then looked back into the warm western sky to disguise his own flush. "I love your daughter, sir." He was amazed he had made such a declaration to anyone let alone her father. He had not even admitted the fact to her.

"I know." Leo looked at him in surprise. "Why, it's written all over your face when you look at her, son." The fireman was stunned to hear that his inner feelings were visible for all to see. He looked at the house and saw Marianne watching him through the kitchen window. She was smiling, her face mysteriously beautiful in the twilight. "You know, lad--she is quite vulnerable now." Leo started a bit at the sudden severity of Jonathan's voice then nodded respectfully. "Just having lost her husband and nearly her son, my grandson--she's like a vessel adrift. She may be casting about a little recklessly to tie up at any port."

"I'm not any port, sir."

"Oh, I know that, Leo--believe me. I do. I did not mean to imply that you were. I know from my daughter's interest in you and I can see for myself that you are a man of good character. Your mother and father raised you well."

"Yes, sir--I believe they did."

"I only mean that Marianne needs space and time to find herself in all the grief. She has lost a good man who was the father of her child." Leo did not know what to say or how to respond to this so he simply muttered an unintelligible affirmation then listened. "Her child, my grandchild, has lost a fundamental part of the foundation of his young life. He and his mother are alone now. Oh, they have mother and I, of course, and her brother and sister and her friends at the hospital, but as far as she is concerned, she is alone with her baby. That can be a very frightening place for one to be."

"I can see that, sir. I hope she considers me one of her friends, maybe her best friend."

The older man's eyes shone in the gloaming as he put his arm over Leo's shoulders. "Good, young man, very good. I can think of nothing better to hear you say." They heard the noise of a window opening.

"Hey, you men--" Sarah called from the kitchen. "I've got some good homemade vanilla ice cream in here. You'd better quit gabbing and come and get it while it lasts."

"Oh, oh, Leo--" Jonathan said, "that's something we don't want to miss. Sarah's vanilla ice cream." He spun around deftly and bounded to the house. "Let's go." As he followed him inside Leo grinned at the man acting in a way that reminded him a little of his own father.

In the dining room the men sit at the table and waited like two children in a candy store, while Sarah and Marianne brought in bowls of the cold creamy delicacy and a pot of coffee. Leo wondered how Sarah's coffee would compare to his mother's. "This is all you get, so enjoy it," Sarah said.

"Mother believes in a little of a good thing," Marianne said to Leo as she sat Tommy on her lap and put a coated spoon to his lips. The little mouth instantly opened ready for the treat. When he tasted it, his eyes watered at the cold then sparkled and his mouth again flew open for more. They all laughed as people do at babies' artless ways.

"You two could use a lot of a good thing after what you've been through," her father said.

Marianne rolled her eyes and sounded an agreement. Leo waited for the others to dip into the frozen cream but he had already sensed how delicious it would be from the scent of vanilla and the sight of Tommy's gusto.

"If you like cream in your coffee, Leo," Jonathan said as he reached for the treat, "drop in a spoonful of that fluffy white stuff. It's a combination worthy of the gods."

"You're one god who is going to go easy on that fluffy white stuff, right father?" his wife admonished.

Jonathan grimaced and glanced at Leo. "Take good care of your ticker, Leo. You don't want to get old and have women pester you every time you try to enjoy life."

Leo started to laugh but squelched it and looked at Marianne's father with concern.

"Oh, I'm all right. Too much fuss over a little chest pain. Hell, my father had chest pains nearly every damned day after his seventieth birthday and he lived to be ninety."

"Please, Jonathan--we have guests."

"He used profanity till the day he died too," he added.

Marianne looked at Leo and signaled that it was all right for him to smile. "Daddy likes colorful language--mother likes to sing, father likes to swear."

"You'd fit right in at the fire station, sir."

Jonathan sat back in his chair. "You know, lad--I always wanted to be a fireman--ever since I was a boy. But my mother wouldn't let me. Said it was too dangerous."

"It certainly can be that."

"Bah! Man's got to face danger to be worthy of manhood. Say--I heard you went up San Juan Hill with ol' Rough 'n' Ready. That right?" Leo nodded. He was never comfortable talking about his days with Theodore Roosevelt in the war. "I never had the chance to partake in military glory. Too young for the Civil War. California wasn't involved anyway. No real Indian threat out here. Spanish took care of that." The older man looked curiously sad. "I suffered the curse of the rich boy--everything I wanted but adventure."

"Oh, Jonathan, don't be silly," Sarah said.

"Papa won't tell you himself," Marianne felt compelled to offer. "But he is important around Sacramento in his own right. He built many of the fine houses. Houses that can withstand any shaking of the earth."

"Bah!" Jonathan brushed off the compliment.

"We could use your skill in San Francisco these days," Leo said. Jonathan nodded in appreciation.

"Of course you've had a wonderful life," Sarah continued. "You married me, didn't you?"

They all chuckled obligingly into their steaming coffee.

"You're right, ol' girl. No greater adventure in life than to stay married to the same wonderful woman for many years.

Leo thought of his own parents and wondered if his father would have said the same thing. He regretted that had never gotten the chance to find out. Leo studied the Brady family while they made happy gestures to each other as though congratulating themselves. He felt a twinge of envy but was happy to see this combination. Since never having been able to enjoy both his parents into their elder age, he had always felt a void in his life since his father's death. Now, sitting here with this whole family, he saw and felt something of what he had been missing and wanted more of it.

Marianne regarded his contemplative mood and reached over to touch him. She did not want him to feel left out in her family's tight group. She wanted him to feel at home there as she had felt at his mother's house. Leo's face told her she had nothing to worry about; he looked as happy as did a prince in a newly won castle. Obliging his host, Leo dropped a dollop of ice cream into his coffee. As soon as he sipped it, he knew that at least in the culinary arts Sarah and his mother were kindred spirits. "Delicious, Mis'ess Brady. My mother makes a mean cup of coffee but you'd give her quite a challenge at the state fair."

"The state fair--" Sarah said sipping her coffee, "Why, I never thought of that. I wonder if they have a coffee judging contest. If so, I ought to enter it. What do you think, Jonathan?"

"Put a little whisky in it and it'd win without question."

The men roared, but Sarah slapped her husband's hand. His coffee sloshed in his cup and nearly spilled on the table. "You men and your gol-darned spirits," she said, "a person would think all you want to do is drink and swear."

Jonathan looked at Leo and the two men shared a silent understanding.

"Well, daddy is going to have to give it up," Marianne said after swallowing some coffee, smacking her lips, and looking at Leo. "We want him around for a long time."

Leo regarded her father sympathetically. "I hope you're well, sir."

"Oh, I'm too damned ornery to die."

"That's certainly true," his wife quipped.

He pretended to glare at her. Leo was enjoying them so much that he did not notice Marianne watching him.

"Let's take our coffee into the front room," Sarah said. "We'll be more comfortable."

"I'd better put the little one to bed." Marianne looked down at the infant sleeping in her lap, his head lolling over her arm.

"Yup--he's done for the day," Jonathan said. "Blessing of the innocent."

Leo watched Marianne go upstairs, as the others removed to the parlor and took seats around a table. His eyes brightened at the sight of the lovely woman with child climbing into the dim light of the upper storey. Glancing into the sitting room, he saw a sofa similar to his favorite one in his mother's house and headed for it. He sank into the deep cushions. Jonathan and Sarah noticed his action as they took seats on either side of a huge stone fireplace.

"This sofa feels just as good as the one at home--at my mother's house," Leo said.

"Our son, John, likes it too," Sarah said.

Leo knew his mother would get along well with Sarah and he hoped his sister would like Marianne. He had to clench his teeth to keep from suggesting they would all make excellent relatives-in-law. He was ready for that situation, and the fact that Marianne needed more time frustrated him. For the time being, though, he would enjoy her family as his own until his inner desire at loving her unto marriage could be announced to the world.

Marianne bounded down the steps and alighted close to Leo on the sofa. She looked as if she wanted to snuggle up beside him but, when she remembered herself and where she was, she kept a decent distance. He saw the look on her face and reflected a hint of her disappointment. They acted like a couple of sixteen-year-old youths wishing they could be alone.

When the evening darkened and the coffee wore off and their chatting dwindled, Sarah put a recording on the phonograph. They laid their heads back and listened to the soaring voice of Caruso sing an aria from Puccini's MANON LESCAUT. They did not turn on the lights when darkness filled the room. Leo was startled when he felt Marianne's warm hand on his; a touch that sent a current coursing through his body. He was even more excited when she left her hand there surreptitiously till the music ended.

"Well, there's no better way to prepare the mind for a good night's rest than by listening to Puccini," Sarah said as she turned off the phonograph then turned on a lamp by a window and one near the stairs. "Come, dear--let us leave these youngsters alone. We've occupied enough of their time."

Jonathan rose with a mild groan and followed her up the stairs. "Good night, children," Sarah said.

"Sleep well," Jonathan added, the delicious feeling of slumber already beginning to overtake his mind.

"Good night," Marianne called.

"Thank you for a first rate evening, Mister an' Mis'ess Brady."

"You're quite welcome, Leo, anytime." Sarah's voice from the balcony above the stairs sounded as if coming from a stage. She linked her arm with Jonathan's and laid her head on his shoulder as they strolled to their bedroom. Leo and Marianne watched them, and when they passed out of sight, the young couple stared into the warm lamplight.

"So, Firebird--what do you think of my parents?"

"Lovely people--as I might have guessed."

She laid her head back and tilted it toward his. "They like you."

"I feel right at home."

The suggestion silenced them. They remained that way for several minutes, each wondering what the other was thinking. He was tense with the desire to touch her, and she was unsteady in her resolve to be a widow and single mother for very much longer. Thomas's face was becoming less and less clear in her memory now. She was not happy about that, but the presence of his image in their son's countenance offset the lessening. Thomas would live in him.

Leo sensed in her reverie that she might have been thinking of her personal tragedy. The fireman remembered her husband's body only vaguely. At first he wished he had realized the body was that of the baby's father but later he found it better not to have a clear picture of the man's face in his mind. Although he felt selfish, he wanted to see only Marianne in Tommy. Thomas, Senior, was gone. Leo could do nothing about that. He had saved his son and reunited him with the man's wife. If Thomas were aware of them from some place beyond life perhaps he would approve of the man sitting next to his widow on that sofa in her parents' family room; perhaps not. Leo thought for a while about Thomas and about eternal life after death but soon relinquished the thoughts for sensations of his present life on Earth. Now the time. What lay beyond did not matter. Now the time for the living.

"Sleepy?" Marianne asked softly.

"A little. You?"

"A bit. Want to go to bed?"

Heat shot through his body. "When you're ready."

"I wish we could enjoy this exquisite moment forever."

He said nothing. He wanted to tell her they could have many such moments but he said nothing. They remained silent for a few minutes, each listening to the other's breathing. Her scent pleased him, reminded him of something delicious and he tried to figure out what it was but could not place it; it did not matter. Then he realized it was the scent of life. She patted his thigh and again he started, the touch thrilling him. Affinity was radiating between them. "Well then--time for bed," she said as she stretched her legs.

"Time."

He waited for her to get up and turn off the parlor light; he wanted to go up the stairs together the way her parents had done. She reached a hand to him. He took it and they climbed the staircase, pausing to turn out the light. As they ascended the rest of the way in darkness, he could barely see the outline of her hair and shoulders and feel the slight touch of her body on his. "I'll show you to my brother John's room. He won't be coming home for a while, so you'll have it all to yourself."

His heat abated. When she opened the door and turned on the light, he scanned the room and sensed the distinct ambience of a man. The wallpaper was a simple brown pattern. A ball, some kind of tool, and the inner organs of a small machine lay on the dresser with hairbrush and comb. The bed was swayback from years of trampling.

"I hope you sleep comfortably in here."

He turned and found her very close to him, looking up at him, and he could feel her breath on his throat. "I'm sure I will," he said but of course he would not. He would be thinking of her before falling asleep, if he could sleep at all.

She stared at him in the dimlight for a moment. "Well, I guess I'll go to bed."

"Yes--me too." Another long moment of staring at each other stretched through the shadowy silence.

"If you need anything--I'm right down the hall."

"Oh, thanks--I should be fine." He knew he would not be completely fine--alone in a bed in her house where she would sleep close enough for him to hear her heartbeat as well as his own.

"Yes, you'll be fine," she said.

He could see her mouth smiling slightly, her lips spreading like a budding flower. He looked at her mouth longer than he knew, wanting to taste it, but he caught himself and looked back at her eyes. Dark green now, they were wide like those of a child watching for something wonderful to happen in the magic of the night. She knew what he wanted to do and she felt the same but she also knew to wait; it would be better between them if they waited. Although she was sure they were going to be good for each other, she wanted them to become good friends first. If they could do that, she believed, they had a good chance to be happy.

"Yes--well--" He stammered. She jumped up and kissed him.

The red rushing into his face was not visible in the darkness, but she knew it was there and she giggled. He cleared his throat. "My whiskers tickle you?"

"No--something else." She spun on her heels and left the room, tossing back to him a barely concealed flirtatious "Good night."

"Good night." He waited till he heard her close the door to her room before he reluctantly closed his.

Lying in bed that night neither of them fell right off to sleep, despite their weariness. With remnant smiles of the evening frozen on their faces each was thinking of the other, as they stared at nothing on the ceilings in their rooms. He wondered if he should have kissed her on the cheek in return. She wondered if she should have kissed him on the lips, if she was being coy. She wanted to be straightforward from the beginning but her female wiles worked their way into her behavior even though she tried to keep them in check. He wanted some sign of her feeling for him, and she knew that. Inexperienced in matters of the amorous heart, he was not at all sure that she reciprocated his feelings for her. So he lay there with little clouds of worry obscuring his fond memories of the day. Soon his mind drifted into that halflit state between waking and sleeping.

As they lay in their beds, enjoying mutual reveries, they might have fallen asleep simultaneously or perhaps dreamed their secret desires. Leo was so sleepy he did not notice the door to his room slowly opening. Nor did he hear the soft padding of barefeet across the floor. When he sensed a body hovering over him, it seemed a warm blanket against the chill. The sensation of tender flesh on his lips surprised but pleased him as the blessing of some legendary fairy sprinkling bewitching stardust on his brow. Without thinking he embraced the vision and let his being merge with the alluring specter close in his world but too fantastic to be real. The room pulsed from indigo to rose. Gravity let go. Clocks ticked in rhythm to heartbeats. Physical surroundings dissolved into a vast nebula where new stars are born of earth and fire. Presently two beings became planetary and spun out of sight in tune to a grand waltz through infinite space.

When finally asleep Leo and Marianne drifted off in unison. Naturally by chance, matching the coincidence of their subsequent dreams wherein each of them appeared in starring roles. As that utter peacefulness which occurs between the dark and dawn, so graceful in quiet places of the world, filled the shadowy space around them, their individual sleeping minds took them through separate fantastic nocturnes where faces interchange, locales blend, and conversations make sense only in fantasies and fragmented stories played out in bits of measureless time.

Chapter 29

Just as the American River flows into the San Francisco Bay and the ocean tide swells the bay and flows upriver, just as the sea breezes blend with the inland air from the great valleys, people in the fallen city united. And it was good. Revitalizing. New friendships formed, as did new families: a melding into order out of chaos. The natural organizing of things.

If not for the earthquake and the fire, Leo and Marianne might never have met. Marianne Durand would predictably have lived out her life with Thomas, raised their son, had another child, and another, and they would have grown old together and died probably without ever knowing the Browns. So many people in the same city could cross paths but never know each other, look right into each other's face but never speak to open an opportunity. If not for the disaster, Leo likely would never have needed to save little Tommy's life. The Valencia Hotel probably would have remained intact. Marianne probably would have remained a one-time married woman. Leo and she might have interacted as an injured fireman nursed in a hospital; and, if so, she would have attracted him, but she might not have allowed a relationship to happen. Nor he. The fireman would have been only another patient, and when he would have become well, she could have forgotten him. Doubtfully, he would ever have forgotten her.

Because of the profound changes the great disaster brought to their lives, however, Leo and Marianne did meet and subsequently grew steadily to care for one another. Likewise, as an outgrowth of their mutual affection, the Browns and the Bradys inevitably became acquainted. After Leo's visit to Marianne's family home, he and she decided to bring their people together, and the time most fitting they agreed would be the next Thanksgiving Day after the great catastrophe.

***

That Thursday in late November presented a crisp autumn afternoon in Sacramento when the Brown clan walked into the Brady house. It was the kind of day that, despite the dying of summer, makes one revel at life. Withered leaves yellowing to brown still clung to the trees and made the sky appear more brilliant, its blue electric; even those leaves decaying on the ground-cushioned footsteps and scented the chilly air. A good time for the appetite. When Jonathan and Sarah met the visiting family at the front door of their home, the seasonal air burnished their faces. Long awaiting this meeting, inevitable, as both families knew it would be since their Leo and Marianne had become so attached, they were all noticeably tense, and it showed in their social exuberance, which made it even more exciting.

With baby, Tommy bundled in her arms Marianne enthusiastically led the way up the steps. Behind her followed Leo with his mother just ahead of Eleanor and Emily, walking close, then Molly and Michael with the twins, Molly looking proudly pregnant. Ah Sung smiling broadly was at the end of the line. She could not quite believe she was being included in this national celebration with Americans but happy for having become accepted and attached to them.

After Sarah and Jonathan made their usual fuss over the baby, Mary and Sarah quickly found each other, clasping hands as if old friends, wanting to hug but reserving that gesture till they could become more familiar. Each spoke the other's name simultaneously and laughed heartily at the coincidence. "Well, well," said Sarah, "what a special day. The Browns and the Bradys...."

"I've been looking forward to such a day for--well, for a long time," Mary said.

"Your wait is over, Mis'ess Brown," Jonathan said. "Here--let's go inside--where we can sit and have a good chat."

"Supper will be ready shortly," Sarah said. "I hope you're all famished. We have enough to feed the whole town."

"Sounds like my idea of the perfect Thanksgiving feast," Leo said, as he watched the twins scamper around to the rear of the house.

Molly called after them, but Sarah waved her off with a smile of permission. "Let 'em run. We have some things out there for our grandchildren to play on--swings and teeter-totter and the like. John's and Agnes's children are out there right now. They'll have a good time together." Molly let them go and followed the rest of the family into the house.

Marianne's brother and sister with their spouses were waiting in the vestibule. Upon seeing them, she hurried to their arms with hugs and kisses. "Leo," she said, "I want you to meet my dear brother John and sister Aggie."

Leo saw a striking family resemblance in the siblings but also realized that Marianne was the prettier of the two sisters. The perception made his greeting all the broader. When John took his hand, however, the man held Leo's eyes with a look that seemed to ask: 'Are you good enough for my kid sister?' Leo read the look and responded with a comment about his admiration of John's family and what glowing words about him he had heard from Marianne. Of course Leo was exaggerating, and John knew it; nevertheless, the flattery pleased her brother. Besides, he, as the rest of the Brady family, considered Leo a very important man in their lives--the hero who had saved Marianne's baby.

When Ah Sung got to the front door, Sarah took her hand. "And you must be the angel who looked after my grandson Tommy--"

"I--Ah Sung--"

"I know dear--" Sarah wanted to hug and kiss this woman too but refrained from doing so, being unsure of her customs. "You're famous in this house, you know."

Ah Sung did not blush but dropped her eyes to the floor, not used to much flattery or praise. "Baby Tommy bu'fur boy."

"He certainly is, and a thriving one, thanks to you and Leo. Welcome to our home." She led the Chinese woman into her parlor along with the others. Michael picked up the rear.

Marianne took the baby upstairs to feed and put to bed after his long journey. Leo watched her ascend and wished he could join her. Sarah saw the look on his face, pleased with what his attention stirred in her. When Leo sensed she was watching him he glanced away and looked closely at a piece of furniture, as if the extraordinary workmanship had become important him.

Eleanor and Emily sat in chairs together and held hands, having drawn closer since Bobby's death. Mary walked through the living room to look at the family pictures on the wall and the things that decorated the home, delicate things such as flower vases and crotched doilies on the tables, yet while surveying the house she kept circling back to her sisters. The three of them were drawn to one another now that they were all without men in their lives. "Beautiful house, Sarah, simply beautiful--so friendly," Mary said. "I almost feel I've lived in this place."

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, Mary," Sarah said, "you do."

Jonathan, who had disappeared into the dining room while the others were settling into the parlor, reappeared with a tray carrying a bottle of wine and glasses. "Anyone for a treat before dinner? I found a bottle of Amontillado sherry in a little wine shop downtown--"

Sarah threw him a cross look softened with a hint of cheer in her eyes. "Thought you would sneak that past me with all the guests in the house, dear?"

"Bah! I thought no such thing. We've had a nice bottle of wine for every Thanksgiving Dinner since we were married and we're simply continuing the tradition."

The Brown family guests laughed politely at different degrees, not sure of the actual mood transpiring between the hosts, but when they saw John and Aggie laughing freely they knew the mood was jovial.

"My husband...."

"Her husband had a little heart trouble a while back," Jonathan continued for his wife, "and now everyone thinks he's not supposed to enjoy himself."

"A little sherry may do him good, mother." Marianne never thought of overruling her mother, never felt either the right or the necessity, but she knew about health and decided that a glass of sherry would be a good thing.

Sarah was inwardly a little annoyed but agreed. If it might do him good, she would accept it. "Fine. Let's all have an aperitif then."

"An aperitif. Well, well--listen to the woman." her husband said. "You become more cultured every day."

Sarah slapped him on the shoulder and went into the kitchen. "I'd better check on the turkey."

"Smells like it's going to be delicious, mother." Aggie said, following her.

Eleanor leaned closer to Emily and whispered, "Bobby would have roared with pleasure at the...." She had to stop her mouth with her hand to keep from sobbing. Emily patted her arm and held her sister's eyes till she recomposed herself. Eleanor nodded in gratitude for her sister's quiet support. Mary picked up on the interaction but said nothing, pleased to see the two together but saddened by the reason.

With Sarah out of the room, Leo dropped onto the sofa and lounged as if he were in his mother's house. Emily took stock of him as usual and would not refrain from commenting, even under circumstances sensitive to him. "I see you found yourself another piece of furniture to torture, ay, nephew?"

John looked apprehensive at this remark, as if expecting a Brown family squabble, but when he saw Leo's relaxed response to the jibe he knew this was some of the normal repartee among these folks. Leo only smirked at Emily and snuggled into the cushions the way a small boy wiggles into the arms of his mother. He was far too happy to find any fault with his Aunt Emily's words. All the people that he loved most in the world were together under one roof, and he could not have invented a better time or place to be alive. Mary saw him in his pleasurable predicament and joined him on the sofa. "I do believe I may have to refurbish that old sofa of mine to keep you coming to visit me, you seem so contented here."

He put his arm around her and drew her to his chest. "Aw, ma--I wouldn't desert your sofa." She chuckled and nestled against him.

Eleanor and Emily looked on with traces of envy around their eyes. They loved Leo more than they let on, especially Emily, and they wished they themselves had thought to join him on the sofa. Regarding each other with the same thought connecting their minds, they pouted.

Molly, who had been sitting in a chair rather separate from the others, kept looking around the house to keep from feeling awkward. She had gotten rather used to her brother being a bachelor and she liked it; more of his affection came her way. However, now that he was obviously hearing wedding bells and was bound to trail their sound all the way to the church, she would have to give something of him away, share him with a woman other than her mother; and for dealing with that she had not yet settled within herself the mixture of sadness, longing, and joy. To cover these feelings that she feared were showing on her face, she feigned a question about her husband's whereabouts, knowing he had slipped out the door to be with their children. "Anyone seen Michael?"

Mary sensed the ruse but played along. "I saw him go outside, probably to check on the twins."

"Well, I'm not going to let him have all the fun." Jumping to her feet with more energy than needed, Molly swung open the big front door, bounded down the steps, and trotted around to the rear of the house.

The autumn afternoon was chilling, but the children were frolicking as if it were a spring day. Michael was standing under a huge oak, its crooked branches and wiry twigs casting strange shadows over him. He looked downcast, despite his obvious delight in watching his children at play with the others. Whenever they performed what for them was an extraordinary feat of daring-do, a grin would threaten to crack his melancholy but not push it off his face. Molly noted his attitude but focused on their children. She was happy to see them swinging and jumping with the other children. Stepping to her husband's side, she said nothing at first, content to watch the little ones cavort like pixies, but soon her curiosity and concern overcame her reserve. Without turning to him she said, "Something wrong, Mickey?" He glanced at the decaying leaves under his feet and shook his head not so much to deny his distress but to underline it. She looked him over, studied his face. "I know when you're troubled, Michael--and when you don't share it with me, I fear I might have done or said something to annoy you."

He put his arm around her waist and drew her against him. "Oh, Molly--you never bother me. If anything, I'm the culprit. Sometimes I doubt I deserve you."

Now she was worried. "What makes you say such a thing, Michael? You're my husband, the father of our children. We belong to each other. No question of who deserves who."

His eyes drifted across the yard and scanned an adjacent farm field full of the stubble from the last summer crop. He would not tell her but he was feeling like running away, disappearing, and never showing his face to her or anyone in the family again. He did not let her in on such feelings even though he was having them more and more often, ever since the disaster. Having known her husband intimately for so many years, Molly guessed what could be bothering him. "Any trouble at work?"

His eyes snapped to her, the look in them showing his wonder at her ability to see into his heart and mind, so much like her mother's. Now that she had touched the sore spot in his conscience, he opened wide. "Bad trouble, Molly." His eyes looked stricken.

She put an arm around him, hand on his shoulder. "What kind of trouble, Mickey?" She had a good idea of what it was but wanted not to intrude on his privacy, especially not into his dark secrets. People often harbor personal information others should maybe never know.

"It's that damned scandal." She inhaled sharply, trying not to gasp. He felt her body tense and tried to relieve it with a squeeze of his arm around her. "Mayor Schwartz, Burt Cash, and the others--they're all facing charges of corruption, and...."

"But you're not part of the administration, Michael. They won't, they can't...."

"Yes, they can. If the structure falls, anyone nearby could get smashed beneath it. Sure--I'm not actually in the administration but I've been helping with the construction contracts. Now that certain malcontents are demanding from the mayor and his men an accounting of the money that was supposed to go to the people and the city before and since the big one, any of us known to be associated with City Hall are likely to be swept into the net."

"Oh, dear!" She could no longer contain a gasp.

He looked at her, his eyes bleary. "I'm sorry, Molly. This could be another disaster for you and the children--a disaster that your own husband has brought on. I'm so sorry." He let his head drop to her shoulders to throttle any sobs but could not keep from shaking.

She touched his face distractedly, unable to be completely comforting for fear of her family's well-being. Long doubtful of his dealings in town, heightened by Leo's occasional comments about the dangerous condition of buildings and all the death and damage done during the quake and fire, her suspicions were now taking root right at the foundation of their lives. She felt an urge to push him away, to gather up her children, and run into the house to be with her mother. But she was a Brown, and the Browns stood together. She would not pull away from her husband, even though he might be in serious trouble. She would see it through with him for she knew Michael Dickerson to be a good husband and father. Those were his most important qualities to her. Any mistakes he had made in the course of his legal career could be corrected and forgiven. She wrapped her arms around him and held tight till he stopped shaking. She glanced at the twins and noticed they had ceased their play and were watching their parents. The other children, picking up the signal, watched both their playmates and the adults for any sign of change for which they would need the arms of their own parents nearby.

"Let's not upset the children, Mickey. Let's pull ourselves together. We can get through this just as we got through the disaster. This will pass and there'll be better times ahead. After all I didn't marry you expecting our life to be a stroll in the garden."

"I'm afraid it's a garden of thorns."

"With roses too though." He lifted his face to hers. They stared into each other's eyes for a while without words, then she kissed him, and they held the kiss for a long time. The twins giggled and ran back to their play with their new acquaintances.

At the kitchen window Sarah had been watching Molly and Michael for some time, wondering what was passing between them, but old and experienced enough with marriage and life she guessed that whatever it was they could probably work it out, and when she saw them kissing she knew the time was right for Thanksgiving Dinner. "Supper soon!" she called. "Children! Come get washed up."

Molly and Michael looked at the window and tried vainly to cover their emotions but when they saw Sarah smiling at them, they relaxed. "Come children," Molly said as she glanced again at Sarah. "Time for thanksgiving."

The twins made a duet of their routine gripe about being interrupted from their precious playtime for an ordinary and likely disappointing event such as a meal. Seeing strength in their little group, the other children joined them with mild complaints.

"Come now--do as your mother says," Michael said firmly. Molly looked at Michael and knew he would be all right, they would be all right. Herding the children before them, they walked back into the house.

Inside, Sarah, Aggie, and Marianne were scooting in and out of the dining room. The others were already standing around the table and waiting to be seated; Ah Sung, a little uneasy, stood alone in the doorway.

"Beautiful house and grounds, Mister Brady," Michael said to Jonathan in the foyer.

"Why thank you--" Jonathan had forgotten his name.

"Michael."

"If I'm to call you Michael, then you must call me Jonathan." Michael nodded, his unease not entirely having left him.

"Yes," Jonathan went on, unable to let a compliment on his property go undeveloped. "I've--" he glanced at his wife. "We've worked hard to make the ol' place livable."

"Well, you've done very well," Molly said.

Sarah appeared with a towel in her hands, wiping them more vigorously than necessary. "Jonathan. How long are you going to keep these people from enjoying the meal?"

"Oh--" he started to hurry for the dining table. "Got to be careful not to antagonize the cook," he said quietly to the couple. "I've come to depend on her for sustenance all these years."

Sarah grinned through her mock indignation and swatted his rear with the towel as he skipped through the doorway. Michael and Molly laughed obligingly. Even the twins, upon seeing the signal from their parents, looked at each other and giggled. As the couple stepped forward to join the family, Molly's thoughts drifted back to her own childhood and the memories she had of her mother and father together on such occasions.

When all had gathered in the room and were standing around the large oval board, Sarah said, "Sit where you like. No formalities in this house." The guests obligingly shuffled their feet for a few seconds then found chairs within reach.

When Ah Sung ventured into the room and was about to sit on Leo's left, opposite an empty chair where Marianne would sit on his right, Marianne gave a seating direction on her own. "No, no, Ah Sung--" Ah Sung froze when she was halfway to the chair and looked as if she had committed some kind of social blunder.

"Sit there, Ah Sung, please--" Marianne pointed to the open seat on Leo's right. Ah Sung looked confused. "I want you between us." Ah Sung was flustered. She thought it highly improper, presumptuous to take such a position, and she shook her head slightly.

"Sure thing, Ah Sung," Leo said, turning to her with an inviting look, "You belong here. Come. Sit." He patted the chair.

The woman looked at Marianne to confirm what she was hearing. When Ah Sung saw her smile and heard her say, "You're part of the family now," she knew that taking a place between two of the people left she most cared about in the world would be acceptable. Bowing slightly, she sat on Leo's right and waited for the meal to begin, grinning to all, to no one in particular, but mostly to herself. She had lost her dear husband, as Marianne had lost hers, and as Leo had lost his uncle, so she was with kindred spirits, most important to her. In a way she was at home.

Just so, with Eleanor and Emily, who sat together with Mary, as they absorbed the gaiety of the room. Just so with Molly and Michael, who sat closer even than their chairs and touched each other's hands under the table. Just so with John and Aggie with their families. Just so with Sarah, who, at the opposite end of the table from Jonathan, was talking enthusiastically with Mary to her right and at the same time waiting for her husband's words to begin the feast.

Jonathan's voice presently rose above the quiet chatter. "A toast," he said standing, "a toast to those in this room and to those dear to us who are no longer here--" They all bowed their heads; all except the twins who were too interested in the elaborate goings-on to show reverence for the moment. Molly silently signaled them to lower their heads, which they did, but beneath their brows kept spying around the table. "We give thanks, dear Lord," Jonathan continued. "We give thanks for the life we have shared, for the blessings before us, and for any good fortune we may enjoy in the future." As concordant murmurs swept around the table, he stood silent and still for another moment then abruptly picked up the carving knife, stuck a big fork into the turkey, and made a long deep slice.

The celebration of the day manifested itself as a mildly confused relay of silver dinnerware piled with steaming, savory victuals of the holiday season, burbling conversation, clattering utensils, flowing wine, and conviviality. As if the season were attentive to the occasions of humanity, leaves falling past the windows fluttered against the glass and drifted softly to the ground. Shadows lengthened gracefully around the house, as the sun was losing its dominance over another day. The cold in the air kissed the summer raiment that still clung to the trees, turning it yellow, orange, and brown. Harbingers of winter sailed across the dimming sky, their bellies laden with moisture. The river, a shallow ribbon of its vernal surge from the Sierra snowmelt, shone like molten gold on its course to the San Francisco bay.

Chapter 30

Now that Leo and Marianne were bonded even more strongly through their families, he was ready to embrace the woman he loved, having waited for her, as she had indicated, as he had promised. He worked fighting new fires that inevitably attack a city. She worked fighting injury and disease that relentlessly afflict people. They saw each other whenever they could for dinner, for strolls along the beach where he had found her in her darkest sorrow and despair; and of course they made time for Tommy, always with Tommy, for he had become a part of their individual and dual beings.

Their friendship grew stronger. They became so familiar others referred to them as Leo-and-Marianne as if already married. Whenever one came up in a conversation the other was inevitably attached. Eventually Leo could wait no longer to consecrate the attachment.

Spring, nearly one year after the great calamity. The city was well on the way to being rebuilt. Fewer and fewer signs, ugly reminders of the great trouble, showed themselves among the new buildings and streets. On days that were warm and clear, with his heart light Leo Brown was always thinking of Marianne and was as intent on being with her as butterfly to butterfly, flower to flower, seed to earth.

Released from duty one afternoon in early April he bought some roses, jumped on a trolley, and made his way to Harbor Hospital where she now worked. Surprising her as she came out of the building for the midday meal, he dropped to his knees and laid the flowers at her feet. "Nurse Marianne Brady Durand, I have another proposal to make." Looking around to see if anyone was noticing his crazy behavior, she begged him through her nervous giggling to get to his feet. But he would not budge. "I always kneel during the most solemn rituals."

"You're not in church, Leo Brown. Have you gone crazy?"

"Crazy on purpose. I offer these flowers to the most beautiful vessel of God's creation in all of San Francisco--in all the world!"

"Vessel! Where did you pick that one up, Firebird?" He had read it in a greeting card but did not want to admit it, hoping she would think he had invented the image. "Well, I'm not so sure I want to be a vessel," she said with feigned mockery.

"Honestly I read it in a greeting card," he said quickly. When she snickered, he added, "About my proposal--"

"Yes, your proposal."

"I would be honored if--if you would, if we could, if you, well, damn it--if you would be my wife."

She knew it was going to come sooner or later but when she heard the actual words from his mouth she felt paralyzed and only stared at him. Wife. She had not heard the word applied to her for a long time. The sound of it both shocked and excited her.

When he felt her mild consternation, his heart was about to sink into the depths of man rejected and fall bleeding onto the pavement beneath his aching knees. Should he have waited even longer?

She looked down at him and said softly, "Oh, Leo--"

"Yes?" He trembled slightly off balance.

"The honor would be mine."

"Then--then you will--?"

"I will then and I will now."

He jumped to his feet and hugged her in the way he had wanted to from the first day he saw her. When he looked into her eyes moistening, he wanted to kiss her. And she him. Yet they both simply stood there staring at each other, she waiting for him to move his face to hers, he unable to do so.

"You may kiss me if you like," she said.

He blushed and grinned as he slowly put his lips on hers, held them there for a moment, then pulled away. She grinned, her eyes full of the affection she had for this man who had saved her child, reunited her with him, and made her feel hope again for life in the future.

"I'm the luckiest man alive!"

She laughed with an abandon she not shown for many months, circled her arms around his neck, and kissed him true and long on the mouth. She wanted more but remembered her place and time. With her lips still on his she said, "We're both lucky." After an immobile moment, she picked up the roses and inhaled their fragrance. Then she took his arm and drew him along with her. As they strolled down the waterfront, they surveyed the new buildings rising all around them. Walking toward the Ferry Tower, she dropped her head back to look at the old timepiece at the top of the obelisk. "Look--the clock is running again!"

"I'd gotten used to seeing it stuck at a quarter past five." He said musingly, "April eighteen--nineteen and six."

"I'll never forget that day if I live to be a thousand."

"Comes again next week."

She shuddered and looked at the ground around her feet. "But a new year, thank heaven. That misery is behind us. I can't imagine ever seeing such horror again in our lives."

"God, I hope not. We've had more than anyone deserves."

She laid her head on his shoulder, as they walked silently under the clock tower. She looked up at the sky. High clouds were drifting over the city. She thought aloud, "Reminds me how insignificant we are, how something can drastically change our existence or wipe us out without warning. I never fully considered that before. I was taking everything for granted. Hope I never do such a foolish thing again."

Leo started to say something but merely nodded. They walked off, a couple of lovers on an afternoon promenade, oblivious of the world around them, indifferent to troubles. That is how peaceful they and the city had become since the dark days, how normal the activities of her people, how continuous life despite quaking Earth and raging fire.

Leo and Marianne left the clock behind them, turned away from the bay on Market Street, and walked arm-in-arm uptown. They stopped once and laughed about something he said in her ear, then, unaware of a mild temblor beneath their feet, together they jumped onto a trolley. It swayed slowly up Market, diminished, and blended into the bustle of the newborn city.

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Gold created San Francisco, but Earth brought it down, and Fire cleansed the remains. The greatest catastrophe to strike a large metropolitan area in modern times: the flames burned out many square miles in the heart of the city, people lost millions of dollars in property, and at least three thousand souls perished.

However, the city and the people survived. Even though the town was shaken off its foundation and seared to the ground, people came together, just as Leo and Marianne found refuge in each other. As the Browns and the Bradys established their new families on the wreckage of Marianne's tragic loss with the hope of Leo's dream, the people, as they had done many times in the past, reconstructed their new city on the ruins of the old. They had lost property and lives in this one of the greatest disasters they or anyone in the United States had ever known but they were indomitable. Though Earth moved beneath them, and Hell opened unto them, nothing could destroy their spirit.

A little more than a year after the Brown family buried Bobby McCarthy from the same sanctuary, Leo and Marianne wed in St. Mary's church with both families in attendance. Within another year they had a child together, a girl they named Angela. In the Western Addition, they rented a larger flat to accommodate the children, Leo's growing menagerie, and their permanent housekeeper and good friend, Ah Sung. The Browns and the Bradys became one big extended family. Life for all the people who had survived and suffered the cataclysm of 1906 never returned to the way it had been but carried on as life does despite tragedy and downfall. People went back to work, continued relationships, and calmly lived the days, weeks, months, and years beyond the great earthquake and fire. Three years later the citizens had completely rebuilt San Francisco. They had endured the dark terror to enjoy peaceful days again in their city by the sea.

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Surviving early life in Los Angeles, Jack Forge has been creating art since childhood. After college, he taught English for many years. His poems, stories, graphic art, and novels have been published on the internet; one novel as a paperback. Despite the storm and stress of the world, Jack lives for art, nature, and love.

Cover by Jack Forge.

Sample Jack's other writing and connect with him at  Smashwords.

