FIRE AND FOG (4 page)

"Dynamite!"

"They have to make a firebreak. They'll knock down an area broad
enough that the fire can't leap across, and then they'll set
backfires. Thus the fire will consume itself-or so the reasoning
goes." He ran his hand over his short, dark hair, a gesture of
impatience. "I hope to God they're right!"

My throat went all dry as I remembered the pathetic trickle of
water from the bathroom faucet. This situation was so hard to
comprehend! Every time one thought one understood it, it got worse.
I swallowed with considerable effort and said, "You mean the houses
on this side of Van Ness will either burn or be blown up. Including
this one."

"Yes. That is so."

"In that case," I stood and said resolutely, "I must do my best
with Mrs. O."

Michael also stood, and took a step toward me. "One more thing,
Fremont."

"Yes?"

"When we get Mrs. O'Leary settled, I want to teach you to drive
the Maxwell."

"Me? I mean, I? Drive? What a notion!"

"You'll find it simple. What's most important is that you have
the right temperament for the work. I want you to take over
transporting the physically injured and the infirm. I'm needed for
other things, and I would rather entrust my auto to you than to a
stranger."

"Oh. Well, in that case, I should be glad to learn." Yes, I
thought as I went down to wake Mrs. O'Leary, it would be the best
of a bad situation if I could feel I was doing something
useful.

Mrs. O'Leary would not leave her house. Nothing I or Michael
said could persuade her. I don't think she really listened; she
just sat on her couch with the photograph of her dead husband in
his police captain's uniform clutched to her breast, saying over
and over, "No police is gonna turn me out. Himself and his blessed
memory won't let that happen."

At last, with tears in my eyes, I said goodbye, embraced her,
and left her there. I came down the front steps dashing moisture
from my cheeks with the back of my hand. Michael was waiting in the
Maxwell with the motor running. There was an unfamiliar hot
harshness to the air; half the sky above was black and roiling, the
other half a high, clear blue. With a heavy sigh, I joined Michael
and we were off. After a few minutes I asked, "What will happen to
her?" "A tent city has been set up for the homeless in Golden Gate
Park. Someone will take her there, or she'll find her own way." He
took his eyes from the road and glanced at me. "Don't worry,
Fremont. This crisis is bringing out the best in people, as you'll
soon find out for yourself. Besides, Mrs. O'Leary has many friends.
She'll be fine."

"The homeless ..." I mused unhappily. "That's us now. We are the
homeless."

"Not precisely." Michael turned left. The auto began to climb
toward the heights of the Presidio. We passed a gaggle of refugees,
some in horse-drawn carts and some on foot, trundling their
possessions. Michael kept to the middle of the street, driving
steadily and calmly.

He was good in a crisis, as I had reason to know. I would do
well to emulate him. I sat up straighter and inquired, "How do you
mean, not precisely? One either has a home or has not, and as of
our leaving Vallejo Street just now, we are among the
have-nots."

"You will have a roof over your head. I've arranged for you to
stay in my room at the Presidio until you can find permanent
quarters to your liking."

"Oh? And where will you be?"

He drove through the gates. This time we didn't stop to show
identification; the guard recognized him and saluted, then motioned
us on. Michael said, "When we complete your driving lessons and
I've gone the rounds with you once, I'm leaving San Francisco,
Fremont."

"I can't believe you! How can you do that? I know you have the
most annoying habit of disappearing from time to time, but
now?"

"Shush! Kindly control your famous temper, or you will draw
attention to us. In a few moments, when we're clear of all the
buildings, I'll explain; and I'm quite sure I'll tell you more than
I should. Does that satisfy you?" Michael arched one dark eyebrow
and looked briefly at me.

By way of reply, I glared at him. I was still worried about Mrs.
O'Leary, stirred up in general, and in no mood to be mollified.

He drove to a vast open field that he said was the rifle range,
and a good place for me to learn the rudiments of automobile
operation. He added, "I can talk here without being overheard," and
switched off the motor. The auto gave a little shake and a kind of
snort before subsiding, reminding me of the absent horse.

I turned in the seat toward Michael and raised my own eyebrows
inquiringly.

"I have no choice. I must go," he said softly, reaching around
the steering wheel and taking my hand in the most tender gesture I
had yet known from him.

In spite of myself, I felt somewhat mollified; still, I snatched
my hand away. Bitterly I said, "Spying again."

"No. Not this time. You recall that I have a boat."

I nodded.

"I'm sailing down the coast to Monterey, taking certain, ah,
documents with me for safekeeping in the Presidio there."

"It seems there are Presidios all over the place, though I never
in my life heard the word before coming to California."

"The word comes from our state's Spanish heritage," said Michael
patiently. He reached for my hand again, and this time I let him
keep it. "I don't know how long I will have to stay there. I want
you to promise me, Fremont, that you'll be careful. Don't take any
unnecessary risks. Don't let your inquisitive nature get you into
any kind of trouble."

His eyes were on me with a kind of intensity that made me both
glad and uncomfortable. No longer a novice in matters of the heart,
I recognized that feeling. I did not know whether to welcome it or
not, but a thought surfaced and provided a digression. "That
reminds me. Have you heard anything of Meiling and the other
members of her household? Did they survive the earthquake?"

He shook his head. "I was kept busy with other things; there was
no time to inquire. I'm sorry. But don't change the subject,
Fremont. I asked you for a promise."

"I promise that I will take good care of your auto," I said,
raising my chin slightly. "I'm sure that is your principal concern.
Now, shall we get on with the driving lessons?"

Nightfall. Knowing that I was too exhausted either to eat or to
rest, I climbed the Presidio's highest hill. I found a place apart
from the others who had come for much the same reason as I. The
strait of the Golden Gate lay below me, and directly across rose
the hills of Marin, spring-green, untouched by the voracious fire
that was destroying my beloved city. I turned my back on all that
burning and watched the fog roll in from the open sea. Always fog
has the power to mesmerize me; I swayed a little on my feet as I
let the fog empty my mind.

It moves like an immense creature of great bulk but no weight, a
creature that can miraculously conform its shape to fill any space.
A silent creature that brooks no argument but inexorably,
insidiously, blots out, covers up . . . everything. As the fog
moved I turned with it, entranced, following its progress. The
Golden Gate disappeared, and Sausalito, and Tiburon; Angel Island,
Alcatraz, Yerba Buena; North Beach, Telegraph Hill, the Wharf and
the blessedly still standing Ferry Building. Then the creature grew
pale gray tongues that lapped into the valleys between the burning
hills.

It poured into the fire-blackened saddle between Nob and Russian
Hills, then slowly, slowly crept up and over their peaks to rush
down their still burning sides. At the same time I felt moisture in
my hair and on my cheeks, and I understood: the fog had crept up my
hill too. Soon it would cover the Presidio. I should go down, to
that unfamiliar room that was now the only home I had. But I
lingered.

How beautiful it was, yet hauntingly, seductively evil: the fire
glowing through the fog.

3.

Ashes, Ashes. All Fall Down

For three days and part of a fourth the fire burned; then
Saturday night the rain came and at last we could believe it was
over. I scarcely remembered a time when I did not know how to drive
an auto, or when my eyes did not hurt from driving through smoke.
Or when it was possible to get food without standing in line for
it. Or when my soul did not ache even more than my body.

Saturday night after dark, I prowled through the mess tent that
had been set up for refugees on the Presidio grounds, looking for a
discarded newspaper. Three daily papers, the
Chronicle,
the
Examiner,
and the
Call,
were using presses outside
the city; the day after the earthquake they had all collaborated to
produce one triune issue that was already a collector's item. I had
not seen it or any of the issues they had published separately
since. I'd had no time for anything so ordinary-indeed, anything
"ordinary" now seemed luxurious to me. I had been driving for the
Red Cross and supposed I would continue to do so for an indefinite
time, as they were coordinating relief efforts all over the city.
Perhaps now that the fires were out we might settle into some sort
of routine. At the very least my eyes would return to normal. That
was progress, and any progress was welcome.

"Can I help you? Have you lost something?"

I jumped; I had thought myself alone in the huge tent. "No," I
said, "thank you."

"I didn't mean to startle you." He was a soldier, and a handsome
one at that. Young, with a face like a statue from antiquity.

"That is quite all right. I thought I might find a newspaper to
take back to my room, that's all."

"I'll help you look."

"That really is not necessary. I'm sure you have better things
to do." I was not in the mood for company, even the company of
someone who looked like a Greek god in U. S. Army uniform.

He grinned, and suddenly became wholly American. "I'm on grounds
patrol. I'll just patrol in here for a while."

He really was not much help, as he stayed close enough to be my
shadow-except, of course, that the dark did not offer much
possibility of shadows. I wished I had brought a lantern. We
patrolled up and down the rows of boards that, set upon wooden
"horses," made tables for the mess. His nearness would have made me
uncomfortable except that I was too tired for even that much
feeling.

"Aha," I said, snatching at a whitish rectangle on the seat of a
folding chair. "I've found one. Thank you for your company. Good
evening." I bustled past him.

"I'll escort you to your room."

I snapped open my umbrella with some impatience. There seemed no
way to get rid of him.

"I've seen you around," he said, walking now alongside me. He
was getting wet, which did not bother him at all. "Allow me to
introduce myself: Albright, James, Private First Class. Everybody
calls me Jim."

"How do you do." I deliberately didn't offer my own name, but it
did no good.

"May I ask your name?"

"Fremont Jones," I said grudgingly, striding as rapidly as I
could manage along the path to the building that housed Michael's
room. I could not think of it as
my
room.

"Fremont?"

"Yes."

"Odd name for such a pretty woman."

He was fishing for the explanation I usually gave when
questioned, but I wanted only my solitude and so I did not produce
it. In the doorway to the building I let down my umbrella, nodded
curtly, and said, "Good night, Private Albright."

"If you don't mind my asking, how is it that you're in here"-he
gestured to the building-"instead of out there with all the
others?"

He meant the refugees, who were camped on the grounds of the
Presidio, though in fewer numbers than in Golden Gate Park. "The
room belongs to a friend, who arranged it for me." Perhaps, I
thought quickly, invoking Michael's name might discourage this too
persistent soldier. "His name is Michael Archer. You may know
him."

"He's an officer?" The classic face, rain-dappled, creased in
thought.

"Not exactly."

"Well, I can't say that I do, but never mind. Good night, Miss
Jones." He saluted smartly and turned on his heel.

"Good night," I said, and thought no more of James Albright.

It was a great relief to get out of my clothes and into my
favorite old bathrobe, a disreputable-looking thing that had once
been viridian but through many washings had faded to the no-color
of Spanish moss. I should have thrown it out long ago but could not
bring myself to do so; I always sought its familiar softness
whenever I was sick or in some other way discomfited. I turned up
the wick on the kerosene lantern, wondering how long it would be
until the electricity was restored; then plumped up the pillows
against the headboard of the bed. With a long sigh of relief, I
settled against them and picked up the newspaper. It was the
Call.
I opened it but did not read.

For a few moments I simply savored the delicious comfort of the
pillows, the stillness of the night, and my privacy in the room. I
listened to the rain pattering softly outside the window, soothing
as music. A great feeling of peace stole over me, and I was
immensely grateful for it. The newspaper fell from my hand; my
eyelids fluttered down. Sometime later I awoke for long enough to
extinguish the lamp, and then I slept again, dreamlessly and
long.

Thus it was the next morning, Sunday, before I got to the
newspaper. I read yesterday's news while waiting in line for
breakfast. In sensationally tall letters the headline proclaimed,
numbers of homeless climb! The subhead said "Total Expected to
Exceed 250,000!"
Good heavens,
I thought. Even though I had
been among them daily, I had not realized the numbers were so
great. I read rapidly, finding that not much else was of any
surprise to me, as I had been, hour by hour, in the thick of it.
All the news was of disaster, or of the politics of disaster. Mayor
Schmitz, by all accounts, was performing gloriously-the newspapers
had not been so kind to him pre-earthquake. Being so tall and
handsomely bearded, he did cut a striking figure in the several
photographs here.