FIRE AND FOG (8 page)

Botheration! Here I was with an opportunity to rest for the
first time in days, and I could not do it. I swung my feet to the
floor and sat up, rubbing my face with my hands.

What was that? The sound of a door opening? And had it come from
the front or the back of the house? In a trice I was up and
striding across the room. I had not locked the front door, nor had
it been locked when Alice and I arrived-we'd walked right in. I
hadn't thought a thing about it at the time, but now that seemed
foolish.

"Hello?" I called out. In a moment I would most likely find
myself face to face with the unknown husband. The disappearing cad.
But there was no one in the hall.

The kitchen, then, the back door. I headed in that direction,
though I had not been in the back of the house before. Just as I
entered the kitchen, I thought I saw the back door close. It was
half window, covered by one of those sheer curtains caught on a rod
both above and below; through this curtain a vague shadow fell. In
an instant it was gone.

My heart began to beat quite fast as I ran across the kitchen,
skirting a table and knocking over a chair in my haste.
An
intruder,
I thought, wrenching the back door open; the husband
would have stayed.

Whoever it had been, if anyone at all, was gone. The house had a
small backyard that, surprisingly, was overgrown with weeds. I
charged down the steps, tripped on the hem of my skirt, and almost
fell, thus losing precious time. When I reached the corner of the
house and could see

to the street, there was nothing to be seen except a couple of
innocent-looking pedestrians. This chase was a waste of time.
Nevertheless, I circled the house and looked among the bushes along
its foundation before returning inside.

There had been some looting since the earthquake, but not as
much as one might have expected. Anyhow it was careless of Alice,
and myself, in the extreme to leave the house unlocked. I must find
the keys.

I looked in the butler's pantry: no convenient row of keys on
hooks, as we had in the butler's pantry at my father's house. I
already knew they were not on the inside of their locks, where Mrs.
O'Leary so often left her keys. Where, then? I should have to
snoop-a prospect I did not find entirely distasteful.

Regrettably, I did not get to use any of my Holmesian
techniques, for the keys were in an obvious place. Near the front
door stood an extravagantly ugly Victorian thing, one of those
constructions of dull, blackish wood that have been carved in
embellishment to the point of torture. This one had an oval mirror
in the center, pegs for hanging coats on both sides of the mirror,
multiple drawers beneath, and stuck on either side of the drawers,
a couple of umbrella receptacles. The keys were in the top
right-hand drawer of this monstrosity. Two full sets.

Hmm,
I thought, taking one set and by the process of
elimination finding the key that locked the front door. Then I went
to the back and repeated the process, pocketing the keys when I was
through. On my way back to the parlor, I went into every room and
made sure the windows were locked: kitchen, pantry, dining room, a
small and feminine-looking study opposite it, and finally the two
parlors. Everything was locked now, but something was not right. I
stood in the family parlor tapping my foot, trying to figure out
what it was. Something about keys . . .

Two sets of keys. Had Alice left the house without hers, without
a purse, without a coat? I had assumed she lost those items, but
here were two complete sets of keys. That was odd. The missing
husband: had he also left without his keys? Why would they, either
of them, do such a thing?

5.

The Man Who Wasn't There

The telegram was from my father, in response to the one I'd sent
him as soon as I was able. I almost did not get it because it was
addressed to Caroline F. Jones c/o Presidio, San Francisco.
Considering the contents, I could have done without it:

my dear Caroline stop glad you are safe stop imperative you quit
your foolishness and come home stop will wire money if needed stop
your loving father.

Stop indeed-stop telling me what to do! Seething, I set the
telegram aside while I changed my clothes. Then I charged out of my
room in a huff, straight into the path of Private Albright.

"Whoa, there!" he said, pulling himself up short to avoid
colliding with me.

I frowned; he smiled, standing squarely in my way. I said, "I
beg your pardon, Private Albright, but I am in something of a
hurry."

"I can see that, Miss Jones. I'll walk along with you, if you
don't mind, because I was coming to your room anyhow."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, to speak to you. I, er, that is . . . maybe first I
should ask: is anything wrong?"

At least he was perceptive, I granted him that. "Not really. It
is only that I unexpectedly have to send a reply to a telegram, on
top of all the other things I have to do this morning. There will
be a line at the telegraph office-there are lines everywhere for
everything these days, which is really quite annoying. It will make
me late for the Red Cross and I was late yesterday, so Nurse
Bartlett will fuss at me, which I could easily live without." I
stalked across the grass, taking the shortest way to the garages;
it was foggy and the grass was all wet and so would be the hem of
my skirt, but I could not have cared less.

"You have a temper," the private observed.

I glanced at him and caught his infectious grin. In spite of
myself, the corners of my mouth twitched. "My friend Michael Archer
often says the same. However, my temper spends itself quickly. What
did you want to speak to me about, Private Albright?"

"I, er . . ." To my surprise he blushed, but pressed on, "I'm
off duty tonight. And I heard the Palace Theatre's open. They have
a variety show, you know, singing and dancing and telling jokes and
all. Some of the fellows have been and said it was good, so I
thought, that is, I was hoping . . . maybe you would like to go
with me?"

I halted. "A variety show?"

He nodded. His skin had resumed its usual fairness. He was
really an exceptionally good-looking young man. Not that looks mean
anything, but they do influence one just a tad.

"I think I would enjoy that, especially the jokes provided they
are not too risque."

"Oh, the Palace doesn't do bawdy shows. At least, I don't think
they do. Not too bawdy. I wouldn't ask you to see something like
that. You're not that kind of woman, anyone can tell."

"I am relieved to hear it," I said dryly. "I'd be delighted to
go with you, Private Albright. What time?"

"Jim, please? Seven-thirty?"

"Seven-thirty,
Jim.
Now, I really must be going."

"I'll come to your room for you. See you then, Fremont."

I waved and he saluted, and I reached the garages in
considerably better spirits than when I started out.

Jim Albright had been rather a pest over the past couple of
days, but on this occasion his intervention into my fit of pique
may have been fortuitous, I reflected as I drove away from the
Presidio. My father's telegram was burning a hole in my pocket,
especially the word "foolishness"-it smacked of Augusta. On his
own, Father might apply certain unfavorable adjectives to my
various activities, but "foolishness" was not one of them. If
Albright-Jim-had not intervened, no doubt I would have sent Father
a hotheaded reply. Along the lines of:

father stop no intention of returning to boston stop my work is
not foolishness stop keep your money stop you will need it for
augusta stop my name is fremont stop i no longer answer to
caroline.

Yes! A telegram like that would certainly tell him what was
what.

It would also hurt him, and I loved my father. I even understood
why he'd married Augusta. He was lonely after my mother died, and
Augusta was a perfectly proper, presentable, available woman of the
right age. Also narrow-minded and not overly bright, which
apparently did not bother him as much as it did me. At any rate, I
could not send an angry communication. I couldn't hurt Father any
more than I already had by leaving, and besides, I might still find
it necessary to return to Boston.

I sighed, and pulled the auto over to the side of the street. I
had to decide where I was going, to the telegraph office or to the
aid station in Golden Gate Park. No doubt some of my ill temper was
due to the fact that I'd sat up all night in order to wake Alice
every two hours-thank goodness that was over! Except for a mark on
her forehead that looked like a relief map of Africa in shades of
purple, Alice was fine, certainly better rested than I. I had
returned to my room at the Presidio this morning only to change
clothes, and had found the telegram pushed under the door with a
handwritten inquiry attached:
Is this for you? If not, return to
the Adjutant.
The telegram was dated the twenty-first, which
was Saturday, and now it was Monday. Father would be anxious for a
reply.

I was caught in a quandary. Driving Michael's Maxwell for the
Red Cross gave me the illusion of both freedom and employment.
Living in Michael's room gave me the illusion of security. I
blinked at a sudden ache behind my eyes, or perhaps the ache was in
my heart, for the reality was quite different from the illusion.
All I really had was some clothes and a typewriter and, when they
finally got around to opening the banks again, a little money. Very
little. But the tents in Golden Gate Park were free, and for the
present there was a good bit of free food about; if I were very
careful with my money, I might find some small hole in the wall
that would do for a new office. . . .

I drove to the telegraph office and sent my message:

dear father stop do not worry am fine for now stop am needed
here stop will write soon stop love fremont.

The telegram took the last of my pocket money.

Nurse Bartlett started to fuss at me for being late but I
interrupted her. "I need your help, if you would be so kind."

"Bless you, dear, after all you've done, of course I will.
What's the problem?"

"I'd be grateful if you could find me a tent space."

"I thought you had a place to live?"

"I do, but it isn't really mine. The Maxwell isn't mine,
either-but you know that. Both my room and the auto belong to
Michael Archer."

"I remember him." Bartlett nodded her wrinkled head. "Drove for
us that first awful day and night-seems years ago, doesn't it?-then
turned the job over to you. Good worker. What happened to him?"

"He had to go to Monterey, on business."

"Coming back, is he, and wants his room?"

"No, I haven't heard from him. This is rather hard to explain,
Mrs. Bartlett. I don't belong at the Presidio, and I'm not
comfortable there."

She snorted. "You wouldn't be too comfortable in a tent, either!
I know, I'm in one myself."

"I don't mean physical comfort, what I mean is that I want to
get my own life going again. Not that I know exactly how I'm going
to do that. But-"

"I understand. We all feel that way. Don't you have family you
could go to?"

Not wanting to explain about Father and all that, I merely shook
my head.

"Well, for heaven's sake! I wouldn't have dreamed-"

"Mrs. Bartlett, I thought if I had a space in a tent here, I
would at least feel that I had my own place to live. I'll continue
to drive for you as long as you need me, but when I can get my
money from the bank I should try to start up my business
again."

She put a bony arm around my shoulders and her head close to
mine. "You know, we make assumptions about people without realizing
it, and I just assumed you were a well-off young woman with more
common sense than most, helping us out until you could go back to
your life of social activities and little luncheons and nights at
the opera and so forth."

I smiled; it was a good description of the kind of life I'd run
away from.

"But I see I was wrong." Bartlett gave my shoulder a squeeze and
stepped back. "You just leave it to me. Now, for this morning, I've
got a list of places said they'd donate some food. I want you to go
around and pick it up, and while you're gone I'll see what I can do
about a tent for you. People are moving out already, going to
relatives or friends across the Bay, or south down the Peninsula,
so maybe I can wangle you a tent of your own. Helpful as you've
been, you deserve it."

"Thank you!"

"Now let's see, where did I put that list? . . . Ah!"

She found it and handed it to me. I gave her my mock salute and
set off.

"Wait, Fremont. I forgot to ask: how is your friend this
morning?"

"Alice? She's fine, physically, but when I left her this morning
she still seemed a little confused. I said I'd check on her
later."

"Um-hmmm." Bartlett bit her bottom lip, as if to prevent herself
from saying anything more.

"Alice, you really must take hold of yourself," I said, firmly
but
I hoped not critically. "You are not ill, but you will
make yourself ill if you don't get out of bed and get dressed. It's
past lunchtime, and I'll wager you haven't even eaten breakfast.
Have you?"

"I don't want to eat." She pouted, blinking those violet
eyes.

"You have to. Disasters happen, but life goes on." A regrettable
cliche, but true. I was not without compassion, but in the days
since the quake I had seen many who were much worse off than Alice,
and who handled themselves far better. The young woman who had
brought me poems to type had seemed shy and sweet; who would have
thought this languishing, petulant female could be the same
person?

"My husband was my life," she said, tears welling, "and he is
gone."

"Nonsense. Your life is your own, you don't give it away just
because you are married."