Paperquake (28 page)

 

She felt weak and shaky on the long trip home. The cable cars were not running and so they had to walk all the way down the hill to the ferry building. It took ages. Lily suggested staying overnight at the Chance Street shop—or at Sam's house—but Greg was determined to get his family and Beth home to Berkeley. The ferries were running, but not on their usual schedule, and they were crowded. Violet stood in a crowd of people, all chattering wildly about where they'd been during the quake and speculating about damages to property. She pressed herself against the railing on the upper deck and stared across the choppy water at the Golden Gate Bridge, letting the din of the crowd wash over her. She remembered the shadow children, how they'd waved and smiled and then driven off in a car with their parents.

Were they the children Verity had seen in her visions? Would they have been among those killed on the bridge during the quake had Violet and Laela and Verity not tried to save them? No way to know, but with the wind on her face and the thrum of the ferry's engines sending a comforting throb through her body, Violet felt sure she would not see them again. The shadow children, part of the earth as much as everything else, had gone. Whoever they were, they were safe now.

All the passengers cheered when the ferry finally docked at Jack London Square. The Jackstones and Beth cheered when they saw the Jackstones' van parked where they'd left it, undamaged.

Even the normally short drive from Oakland to Berkeley took much longer than usual because the roads were clogged with cars and many streets were filled with broken branches and roof tiles. Some cars had pulled over to the side and seemed to be abandoned. Violet wondered whether they had broken down in the quake, or whether their occupants had simply been unable to drive on the blocked roads. People were in the streets, pulling debris out of the way so cars could pass. At one large intersection, a traffic light had crashed down onto a fire hydrant and traffic was being routed around the mess. Their van crawled along, taking detour after detour around fallen brick chimneys, signs, and trees.

They dropped Beth off at her apartment by the freeway and stayed to talk to Beth's mother and brother, Tom. An outside staircase on the side of their building had crumbled during the quake. "I saw it!" Tom yelled excitedly. "I was just coming home from a walk with the dog, and I saw it happen!" Beth's old schnauzer, Romps, panted at his side.

Finally they were home. Many of their neighbors stood outside in the street as they drove up, checking that all the street's residents were accounted for and that no one had been hurt.

"Glad to see you," said Mr. Green as they climbed out of the van. "Wasn't sure you'd be able to make it home. Hear some of the roads are blocked." He was bent over, collecting trash that had tumbled out of his garbage cans during the quake.

"We took the ferry," Lily told the old man. "Lucky for us it was running. Otherwise we'd have had to spend the night in our San Francisco shop—and that's a mess. I'm afraid to look at the house."

Jasmine started helping to gather Utter from the bushes and sidewalk. She stuffed it into Mr. Green's garbage can.

"All my dishes!" moaned Mrs. Carruthers from next door. "They flew right out of the cupboards. Our wedding china!"

"I never thought I'd be glad to have those childproof locks on my cupboards," Mrs. Rabinski said with a satisfied nod. "But my daughter-in-law is a stickler for safety where her kiddies are concerned and wouldn't let them stay overnight at my house unless I locked the cupboards. Glad I did now. All
my
china stayed put!"

"Lucky for you," sniffed Mrs. Carruthers. "Of course, when I'm old enough to have grandchildren, maybe I'll have locks on my cupboards, too—"

"I was down at the grocery store," old Dr. Edmunds from across the street said quickly. "We had to duck and cover our heads. I was in the cereal aisle, thank goodness. At least those boxes aren't heavy. My wife was by the soup. One of the cans landed right on her foot."

"Yes, and others were flying right past my eyes!" Frail Mrs. Edmunds took up the tale in her quavery voice. "Then we came home—to this." She pointed at the white picket fence that had bordered her yard but now lay bent and splintered across the sidewalk. "What about you girls? Were you frightened?"

"'Course they were frightened, who wouldn't be?" said Mrs. Carruthers.

"We were
terrified
," agreed Rose. "The shaking seemed to go on for the
longest
time."

"We were outside when it happened—in the backyard," said Jasmine, "because Vi had warned us—"

"Let's go inside," Violet interrupted hastily.

"
Warned
you?" echoed Mr. Green.

"Now how could she know—," began Dr. Edmunds.

"And speaking of warnings, did you hear on the news about the bomb threat?" Mrs. Rabinski interrupted. "I heard it on the TV. The Golden Gate Bridge was shut down just an hour before the quake hit. No one was on it at the time—and lucky thing, too, since a massive cable came plonking down. Destroyed a whole stretch of the road."

"Similar to what happened with the Bay Bridge back in 1989," said Greg.

"Think how bad it would have been if cars had been on the bridge today as usual," said Dr. Edmunds, and he shook his head. "We don't usually have anything to thank bombers for, but in this case, I bet a lot of people are grateful."

"It wasn't even really a bomb, I don't think," said Lily. "Just a bomb threat."

"Well, whoever called it in is a hero," maintained the old doctor. "That's what I say."

Violet climbed the steps to the porch without another word. She walked quietly through the rooms of her house, noting the damage. At first glance it looked as if vandals had trashed the place. But on closer inspection it was clear that there was no major damage. Several plants had tipped off shelves and lay in piles of black dirt on the carpets. Three of the stools at the kitchen counter lay on the floor. Books had been flung from the shelves and skittered across the rooms. In the living room there was a large wet patch on the floor. Violet walked over to it, perplexed, then realized water must have sloshed out of the fish tank. There were no fish on the carpet, though, and Violet was glad to see the tiny, brightly hued tropical fish swimming rapidly in circles in the several inches of water that were left.

"Poor little things," she murmured. "We'll fill your tank up again soon."

She went upstairs, clutching the ledger. A flick of the wall switch in the hallway linen closet revealed the electricity was out, but Violet climbed the ladder to her attic bedroom. The late afternoon light coming through the windows was dim, but she could see her room had been untouched by the quake, except for the contents of her desktop, which now lay scattered on the floor. Nothing else had been disturbed. She picked up Mr. Koch's books, then threw herself across the bed, quite overcome by the events of the day.
Death warmed over,
she thought grimly, closing her eyes.

But she had not died in the quake. Nor had the people who would have been on the Golden Gate Bridge. Eyes closed, she heaved a great sigh of relief and exhaustion.

She might have slept for a few minutes because she didn't hear her sisters ascend the ladder. But her eyes flew open with a start when Rose's voice rasped at her ear.

"Okay, Baby, let's see it."

"Don't call me Baby." Violet propped herself up on one elbow. "See what?"

"The ledger. Mom said you'd found one."

"Yes, I did." Her voice sounded smug.

"Weren't you going to tell us?" asked Jasmine. "I thought we were all in this together!"

"We are. I just didn't have a chance." Violet glanced over at the desk where she had laid the ledger. "I haven't even read it yet."

"Let's do it now," demanded Rose.

And so Violet fetched the book off the desk and opened it, turning past the pages of carefully recorded columns to the now-familiar elegant handwriting. She read it to them aloud:

 

"
February 26, 1906

"
Dear Diary,

"
I write at night when Verity is asleep. It is the only time I can snatch for my own. During the days I am kept busy from dawn till dark, coping with Verity and also with
the terrible twins, Rachel and Jane. As if that weren't enough to do, I
am
pressed to help out in the shop in Verity's place. I never supposed when I applied for this position at Hal's behest that I should become a workhorse. And yet I do it for my dear Hal. At least I get to savor his letters when he writes to Verity, and to imagine they are written to me. And I have the pleasure of answering them as well, though of course only
as
Verity dictates.

"
I admit, dear Diary, that it grows increasingly difficult not to show my envy as we huddle like two schoolgirls over the letters, giggling over what she would like to write and what is
seemly.
It is indeed hard to hear her whisper of longing to cover his face with kisses—the very same longing I have myself.

"
Hal writes to her once a week and slips me the letters on my Sunday afternoons off. I meet him for tea and try to soak up enough of the happiness his presence brings me to last me until I next see him. Then I take his letter back to Chance Street, to his own beloved Verity. I bide my time until the Stowe family is at the dinner table and I am taking my meal with Verity alone. I sleep in her room now, on a pallet on the floor near her bed■ Although she tries to be strong during the day, at night she often awakens with sweats and pains and needs my attentions. She is so weak I must help her to turn over in bed. Really, I should not begrudge her the happiness her love for Hal gives her. She is very ill, I fear.

"
Hal's letters must now be kept secret as indeed must the whole romance between them because Mr. Stowe has expressly forbidden any contact between his ailing eldest daughter and 'that upstart reporter.' He says he fears the excitement Hal engenders in her will harm her health.

"
But in the evenings after Verity has read Hal's letter and dictated her reply, she entrusts both letters to me. My
instructions are clear: Her letters to him must be hidden in my pocket and slipped to Hal when I next meet him. And his letters to her must be burned to ashes.

"
I have a confession to make, dear Diary. And it pains me that I cannot do the honorable thing and follow Verity's orders. But because the letters are written by my own Hal—because his long lingers held the pen and his warm hand smoothed the page—I can never destroy them. I hide them instead deep in the crack in the wall by the window or under the shelf lining in the sales counter. They are perfect hiding places. No one will ever find them there. I hide my own writing there as well—and in several other spots around the house when I am writing while I should be at work and am caught short by someone's approach.

"
I will close now as morning comes all too swiftly.
"

 

Violet looked up from the page. "I wouldn't like having Laela's job."

"Me, neither," said Rose. "It's horrible having to take care of sick people. You're always worrying they're going to die, and the whole household revolves around them, and—"

"Rosy," said Jasmine in a chiding tone, and Rose shut her mouth.

Violet regarded them both for a long moment, then read the next entry in a firm voice:

 

"
March 2, 1906

"
Dear Diary,

"
I am so tired. I had no idea the job would be this demanding. After such a long day of work, there's hardly any time to write. But I find these pages to be the only
place anymore where I can tell the truth about how I feel. Good thing Mr. Stowe has left so many ledgers in the shop with empty pages at the back. I have been using these pages for my diary, and tearing them out when I remember to, to hide away with Hal's letters.

"
My back aches from carrying bolts of new fabric—who would think that several loads of woolen cloth could be so heavy?—from the shop up to the attic for storage. No more Winter Hats, now we shall make only Spring Hats. I am hoping the lightweight fabric will be easier for me to lug around. You'd never know from how I spend my days that I am the hired companion for Verity. I pictured myself sitting by her bedside reading to her or chatting; I even thought we might become friends. After all, we have one very important someone in common, though she does not suspect my deepest feelings of love. I have been very discreet, as Hal wishes me to be. Verity thinks only that
we
are casual acquaintances. But I didn't bargain on having to work in the shop as well as playing nursemaid, and, really, the sisters, Jane and Rachel, are hopeless. At twelve years old they could help in the shop themselves, I feel. But they come home from school and run around and get in everyone's way, making noise and disturbing Verity's rest. They never go near Poor Baby, for they're afraid of contagion, though the doctor feels quite certain that the wasting disease is in her blood and compounded by her weak heart—and not anything at all in the air we breathe around her. She is really much sicker than I thought at first, and I have tried to tell Hal, but he doesn't want to believe me. I fear he thinks I am falling for the family's version of things, and who knows, maybe I am. Maybe it's just my wishful thinking that would keep him and Venty apart if I could!
"

 

"Isn't that too bad," said Violet. "Verity died so young. Hal must have been miserable."

"But not for too long, with Laela to help him get on with his life." Jasmine drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. "It's a good thing Verity wrote to Hal telling him to marry Laela, otherwise he might never have married anyone and would have
stayed
miserable."