Into the Firestorm (3 page)

A
NNIE OF THE
N
ORTH
S
TAR

Two mornings later, Nick woke early. He shivered and poked his head out of the doorway. He was in a small alley in the Produce District. It was, he thought, the best place to be. He’d had better luck finding food in garbage cans here than anywhere else.

Nick reached into his pocket, feeling for his quarters. He’d gone so long without spending them, but it was getting harder. Ever since the meal Tommy had given him, his hunger had seemed more painful.

The day before, he’d managed to beg a few hunks of old bread from a bakery and scrounge some rotting fruit from a grocery store. But it wasn’t enough.

Sometimes he found himself hitting his stomach, trying to keep it from growling and pinching. The worst part was passing by the open doors of cafés and restaurants and breathing in the good smells of fish or baking bread. He tried not to think about how delicious a bowl of hot soup would taste.

Nick let go of the coins.
Whatever happens, I’m not going to spend them,
he told himself again. He wondered: could he starve in a city full of so many stores, bakeries, hotels, and restaurants? Food was everywhere. But he needed money. And to get money, he needed a job.

Nick rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He was running out of ideas. He’d already begged for work just about everywhere he could think of: grocery stores, a candy store, livery stables, and restaurants. He’d wandered the docks looking for work, too.

Since the day Bushy Brows had chased him into Chinatown, Nick had tried harder to keep a careful lookout. But he knew he couldn’t keep it up much longer. Sooner or later, Bushy Brows or one of his fellow officers would get him.

“I can’t give up. I have to get a job today.” Nick poked his head around a building and scanned the street. He straightened his shoulders and kept his fist in his pocket, closed tight around his quarters. “Today my luck will change. Today I’ll find work.”

Nick wandered the neighborhoods south of the Slot all morning. It didn’t seem to matter where he went or what he said. No one would hire him. Nick caught a glimpse of himself in a window and could see why: he was looking more like a straggly lost dog every day.

In the afternoon, Nick crossed Market Street and headed north up Montgomery, crisscrossing side streets. He went down a pretty cobblestone road called Jackson Street and into a little alley called Balance Street, so short it hardly seemed like a street at all. At the end of the block, he stopped in front of a tall building. “‘The Eiffel Tower Restaurant,’” Nick read.

Paris of the Pacific.
That’s what Miss Reedy said folks sometimes called San Francisco.

Nick remembered a picture of the real Eiffel Tower in Paris that Miss Reedy had once showed them. Now he recognized the shape of the famous tower on the sign before him. Nick sniffed. The air here seemed scented with spices and coffee. It might not be Paris, but it seemed as far away from the cotton fields as Nick had ever imagined he could be.

I’m really here,
Nick thought, forgetting for a moment his hunger and need for work. Suddenly he longed for Gran so hard it hurt. How amazed she would have been at all the tall buildings and smart-looking people and the boats tooting in the bay.

Nick spotted a lodging house, a butcher, a couple of grocery stores, and a wine company. On Jackson Street and Jones Alley was a large building called A. P. Hotaling and Co., which advertised “Old Kirk Whiskey.” Nick stopped in front of another store a few doors away, “Columbia Coffee & Spice Company.” That must be why he could smell those spicy scents.

These were stores he had never imagined, selling items he’d never tasted or seen. A well-dressed man passed by. Nick pictured himself as a businessman one day. Why, he might even have to go to Paris to buy wine or spices. He could see the real Eiffel Tower.

Nick was still daydreaming when he caught sight of it, nestled in a row of low buildings near the corner of Balance and Jackson streets. Nick walked over and pressed his nose against the large plate glass window. He brought his hands up to shade his eyes against the glare.

“Wow,” breathed Nick. “Look at that.”

Paper. This store was filled with paper. Nick could see stacks of large journals bound in dark, rich leather. A display of shiny new pens, laid out on forest green velvet, filled the window. Near the pens sat several gleaming glass inkwells, their delicate silver leaves and flowers shining like mirrors.

“Wow…,” Nick said again. He wondered if this was the store where Miss Reedy got her pens and inkwell when she’d come to the city.

Nick stared at the silver leaves. Something tugged at his memory. That spring when he and Gran had found some wild daisies in the field. They’d dug them up and planted them in an old tin can.

“Oh, I do love wild daisies,” Gran had said, her eyes sparkling. “Your mother and I used to pick them when she was your age. She liked to pluck off the petals, one by one. Well, I suppose most children do that. We’ll keep these ones nice right here in front. The sun will sparkle on the tin can like silver.”

Silver. Just like the silver leaves on the inkwell, the flowers in the old tin can seemed to promise something. But the flowers hadn’t lasted. The daisies had shriveled in the baking sun. The dirt in the can turned hard and cracked. One night, when Nick and Pa had straggled home late from the fields, Pa had reached down, seized the old can, and flung it away with all his might.

Nick stepped back to read the sign on the door:
PAT PATTERSON
,
STATIONER
.

Nick noticed something else. The store was closed and there was a handwritten note.

He read it aloud. “‘Out on delivery. Will return shortly. Please be patient and look at the sky or sing. The wait will be worth it!’”

Nick found himself grinning. He stood in front of the store for ten full minutes. Then he began to pace. A new idea had come into his head, and he turned it over this way and that, trying to find the courage to carry it out.

Nick walked to the corner of Jackson and Montgomery, then back again. He walked in the other direction, to Sansome Street, where he could see a large, official-looking building, with clerks and businessmen streaming in and out.

He crossed Sansome and headed back toward the store, up a narrow alleyway called Gold Street. Gold Street. Gold had been discovered years ago in California, he knew. This seemed to be a good sign. Maybe his luck would change.

Nick kept a careful watch for police officers. He didn’t want to get chased away by someone like Bushy Brows. No, not yet. Not until he tried out his crazy idea. Back on Jackson, Nick was disappointed to find that the stationer’s store was still closed. Where was Mr. Pat Patterson? Nick wondered.

A sandy-haired girl about eight years old came out of a store and passed close by, carrying a small packet. Then she turned, stopped in front of Nick, and planted her feet.

“Hullo. I saw you standing here a few minutes ago. And now you’re back. Do you live here? Are you moving into the rooming house on the corner there?” she demanded, pointing toward Montgomery Street. “That’s where my mama and I live.”

Nick shifted his feet and shook his head without speaking. Something about this girl made him feel off balance. It took him a minute to realize what it was: one of her eyes was a hazel brown, the other a pale gray-blue. She wore her hair in braids. Her plain blue dress was threadbare but clean.

“That’s too bad.” The girl with the strange eyes made no move to leave. “I’d like it if you did. It’s mostly grown-ups and old sailors in there now. At night the old man in the apartment next to ours coughs and spits.”

She demonstrated, making a loud, coughing sound. Then, expertly, she spat on the ground.

“My grandmother said girls shouldn’t spit,” Nick told her. “Why don’t you go home now?”

He wished she’d go away. He’d made up his mind to talk to the owner of the stationer’s store—this Mr. Patterson. And he had to go over in his head what to say. Nick didn’t want to take the chance of this girl ruining his plan with her chatter or awful spitting.

The girl didn’t seem to hear his question.

“If you did move in, we could play together. I’ve always wanted a big brother to talk to,” she said brightly. “Of course, you’d just be a friend. Because once you’re the oldest, you usually can’t get a big brother. My mother wishes I had a big sister, someone to show me how to be a lady. She says I talk a lot—too much for a girl.”

“Maybe she’s—” Nick began.

But the girl had only stopped to catch her breath. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters at all, so I have to talk to people I meet.” She bounced from one foot to the other, then leaned forward as if to tell him a secret. “Everything is going to change, though. Soon I will be a big sister.”

“Won’t your mother need that parcel you just bought?” Nick tried again. He could imagine why this girl’s mother sent her on errands.

“Oh, no. She’s taking a nap. She said very clearly, ‘Please don’t bother me for thirty minutes.’ And that was only about twenty minutes ago, I think,” the girl went on, hopping up and down again, first on one foot, then the other. “I have a lot of energy. I’m exactly eight now, and of course I never take naps. Even when I was little, I didn’t. But when a woman is about to have a baby, she has to take lots of naps. Did you know that?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t.” Nick glanced down the street. He wished the owner would come soon.

“I like talking to you. My name is Annie. Annie Sheridan,” she told him. Not only were her eyes different colors, Nick realized, but they bulged out a little, like a fish’s. Her face was so much eyes it was hard to notice anything else—except her chatter.

“That’s a nice name,” said Nick automatically. He wondered what was in her parcel. Could it be food? Maybe she would have a kind heart. He wondered if he should ask her for something to eat.

“My daddy is gone on a boat, but he’s coming back,” Annie went on, rocking from one foot to the other. She stuck her nose in the air and threw back her shoulders. “I’m in charge until then, especially when I’m not in school. I really am. I have to look after Mama. Do you believe me?”

“Sure, I believe you,” said Nick. “Where did your father go?”

“Out to sea somewhere—I don’t know for sure.” Annie waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the bay. “The sea is very large. It’s scary to think about a little boat on a big, big sea. Sometimes I lie awake at night and fly to the North Star so I can look down at my daddy’s boat and help him find his way.”

Despite himself, Nick couldn’t help grinning. Something about her persistence seemed familiar. “So, Annie of the North Star, does that work?”

“I won’t know, will I? Not until Daddy comes back,” she said a little crossly. “But I’m sure he will. He promised. He says it’s important not to give up believing in people. Sometimes believing is what makes things happen.”

People disappear all the time and don’t come back,
Nick wanted to tell her. But he didn’t. She seemed so certain.

Of course, considered Nick, she might be making it all up. It might just be a story she told herself at night. The girl’s father might not be at sea at all. It was more likely that he’d taken off, like Pa had, leaving Annie and her mother to fend for themselves in the city.

Annie frowned and looked at him. She pointed at the hole in his pant leg. “You talk funny. You look poor and dirty. I bet you don’t have many friends. I suppose I could be your friend, even if you don’t live in my rooming house. What’s your name?”

Nick was getting anxious. He wanted to be standing alone in front of the beautiful stationery store when the owner arrived. He had to get free of this persistent girl.

“I don’t need any friends. I just need a job,” he said quickly. It wasn’t hard to be mean; he’d gotten good at it at Lincoln. He hadn’t let anyone be friends with him then. He’d never admitted to being an orphan like the rest of them.

Nick took a breath. “Go home now, will you? You’re bothering me.”

Annie flashed him a look, her large, strange eyes wide with hurt. Then, shoulders slumping, she walked slowly down the street in the direction of the rooming house.

Looking after her, Nick was suddenly reminded of little Rebecca, picking cotton in the fields with her small shoulders bent against the pain.

He sighed and called out, “Hey, Annie. My name’s Nick. Good luck being a big sister.”

Annie turned sharply. She waved, her face lit with a big smile. Then she skipped toward home, hopping from one cobblestone to another.

This little girl really
was
like Rebecca. Nick reached into his pocket to touch one of his coins. He wondered where Rebecca was now. Probably still on Mr. Hank’s place as a migrant field hand or some other farm like it. After all, it was April again, planting season. Nick swallowed. Spring. His first spring without Gran.

“Well, I may be a road kid, but I’m not in the fields anymore, Gran,” Nick whispered. It was the first time since before he could remember when he wasn’t planting cotton seed. Planting first. Then came thinning the young seedlings and chopping to keep weeds away. And then in the fall came the harvest, the picking.