Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (46 page)
Wild, demented laughter cleared his head. Six men in National Guard uniforms lurched out of the shadows. They began bayonetting the rats, spearing two or three of them through their bellies with a single thrust. Alisdair slid behind the remains of a wall and watched. All of the men had gunny sacks. Once the quicker rats had dispersed, the guardsmen entered buildings, throwing out bronzes, brasses. Cramming their sacks and pockets with jewelry.
Alisdair pressed himself closer to the wall. He doubted his pass would do him any good if he were caught here, by these men. Across the brickface, someone had scrawled: “I hate the nigger cause he’s a citizen, and I hate the yellow dog because he won’t be one.” Ugliness was here, too. In America. In the words. In these men’s actions. The words increased his panic. It was all he could do to keep his legs from running. California Street. If he could reach California Street. The laughter came closer. He left the protection of the ruin, and began walking.
“Halt!”
He stopped, turned slowly. Two soldiers, their sacks dropped at their sides, their rifles pointed, faced him. “What are you doing here?” one of them demanded.
“I — have safe passage,” he said, then reached inside his vest pocket. His fingers had barely touched the paper before the shot. He looked down below the second button of his vest and saw a gaping hole. He continued to pull the pass from his pocket. It was out before his knees buckled and the cobblestone street rose up to meet his face.
He was aware of overwhelming pain, so intense it distorted the gathering voices around him.
“Looter, sir.”
“Not through the middle, you damn fool. Shoot them in the back. Shows they’ve been running away!”
Alisdair felt his whole body shake from the force of the second shot. But after it, there was no pain at all.
“Let’s go. The fire’s reaching Chinatown. The firemen are coming.”
The footsteps faded. Alisdair was alone. Fire. Rats. He didn’t want either one gnawing at him, even if he couldn’t feel it. The pass fluttered between his fingers, white splattered with crimson blood. A large hand attached to a large man in a hospital orderly uniform, took it.
“Hey Cal!” he shouted, “What does this say?”
Another orderly, one who carried the left side of his body strangely, stood beside the first.
“‘Safe passage …’ A pass! Signed by Mayor Schmitz himself. You’ve found a treasure, brother mine!”
“Here. I’ll trade you for the long knife.”
“Gather up your trinkets — we don’t have to sneak about any longer. This is our passport to the richer realms of the city!”
Alisdair watched them go, sad that he couldn’t hold on to the paper, sad that the men wouldn’t be moving him away from the rats, the fire, even if he was dying. Another explosion lit up the midnight sky. He closed his eyes against the force of it. When he opened them again, the streets of Chinatown were alive again, more bright and beautiful than he’d ever seen them. People came out of their homes, stores. The red bull rose, glorious and strong and with laughing children on his back. No one was afraid as the bull romped among the vendors. The people’s faces radiated joy, the joy Alisdair had only seen in quick flashes during parades and street fairs. The joy he’d been too much of a shy Scotsman to ever court. The crib girl, the one he’d taken a photograph of before she’d fallen to her death, now approached him, glittering in her beauty. She knelt down, lifted his head into her lap, and put something in his mouth. He closed his eyes in delight. It was Annie Smithers’ peach pie.
Matthew Hart felt someone shake his left shoulder. He squinted into the darkness, saw a child standing beside the bed.
“Possum?” he whispered. “You need something, darlin’?” He propped himself on one elbow, squinting. The child pushed him down again.
“Matthew,” he said, the impatience in his voice and coldness in his hands both familiar. “It’s me.”
“Leland?”
Someone stepped out of the shadows behind the child and put a hand on his shoulder. Matthew looked up, past the gaping red hole in the man’s middle.
“Alisdair. Jesus, what did they do to you?”
“It doesn’t matter now, Matty.” He smiled. “But I’m wanting
you to find my photographic film. Give it to Sidney.”
you to find my photographic film. Give it to Sidney.”
“Where is it?”
“Lafayette Square. You’ll pass there tomorrow.”
“I will?”
“On your way to the park,” the child said.
“What park?”
“Golden Gate. Tomorrow. Don’t forget. The children are waiting, Matthew.”
“What children?”
The boy glanced up at the man. “He’s very curious, isn’t he?”
They stepped back into the shadows together. Wait. Please. The words formed in Matthew’s mind, but he couldn’t push them past his lips. “Laney!” he called out.
“It’s only the explosions,” she promised, kissing his face, parting and reparting his hair with her fingers until his eyelids grew heavy again.
Matthew Hart walked under the sheltering leaves in her father’s solarium. James Whittaker was already there.“I’ve stolen your serenity place?” he said.
“I’ve stolen your daughter.”
“Stolen?”
“We married without your permission yesterday. I ask your pardon for that, sir. It was the circumstances. I had to wrestle her down before she slipped away from me again.”
James Whittaker smiled. “I think you might have that reversed.”
Matthew sat beside his new father-in-law under the sassafras tree. “I’ll work my life long to prove myself worthy of her,” he promised.
“Matthew. Am I right in thinking Olana is with child?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you accept the baby, Matt?”
“Accept?”
“As your own.”
“It is my own.”
“That is very generous of you to say, son, but —”
“It’s not at all generous. Olana and I have been lovers for a long time.”
“But, Basil —”
“Knew. Approved. He and I, we even became friends, by the end. Isn’t that a wonder?”
“How —”
“Theirs was an unconsummated marriage, sir.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.”
Matthew shrugged. “Like you said, Mr. Whittaker. Olana shocks everyone. Even you.”
“Especially me, Matt.”
The rumble of the aftershock came, followed by the sickening sound of mechanical failure. The pump of the solarium’s artesian well was broken.
“We’ll fix it, shall we, son?” was his cheerful reaction.
“Uh, sure,” Matthew agreed.
“I’ll get tools.”
Matthew felt like a child playing in the mud hole beside Olana’s father, who never doubted they would succeed. “Matt, I think you and Olana’s brother would have hit it off splendidly.”
“Yes.”
“He would have brooked no nonsense from either of you, though. He would have made you marry Olana years ago.”
“I imagine so.”
“Still, you found your own path to each other, didn’t you? Maybe that will make you both stronger, for what’s ahead. Matt, when I was locked inside myself, after the stroke, I remember reaching such a state of utter frustration that despair threatened. It was then I — now, you must promise not to laugh —”
“I won’t laugh, sir.”
“I thought my son came back. I thought he told me to be patient, because you were coming. As if the two of you were already old friends.”
“Imagine that.”
“I can imagine it, Matt. I can now.”
The pump held together more on his father-in-law’s optimism
than workmanship. As they finished, a smoky dawn haze filtered through the trees of the solarium. Matthew had to obey his visions, his ghosts, just as this man did. With which of them would Olana stay? The thought of her between them pained him. “We’ll fill all the bathtubs, every sink and basin,” James said, “before you go.»
than workmanship. As they finished, a smoky dawn haze filtered through the trees of the solarium. Matthew had to obey his visions, his ghosts, just as this man did. With which of them would Olana stay? The thought of her between them pained him. “We’ll fill all the bathtubs, every sink and basin,” James said, “before you go.»
“Go, sir?”
“Yes. I entrust my family to your care, Matt. So does Antonio. Will you find a good refuge for them all until we can join you?”
“Sure.”
“Splendid. Antonio and I will concentrate on keeping the place soaked down.”
“Mr. Whittaker, promise you’ll leave if your hope for saving the house is gone.”
There was a rustle of skirts in the solarium doorway. “We’ll promise for him, because we’ll be hauling him out!” Dora Whittaker said. Aunt Winnie put a cup of steaming coffee into Matthew’s hands and peered down the hole.
“You’d better show me what you did to get that pump spewing again, forester,” she said. “That rig-up doesn’t look like it’s going to hold past midday.”
Matthew caught the scent of hyacinths through the dull gloom. He saw the tips of Olana’s low-heeled lace up shoes. Her skirts folded over them as she bent down to give him her hand. Its third finger was circled in gold and garnets. She had her coat on, and his draped over her arm. “We’re ready,” she whispered in a steady voice that did not match her swollen eyes. She’d made her decision.
Sidney and Serif stood like sentinels at Olana’s side. Her mother and Aunt Winnie performed the same function for her father, there in the doorway of the home she loved. Mr. Amadeo told Matthew possible places his family may have camped for the night, if he did not find them at home. Possum listened intently at her father’s side. Everyone else was at the gate, waiting to join the
early morning stream of refugees. Olana felt the strength of her parents’ and aunt’s last embrace. She was proud to come from such people, to be bearing a child who would carry their strength beside Matthew’s gentle goodness.
early morning stream of refugees. Olana felt the strength of her parents’ and aunt’s last embrace. She was proud to come from such people, to be bearing a child who would carry their strength beside Matthew’s gentle goodness.
Matthew shook Mr. Amadeo’s hand and lifted his daughter high in his arms as they approached her father. Possum put her small palms on either side of his cheeks, the way she had on the days she visited him during his recovery. James Whittaker smiled slowly, consciously working to life both sides of his mouth together.
“How was that, little one?” he asked her.
“Perfect.”
He took Matthew’s shoulder. “Don’t look so forlorn! Did you forget your Christmas vision? We have the champagne, if it comes to that.”
Sidney cocked his head. “Champagne? That’s right!”
Mr. Amadeo winced. “Is it not alcohol, gentlemen? Will it not feed the flames?”
“No,” Matthew assured him. “The proofs not high enough.” He looked sideways at Sidney and Serif. “St. Croix rum, now that’s flammable.” Olana watched her new husband’s face break into a smile. “You’d sacrifice all that future happiness?” he asked her father.
“I have all the happiness I can hold.” James Whittaker touched Possum’s cheek fondly. “But I fully intend to romp with this grandchild and future ones. Here, in this house!”
When they reached Van Ness, they saw the field artillery weapons pointed from the far side of the avenue toward the houses opposite. Behind them, barricades of household goods, from trunks to beds to baby buggies were mounted against the enemy, fire. Matthew scanned the anxious faces of people who had gone a day and night without sleep. Some were numb with shock, some close to hysteria. He held Olana closer, smoothed the back of his daughter’s small hand. He kept the wagons moving.
Along the barricades of Van Ness they heard screams that sounded like Mrs. Amadeo in childbirth, then men’s shouts.
“Get out of there, you filthy dagos! You’re blocking the way!”
“I wait! I wait for my husband!”
“Fifty dollars says he’s boiled himself in his own tomato sauce!”
Matthew braked the wagon. “Selby, if you’ll hold the reins?”
“Got them, Mr. Hart.”
At the other wagon, Sidney and Serif slid down. “Go, Matt,” Sidney instructed. He led their way through the circle. They found a small citadel of trunks, a sewing machine, mattresses, and three bird cages stuffed with silverware. Matthew recognized the bird cages.
“Mrs. Amadeo?” he called. A fork went flying by his ear and landed in Serif’s massive arm. Serif grunted and pulled it out, grinning. “Mama, no!” Cara pleaded, “it’s Matthew!”
A crack opened in the fortress. Children poured through, surrounding him. Two young women with delicate features, one carrying her pregnancy large and low, rushed to the wagons and their husbands, Eltore and Titus. Finally, Mrs. Amadeo stood before him, her squalling twins anchored to her hips.
She released her children to him. Then he helped her over the mound of mattresses. “My husband —”
“He sent us to find you, Ma’am. To get you to a safe place.”
“Where is it safe, Matthew? Safe for the burning eyes, the deafened ears of my children?”
Possum appeared at her father’s side. She squeezed the woman’s hand. “Daddy will take us where it’s cool and green,” she promised.
Mrs. Amadeo’s haunted eyes underwent a seachange. “Good,” she said, kissing Matthew’s cheek. “This I have prayed for. A green place. I have many sheets. Clean white sheets, so you and your women can help Josephina.”
“Josephina?”
Matthew glanced at the pregnant woman on Eltore’s arm. He saw a familiar look in her eyes. “Gran,” he called. Annie Smithers’
eyes were merry. “Easy, Matthew. Her first, and it looks to be early yet.”
eyes were merry. “Easy, Matthew. Her first, and it looks to be early yet.”
The men loaded sheets, blankets, mattresses, women, and children into the wagons. Mrs. Amadeo took charge of the bird cages and her frantic twins.
Even Sidney became disoriented as they rode through streets that held little more than charred rubble. They had used up most of their drinking water when he saw a patch of ground ahead.
“I — think that’s Lafayette Park, Matt. There’s a garden, or, there used to be a garden there, with a water supply, pumped up by a windmill.”
Matthew sat up higher. “We’ll stop, rest.”
“The soldiers could confiscate the wagons. And Josephina —”
“Her pains are twenty minutes apart. We’ll rest.”
The men stayed with the wagons, Sidney’s derringer and Eltore’s six-shooter prominently displayed in their coats, while Matthew led the women and children through a square piled high with goods left by people burned out of their homes.
How could he find Alisdair’s film in all this, he wondered, walking, scanning for the photographer’s canvas bag. Nothing was familiar among all the abandoned possessions.
“Sit down, son,” someone said. “You look spent.”
The man was mostly bald, with a round, pleasant face. The soot everyone sported had set his face’s lines deeper. But on him it looked different, because he had only laugh lines sprouting from his eyes. The man gestured toward a small ring of stones encircling a fire. Matthew took a place beside him and stared at the rows of delicate china cups mounted on saucers. Beside them plates piled high with crusts of buttered toast sat precariously among the ruin. The man put coffee into the Dresden china cup, then into Matthew’s hands. “I was about to close up shop!”
“Shop?”
“Callahan’s Coffee Shop and Musical Oasis —” he gestured
to the abandoned upright piano. “Fursey Callahan, proprietor, and your own, your very own servant.”
to the abandoned upright piano. “Fursey Callahan, proprietor, and your own, your very own servant.”
Matthew remembered Sidney’s stories of price gouging, and backed away from the tantalizing smell of the bread and coffee. “I don’t have any —”
“As much as you’d like for nothing,” Fursey Callahan assured him, pressing the steaming cup into his hands. “Keep me company, there’s a good lad.” He gathered the remaining fine china cups, placing them gingerly in one of the two sacks he had strung across his chest. Even with the weight of his possessions, the elfin man seemed to Matthew as light as gossamer. And his coffee could revive the dead.
“Have you been here all night, Mr. Callahan?”
“Oh, aye. And it was great fun while it lasted. Look around you, son! Each stick of furniture, each carpet and painting shows what their owners prized most. Me, I was interested in food. Collected it, then the dishes, for my shop. Fed the folks all night, I did. But the rats, they’re cheeky now, and big as tomcats. Time to move on. Eat the bread, your hands will get jittery from the coffee alone, Doctor.”
“What?”
“Are you not a doctor then?”
“No, sir.”
“But you use your hands in your work, do you?”
Matthew thought of shaking immigrants’ hands, of holding Possum, of stroking Olana’s hair, of the feel of new babies. “Yes,” he said.
“You haven’t had a care about the rest of your appearance, but your hands are looked after.”
Matthew thought of Olana not letting him touch the splintered glass in his head. “That’s my wife’s doing,” he said.
“Ah, a woman of true sensitivity, your wife! She knows what has value! Have more of the bread, son.” He reached into one of his sacks. “I’ve got to travel light, so I can’t keep my promise to the Scotsman,” he said sadly, almost to himself.
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