Mission of Hope. Allie Pleiter
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“Who?” Nora and her father asked at the same time.
“Mrs. Hastings.”
“Dorothy Hastings? Here?” Papa asked. “I didn’t think she was still in town.”
“She’s returned.” Mama said it almost victoriously, as if it were as significant a societal achievement as the streetcar lines coming back into service. “And she’s coming here.”
The Hastings family was a social pillar of San Francisco. Mr. Hastings was on the Committee of Fifty—the emergency governing body that Papa served. Mrs. Hastings, like many of the city’s finer families, had removed herself from the city to safer environs. Why she was in town at all, much less at Aunt Julia’s house, Nora could only guess. Still, it was clear her visit was important to Mama. Perhaps even more than that, the opportunity to host someone, especially someone so important, seemed to light a spark in Mama and Aunt Julia that had been gone since the earthquake. A spark, when Nora was honest with herself, she hadn’t been sure would return. That relief made Nora practically dance up the stairs to find whatever dress seemed the least tattered.
She found a frock—a deep rose that hid dust and dirt especially well and whose neckline showed off the locket to particular advantage—and a small pink flower that had fallen off a hatpin to tuck into her hair. It did feel wonderful to “dress up,” even just this small bit. She had no idea how Mama and Aunt Julia could pull together any kind of tea under the circumstances, but they were highly motivated and resourceful women. And the combined skills of the two household cooks had managed some wondrous meals given the lack of foodstuffs. Half of Nora understood her father’s amused scowl at the whole thing. She was sure Papa found the whole exercise to be simply a diversion for his wife. Even if Mr. Hastings was in charge of city services, tea seemed rather pointless.
Still, the other half of Nora understood how valuable it could be right now. To engage in something—anything—for the mere pleasure of it seemed a dear luxury. A tiny, beautiful shield against the endless, tiresome obstacles of rebuilding. Not unlike, she realized as she fixed the small flower into the corner of her chignon, Quinn’s teeter-totter. Papa might consider that a pointless diversion as well, and yet she recognized the plaything’s value.
Nora was just dusting off her skirts a second time when Mama entered the room. The real Mama, not the wisp of a woman who had seemed to occupy Mama’s skin for the last few months. She’d been praying nightly for God to return the light to Mama’s eyes. Today, those prayers had been answered.
For days after the earthquake, Mama had carried all her good jewelry around in a pocket tied inside her skirts. There was no safe place to put anything, and no one knew, as the fires ate up more and more of the city in an arsenal hunger no one could quite believe, when a hasty exit might be required. Over and over again during those first weeks, Nora had watched her mama lay her hand over the lump in her skirts. Checking to be sure it was still there or perhaps just shielding the trinkets from the horrors of the outside world. Eventually, Uncle Lawrence had produced a lockbox for Mama and Papa, and their valuables went in there. Nora thought it was far too tiny a thing to hold a life’s valued possessions, but then again, Nora had had to rethink a lot about life’s valued possessions in recent weeks.
Today, Mama had her pearls around her neck. And Grandmama’s pearl ring—a piece that belonged to Mama and Aunt Julia’s own mother—graced her right hand. It wasn’t the beauty of the jewelry that made Nora smile, it was the way Mama carried herself when she wore it.
Mama came over and readjusted a curling tendril that fell from Nora’s chignon. “You look lovely,” Mama said. “But I think,” she said delicately, “that it would be kindest to tuck the locket inside your dress.”
Nora’s hand came up to touch the locket. She’d already been gratefully amazed that Aunt Julia let her keep it. In her joy over recovering the locket, she hadn’t even considered that Aunt Julia might want her lost daughter’s necklace for herself until Papa brought it up on the ride home. He’d gone with Nora to show the locket to Aunt Julia, and it had taken every ounce of will Nora had not to beg Aunt Julia to let her keep it. It would be wrong to deny a grieving woman any remnant of her daughter, but the necklace couldn’t come close to meaning to Aunt Julia what it meant to Nora. She needed to have it. Needed to feel the only tangible evidence of that sweet friendship around her neck, close to her heart.
Aunt Julia had clutched the locket for a long moment that made everyone in the room hold their breath. Papa kept his hand on Nora’s shoulder, as if to say, be strong, but said nothing. After a hollow-sounding breath, Aunt Julia let it slide back into Nora’s hand. “You keep it, dear,” she said with an unnatural calm. Nora and Papa waited there for a moment, thinking she meant to say something else, perhaps to cry or to say how glad she was to have the locket found, but she never said anything else. She just straightened her shoulders, touched Nora’s cheek in a way that made her shiver and walked on to the porch to sit staring out over the city.
Nora went after her to thank her, but Papa’s hand held her back. “Let her be,” Papa said quietly. “It is a terrible thing to bury a daughter. And it is a far more terrible thing to not have a daughter to bury.”
Of course Nora would tuck the locket out of sight. And Mama was right—it was by far the kindest thing to do.
Chapter Five
“It’s hopeless.” Quinn’s ma stood at the opening of their shack and rewound her graying red hair up into the ever-present knot at the base of her neck. “You can’t expect children to run around such filth all day long without shoes and not cut their feet to ribbons.” She looked up and saw Uncle Mike coming up the path. “Did you find any, Michael?”
“It’s just as I thought, Mary. Only the sisters in the other camp have any iodine left.”
His mother blew out a breath. “The sisters. Well, that’s all well and good for them, but we’re on the wrong side of the street to get much of that, aren’t we?”
“And they don’t come over here ’til Thursday.”
Quinn watched his ma look at poor Sam. He’d cut his foot yesterday morning on a nail, and it was an angry red this afternoon—a bad sign. “It hurts you, don’t it, boy?”
Sam, smart enough to see the bad news in Ma’s eyes, put on a brave face. “Not so much.”
Quinn sat down next to the boy. “Your limp says different, Sam. If it hurts a lot, my ma should know. Ma’s are smart that way, besides. No use fooling them about things like this.”
Sam swallowed hard. “It hurts a lot,” he admitted.
“I reckon it does,” Ma said, her smile softening. “You’ve got a man-sized wound in your foot, and you’re just a tiny one, you are.” She put Sam’s foot back into the bucket, which was really just a large tin Uncle Mike had found and washed, and motioned for Quinn to stand.
“I’ll take it you’d know where to find a shot or two of whiskey,” she asked.
Quinn raised an eyebrow at his mother. Given the damage alcohol had done in this household, he knew his mother’s disapproval of drinking. “For the wound,” she clarified in an exasperated tone. “Iodine would be better, but we can hardly get persnickety now, can we?”
Uncle Mike put his hands into his pockets while Ma reached for the small pine box she kept under her trunk. Quinn knew they were searching for a coin or two—the man at the far corner of Dolores Park, who’d opened an undercover tavern, brooked no charity whatsoever. Even if he carried Sam bleeding and screaming in pain to the man, Quinn doubted the profiteer would spare a tablespoon for medicinal purposes. “I’ve got one,” Quinn said, producing the silver coin he’d found under a beam two days ago. He’d had his eye on a pair of hose for his mother—her fifty-first birthday was next week—but Sam seemed a more pressing cause.
Ma sighed. “That’d buy a whole bottle of iodine before.”
“Before.” Quinn