He imagined folks bursting into applause. See that skinny boy with the curly hair? they’d say. You’d never know it to look at him, but he sure can pick!
Nick spotted Rebecca, leaning against her mother. Elsie Turner was a bony, rough-faced woman in a faded blue dress. Her look was hard, but she’d been real kind to Gran. Rebecca pointed at Nick, tugged at her mother’s skirt, and whispered something her mother bent to hear.
“You sure took your time. You been slacking off today, kid?” Mr. Hank grumbled, reaching out for Nick’s sack.
Mr. Hank, Nick thought, was the kind who could watch you pick from morning till night and still suspect you of weighing down your sack with stones or wet cotton to make it heavier.
“No, sir,” said Nick, slipping the strap of the bag off his right shoulder. “Picked steady. I want to show my grandmother I can pick a hundred pounds.”
“You’re the Dray kid,” Mr. Hank said then, lifting Nick’s bag onto the weighing hook.
“Yes, sir. Nick Dray.”
Mr. Hank nodded to a stocky, red-faced man Nick hadn’t noticed before. The man stepped forward, a wan smile pasted on his lips.
Nick wondered what the man was doing there. He seemed out of place. He wasn’t dressed for field work, for one thing. He wore dark pants and suspenders, with his belly bulging through the buttons of his shirt. Sweat poured down the sides of his brown hat. The man pulled out a white handkerchief, shook it, and then wiped his forehead.
Mr. Hank nodded again to the stranger. “This is the one, Jim. I ain’t going to be responsible. You go with Mr. Kelly here, Nick. He’ll bring you to the county poor farm where you belong. They can take orphans there.”
Nick stared blankly at the man. County poor farm! Orphans!
Mr. Kelly put his handkerchief in his pocket. He grabbed Nick’s elbow. “Come along, son. You’re done here.”
At first Nick didn’t take it in—and then he didn’t want to. Something awful has happened to Gran. Mr. Kelly is here for me.
Nick pulled his arm away hard and turned to the boss. “The cotton. How much? How much cotton did I pick?” It was hard to get the words out. “Gran said she’d give me two bits if I picked a hundred pounds.”
Mr. Hank stepped back and squinted at the numbers on the scale. “Hmmm…hundred and seven pounds. I’ll deduct your pay from what your grandmother owed me. I lost money on you folks, I hope you know.”
Nick’s head felt light. He took a step back from the men.
Mr. Kelly cleared his throat and reached out a puffy hand to grab Nick’s elbow. Nick shook him off and looked at Rebecca’s mother. “Gran had a fever, that’s all. She’s strong.”
I should have done more. It’s my fault. I should have known. Suddenly Nick felt like he couldn’t breathe. He’d made a terrible mistake. So terrible he couldn’t bear it. He’d thought all he had to do was pick a hundred pounds of cotton to make Gran feel better, to cheer her up. But that wasn’t any help at all. It wasn’t what she had needed.
“She was strong, boy,” said Mrs. Turner, moving her hand wearily to push a wisp of thin hair from her eyes. “But this afternoon, her heart just gave out. It was her time. You couldn’t have known. She’s earned her rest.”
Nick shook his head. He wanted to protest, to scream: I shoulda done more, tried to get a doctor, get her help, get her away.
Mrs. Turner put something in Rebecca’s hand. “Go on, honey.”
Rebecca walked slowly across the open space. She stuck out her arm. It was sunburned and scratched. “Here’s fifty cents. Two quarters. One’s from your gran. She gave it to Ma this afternoon before she passed and said it was for you. The other is from us.”
Rebecca panted a little. It was probably the longest speech of her life.
Nick held out his hand, and Rebecca dropped the two coins into it. She stared at them for a minute and sighed. It was a lot of money to her. Rebecca turned to look back at her mother, who nodded her on. “Go on, honey, say the rest of it to the boy.”
“Ma says to say you were a good grandson. And we’re very, very sorry for your loss,” Rebecca blurted. She ran back and hid her face in her mother’s dress.
Nick closed his fist tight around the coins. He turned to Mr. Hank, who was busy adding up numbers. Adding his profits for the day. Gran’s death meant nothing to him. The boss hadn’t called Nick out of the field. Didn’t want to lose a day of picking, most likely.
“Last row!” Nick spat. “That’s the last row of cotton I’ll ever pick, mister.”
Mr. Hank snorted, then laughed. “Last row? I don’t think so. What else you gonna do? Can’t start a fire with wet kindling, kid. Once a picker, always a picker.”
ONE CHANCE
“What did you say your name was, young man?” Pat Patterson asked.
They were sitting in chairs at the back of the store. Afterward, Nick was never sure exactly what caused Pat Patterson to change his mind. Maybe it was that Nick just kept standing there. Or maybe it was the moment that, with a big sigh, the large golden dog had stretched out on his back across Nick’s feet, begging to have his belly scratched.
“All right, Shake, my boy, I get the point.” Mr. Pat Patterson threw his hands up in the air with a sigh. “Let’s all have some nourishment, shall we? Just the thought of toiling all day in the blazing sun has made me parched and ravenous.”
After rummaging in a cupboard, Mr. Pat Patterson brought out two bottles of warm root beer and some generous slices of bread with cheese. The dog jumped up and stationed himself nearby, his plumy tail wagging like a pendulum.
Nick swallowed. “I didn’t say what my name was, sir. It’s Nick. Nicholas Dray, sir.”
“All right, Nicholas,” mumbled the stationer, his mouth full. “Just because I’m feeding you, don’t get the wrong idea.”
“I’ll try not to, sir.”
“And for God’s sake, don’t call me sir. Call me Pat. Everyone in San Francisco does. Except Shake here. He just barks. Isn’t that right, boy?” Pat broke off a piece of bread and tossed it to the dog.
The dog snatched it out of the air with a quick snap, sat back on his haunches, and barked for more, his white teeth gleaming in a happy smile. He stood in front of Nick, tail wagging hard.
Nick reached out to rub Shake’s black velvet nose. “When he wags his tail, his whole body wiggles and shakes, too. Especially, you know, the back part. I guess that must be why you named him Shake, isn’t it?”
Mr. Pat chortled. “Well, I must say I never thought of it quite that way. As a matter of fact, Shake is short for Shakespeare. He’s named after the bard himself—William Shakespeare.”
Nick felt his face getting red. William Shakespeare. He tried to remember what Miss Reedy had told them about William Shakespeare. About all Nick could remember was that Shakespeare lived a long time ago in England. Nick thought maybe he’d written plays. Yes, that was it. But he hoped Mr. Pat wouldn’t start asking him too many questions about any of them.
Why couldn’t Mr. Pat have named his dog something simple, like King or Brownie? Nick shook his head. He tried to focus on what Mr. Pat Patterson was saying.
Mr. Pat was waving a gleaming silver pen in Nick’s direction. He stood up straight, as if he were about to make a speech. Maybe Mr. Pat was an actor. That might explain why he’d given his dog such a funny name.
“Let me say at the outset, right from the top, Nicholas, that I am not the fatherly type. I don’t want a son. Shakespeare’s the only family I’ve got.”
“Yes, Mr. Pat.”
“So, the best advice I can give you is to go turn yourself in at the nearest orphanage—”
“But—” put in Nick.
“Hear me out. That’s the best advice I can give you. But clearly you are loath to take it,” Mr. Pat declared firmly with a shake of his pen. “No, you seem to have a spirit of independence and a sense of courage. And, I might add, an appreciation for writing and letters that is somewhat surprising in one of your background.”
Mr. Pat waved his hands proudly toward his store. Nick could barely follow what the man said from one moment to the next.
“I myself am a writer, you know,” Mr. Pat went on. “Not on the level of the beloved bard, of course.”
“You mean Shakespeare?” Nick asked.
The dog barked. His master nodded. “Exactly. Or even a fresh American talent like Jack London. Have you read his Call of the Wild? Magnificent.”
Mr. Pat scratched his nose with one long finger. “Let’s see, it came out, when was it? Three years ago, I think. Yes, that’s right, because that’s when I got Shakespeare here. He’s barely over his puppyhood! I almost named him Buck, after the dog in London’s book. But Shakespeare seemed a better fit with the stationery business, wouldn’t you agree?”
As if he knew he was being talked about, Shakespeare sat back on his haunches with a broad grin, his bright chocolate brown eyes darting from Nick to his master. Then he padded over to Nick and put his head in Nick’s lap.
“What a glutton for scratches that dog is,” remarked Mr. Pat. “He does seem to have really taken to you, young man.”
Nick grinned. “Do you think so? I never saw a dog with such sparkly brown eyes before. When he opens his mouth, he smiles like a person.” Nick loved the way Shake’s soft fur felt under his hand.
“Now, then, what was I saying?”
“That you’re a writer?” Nick offered.
“Ah, yes, that was it. Indeed I am. Well, not actually in print, like those luminaries who live on the other side of Montgomery Block.”
“Montgomery Block?”
Mr. Pat swept his hands wide. “It’s our little corner of San Francisco. That big block of a building at the end of the street is the U.S. Customs House—also called the Appraisers’ Building. Across from us is Hotaling’s whiskey, where my esteemed friend Ed Lind toils away on the accounts like a veritable Bob Cratchet. (Forgive me, Nicholas, that’s a reference to Dickens.) We have wine merchants, a rooming house, and a coffee-and-spice store. And where Montgomery hits Washington is a building where many writers live.”
Nick’s head was whirling. “It all just looks like buildings to me, sir.”
“A city is always more than its buildings. Buildings, of course, have their own characters. But I find that the true heart of a city is its people, always so fascinating and different. That’s what I love about San Francisco, don’t you?”
“I…I haven’t actually met any fascinating people yet,” Nick said. He almost added, “Except you.”
“Well, you will. At any rate, I think you can see why my little store is so perfectly situated here on Jackson Street. And although my literary hopes may never come to fruition, we haven’t been doing too badly in business, have we, faithful canine companion?”
Shakespeare jerked his head up and gave two sharp barks, baring his white teeth in a bright grin of agreement. It’s almost as if they’re real friends who understand each other, Nick thought. He gripped the hat Gran had bought for him and looked up, wishing he could say something to make Mr. Pat like him.
“I think your store is amazing, sir. Especially the inkwells and the pens, too. I wonder…I wonder if my teacher Miss Reedy bought her beautiful inkwell right here.” Nick gestured toward the gleaming glass cases in the front window.
“And maybe she ate in that Eiffel Tower Restaurant I saw just down the street. It sure was a pretty inkwell. Well, more than pretty.” Nick let out a breath. This wasn’t working. He didn’t know how to talk to a city person.
But Mr. Pat was nodding. “Yes, indeed, Nicholas. Aim for precision in language at all times. These inkwells are more than just pretty. They are exquisite, luminous, superb. But don’t get me started. I may have to show you my collection of old and rare inkwells, mostly from France and England.
“So, it certainly seems clear that, unschooled as you are, you have an appreciation, a nose, we might say,” Mr. Pat continued, leaning forward and tapping his own pointed nose with the tip of the silver pen, “for the finer things.
“But! And I must warn you this is an important ‘but’—our relationship must entirely be one of employer and employee,” he warned. “I expect absolute integrity and honesty. Absolute honesty! That is what I get from Shakespeare, after all. So, let us enter into a contract. You have one chance to prove yourself. One chance only. Do we understand each other, young Nicholas?”
“I…I think so. I guess….” Nick stopped. He wasn’t sure he understood anything. He gulped, his heart beating fast, almost afraid to ask the question. “Does this mean that you’re…you’re giving me a job?”
Nick’s job, as it turned out, was to watch the store for two days.
“This week I have some business in Oakland, across the bay. Just a couple of days,” Pat Patterson explained. “Unfortunately, I must leave Tuesday evening.”
“Unfortunately?” Nick asked, scratching behind Shakespeare’s ear. The big dog leaned against him and sighed. Nick was starting to get used to Mr. Pat’s unexpected way of talking. Not that Nick actually understood everything Mr. Pat said, but at least he didn’t feel quite so nervous.
“Don’t you know? Oh, well, now, that’s right. How could you? I said it was unfortunate, Nicholas, because being gone Tuesday evening means I’ll miss the rare and wonderful opportunity to hear Enrico Caruso sing the role of Don Jose in Carmen at the Grand Opera House. But business calls, and it can’t be helped.”
Nick’s face must have betrayed his confusion. Mr. Pat laughed. “Ah, you don’t know who Caruso is, do you?”
Nick shook his head and felt his face flush. “Or…or Don whatever, either.”
“Now, Nicholas, another rule of the establishment. Never be afraid to ask questions,” Mr. Pat proclaimed, pointing a thin finger at Nick. “It is not your fault that you’ve never heard of Caruso. But it will be if you choose to remain in ignorance.”
Nick looked down at his feet. He did feel stupid and ignorant most of the time. Especially now. About the only thing he knew was cotton. Well, at least I know more about that than Mr. Pat.
Nick thought back to all the school days he and the other sharecropper kids had missed so they could work in the fields. Usually, from about late September until November, the whole school would close. Nick hadn’t given it much thought at the time. After all, cotton came first. It always had.
“Anyway, Nicholas, I won’t be gone long. I should be back late Thursday afternoon,” Mr. Pat was saying.
Nick looked around the shop, panic in his voice. “If you’re leaving tomorrow night, I…I don’t think I can learn all the prices by then.”
“Good heavens, boy. Do you take me for a fool? I have no intention of leaving you in charge of working in my shop. No, the shop will be closed and locked.” Mr. Pat’s voice was firm.
“Then what will my job be?”
“To keep watch over the shop and take care of Shakespeare, of course. You can stay in the basement with our noble canine companion here.” Mr. Pat bowed toward his dog. “I have an office down there with my important papers—business records and so forth. There’s a little sitting room outside the office that should suit you. There’s only one small window, but it’s comfortable enough.”
He nodded, apparently quite satisfied with his plan. “Yes, this should work out quite well. I was a bit nervous about leaving and taking Shakespeare with me, as I had a robbery last month. So if you see anyone suspicious loitering around, run for a police officer.”
“A police officer?” Nick swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure how he felt about running toward a policeman.
“Oh, there’s usually one or two to be found on Market Street. Mind you, some of them can’t run all that fast.”
Nick couldn’t help smiling to himself as he pictured Bushy Brows lumbering after him.
“Now, Nick, may I have your promise that when I return, Shakespeare here will be happy and well fed?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“And that none of my p
apers or the treasures we store here will be disturbed?”
Nick nodded.
“Excellent. If my business deal goes well, perhaps we’ll stroll over to the old Eiffel Tower Restaurant on Thursday evening and pretend we’re in Paris.”
Nick felt a smile grow at the corners of his mouth and spread across his face. He had a job and a roof over his head. He might even eat in a restaurant.
Suddenly Nick felt light and free. He imagined this was how a small cloud must feel skittering across a clear sky.
Nick rested his hand on Shakespeare’s head. “I don’t need to pretend I’m in Paris, Mr. Pat. Just being here in San Francisco is fine with me.”
SOMETHING UNEXPECTED & UNSEEN
On Tuesday evening, Nick stood on Jackson Street with his hand around Shake’s collar.
“Better hold him, Nicholas,” Mr. Pat counseled. “He’s a faithful companion and likes to follow me. But if he should stray, don’t worry too much. Shakespeare can find his way home from anywhere in the city.”
Nick watched Mr. Pat Patterson stroll down the street and turn the corner at Sansome. Mr. Pat turned and waved cheerfully. “Until Thursday, then. Keep safe and strong.”
Nick waved back and Shakespeare whined a little, pulling at his collar. “No, you’re staying with me this time, boy.”
There was a part of Nick that wished he could go with Mr. Pat, too. It would be lonely without him. And then there was the responsibility of the store. Nick’s stomach felt fluttery. Not empty, thanks to Mr. Pat’s generosity, but nervous.
Things had changed so suddenly. He was no longer Nicholas Dray, cotton picker. Or Nick the Invisible, road kid. No, he was now in charge of what was, so far as he could tell, the most beautiful store in San Francisco. True, the store was closed and locked up safe, but that didn’t matter. It was a big job.
Nick cleared his throat. “Come on, Shakespeare. Let’s go downstairs and keep watch.”
He felt a tap on his shoulder. He whirled around just as Annie Sheridan jumped out in front of him, hopping up and down on the cobblestones, her braids bouncing in the air.
Into the Firestorm Page 4
