Buried Seeds

by Donna Meredith

  Without quite knowing how, I made my way from the rear to the front of the house and found myself standing in the street in my nightclothes and wrapper. So were my neighbors, the Grays, staring, slack-jawed, at the brick pavers which were hurling their way up or shoving their way down or twisting sideways. A jagged line four to six inches deep divided the street in half. With a whip-like crack, the concrete cornice on the house across the street tumbled loose, barely missing Mrs. Gray. It shattered into pieces on their lawn. Suddenly the earth was still again, and after all the commotion, an unearthly quiet stole over the city.

  Mr. and Mrs. Gray ventured out to the center of the street, staying a foot back from where bricks lay in chaotic upheaval. I approached the other side of the jagged line, also keeping a fair distance. What if the earth opened wider along that seam and we all got sucked in, crushed by heaving rock?

  I tucked Little Cuss tightly into the crook of my arm, stroking his ears in a futile attempt to stop his trembling. I spoke in hushed tones. “Have you ever felt one like this before?”

  Mr. Gray cleared his throat, oblivious to the fact he was dressed only in a sleep shirt with white legs thin as an egret’s poking out beneath. He looked every bit of his sixty years as he hung onto his wife’s arm—to give support or for support?

  He swallowed visibly. “Never. Nothing even close. This is the worst earthquake we’ve ever had.”

  I had thought as much, but hearing someone put it into words gave credence to my opinion. A label. A category of occurrence. An earthquake. Jack had told me about the one in ’98, but hearing stories about quakes and feeling the center of gravity disappear—the very center that had anchored me, my world, and everything in it every second since my birth—were two immeasurably different things.

  Alexandra Underwood stood out in the yard with her children. As usual, she pointedly ignored me, as she had ever since I had criticized the eugenics movement and stalked out of her house.

  “This earthquake,” Mr. Gray proclaimed loudly enough to be sure Alexandra could hear, “is God’s punishment for the immorality of some people in this city.”

  Ridiculous! Everyone knew earthquakes happened because of pressure that built up underground, naturally occurring events that had nothing to do with the Underwoods’ modern marriage.

  I stared at my home, overtaken by a sudden lethargy, an inability to function. The house rested, as Jack had told me, on pilings driven deep into the clay, designed to sway with the ground’s movement. The circular drive bordered by cedars was intact, despite the damage to the front street. The Italianate façade, the arched brick supports for the front porch, the square windows, the clay-tile roof with its slight pitch—all appeared to have withstood the violent shaking. Jack had wisely insisted on a strong foundation. Th e clay of these outlying neighborhoods, he said, would withstand quakes better than the sandy soils in the southern parts of the city. Jack had befriended the city’s fire chief, Mr. Sullivan, and thus knew a litany of facts about the city’s disaster plans, but I couldn’t shake the fog from my mind long enough to recall details.

  Feeling light-headed and headachy as my initial fear subsided, I surveyed the street. A column supporting the portico of one house had toppled, leaving the left portion of the roof listing precariously. I noticed no other damage. A miracle. Mrs. Gray went back inside, while other neighbors wandered up and down the street, assessing damage, making sure everyone was accounted for. One man called out for everyone to shut off their gas mains. I still couldn’t command my body to move, though I knew I should.

  I looked down the hill toward the city. Small clouds of black rose in isolated spots. Fires. To be expected after a quake, Jack had warned me. I supposed candles or gas lamps or cook stoves tipped over. Those things would happen, Jack said, and the fire departments were ready to respond.

  Well, I was a strong woman of sturdy stock who’d survived the death of a mother, my son, and a husband; suffered a stillborn and a terminated pregnancy; and now I’d survived an earthquake. Others, I realized, would not have been so lucky. I strode toward my front door.

  Mrs. Gray emerged from her house, this time fully clothed. She wrapped a blanket around her husband, whose face reddened now that he became aware of the indelicacy of his appearance. “Phone lines are down,” she said. “George, you’ll have to drive downtown to find out if Austin is all right.”

  The earth shuddered again and my heart leapt into my throat.

  “This happens,” Mrs. Gray told me. “The aftershocks. They are likely to go on all day. George, we must find Austin.”

  Austin, the Gray’s grown son, worked in the business district where buildings stood tall, crowded, and, according to Jack, many were built on fill dirt. A disaster waiting to happen. A new surge of energy shot through me. Nellie. Was she all right? How self-centered not to have thought of her already. Yet I had no doubt Val would look after her—unless something dire had happened to him as well. Nellie’s home angled down a hill, sandwiched between two others in a long line of buildings. Did they still stand? And my new maid—the young Polish girl. I didn’t even know where she lived to check on her. I sent up a quick prayer for all the citizens of the city.

  While Mr. Gray dressed, I obtained permission from Mrs. Gray to let me ride in the rumble seat of their new Lambert.

  I rushed inside and threw on a dark skirt, white blouse, and a light jacket with sensible shoes. I tucked the dog into the afghan-lined wicker basket he slept in and covered him with another of Nellie’s baby afghans. For once, he didn’t shake it off. I thought to fill a Mason jar with water in case Little Cuss got thirsty and tucked that and some hard-boiled eggs into the side of the basket as well. I had no idea how long we would be gone.

  Mrs. Gray knocked on the door and advised me to fill the bathtub with water. “A precaution in case aftershocks rupture the water mains.” The older woman adjusted the pins that anchored her hat. “You never know what’s going to happen after one of these things. The shaking is likely to go on for days.”

  It was 6:45 by the time we secured our homes and set out for downtown. Mr. Gray wove cautiously through the hordes of people thronged in the streets. We passed a few cars and carriages, but most people traveled by foot. Trolleys weren’t running, the reason obvious as the Lambert negotiated its way around mangled cables sprawled across the street.

  As we left the outlying neighborhoods, I was shocked by the devastation. A whole row of homes thrown off their foundations, some leaning on the next, another two completely collapsed. Firemen gathered around the rubble, frantically hauling it away, board by board.

  Mr. Gray leaned out and asked a civilian what was happening.

  The man paused from clearing away rubble long enough to wipe his face with a bandana. “Family trapped in there.” He pointed to the splintered remains of a wooden structure.

  “Don’t stop,” Mrs. Gray implored her husband.

  His face hardened. “I must.”

  “What about Austin?”

  “If he’s buried under rubble like these people, I’m sure everyone around is pitching in to dig him out.”

  I sympathized with the anguished concern for her son, but feared for those trapped here as well. I was relieved when Mr. Gray got out of the car, tossed his jacket back inside and made his way to the front of the line of rescue workers. Despite his age, he and another man lifted a board and carried it aside. And then another. And another. I got out for a closer look. Surely there was something I could do to assist. Shouts erupted as a child’s hand came into view—and even from a distance I could see it was moving.

  On the stoop of a house across the street, a young woman about my age lifted her apron until it covered her mouth as if to hold in a cry too horrible to unleash. Her own child, a boy in short pants, twined his hands into the folds of her skirt. Assuming the woman lived there, I approached and asked her to fetch water and some blankets.

  The suggestion dispelled the woman’s shock and she let go of the apron. “Ye
s, I should have thought of it. Come and help me.” Gently she pushed the little boy’s shoulders. “Off to the linen closet, Joseph, quick now, and fetch some blankets.” She introduced herself as Margaret O’Halloran and led me by the hand into the kitchen, motioning toward a large pitcher sitting by the sink. I set the wicker basket with the dog down. This young mother and I would never have exchanged more than greetings under other circumstances. Her perceived lower social class would have barred a friendly exchange. Extraordinary, how the earthquake had leveled more than buildings.

  I filled the pitcher while Margaret clanged through a drawer, coming up with a dipper. “That wee girl, Essie, the one they found, she’s my Joseph’s age. I pray God she’ll be all right, but how will she be, what with the rest of her family still buried over there?”

  Margaret sank the dipper into the pitcher. “For the men.” She filled a separate tin cup for the child, who surely would be pulled free any moment. “I hope Essie makes it. I lost one of mine, my Charlotte, two years ago. Was the scarlet fever took her. Don’t seem right when such a wee one goes.”

  No, it didn’t seem right. A mother’s grief transcended social barriers too.

  Joseph thumped down the stairs with a pile of blankets, worn but colorful. I crossed the street just as the little girl was pulled loose.

  Margaret held out a quilt to receive the child. The girl didn’t look quite human. More like a plaster-casting, so thickly coated were her face, hair, clothing—even her eyelids—encrusted with dust. “Essie, baby, it’s going to be all right,” Margaret soothed.

  I felt it would be, even if Essie was the only survivor. Margaret carried the girl onto her porch where she paused to wipe Essie’s face with the edge of a blanket. Someone would care for the child. We would all pull together to help each other.

  More cries arose from the rescue workers as they found the father. Not so lucky. Under him, the wife. He’d tried to shield her with his arms, his body, but she was dead, too—but no—there came shouts for water. I rushed forward with the pitcher, brushed the crumbled plaster from the mother’s lips, and held a dipper of cool water to them. Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips parted and she made sounds—unintelligible, but good to hear nonetheless.

  “Easy,” I said. “Don’t try to talk. Your little girl is safe.” I directed the men to carry the woman to Margaret’s home.

  By the time I washed and treated the woman’s cuts and abrasions and thought to look outside, the Grays had disappeared in their Lambert, venturing further into the city to find their son, I supposed. On foot, I set out for Nellie’s with Little Cuss and my basket, moving through dazed citizens clogging the streets. Nine blocks later, after a lengthy detour because of a carriage accident and dead horse in the street, I reached Sacramento Street. Thank the Lord, Nellie’s home looked intact. I knocked. One of Nellie’s itinerant boarders, an elderly gentleman, ashen-faced and clearly in shock, answered. Disintegrated plaster peppered what little hair he had.

  I looked over his shoulders to scan the foyer and the entrances to the dining room and parlor and saw Nellie lying stationary on the sofa. “Oh no, no, no,” I sobbed, a hand pressed to my lips.

  The boarder hurried to reassure me. “No, she’s not—she’ll be fine. She just took a fall and needs to rest.”

  I calmed myself.

  He thought then to introduce himself as Mr. Longfield. “Dr. Martin rushed in to the hospital. He’ll find himself in high demand today.”

  I lifted Little Cuss from the basket and poured him a little water in the lid of the Mason jar. He slurped it noisily and I refilled the lid twice. The dog was still shaky on his legs. We all were.

  The boarder’s hands trembled as he spoke. “The couple next door lost their baby—a cabinet fell on the little fellow. I helped the father move the furniture but . . . too late.” His eyes flicked to Nellie. “Since you’ve come to look after her, I’m going out to see what I can do. Fires are cropping up everywhere. I expect the firemen need every pair of available hands.”

  When the door clicked shut and I knew Mr. Longfield had departed, I let my eyes close. I breathed deeply and felt strangely calm. For a few moments, I stroked through the dog’s thick fur. Another child dead. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. He’d taken away so much.

  Since Ben’s death I had felt nothing but anger at a God that would allow my child to die and to take my other babies before they even had a chance to draw breath. But the earthquake had shaken all the anger out of me. All these people—Ben, my husband—they were gifts, not possessions. Even the dog. A gift. A life that could be snatched away at any moment. My own life was a precious gift too. I vowed to put the rest of it to good use. How? I didn’t know, but had to trust that God would show me the path.

  Right now my paramount duty was caring for Nellie as long as she needed me. I propped a small blue trapunto-quilted pillow under her head, and covered her from feet to waist with a crocheted afghan in shades of blue. Kneeling by her side, I prayed silently, some words vaguely recalled and the rest of my own making: Lord, shelter this woman under your wings. She is my friend, true and honest. I am pleading with you to make her well and keep her walking along the path of life. Amen.

  Her neck was sprinkled with crumbs of plaster. I brushed off what I could without disturbing her. I climbed the stairs to fetch fresh clothing for her to put on when she woke. When I returned, I set the clean dress and petticoat on a chair and went to the kitchen for water to wash her face and hands. I turned on the tap, and with dismay found not even a drip. The water mains here must have broken. I remembered the clay pots Nellie kept in the yard to gather rainwater for her plants. Those small cisterns would be a godsend. I slipped outside, dipped water into a pan, and took it inside.

  Gently I washed Nellie’s face with a clean cloth. Her eyelids fl uttered.

  “What—?” Her voice dropped off and her eyes closed. Th en her palms pushed against the sofa as if to raise up.

  “Shhh, don’t try to sit yet. It was an earthquake.”

  Nellie swallowed visibly, tongue flicking across parched lips. I retrieved the mason jar and raised her head enough to allow her to sip a little. I settled her back on the pillow.

  “Oh, that feels better,” she said. “. . . so dry.” Her eyelids closed for a moment and I thought she was going back to sleep, but when she opened her eyes again, she seemed fully alert. “I remember now, I was near the top of the stairway, coming down to start breakfast for Val and Mr. Longfield when the shaking started. I lost my footing and took a tumble.”

  I cringed. It was a tall staircase. Val and Mr. Longfield must have carried her down from the landing. No bleeding that I could see, and she didn’t appear to have broken bones, but she would certainly be badly bruised and sore and perhaps have lumps and sprains.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “Stiff. Achy.” She stirred as if to sit up again.

  “Are you sure you’re ready to get up?” I asked.

  “I can’t lie here all day, now can I?”

  I smiled. “Yes, actually, you could if you wanted to—and you should if you aren’t feeling well. But if you insist on getting up, let me help.”

  I started to steady her as she rose, but another aftershock sent us both onto the sofa. We squeezed each other’s hands until it passed.

  Together we inspected her body, which—other than two goose eggs on her left leg, a gash on her forehead, and a probable sprained wrist from trying to break her fall—seemed intact. I cleaned the gash with a dab of whiskey, and then helped her put on fresh clothing. As she was hungry, I gave her some hard boiled eggs from the icebox and a slice of bread with butter and jam. We decided to forgo tea since neither of us was sure the gas lines were safe.

  “Better not risk a fire,” she agreed, nibbling on an egg.

  “Several buildings are burning in the city. Mr. Longfield went to assist the firemen.” I told her about the child and mother I’d seen pulled from the rubble—and the father that didn�
��t make it, and about the neighbor’s child crushed by furniture.

  “It’s bad out there,” I said.

  Nellie looked thoughtful while she washed down her bread with water. “You must go out and help others,” she said.

  I shook my head. “I promised I would stay with you.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll be fine now. I’d go too, but as wobbly as I am, I might be more hindrance than help. Please go. Lives may depend on it. Take food, water, blankets—and take that whiskey with you. Whatever you think people will need.”

  I let her talk me into it. As Mr. Longfield had pointed out, the city would need every pair of available hands.

  In the root cellar, I located one of Ben’s favorite toys, a large wagon Nellie had been using to move her canned goods around. I wheeled it into the house and filled it with afghans, bed linens, quarts of apple juice from the cellar, two loaves of bread and a jar of jam, the whiskey, and a few carrots from the larder. I didn’t want to take too much—Nellie would need nourishment herself. I left Little Cuss with Nellie and made her promise not to try to take him outside. Poor thing was still shivering. “I’ll be back before dark,” I promised.

  ~~~

  Cinders drifted down from the sky like fat black snowflakes. I brushed one off my cheek, steadying myself as the ground trembled again. I passed by a woman in a rocking chair in the middle of the street. Another family sat on a four-poster bed with their cat as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be lounging in the road. I skirted rivulets from a broken water main and moved toward the corner to intercept the mass of people streaming out of the Market district. Refugees carried large trunks filled with their belongings, all they had left in the world. I lifted the first jar of apple juice from the wagon and offered a drink and a slice of bread to an old man shouldering a packing crate in one hand and a caged parrot in the other.