Fog City by Claire M. Johnson

Author:Claire M. Johnson [Claire M. Johnson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Level Best Books
Published: 2024-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

When I woke up the next morning, Ma was sitting on the edge of my bed with her eyes closed, one hand on my ankle and the other holding a rosary.

“Ma,” I croaked. “How’s Nick?”

She opened her eyes. “Had a bit of a rough night, but Al and Herman handled him. That Herman. What a nice young man. The doctor gave Nick a shot to calm him down. He’s fine now. The doctors here told me that you escaped with only minor burns. How are your hands?”

I flexed them a couple of times. Sore, but manageable. “I’m fine.” I held them up for her inspection, although they looked twice as big as normal because of the bandages. “They look worse than they feel. How’s Catherine?”

“Who’s Catherine?”

“The woman in the bed next to me. Catherine Washington.”

Catherine was propped up, sipping what looked like weak tea.

“Catherine, this is my mother, Kitty Laurent. Are you okay?” I asked her.

She nodded. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Laurent. Seems like someone nearly broke my jaw last night, and that same someone gave me a bruise on my arm that goes from my shoulder to my elbow. Thanks. You saved my life.” She began to cough. When she’d finished, she said, “They’re going to keep me here for a day or so. My boat?”

I shook my head. “A goner, I’m afraid.”

“What about the other boats?” She sat forward, concerned.

“They’re all fine. Those closest to you managed to sail out. Being berthed on the end helped.”

She sat back in bed. “Thank God. What happened?”

I had a good idea.

“I’m still piecing it together. I’ll tell you about it later.” I glanced at my mother for the briefest second as if to say, not in front of my mother. She nodded. “Ma, how did you know I was here?”

“Charlie called me.”

At that moment, Charlie walked up with a bouquet of roses in his hand.

“How are you doing?” he asked, his forehead puckered with worry.

“Great. More or less. Only superficial burns.” I held up my hands.

He handed the roses to my mother. “Your hands. Ouch.”

“They’re fine. I love roses. Thanks.” I turned to my mother. “Can we go home, Ma? I’m starving.”

“When Maggie’s starving, all’s right in the world,” said my mother. She squeezed my ankle and then slipped her rosary into her coat pocket. “They gave me some salve for your hands. How about we head home for breakfast with lots of pancakes and bacon and a day of doing nothing?”

There was no point in protesting. I didn’t even try. I said goodbye to Catherine and told her I’d visit her tomorrow. Ma had brought me some clothes and a pair of shoes. With my hands bandaged up to the size of catchers’ mitts, I couldn’t manage the buttons on my blouse. She had to help me get dressed. I tried not to care that my best suit and shoes—the ones I’d just paid to have resoled—had gone up in flames.

As Charlie drove us back to 9th Avenue, he told me what had happened after I’d left the church pursuing Catherine.

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