Free FIRE AND FOG by Unknown Page A

perfectly proper, presentable, available woman of the
right age. Also narrow-minded and not overly bright, which
apparently did not bother him as much as it did me. At any rate, I
could not send an angry communication. I couldn't hurt Father any
more than I already had by leaving, and besides, I might still find
it necessary to return to Boston.
    I sighed, and pulled the auto over to the side of the street. I
had to decide where I was going, to the telegraph office or to the
aid station in Golden Gate Park. No doubt some of my ill temper was
due to the fact that I'd sat up all night in order to wake Alice
every two hours-thank goodness that was over! Except for a mark on
her forehead that looked like a relief map of Africa in shades of
purple, Alice was fine, certainly better rested than I. I had
returned to my room at the Presidio this morning only to change
clothes, and had found the telegram pushed under the door with a
handwritten inquiry attached: Is this for you? If not, return to
the Adjutant. The telegram was dated the twenty-first, which
was Saturday, and now it was Monday. Father would be anxious for a
reply.
    I was caught in a quandary. Driving Michael's Maxwell for the
Red Cross gave me the illusion of both freedom and employment.
Living in Michael's room gave me the illusion of security. I
blinked at a sudden ache behind my eyes, or perhaps the ache was in
my heart, for the reality was quite different from the illusion.
All I really had was some clothes and a typewriter and, when they
finally got around to opening the banks again, a little money. Very
little. But the tents in Golden Gate Park were free, and for the
present there was a good bit of free food about; if I were very
careful with my money, I might find some small hole in the wall
that would do for a new office. . . .
    I drove to the telegraph office and sent my message:
    dear father stop do not worry am fine for now stop am needed
here stop will write soon stop love fremont.
    The telegram took the last of my pocket money.
    Nurse Bartlett started to fuss at me for being late but I
interrupted her. "I need your help, if you would be so kind."
    "Bless you, dear, after all you've done, of course I will.
What's the problem?"
    "I'd be grateful if you could find me a tent space."
    "I thought you had a place to live?"
    "I do, but it isn't really mine. The Maxwell isn't mine,
either-but you know that. Both my room and the auto belong to
Michael Archer."
    "I remember him." Bartlett nodded her wrinkled head. "Drove for
us that first awful day and night-seems years ago, doesn't it?-then
turned the job over to you. Good worker. What happened to him?"
    "He had to go to Monterey, on business."
    "Coming back, is he, and wants his room?"
    "No, I haven't heard from him. This is rather hard to explain,
Mrs. Bartlett. I don't belong at the Presidio, and I'm not
comfortable there."
    She snorted. "You wouldn't be too comfortable in a tent, either!
I know, I'm in one myself."
    "I don't mean physical comfort, what I mean is that I want to
get my own life going again. Not that I know exactly how I'm going
to do that. But-"
    "I understand. We all feel that way. Don't you have family you
could go to?"
    Not wanting to explain about Father and all that, I merely shook
my head.
    "Well, for heaven's sake! I wouldn't have dreamed-"
    "Mrs. Bartlett, I thought if I had a space in a tent here, I
would at least feel that I had my own place to live. I'll continue
to drive for you as long as you need me, but when I can get my
money from the bank I should try to start up my business
again."
    She put a bony arm around my shoulders and her head close to
mine. "You know, we make assumptions about people without realizing
it, and I just assumed you were a well-off young woman with more
common sense than most, helping us out until you could go back to
your life of social activities and little luncheons and nights at
the opera and so forth."
    I smiled; it was a good description of the kind of life