“As sure as I can be.”
Martha frowned. “I still think she should go back.”
Now that I’d convinced myself time was passing normally on the other side of the fog, I didn’t want to go, and I didn’t want them to force me to. I had something to offer them. Information. I would parcel it out to them while trying to figure out what was really going on.
“We studied the earthquake in school,” I said. “It leveled San Francisco. The city went up in flames. It was an eight-point-something on the Richter scale.”
“The Richter scale?” asked Joseph.
“It’s a way to measure the magnitude of a quake.”
“Eight points is high?”
“It’s a monster.”
“We kept waiting for somebody to rescue us,” said Martha. “We were well known in Sonoma. We sold our produce to every restaurant and grocery store within fifty miles of the farm. Why didn’t people come looking for us?”
Joseph rubbed his temples and sank lower in his seat. I could see the depression enveloping him. Crazy or not, I had to do something.
“When I go home, I’ll get help.”
“What kind of help could you possibly get?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Who could figure out a way to get you out of the fog? A physicist?”
He gave me a skeptical look.
“Maybe a meteorologist?” I said, attempting a joke. “Look, I’m not kidding. There’s got to be a solution.” Even though part of me was still not accepting the reality of all this, I forged ahead. “What about if I got some sort of a vehicle here? We could drive you through the fog.”
“We tried that,” said Joseph. “We have a Model T. Magnusson built a compartment for it. It was airtight. It didn’t work.”
The front door opened and footsteps pattered down the hallway.
“My sister, Fancy,” said Joseph.
The woman who’d hugged me when I first arrived walked into the room. Her dark hair was cut in a pixie. She wore crimson silk pants and a green kimono top. Compared to Joseph and Martha, she looked like a circus performer.
“Is it true?” she asked Joseph. “Is it true?” she asked me, not waiting for her brother’s reply. “Are you really from 1975?”
“I am.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’ve missed everything,” she cried.
I understood what it was like to feel like life was passing you by.
“Did women finally get the right to vote?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What year?”
“Nineteen twenty, I think. Here in the States, anyway.”
“Oh goodness, it took that long, did it? I have so many questions. Is she going back? Are you going back?” She looked at me with a desolate face, handing me something folded up in a cloth napkin. “I brought you a treat. A bribe, really, to induce you to stay. Some of Elisabetta’s almond sponge cake.”
I opened the napkin. A square of golden cake was nestled into the cloth. “No inducing necessary,” I said. “I’m staying.”
I was still far from convinced it was 1906, but I wasn’t leaving without looking around a bit more.
“For the day,” clarified Martha.
“Goody!” said Fancy, clapping her hands. “There’s so much we have to talk about.”
Suddenly I was aware of how bad I must look. My shirt was smeared with mud. I smelled of Wilbur, of barnyard. I tried to smooth my hair down, untangle it with my fingers, but it was hopeless.
“You’ll want to clean up,” said Martha.
“I’d love a quick shower,” I confessed.
Martha filled two large pots with water and put them on the woodstove. “Fancy, help me with the tub. It’s in the scullery.”
The two women carried a tin tub into the kitchen. There was no such thing as a quick shower here.
“I didn’t mean for you to go to all that trouble. I’ll just wash up at the sink. Or in the bedroom,” I said, remembering the basin and pitcher.
“Nonsense,” said Martha.
She emanated calm. She was a woman who dealt with the facts. I was here. I was dirty. I needed a proper bath.
“Your clothes will have to be washed. Get her something to wear in the meantime, Fancy,” said Martha.
“You mean like a corset?” Was Martha wearing one right now? Her waist was tiny.
“I don’t wear corsets and neither should you, Lux,” said Fancy. “Constricts the lungs and the liver. Death traps. I believe in a more natural look.”
The conversation had taken a disturbingly intimate turn.
“You may find me in the parlor when you’re done,” said Joseph, disappearing.
“There is nothing natural about your look, Fancy,” said Martha.
Fancy’s brightly colored silks were definitely not the norm, but I appreciated them.
“It’s the latest style, I’ll have you know. From Shanghai,” she sniffed.
Once the water was hot, Martha poured the contents of the two pots into the tub, retrieved a towel and a cake of soap, and handed them to me.
“Martha makes the most brilliant soaps,” said Fancy.
I smelled the soap. Lavender.
Martha abruptly left the room without speaking. Had I done something wrong?
“Don’t take it personally. She’s not good with hellos and goodbyes,” said Fancy. “We are going to be friends, I just know it.” She smiled. “Would you like to know a little about me? I’m sure you’re very curious.”
She gazed at me expectantly.
“Of course,” I said.
“Well, I’ve never been married. I’ve come close. I was engaged to Albert Alderson, but I called it off at the last minute, and do you want to know why? He had horrible breath, like blue cheese. Edward, my father, was so angry. He said, ‘You’re calling off a marriage because of halitosis? Give the poor man a mint! Or breathe through your mouth.’ Yes, Father dear, I’ll breathe through my mouth for the next fifty years. Ah, poor Edward. I’m afraid both his children gravely disappointed him. Are you married, Lux?”
I hesitated. “Yes,” I lied. If she really was from an earlier era, I didn’t want to put her off.
“Really, you lucky girl! There’s nobody interesting here. What’s your husband’s name? Tell me all about him.” She leaned forward, her eyes bright.
“Oh. Well, I sort of misspoke. I was married, but I’m not anymore.”
Her face fell. I could tell what she was thinking. Was I a divorcée? To her, that was probably even worse than having a child out of wedlock.
“I’m a widow. I have been for a while. He, my husband, died years ago.”
Who knows? Maybe Nelson and I would have gotten married if he’d lived. It was another lie, but it wasn’t that much of a stretch.
“Oh, Lux, how awful.”
“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I’m so sorry. How rude of me to interrogate