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“Dead,” Marla said.
“Your hand, or another’s?”
“Mine.”
“You killed the Celestial?”
“No,” Marla said.
The Possible Witch whistled. “You’ve got more problems ahead than you know, then,
but no matter, no matter. Hmm. Who won the World Series last year?”
Marla looked at her blankly, but B spoke up, naming a team Marla had heard of,
vaguely. She didn’t follow sports.
“They win often,” the witch said. “That’s not a lot of help. I know who’s president,
more’s the pity, lots of burned-out cinders in those futures. Moving on, let’s see. Which
Cliff House is standing now? The second or third?”
“Third,” B said.
“Did the second fall in fire or earthquake?”
“Um…fire, I think,” B said.
“Sutro baths are gone?”
“Yes,” B said.
“Alcatraz is a tourist attraction? Treasure Island exists?”
“Yes, and yes.”
“Beautiful City or grid?”
“I don’t understand the question,” B said.
“San Francisco!” the witch said, leaning forward in her chair, still clutching the arms.
“After the fire of 1906, was the city rebuilt according to the Burnham Plan, with streets
and avenues following the curves of the hills, the ridges topped with lovely towers, and
neoclassical public buildings placed artfully throughout the peninsula? Or was it rebuilt
hurriedly, with streets thrown down across the hills in a grid, just like before?”
“The latter, I’m sure,” B said. “There’s nothing graceful about the streets downtown.”
“Are passenger pigeons entirely, or only mostly, extinct?”
“Entirely,” Marla said.