by Amy Craig
The class ended at one o’clock and Cynthia clapped her hands for attention. “I’m going to grab lunch at one of the food trucks. Feel free to stick around if you have any unanswered questions.”
Wylie glanced out of the studio windows and wondered if the Modesto food truck was waiting. Relief and disappointment washed through her system when she stepped outside and realized Nolan’s truck was not among the old bread trucks and renovated airstream trailers idling in the parking lot.
“Did you find a place to rent?” Cynthia asked. She stopped alongside Wylie. “I thought of a friend I could ask for you.”
“I did find something,” Wylie said, determined to be polite and avoid generating any animosity in the woman she had paid to qualify her as a yoga instructor. “I think it’s going to work out.”
“One of the other class members said she saw you working at a bar called the Social Club.” She scanned Wylie’s color-coordinated ensemble and raised her eyebrows, as though the class pet had revealed exactly what Wylie had worn for her shift at the bar. “I didn’t realize you were that hard up.”
Take it in stride, Wylie told herself as she smiled. “Just helping out a friend. My ex-boyfriend owns the bar.”
The woman’s eyes widened, straining the limits of the maintenance injections keeping her face preternaturally young and Zen. “What’s he doing out in the Westside? That’s very”—she waved her hand—“avant-garde.”
Wylie ignored the woman’s disbelief and smiled with the innocence of a lamb. Cynthia’s predilection for post-collegiate vendors and salt-and-pepper stunners kept her firmly anchored near the laidback lifestyle of the coast. “Do you want me to get you on the list?”
The woman blinked. “That’s not my kind of place.”
“Then why did you ask me about it?”
She was speechless for a moment but recovered with time-honed skills. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t rifling through the lost-and-found bin. I know what it’s like to feel a bit desperate.”
Were you too distracted to empathize the first time I told you I needed a place to live? Wylie smiled and thought of the stocked refrigerator and hillside views that had replaced the cramped conditions of her SUV. I’m not on the street anymore, but I’m not that far from feeling desperate. I’m not lost, but nowhere near found. The reality of the admissions softened her response. “Thanks for looking out for me, Cynthia. I appreciate it.”
The woman fluffed her hair and waved at a group of men striding out of a two-story office building. “No problem,” she said, but her gaze remained fixed on the swarm of office workers wearing chinos and business casual. The door opened once again and a smaller group exited the building. Cynthia smiled and zeroed in on a salt-and-pepper stunner wearing a vibrant Hawaiian shirt. She grasped his arms and kissed both his cheeks while the remainder of his group shifted and frowned, mouths open as they tabled their conversations until she released her prey.
I doubt she met him in the yoga studio. He probably owns the building.
She felt uncharitable and considered her options for the remainder of the afternoon. She had a beachside class to teach the next morning, but the benefits of her new hillside home eliminated the litany of errands that would have filled her afternoon. She brought a copy of her lease to the parking office, applied for a residential permit and sat in the parking lot to fill out the Post Office’s online change-of-address form.
Once she’d submitted it, she looked up and scanned the southern California street. Maybe I should go back to the library and check out a book. She thought of the people sleeping on the library’s benches and wondered what Penny Lane had chosen to do with her day. Would Nolan have offered her the room?
She called her parents on the way back to the house and omitted the part of the story where Dottie had unceremoniously kicked her out of the apartment. “So this new house has a ton of features and six bedrooms. You’d love the view,” she said.
Her mother let the comment hang between them. “But it’s so far from the beach and your job.”
Wylie listened as her mother knocked a wooden spoon against a ceramic bowl, the beat as steady and predictable as the rhythm of a metronome. She remembered the foggy tradition of muffin mix on Saturday mornings, her mom cradling a bowl of dough while she reviewed her list of errands and Wylie’s scheduled activity. What time did she get up each morning to beat my alarm clock? It shouldn’t matter if I thought the dehydrated blueberries tasted like bits of sand and sweet jelly. I should just be happy she made the muffins in the first place. The distance between their present locations overrode her feelings about her have-it-all childhood. She probably uses fresh blueberries in Oregon.
“Are you sure it was a good move? What about the commute?”
“Minimal,” Wylie said. “I’m just higher up.”
“Well, that’s one way to get ahead.”
A moment of silence stretched between them and their conversation veered toward family gossip and the intricacies of life in Oregon. “We’re thinking about buying a house. The lack of sales tax has been nice for our daily living expenses, but your father’s running the numbers to see if we can swing property taxes. Wouldn’t it be nice to have somewhere permanent?”
“What kind of house?” Wylie asked. Her mother gave her the address and she pulled up the listing for a contemporary home they never could have afforded in California. They’ve earned peace of mind and shaded luxury. What was the point of all those sixty-hour workweeks if they weren’t going to pay off?
“A cute little cottage with a spare bedroom for you,” her mother added. “We hope you’ll come visit when your yoga empire allows you the freedom to take a vacation.”
Wylie smiled at the open invitation and parallel parked on the street, remembering to turn her wheels toward the curb in case the vehicle’s brakes failed. “‘Empire’ might be an exaggeration.”
Her unspoken words stopped the rhythmic sound of her mother’s wooden spoon.
“I’m sure you’ll find something nice for the two of you,” she added to fill the silence.
“You can always come home.”
Wylie glanced over her shoulder and focused on the allure of the wide Pacific. Antonia’s preference for warm weather resonated and she had a hard time imagining the whales migrating between Alaska and the Baja peninsula. “I appreciate it, Mom, but I’m doing all right on my own.” The lie tasted like a bitter pill, but Wylie refused to let her parents know that the balance in her bank account hovered near the hundred-dollar mark. “I think the weather down here is better for my asthma.”
“But the air is so clean up here,” her mother said. “The rain positively refreshes it!”
Wylie tried not to sigh. “I’m going to grab a few minutes on my own before I help out a friend with a food truck.”
“Oh, I just love food trucks,” her mother said. “So innovative.”
Wylie smiled. Just like those sandals with contoured cork and rubber footbeds. They’ve been around forever, but people try them out and think they’ve discovered a new trend. “I think he’s going for dependability before innovation. He’s not the first person to power up a food truck.”
“You should invite Dottie and the kids she nannies.”
The smile fell from Wylie’s face. “That’s an idea, but we ended on bad terms.”
“What happened? You always get along with everyone.”
Wylie sighed. Sometimes it’s better to move on from mistakes instead of reliving them. She scrunched her hair and resolved to take a shower before class. “She wanted her cousin to move in.”
“Well, that’s understandable.”
Wylie stared at the phone.
“Either way,” her mother said, “you’re in a better place.”
“I am.”
“And that’s all your father and I want for you—happiness and forward movement.”
Am I happy? Wylie asked herself. I’m no closer to healthcare and benefits. “Thanks, Mom,” she said
. She tensed, waiting to see if the deflection worked.
“Of course.” Then her mother chatted for a few minutes, sounding as happy as a lark surrounded by evergreen trees, gray-haired hippies and adorable homes.
* * * *
By the time Wylie got off the phone and had demolished a helping of noodles, she realized she was the only roommate in the house. She decided to swap her sweaty workout gear for a swimsuit, took off her top and considered going skinny dipping. Then the doorbell rang. What the hell? Beyond a set of double doors with frosted glass panels, two shadowy forms waited outside the home. She pulled her top back on. Don’t they have a sign that says ‘no soliciting’? She charged toward the door, intent on chastising away Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons or a pair of Boy Scouts with popcorn to sell.
“Don’t you know people”—she realized an elderly couple wearing track suits stood on the front steps—“love to have unexpected visitors?”
The man laughed and held out his hand. His clear eyes and clean-shaven cheeks looked sharp, but his shoulder stooped with age and the compression of a lifetime of worries. “We’re Patricia and Jonathan Abramowitz, but please call us Patty and John. We live just up the street,” he said.
Patty nodded. “The one with all the fountains in the front yard.”
Wylie nodded, unwilling to admit that her new situation felt strange enough to occupy her curiosity and keep her from considering who else lived on the street. She smiled at the older woman, amused by the visible makeup line below her jaw. Who bothers to wear foundation anymore? Determined not to look out of place, she shook both their hands and recalled Antonia’s explanation of her role in the commune. ‘Neighborhood relations,’ the woman had said. ‘We need someone to go to the community meetings and stay abreast of any council changes or code amendments.’ Well, it looks like the council came to us.
Mr. and Mrs. Abramowitz stared at her.
She took a deep breath and stepped back, gesturing for the couple to enter the home she barely knew. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Come right on in!”
The man gestured for his wife to precede him. She stepped into the living room and stopped in her tracks. “Oh, it’s lovely. We haven’t been inside since they finished construction.”
“Just a minute,” Wylie said. She retrieved her shirt and moved her dishes to the sink to buy time. Where do I seat these people? She eyed the couches in the living room, the stools at the kitchen island, the formality of the dining room chairs and the large sliding glass doors leading to the outdoor loungers. The number of options overwhelmed her before she recalled Nolan’s comment about seamless indoor-outdoor entertaining. She eyed the doors to the pool and asked the older couple, “Would you like to sit outside?”
“That sounds nice,” Patty said.
Wylie nodded, relieved to have a task to occupy her hands while she decided on the best way to handle her new role as the household director of neighborhood relations. “Would you like a glass of wine? When I get these doors open”—she shoved at the handle and almost lost her balance when the door slid along the smooth track—“the pool decking is like an extension of the room.”
The husband and wife team looked at each other and shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
Ten minutes later, the older couple was occupying patio chairs and Wylie had located wine glasses, grapes and chardonnay. She had even remembered to put her shirt back on. “So what brings you over?” she asked the relaxed retirees.
“We have a meeting with Nolan at three o’clock.”
Wylie checked her phone. The clock read three fifteen and she frowned. “I wouldn’t expect Nolan to be this late.”
John raised his eyebrows. “Have you known each other long?”
Is forty-eight hours long? Wylie tucked her hair behind her ears. “I just moved into the house.”
The older couple exchanged glances. “Oh, are you a tech entrepreneur as well?”
A laugh bubbled out of Wylie’s mouth and she clasped her hand over her lips to stifle the sound. “Not quite. I teach yoga.” To fill the space in their conversation, she rambled about her freelance classes and the appeal of the beach locale. “Every other morning, we meet near the lifeguard tower in front of the rental stand. I have about ten regular clients, but extra people tend to drop in for occasional classes. It’s decidedly low-tech.”
“It must be hard to manage their different levels of expertise,” Patty said.
Wylie popped a grape into her mouth and wondered what type of exercise had reigned during Patty’s lifetime. She imagined the leg warmers of the 1980s and subtracted a few decades until she settled on home economics or group calisthenics. “Oh, I just modify the poses to give them the best workout possible. Even my regulars have different skillsets.” She replayed the example of the man falling over at her last class and smiled. “I mean, take Price. He’s one of my best customers, but I never know what state he’ll be in.”
“Is that Price Ross?” Patty asked.
Wylie nodded, relieved she had decided not to mention the time the man had shown up so high that he’d laughed through the entire session. “Do you know him?”
“He’s our accountant,” the older woman said. She looked at her husband and shook her head, a soft laugh suggesting the couple shared more than one memory of their wayward accountant’s antics. “He told us the same story this morning.”
“No way!” Wylie sipped her wine and wondered about the extent of Price’s impromptu news service. “He must collect a lot of stories in his line of business.”
John raised his bushy eyebrows. “He’s not exempt from the stories.” The man looked at his wife and buffered his obviously knowing statement with a kind smile. “But he does a decent job of keeping our accounts balanced and Patty likes him.”
Wylie wondered how much John’s demeanor had changed as he’d aged out of his professional obligations and assumed caregiving responsibilities. Then he told her about the time Price had bungled their property taxes and triggered an IRS audit. Her speculation dissolved into laughter. “Did you freak out?”
The older man frowned. “Freak out may not be the right description,” he said as he explained how the couple had untangled the IRS auditor’s administrative scrutiny. “I know Price owned up to his mistake, but the whole affair left me feeling frustrated. Too many people hear our last name and our address, make assumptions and double their scrutiny. They see Jews in Hollywood like a 1980s caricature of greed. I try not to draw attention to our wealth in the first place.”
“Well, that’s not fair,” Wylie said. “I mean, that cultural moment was, like, forty years ago.”
Patty laughed. “Forty years is a blip when you’re staring down your ninetieth birthday and diagramming the family tree for nieces and nephews who know you’ll soon be gone.”
Wylie nodded, struggling not to touch on the woman’s death. She thought about her family’s approach to age and diversity across the generations. Both sets of grandparents had lived far enough away to reduce their relationship to holiday cards and awkward phone calls, but her parents had shrugged their shoulders when the school had prompted her to discuss issues of race, ethnicity and religion. They were just liberal west-coast workers doing their best to have it all, but then again, it’s not like ‘Winidad’ carries any cultural associations. “Have you lived here your whole lives?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation back to common ground.
“I moved here when we got married,” Patty said. “John’s lived here his whole life.”
“Where did you grow up?” she asked. Look at me, making small talk.
“Sonoma.”
She laughed. “So, still California.”
The woman’s gaze softened. “Well, it felt like a big move to me at the time. I felt like an outlier when I landed down here and realized having children wasn’t going to be as easy as I expected.” She sipped her wine. “Are the politicians still threatening to separate California into two separate states? Some things never change
.”
“I’m not sure,” Wylie said. “I generally stay out of politics.”
“That’s a mistake.” John resettled his frame in the outdoor chair. “You can’t sit on the sidelines and wait until it affects you. You might find yourself playing catch-up if you wait until you’re passionate.”
I heard ‘Abramowitz’ and just filed away their last name as a historical quirk. Does the stereotype of a 1980s Hollywood Jew still resonate in pop culture? Surely that’s not why they got audited. Didn’t most people my age disavow anti-Semitism and genocide at the same time that they got over religion? She swallowed, trying not to put her foot in her mouth and make assumptions about the couple’s stances on Israel or the politics of tax cuts. Reform movements, immigration and human needs seemed equally fraught. “So you never had kids?”
Patty shook her head. “Tried and tried, but it never worked out like we planned. Nolan’s parents lived on this lot before they separated and his mom built her new house on the other side of town. He used to wander up the hill to see me once or twice a week. It took some of the sting out of never having kids of our own.”
I should have stayed with religion. I’m so glad my parents stuck with their marriage, but divorce can be hard. Is that why Nolan came back to this house after someone bought his childhood home? He had good memories of living up here? She thought of him as a little boy with laughing green eyes and round cheeks. “I can see him coming to visit you. He has a knack for making friends and I’m sure ten-year-old Nolan also had a sweet tooth.”
“He was a good kid,” Patty said, “and you’re right. I always had cookies.”
John shook his head. “Doesn’t mean Nolan should be squandering his time the way he does.” He turned to look at Wylie and tapped the table. “You’re both chasing careers I would never have considered when I was a young man.”
Patty reached for her husband’s arm and stayed his rhythmic motion. “Dear, I grew up learning to cook, lighting Shabbat candles and preparing to run a beautiful Jewish home. If I’d let my youth define me, I’d still be worried about brisket and having the Rabbi to our home for Rosh Hashanah dinner. It’s a whole new world for Nolan and Wylie. I’m glad they’re trying to figure it out.”
