by Chip Jacobs
“At least you’re switching it up. Normally you treat me as invisible. Every time I’ve waved when you’re in Lilly’s parlor, you either ignore me or draw the curtains.”
“It’s not out of,” Jules paused, briefly fleeing into the cubbyholes of her own head, where she seemed to do most of her living, “out of malice.”
“Whatever the rationale, I don’t deserve it,” Nick said sharply. His headache was ebbing.
“I had my reasons. I’m not gregarious like you, unrestrained in opinions. I’m an inward soul. You don’t know me.”
Big deal, her cheekbones could best any Rose princess’s. “Nor you I. If you believe I wanted to spend a Sunday driving around with someone who literally fell asleep to my narration, you got another thing coming.”
Jules stopped kneading Royo’s keister. “I regret my indifference that day. I’d barely slept the night before. Since then, I’ve revised my impression of you.”
“Yeah, downward.”
“No, that’s not accurate. There’s a minor chivalry to you. When you bother to tame that cowlick, some girls might even say you’re reasonably attractive.”
Some girls? Dopamine butterflies executed loop-de-loops inside him. They throttled back, recalling how she treated him at Lilly’s gala. “Cow? That rings a bell,” he said sarcastically. “I’m going to move over there to the stone wall; it wouldn’t be a trip to Mount Lowe for me without peeking over the edge of the horizon.”
Nick left the bench, sitting down on the rampart paralleling the embankment; she followed. Royo walked over next, lying in the dusty gap between them with a sigh.
“Because you must think me a closed book, I’ll share this about that night at the Hotel Green. I was ungracious to you not only because that vile animal frightened me. It was because I failed to extricate myself from a pinch, and I detested that. I apologize.”
Nick swung his legs over the bank side to side. “So what’s a closed book doing concealed in the shrubbery? You could’ve descended the mountain without me knowing you were present.”
In the seconds before Jules responded, a zephyr kicked up a dust devil and quivered the branches of oaks spaced out along the rampart.
“Curiosity, I suppose. You may be nettled at me now, but I was infuriated at how you leered at me at Mr. Mercereau’s memorial service, Nick. You were mentally unbuttoning my corset without knowing anything about me. Don’t try refuting it. When men objectify women for their lustful fantasies, especially while denying us rights, I could scream.”
“I’m not denying you anything,” Nick said. “And regrets for thinking you’re pretty.”
Jules carried on. “As I said, I’ve softened my viewpoint. You’re neither a pervert nor a glad-hander.”
“Lord, help me,” Nick said, grasping his chest in mock agony. “I’ve been buck-shot with faint praise.”
Jules stroked her chin, returning to the citadel of her mind; life taught her not to give too much of herself away. “Please understand how protective I am of Lilly. She’s more delicate than you realize. I needed to ensure you weren’t manipulating her to further your aspirations.”
Nick, typically composed, almost blew his stack. “Manipulate? Who do you think you are?”
“Someone who’s learning. Just listen and you’ll see. A few Saturdays ago, I watched you perform your ostrich act from Mrs. Bang’s kitchen window.”
“Mrs. Bang’s?”
“Yes, I was in there plating cookies that I’d brought over from Lilly’s for the children. That’s where I heard that little girl with leukemia, you know, Edna Hollister, becoming hysterical in another room. Her parents had just informed her that she didn’t have much longer. Anyway, she was outside later with the others, staring out despondently, while you rode your bird. After the show was over, you tried coaxing her to smile. You made Royo chew gum for her and do his somersault trick. He almost rolled down the hill.”
“I recall,” he said. “But I had no idea the boom was just lowered on her.”
“I know. And I’ll never forget what I witnessed next. When she began sobbing, you directed Royo to her, and Edna buried her face into his neck. I was myself watching that gut-wrenching scene from the window. Royo laid his paw on her shoulder as though he was consoling her.”
“Yeah, it was poignant. That dog’s got a sixth sense.” Nick’s outrage was abating.
“You two ventured to the gardens to cheer yourselves up after Edna went inside. First, you played hide and seek around the gnomes. Later, you accused Royo of licking your side of the ice cream you were splitting. I told Lilly, and she remarked you two behave like kindred brothers do.”
Nick scrunched his face. “How were you aware of our silliness down there? Were you in cloak-and-dagger mode like today?”
Jules glanced around. “Yes, I’m ashamed to say. I spied on you from behind the Three Little Pigs House.”
Nick wasn’t sure whether to feel gooey-warm or alarmed. He stayed neutral. “Since the snowstorm postponed my last ostrich rodeo, I’m developing a new trick, a semi-handstand that will have Edna giggling. I’ve always heard that’s potent medicine.”
Jules looked up and exhaled. “Oh, Nick. Edna died that same night. Mrs. Bang requested the Busches subsidize the funeral. Her parents are destitute after the bills.”
The news hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. He picked up a small branch, cracked it over his knee, and chucked it over the embankment. “Nobody told me. She was, gosh, the same age as my little helper, Reginald. It’s not right.”
“It’s not. But, there’s something else you should know. Mrs. Bang confided to me that Edna didn’t tremble in bed her final night. Edna told her that when Royo set his paw on her, she saw in her mind a carnival full of everything she loved. Rides. Popcorn. Games. She was convinced that’s where she was headed hours before she passed away.”
For the first time, Nick saw Jules stricken with emotion. She wiped a tear and dropped her head. Mourning too, he fell backward onto the dirt, angry and sad. Royo went over to lick his face, and returned to lying between them.
“I need to leave,” he said sitting up. “This was supposed to be a relaxing afternoon, and it’s contorted into a very black one.”
Nick expected her to bid him goodbye, but instead, she swung her own legs over the rampart. “My watch,” she said in that strong, feminine voice, “says we still have an hour before the next train departs.”
Nick puffed air out of his cheeks in the piney air. Somewhere above them was the shriek of a circling hawk, which he’d rather go away, and the delirious scream of a hiker over the hill.
“Strawberry. Anne Brontë. Beagles.”
Nick, picturing Edna’s sunken eyes, said: “Excuse me? Am I supposed to decipher that?”
“Only if you wish. I wanted you to know a few of my affinities, so I listed my favorite ice cream, author, and dog breed. Jules Cumbersmith, making your acquaintance.”
Either she feels sorry for you or she’s flirting. “Okeydoke,” he said cautiously. “Chocolate swirl, Mark Twain—and peculiar half breeds.”
“Prime relaxation?” Jules asked, unveiling those darling eyeteeth.
“Admiring the Colorado Street Bridge from Busch Gardens, what else?”
“You and that bridge. I prefer a late-night bubble bath and a lavender candle.”
Jules’s “favorite things game” cycled through several rounds. They proceeded to give abridged backgrounds of themselves next, omitting anything sensitive. Jules did describe a girlhood trip to the Chicago World’s Fair, where she’d watched horses run on a pre-nickelodeon zoopraxiscope, imitating their galloping legs with her fingers. Nick enjoyed that: he was cannibalizing part of a nickelodeon for another of his gizmos.
As Jules pealed back more about herself, Nick wasn’t sure if what he was sensing was chemistry or unilateral infatuation.
/> They returned in the gloaming to the Alpine Tavern, which was rowdier now that liquor flowed and a brass band played. One of Mount Lowe’s open secrets was that it turned a blind eye to alcohol and extramarital hanky-panky discouraged in public in Pasadena proper. Whispers of religious cults performing forest ceremonies were another matter.
On the tram down, the sky arranged itself in pastel striations of orange, pink, and blue; the periwinkle light that glazed the Sierra Madre was already gone. The mountain breeze had stopped too, though the evening nip had passengers bundling up inside the Red Car. Royo sat between them on the backbench as the trolley rounded canyons and past spooky caves you wouldn’t want to hang around at night. There wasn’t much conversation.
Halfway back to the Lake Avenue depot, Nick mentioned how “starved” he was in a coy bid for an impromptu date. “I’d trade my kingdom for meatloaf and potatoes.”
Quietly, Jules said: “I’m sorry. I need to attend to my other job.”
She’s retreating again. “A second job, besides committee work? Doing what?”
“It’s confidential,” she answered, gaze fixed on the back of a napping passenger’s head. “But for a good cause.”
Nick played her intrigue the way he now handled Chester’s superstitions: by outwardly listening and inwardly questioning. Following a sharp turn, he asked her if she’d like a stick of Wrigley’s. She waved no thanks, so he and Royo divided his last piece.
Jules said nothing until the cab abruptly jerked approaching the Echo Mountain promontory. “Did we strike something?” she asked, whites of her eyes protruding.
“Probably just a branch; nothing to worry about. The trams sport metal bumpers to sweep debris away. Mr. Lowe thought of everything.” Impulsively, he reached his hand over Royo and briefly rested it on one of hers. Head still focused ahead, Jules withdrew it. “That was a comfort pat,” he said lamely.
At every landmark the mountain Red Car passed—at Granite Gate, the vertigo turns at Circular Bridge and Horseshoe Curve—Nick tried thinking about anything except the living nesting doll beside him. Imagining an April Fool’s Day trick on Fleet, something maybe involving his toothpaste, chewed minutes. It wasn’t until they’d transitioned to the funicular that Jules initiated conversation. Nick’s self-diversion by then was exploring the imbecility of a solar inventor like him almost flambéing an eyeball with a rickety telescope.
“I don’t want you cultivating the wrong impression of me,” she said. “I’m not like the other eligible girls in your town. Status—a husband, a full wardrobe, a gabled roof—is inconsequential to me. If I could afford it, I’d join the suffragette movement full time. Also, I’ve heard things about you.”
“About me?” Don’t let it be the parrots. “Such as?”
“Your reputation as a Romeo, and as a fair-haired sort able to get away with mischief. Lilly divulged a little about your previous employment. Parenthetically, you should avoid working retail. Please understand: what I’m aspiring to doesn’t wear pants.”
Descending Mount Lowe’s Great Incline, on a glorified sleigh full of strangers, was an odd spot for her to open up. Then again, she was odd. “Hey,” he said. “You don’t need to justify anything. I’d scarcely heard you complete full sentences before today. And I’m aware my mouth can runneth over when I’m antsy or yammering about Pasadena. I will concede this at my own peril, Jules. When we were exchanging the things we adored up there, I experienced something unique, something I have yet to with anybody else. Like there was—helium in my veins.”
In his head, it took her longer to respond to that than it took Mrs. Grover Cleveland to work a large orange down her skinny throat. By the time she spoke, they’d shifted from the funicular to the tram for the journey’s final leg. “I cannot deny harboring a flame of interest in you, either, and you’re certainly not my usual type,” she said, lake-deep eyes beaming at him.
“You do,” he said, trying to keep his fanny on the seat.
“Yes. Definitely. But if we pursue a courtship, you just must tread at a pace amenable to me. Should that be off-putting, let’s just strive to be friends. You also must agree to not besiege me with questions that I’m currently unprepared to answer, notably about my schedule. I recognize that must sound bizarre.”
“Am I allowed any levity about heifers?”
“I’ll mull that,” she said, smile lines twitching. “One last condition. Address that cowlick. It reminds me of a baby antler.”
Nick ruffled Royo’s ears. “You hear that, boy? Keep your teeth off my comb.”
Jules brushed her pinkie over his for a thrilling second.
Minutes later, they stood on the Lake Street platform, in the dark of that revelatory Sunday evening, preparing to depart their separate ways.
“Before you go,” Nick said, “I need to ask you something.”
Jules sighed. “Remember, no incessant questions?”
“Not about you, about Edna. Do you believe,” he said, modulating his voice, “honestly, that she glimpsed the beyond? It must’ve been a delusion, right, from a child terrified of her casket? Morphine, if she was on that, could’ve been responsible, too.” He peered down at Royo, who was busy sniffing passengers’ cuffs as they strode past. “Royo’s no miracle worker. He doesn’t turn water into wine. He turns furniture legs into kindling.”
Jules deliberated before answering, as was her custom. “It well may have been an illusion, or medicine, or both. Our speculation isn’t paramount, though. It’s what Edna believed in her mind’s eye.”
Nick nodded. “Suppose so. By the way, and this isn’t meant as a probing question: do you own Epsom salts?”
“No. Why?”
“Those red welts on your right hand are definitely poison oak.”
Devil’s Gate Dalliances
The next months were the best of his life, one long, proverbial lick from a chocolate-swirl cone. Walking the trail toward the bridge every morning, Nick stopped to blow on dandelions to watch their fluff helicopter over the goldenrod. He grinned hearing trolley bells and whistled on the toilet. Everything he did, whether buying potato chips hot off the cart from E. L. Daughtery’s Relish Factory on Union Street or mounting another solar lamp in the Arroyo, was zesty. It was as if he were the lead in his own happily-ever-after.
Their maiden date was a stroll down Colorado Street, where they lingered in Vroman’s new fiction arrivals. The following weekend they took the Red Car to the Long Beach Pike, an amusement park on a pier, to munch saltwater taffy and slam bumper cars.
On the ride home, Jules, unprompted, peeled back another layer, saying, “You know, I really shouldn’t be here.”
“On this train, with me?” he asked deadpan.
“No, in Pasadena. This was never the destination where I intended to relocate. That was Seattle.”
Jules revealed before that an “abysmal personal situation” precipitated her departure from Illinois, but she reminded him not to “interrogate” her about it. And he didn’t. “So why aren’t you up there now, living in the rain with the fishmongers?”
“Happenstance.”
She said that it was somewhere between the point her locomotive crossed the Rocky Mountains in Colorado and its northwest bend toward Washington state that she realized her train was steaming in the wrong direction. “I was of the conviction to stage a one-woman protest against the incompetent railroad that issued me an incorrect ticket. It read Seattle when we departed, I promise you. When the conductor scrutinized it, it said Pasadena. Regardless, I planned to switch trains in San Francisco. But, a mental birdie spoke to me as I collected my bags.”
“A birdie? What did it tweet?”
“That fate could be interceding, regardless of who bungled the ticket. I decided six months in your blue-sky city would be adequate to gauge if the birdie was right.”
“I’m glad you did,” Nick said,
unwrapping a piece of strawberry taffy. “Though I believe fate is a product of what we design.”
Sometime later, after letting what she disclosed settle, he said, “Incidentally, if Lilly tries foisting marzipan on you, decline. It tastes like armpit.”
Their date after Jules’s bombshell admission was dinner at the Japanese teriyaki house where Nick had banked a tofu cube off Fleet’s forehead on the night Fleet met Hattie. Over green-tea ice cream now, Nick confessed to inadvertently releasing the parrots responsible for those Amazonian-jungle squawks over western Pasadena.
“You?” Jules said, chuckling. “You? You’re the one responsible for the commotion Lilly’s girlfriends grumble are robbing them of their beauty sleep. I cannot believe it: I’m being romanced by an outlaw” (not that Jules wasn’t one herself).
“Only partially,” Nick said. “Others have feathers on their hands, too.”
After that, Nick opened up further. He told her about how the coot heaved his knife at him, likely as a warning shot, and how he met Royo that smoky day on Fair Oaks Avenue. He didn’t tell her that Royo saved his life.
Strapped between paychecks, their next after-work rendezvous was what Nick termed a “cheapskate’s picnic”: Cokes, bread, salami, and cheddar at sunset in Busch Gardens. Smitten with each other in springtime Pasadena, peanut butter would’ve sufficed. They swung hands around a shady pond and passed the Three Little Pigs House. Nick, remembering that this was where she spied on him, dubbed himself “Big, Bad Nick” and chased her with a convincing snort. His Chicago girl produced an infectious laugh.
Walking her home to Delacey Street, Nick shared something else: his lunch at Buford’s shack with Upton Sinclair, one of Jules’s favorite male authors, and the subject of a slight celebrity crush. She blitzed him with questions, particularly about why he didn’t mention this earlier. “What?” Nick asked. “I can’t contain mysteries?”
Hanging out with Fleet that evening, Nick’s goofy smile remained.
