“A friend from the Carnegie Institute knew the woman who built this cottage. She was a landscape architect at Golden Gate Park. Luckily for me, she was unusually small and, as you can see, designed everything to fit her size. I believe she was no taller than four feet. Even I can reach the kitchen counters. Not that cooking is my strong suit.” He smiled, stuck his nose into the bowl of the glass, and inhaled. “I haven’t done a thing to change it. I like it just as it is.”
“Even the ivy growing through the walls?”
“That, too.” He chuckled. “While it’s true that there are many significant reasons for living in San Francisco, the least of them is this cottage.” He motioned to the bookshelves. “After a splendid day at Treasure Island, in this chair, with my library, I can go anywhere and still feel perfectly at home. Next to living in a hacienda on the outskirts of Chichén Itzá, where I spent many fine hours with colleagues, I haven’t been happier anywhere else.”
“I’ve wondered about your work there. I have so many questions.”
He regarded her quizzically. “What do you know?”
“None of this is God’s truth, mind you.” She sat up a little straighter, stroking the nap of the fur jacket on her lap. “Only what I’ve been able to dig up.”
“Go on.”
“For starters, in ’25, Earl Morris, the field director for Carnegie, invited you to join the staff to investigate the main temple. Earlier, you had developed a brilliant skill for deciphering the ruins at Persepolis. Your interest in glyphs bordered on obsession. Word got around that you had your eye on the research being done at Chichén Itzá. That, and a reputation for geniality among archeologists and scholars, offered a winning combination for Morris to take you on.”
He pursed his lips and smiled. “Aren’t you the sleuth?”
“What’s a newspaperwoman to do when a subject is evading her every attempt to give her a story?”
Woodrow blushed. Is she flirting with me?
“You were a great success,” she continued. “After the discovery of the Temple of the Warriors and its principal altar area, you assisted in copying and translating the sculpted reliefs and murals of the inner chambers.” She stopped. “Am I sounding too academic?”
“Not at all.”
“By ’31, you had contributed significantly to the body of work in the publication The Temple of the Warriors at Chichén Itzá, Yucatán, copublished by Ann Morris and the artist Jean Chariot. This achievement sealed your authority and worldwide acclaim.”
“You make it sound so grand,” he said.
“Wasn’t it?”
“Well, yes and no. Actually, it was bloody hard work, intolerably hot and bug infested. But I loved it.”
“Tell me what you loved,” she asked. “What was it really like?”
“Are those things diametrically opposed? I suppose not.” He shook his head.
“Please. Go ahead and indulge me.”
“I’d awake to the smell of mold in the pillow under my head. When there wasn’t a moon, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. The rain coursing down through leafy canopies obliterates every sound. I’d stumble to the cottage window to try to catch the yellow glow of a jaguar’s eyes in the undergrowth, which of course I never did. They’re far smarter than to come around human activity. Then I’d light the kerosene lamp and struggle into my clothes, damp as a dishrag wrung out by a scullery maid.”
“Did you wear a pith helmet, like Sylvanus Morley?” she asked.
“Gracious, no,” he guffawed. “Surely an affectation. Most of us wore wide-brimmed canvas hats. The sun can scorch you to blisters. My canvas pants were as stiff as sails, and leather boots up to my knees. Scorpions and snakes, you know. I’d set out for a brisk walk along the slick cottage paths well before dawn. By then the cicadas were chattering like a band of mariachis. Never would I tire of the pale sight of the great cream-and-pink limestone walls rising thirty feet to timbered ceilings, the arched passageways, and the splendid expanse of red-tiled balconies. The roosters were crowing, and the Mayan cooks were setting out pots of rich, fragrant coffee and platters of eggs, mango, papaya, and tortillas, served on the veranda. We feasted like ravenous dogs. Then it was time to pack our tools, mount the horses, and hack our way through the jungle, to return to our work in the ruins.”
She sighed longingly, “I suppose I’ll never travel there.”
“It is a long journey and hardly civilized for a lady like you.”
“Is that so? You must think I’m made of glass.”
“And if I do?”
“Then I’ll have to show you otherwise.” She paused, as if to concoct a way in which she was made of heartier stuff than Woodrow presumed. “One of the things I love about the Expo is the vast number of foreign pavilions going up. So many nations will be represented that it may feel a bit like an adventure. I’m especially intrigued by the Japanese Pavilion.”
“Why is that?”
“Possibly because our Chinatown and Japantown, although less dense, are the strangest places I ever visited. Live birds squealing in cages, carcasses swinging from hooks, bent old men and women in costume, the scent of sandalwood incense, tiny pink plastic dolls that urinate into the air when you squeeze their bodies. Forbidden and at the same time exotic. By the way, do you know Tokido Okamura, Japan’s diplomatic envoy?”
“No, not personally. Why do you ask?”
“He ordered me off the site when I tried to have a look around. I found him arrogant and insufferable.”
“I’m sure there are far more interesting people to pursue,” Woodrow hastily suggested. If only she knew what I know, he thought.
“There’s something fishy about him that I can’t shake. Anyway, how will Japan favorably present its culture when it’s ransacking China? I wasn’t surprised when China declined to build a pavilion. But now that the Chinese community here has taken over that task, there may be fireworks.”
“All the fireworks will be in the sky. None of our Asian friends will want to lose face.”
“You’re right. Well, now that we’ve gotten to know each other a bit, I hope you’ll allow me to write a story about you.”
“Perhaps. Let’s save that topic for another time.”
She swirled and sipped the brandy. Silence settled around them. “I had a shock tonight.”
“Obviously. Not good news?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure I want to talk about it.”
“Of course. Whatever you wish.” Stepping first onto the stool, he extracted himself from the chair, stoked the fire, and returned. Shadows danced on the ceiling. They sat quietly, as if sealed in a cocoon.
“It’s just so unexpected, the furthest thing from my mind. Earlier, you and I and Bunny had been laughing about the preposterous notion that green aliens from Mars could have landed in New Jersey.”
He sat quietly, not laughing, watching her face.
“Have you ever been told that someone you thought was dead . . . is alive?”
He shook his head. “No, never.”
She swallowed the last of the brandy.
“Someone in your family?” He shifted slightly in the chair, continuing to hold her gaze, her eyes revealing a vulnerability that he hadn’t seen before.
“My mother.” The soft, sibilant sounds of those two words spilled from her lips. “I only remember living with my father. Well, that’s not exactly true. He put me in an orphanage. The smell of Pine-Sol to this day makes me ill.” She shuddered, passing her hand over her eyes. “Then a foster family wanted to adopt me. I was about two and a half, or maybe three. Apparently, that’s when my father’s paternal instincts kicked in. He brought me home to Guerrero Street. Back then, it was just the two of us. Aunt Jenny, who eventually told me about this, lived down the street. She was kind and soft and smelled like cinnamon. I would sit on her lap and stroke her arms, and we’d make cookies. She always wore an apron imprinted with tiny red and green apples. The wallpaper in her living room was a
pattern of pink roses tied with a green ribbon. She was the one woman I learned to trust, and when she passed away, I had no one.”
His brow knit with concern. “And your mother? You never knew her?”
“I have one memory. I saw her at the end of the hall in a fur coat that stopped above her ankles. The glow from a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling cast a halo around her dark hair. I’m not sure if we were at Aunt Jenny’s or Pa’s house. Her high heels tapped on the floor as she came toward me. Overcome with shyness, I could only look at the floor-boards until her shoes came into view. She placed her hand on my head and stroked my hair. The aroma of something sweet, like gardenias, hovered around her. When she said, ‘Lily,’ I looked up into her face. She was more lovely than anyone I had ever seen.”
“And?”
Her eyes glistened in the firelight. “That’s all. I don’t remember anything else. I’m not sure who told me she died or if I made it up. Children have their own way of making sense of a world they don’t understand.”
He let the minutes pass between them, not because he didn’t know how to respond, but rather because he wanted his words to give her comfort. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “I have a bit of experience in that realm, too, although not the loss you’ve suffered. I can’t imagine how difficult it was for you to grow up without a kind and loving mother or a father who protected you. The blows I endured came well after childhood.”
Silence enveloped them; the only sound came from the fire, which had burned to embers. She looked at him with such tenderness that he held his breath. “Oh, Woodrow,” she said, her voice trailing off, “we’ve both known hardship.” A wan smile glanced her lips and faded; her eyelids drooped. The glass in her hand loosened, her head rested back on the cushions, and her eyes fluttered shut.
He wanted to hold her, to stroke her cheek. He wanted to offer her a secure landing ahead, as if there were refuge beyond the profound sadness that she had endured. If her mother was alive, why hadn’t she taken Lily with her? What possible reason could she have had to abandon her? How could she have left her in the care of a father who had no decency in his heart? He was sure if he moved a fraction of an inch, the moment would be lost. He waited until her breathing was rhythmic, and when he was certain that sleep had claimed her, he slid off the chair and, one by one, slowly removed her shoes. Lifting a blanket from the edge of the sofa, he laid it over her legs, took the glass, and climbed back in the chair, and he, too, closed his eyes.
CHAPTER TEN
Lily
Lily filed a story about Treasure Island’s Musée Mécanique and traded shoptalk with Dudley, checked in to say hello to Gladys, and evaded Mac’s daily attempt to pinch her backside before she ducked out early. On Market Street, she boarded a swaying streetcar occupied with weary passengers bundled in overcoats. They snoozed, chatted, or rested in upright seats in stony silence, as if grateful for a respite from the day’s duties.
She found a seat next to a gentleman who was reading the Examiner. His cheeks were smooth, and he exuded a faint scent of lemony aftershave mixed with the sharp smell of newsprint ink. The paper was folded lengthwise to a single column. She glanced sideways. He was reading her story “Exposition Artisans Like Their Jobs—Building Dreams.” The stranger tipped his chin and smiled. She smiled back.
“Great coverage on TI,” he said. “A carpenter in this story talks about building a never-never land. He says in order to bolt the last panel into the top of the Tower of the Sun, his buddies had to lower him head down by his heels. Think of that!”
“You looking forward to the opening?” she asked.
“You bet. Who isn’t?”
“They’re working like gangbusters to finish. It will be spectacular.”
“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
She smiled again and stood, gripping the handrail and stepping into the aisle. “My stop is next.”
“Nice to chat,” he said.
“See you at the Expo!” she called.
Standing on the streetcar island as traffic sped by, she paused, waiting for the light to change. When it turned green, she hurried up Grove Street to the Office of Births and Deaths in City Hall. In front of a Dutch door with a small ledge, she paid fifty cents to a poker-faced clerk who didn’t make eye contact.
As the minutes ticked on in the drab hallway, she paced, her shoes echoing off the polished floors. Finally, she pulled off her gloves, chewing her cuticles until they stung, and, in disgust, drew her gloves back on.
Mercifully, the clerk reappeared. “Here you go, Miss.” He held out a sheet of onion paper. She stepped up to the window and hesitated. “Do you want it or not? I haven’t got all day.”
Wordlessly, she took it.
Outside on the street, clouds rolled by, casting shadows over the sidewalk and onto the flimsy page that she held in her hands. She tried to focus her disbelieving eyes.
PLACE OF BIRTH
City and County of San Francisco
Lane Hospital
FULL NAME OF CHILD: Lily Claire Nordby
SEX OF CHILD LEGITIMATE DATE OF BIRTH
Female Yes September 7, 1913
FATHER MOTHER
FULL NAME: Christopher Nordby Sadie Friedlander
RESIDENCE: 2865 Folsom Street 2865 Folsom Street
COLOR OR RACE: White White
AGE: 25 17
BIRTHPLACE: California Lithuania
OCCUPATION: Plumber Housewife
Her eyes fastened on her mother’s name and equally on her birthplace. Sadie Friedlander. Born in Lithuania. How could this be? Until this moment, Lily had not once heard her mother’s maiden name or birthplace spoken.
No matter how many times she repeated “Sadie Fried-lander” to herself—sometimes just “Sadie,” other times in conjunction with “Friedlander”—it was like hearing a foreign language. What ethnicity was she? Was Sadie a nickname for Sarah? Had she landed on Ellis Island, and how in the world had she gotten to California? Had her parents brought her here? Why would she have married a man eight years older than she was—a man like Lily’s father, blunted by drink, grease under his thick fingernails, and a booming laugh that assaulted the ears?
Urgency rose up in Lily and gathered momentum. There was no choice. She had to see the house on Folsom Street for herself. She ran for the bus.
NOTHING ABOUT THE broad-shouldered Victorian, adorned with handsome bay windows and rising three stories from the street, or the bold numbers 2865 emblazoned in gold on the transom above the high door, suggested her father’s hovel on Guerrero Street, where Lily had spent her girlhood. This residence suggested respectability, refinement, class, and culture. How could her father have fallen from such lofty heights? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. What she wanted, what she needed, was to find her mother. The last person she’d ask was Chris Nordby. She wouldn’t put herself in his line of fire. He’d make demands, ride her like one of his miserable, cowering dogs. The only warm-blooded creature he cared about was his parrot, Loretta, whom he paraded around on his shoulder. As for Timothy Pflueger or his aunt, she’d sooner dance naked at the Burlesque Follies than ask for their help. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask anyone, not even Maxine or the Schumans, for advice. It was enough that, only days earlier, she had confessed to Woodrow the disgrace of her family and the shame she carried.
Or she could walk away now, she reasoned, but instantly knew she could not. She walked across the street, stopped at the foot of the stairs that led to the front door of 2865, and looked up into the windows, hung in Irish lace, silent and chaste.
At the top of the stairs, she rang the brass bell: zing-zing. Its tinny echo faded. Frozen in anticipation, she rang again. Every muscle was tuned to the ragged hope that someone would come to the door. Someone who could tell her anything about her mother. Inexplicably, she recalled the forty-four-bell carillon, imported from Britain, that had been installed in the Tower of the Sun. She was in the crowd when it was
first tested. Everyone stopped in his or her tracks, heads titled backward, mouths agape. The sound rendered a celestial chorus that split the blue sky, bursting all hearts in gladness.
Here on the step, the air was dead. She pressed her nose to the cold glass of the door. Steps carpeted in scuffed, rose-patterned wool led upward. She turned and touched the cool metal mailbox affixed to the wall. The little frame that was suitable for a name card on the face of the empty mailbox was blank.
She glanced up and down the street. A beat policeman strolled by and tipped his hat. Children rode by on bicycles, hooting and calling to one another. Women, smiling and chatting in twos and threes, hurried along, cloth bags hanging off their arms. One maroon Studebaker rolled by.
On the opposite side of the block, at the corner of Twenty-Fifth Street, a black-and-white-striped awning, imprinted with block letters, read HERMAN’S MARKET. Wooden crates of red and green apples stacked under the plate glass windows marked the entry. She crossed the street, opened the door, and walked in. A bell tinkled in greeting.
At first she didn’t see anyone. The store was immaculate: a wooden floor swept clean; vegetables neatly bundled in a crisper along one wall; a glass meat-and-poultry case stocked with a meager but neatly arranged selection of raw chicken parts, stew beef, cutlets, and fish fillets. Along one aisle, Lily noticed the shelves were lined with tins of Hills Bros. coffee and Carnation canned milk, boxes of Bisquick, Quaker Oats, Jell-O, and jars of Beech-Nut baby food.
Just then a little man, wire-rimmed eyeglasses perched on the brim of his nose, appeared from a side aisle. A fringe of frizzled gray hair ringed his bald head. As he hobbled toward her, he wiped his hands on the tails of a stained white apron stretched over his belly.
“Hello,” he said. “May I help you?” Traces of an Eastern European accent thickened his speech.
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