From far away, I heard muffled voices.
“Probably somebody should check Cowboy. He’s been out for two nights and this is the third day.”
“Maybe he’s dead. You open the door.”
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t—all those pills.”
“Well, something worked. Wish he’d just clear out.”
I lay there, semiconscious, listening. Faintly, I heard music, laughter, the door opening.
“Hey, you. Are you ready to join the living?”
My voice was only a croak as I tried to answer. I attempted to sit up, but I seemed unable to even turn my head.
“Let’s get some food in him, and a cold shower. He looks like hell. How many of them pills did he get, anyhow?”
“Who knows? I was loaded myself.”
“Let’s get him in the shower and then drop him at the Diggers’—they’ll know what to do with him.”
“That’s a damn good idea. C’mon, Cowboy, upsy daisy.”
They half carried, half dragged me to the bathroom.
“He got the ‘tune in’ part right, but he’s sure screwed up on the ‘drop out’ part.”
“Upsy daisy? Hell, we’ll have to lift him into the tub.”
I felt the cold water hit me, then slowly cover me to the shoulders. They pulled the plug and I still hadn’t moved.
“See if he wants a drink of water.”
But I had already gone back to that dark hole.
“This guy sure don’t look so good. The cops were just here about that dude that jumped out the window. See if you can find Alfie—he hangs out over at the Diggers when he’s not at the hospital. He’ll know what to do. I’m scared this cowboy’s gonna kiss his horse good-bye. Hurry up.”
I lay semiconscious, my uncaring brain wrapped in a thick, gray fog, dimly aware of sounds and movement that filtered through my mind but didn’t connect.
“Get some blankets and let’s get him out of that tub. He’s turning blue.”
Then a voice boomed, “What the hell is going on here? What’s he doing in a tub? You’ve overdosed him and now you’re trying to drown him? Get some blankets.”
I opened my eyes to see a huge, black man bend over, put his hands under my arms and lift me to my feet. I sank to my knees, but he caught me before I hit the tile and rolled me in the blankets that suddenly appeared.
He carried me out as effortlessly as if I was a child, then sat down on the floor and leaned back against the wall, cradling most of me in his arms, rearranging the blankets.
“See if you ‘boys,’ ” his voice pausing for emphasis, “can find some clear consommé, some milk toast—maybe applesauce? See if he can keep it down. He’s dehydrated as well as poisoned. What the hell’s the matter with you idiots? What’s his name?”
“ ‘Cowboy’ is all I know.”
I drifted. I was sick with measles and Ma was holding me…the warmth of her body penetrated the blankets and it felt so good. I heard Ma’s soft voice and felt her gentle shake.
“Open your mouth, Cowboy. C’mon now—you gotta eat. I can’t hold you forever. And you gotta keep it down—no pukin’ on me. Hear me, Cowboy?”
Another shake. “You can do it—open up.”
When Ma said, “Open up,” she meant now, so I managed to open my lips and felt the spoon slide against my teeth, the fluid flow in my mouth. Instantly, my stomach rebelled.
“I told you, no pukin’.” Ma wiped my face and pushed the hair out of my eyes. “Now, let’s give it another try.”
The next spoonful stayed down and the one after that tasted good. Soon I heard the spoon clink against the empty container.
“Okay, now we’ll rest awhile, and then we’ll have the entrée,” she said. Ma never said that in her life. I didn’t know what it meant, either, but it tasted like soft-boiled eggs, all mashed up.
Well, I kept that down and went back to sleep, but not before I heard her say, “You’re doin’ great, Cowboy. Do that good with dinner and maybe these dudes won’t put you back in the tub.”
I slept a soft, dreamless sleep, my head on Ma’s shoulder as she rocked me back and forth like she did when I was a baby. I heard her hum a pretty tune I’d never heard before.
“For God’s sake, Alfie. It’s past midnight. Are you gonna sit there all night with him?”
“Nah. I’ll stay a little longer and see how he is in the morning. You guys damn near killed him.”
• • •
The bright sunshine and the soft snore of someone lying close behind me made me realize I was truly awake. I felt an arm beneath my head, the other flung over my shoulder, and became aware of a big, black hand that patted me reassuringly as I had seen Ma do when Sis was a baby.
As I stirred, the arms were retrieved and I turned to see this man sit up, smiling from ear to ear, his hand stuck out.
“Howdy, Cowboy. Have a good night’s sleep?”
I reached for his hand and held on, my eyes suddenly blinded with tears. I had the intuitive understanding that he had ridden through my hell with me, and I knew that Ollie was dead.
CHAPTER 10
Faded-gray shingles; the peerless artistry of the gingerbread; ornate cornices; witches’ turrets; leaded glass windows. Sheltering all was a steep roof upon which rested five timeworn chimneys, four of which were content to maintain their dignified demeanor. But the one at the front perched at a slant like the jaunty tilt of an old man’s high silk hat. One could almost see the gold-tipped walking stick.
The house was built in 1865 by Theodore Hassé, great-grandfather of the woman who now lives there. The elegant Queen Anne Victorian stood outlined against the sky on a ridge three hundred and seventy feet above the level of the sea in a neighborhood that screamed old money, the legacy of luxury.
The Lady stood aloof, partly because of her central location on an immaculately landscaped acre of land, or perhaps because of the ornate wrought-iron fence that displayed the elaborate pattern and attention to detail that declared the artisans’ skills of the past century. The recent addition of the long, low greenhouse stood unobtrusively, a blurred kaleidoscope of color faintly seen through the transparent covering.
Floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows illuminated two floors and reflected the radiance that danced about on the cool blue-green water of San Francisco Bay. In the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge soared seven hundred and forty-six feet into the sky, shimmering through the mist that clung to it like expensive wrapping tissue.
Tall doors opened to a majestic foyer where, in years gone by, some of San Francisco’s most elite had entered. A vast drawing room was separated from the lavishly decorated dining room by doors that glided noiselessly into the walls. The renovated kitchen still retained the high glass-enclosed cupboards and the old cookstove. A short hallway led from the kitchen to the cook’s quarters.
The winding stairway with intricately carved railing led to the second floor, where five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a study were located. The study was a beautifully proportioned room. On one richly paneled wall hung the paintings of several well-known artists. A long, low coffee table cluttered with magazines and newspapers, and deep overstuffed chairs stood before the fireplace that claimed most of one wall.
A book was propped open on the window seat as though someone had laid it down to gaze at the bay below. A pair of shoes, kicked off carelessly as if to relieve the owner’s tired feet perhaps, lay haphazardly on the thick Persian rug.
It was in this room that Theodore Hassé’s great-granddaughter, Theodora, and Sara, her lifetime companion, spent their leisure time.
• • •
Teddy’s parents were disappointed when she was born. For she was not the pink-and-white dimpled baby that her mother had anticipated, a baby who cried to be cuddled, who looked so adorable in ruffles, or who lay quietly in her crib. Nor was she the son for whom Theodore had so fervently longed.
Looking down at the long-limbed, red-faced baby beating the air with her tiny fists, squalli
ng and kicking her blankets away, he said wistfully, “She looks like a boy—almost.” And over his wife’s hysterical protests, he said, “I will name her after my father. Her name shall be Theodora.”
She was always “Theodora-Catherine” to her mother, “Teddy” to everyone else. Theodora-Catherine, from the beginning, was very different from Teddy.
Her father accepted her difference as “just being Teddy,” and stoutly maintained, “She’s like my side of the family. All my sisters were big, strong women. My Teddy is a tomboy,” he conceded, “but she doesn’t need to wear ruffles in the operating room. Look at those hands—only a surgeon has fingers like those,” he declared, “and there isn’t any reason she shouldn’t go into the medical profession as did my father.”
Her mother never gave up hope that Theodora-Catherine would tire of this foolishness, get married and have children.
When Teddy was sixteen, her mother died and “Theodora-Catherine” was no more, thus ending the charade.
She and her father continued to live in the big house with the servants who loved the rambunctious Teddy, who was her father’s entire life. She became well established in the medical field, and on the front of her office appeared the words, “Theodore Hassé Memorial Building.”
Teddy was a striking five-foot, nine-inch woman: erect, slim-hipped, broad-shouldered. Her curly, once-black hair, now nearly silver, still curled around a face dominated by large expressive eyes that seemed always to have a twinkle, but a flat-level look could speak plainly to the fact that she was a woman who would tolerate no nonsense, should the need arise.
Her large, well-shaped hands held a scalpel as easily as a fork.
The strong line of the jaw, the stern curve of the lips, did not claim her to be a beauty, but beyond beauty. She was a presence that did not go unnoticed, and was considered one of the best obstetricians in the city.
CHAPTER 11
The last rays of sun dropped a glittering path across the water of the bay, and big city lights that were beginning to tiptoe scattered the darkening sky.
The woman who entered the study wore a paint-smeared smock and a smidge of blue swiped across her flushed cheek. She was carrying a bottle of wine in one hand, two glasses tinkling together in the other. A small black terrier frisked beside her.
The hair that had been pulled severely back was now struggling to lose the band that secured it.
She stopped abruptly in the doorway as she saw the tall woman who slouched in a chair, her shoes kicked off to the side, feet stretched to the fireplace.
“Teddy. You’re home early. I didn’t expect you.” She looked down at herself. “I haven’t even had time to change and I’m having a terrible time with that painting.”
“Then who were you expecting? Don’t I see two glasses?”
“Don’t nitpick. I knew you’d be in some time.”
She set the glasses on the table, still holding the wine bottle, and sank into a chair.
“This was supposed to be a surprise. Do you remember what the occasion is?” she asked.
“My birthday? Surely, hopefully, please, please. Don’t let it be yours, Sara.”
“Does June thirtieth mean anything to you? Don’t make me drink this expensive bottle of wine by myself.”
“I sense a trap here, but, no…”
“Does June 30, 1948, Carmel, bring back any romantic memories? The key word being ‘romantic.’ ”
Teddy, laughing with delight, stood.
“Bingo. Why do you think I’m home early? Our twentieth anniversary.”
She made a great pretense of searching her pockets, but finally shook her head and said regretfully, “Guess not.” Pausing a moment, she reached behind her chair to produce a specially made three-foot- long paintbrush with a long, tapered point. A gold band that held a very beautifully cut stone fit perfectly over the top.
Sara dropped the bottle in the chair as she scrambled to her feet and flung her arms around Teddy.
Her voice trembled. “A blood ruby—my very favorite.”
“Hold out your hand, my love,” Teddy murmured, and disengaged Sara’s arm to slip the ring on the third-finger left hand to nudge the diamond and whispered, “I, Theodora, promise to have and to hold, now and forever, Sara Rafferty…”
Tears streaming, Sara stood on tiptoe, her arms around Teddy’s neck and added, “What God has put together, let no man put asunder.” Then added, “For all these years I’ve loved you, and they’ve gone by so quickly. Double those years and it won’t be enough.”
The little dog pushed between their feet and tugged at the paint- splattered smock.
“Down, Sammy. You are such a bossy little dog. Do you have to be in the center of everything?”
Sara stepped away, wiping her eyes and held her hand to the light.
“Oh, Teddy, it is so beautiful. I’ve never seen a ruby with such remarkable color. Wherever did you find it?”
“That’s a secret. You’ve put me through such an inquisition, my throat is parched. May I open this wine?”
“Please do. I searched the city for it. You’ll remember how we danced the tango the night we discovered that wine in Paris.”
“Yes, I’ll never forget, nor the morning after, either.”
Their glasses clinked together and Teddy spoke quietly. “Be sure to keep in mind, when you say your prayers, to ask for at least another twenty years.’
Her long fingers pushed the hair aside and she kissed Sara’s upturned face.
As the level in the bottle diminished, Sara spoke of the painting that would not come together, and Teddy’s face glowed as she described the hopeful success of an operation not previously attempted.
Sammy’s fierce growl broke the companionable silence that rested momentarily between them as he attacked a dangerous-looking shoelace.
Sara laughed as she lifted Sammy to her lap and Teddy leaned over to scratch behind his ears.
“Sara, you’ve spoiled this dog worse than a child.”
“I know, but he’s my child. We’ve had him how many years now, eight? Nine? Maybe he’ll grow out of it. Anyhow, what would you rather deal with—a little dog hair or diapers?”
Later, leaning back in her chair, Sara lay her napkin down and sighed. “This dinner was everything Mrs. Mackey promised. I had her make that chocolate torte just for you, but now I’ve eaten two helpings and I’m trying to lose weight. I don’t mind getting old, but I don’t want to be an old fat lady.”
Teddy teased, “You’re not fat. You may be a wee bit chubby—I’d even say voluptuous—and only fifty-three. That’s hardly old, but what can I say about the ‘lady.’ ”
They both broke into laughter.
Sara snickered. “Surely you must know I missed you with that cup on purpose—you brought that on yourself so don’t aggravate me. Seriously, I’ve planned to go to the park early tomorrow to catch the morning light. There’s a stand of rhododendrons in first bloom at the far end, and it will be quiet. I can paint in peace. Maybe I can bring this painting together and hopefully the walk will detour that chocolate torte before it reaches my hips. Sammy needs the exercise, too—he loves the park.”
“It’s bedtime for me, too. I’ve had a long day and that surgery is scheduled the first thing. Sammy sleeps in his own bed tonight so I can sleep in mine. He snores.”
The ruby on Sara’s finger shone a thousand lights when it reflected the crystal chandelier as her hand slid along the banister. They walked together up the stairway to their world.
CHAPTER 12
The grass was still wet with dew when Sara parked. Hurriedly, she deposited her paint box on the curb as Sammy barked and scratched at the window.
I’ll have to come back for the rest. It’s only a few blocks and maybe the extra walk will tire Sammy so he will lead like a good boy, Sara thought.
Holding the indignant, struggling little terrier, she snapped on his leash and, to his intense delight, Sammy found himself on the ground where he c
ould lift his leg on anything that stood upright.
What a beautiful, quiet morning; the soft hum of traffic sounded very far away to Sara.
When they entered the park, the whir of wings arose as startled birds awoke and searched for breakfast; an occasional raucous call of a seagull echoed.
Picking up her paint box and holding the leash tightly to contain the terrier, which pulled and strained to be free, she walked farther into the park. Soon she could plainly see the vibrant pink and white rhodies that stood in thick clusters and seemed to present a barrier between reality and fantasy.
With a sigh of satisfaction, she paused for a moment to enjoy the beauty and relaxed her hold on the rowdy little dog. He jerked free and was off like a shot, trailing his leash, deaf to her calls.
His sensitive ears picked up the sound of some commotion behind the flowering bushes and, pushing through, he rushed furiously at a big dog.
Sara heard the outraged, vicious growls of the big dog, then the terrier’s agonized yelps as she ran screaming, “Sammy, Sammy.” But Sammy never heard her as the bloody jaws ripped and tore. The mastiff shook him again and again, then flung him lifeless to the ground.
As she broke through the bushes and knelt beside the motionless body of her Sammy, her hysterical screams surprised the kneeling man who stood quickly, threw a shoe aside, and cursed, “Shit, let’s get out of here.” But he spoke to empty air—the other man and the dog were already only a fading movement in the distance. He turned to run, then turned back to kick Juan with a steel-toed boot. “Damned wetback.”
The frantic entreaties of a woman’s voice screaming, “Sammy, Sammy,” broke through the fog of Juan’s consciousness. He groaned as he attempted to rise. He seemed unaware of the blood that spurted from the deep gash from forehead to cheekbone, but it was the stabbing pain with each breath that kept him down.
Suddenly aware of the man who lay groaning on the ground behind her, Sara turned and sobbed, “Help me, please. Help me.”
Waves of pain flooded over him as he swayed, dazed and bloodied, to his feet, fighting to maintain consciousness.
And Yesterday Is Gone Page 7
