And Yesterday Is Gone

by Dolores Durando

  Dr. Teddy appeared. “She’s worked hard and needs her rest. I’ll keep her and the babies for a few days. They will need special attention they are so small. The nurses will take good care of her. I’m going home for a while.”

  Two hours later, those big brown eyes opened. I put my arms around her, holding her tight, unable to say a word. Her arms found their way around me.

  “I love you, Steve,” she whispered. “Ring for the nurses—we want to see our babies.”

  What words can describe the miracle of childbirth? Wrapped in pink blankets, the babies were brought in by two nurses and laid at Rica’s breasts. We marveled at the closed eyes with black lashes, the tiny working mouths, perfect little faces, downy black hair covering the tiny heads like a doll’s cap. Carefully, we unwrapped these little creatures, counting fingers, and toes—all perfect.

  “How will we ever tell them apart? They’re identical.”

  “I’ll know,” Rica answered with a tremulous smile that quivered on the edge of tears. I let mine drip off my nose.

  They were so tiny I could have held one in each hand. But they were so fragile-looking that I was actually glad when the nurses took them back to the nursery.

  Juan and Sara came later. Sara’s heart burst as she admired the babies through the nursery window. Juan was very reserved and outwardly almost disinterested as he arranged a mound of red roses.

  Sara laughed and cried as she and Rica clung together.

  “What have you named them?”

  “I have named the larger baby after my best friend, Sara—Sarita.”

  Juan turned his head away quickly, but Sara’s tears overflowed.

  “Steve has named the smaller girl Margarita for his mother, who said it was the most beautiful gift she had ever been given.”

  “Then they look exactly like you, Rica. I wish them health,” declared Sara.

  Juan stood quietly, then leaned over and whispered softly, “Your babies are beautiful, Rica. I wish them health and happiness always.”

  Dr. Teddy spoke seriously. “These babies are so tiny, they will need to stay here in an incubator with supplementary feedings and around- the-clock supervision until they are safely stabilized and gaining weight.

  “Rica, mother’s milk is by far the best. You will need to use a breast pump.”

  Noting the look on Rica’s face, she added, “These babies are healthy, but absolutely must have every chance to maintain and gain weight.

  “You can wear a hospital gown and help the nurses so you won’t be isolated from your babies.”

  The time seemed to pass so slowly and we tried to be patient.

  We understood, of course. Rica was keenly disappointed; comforted later with the time she spent in the nursery and the feel of their closeness as she held them.

  I was secretly grateful, content to see them in her arms through the nursery window, marveling at this living part of her and the life they had drawn from her body.

  The babies did seem to grow a little each day and it wasn’t just our imagination. The scale didn’t lie.

  • • •

  Billy’s fifth birthday was upon us. Hoping to beat Juan to the punch, we bought Billy a small two-wheeled bicycle, a baseball and a bat.

  Sara and Dr. Teddy came to dinner bearing a beautifully wrapped package. I cringed as I watched Billy rip the expensive paper away from the fancy pair of cowboy boots. I thought perhaps a broomstick horse was hidden somewhere.

  The dining-room door had remained shut to keep the balloons and gifts a surprise. Billy’s eyes grew big and round as he heard the birthday song, and his laughter and excitement were contagious.

  Juan hadn’t arrived so we waited dinner, a dinner that included Billy’s favorite, mac and cheese. The birthday cake, three layers of decadence, was a thing of beauty.

  Then Juan walked in, carrying nothing but his coat. “Sorry I’m late.”

  No present? I eyed him suspiciously. Instinctively, I knew that our bicycle was outclassed.

  The dinner was delightful. Sara declaring not even Mrs. Mackey could have prepared a better roast. Finally, we laid down our forks and leaned back to watch Rica light the candles. Billy was fascinated with the dancing flames. I instructed him, “Make a wish for something you want very much and, if you can blow out all the candles, you will get your wish.”

  Juan coached him with a few practice puffs. “Now blow really hard.” With the next effort, the candles were sputtering smoke.

  “Now, what did you wish for?”

  “A horse,” he said clearly.

  “A horse? A horse?”

  He looked me right in the eyes. “Yes, I want a horse.”

  Juan slid his chair back and quickly walked out of the door.

  Rica looked puzzled; Dr. Teddy and Sara exchanged glances.

  My razor-sharp mind knew he had a broomstick or something similar outside.

  When the front door opened, Juan entered, leading a small spotted pony, complete with saddle. There was a moment of shocked silence. Walking across the Persian carpet, Juan handed the reins to a chubby little hand that shot out with the speed of light to receive them.

  Juan lifted Billy into the saddle and somehow I was not surprised to see how perfectly the new boots fit in the stirrups.

  “We’re both going to take riding lessons and he needs a real horse,” Juan explained halfheartedly.

  I wondered if I could get my money back for the bicycle. I’d take the loss on the ball and bat.

  I marveled at Rica’s composure. More than once I had been instructed to take off my shoes. “Those are Persian carpets, you know.” Now Juan was leading the pony from room to room, receiving no such admonition. Amazingly, the little hooves left no indentation on the deep carpets.

  Billy’s whoops of delight and his “giddyup, giddyup” kept all of us rooted in our chairs, wordless.

  Then Rica shrieked, “Not the kitchen, not the kitchen,” and broke the spell.

  “The pony is tired now. More tomorrow,” Juan promised as Billy dismounted, his smile beatific.

  I glanced at Juan. The look on his face told me that he didn’t know anyone was in the room but the three of them: Billy, the pony, and Juan. The rest of us were laughing and clapping.

  “What will you name him?”

  “Horse,” Billy said with finality. “His name is Horse.”

  The pony’s quarters had been built behind the cottage in a fenced area. It was just big enough to accommodate a stall, a tack room, and a haymow for three bales of hay and a sack of grain.

  Juan took Billy to an equestrian training school and we grew accustomed to seeing him riding confidently down the path that connected our properties, shouting, “Giddyup, Horse” to a pony that never got past a slow trot. It seemed unreal to see a five-year-old child eat his breakfast quickly so he could run to the barn to feed his pony the correct amount, then rake his stall. Responsibility in someone so young caused me to brag shamelessly, but I’m sure it was common knowledge who had done the teaching.

  On my time off, I taught Billy how to throw a ball or catch one, but he was more interested in showing me from which side to mount or to explain what a farrier is.

  Billy was tall for his age and I thought that Horse’s time was limited. But I was wrong—Horse died in his stall at the age of eighteen.

  • • •

  Even though I had returned to work, I managed to go by the hospital daily, sometimes gowned so that I might enter the nursery where I nearly always found Rica with a baby in her arms.

  So many incubators in the nursery, but I could find my girls almost by instinct. For whatever reason, the smaller of the babies always seemed to find her place in my arms. Not that I noticed, but she had gained a pound. Her big dark eyes looked up at me unblinking as she seemed to melt into every beat of my heart.

  Now I understood perfectly the feelings that had taken Juan prisoner when I had put Billy in his arms. The indescribable love that engulfed me at the feel of her
tiny body in my arms made me feel even closer to Juan.

  I loved Sarita the same, only different.

  As I was about to leave the hospital one day, I saw the black hair with just a hint of gray above massive shoulders, and the long, unmistakable stride of Alfie—Dr. Alfred Myers, so dignified in his white coat.

  I ran to catch up. “Alfie,” I called, “slow down.”

  He turned to me and a great smile split his face. “Cowboy, what are you doing here?” As he wrapped me in a bear hug, my ribs screamed for mercy.

  “Twins,” I bragged, as if the idea had been my own. “See the shoe salesman hasn’t got me yet. Got time for a cup of coffee?”

  For two hours we dawdled over empty cups. He was busy and loved his work. My sentiments echoed his, except that I had a wife and children. His talk turned to politics, and then to a war he predicted was imminent and his desire to enlist.

  We recalled the time he had tried to enlist when the Vietnam War was in progress. He had been refused because he was a medical student with an A average.

  Alfie said, “I’m guessing they will take me now. I want the Marines—no back at the base crap. I want to be with the troops on the front lines.”

  His enthusiasm spurred my imagination. What an opportunity as a foreign correspondent. What an adventure: front-page material, dramatic photos—a chance to see the real thing close up. We parted, promising to stay in touch.

  CHAPTER 41

  At last, we were bringing the babies home.

  For the first year, it seemed that all they did was sleep and eat. It was seldom that I saw Rica without a baby at her breast. They were mine to burp or change. Our lives revolved around the girls.

  Billy had difficulty pronouncing “Margarita,” and since I often referred to her as “Baby,” he shortened that to “Babe.” So that was the name she was known by. Actually, from the beginning she was “Daddy’s Babe,” and in later years, when knowledge increased and tongues grew sharper, she became “Daddy’s Pet.” This really wasn’t true; it was only that I loved them differently.

  They walked at thirteen months. With her first steps, Babe bypassed her mother and fell into my arms. I thought my heart would burst. Sarita was loyal to her mother.

  They had such fun sitting in their high chairs throwing food at each other. Our experience with Billy obviously was a test—nothing prepared us for these hell-raising, angelic-appearing little cherubs. If these were the terrible twos, I shuddered for the coming years.

  “Rica, we’ve got to get away from these kids once in a while. We are not required to give up our lives for their constant attendance,” I insisted.

  She agreed, but nothing changed. The tickets I bought for a play I thought we’d both enjoy somehow got mislaid.

  Then Rica joined the Women’s Literary Guild in North Beach, making the acquaintance of other young women with similar interests.

  I fell asleep in my big chair, dreaming of places far away.

  Our neighborhood was older and mainly occupied by a childless population. There was one family with an eight-year-old girl who occasionally came to play with Billy, but that friendship faltered when she insisted that Horse was “only a pony.”

  Now it was time to think of Billy’s education. At Juan’s suggestion, we enrolled him in a small private school with excellent credentials in North Beach.

  Billy—fun-loving, outgoing, wise beyond his years, having been raised in a mostly adult world—had no difficulty finding his place at the top of his class, a position he maintained until he graduated high school.

  When living is easy, the years slide by.

  • • •

  In high school, Billy was a sports addict—captain of the basketball team, fast man on the track, and pitcher for the softball team. Juan and Sara never missed his games. Dr. Teddy said she would rather read about them in the newspaper.

  Rica, the girls and I cheered so loudly when he made a basket that he said we embarrassed him.

  Rica said it was no more than she expected, but Juan’s pride knew no bounds.

  Billy, at that upscale academy for boys, was home on weekends and holidays. “Home” could mean Pacific Heights, Juan’s “playhouse” or his room.

  The house now resounded with girls’ giggles or the boisterous noise of Billy’s friends.

  When did Billy get so tall? He grew so fast, tall and skinny with close-cropped, curly blond hair, not to mention the pimples. And his voice was already changing. The years had blurred by—I could hardly remember his fifth birthday. Ah, yes, how could I forget that pony.

  “Thanks a lot, Pop, for this contribution.” Billy always reminded me as he tried to slick down an errant curl—like I once had.

  I could see myself in Billy at that age. My hope was that he should travel faster and go further than I had.

  From birth, Billy had the best, with never a hand laid on him in anger. I smothered the intruding scenes of my childhood and knew that it was my mother who had given me whatever it took to make me the man I was.

  Juan’s attitude toward the girls was completely different—I don’t believe I ever saw him hold one in his arms. He was always kind and thoughtful, but distant—as though they were the children of strangers. Sometimes I wondered if this was a form of self-protection on his part.

  Juan had profited hugely from Dr. Teddy’s advice and was now the owner of some very fine properties in the downtown area of San Francisco. He had maintained his studio in the house he had so beautifully restored, and in his sanctuary, stacked against the walls, were many canvases—some half-finished paintings leaning against the wall, another on the easel—and the smell of turpentine, brushes and paints.

  Billy’s gym equipment was in a corner. A basketball hoop was fastened high outside where Juan and Billy practiced and I joined them on occasion.

  From Juan’s, it was a short walk on a beaten path to our house, from where that delicious smell of food emanated most evenings.

  Juan, fundamentally the same skinny boy who had taught me to roll a cigarette, was now a man in an expensive suit, a little older, a little quieter, but the same feelings between us never changed, except perhaps to have grown deeper with maturity. And I knew he loved Billy as though he was his own son.

  As they grew older, the two identical black-haired girls were replicas of their mother. Juan had marked them, too, in ways not so easily seen, but recognized instantly by those who knew him well.

  The girls did not betray the beauty of their inheritance.

  Sarita was more outgoing. Her dark hair swinging around a face that nearly always was about to break into a giggle. Her feet never walked, they danced—sometimes clomping awkwardly in her mother’s high-heels or twirling in pink ballet slippers.

  With all the “Lookit me, Dad, Mom. Look,” came wet sloppy kisses, and screams of agony at the sight of broccoli. “Not again.”

  “My” Babe, quiet, quick-witted, sensitive, and usually with her nose in a picture book, was devoted to her more adventuresome sister who frequently got Babe involved, too. A stern look from her mother would send her flying to my lap, her sanctuary. This was always followed by Sarita’s teasing “Daddy’s Pet,” while explaining to her mother with such perfectly logical reasoning why she was made up like a burlesque queen, ignoring the powder covering the floor.

  These girls made the “terrible twos” seem mild. We were pleased and relieved to get them enrolled in a good private school.

  The girls loved to visit Gramma Sara and she loved to have them. Dr. Teddy watched with bemused eyes as Sara played with the girls as though they were paper dolls. She took them shopping and they brought back everything Rica had forbidden—lipstick, high-heeled shoes, eye shadow. Had Rica dropped in, she would not have recognized these two young girls, still in grade school, dressed in the outrageous clothing and makeup of runway models. Tottering in their high-heels, they played and paraded with abandon, but left their treasures behind when, newly scrubbed, they came home.

  Sa
ra had loved the twins from birth—she loved their youth and enthusiasm and, of course, the knowledge that they were of Juan.

  After a long day in a busy workday, my reward was Babe waiting for my car to turn in the long driveway and walk with me to the door where Sarita stood and chanted, “Daddy’s Pet, Daddy’s Pet.” Then the three of us would walk into this lovely home. With a beautiful ten-year-old girl on each arm, I would smell the pot roast. Woe betide me if I didn’t produce some little goody—even if it was no more than a chocolate bar concealed in a pocket.

  Soon I would hear the plaintive cry, “And what do you have for the mistress of the house?”

  I always answered with a leer and, “Later, Mistress, later.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Now that Charles had finished his second term as governor, he and Ma had been living it up, traveling in a motorhome as big as a boxcar—a far cry from the “horse trailer” that Sis had predicted would transport us to the whoop-de-do that had announced Ma’s birthday and their marriage.

  They had yet to spend more than a few days at a time with us since I was usually on the job. And now that they had surprised us with plans to visit, J.W. called with another “big one” for me.

  For the first time, I rebelled and screwed up my courage to confront J.W. I asked, hat in hand, if someone else couldn’t do the job as well. I was almost—almost—ready to add “better,” but couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  I promised an in-depth interview in the near future with Charles Kearney, recently retired governor of Texas, who had his eye on a seat in the senate.

  I skidded by on that.

  The following week was unforgettable.

  Ma and I sat up late with time that was our very own. She was indulged by Rica’s culinary skills and impressed with the beautiful kitchen. Charles and I talked politics and drank lots of beer.

  Ma was, of course, entranced with our identical twins who delighted in confusing her as they pretended to be each other.

  “I would have thought one of them would have looked like you, Steve.”