Ruby told Angel about Lucy’s mother.
“Que lastima,” said Angel. “Tu mama no esta qui para el mole.”
“Bikinis? ¿Que es un bikini?” asked Ruby.
“A bathing suit. A very little bathing suit.”
“Ah. For swimming?” Ruby nodded and explained to Angel who looked confused.
“Muy pequeño,” Lucy repeated, describing how a bikini was with her hands on her body. Ruby studied Lucy’s hands and laughed, so Lucy showed on Ruby’s body how a bikini would be. The women all laughed. Angel blushed hoping Lucy wouldn’t do the same to Angel’s large body.
“Maybe she’ll bring one when she comes,” laughed Ruby. “Then I could wear it to see Manuel.”
“I’ll write to her,” said Lucy, thinking that Mary would happily bring a bikini, but that one would not be enough and it would be better if she brought several and especially some for the children.
“A ella le gusta el mole?” asked Angel again hopefully, already wanting to do something for this woman who made bathing suits.
“Oh sí,” said Lucy, feeling badly because she’d indulged in herself in dark thoughts. Angel had no thoughts like that, thought Lucy; Angel was never self-indulgent and that made Lucy feel selfish in comparison and, indeed, there was no question in her mind that she was selfish by anyone’s standards, and certainly, selfish here, in contrast to Angel who only had thoughts of doing things for others, and Ruby, even, whose thoughts were of others but in different ways than Angel. Ruby was not selfish or self-centered like Lucy herself. She saw that Angel had gathered nuts and seeds and spices and garlic and oil and spread them over the pine table, excitedly getting ready for the mole. Ruby had drained the water out of the turkey and placed it on a towel and patted it dry. And the kitchen smelled marvelous now, with just the hint of chiles remaining, and the pungent coriander decidedly flavoring the air, along with the turkey, and the hint of salt and water still in the kitchen. And Lucy saw these things gathering around her to be ground and smashed and chopped and blended and cooked into a flavorful event, a happening, a dinner. A wonderful day of cooking lay ahead. So she made herself a place at the table, pulling up the stool, scooting close, and reached for the metate, and asked what she might do to help, and Angel handed her the coriander to smash, and it was a release of sorts, grinding the seeds.
Yellow polka-dot bikini …
CHAPTER 21
Balboa Island, California
MARY POINTER HAD WORRIED THE first Saturday that Lucy hadn’t called; Lucy always called on Saturdays. Mary even found excuses, in spite of her busy schedule, to stay close to the house on Saturday afternoons. Then two Saturdays passed, with Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays of bikinis in between. She went to the factory to check on a broken seamer, grateful for the interruption because it gave her a focus. The worry still hovered in the back of her mind, but, absorbed in busy-ness, she could push it away, pretend it didn’t exist. The worry about her child, her very grown child she really shouldn’t worry about, but she couldn’t quite help herself.
She’d really started to worry in high school when Lucy started twisting her hair with flowers and smoking pot. Flower child is what she’d called herself. Lucy used to drift through the house dreamy eyed in long paisley skirts. Oh, she thought, if only Lucy were at home now! Mary swore to herself she would complain about nothing. And she’d complained of plenty of things in Lucy’s high school days. You can be sure of that: the hideous collection of dyes that tie-dyed every white t-shirt in the house: the stringy jute that unraveled and embedded itself in the carpet and the sofa during the macrame craze: the assortment of glass and wooden beads that scattered and hid in the shag carpeting, only to reveal themselves under tender bare feet: the whiny blast of Bob Dylan complaining about her neighbor Mr. Jones: the scream of Jimi Hendrix: the wail of Janis Joplin: the live beat of The Grateful Dead. She had listened to them more than Nat King Cole! Imagine! Mary still had a horrible collection of earrings that Lucy had made as gifts; and Mary still, when Lucy visited, put them on in spite of it. And there was a macrame curtain in the bathroom, woven with shells and driftwood, really quite lovely. And then she wanted to quit high school and go to some god awful place and live in a commune. That was Lucy’s big dream. A commune! Love and Peace! This generation, thought Mary, and it wasn’t that she didn’t like flowers. She loved them. In college, Mary had painted lots of flowers when she was an art student, before dropping out to marry Jack. But that was long ago. Her flower was Lucy. She was, Mary smiled, truly a flower child, but one Mary wanted to keep in check. She wanted the Lucy blossom tethered a little closer to the tree. She didn’t want the little petal drifting in the wind. Mary had never gotten used to the grass and wondered why these kids couldn’t belt liquor like her own generation. Not that she was a great drinker. It was just that it was legal. And illegal was so messy. Nothing wrong with a belt of whiskey every now and then, she thought as she pulled off the highway.
The factory was a thirty-minute drive from the store on Balboa Island, up the coast beyond Huntington Beach, in a stretch of dilapidated warehouses strung next to Highway 101. She’d been lucky to get the cheap space, and she’d bought the seamers used; her initial investment was not excessive. The women who worked for Mary were Mexican immigrants without greencards. They were grateful for the work and Mary was grateful to have the cheap labor. She paid them a little more than she needed, but not as much as she might have, and far less than minimum wage. She knew this was true, but so far it had worked for everyone. So far. She didn’t think of it much, actually, that she should maybe pay her staff a little more. The wages she paid the women worked in her scheme of checks and balances. They worked to keep the business in the black and Mary Pointer liked profit. What she thought about week after week was profit, making the supply meet the demand, and how she could keep the money coming in exceed the money going out. Mary Pointer was a money mover. She knew the rush of success might fade without constant attention to the product line, so that’s where she launched her attention. Straight into the heart of the product: the quality. She knew how to cut a top to accommodate more than one breast size, she designed several types of bikinis for several body types. But not too large a size. She built itsy, bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow-polka-dot bikinis.
If someone had said she were taking advantage of her Mexican workers she would have argued it, saying that the women wanted the work, needed the work, that she was helping not hurting. If someone had mentioned Caesar Chavez she would not have acknowledged a connection. She would have said her situation was entirely different. And she would have believed it. She pulled the navy blue Mercedes through the sandy parking area and up to the weathered wood building, and got out of the car. The smell of the sea refreshed her; after all the years living near the ocean, she never once tired of the distinct smell of salt weighing the moist air. She walked inside the building and forced a cheery smile. The high windows cast dusty shafts of light over the twelve workers bent over the rackety seamers. Against the far wall, leaning against the rough-cut wood, were rolls of fabrics in assorted colors: yellow flowers splashed against purple backgrounds, and tiny pink roses budded on dark navy blues, and there were brilliant teals, and plain bright whites, and pure deep blacks. Mary liked the hum of the sewing machines; she’d become accustomed to the agreeable sound, like the comforting clink of the cash register, the buzz of the sewing machines announced business as usual. Victoria Lopez cut a piece of fabric on one of the four massive cutting tables near the office. Victoria was the factory manager. She had worked for Mary for six years.
Before then, Mary had made the swimming suits at home, by herself, and sold them to stores. They had become so popular she couldn’t keep up with the demand. Victoria had started by making suits at home, too, helping Mary meet the growing demands of the business. But the demand far exceeded what the two women could produce. When a retail outlet became available on the Island, Mary couldn’t help but take it; she’d grown tired of the
sewing and wanted new outlets for her creativity. The store, she believed, was just the thing. It was certainly the right size. A bikini-sized slot wedged in between two large retail outlets. The form fit the content. It spoke of profit, and Mary understood the language. After she’d signed the lease on the store, she learned of the warehouse space. She grabbed it and began the search for the equipment. She found the seamers in an old dress factory near San Diego. By then she was in substantial debt, but exhilarated with her project. Alive to the new possibilities.
Problem solving was the gut of her business, she thought, as she walked towards Victoria who looked up and smiled. Victoria put down the scissors and moved towards the empty work station.
“So, what’s the problem?” asked Mary.
“I can’t get it to work,” Victoria shook her head in exasperation.
“Let’s see,” said Mary, sitting down at the seamer and pushing her knee against the lever. Nothing happened. “Shoot, Victoria. I might need some fabric.”
“I’ll get it.” Victoria went back to the work-table while Mary checked the guts of the machine.
“It must be electrical,” Mary said. “I can’t see anything jamming it.”
“No, I couldn’t either,” answered Victoria handing Mary the fabric. “But there’s no current.”
“Damn it, Victoria. We can usually figure this out ourselves. Unplug it, will you.”
“I know it,” said Victoria unplugging the machine. “Do you want me to hold it for you?”
“Sure,” said Mary pulling the top of the machine up while Victoria steadied it.
“There it is. The wire behind that wheel has frayed. Shit. We’re lucky she didn’t electrocute herself.” Mary pulled the suspect wire down and left it to dangle. “We have some electrical tape, don’t we? That should do it. Damn. We’d better check the machines right away. She might have killed herself, Victoria.”
“You’re right. And we do have tape. Here, I’ve got to let this go,” she said, easing the top of the machine back down.
“I’ll help you with it in a minute, but I want you to see this new sketch,” Victoria said enthusiastically.
“New sketch? Hmm, well. Let’s see it. Then we’ll fix this.”
That Victoria had such a natural talent for the business was a decided bonus for Mary. Victoria’s skill and attention to sewing were simply translations of a very creative mind that had only learned those common skills. When her imagination was exposed to the world of business and bathing suits, it cast itself into this world like a silvery string of gossamer filament, fishing for new ideas. Her ideas were solid and valuable contributions to Mary’s business. Mary always listened to Victoria’s ideas and marveled at the woman’s adaptability to this business world. It was just a language, thought Mary, that one needed to learn to speak. You just needed to pay attention and learn the words, like Mary had. That it was usually the realm of the male, thought Mary, was simply an accident. Men had always used women to help them build the exact language that excluded them. An accident. Only that. A simple matter of priorities. Nothing more complex. Women created babies. They learned to sew to use their imaginations while they tended their children. And it was practical. They could contribute. The women had their children. They were needed. And what might be better? Freedom? The freedom to need and be needed? Love? Does love fit here? Is it need? Is it freedom? Is love of freedom a need? Or freedom from need love? Or might love be love? Without need? Without freedom? Just love? Pure and simple? Is it ever?
Mary thought affectionately of Jack, her love, and knew that he had felt sometimes like an old shoe in the midst of her flurry about the children. It was comforting for a man, she suspected, to have a world to control since he could not control the world of women and children. And, of course, that’s what business did, gave one the illusion of control. In a way, one had it with a business, but not exclusively. Just the illusion of it. Just ask about control in l929. They’ll tell you.
But Victoria Lopez had learned the business words quickly. Her needs had changed. She needed to support her children. Her rudimentary skills of embroidery had taught her to pay attention to the possibility inherent in a simple line. It was a matter of attention, of shifting it, from one form to another; From the intricate stitches on a piece of fine white linen stretched tightly across an embroidery hoop, to the simple line of fabric as it lay across a stomach, or breast, or buttock. Victoria had turned her attention another way, a more worldly profitable way, and she could do it. It was her choice. A certain basic focus and decided attention to detail worked in the business world. And she instinctively knew about color, and her lack of sophisticated skill was an asset. Victoria knew what looked sharp and appealing, and did not shy away from traditional taboos about reds and pinks, but aggressively experimented with new color combinations, discarding those that weighted the eye. Mary liked the sketch, and said so. Victoria was pleased and wondered about fabric. The two women poked through the rolls of fabric, looking at the sketch, holding the fabric to the light, scrunching their foreheads, envisioning the fabric stitched into a tiny swimming suit. They picked a teal of brilliant lycra and pulled the roll to the cutting table, rolling the fabric across, smoothing it, pulling at the bias, feeling the stretch of it. Victoria would have to cut a new pattern, of course, and that would be more difficult than the sketch. The sketch was just the idea of it; the pattern was form that the idea fit into; the cutting and sewing of the fabric was the action the idea and the form demanded. The bikini was the finished product. The result of the action, beginning to end. Victoria took an old pattern from the pattern file, holding it up, brainstorming, then scooted it across the table towards the teal fabric, but the pattern caught on an errant sliver and tore. Damn, she thought, I’ll have to cut another.
After leaving the warehouse, and agreeing to come back that night with Jack to check the machines, Mary stopped by the retail shop with an armload of new bikinis. The next day she attended a fabric show in Los Angeles, and then called the Niemann-Marcus buyer twice before he put in a big order for the new Spring line. She’d carted her son to basketball practice and school. Lucy, she thought, Lucy, baby where are you? Away from the business she felt like needles and pins. The minutes scuttled like tiny crabs below the surface of heavy wet sand, the next second bringing another swell of panic that receded into the business of the day. She charged from one appointment to the next through a salt-like fog feeling as if the air itself would drown her. Another two Saturdays passed. Each step became an obstacle. She couldn’t lose this daughter. This daughter was her life. Not business. Not bikinis. Not anything. Not anything now except this daughter that she loved. This missing child. This lost daughter. Then she’d drop everything, pull on her old dirty Nikes and run. She ran like hell. As if Lucy were at the end of the street, just out of reach, if only she knew where.
Jack manned the phone, cooked the meals, and directed his business from the house. The framers were working alone on the new construction site, and he’d go check in after Mary came home. Just in case Lucy called. Stoically Jack Pointer tried to help in the midst of his own slow pain, the male panic that had to run in check, the grief that must stay leashed, the terror that must be controlled. In his slow and steady way he went about the tasks of a man whose life was ready to fall over some great precipice. The phone was never unattended. Another Saturday disappeared. Mary lost five pounds. Lucy would call if she were all right. Mary Pointer knew this. She was out of her mind now. Crazed. She’d heard all the horror stories about young women traveling alone. She would have refused to let Lucy go if she had known. If she could have. But she couldn’t.
Lucy was a big girl now. Too big.
The call was a relief. That Lucy was in jail was a small matter at first. Much smaller than a death call. Than a final call. The call that had lingered over them all. This call was a disaster that could be mounted, ridden out, beaten to oblivion. So that was how she thought about this call. She cried with happiness. She cried fo
r Lucy. She cried in Jack’s arms, and he cried too. Whatever happened now they could deal with. Lucy was alive. Alive. Mary went about preparations to go south, handing the business to Jack and Victoria. And shopping, shopping and shopping. As if she could ease the pain by spending. She bought a game of Parchesi, six decks of cards, two Tonka trucks, four Barbie dolls, and two sets of Tinker Toys. She bought in a panic. She spent like a fool. She crammed her luggage with shampoo, and cream rinse, and Ivory soap. Anything to wash away this grief. The frightfulness of the unknown. She bought a complete layette for the baby, just in case she couldn’t get Lucy home before the birth. That was unthinkable. But she thought it and prepared for it. Anything to soothe this imprisoned child. She bought cloth diapers, and tiny blue blankets, and little white shirts, and large safety pins, and baby powder, and baby lotion, and A and D Ointment, and cotton swabs, and baby-sized washcloths, and large soft towels. She bought a rattle and two pacifiers and a wind-up mobile that played rock-a-bye baby. And little baby suits with snaps between the legs, one in black and white stripes, for a joke, for a laugh, for a kick, because she had to laugh at something. This wasn’t funny. And Mary wasn’t laughing. But the baby-sized suit was so funny she couldn’t stand it. Mary wouldn’t die laughing.
The Orange Blossom Express Page 21
