“I come here all the time,” said Patrick while they walked up the brick stairs to the patio overlooking the street below. He adjusted the yellow umbrella so they all were in the shade which was a trick at that time of day. The bus boy came and left water and menus.
“Maggie, you’ll love the crab salad. It’s great.”
“I think I want something warm,” she answered.
“The lemon chicken is good,” said Albert.
“No, I think I’ll try the cheese enchiladas.”
“Me too,” said Lucy, thinking she hadn’t had enchiladas for the longest time and that they probably wouldn’t be near as good as the ones in Costa Rica knowing for certain that that would be true but wanting some anyway because she hadn’t bothered to make them for ages, absolutely ages.
So the waiter came and Lucy barely raised her eyes from the menu, but if she had looked closer and remembered better she might have recognized Ibarrio, and even as Ibarrio waited on Lucy for the second time, the very minute was part of the moment he had dreamed that day in Costa Rica. He had done what he said he might do and come to learn but all he wanted to know just now was what Lucy wanted to order. When she finally did raise her lovely eyes, Ibarrio recognized her as the woman he had caused unbearable grief, not unbearable to Lucy because she had endured it, but unbearable to Ibarrio, causing a tremor in his conscience, a small rumbling that unsettled the moment.
Lucy immediately was attracted to him, and the interest in her eyes shamed Ibarrio even more because of the knowledge he owned. How he had been responsible for her ruin. Yet, there she was, he thought, gratefully, knowing she had survived the ordeal. He had for years tried to erase the image of the beautiful woman being led away, had tried to erase the guilt of the damage he might have done to her, tried quite desperately to assuage his own guilt, unsuccessfully. Finally, forgetfulness had eased his burden, until now, letting the incident slip into the recesses of his mind, he convinced himself that he had indeed done his job, if only for the wrong reasons. The guilt erupted again, knowing himself that the woman surely had forgotten too, and wondered if she knew, would she forgive?
“How are the enchiladas?” she asked.
“Very good,” he said coming back to himself. “I have given the chef my mother’s recipe.”
“Ah, wonderful. I’ll take them.”
“They are not as good as I can make, but almost,” he said, gaining confidence.
“Are you a good cook?”
“Very,” he marveled again at her beauty, smitten as he had been years before.
“Too bad, then, that you aren’t cooking.”
“Then I would be sad because of not seeing you,” hoping she would accept this indirect apology that she had no idea she deserved.
“Ibarrio?” questioned Maggie, recognizing him.
“Maggie.” He flushed, barely thinking now of enchiladas but fate.
“What are you doing here?” And she found out when he told her that he was going to school. Maggie introduced Patrick, explaining that he had lived at the ranch once. The ground at the center of Ibarrio’s earth was shaken again. He had, at separate times, defined both these women as gringas with laws of their own, somehow, beyond anything he could access intellectually or emotionally. Yet, here, today, in this simple moment they were all joined, fused, melted together like cheese and tortillas simmering in the same spicy sauce.
When the enchiladas came Lucy was surprised because the tortillas were thick and homemade much like Ruby’s and in fact, they were much the same because Ibarrio’s mother was Ruby’s great aunt, and she too had learned to make thick tortillas, and somehow all Ibarrio could hear right now was the sound of one hand clapping, clapping against the next, patting masa into thick tortillas.
After the long lunch, the four travelers left, to a fair Ibarrio had told them of, and they walked the four blocks to the park, before spreading out in the afternoon sun with another pipe full of hashish. Several friends of Patrick came to join them, and they passed the pipe, the peace insured, the lilt of spring in the air. Even Lucy, especially Lucy, felt a wonder with the world relaxing as she put her head in Patrick’s lap and Albert moved closer to Maggie with the pipe of hashish. They were in the midst of a crowd now, the pipe of hashish drawing folks to the scent. A guy walked over, his shadow falling across Patrick.
“Patrick,” the man asked, “are you coming to the lecture?”
“I don’t know, I have company.”
“Graham Greene,” he added.
“I know, maybe, we’ll see. Maybe these guys want to come? What do you say, Maggie?” His eyes were closed and he lay back in the grass.
“I think that Lucy needs to get back to Santa Cruz.”
“I do,” answered Lucy, scooting her head to adjust to Patrick. “I have to get back.”
His presence ruptured the quiet, shaking it, somehow, thought Maggie. She looked to see why she felt what she felt, but she could not ascertain this physically. He was ordinary in appearance except for his eyes. Very blue. His hair was pretty short, brown, non-anything. He sat down next to Patrick. What was extraordinary was his presence. He was there. Completely. She could feel him, somehow; he felt strong, tough, not physically, maybe tough-minded. Something. Something. She got up and went to the stone fountain for a drink of water, feeling him with her, drinking, feeling him, there, all the way across the park, beyond the fountain, and the swings with the children swinging, she still felt him even from that distance.
“Is that where you live?” he asked when she came back and sat down.
“No. I don’t live there,” she answered as if she’d never been gone, as if the conversation was ongoing, as if the physical separation had not happened.
“Where?”
“Southern California.”
“Ah, the desert,” he said.
“Yes. I live there.”
“Do you know the story?”
“Which one?”
“The Heart of the Matter.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Would you?”
“What?”
“Die for love?”
“Of course not.”
“Ever?” he asked.
“Never. Ever.” She lay back in the grass amused.
“It’s just a rhetorical question of course.”
“Aren’t all questions rhetorical?”
“Maybe,” he pondered seriously, then laughed, getting up shaking the grass off himself. “Patrick, I’ll expect to see you. Your friends have to go home anyway.” As he turned and left, Maggie watched him. He had, she thought, a funny walk, not quite even, yet she watched him until he disappeared in the crowd. She sighed and closed her eyes wondering what kind of man would ask such a foolish question.
“Here,” said Albert, passing her a joint, which she shook away, feeling drowsy already from the sun and the food and the day. Patrick and Lucy got up and left, saying Patrick had an errand to do before going back to the house, so Albert and Maggie wandered through the booths of the fair, checking out the beeswax candles, the woodwork, the pottery, the photographs, jewelry, on and on and on they wandered, weaving in and out the maze of booths, on and on and on, lazing through the afternoon, Albert’s friends, one after another, sipping lemonade, buying carrot cake, cream cheese frosting, licking fingers, pretty things, laughing, seeing, looking, pretty people, singing, music, playing, guitars and flutes and drums beat beat beating melodies, saying and swaying, waves of tie-dyed bodies, swaying, swooshing, moving, grooving, reeling with feeling, moving, grooving, walking, talking, walking, walking, away from the people, down into town again, stopping for espresso, talking, talking, talking the afternoon way away.
Lucy stepped out of the shower, drying herself, patting her long wet hair, scrunching it in the towel, flinging it back over her shoulders, bending, drying her legs, each one, separately, seeing pretty legs, as if she’d forgotten, looking then in Patrick’s bathroom mirror, and noticing, once again, the pretty reflection,
barely overweight, hardly noticeable, Patrick didn’t notice, not once, not once in the last two hours did Patrick notice, hmmm, he didn’t, not once, she ran a comb through her hair, standing naked, still, noticing, her nakedness, how it felt, how good, how nice, remembering Patrick’s naked body, minutes before, how it felt, how good, how nice, remembering, hmmm, Lucy, ran the comb, through her long beautiful hair, again, again, and again, standing naked, feeling, new, freshly fucked, very freshly fucked.
Patrick offered Maggie some coffee when she walked in, but she passed, having just had espresso. Albert went out in the back yard to take care of his marijuana plant.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Who was who?”
“That guy at the park?”
“Oh, Charlie?”
“Charlie who?”
“Charlie Fishman.”
“What does he do?”
“I don’t know exactly. Has something to do with the University. Exactly what is a mystery. He’s on some sort of scholarship. Why?”
“Just curiosity.” She wandered to the back window and watched Albert mix some Miracle Grow in a pail and feed the plant.
“You should have some coffee. You guys have a long drive.” He poured himself a cup. “He’s not your type, Maggie. He’s an academic.”
“Since when do I have a type?” She lit a cigarette. “Do you have a cup I can take along?” Wondering if she did have a type, and thinking she didn’t, and if she did, she hadn’t found a type that suited her, so a different type might be precisely what she was looking for if she was looking but of course she wasn’t but for the sake of argument she certainly didn’t have a type. “I don’t have a type.”
“Yeah, take this one.” He poured some coffee in a Berkeley mug, and sloshed cream and sugar in it, the way Maggie liked to drink coffee.
“Suit yourself,” he added thoughtfully, thinking maybe she might be right.
“Yes. I think I shall,” she said and smiled, taking the coffee and kissing him, thinking he was a nice type. Her nice friendly type. Albert called Maggie outside to see the plant, and she went, admiring the lush flowers, the white frosty buds, the wide green leaves, the dense clustered blossoms. He snipped one off and gave it to her, proudly, pleased, and she smelled it, loving the sharp spicy smell, the rush, better than smoking, all the better to smell it, she thought.
Like a rolling stone …
CHAPTER 32
MAGGIE TOOK A SIP OF THE COFFEE and pushed the mug back on the dashboard, sloshing coffee because the road curved; the cup skittered a few inches so she pushed it again and it stopped. Up, up, turn, turn, Highway 17 between San Jose and Santa Cruz, wind, wind, the truck groaned up the grade. Blood Alley was what they called this stretch of road, Lucy said, so many wrecks here. An old Corvette sped past them, racing, hugging the road, and then another fancy car, Maggie didn’t know what kind, low slung, racing past, intent on speeding. The sky was lovely and blue, brightly radiant beyond the oaky brown and green hillsides, the very very California landscape hugging the road. On the down side of the grade, closer to Santa Cruz, the air changed from the dryness of the valley, promising ocean fogs and mists. Maggie loved the smell of the moisture and the cool damp feeling on her skin, refreshing, she thought, after driving through the hot valley land. She hung her arm out the window to enjoy the moisture, leaving the coffee to slosh around, not drinking anymore, but thinking of dying, dying for love, because she thought, the truth was that everyone died for love, somehow, some little part of a whole person always died a little for love, that’s what happened. What surprised her was that she thought it, not having really thought of love for the longest time, thinking more of relationships, and love and peace, generally, yes, but not specifically love, in dying kinds of terms. She hadn’t died for love for ages, but must she? Was love giving or giving up? What might one give? Or give up? What should one? How would you do it if you wanted? Wasn’t it just a chained reaction? No. No. Not if it might be right, she thought, trying to think rightly about it but thinking she might be wrong. That guy, whoever he was, had thrown a lob of light in her brain, and it skittered across the gray, like a firefly blinking in her brain making her wonder about dying for love, making her wonder about the man who had said it. Who was that guy? The brightness of the thought kept restructuring her brain cells, she could feel it, driving there on Highway 17, her DNA kept restructuring itself, wondering, every minute, each second, what kind of guy would say a thought like that. As she drove, the little sparks flittered down into the chambers of her heart causing a flame fueled by her thinking, and fueling her thinking, but thinking, all the while, the thinking might stop there. It would wouldn’t it? This was just a thinking exercise, these love thoughts, charring old thoughts to cinders, her beginning love thoughts, these thoughts for novices that didn’t quite suit her anymore, thinking she was thinking too much, as usual. Perhaps if it had only been thinking it would have been better but the lob of light kept with her for the rest of the drive, a decided little dash of brightness not letting her forget it blinking blinking blinking inside her mind making her aware, completely aware, of love.
Lucy thought of Patrick. Thinking thinking thinking of sex sex sex. Healthy thoughts. Well, for the minute, they were healthy for Lucy. She remembered the last time Gary had made love to her, or tried, pulling away, exasperated, both of them, not able to arouse themselves or each other, nothing, no, nothing, no interest, then hearing one of babies cry, and Lucy had dashed up grateful for the interruption, grateful not to have to try bad sex again, grateful not to have to pretend to lust when passion had died long before. Somewhere in the midst of the real life of babies and daily routine she’d lost passion. Why couldn’t she find it with Gary, oh yeah, Gary wasn’t around anymore, that’s why. Gary was history in this girl’s memory. Wasn’t he? No. He was history in her life, sort of, he’d be around again, Gary would, he was the father of her children. But he’d always be part of her history. When she’d chosen Gary she’d chosen him for life. His absence gave her a new presence. Just like she’d chosen Swackhammer for life. The wrong choice sticks just like the one that was right. Even when the right one turns wrong, the wrong one remains somewhere too, making her think the wrong things about choosing. One does have to make a choice. And she’d made the best one today she’d made in a long time, she thought, but it wasn’t exactly a choice. It was happening. It happened. It happens. Thanks for happening, she thought, thinking how much better she felt now going home. Hmm, the moist air swished in the cab of the truck making Lucy feel good too.
“You know,” she said. “If I opened a little shop, clothing, and got a little help with the kids, or even brought them to work, you know, hiring someone to help, it would probably be better. Not that the kids don’t keep me busy, they do, but I think the diversity might be more interesting for them too. I might check into that, Maggie. I’ll ask mom about it.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Maggie reached over and took a sip of the cold coffee, putting the cup back on the dash, thinking it was good to hear Lucy thinking good thoughts.
“There is an area in Capitola that would be good,” Lucy said approvingly thinking about the beach town and the bustle of activity. The heavy foot traffic that always brought customers. Location, location, location. The three things you need to know about business.
Nothing but a heartache, hits you when it’s too late …
CHAPTER 33
Oakland, California
HANK CHECKED THE INSIDE OF THE SUPERCUB as a matter of habit, making sure he didn’t leave any stash or anything. Just in case. Just in case for what he wasn’t sure, just in case of disaster he figured. Yeah, maybe that was it. In case of disaster. Then he locked the door, checked the tie downs one more time, patted the wing of Niner 57 Delta Zebra, his sweet blue and white tail dragger, and nodded to Patrick, ready to boogie. The flight had been good. He had just flown in from the new ranch in Mendicino, ready for a few city days. Patrick had some business lin
ed out, a few city dealers, might want a little boo. One more time, he thought; if he could pull off one more load, that would be it. He’d retire. Yeah. That’s what he’d do. Get out of it like Patrick. Things were getting too tight. Too risky. But that’s what Hardiman loved. He loved the risk. The edge. The adventure. This wasn’t always about money. Not by a long shot. The street stuff might be about money. But not flying. Flying was different. But it was different now. Dangerous. Something had changed. A shift in the air. A spoilage. What was it, he wondered, trying to push it away but never quite successfully. One more load. One more load of danger. Could they pull it off one more time? They were falling like flies. Donnie and Rich had gone down in Mexico. Right out of Zihuatanejo the Lear Star caught a wing, flipped, killing them both, burning the load, causing an explosion heard throughout the jungle. Joshua had broken his neck driving his Porche into a tree after his sister’s wedding. Richard had overdosed. Sam, the best damn helicopter pilot in the lot, caught a wing on his own barn going down to get an award for his flying in a recent movie. Oscar night. Bennie was still bushing it in Alaska, blowing out every now and then for sanity, but Bennie would never find any. Hank was sure of it. Willie had gone down in Colombia, lost an engine, broken his back, a bunch of Colombians had hiked him out, heard the pain had almost killed him, and was in recoup in Florida somewhere. He’d never walk again. So they said. So they said. And then there was Reefer. The waterbed king, who’d funded a great business selling boo, then died on a legit business trip to Tahoe. His plane crashing in the hills, killing everyone except Reefer, who had a bad leg wound and died bleeding to death, heading for the lights of the city. Not for a second giving up. Heading for the light. Spending his last blood trying. Hank high-fived Patrick glad to see him again.
The Orange Blossom Express Page 32
