29
The flight to California was peaceful and a little strange. I felt as though I were suspended in a cocoon between two worlds, a special place in which to hide and think. I had five hours to totally abandon Gordon’s world and reenter Chris’s, and I was grateful for the few hours I had to belong to no one but myself. It was eerie how the metamorphosis took place.
As I soared high over the skyscrapers of New York, my heart tugged painfully as I looked down to the rapidly shrinking places which had meant something in the past few months. And as though I were sliding down to the other side of my rainbow, I began to feel excitement grow within me as we circled low over the peninsula, nearing San Francisco. I was going back to Chris. . . . to Chris . . . to Chris!
I looked at Sam and squeezed her hand. I had the feeling that we had finally made it home. Hallelujah, baby!
We arrived exactly on time, and when we emerged into the terminal building, there was Chris. And I lit up inside. He smiled that little boy smile of his just for me. We looked into each other’s eyes, and all was right with the world. New York, Gordon, Julie Weintraub, they were all a million miles away, on another planet.
“You look tired. Bad flight?”
“No, good flight. Bad week in New York. It was one hell of a lot of work,” not just work, but easier to put it down to that.
We collected our bags and piled into the Volkswagen bus Chris had borrowed from a friend. I waited for Samantha to tell him about the Rolls the day before, and kind of held my breath. I didn’t want to have to get into explanations just then. But she didn’t say a thing. I figured it would come out instead one day when it was least expected, maybe two months later. And by then it wouldn’t matter anymore.
We drove into town and I looked around with this incredible feeling of, “My God, here it is . . . wow!” San Francisco does that to me, it takes my breath away, and scoops me up, and I feel like I’m going to fly away. I wanted to drive all over the city and see everything I loved, but that was not Chris’s style. It would never have occurred to him that that was what I wanted to do. We drove straight home, where we dumped the bags in the living room, and I went to see what there was in the refrigerator. Nothing. Welcome home. Two half-full bottles of club soda, three cokes, a moldy lemon, and a jar of peanut butter that had probably been untouched since last July.
“There’s nothing to eat in here, Chris.”
“I know. It’s still early though. We can go to the store. You drive my car while I take the bus back.”
“What about Sam?”
“We’ll take her with us.”
“Okay, but I want to get her to bed early. It’ll be late for her with the time difference and she’s tired from the trip.”
“She doesn’t look tired to me.” She was racing through the place and had taken possession of “her” room.
Well, I knew I was back. The refrigerator was empty and we were going to the store. No roses or champagne in sight. That had been yesterday. But I had known that. I had chosen moldy lemons and flat club soda over roses and champagne. I knew I could have had the roses and champagne, but I didn’t really want them. I wanted to go to the store with Chris, and ride around in a borrowed Volkswagen bus.
“Whatcha thinking, Gill?”
“That I love you,” and I meant every word of it. I was home, and it felt great. I put on my jeans, with a safety pin to cover where the zipper wouldn’t close, and a sweater of Chris’s, with my raincoat, and we went out to return the bus and buy food. We looked like a family, and Chris looked beautiful. I was so happy I felt as though I were about to burst.
As we walked out of the house I thought of something, “Chris? Where are we going to put the baby?”
“Cool it, will you. You’ve been here one hour and you’re already bitching at me. We’ll put it somewhere. Don’t worry about it now for chrissake.”
“I’m not worrying. I just thought of it.”
“Well, stop thinking. I’ll meet you at the Safeway in ten minutes.” He gave me a peck on the cheek and drove off with a wave. Then he shot back in reverse, almost hitting the car, as I got ready to start it.
“Watch the choke!”
“Okay. . . . Hey! . . . And stop bitching at me!” I was giving some of his own back.
“Fuck you.” He grinned and drove off.
“Same to you, fella.” . . . God, it was so nice to be back. It wasn’t elegant, or anything like a fairy tale, but it was my fairy tale, and at the same time it was real. Beautiful and real. Like Chris.
30
Chris lived in a ramshackle Victorian-style house on Sacramento Street, just near enough to the elegant Pacific Heights district to make the neighborhood pleasant, but not so close as to be actually in it. We were up at the west end of the city, and the fog would stay up in that section till almost noon on mornings when the sun would be shining downtown. At five o’clock the fog would roll back in, and at night you could hear the fog horns, very faintly in the distance.
To me, San Francisco has always been an enchanted city, something of a dream place. It has all the physical beauty that the postcards suggest, and an easy lifestyle that reminds me of Europe. People are friendly, not in the put-on way of Los Angeles, but in the way of smaller towns in the West. It is a city, and a noncity. Within minutes you can be in the country or at the beach, and the mountains are only a couple of hours away. The air is still fresh, and we had a tiny garden where Samantha used to dig for worms and look for snails.
The house itself was something of a bomb shelter. It could have been really super if Chris had wanted to spend any time fixing it up, but there was always something else he wanted to do, so it got a little shabbier and a little more weather-beaten all the time. Victorian houses are fairly common in San Francisco. The exteriors have a lot of charm, and inside the floors slope, the ceilings are arched, and the windows are often bayed.
The morning after our arrival I turned over in bed and looked up at the ceiling, and out the window, at the trees that reached up from the garden. It was quiet and I felt as though I were in the country. I looked over at Chris, still asleep, and grinned. I thought that even without Christopher I would have loved San Francisco. After all I had fallen in love with the city before I had fallen in love with the man. I heard Samantha walking around and got up to make her breakfast. No more mother’s helper. That had been part of the deal with Chris. Sam and I came out alone.
Chris rolled over as I got out of bed and opened an eye “. . . time is it? Come on back to bed. . . .”
“Got to feed Sam,” and I kissed him. “Good morning. It’s so nice to be back, Chris.”
“Sure, honey. Bring me a glass of orange juice, will you?”
“Better than that. You stay in bed, I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.”
“Okay.” And he turned over again and went back to sleep, looking like a boy, his hair all rumpled up and his head tucked under his arms, the covers almost over his head.
Breakfast was long and noisy, and we decided what to do for the day. Chris had some things to do and Sam wanted to “go see Julius,” i.e., the Julius Kahn playground in the Presidio.
“You can see Julius tomorrow, Sam. We’re going to stay home and unpack and clean up the house a little. How about helping Mommy today?”
“I don’t want to,” and the whining started.
“Well then, how about looking for worms in the garden.” Yech, me suggesting that?
“That’s a good idea, Mommy. I’ll see if I can find some for you.” Wonderful.
I wanted to unpack, but what I really wanted to do was get the house in order. Before, it had been Chris’s place, but if we were going to get married the house was going to undergo some changes. The mechanical stuff Chris would have to do, but I was going to attack it with a lot of soap and water, and at least put up new curtains, and get a bedspread . . . and the bathrooms! . . .
I dug around for some cleaning equipment as Chris headed out the door shouting, “See y
ou later, gang!” I was busy thinking that, whatever else Marilyn may have been good at, she had been one hell of a lousy housekeeper. That had probably been part of the charm.
By two o’clock the place looked a lot better, and Sam and I went to buy some flowers, “How about woses, Mommy?”
“How about daisies, Samantha, and corn flowers, and maybe some nice red flowers?”
“Wed woses.”
“No, wed something else. Roses cost too much money.”
“Are we poor now? Are we gonne staaaarve?” Her big eyes looked up at me, half-filled with fear, and half-seeming to enjoy the prospect.
“No, we are certainly not going to ‘staaaarve.’ We just don’t want to spend too much money, that’s all.”
“Oh.” She seemed disappointed. “When do we pick up the baby?”
“Not for a while yet. Almost two whole months. That’s still a long way off.”
“Oh . . . why not today?”
“The house isn’t ready yet,” which reminded me that I had discovered the right place for the baby that morning and wanted to tell Chris. It was kind of a walk-in closet with a window, just about the right size for a crib and a chair and a little chest. It was right next to our room and had two doors, one leading to the hall, the other to our room. We didn’t need the closet and, fixed up, it could be really cute. That way the baby would be right next to us, without actually being in the room. It wouldn’t work forever, but for six months or so it would be just right. After that, we could put the baby in Sam’s room.
Chris’s house was roomy, though small. It had a living room, a tiny dining room and kitchen downstairs, two bedrooms on the second floor, and above that a bright studio room which Chris used as his office. That was sacred territory, and there was absolutely no question of putting the baby up there. Besides, it was drafty, and the heating didn’t reach up there. It had a great fireplace, though, which Chris had going most of the time.
When Chris came home I told him about my idea for the baby’s room and he promised to get some paint and to get to work on it.
“Hey, Gillian, it smells funny in here. What is it?”
“That, my love, is an unfamiliar odor called clean. I scrubbed the place all morning.”
“Should you do that? Don’t go around being an ass now. Did you pick anything up?”
“No, I did not pick anything up,” and I kissed him and smiled over his head. He was beginning to sound as though he cared about the baby, or about me. It was new and made me feel kind of tingly.
Chris leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Get rid of Sam.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, get rid of Sam . . . want to make love to you. . . .”
“Oh . . . Sam, sweetheart, how were the worms this morning? Find any?”
“Nope, they musta been sleeping.”
“How ’bout taking another look before it gets too cold?”
“Okay. You want some too, Uncle Crits? Mommy loves worms.”
“Sure, you bring me some too,” and she banged out the back door and marched off to the garden with two old spoons, a toothpick, and a paper cup.
Chris grabbed my hand and we started running upstairs. “Hey, wait a minute, you nut.”
“Wait nothing. I’ve been homy all day. Come on, woman!” And we ran up the stairs, laughing and giggling, and I almost tripped on the top step, which kind of sobered us a little, but not for long.
“I found ’em. Three of them,” and there was Sam. The door burst open and she had a whole handful of dirt and something that was squirming. “Hey, you all sick? What’s everybody sleeping for?”
“We’re just having a nap. Your mother’s tired.”
“Oh, well, here they are. I’ll give ’em to you,” and she placed the whole revolting mess in Chris’s hand and walked out singing to herself.
“Oh Jesus, Gillian, I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Me first,” and we both rushed for the bathroom, laughing.
Chris got there first and threw them into the toilet and flushed. “Bllyyyyeeeeerrrggggghhh. Who said all that shit about girls being sugar and spice? Hasn’t anyone told Sam yet?”
“Come on, Chris, be a sport.”
“Be a sport? I didn’t see you holding out a hand for that little handful of delicious.” And we started laughing again, while I ran the tub.
“Let’s go for a drive before dinner. I haven’t gotten a good look at the place yet. We worked in the house all day. I want to take a look around.”
“What d’you want to do that for, Gill?”
“Come on, Chris, please. As a special favor to me?”
“Okay, okay, but a short one. There’s a game I want to watch on television.”
“Yessir.”
“Say, Mrs. Forrester, by the way, when are we getting married? Or haven’t you made up your mind yet?” He said it facetiously, but I knew he meant it. I had made up my mind, so it was all right.
“Well, I’ll have to check my appointment calendar. How about Saturday?”
“Why not tomorrow?”
“Do you have a license?”
“No.” He looked crestfallen.
“That’s why not tomorrow. Today’s Monday, we can go and get the license tomorrow, which leaves Wednesday, Thursday, Friday . . . we can get married Friday, if you want.”
“No, I’ve got a job to do Friday. Saturday'll be okay. . . . Gill? . . . Are you sure this is what you want? I mean, do you really know? I’m not the best husband material in the world.”
“Sounds like you’re changing your mind, Mr. Matthews.”
“It’s not for me to change my mind. You’re the one who’s got to be sure.”
“Boy, talk about a switch! I’m sure, now just shut up and get in the tub, or I won’t get to go for my drive.”
Chris took us down Broadway past the big old mansions, and then left on Divisadero down the steep hill where Steve McQueen had filmed the chase scene in Bullitt, and the house where they filmed Pal Joey, and as we came down the hill there was the bay, and Sausalito on the other side, with the mountains behind it. As I came down that hill, I felt the way the pioneers must have as they came across the mountains and saw the Pacific. The roads had changed, but I was willing to bet the feeling hadn’t. It took my breath away, and always gave me that same feeling. We drove all the way down to the Marina, and sat in the parked car at the waterfront, looking at the water, and watching the fog roll in slowly, coming through the Golden Gate Bridge, as though it was being held together by the structure of the bridge. It headed toward Alcatraz, and the fog horns started up. After a while, Chris said, “Had enough?”
“No, but you can take us home now.”
“No, no, I wanna see Onion Square!” Sam squealed from the back seat. “And the Hare Krishna people with the orange sheets and the bells.”
“They’re probably home by now, Samantha, but we can go to Union Square if you want.”
Chris was really being a good sport about it. “What about your game?” I didn’t want to push a point. . . .
“We’ve got time,” and he smiled over at us. I think he was enjoying it too.
We drove down Lombard, and down the part where it gets all crooked just before you get to Leavenworth Street. Sam squealed all the way down and loved every minute of it. We could see the Bay Bridge and Oakland as we were coming down. Up Powell, behind a cable car, waving at the people, mostly tourists, and they waved back. Union Square looked the same as always, and that is one part of the city that doesn’t excite me a whole lot, but Sam loved it, even though she was disappointed that the Hare Krishnas had gone home. On the way home, Chris drove through Chinatown, which was another treat for Sam.
“Hey, want to have Chinese dinner?”
“No, come on, you want to watch the game. This has been plenty. But you’re a love to ask.”
“No, I mean it. Let’s stop and have an early dinner.”
“No, Chris, come on, let’s go home.”
“Quiet. . . . Sam, what do you think?”
“I want to eat dinner here. Can we, Uncle Crits, can we????”
“Yes, ma’am,” and we drove into the St. Mary’s garage and walked toward the milling people on Grant Avenue.
Dinner was delicious, and as usual I ate too much. Chris and Samantha worked it out with chopsticks or at least Chris did. Sam ate most of it with her fingers, and poked with the chopsticks. I ate with a fork, which got me a lot of scornful comments from both of them. But I was hungry and never could manage chopsticks.
Driving home we went through the Broadway tunnel, and that completed an evening of Heaven for Sam. A tunnel!! And it was an evening of Heaven for me too. Chris and I looked at each other over her head, and I blew him a kiss and mouthed, “Thanks, I love you.” He mouthed back, “Me too,” and by God we did. Whatever the last months had been, whatever Chris had done, or Marilyn, or I, or whomever, it was all buried by that look. Bad times may come again, but a prophecy had been fulfilled. “The good times are coming,” the song said. And they had. They really, really, finally had.
31
On Tuesday, I put Sam back in her old playgroup in the morning, and then Chris and I went downtown to get the marriage license. The place was crawling with Mexicans, and little kids, and odd-looking people who either looked too old to get married or as though they didn’t really want to. I guess most of the young people weren’t getting married anymore, because we were about the only people our age that I saw. But then again, we didn’t look so typical either—I was seven months pregnant and had suddenly blossomed. I stood there in my jeans and Chris’s sweater, leading with my belly, and the clerk looked over and shook his head. “I hope you make it, lady.” And then he shot a nasty glance at Chris, which made him squirm, and cracked me up.
“Did you see that old bastard, I mean did you see him?”
“Yeah, so what? What do you care?” Look who was getting sensitive. Poor Chris.
We picked up Sam and he dropped us off at the house. “Got some stuff to do, see you later.”
Going Home Page 21
