Peasblossom began to know that while he belonged to both of them, he had originally been a gift from Ron to Eugene. “You’re twenty-four,” Ron had said. “Old enough to take care of something.”
“I take care of you,” Eugene said, pulling Ron to him, tussling him to the bed. The salt and summer scent of them pulled trilling purrs from Peasblossom’s kitten throat.
“He likes it when we fuck,” Ron said.
“Cats are sensualists.” Eugene nodded, pulling Peas onto his own beautifully furred chest. “He needs a name. He’s old enough now. We can’t keep calling him Kitty.”
“I was thinking Puck,” Ron said.
“Puck was Oberon’s!” Eugene snorted, farted, laughed. “This one belongs to the Fairy Queen.”
“It doesn’t leave you with any very dignified options,” Ron said. “Not that Her Highness is dignified. But still—Cobweb, Mustard Seed? I don’t think so.”
“What else?” Eugene said. “Peach pit? Apple core?”
Ron threw a pillow, missing his target. “What about Peasblossom? I’m pretty sure Peasblossom is the other one.”
And so it was. Peas pounced on socked feet as Eugene and his actor friends ran lines for auditions, batted Ron’s pen as he corrected papers. Some days were lonely window-looking days, others festive with the apartment full of people laughing and talking, inhaling the sparkling dust that helped them defy the gods of sleep.
Peasblossom smelled Eugene’s illness before the humans detected it. Days went by when Ron and Eugene forgot about their cat. Peas punctured the box of kibble himself, rationing the food. His litter box became a horror. He learned to slip out the window and down the fire escape to a patch of earth in the alley. The traffic on the street frightened him. The rats were cunning and stank horribly of trash. This went on until the day Nora arrived to take him away.
There was a worry about Peasblossom and Eugene’s illness. There was a cage. There was the moment in the lobby when the elevator banged and a car backfired and a siren went off and the latch wasn’t tight on the cat carrier. Peasblossom burst out of his small swaying prison and fled.
Alone on the streets. Cars everywhere. Crows everywhere, voices harsh and taunting. Humans, unwashed or toxically perfumed, an old man crying on a street corner. Ron crying in the elevator with Nora only moments before. Ron! Peas tried to locate his scent, to find his way home.
He slunk between parked cars and against buildings until a pocket of quiet made him stop. On the side of a stoop there was a space under the stairs that was dry and unoccupied. A desiccated rodent lay scentless in the corner. Peas curled as far from the corpse as he could. Hours passed, terrifying sounds giving way to longer stretches of silence. Suddenly, there was music. A voice, singing clear and high like bells from the cathedral tower he could see from the kitchen window. Nora? He stood up. Another voice. Ron!
Peas ran from his hiding place. Ron scooped him up and held him tight. Nora rubbed his cold ears and sang until the moon rose and the stars came out and Peasblossom stopped trembling.
Xochi’s feet kept pace with a slideshow of images: Leviticus—his lips, her lips. His hands. His breath, his racing heart. The scent of him swooned through her, mingling with the forest scent of the green girl, the animal musk of the running buck.
She opened the door of the corner grocery. It was familiar, she realized, close to the mildewed hotel that had been her first lonely home in the city. She bought a lighter, red to match her sneakers, and a fresh pack of cloves. She walked another block, but the coffee shop wasn’t where she remembered it. She walked to the next block and there was Mitchell Brothers with its garish blue stucco, improbable mural of life-sized whales, and XXX marquee.
A tall redhead lounged near the entrance. “Hey,” she called, “you got a light?”
Xochi stopped. She produced the lighter, attempting gallantry, but couldn’t get a flame to appear.
“Let me.” The redhead stepped closer. Her eyes were a smoke-rinsed gray and a diamond sparkled in her left nostril. Her skin was free of makeup, lightly freckled and absolutely flawless. Xochi handed her the lighter. Without thinking, Xochi pulled out her own cigarette to be lit. The redhead did the clove first.
“Thanks,” Xochi said.
Pocketing the lighter, the redhead looked Xochi up and down through fox-brown lashes. “They’ll hire you,” she said. “You’re gonna rake it in with that whole gangly ‘who me?’ thing you’ve got going on.”
“Oh, no—I’m not here for that,” Xochi said, taking a drag of her clove. “I was just walking by.” She tried to imagine herself in complicated lingerie and heels, sexy and graceful. A girl who belonged with Leviticus. She’d call herself Lola. Or Anaïs, after the French erotica lady Kiki kept telling her to read.
“Pick a tomboy stage name,” the redhead said. Pretty and also a mind reader. “Nothing overtly sexy. And wear simple things. Feminine, but not frou-frou. Think Katherine, think Audrey. Most girls come in without thinking at all. You need a strategy. A niche. Focus on the old guys, play the nice girl and you’ll hardly have to do a thing.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Me?” The redhead laughed. “Oh, no. Can you imagine?” She smoked in small staccato puffs. “Why do you think I’m telling you this? It’s nice, actually, meeting someone who’s no real competition. My customers don’t want sweet. But their friends might, their business associates. I help you, you help me. Most of these girls, they act like this is their life. They have their cliques, their jealousies. But we’re not here for our health. We’re at work. We’re colleagues. If we were men, we’d certainly have figured that out. But women aren’t socialized for that, are we?”
“No, we’re not,” Xochi said. She thought Pallas was a fast talker, but this redhead had her beat.
“Auditions are Monday nights at seven,” she said, “but you should go inside and take a look. Girls are free. Go on.” She smiled, indulgent. Possibly the bossiest person Xochi’d ever met. “At least until the rain stops.”
“It’s not raining,” Xochi said.
“No, but it’s about to.”
A car pulled up and the redhead got in.
Just as she’d said, it started to rain.
Xochi walked quickly past the men in the lobby and pushed through heavy swinging doors into a large, dark room. A woman, naked save a pair of strappy gold heels, was hurrying off a wide stage flanked by a set of brass poles. Xochi found an empty row in back. An announcer’s voice filled the room.
“Gentlemen, let’s give a warm welcome to the seductive, sensuous, sexy Sasha!”
The dancer was everything the DJ had advertised. Men near the stage placed money at her feet, and soon, more men rose from their seats to do the same. By the end of her second song, Sasha was naked except for her thigh-high boots. The next dancer was also beautiful, with breasts smaller than Xochi’s, generous hips and a mischievous grin.
Xochi unzipped her jacket. Another dancer came onstage. She was short and muscular. A gymnast. She slid into a handstand, lowered slowly into the splits. It was like the Olympics, only sexy.
After a while, Xochi began to notice the activity around her in the audience. Two rows ahead, a woman in lingerie leaned over a businessman. “Would you like some company?”
The man pulled a bill out of his wallet and she lowered herself onto his lap. After a few minutes passed, she asked, “Want me to stay?”
He pulled out another bill, positioning her so her back was facing him. He gripped her hips, guiding her movements. Xochi looked away, but this was going on all around her. Lap dancing—Bubbles had explained to Xochi that it was how regular dancers made money at the club.
All around her, women gyrated on men’s laps. What happened if the men ejaculated? And what if there was a customer like the creep outside the bar that night? Did the dancers have to sit with guys like that?
> Xochi pulled on her jacket to leave. She felt—what? Scared, maybe. Definitely embarrassed. It was just so weird seeing this private thing done in public. So weird it was actually someone’s job. But the dancers were gorgeous. Watching them was like an endless Christmas morning, unwrapping gift after shiny gift. She found herself frozen, distracted by the pink-wigged woman onstage—not so different from the men here after all. Her stomach rumbled during a break between songs. Blondie’s was around the corner with its huge slices of pizza. She’d leave after one more set.
The next dancer walked onstage in darkness and took her place at the brass pole, back to the audience. Xochi recognized the opening notes of a dreamy Led Zeppelin song. The dancer swayed. Her hair was up in an elegant knot, her black negligee cut low in back. Her slow movements drew attention the way a whisper can trump a scream.
Back still to the audience, she removed the stays from her hair. It fell to her waist, a dozen shades of gold. She reached for the pole with a languid hand, floating around it like she was made of dandelion fluff.
Finally, she turned to the audience, the reveal of her face more dramatic than the unveiling of her body could ever be. Three men placed bills on the stage. Two more rose to do the same. A man in front of Xochi sat up straighter. She could see it in the side of his face—the desire to hold the delicate blue-eyed woman, protect her, buy her things. A collective longing saturated the darkness, stole the room’s air, but Xochi knew not one man considered leaving.
There was only one person Xochi had ever known who had this effect on men.
Only one person who had this effect on her.
The smog-stunted trees whispered their warnings as crows gathered overhead. The fire escapes and power lines were black with them. Peasblossom hunched under a Volkswagen bug in front of the theater. Suddenly, Xochi burst from the entrance of the strip club, ran out to the curb, and vomited. The cat’s muscles readied to follow her around the corner, to see if she was all right, but the wind paused, a message to wait.
A barefoot woman in a silk robe ran out to the sidewalk, craning to see down the block. She looked up at the crows, eyes a startling Siamese blue.
“Where did you go?” the woman said. It was a whisper, but the wind brought it to Peas like a gift, wrapped in ragged loss.
“Hey, Misty,” a doorman called, “you okay?”
Peasblossom went to her, brushing against the woman’s ankles. He had an impulse to lie on her bare feet and protect them from the rain. She bent down, touched the cat’s fur. “Where did she go?”
The full impact of her scent was an answered question, a quest fulfilled.
Like Nora and Anna, like Pallas and Io, Xochi and the bereft cat-eyed woman were related by scent, by flesh, by blood. This woman was Xochi’s mother.
31
Fever 103
Xochi was halfway up Buena Vista when her legs started to cramp. She’d been riding around the city all day, first on the cable car as it climbed through Chinatown and down to the Wharf, and then on the bus, crossing the city from downtown to Land’s End. When the sun came out she’d gotten some pizza and sat on the beach, but she was too stunned to eat it.
The second half of Buena Vista was steeper. A light rain glittered on the parked cars. Xochi pulled up her hood, thoughts of her mother lined up like panhandlers in the park. Xochi always gave people money when she had it. But she had nothing for Gina. Not anymore.
She pictured Gina standing at the front door of Eris Gardens. The image stopped her. Gina’s need was endless, her taking as effortless as breath. Xochi had already screwed up her almost fairy tale by kissing the goddamn prince. Gina was the last thing she needed.
Sand rolled inside Xochi’s shoes. At the beach, she’d bared her pale feet and rolled up her jeans, wading in up to her calves. The freezing water hadn’t fazed her. She felt the ocean in her cells, an evolutionary connection she shared with the mammals who’d chosen waves over sky. Suddenly sleepy, she’d found a protected hollow between dunes to close her eyes—just for a minute.
Waking under the stars, she wasn’t even cold. She’d been dreaming, of course, of the green girl and her brother soaking in a pool of mud, a hot chocolate brew. The dream was earthy, replenishing. She had been wrong before. The dreams were good, a healthy part of her that was strong and fierce and pure.
Now, inside the house, three glasses of water gulped down, the dirt and misery of the day hardened on Xochi’s skin. She took to the attic stairs as quickly as she could. She would decide what to do about Gina tomorrow. She would shower for as long as the hot water lasted. She would slip into bed and sleep until Pallas woke her.
She opened the attic door and started peeling off sticky layers of clothes. She was down to bare feet, a tank top and jeans when she saw him.
Leviticus was asleep on the sofa, more beautiful than ever in pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt. A fire burned low in the fireplace. His guitar leaned precariously against the easy chair and there was a book propped open on his chest. Glasses she’d never seen before were on the cushion beside him.
A log cracked in the grate. Xochi moved on autopilot, clearing cups from the table, putting away Pallas’s knitting, moving the guitar out of harm’s way. She retrieved a book from the floor: Herbal Medicine for Children. Pallas was sick!
Xochi inched Pallas’s door open, mindful of its creak. A humidifier gurgled on the bedside table. Pallas slept peacefully. Her forehead was damp and cool. Xochi smoothed the wispy curls around her face. She looked like both her parents, with Io’s forehead and coloring and Leviticus’s cheekbones, long eyelashes and full lips, but there was something in her face that was uniquely hers, as if the combination of genes had exploded into a soft light below the surface of her skin.
When Xochi had first arrived in the city, she’d spent three lonely weeks walking around admiring the people of San Francisco, but the only person to catch her eye and smile back was Pallas. Xochi knew a kindred spirit when she found one. Pallas was part little sister, part fairy godmother. She made Xochi laugh, but also made her think. She didn’t deserve Xochi’s evasiveness, her distraction. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law? Aleister Crowley obviously didn’t have kids. Kids changed everything, canceled all of it out. Unless you were like Gina, kids came first.
Back in the sitting room, Xochi avoided looking at Leviticus. He’d been worried enough about Pallas to watch over her. Since he was sleeping, she’d take over. She certainly wouldn’t be creepy and watch him as he slept.
She went to her room and showered quickly. Changing into a slip and flannel shirt, she looked in the mirror. What had the redheaded stripper said? Something about each person’s kind of sexiness. Gina had always known how to wield that particular weapon, but she hadn’t passed it on to Xochi.
Gina. Xochi realized she’d been thinking about her like nothing had changed. Like she was mythical, a captive in some distant underworld. But no. She was in the city, drawn here by maybe the same force as Xochi—looking for a place pretty enough to heal and crowded enough to hide.
Xochi considered makeup but rejected it. The redhead was right. She was better natural. The slip was tight, the fabric thin. Too obvious. Totally wrong. She found a clean T-shirt and a clean enough pair of jeans.
Back in the sitting room, Xochi added a log to the dying fire, careful to close the metal curtain that kept the sparks inside. Leviticus stirred, turning over and curling into himself. Xochi went to her bedroom and pulled the quilt from her bed. She laid it over him. His face softened. Step by step, she backed away.
“You covered me up,” he said, not quite awake.
“You looked cold.”
“Wait! What time is it?” He put on his glasses and looked at his watch. “Shit! I slept through her Tylenol.” He pushed the blanket away.
“It’s okay. I just checked on her. Her head is cool and she’s sleeping great.” Xochi
sat on the ottoman in front of the sofa. “What happened? She was fine this morning.”
He pulled the quilt around his shoulders. “Her temperature went up to 103. I was about to take her to emergency, but it started coming down.”
“Is there something going around?”
“Io’s sick, too. And Kiki.”
“I should have been here.”
“It’s okay. I’m kind of glad you weren’t.” He rubbed his eyes and saw her face. “No! I mean I’m glad I had to do it myself, not hand it over like I usually do.” He exhaled heavily, running his hands through his hair. “You know how I said we moved to New York when Pallas was a baby? That’s not exactly how it happened. I blew it in London. Io left me.” Leviticus paused. The humidifier hummed in the next room. “I followed her to New York. I didn’t deserve it, but she took me back. Things were okay for a while. But after we moved here, I did it again. If it wasn’t for Kylen, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. I don’t know why Io forgave me a second time. But she did. Then Kiki came back from college and was always babysitting, trying to give us a break. And Pad was around, and he was so good with her. He knew all kinds of stuff from raising his sisters. Aaron, too. So Io and I both had a break. But I realized it tonight—a break is one thing. After a few years, it’s something else.”
He took off his glasses, massaged his temples. He said he’d messed up, but not how. He didn’t need to. Xochi knew the need to flee your fate, the thing at your back worse than the dark shoulder of the road, the stranger in the car. His hands shook. She reached out to steady them. They were cold, fingertips calloused, palms soft. There was a tattoo on the inside of his wrist she hadn’t noticed before, a number: “24:20.”
“What’s this?” she said. She ran her finger over it. There was a scar there, above the tattoo. Suddenly, her question was about that, too.
All of Us with Wings Page 17
