Leslie. Katherine grasped the telephone as if it were a lifeline. "How wonderful that you called," she laughed shakily. "Perfect timing."
"My God," Leslie said. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"I've been trying to reach you ..." Katherine sat down and the words poured out: everything that had happened, from
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Cari Doemer's first question at the party to the sale of her house and Jennifer's and Todd's fight at camp. She was crying, overwhelmed by reliving it all at once.
**Christ," Leslie said when she finally stopped. "Lousy, rotten mess . . . Well, now, hold on a minute; let me think." There was a comforting briskness in her voice and Katherine felt herself begin to relax. "We will ignore for the moment the fact that you didn't ask me for help, which makes me feel unwanted—"
"I tried to call; you were out of town. And then so many things kept happening—"
"—we will talk instead about my helping you now. How much money do you need?"
"Leslie, I can't borrow money." Katherine looked at Jennifer and Todd in the living room, and lowered her voice. "Craig has already done that for both of us."
"Oh. Well, I wouldn't look at it that way, but I can see how you might. So what are you doing for money? A job?"
"I'd love one. Have you got one to offer?"
"Sure. But not in Vancouver. You mean you can*t find one?"
"Not yet." She'd left that out, ashamed to admit it to her successful friend, who had built a career for herself while Katherine invested herself in a man who left her. But now she related her rejections as a jewelry designer, as an office worker— "as anything; no one will hire me. There aren't many jobs to begin with and why should they take a chance on someone with no experience?"
"Because you're smart and quick and reliable."
"So I'd make a good Girl Scout."
"Well, I'd hire you in a minute. There's a job here you'd be perfect for—assistant to the guy who does our window displays. He's an ass, but you can't have everything. You want itr'
"Leslie, I live in Vancouver."
"I know." Leslie's voice was thoughtfiil. "But do you have to? I mean, what if you and the kids came here? You really could have that job, you know; I could arrange it. And I could find you an apartment so you'd have a place ready to move into. We could go back to our old days of gossip and chocolates.
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Damn it, Katherine, this is turning into one of my better ideas! Katherine? Are you there?"
"Yes." First Ross, now Leslie. But Ross had made only a casual suggestion. Leslie was offering a new life.
Gossip and chocolates. All through high school, into college and work, they would sit up all night in Leslie's bedroom, gorging on candy and bemoaning stodgy teachers, the crudity of young men, and the lack of glamour in their lives.
But what did they have in common now? Leslie was an executive with money and freedom; she was attractive and sophisticated and moved in a fast crowd of professional people. Katherine had been a housewife, but now she'd lost her husband and sold her house, so she didn't know what she was.
"I don't think so," she said. "We live here; it's home."
"Home! Listen, lady, from what you tell me, you're in hostile territory up there. No job, no friends, your kids fighting nasty little campers, and not even your own house anymore. You call that home? What about San Francisco? You lived here longer than you've lived in Vancouver; you probably remember every street sign. Right?"
She was right. Katherine remembered a feehng of homecoming the month before, from the moment Ross met their plane, and memories sprang up at every turn. Home. My roots and memories. And now—a job, a place to live, a friend.
"But Craig—" she began.
"Craig," Leslie echoed. "Well, what about him? First of all, until you're settled you leave my name and phone number with the Vancouver police and any friendly neighbors you can dig up. He can find you through me. Second, isn't it possible he'd go back to San Francisco instead of Vancouver? To his first family, so to speak? If you're here, too, he'll have everybody in one place, do all his explaining, end all his troubles at once. Dandy for him, don't you think?"
And for me, Katherine thought, aching for Craig and their life together. He must miss it, too—if he's alive. It meant so much to him. He'll come back to it—if he's alive. He'll find us, wherever we are.
Nothing else had worked. The closed doors of the past month surrounded her. What else is there? she thought. If I don't try something new, what else is there?
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"I'll think about it," she told Leslie, but the tone of her voice had changed and Leslie heard it.
"Good," she said cheerfully. "Let me know when you decide; I'll hire a brass band to greet you at the airport."
"No," Katherine said absently, akeady thinking ahead. "I won't need a band. Just an apartment near a good school for Jennifer and Todd—"
And it was only when she heard Leslie's laughter that she knew she had made up her mind.
Fart 11
Chapter 6
J^HE great red cables of the Golden Gate Bridge swooped low, then swung upward to the top of the four-tiered tower looming above them as Katherine parked the rented truck at the side of the road. "Last chance to be a tourist," she said gaily. "After this, we'll belong here."
"We'll never belong here," said Jennifer morosely, lagging behind as Katherine and Todd jumped from the high cab. "We belong in Vancouver."
"Jennifer," Katherine urged gently. "Come and look; it's quite wonderful."
"Wow," Todd whispered loudly, spinning in place. They were below the north end of the massive bridge, beside a small, sheltered bay where a few fishermen were casting their lines, and as they looked up, the bridge seemed to fly across the water, plunging at the far end into a thickly wooded park, with San Francisco just beyond it. "A lot bigger than Lions Gate."
"It is not," snapped Jennifer, but then she was silent, caught in the spell of the scene across the water—a city of hills, with white and pastel sun-washed houses and apartments stepping
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up and down the slopes, a solitary cluster of skyscrapers standing together like secretive friends, and everywhere the sparkle of water, almost surrounding the city, with hills and houses beyond. "It's a little like Vancouver," Todd said, to make Jennifer feel better, but Jennifer responded. "Vancouver is a thousand miles away."
Katherine barely heard them. She was filled with anticipation. Everything will be all right, she thought; I know where I am. We're not strangers. The city shimmered before them and she said impulsively, "It's waiting for us."
"So's Vancouver," muttered Jennifer, turning away from the shining view before it could soften her determination to be unhappy.
"Look ov^r there," Todd called, walking along the edge of the small bay toward tall, needle-like rocks, a sandy beach, and, beyond it, a lighthouse. "Can we go look. Mom?"
"Not today," Katherine said. "We're meeting the realtor, remember? We'll come back." They looked together at the lighthouse on the point of land jutting into the water.
"Lime Point," said a fisherman standing nearby. "Great place. Out at the end you feel like you're all alone in the middle of the water. And over there" —he pointed to the left— "that's Alcatraz "
"AJcatraz—!" breathed Todd.
"Another day," said Katherine firmly. '*We do have an appointment."
In the truck again, they drove back up the road to the highway, then over the bridge, between its huge arcs of red cables, watching the city grow larger. Jennifer stared gloomily out the window, wishing her mother would stop trying to be cheerful when every minute they were getting farther away from Daddy. It wasn't fair, she hadn't asked them if they wanted to move to San Francisco; she just made up her mind and then everything happened at once. She ordered them around, making them help her pack, and she rented the truck—Mother driving a truck!— and had half their furniture put in storage and the rest loaded onto the truck.
They watched their house get emptier and emptier and when they walked through it for the last time, she and Todd had burst into tears and Mother was crying, too, kind of quietly. It was so awful—empty rooms with bare floors echoing their footsteps, the windows naked and sad without cur-
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tains, the doors like black holes in the blank walls. When Daddy came back, he'd cry, too. Why didn't you call us? Jennifer wailed silently to her father. We waited and waited till the last minute but you didn't call and now we're in this awful truck a thousand miles away.
Waiting at the stop light just past the thick forest of the Presidio, Katherine glanced at Jennifer: rebellious Jennifer, staring out her window. She knew she should be comforting her, but she couldn't. From the moment she sat behind the wheel of the truck and backed out of the driveway, her own feelings had overwhelmed her and she was impatient with her children's demands. Sitting high above the ground, she felt the anguish of leaving begin to ease and found herself exulting in what she had done: organized, packed, got away on schedule. By herself she had closed the house. Closed a life, she thought with a chill, but it faded in the light of her adventure: her first one alone since meeting Craig. After the fears and failures and loneliness of the past two months, the rattling truck became a chariot, bearing them away, and no matter how frightening the future, Katherine felt, for the first time that she could remember, that she was the one who would decide its direction.
The realtor led them to an apartment near Forty-sixth and Irving. Katherine vaguely remembered the neighborhood, called the Sunset, but she had forgotten how dense it was, street after street of tiny houses squeezed together in unbroken rows that sloped gradually down to the ocean. After the openness of West Vancouver, she felt hemmed in, and when the realtor stopped and she saw the building, her heart sank. In a city where the tiniest, most ordinary house was painted blue, pink, or yellow, or a gleaming white, the gray stucco building looked as unfriendly as a prison.
"You've got the ocean," the realtor recited briskly. "Just a few blocks away; see it from your doorstep. And of course Golden Gate Paric, only a block away. Now let's show you inside."
**This is it?" Todd asked, looking into the three rooms in disbelief.
"It's ugly," Jennifer said flatly, and stomped out, to sit on the small patch of grass and scowl at the street.
The realtor spread his hands. "Miss McAlister said no more
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than four hundred. Not many places in the Sunset that cheap, you know. Nice place to bring up kids, lots of people want to live here. Good school nearby. And it's a clean building.*' Katherine nodded. "But Miss McAlister sends a good bit of business our way," he added hastily. "We wouldn't want you to be unhappy. How about we give you some paint and you and the youngsters can brighten up the place. And we'll start your rent with September. Give you two weeks free."
Katherine looked around. "This is four hundred dollars a month?"
"Right." He peered at her. "I thought Miss McAlister told you."
"She told me she would look for something between three and four—"
"Mrs. Fraser, you cannot be serious. For three in the Sunset you get nothing. Do you think this is a slum?"
Katherine walked into the dingy bedroom. Four hundred dollars was half a month's salary in the job Leslie had gotten her at Heath's. She shouldn't rent it. They could go to a hotel for a few days, until she found something cheaper. But she didn't know all the neighboriioods and this was the one Leslie had recommended. She stood, irresolute, the brief exultation of the trip draining away. Look where her direction had taken them: to three rooms for four hundred dollars a month. "All right," she said. They'd stay here while she looked around for herself. She started to write a check for September's rent.
"That'll be twelve hundred dollars," the realtor said, pulling out his receipt book.
"Twelve hundred — ?"
"Hrst month, last month, and one month security deposit. We have to protect ourselves," he added, seeing the shock on Katherine's face. "People skip, you wouldn't believe it—or they do damage."
Numbly, Katherine wrote the check. Whenever she thought she knew how much money she had, something came along to make it less. "Canadian bank," the realtor said, shaking his head. "Their dollars are worth about eighty-five cents here."
The exchange rate. Something else she hadn't planned on. "Could we settle it later?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm. "After I open a bank account here?"
After a moment, he nodded. "I guess I can trust you for
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that. How about you make up the difference in next month's rent?"
"Fine." As soon as he left, she turned back to the apartment. Living room, bedroom, kitchen, bath. After what they'd had in Vancouver! Stunned by the enormity of it—giving up the space and light of their wonderftil house, the terrace overlooking Vancouver, her rose garden, the huge trees and open yard— she shook her head. She had given that up . . . for this. How could she?
"Katherine! Good Lord, what have I done to you?"
Leslie stood in the doorway, her eyes meeting Katherine's over the grocery bags she held in her arms. "God damn it. Katherine, I had no idea. The realtor said it was perfect for a family and the best he could do with a top of four hundred . . ."
"It's all right, Leslie; we'll get used to it. And when we do some painting, it will be a lot brighter."
"But you ought to have more room."
"I can't afford more room."
Their different paychecks loomed between them. "In that case," Leslie said, putting the bags on the floor and holding out her arms, "welcome to San Francisco."
Katherine laughed and they held each other tightly. "Thank you. And thank you for coming; it's good to see a friendly face."
"Especially in this place." Leslie backed up and surveyed it, shaking her head. "Well." She became businesslike. "Here's the schedule. A crew of muscular young men will be here as soon as I give them the signal, to unload your truck. They do—"
"Leslie, I can't afford movers. We hired a high-school boy in Vancouver and I thought we'd do the same here."
'They aren't movers; they're maintenance men from one of our branch stores. Consider them a welcome wagon. They do whatever they're told, so have them put every piece of furniture exactly where you want before you let them get away. Then I'm taking all of you to dinner. Don't shake your head at me. It's the same welcome wagon. After this you're on your own, but to start you need something special, so we're going to Henri's at the top of the Hilton. Quite a view, decent food, and wine for the grownups. How does that sound?"
"It sounds like Christmas."
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"Listen, I lured you down here; I have to keep you happy. Speaking of which, I brought you a present." She pulled something from one of the grocery bags. "Know what this is?"
"It looks like a bundle of rags."
"It is a bundle of rags. The most valuable gift a friend can bring someone just moving in. Now, I'm going to the pay phone at the comer to call the muscular young men and then I'll help you scrub what I am sure is a grimy kitchen. Jennifer and Todd should help, too, don't you think? Instead of sitting outside looking like the sky has collapsed?"
"Of course. How odd that I never thought of rags.'*
With Leslie as organizer, the apartment came to life. Two young men, as muscular as she had promised, unloaded the truck, while Katherine and Leslie, with a mildly grumbling Jennifer and Todd, washed the kitchen and bathroom and all the floors. In the three small rooms, they bumped and tripped over each other, but Leslie joked about it, and as Katherine heard the laughter and saw her own furniture settle into place, the anticipation she had felt that morning began to return.
"You see," Leslie said later, as they were led to a table in the restaurant. "All it takes is organization."
"Or desperation," Katherine said hghtly. They sat beside a window while Jennifer and Todd toured the room to see the view from all d
irections, admitting it was pretty spectacular. Katherine gazed at the glowing city below and the curving panorama of lights across the bay—Oakland, Berkeley and their neighboring towns—and had a moment of pure happiness. Dinner with a friend, her children chattering happily instead of complaining, a home where lamplight and familiar furniture waited, and, in two weeks, when Jennifer and Todd started school, a job, a salary, a beginning. We've found a place, she thought as the waiter brought their shrimp and crab appetizers and Jennifer and Todd sat down to eat. Until Craig comes back, we've found a place to stay.
The small details of everyday life are invisible until they must be changed. Katherine changed alnwst all of them in her first two weeks in San Francisco. She arranged for a telephone and sent their new number and address to the Vancouver police, Carl Doemer, and two neighbors whom Craig might call when
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he found strangers living in their house. Using Leslie's recommendations, she found doctors and a dentist, and made a hst of discount stores she could reach on pubhc transportation. She opened checking and savings accounts in a bank near Heath's, filled out an application for check cashing at a neighborhood grocery store, and, borrowing Leslie's car, was first in line one morning to get a California driver's license. All her charge cards were in Craig's name, so she applied for new ones in her own name at Macy's and Sears; she had an employees* account at Heath's. Registering Jennifer and Todd at their new school, she found she'd forgotten to bring their records from Vancouver and sent to their old school for test scores, and to their doctor for their medical histories. And she spent a morning getting acquainted with a neighborhood pharmacist, the butcher at the supermarket, and the owner of a fish store down the street.
Best of all, Jennifer and Todd discovered Annie, who lived across the hall, and brought her to meet Katherine. Tall, blond, lanky, just turned sixteen, she was breezily cheerful, serious about her studies, and mad for new clothes, and therefore always on the lookout for ways to earn extra money—for instance, by keeping an eye on Jennifer and Todd when Katherine began her new job.
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