by Lois Winston
I watched him for a moment, as he breathed in and out. The little guy twitched his whiskers and little white paws, and I could no longer resist. I picked up his limp body, and he dangled from my hand like overdone spaghetti.
“Well, are you interested in knowing your new name, Rum Tum Tugger?” I asked and the kitten moved slightly and opened his eyes part way.
“Aha! You’re awake. So, what do you want to be called? Rum or Tum or Tugger?” I faced his little body toward me and cupped his rump with my other hand. His head tilted to one side. Then he gave a big yawn and closed his eyes again.
“Oh, this is great,” I said and returned him to the couch where he promptly fell back to sleep. “Hassling a defenseless kitten. I should be ashamed.”
I went into the bathroom and drew a bath, putting in some salts for my aching feet. Dancers’ feet always ache even if they don’t dance for a living.
Tío returned my call before the tub filled up, and I told him the kitten’s name. It was a good thing I was prepared for the letdown.
“This is a name? What kind of a name is this?”
“I told you, Tío. It comes from Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. It’s what cats call themselves.”
“I have known a lot of gatos en mi vida. Not one has called himself Rummytummy, mi Sobrina.”
“It’s not Rummytummy,” I replied, with exasperation. “It’s Rum Tum Tugger. We can call him Rum or Tum or Rum Tum or Tugger.”
“Maybe we should call him Thomas,” Tío laughed and then tried to appease me when he sensed hurt feelings on the other end of the line.
“I think if you want to call him Tummy you should do so. It’s a fine name.”
I controlled my voice and tried to remain calm. “Not Tummy. Tugger. Tugger.”
“Tugger,” Tío repeated.
The kitten brought his ears to an alert position and raised his head from the sofa focusing sleepy eyes on me. He gave out one of his silent meows.
“Exactly,” I smiled, looking back at the kitten that looked at me contemplatively, before closing his eyes again. “His name is Tugger because he tugs at your heartstrings.”
“I think I am what you call nauseous, mi sobrina,” Tío said, with no small amount of mirth in his voice.
“Well, I still like the name, so Rum Tum Tugger it is. Good night, Tío. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thanks for taking such good care of Tugger.”
TEN
A Trip To Princeton-by-the-Sea
The next morning I got up before five o’clock. I was much too excited to sleep any later. I did my morning barre and exercises, examined the body from all angles in the full-length mirror, and decided I could have bacon for breakfast.
I had my shower, while Tugger followed me around watching my every move. I picked him up and put him in the waist of my tied robe, something that had become a morning ritual for both of us. Every day he felt a little heavier, and I was delighted.
After feeding both of us, and not sharing my bacon with Tugger no matter what his tricks, I dressed in dark jeans and a gray pullover sweater I’d borrowed from Richard once and forgot to return. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had something non-descript and non-attention getting. That’s the downside of being ‘colorful.’
By seven o’clock, I was ready to go. I had originally hoped to beat the traffic by leaving at what I thought was an early hour. That, however, was the naiveté of a person who lives several blocks from where she works and has no idea how it really goes in the Bay Area nowadays.
I’ve since found out the fume-infested, bumper-to-bumper commute begins around six in the morning until after ten a.m. and then starts again at three in the afternoon until well past seven p.m. I guess if you really want a trouble free drive, you need to leave at three in the morning.
Yes, it is a small window of opportunity, but your commute should be heaven. In any event, I joined the masses on Freeway 280, went west over the mountainous part of Route 92, and headed north on Highway One.
By the time I reached Princeton-by-the-Sea, it was nearly nine o’clock, and I was a little cranky and stiff. I’m not used to that type of aggressive driving. I needed a stretch and some coffee. Actually, I needed some Valium, but coffee was more accessible.
I turned the car into the nearby parking lot of a seaside diner, all silver chrome and kitschy, that sat on the ocean side of the highway. It looked as if it had been stolen off the back lot of the movie Diner.
I half expected to see Sylvester Stallone, long before his buffed up days, bop out the door carrying one of those plastic pink flamingos the era seems to be unable to live down.
The sun started coming up about an hour earlier, but the night chill still had its grip on the day. Shivering, I walked across the parking lot toward the metallic diner gleaming in the newly risen sun.
I turned around and looked back at the buildings across the highway. Most were plain houses without much style, but there was the occasional business residing in a one-story, inexpensive stucco job.
I looked again at the diner, with the California coastline in the background. Princeton-by-the-Sea, or what there was of it, couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted to be a working town or a tourist town. Regardless, compared to Santa Cruz, Monterey, Carmel, or even Half Moon Bay, it was tiny and unpretentious.
I might have made a mistake in coming over here. What possibly is going on in this place? With a deep sigh, I saw a long, boring day ahead of me in a town of less than four hundred people.
After a cup of surprisingly good coffee and a killer view of the surf, I decided to start at one of the local addresses I had for Grace Wong. I went back to the car, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a map of the area.
I chose to walk and leave the car where it was, thinking the gas station might be somewhere nearby. The address wasn’t given on the receipts, but I figured it shouldn’t be too hard to find a Ben’s Gas around here.
Asking a passing local who looked like he was old enough to be one of the survivors of the Titanic, I discovered it was two or three blocks off the highway, inside the older section of town. I knew the walk would do me good, so I set out to find it.
I discovered most of the streets are named for famous universities, with Ben’s Gas Station and Auto Repair located on Yale Avenue. It wound up being amidst a plethora of stored fishing boats, all aged and peeling, and stacks of ancient crab pots in a part of town tourists probably never visit.
The repair part of the station had six cars, in various stages of decay, scattered here and there. They contributed nicely to the run-down look of the area. The gas pumps were unmanned, but I looked around and saw a pair of booted feet under an older, brown Toyota Celica. I went over and squatted down near the boots.
“Good morning!” I yelled to the bottom of the car in between the banging sounds coming from the underside.
“That you, Sue?” answered a young, male voice somewhere near the exhaust.
“No, it’s not Sue. My name’s Lee, and I wanted to ask you something. You got a minute?”
A young man of about eighteen or nineteen pushed himself out from under the car. He wore a blue uniform covered with grease, and in his dirty right hand, he clutched a wrench. The name “Ed” was embroidered in red on the left side of his chest. He glared at me first and then broke out into a friendly smile.
“Wish I did, miss, but I gotta get this car ready for Sue. She’s gonna be back any minute for it.”
“Sure, Ed, I understand, but I was just wondering if you’ve ever seen this woman.” I showed him a printout picture of Grace Wong. It was amazing how clear a picture a computer can produce these days. It almost looked like a studio portrait.
“Oh, Jesus. What are you? A private detective?” He threw the wrench into a nearby toolbox and picked out another tool, ready to go back under the chassis.
I had been unprepared for this kind of reaction and forced a laugh, as I frantically searched my mind for an answer. “Of course not. Do I look like a det
ective?” I continued before he could answer, “I’m a dancer just like her. Her name is Grace Wong, and she dances with the San Francisco Ballet Company.”
“So?” he started to go under the car, and I grabbed his shoulder.
“So, I just want to meet her. Maybe she could give me some tips. She’s such a wonderful dancer. Have you ever seen her dance?” I gushed unashamedly.
“Are you puttin’ me on?” he answered pulling his shoulder free. “I don’t have time for this.”
I reached into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. This, I had been prepared for.
“I just want to know a little about her. Maybe meet her. She might even help get me an audition. Will you talk to me? That is, if you know anything.” I thrust the bill in his face. His eyes crossed as he looked at it. He licked his lips, and I knew I had him.
He reached out with his grease-covered left hand, grabbed the bill and stuffed it into his pocket. He threw down the tool and sat up leaning against the door of the car.
“Five minutes, that’s all I got. And I don’t know her really well, if that’s what you’re looking for. She seems like a nice enough girl, though, the times I seen her.”
I couldn’t believe my good fortune. He actually knew Grace and seemed to like her. “Just tell me anything. Anything you know.”
Ed went on, obviously a little embarrassed.
“I don’t always work days except when Ben needs the extra help. I usually do the closing. Gotta have a strong man here for that, you know.”
He puffed himself up slightly with self-importance.
“After eight p.m., you gotta be prepared for anything. Emergencies, robberies, weirdoes coming in wanting Lord knows what, you know?”
I nodded and made a sound, as if I really knew what it was like.
He continued, “So when she starts coming in every now and then, especially right before closing, it’s something a man notices.”
He waggled his eyebrows at me.
“Well, what’s she like?” I asked, and Ed gaped at me. “I mean, did she seem friendly? Standoffish? In a hurry? Have a lot of time on her hands? I only ask because I want to know how to approach her,” I offered, still pushing the idea I only wanted to meet her for career purposes.
Ed went into some kind of deep thinking for a moment and pursed his lips. “Friendly enough, but usually in a fair hurry. Once she got gas all over her shoes. It’s self-service here, you know, but I brought her a couple of wet towels to wipe them off. She was real grateful.”
“Did she ever have anybody with her, or did she always come by herself?”
Ed stared at me as if I had lost my mind, but looked like he remembered the fifty dollars and went into his deep thinking routine again.
“Well, once in awhile she’s got her family with her, if that’s what you mean. A bunch of Asians huddled in the back seat of that little car. Oh, yeah, and once she came in a beat-up pickup truck with some big oriental guy driving. She was just sitting there.”
He stroked his chin then went on.
“Her car broke down, I think, needed a new fan belt. We always keep stuff like that on hand. I sold him one, and they went on their way. She waved at me, though. She’s a nice girl. If she can, I’ll bet you she gets you an audition,” he added.
Apparently, he believed my idiotic story. I was amazed.
He went on, “She gave me a real nice tip when I helped her clean off her shoes, but I think she’s like that. Kinda sweet, you know?”
“I’m so glad. When did they come in for the fan belt? The time you said they were in the pickup truck. Do you remember?”
“I don’t know, maybe a couple of weeks ago. No, more like a month. I remember now because it was Christmas Eve. I wished her a Merry Christmas. That’s what made her wave to me. I don’t think she knew I saw her until then. Pretty girl. Hard to miss.”
He waggled his eyebrows again.
I wasn’t sure if I liked being waggled at and one of the boys where Grace Wong was concerned, but let it pass.
“When she came in by herself most of those times, did she ever say where she was coming from or going to? I mean, I might want to meet her at one of those other places rather than here.”
Ed nodded, as to the wisdom of that idea, but then shook his head.
“Naw, sorry, she never did. I didn’t ask, either. I gotta get back to work.”
He glanced at the clock at the top of the garage door, picked up the previously discarded tool, and rolled himself back under the car.
“Well, thanks,” I shouted to his disappearing body.
“Sure thing, and hey, good luck,” he added.
I stood up to leave and had another thought. “Hey, Ed, this pickup truck. What color was it?”
“Jesus, lady,” he growled in annoyance. Obviously my fifty bucks was up.
“White, maybe. Some real light color, like that, but I can’t say for sure. It was nighttime. It looked white to me.”
I turned away and passed a woman of about forty who would be forever “cute.” She was headed for either Ed or the Toyota.
She was probably Sue. She looked like a Sue, I decided. All Sues were cute.
I returned to the car and sat in the front seat thinking. By now it was around ten-thirty, and the sun was taking some of the chill off the day.
I took the cellphone from under the front seat, and placed a call to Richard. He didn’t answer, which didn’t mean he wasn’t there; it only meant he didn’t answer.
Leaving a voice mail message for him, I asked him to call me as soon as he could. Maybe he had some more information. I left the cell phone on and tucked it into my jeans pocket. I also decided to carry the camcorder, plus another eight-hour battery, and put those into the other pocket. This way I wouldn’t have to jot down notes with a pad and pencil.
Between the camera, phone, car keys and cash, it was a tight fit, especially as they were pretty tight to begin with. No more bacon for me, I decided, if I was going to be carrying half my purse in my pockets.
I had the rest of the day to explore Princeton-by-the-Sea. I figured I might as well find the place where Grace got the parking ticket.
This address was easy. According to the map, it was near the harbor. Grace had been parked in front of a fire hydrant on Capistrano Street at twelve thirty-seven a.m. Even though it was late at night, some enterprising cop had given her a ticket. I guess you never know when a fire might break out.
Address in hand, I strolled back in the direction of the marina. The setting is unique. Princeton-by-the-Sea sits on the north end of a perfectly shaped crescent bay, appropriately named Half Moon Bay. At this end of the curve, a high cliff rises and drops off abruptly into deeper water.
At one time, the navy maintained a tracking station on the apex of the cliff, still protected by chain fences. Huge satellite dishes tilt up to the sky beckoning to no one and nothing, save flocks of brown pelicans flying overhead.
Below the cliff, an artificial breakwater made out of large rocks creates an inner harbor. There is only one entrance from the harbor to the sea, and it’s on the smallish side. I assumed this is because the waters inside the harbor are too shallow to support the larger craft, so they are not invited in.
The marina itself is fairly large and looks to be the hub of the town. The surrounding sidewalk and road go up on a slight incline around the marina, about ten or fifteen feet above sea level at the highest point.
Steps lead down periodically to the pier and the docks. The pier is wide, sturdy looking and well maintained. That day the surf was calm and shimmered under the sun’s rays, while trim boats slowly bobbed up and down like some giant kid’s plastic toys.
When there was no wind, it was almost balmy, and the air smelled salty and clean. All in all, the effect was quite picturesque.
I spotted the hydrant at the end of a squared parking lot near the harbor portion of the marina.
That must be where Grace parked her car and got tickete
d.
I looked around for a possible restaurant or bar Grace might have gone to at that hour and saw no likely candidate. Like most small towns, they probably pull in the sidewalks around eight or nine o’clock at night, possibly ten at the latest. I made a mental note to check that out.
Still, it’s a pretty safe bet. Even in Palo Alto, it’s a rare restaurant or bar that’s open past midnight.
That brought me back to the marina and its inhabitants. I became aware of the fact there were perhaps seventy-five or eighty boats of varying types moored in numbered slips off the main pier. Several dozen larger boats were anchored outside in the deeper waters of the ocean.
Speaking of deep, I’m in it if Grace was doing something on one of those boats. If that’s the case, I’ll have a hell of a time finding out which one it is, although I’ll bet Richard can.
My spirits picked up a little, and I made another mental note to ask him, if I didn’t find anything out on my own. With all the mental notes wandering around inside my mind, I decided to take advantage of modern science and store them on the camcorder. After all, that’s what it’s for.
After I took care of that, I noticed an abandoned building at the other side of the marina, on a portion that was at zero sea level. Looking sad and forlorn, the building was actually half on land and half over the water.
The glass of the windows and doors was covered with soap in large, swirling patterns. This was a practice some people used with closed buildings that always intrigued me.
What exactly are they trying to hide behind all that Ivory soap? Curiosity killed the cat—no offence, Tugge —and all soaping up does is make me want to break down the doors to see what’s hidden behind the swirls.
I hurried down the wooden steps toward it trying to figure out what kind of a business it was in its heyday. As I closed in, the sign over one of the doors, faded and weatherworn, was finally readable.
“Dew-Drop-Inn Restaurant and Bar” it stated. Not an original name, I admitted, but one with a certain, homey appeal.
“Must have been a gorgeous view while you were eating,” I remarked aloud, as I strode nearer to the now defunct restaurant. “I wonder why it closed.”
