"Because I wasn't ready," she said, cutting her off, also slamming the door to any further questions. "But you are, so say it."
"I'm sorry."
"Again."
"I'm sorry."
"Keep going," she said, checking her tight jeans pockets for the right bulge before reaching in for her car keys. Meanwhile Rose chanted. "That's good. Now take my car and drive back down to the Cannery and—"
"But—"
"Yes, I know. You're sorry. You should have gone to the Cannery. You're sorry. Go on. I forgive you for doubting me. And I forgive you for not doing it this morning when I told you to," she said, putting the keys in the palm of her hand and pushing her toward the door. "See how easy it is?"
"But, Lu . . ."
"You don't even have to go into the stores. Just window shop."
"But, Lu ..."
"No. I can't tell you what you’ll see," she said, turning Rose to the door every time she stopped and turned to protest. “You'll know it when you see it, and it'll clear up everything for you. It'll make saying you're sorry a little tougher in some ways, but in other ways it'll make it a whole lot easier."
"But, Lu ..."
"I almost fainted when I saw it. You'll love it."
"Lulu!"
"What?"
She slapped the car keys back into her hand as she spoke firmly and finally.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, but if it'll shut you up, I'll go. First thing tomorrow."
"I can't wait that long."
"You're going to have to. They'll be closed by the time I get there."
"Oh. Right. I forgot. But first thing tomorrow . . ."
"Yes!"
"And then you find Gary and tell him you're . . ."
"Sorry," they said together.
~*~
The limo ride to San Francisco was a hard act for the old gray-green pickup truck to follow. The excitement of that journey was sadly, eclipsed by the lamentable trip home, which made this third run along Highway 101 in less than forty-eight hours something of an exercise in self-control as Rose fought a constant urge to skip the side trip to the Cannery and head straight for the main event, apologizing to Gary.
The night had passed slowly as she accepted and rejected Lu's advice, over and over again. She knew asking Gary for forgiveness was certainly in order, and she wanted it more than anything … except for the ability to turn back time. She would have given anything to put everything back as it was, before she'd made that fateful trip across the ballroom.
But the possibility that her sin was too grievous to be forgiven and that she might have to face Gary's scorn and rejection had been enough to make her want to roll over, bury her head in the pillow, and forget the whole thing. She'd never claimed to be a brave woman.
By the time dawn crawled through her window, she was mentally adjusted. Despite all the nonsense with the Cannery, Lu was right about the importance of saying and hearing the words "I'm sorry." She'd dozed off and dreamt of her life as it might have been if her mother had had the chance and her father had thought just once to tell her they were sorry. She'd loved them. She would have forgiven them anything ... if they had asked.
She was grumbling mad by the time she entered the Cannery. What had been a bleak overcast morning in Redgrove was now a rainy day in San Francisco. She'd found Columbus Street on the map easily enough, but finding it in the city traffic, and in the. rain, was a whole other story. When she finally reached the foot of it and the Cannery was within sight, she couldn't find a parking place. She didn't know why she was there or what she was looking for, and she was wasting a lot of time when she should have and would have been looking for Gary.
A little over an hour later she was ready to choke Lu with her bare hands.
She'd scoured every window, one by one, restaurants included, looking for something, anything, just one single thing to jump out at her and scream, "I'm what you're looking for."
She meandered into a Chicken Delight and bought a lemonade to go. Whatever dress or pair of shoes or book or pen set or porcelain figurine or piece of jewelry Lu had insisted she come to see, was now gone. Her feet were getting tired, and there was nothing in almost the entire shopping mall that had held her interest for more than a second or two.
She might have to come back, she decided, handing the cashier a five dollar bill and waiting for the change. She was a rotten shopper to begin with, and she was so distracted by her eagerness to see Gary and get her apology over with that she probably wasn't browsing as well as she might under other circumstances.
Lu would just have to-understand.
Better yet, Lu could come back with her and show her exactly what she wanted her to see, she thought, leaving the Chicken Delight. She'd wasted an entire morning on this hide-and-seek game and she was sick of it.
A kaleidoscope of sparkling multicolored lights from across the way caught in the corner of her eye. Instinctively she glanced at it, started to walk away, then glanced back. Her eyes narrowed for clearer vision. Her brows came together in confusion. Holding the lemonade in one hand and the straw in the other, she approached the twinkling lights slowly, as if they were reeling her in like a fish.
There in a darkened display window, set on a small turntable, under a hidden high-intensity light, was her sculpture. Steel and stained glass designed and welded as uniquely as if she'd given birth to it. She could remember making every inlay, bending each metal rod, brazing every raw edge, sanding, buffing . . . and giving it away to Gary.
There were emotions, both good and bad, stirring inside her, but she couldn't pick one to feel, and she didn't know what to think. She had questions, too, lots of them, the biggest being, what was it doing there?
She stepped back from the window, glancing about for the name of the store.
GARY’S GOURMET GARBAGE.
Well, that answered about half her questions right there. Who else? Was there any other man in the world whose name lent itself so well to the nation's waste— and now its recycled by-products?
The window on the other side of the entrance was artfully crowded with recycled paper products: cups, plates, napkins, bowls, stationery, books, computer paper; gift bags, paper towels, storage boxes. A colorful cardboard mobile of ducklings and chicks hung from the ceiling.
She wandered inside. There were toys, clothes, quilts, chairs, and lamps, all new arid all made of recycled materials. There were small displays for building materials such as insulation, plywood, abrasive paper made of glass for sanding, nails, oils, and cleaners. More displays for playground equipment, fertilizers, a walnut shell concoction for cleaning the bottom of boats and a . . .
"If you can't find it here, we can find it for you," a pleasant young female voice said behind her. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"
"No. Ah, I'm just browsing. Thank you."
"That's fine. Help yourself," she said, moving away to help another customer, of which there were surprisingly many. "We have another room in the back with some pottery and glass you won't want to miss. And we have catalogs at the front desk if you'd like to look at them or take one home. They're free. And someone up there can put you on our mailing list if you like."
"Thank you," she said, stunned. "Oh. You know, there is something you could help me with . . ."
"Yes?"
"That, ah, sculpture in the front window? How . . . how much are you asking for it?"
The young woman smiled. "I'm sorry, but it isn't for sale. It belongs to the owner and he won't sell it. He's already had several people offer him money for it.
But what he will do is take your name and address if you're interested, and when the artist is ready to sell others similar to it, he'd be very willing to send you the information. If you'd like to sign—"
"No. No. That's all right. I was just curious."
"Lots of people are. It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Rose nodded.
"Is there anything else you'd like to see?"
/>
"No thanks. Yes, actually. I'd like to see the owner. Is he here today?"
She grinned. "No, he isn't. He's not a very hands-on owner. I'm the manager. He just sort of pops in once in a while to check on things. But if you're thinking of making him a bid on the sculpture, I can tell you there's no use trying. He's very attached to it."
"Oh, no. Not the sculpture, I ... I wanted to tell him how wonderful this store is. I never imagined . . ."
"It's pretty amazing, isn't it?" she said, glancing around the store. "People can be real inventive when they put their minds to it. And like I said, if we don't have it here, we can find it for you. My boss knows everything there is to know about recycling."
"Yes, he does. I mean, I can see that he does."
She could see many things she hadn't seen before. The extent to which he'd dedicated his life to cleaning up the earth and its atmosphere. The extent of his belief in the ingenuity of mankind. The extent of his faith in her talent. The extent of his love for her.
TWELVE
Centering in on Gary's general location might have been difficult for a common civilian outside the garbage loop.
Rose, however, knew from a couple of months of seeing him with a telephone stuck to his ear that his office always knew how to find him. And there was only one All Bright Garbage and Refuse Collection listed in the phone book. Unfortunately, it was an 800 number and they were disinclined to give out his exact whereabouts, even though they would gladly take a message.
Well.
Who did they think they were dealing with? Certainly not Rosemary Wickum, Junker Extraordinaire, Pooh-bah of the Royal Order of Rummagers, soon to be the next Queen of Trash – if she had her way. And she was praying she would, just this once. In all her life, just this once, she was going to have it her way. She had an ace in the hole.
"Cletus? Hello?" she said, picking up a pay phone when it rang. She'd been waiting and glaring off potential users for the past twenty minutes.
"Hey, Rosie," he said, sounding a million miles away. "I did what you said. I called the main office and told them I had to talk to the boss in person, but they weren't much help." Now she was starting to worry. "They said he'd be out all day. I guess he's someplace in Vallejo ridin' the trucks."
"You mean he's collecting trash? On the trucks?"
"Yeah. He does that sometimes. Says it keeps him humble."
"Yes, I know." She frowned and chewed her lower lip as she contemplated her choices. "Where is Vallejo, Cletus? Do you know?"
"North of you. On the other side of the Bay, I think."
"Which bridge would I take?"
"Hang on," he said, leaving the phone with a clatter and a clunk.
Rose fidgeted nervously waiting for him. Even if she could find Vallejo, what would she do then? Drive up and down every street looking for garbage trucks? That could take a week. No, not if she drove only the streets that had trash set out for collection.
And those would be?
Cletus returned to the phone with a map from his truck and she got directions to Vallejo, which she could have gotten from her own map, had she thought of it. She used a quarter to dial information and applied the charges to her home phone to call Vallejo's Sanitation Department. A phone card would have come in handy.
And what part of Vallejo had the trash picked up on Mondays? she asked the clerk in the Sanitation office. The northeast side, of course. North of Bella Vista, east of San Jacinto.
See? Almost simple.
Midday traffic was awful, and it was still raining intermittently. It took her almost an hour to get to Vallejo.
The corner of Bella Vista and San Jacinto was a busy intersection. She chugged the gray-green bucket of bolts and rust east two blocks and north three more blocks to a residential area.
She was in luck. It was a neighborhood with children. And no one takes notice of garbage trucks the way children do.
But because of the drizzly day, there weren't many kids out. Feeling a bit crazed by now, and far beyond caring what people thought of her, Rose found a yard with lots of bikes and balls in it and walked up to the door. A little boy about six or seven years old came to the door with his mother. He knew that the garbage truck had already passed by and it was going that away— north.
Again she felt someone good was watching over her. Vallejo was one of those towns that divided its blocks with alleys, which meant she had only to search one alley for every two streets going north and south.
See? Almost simple.
She was really super-sleuthing when she discovered she could drive in and out of the alleys along one street going west to east to see if the trash cans were empty— that would mean that Gary had already been down that alley, of course. In fact, she was so busy and pleased with her sleuthing, she nearly forgot that with all the time she was subtracting from her search, she was also getting closer and closer to her moment of reckoning.
She understood that when she found her first full trash can, recycling bins beside it, heaped with cans, plastic milk jugs, and newspapers. Her palms grew moist with apprehension as she drove around the block to the last alley with empty cans and started north, across the next street and through the next alley.
What if he shouted at her? She hated it when people shouted at her. What if he refused to listen to her? Told her to go to hell? Wouldn't let her apologize? What then?
She was tired, frightened, and guilty, and the rain was depressing. There didn't seem to be any end to it. A big black cloud would roll in from the sea, dump its load, and float off toward the mountains. Followed by another and then another.
Taking any mental sidetrack she could, she wondered if anyone had ever identified the idiot who went around telling people that it never rained in California.
She wasn't sure if the sky was darkening with another storm front or if she was simply imagining the doom and gloom around her when she finally spied the sanitation truck in the next alley.
She slowed to a crawl—the old truck's favorite speed —and absently rubbed at the tight ache in her chest. Why hadn't she prepared anything? What was she going to say? Her mouth went dry and her throat closed up when a familiar form in blue overalls stepped off the back of the truck, walked with a long, lazy gait into the shadow of a small outbuilding, then reappeared with a trash can in each hand.
Gary wasn't sure if it was the incongruous and disturbing noises of a military all-terrain vehicle approaching or the eerie sense of being watched that caused him to look up. But seeing Rose's gray-green hunk-o-junk creeping toward him left him with the impression that it was probably both. It belched a rude cloud of black smoke as it stopped at the street. But it wasn't until it started to cross the street into the alley behind him that he chose to disregard the urge to meet it halfway and took up the impulse to ignore it.
Of course, it was an impetuous inclination that wreaked havoc on his nerves.
Two minutes after leaving Rose at the Essex Hotel, he'd stormed out onto the sidewalk and felt besieged by the sounds and sights of the city—the tall buildings, the rush of traffic, the hum of neon signs, the faces of countless strangers, rainwater gurgling in the gutters. The fog was so thin, it hardly impaired his vision, but instead distorted what he saw so that everything took on an unreal, unfriendly, unconnected, sort of a forsaken quality that made him want to cry out in loneliness.
He was smarting and he was angry, but with a sudden and horrendous jolt in the pit of his stomach, he felt something much worse. Lost and alone. He'd turned back to the hotel with every intention of returning to Rose and doing whatever it took to work things out with her. But his pride stood stony and uncompromising between him and the door.
He'd taken his share of grief for a job and a cause he believed in. He could even understand Rose's frustrations in dealing with standardized pigeonholes and stereotypes, but he'd expected more from her than shame and embarrassment. Maybe he'd expected too much.
He'd asked the doorman to call him a cab and spent
the entire ride—the entire and very expensive ride— back to his house in Fairfield wondering if he'd overreacted.
People liked to think they were evolving, becoming more tolerant, more sensitive to the needs of others. But it was a slow and difficult process. There were still slanted suppositions toward alcoholism and judgments made on unwed mothers and prejudices against fatherless children. Maybe the struggle against all three was enough for one person's life. Maybe it hadn't been fair to ask her to put up with one more contorted opinion about her life.
He'd spent Sunday alone, rattling around in his semi-empty house, seeing Rose everywhere. He picked up the phone a dozen times to call her, eager to forgive, then settled it back in its cradle, calling himself every kind of fool. She hadn't yet asked for forgiveness. She might not want any.
In the afternoon he tried to get some paperwork done and found himself making a list of alternative careers. Teacher. TV weatherman. Stand-up comedian. Truth was, he didn't want to be anything but a garbageman. That's when he got mad again.
It wasn't in him to pretend to be something he wasn't. Isn't that what he'd told her? And wasn't it true? He was never going to be anything but an ordinary man who dealt with public waste on a day-to-day basis. It was a good, honest, and for him lucrative profession. It didn't matter how much he loved her. If she couldn't accept who and what he was, she didn't really love him.
Yet, she was there. She'd come looking for him. He took it as a good sign, and his heart swelled with hope. But he cautioned himself to slow down. His whole world was at stake, and he needed to be sure. Sure that Rose could love him as he was. Even more sure that what he was wouldn't impair or betray Rose's faith in him.
He climbed back to his perch between the rear loader and the trailer of recycling bins and faced forward as they rolled to the next stop. He was traveling with the driver and the two regular loaders, who were keenly aware of the beat-up pickup truck following them – assuming it wanted to pass. He was the only man not surprised when a red-haired woman jumped out and left the poor old thing sputtering to death.
Talk of the Town Page 16
