by Leslie Karst
“So,” I asked after a moment, “I take it she has no one else to stay with?”
Dad shook his head. “No. And even if she did, it should still be us. Because we’re her family.”
And that was that. To the Italians in our community, whose forebears had emigrated to Santa Cruz from Liguria over a hundred years ago, nothing trumped famiglia.
His face softened at my nod of understanding. “That’s my girl. I promise it won’t be that hard. I bet you end up really liking having her around. And to sweeten the pot, I’ll even forgive your rent while she stays with you.”
It was a generous offer. I was living in my Aunt Letta’s old house, which Dad had inherited after she’d been killed last spring. And although he didn’t charge me anywhere near market value for the place, having it rent-free for even a couple weeks would be a boon to my finances.
“I tell you what,” Dad said, unfastening the white apron tied about his black-and-white-checked chef’s pants. “Let’s go over there right now before the lunch crowd arrives so you can meet Evelyn, and then I can drive both of you and her dog over to your house.” He turned back to the stove. “Emilio, be sure to get a pot of water going for that ravioli special. I’ll be back by noon, but if there’s a rush before then, you can ask Joe to help out.”
“No worries; I got it covered.” The line cook waved us away and returned to his onions.
* * *
The barking of a dog greeted Dad and me as we climbed out of his old Chevy pickup. I lifted my bike from the bed of the truck, and as I wheeled it up the driveway, I could see the dog’s dark-brown face at the window of the guest bedroom—my room, growing up—going ballistic the same way Buster does whenever anyone comes to the door. A hand reached out to grasp the dog’s snout, and it quieted down.
Dad unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Evelyn?” he called out. “It’s me, Mario.” I followed him into the living room and leaned the bike against the wall.
The door to my old bedroom opened a crack, and a slight woman slipped out into the hall, shoving the dog’s protruding head back inside the room. “Coco, stay,” she said. “And hush. Good girl.”
Evelyn closed the door and turned to face us, brushing back a lock of light-brown hair. She held what looked like a bundle of rods in one hand. “Hi. I didn’t expect you back so soon.” Her dark eyes darted about and came to rest—or so it appeared—on me. “Is someone else with you?”
“My daughter, Sally,” Dad said. “I wanted to introduce you two.”
“Oh, great.” Evelyn popped open what I now realized was a collapsible cane and came down the hall toward me. Stopping, she leaned the cane against the wall, and I stepped forward to take her outstretched hand. Her grip was strong but at the same time warm and friendly.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “Though it’s too bad it had to be in this situation. I’m so sorry about your mother.”
“Thanks. I’m still trying to take it all in.” She released my hand to wrap her arms about herself, as if in a reassuring self-hug. The three of us stood there in the hall, no one speaking.
“Uh, why don’t we sit for a bit in the kitchen,” Dad finally said, breaking the awkward silence. “I can make us some coffee.”
Evelyn dropped her arms with a light smile. “Coffee sounds outstanding.”
One big point in her favor. “I couldn’t agree more,” I said.
Dad touched Evelyn on the shoulder and held out an arm for her to take, but she shook her head. “Thanks, but I think I’ve got it down.”
She made her way confidently down the hallway, the cane swinging back and forth before her, tapping both sides of the wall. Then she turned right into the dining room, skirted the large walnut table, and made her way into the sixties-era kitchen with its vinyl flooring, Formica countertop, and avocado-green appliances.
Evelyn and I pulled out chairs and took a seat at the small, round breakfast table while my father busied himself with pouring coffee from a can into a filter, filling the carafe with water, and pouring it into the machine.
“Dad says you’re a student at Cabrillo College,” I said as he fetched spoons, milk, and sugar and set them on the table.
Evelyn folded up her cane, fastened the tubes together with its elastic band, and set it in her lap. “Uh-huh. I’m studying computer science. I only have one more semester till I get my AS degree, and then I’ll transfer to a four-year university. Probably San Jose State.”
“Is it hard being a student? You know …”
“Because I’m blind?” she said with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not offended. It’s not as if it’s something you can ignore. I am in fact most definitely blind. And yeah, it is harder for me than for a sighted person, but that’s the reason I’m taking computer classes. These days, with so much new technology, it’s way better for blind people than it used to be. All the computer programs and phone apps they have now, it’s amazing.”
“Like Siri and Alexa, you mean?”
“Sure, those are great. But there are all sorts of other things that are specifically designed for the blind as well. Like, check this out.” Evelyn pulled an iPhone from the back pocket of her red capris and swiped her index finger over its screen.
I peered over her shoulder and watched as the website for a local Mexican restaurant appeared. A few more swipes and a robotic voice started speaking: “Appetizers. Cheese nachos. Cheddar and jack cheese, beans, and jalapeños. Six dollars. Deluxe nachos. Cheddar and jack cheese, beans, guacamole, sour cream, and jalapeños. Nine dollars. Tortilla chips with guacamole and sals—”
She shut it off.
“Whoa,” I said. “That’s awesome.”
“I know.” Evelyn shoved the phone back into her pocket with a grin. “I picked that app to show you because I love food, but now I’m totally starving, thinking about those nachos. I may have to call a Lyft and go have some for lunch.”
Three more big points for her. One for loving food, another for pulling up the menu of one of my favorite Mexican joints, and the third for saying Lyft rather than Uber.
“Okay, look,” I said as Dad pushed his chair back and stood up at the beeping of the coffee maker. “I know you need a place to stay for a while, and I imagine my father told you about his massive dog allergy.”
“Yeah, Mario told me,” Evelyn said, nodding thanks as my dad set a cup down before her with a clunk. “Plus I could hear him sneezing like crazy this morning when he got up.”
“Milk or sugar?” Dad asked.
“No thanks. I don’t like to dilute any of the caffeine.” Reaching out her hand, she gently swept the space in front of her until her fingers touched the cup, then raised it to her lips. “So, anyway, I’ve been thinking of places where I could maybe stay until I’m ready to go back home.”
“Well, that’s why I brought it up,” I said. “Because if you’d like to come stay with me, that would be okay. I have a spare bedroom, so there’s plenty of space.”
“Really?” For the first time since I’d met her, Evelyn smiled with her entire face. “And Coco, too?”
“Sure, that shouldn’t be a problem. I also have a dog, Buster, and he loves other dogs. We could introduce them first to make sure it works out, but I’d be surprised if they didn’t get along. Is Coco friendly?”
“Very. Too much, maybe. Here, why don’t you come meet her now.”
“I’ll stay here,” Dad said, stirring sugar into his coffee. “For obvious reasons.”
Evelyn and I made our way back to my old bedroom, and she slowly opened the door. “Hey, Coco,” she said as the dog jumped up on her. “Okay, settle down. Show Sally what a good girl you can be.”
I knelt and let the big dog—a chocolate Lab, I now saw—come sniff my hands and make sure I was friend rather than foe, then stroked the soft fur behind her ears.
“This breed is used a lot as service dogs, right? Is Coco your guide dog?”
“No, though she actually was in guide dog training for a while as
a puppy. But she was way too obsessed with food to follow commands all the time. She’d completely ignore anyone if she found a piece of a sandwich or something on the ground, so she didn’t make the grade.” Evelyn reached to scratch Coco under the chin. “You’re a guide dog dropout, aren’t you, girl?”
“She’s super sweet,” I said as the dog rolled over to bare her belly for more petting. “I say we let the dogs meet. We can let them decide whether you come stay with me or not.”
“Sounds good to me.”
* * *
Dad drove the two of us to my place, Coco riding cross-tied in the back of the truck along with my bike and the small amount of belongings Evelyn had. After we’d unloaded everything and carried it up to the house, Dad gave me a warm hug.
“Thanks, hon,” he said. “This means a lot to me.”
As I’d expected, Buster and Coco hit it off immediately. Since adopting my late aunt’s dog, I’d seen how easily he made new friends at the dog beach near our house. And, sure enough, after a few cautious nose-to-tail sniffs and several test paws-down, butt-in-the-air feints, the two dogs were chasing each other around the brick patio in my backyard as if they’d been pals since puppyhood.
“Okay, I guess that’s it, then,” I said as two brown blurs streaked past us and bounded over the boxwood hedge onto the scraggly lawn beyond. “I don’t know if you can tell, but they appear to like each other. A lot.”
Evelyn laughed. “Uh, yeah. I can tell, all right. It’s like a surround-sound movie, the way they’re tearing around the yard.”
Stupid. Of course she can tell. It wasn’t as if sight was the only way to sense the world around you. “So why don’t I show you around the house, then,” I said.
“Sure, that would be great.”
But when I took her by the arm to lead her inside, she stopped me. “No, it’s better if I take your arm.”
“Oh, sorry …”
“No, no, don’t be sorry. There’s no reason you’d know. It’s just that I’m more in control if I hold your arm, rather than you holding mine.”
As I gave Evelyn a tour of the house, I could almost see the cogs in her brain turning as she made a mental map of the layout. Once in a while she’d stop and think a moment, as if committing to memory the number of steps from place to place.
“And this will be your room,” I said, showing her the double bed, the chest of drawers, and the closet where Dad had deposited her suitcase and day pack. “I used to sleep here in the guest room once in a while when Letta was still alive. The quilt is really warm, and the mattress is nice and hard.” With a sigh, I sat on the edge of the bed, and she joined me.
“You two were close, weren’t you?” Evelyn said.
“Uh-huh.”
“It must have been hard, her dying like that.”
“Yeah, it was. And living here, in her house, it’s weird. I sometimes forget and expect her to be in the kitchen whipping up a soufflé or a batch of jalapeño corn bread. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over—” And then I remembered why Evelyn was here at the house. “Oh, lord. I’m so sorry …”
I turned toward her, but she was facing the wall, lips tight and jaw set. “So how you holding up, anyway?” I asked in a soft voice.
Evelyn shrugged. “Not great. Big surprise there. But I’ll deal.” She lay back on the bed, and Coco jumped up next to her. “No, Coco,” she said, starting to sit up and push the dog off. “You can’t come up here. You’ll mess up the quilt.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “Dogs are allowed on all the furniture in this house, as long as they don’t have muddy paws. And besides, the quilt’s already pretty ratty. I think Letta picked it up at some garage sale.”
She lay down again and Coco curled up next to her. Neither of us spoke, Evelyn stroking the dog’s thick fur, me staring out the window at Buster asleep in a pool of light on the brick patio.
“So, you wanna talk about it?” I asked after a bit. “Your mom?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not right now, anyway. All I really want to do is lie here a while and rest, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.” I stood up. “I’ll leave you alone. I have to be at Gauguin around four, but I’ll be here till then. When you’re feeling up to it, we can talk before I go to work about anything you might need.”
Evelyn smiled and closed her eyes. “Thanks, Sally. You don’t know how much it means to me to be around family right now.”
Yes. Famiglia.
Chapter 3
Brian was in the garde manger—the cold food and salad prep room at Gauguin—when I got to work that afternoon.
“How you feeling today?” I asked.
He looked up from sorting through a stack of cardoons. “Way better, thanks. I don’t know what bug I had, but I’m super glad it’s gone.” Selecting one of the vegetables—which resembled a cross between an artichoke stalk and celery—he used a paring knife to remove its strings, sliced it lengthwise and then crosswise in three sections, and tossed the pieces into a pot of cold water.
“Yeah, me too. But be sure and take it easy tonight, okay?”
I was trying to decide whether Brian was showing signs of being either sick or stressed out when Javier and Tomás came tramping into the kitchen from the side door, each bearing an overflowing box of produce.
“Look at the beautiful arugula they had this week,” Javier said, depositing his cardboard box onto the counter and removing three plastic bags of the leafy greens. “And I got a great deal on leeks, too. Good thing I ran into Tomás. I’d never have been able to carry all of this by myself.”
Downtown Santa Cruz hosts a bustling farmers’ market every week, just a few blocks from Gauguin. So even though we get most of our produce from deliveries by local farms, Javier loves to wander the stalls of the market, tasting samples of sun-ripened peaches and heirloom tomatoes, inspecting the towers of carrots, turnips, and parsnips, and chatting up purveyors of preserved lemons and fig jam.
As a result, we usually leave at least one veg or other side undecided for the night, which allows Javier to come up with menu items based on what looks good at the market.
“Check this out,” he said, rummaging in the box the prep cook had set down next to his and coming up with several bunches of thyme. “I was thinking we could do the leeks roasted with walnut oil, lemon, and thyme.” He set the thyme on the counter and headed with the cardboard box for the walk-in fridge.
“Sounds awesome,” Brian said. “And it would go really well with that flounder we got in today.” Hefting the second box, he followed Javier into the chilly room, where the two began chattering about the night’s specials.
Well, if Brian is still acting odd in any way, Javier will certainly notice. I’d let him worry about the cook. With one last glance in their direction, I headed upstairs to change clothes.
* * *
By five thirty we already had six tables seated, most without reservations. It’s one of the benefits of being right downtown, especially on farmers’ market days, when hungry shoppers—their mouths watering from all the luscious produce, creamy cheeses, tantalizing rotisserie chicken, and fresh-baked breads at the market—often come in for an early dinner.
I was at the grill station, flipping a rack of baby-back ribs glazed in pineapple, garlic, and soy sauce, when through the pass I spied a familiar head of blond hair. It was Eric, headed toward the bar.
Alone?
No, he appeared to be with a woman.
The two of them took the stools at the end of the mahogany bar, and Eric swiveled around to peer into the kitchen. Catching my eye, he smiled and waved, then swung back around.
I studied the woman. She looked to be about Eric’s and my age, so fortyish, with a dark suit, shoulder-length dark-brown hair, and a bulging briefcase on the floor beneath her stool. A lawyer, no doubt. Probably one of Eric’s DA cohorts.
Once we had a lull in the dinner tickets, I took a break to go over and say hi, and Eric introduced me to his fri
end. “This is Gayle,” he said. “She’s a PD.”
“Ah, consorting with the enemy, are we?” I responded, and she laughed. It wasn’t unheard of for public defenders to hang out with district attorneys, but it wasn’t common, either, given their conflicting interests.
“Her client finally accepted my generous offer in a case we both detested,” Eric said, “so we’re celebrating.”
Gayle raised her Martini in a toast. “And thank God he did. Though I still say three months is too harsh.”
“A mere slap on the wrist,” Eric said, lifting his matching Martini to clink her glass. “Given that the evidence against him was damning, to say the least.”
Gayle grinned. “Yeah, my guy was totally guilty. And a complete scumbag to boot.”
“What did he do?” I asked.
“Petty theft,” Gayle said, and drained her glass. “A bicycle some surfer left unlocked on West Cliff while he went down to check out the waves. Someone else saw the guy do it and chased him down.”
“Well, I’m no fan of bike thieves,” I said, “but I have to agree with Gayle. Three months in jail does seem a bit harsh for that.”
Eric shook his head. “For a first offense, sure. Which is why he got probation two months back for doing the exact same thing. This time around, though, he gets real time. Not that I’d call three months ‘real’ time,” he added with a light jab to Gayle’s waist.
She slapped his hand playfully in response, and it hit me that they had to be more than just colleagues out for a post-work drink. The way they kept looking each other in the eye, how close together they’d been sitting before I’d interrupted their conversation …
My jocular reply died on my lips, and I smiled numbly as I tried to regain my composure. But the adrenaline now coursing through my body made it difficult. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there.
I was saved by Brandon coming up from behind with two plates of food. Stepping aside, I let the waiter set them on the bar: the flounder special with roasted leeks for Gayle, and an inch-thick rib eye atop a bed of arugula with a side of julienne French fries for Eric.
