“True to its name—pick-me-up.”
“You know Italian?”
“My native language,” she says, taking a sip of the dark coffee.
“I wouldn’t have guessed.”
She shrugs. “I moved to San Francisco before I was five.”
“Did you grow up around here?”
“Yup, right around corner.”
“Did you learn Chinese?”
“A little. Ni hao. That’s it!”
He grins. “I’m impressed. So where are you off to now?”
“Home to the Mission.”
“So you left the ’hood.”
“I did, after elementary school.” She lifts her cup. “But not the espresso.” She hands her new barista friend a colorfully wrapped Bubblicious.
“I’m growing fond of this custom of yours,” he says, reaching for the gift.
“Thanks,” she says.
“How’d this get started? You tipping with gum.”
“I don’t know. I guess I started keeping a stash in my skirt pockets at school when I was little, to give as gifts when other kids did something for me.”
“Hmmm . . .” he says, eyeing her with curiosity.
“Hey, Barista, let’s keep this line moving,” a patron yells from the back of the line that’s forming.
Lavinia steps to the side and hears the next man in line whisper to the barista, “The girl with the tuxedo is pretty cute! The shoes, too.”
Lavinia looks down at her feet and then brushes the slim lapels of her jacket with her free hand. She bought it at a vintage shop on Haight Street and wears it every day.
The barista nods. “She’s vintage chic.”
Lavinia turns to see him blushing.
“Come on!” comes a sneer from the man in the back.
“Hold on! Patience, buddy,” the barista calls out. People in the line cheer in agreement.
Lavinia giggles, folds her hand around his, then turns to leave, facing the customers in line, feeling much better than when she entered. Was he flirting with her? And “vintage chic”! She likes that.
Walking through her old neighborhood on the flats of North Beach, she stops at a local bakery, caught by the smells of the warm yeast that’s escaped outside and is now trapped in her nostrils. She imagines the bubbling and rising of the soft dough. She looks inside and sees five-year-old Lavinia as a first grader with a pleated skirt, white ankle socks, and shiny shoes.
She stares at the five-year-old standing on tiptoes, her nose level with the floured breadboard, her hair parted in the middle and pulled into two gleaming pigtails. Tony, the baker, is up to his elbows in flour, kneading a plump hunk of dough. She is waiting for him to see her, hoping he does and hoping he doesn’t.
Look, he hasn’t seen me yet. Only when my hand edges over the rim of the board, crawling slowly like an itsy bitsy spider does he scream, “Who is stealing my dough?”
I jump.
Then he raps my hand gently. I laugh out loud and begin the game again.
Lavinia watches through the window of the bakery and laughs at her younger self playing, wondering how long they went on like this before Aunt Rose realized she was not in her room; that she would be late for school; that she had taken off for the bakery downstairs by herself. And where was Aunt Rose anyway, that I could sneak away like that?
And the gum? She must have had a book bag or lunch box for the gum. At least a pocket.
Heading to Grant Avenue, she cuts through Chinatown to catch a bus on Market, and passes the meat market on Grant where ducks hang from hooks, their heads all facing east. She feels a taste of disgust, reminding her of Naples, where meat always hung on hooks at the outdoor stalls and scared her.
This memory makes her think of Nina’s stained blouse, Don’s note, and her mother’s vehemence. She takes the note from her pocket and throws it in the gutter. Whomever the note was meant for, she decides, it’s not right.
When she arrives home it’s still light out. Located on the east side of Valencia Street, her apartment was once Sal’s storefront insurance office; he converted it into an artist live-in space for Lavinia before he left. Sal, Rose, and Lavinia used to live in the flat above the office, until Rose got sick with lung cancer. By then, Lavinia was spending most nights at Andy’s. When Sal closed up shop after Rose died a year ago, he closed the upstairs apartment, too—took down the navy canvas awning out front because he didn’t want anyone thinking he was still in business to be a bother for Lavinia. Then he left. Lavinia had not been upstairs since then.
She unlocks the door and enters the vast open space with its newly painted walls. The color, called Payne’s Gray, is a dark blue-grey; it’s her favorite neutral color, the color of the knitted blue cap and skirt her stuffed doll, Raggedy, wore. Lavinia used to love holding her, smelling her. In fact, she went with Sal to Benjamin Moore to watch the color consultant mix ultra marine and burnt sienna to create this cool-and-warm color, all the time remembering her Raggedy. Aunt Rose was mean to her, taking away her doll like that.
The walls meet the sunset-orange hardwood floor in a clean sweep from the high white ceilings. Overhead track lights warm the empty walls. She walks to the back of the long, narrow room—twenty by forty feet—to the small den, adjacent to an even smaller kitchen, that serves as her bedroom. There’s a double mattress on the floor.
She keeps this room dark, but not quiet. She always has music playing, especially during the transitions between day and night, like now, late afternoon. She puts on her favorite CD and changes out of her tuxedo outfit, moving the small stack of fig leaves from her pocket to the fridge as she does. Then she hops into spandex capris and a flowing nylon shirt—her other favorite outfit, the one she reserves for her private space.
She begins to dance. After beginning slowly, the music builds to a crescendo and comes down to stillness, bringing her easily into the night. As she dances, she thinks about the barista and wonders if he has a girlfriend. The music is calling Lavinia to listen, to interact with the beat of the drum and the pulse of the rhythm. She moves through the large room, riding the dance waves, letting this vibration carry her through and around the space, letting the music take her through a world of rhythms. Dancing with her shadow, she closes her eyes and imagines herself dancing with the barista.
Chapter 3:
TAMALES AND TEQUILA AND RAGGEDY
“Six tamales de elote, my mother’s specialty!”
Lavinia hears Kinky’s shout at the door as her friend lets herself into the apartment with the spare key and walks to the back of the long room. Waking from her dance reverie, Lavinia is happy to see Kinky in her studio. Kinky is wearing a mid-length skirt and Toms, her elementary school teacher uniform. Her hair is tightly curled around her beaming face.
Lavinia and Kinky met at State as freshmen. They were in a teacher preparatory program with ESL certification. Lavinia admired Kinky’s pluckiness, the way she spoke about kids in the barrio and her own family, and how everyone seemed to be her family. And Lavinia felt Kinky’s love for her. She remembers the day Kinky took her eyebrow pencil and penciled in a little chocolate chip–size birthmark on her own upper lip. They laughed and laughed. Lavinia attached herself to Kinky, and since that day they’ve been best friends. Kinky has seen her through Aunt Rose dying, her breakup with Andy, and Uncle Sal leaving. Kinky has taken care of her since they became friends, and she’s continued nurturing her even since Lavinia dropped out of school, not graduating or getting the ESL certificate.
“Let’s eat on the back patio—the weather is grand,” Lavinia says. She grabs two plates and two forks and opens the back door onto a small yard with a single fig tree that produces twice yearly.
Her friend follows her outside, drops the tamales on the center of the round lawn table in front of the fig. “They’re still hot,” Kinky tells her. “My mother sends a besito. She misses you.”
“Hot tamales and a kiss. Who could ask for anything more?” Lavinia leans over an
d gives her friend a kiss on the cheek. “I miss her, too.”
“Tequila,” Kinky says, taking two shot glasses and a skinny metal container from her oversized jacket and holding it out in front of Lavinia, who plucks it from her hands.
“Boy, can I use this. Just enough for me.” She winks at Kinky as she pours the amber liquid equally into each glass. “Let’s eat. All I had today was bubblegum and too many espressos.”
The two friends sit in aluminum armchairs and sip the tequila, letting its warmth run through their veins.
“What a day.” Kinky sighs as she cuts a tamale into small squares. “The kid I tutor over on Valencia—you know, the boy who doesn’t say too much? He actually wrote a story.”
“Armando?”
“Yeah, he wrote a story about a boy who walked through the Sonoran Desert all the way to San Diego.”
“You think it’s true.”
“Of course!” Kinky looks at Lavinia. “Where do you think we get our stories? Plus, he’s only twelve years old.”
“I don’t know. What about dreams? Or fantasies?”
“These kids I tutor are quiet. I wonder if it’s because English is their second language, or . . .” Kinky brushes her fingers through her tight curls as if she’s pulling a Slinky, unwinding and unwinding, and looks at Lavinia.
“. . . or they’ve been traumatized.” Lavinia finishes the sentence then bites into a succulent tamale, tasting the spices, as if to accent what she’s just said.
“Lavinia, you are so smart.” Kinky shakes her head. “I wish you were teaching school this year at Bryant.”
“Yeah, we could chew gum during the break . . . or drink tequila,” Lavinia says, making light of a small discomfort she feels inside.
Kinky seems to notice, as usual. “Why’d you go and quit when you were so close to finishing?” she asks.
“I’d prefer not to go there now,” Lavinia answers, looking directly at her.
“Well, I’m ready to listen when you decide to face all you’ve given up. You’re a desaparecida. It’s like someone kidnapped you.”
“Kinky, quit!”
They eat in silence. Lavinia thinks of the phrase she heard her mother say today in her daydream so clearly—Leave me alone—but still, there’s some truth in what Kinky says. Lavinia chews on her food until she calms herself.
“Speaking of writing,” she says, “I found a note in one of my client’s pocket today. A note, all folded and crinkled, saying, ‘Meet me at Velo Rouge.’”
“I know that place. It’s a small restaurant near USF.”
“Don’t know it.” Lavinia returns to her tamale.
“Yeah, a block or two away. You think that note was meant for you, Lavinia?”
“I don’t know. It’s just the way the guy looked at me, you know? The way he stared at my birthmark the first day he set eyes on me.” She pushes her plate away and puts her hands on her stomach, feeling a little nauseous. “I’ve been wondering about it. Even though I know it wasn’t meant for me, it makes me scared.”
“Are you afraid of him?” Kinky asks.
“I’m not afraid of Nina, I trust her . . . but him, I don’t know. He’s disgusting. Maybe worse.”
“You gotta trust your gut.”
“Yeah, he was so gross! But seriously, there’s no way the note was for me. I don’t know why I’m tripping out.” Lavinia looks to Kinky for support.
“Don’t worry, we all do that,” Kinky says, ever empathetic.
“I guess.” Lavinia sips her tequila. “Thank you, I feel better.” She looks at the tamale she’s just pushed away. “I met a possible new client today. A quirky old man who lives off Chestnut Street in North Beach. Nice guy. Plushy rugs.”
“He doesn’t want you to wash rugs, does he?”
“No. The usual.” She pulls the tamale back toward her and takes a bite. “Oh, this tamale is to die for. I’m so hungry.” They eat quietly for a while. Then Lavinia says, “He’s hard of hearing, just lost his wife. An old dude with a daughter who is a doctor.”
“Nice.”
“Have you been around very old people, Kinky?”
“Only my grandparents. They live in Mexico. When I visited, I met a whole village of elderlies. Of course, Mama feels old in her ways.”
“And . . .” Lavinia looks at her friend, wanting to hear something that will make her feel more at ease around the eighty-year-old.
“They know a lot. Why?”
“I don’t know. It makes me nervous, that’s all. To be working in his home. What if something happens to him?”
“Like what?”
“Like what if he falls? Or what if he dies?” She winces as she vocalizes to Kinky the fear that’s been nagging at her.
“Like Rose,” Kinky says.
Lavinia is stunned. “No, not like that. She was sick for a long time,” she finally says.
“Well, it’s still very close to you, and maybe it’s making you afraid he’ll die on you, too.”
“Who’s a smartass now?” Lavinia asks, not wanting to think about Rose’s slow and painful death. But she is. She sees her gray skin and yellow eyes, feels her clammy flesh, and then remembers the smells of decay. She pushes her plate away again, feeling nauseated.
She has to wait a while, gathering herself, before she continues talking about her work.
“I just don’t know what to expect. That’s all. Anyway, he wants Wednesday afternoons, and that would mean two jobs, back to back, so I’m not sure how I’m going to swing that, unless I move Nina to another day. And she won’t change.”
“Wouldn’t be so bad to go to North Beach twice a week.”
Lavinia sucks her fingers, “No, especially since I met this guy today at Café Falcone. He makes great espresso. He gets it just right. Cute, too.” She pulls her plate back and takes another bite of the tamale, lettinga soft hum of enjoyment come out through her lips. “This tamale is so good, Kinky.” She licks her lips. “Your mom is super to have made these for us. I would have had to offer you tuna from a can.”
“I figured. Just protecting myself. So tell me more about the guy.”
“I don’t even know his name. An intelligent face, long straight nose, dimples.”
Kinky sips from her small glass of the golden liquid. “Is he interested?”
“Maybe.” Lavinia raises her eyebrows, withholding the information about their flirtation from her friend on purpose. She wants to unfold it slowly. She drinks, feeling her insides warm up to the idea of someone being sweet on her and to the gentle, balmy weather.
They sit silently together, waiting for moonrise over the small patio, letting the sounds of the night surround them.
“Oh, it’s the way he noticed me. I felt this immediate connection with him.” She impulsively touches her heart with the palm of her right hand.
Kinky grins. “Come on, you more than noticed him, too,” she teases.
“I went back there three times,” Lavinia confesses. “And the last time we held up the line.”
“Cool. I’m excited for you, Lavinia.”
“I love hanging out like this, Kinky. This is it, girl talk. You and me.” Lavinia reaches out her glass. The two friends clink their tumblers and sip tequila; the warm night caresses them. “Did you ever want to have a sister?”
“Yeah, growing up I wished I had a sister. I hated being an only child. It felt like some kind of disease,” Kinky says, cuddling into her friend.
“Yeah, or like being an orphan,” Lavinia says, feeling a lump in her throat.
“Are you okay, Vinnie?”
“Yeah.” She nearly chokes on her words.
“You had Rose and Sal,” Kinky says, squeezing her hand.
“Yes, and I lost them, too.”
“You are mourning Rose, is that it?” Kinky says again. “And that awful way she went.” She looks up behind her, toward the upstairs flat.
“Awful, but at least she wasn’t alone! I do mourn her, I think. And I’m grateful
for everything she and Sal did for me. But if only . . .” Lavinia stops herself, afraid of going down that slope, but can’t help but continue. “If only I’d kept on asking Sal about my mother’s story.”
But what if she’d heard from him that she was responsible for whatever happened to her mother? She was petrified of that. Didn’t kids feel that way? Maybe she didn’t want to know some horrible truth. Maybe that’s why she never pestered Sal and Rose to tell her.
“I like it when you call me Vinnie.” Lavinia laughs. “Remember how Sal called me Vinnie?”
Kinky nods.
“Maybe if I had a sister she would’ve called me that, too,” Lavinia says, coming out of her worry.
“I think so. What do you remember about your mom?”
Lavinia leans back into her friend and closes her eyes. She sees white clothes sunning on a line, fresh and bright, and her mother’s smiling face. She remembers her warm and inviting eyes the most. She hears whirling water in a pool where Mama is kneeling, kneading a small dress in her hands. She sees a small child filling a red pail with water and splashing her tiny hands in it. Her mother laughs and sings out, “Lavinia Lavinia,” which makes her feel so special.
“You have a smile on your face a mile long, Vinnie.”
“Yeah, I’m just thinking about my mom, the sound of her voice, her laugh, her eyes. But today I remembered something new.” She tells Kinky about her mom’s strong voice to someone she calls Papa, refusing him, telling him she won’t do something he’s asking.
“Papa would be her father, no?” Kinky says.
Lavinia nods. “I don’t know much more. I snapped out of the memory. I couldn’t catch it. It’s always the same: sweet, and then some rumble!”
“What was her name?”
“Angela.”
“Nice. Did Sal tell you anything about her death and why you came here to California so quickly after? It seems odd to me, that’s all.”
“I stopped asking.” Lavinia can hear Sal’s emphatic voice now: “Lavinia, don’t ask anymore!”
“I never had the courage to ask about it after those first few months, actually.” Lavinia shakes her head, feeling sorry for herself, and sorry for Sal at the same time. “He wouldn’t tell me much. Just that she died at twenty-one and he came to take me away to this safe home.”
The Laundress Page 3
