The Laundress

by Barbara Sapienza

  Zack and Elsa sit on a picnic blanket, laughing; a wedding picture with her in a white suit and a pillbox hat with a tiny veil over her eyes and Zack with white creased slacks and a tailored jacket. White shoes, too. On the fireplace mantle sits a photo of Margaret as a baby, held by Zack; another of her as a toddler; and one from elementary school. Then Margaret appears in a cap and gown, standing between her parents, a wide smile of accomplishment spread across her face. Margaret’s skin is fair, her hair is light. She stands tall and thin. In a current picture with Zack, she looks about fifty. She links her arm around his waist. Lavinia likes her wholesome looks and the way she resembles Zack. Margaret is as tall as her father and seems happy beside him.

  That familiar homeless feeling overcomes Lavinia, resting behind her eyes like a ghost. She’s suddenly envious of Margaret, for having a relationship like this with her parents, for completing all these milestones Lavinia has never known. She smiles at the images to chase away her sadness.

  In a slight fog she turns her gaze away from the photos, orienting herself toward the tasks at hand. She surveys the apartment like an animal marking the ins and outs of a new space, sniffing it out before she begins her cleansing ritual. She washes her hands, beginning what seems to her a dedicated act of purification.

  In the bathroom shower, she finds bathing caps hung alongside bath towels. On the showerhead hangs a Speedo swimsuit and goggles. A swimmer. That makes sense to her; it accounts for his lean, tall body type. She immediately delves in, filling the water basin, then adding the suds before hand washing this paraphernalia. Performing her prescribed cleansing routine, knowing what is expected, makes her feel more grounded. But more than that, she believes she is participating in a solemn ritual. A rite of service—or is it a sacred ceremony?

  Then she walks into his bedroom, a large room shielded from the sun. Like her, Zack seems to prefer to sleep in a darkened room. His bedside table is piled with books and magazines about the Long Now Foundation. She wonders what they do, so she picks up one of the magazines and skims it. She reads that Danny Hillis is the founder of the Long Now Foundation. There’s a picture of him. He looks young, not too much older than her. With others, she reads, Hillis has conceived of a clock that will ring every day for ten thousand years. How strange, she thinks, and who cares?

  She reads on. “We are at the very beginning of time for the human race. But there are tens of thousands of years in the future.”

  Suddenly, she feels dizzy. All this time on her hands boggles her mind. She sits down on the side of the bed and holds her head in her hands, wondering how she can bear tens of thousands of years without her mother. When she recovers, she pulls creamy white sheets from his bed. The Egyptian cotton is soft to her touch. She rubs the fabric across her chin then pulls the feather pillows from their covers and fluffs up the comforter. She considers how wasteful it is to wash the sheets when only one side of the bed gets used. As she carries the sheets to the laundry room, she passes another quiet but brighter bedroom with sun oozing through a half-opened door. She peeps in to find what looks like a child’s room. Flowers and trees color the bedspread and matching curtains; a white desk and a blue striped easy chair and matching ottoman perch upon a soft green pile rug. She wonders if he’s kept the décor Margaret favored as a child and again feels touched by this sign of fatherly connection. If only she had this.

  In the laundry room she sorts the whites from the darks and places the darks in the washer, but not before searching the pockets for papers or tissues. Her Kleenex-can-wreak-havoc obsession comes to mind—one tissue messes up an entire load of clothes. The note she found at Nina’s house in Don’s pocket surely wreaked havoc, in or out of the machine. She can’t believe she thought the note was meant for her. There’s just no way it could have been. She’d only met the man once, after all.

  She reaches inside her own jeans pocket, pulls out a piece of Bubblicious, pops it in her mouth, and places the wrapper back in her pocket. The flavor she loves explodes on her tongue and down her throat and soothes her agitation. There’s no way she’s going to let Don’s lousy behavior corrupt her focus on her important task. Back to work.

  The morning progresses easily despite the chiming clocks surrounding her, marking the time in her work cycle. And all the books mark time, too. What if she does have all the time in the world, or she is “at the very beginning of time,” like the Long Now Foundation says?

  When the colored clothes are finally dry, she pulls down the ironing board and sets to ironing. The shirts iron beautifully. The soft fabric meets the steam with its soft purr over the side panels, the back, the sleeves, the cuffs, and finally the collar. What a breeze!

  She stays in the apartment until just before noon because she doesn’t want to hear the bells chime out again—she especially wants to avoid the grandfather clock’s gong, and the cuckoo’s singing. It’s too much like a chorus of clock beings speaking in some foreign language. Crazy!

  She picks up her cash and leaves a tiny fig leaf on the starched and pressed blue tablecloth, right by the flowers.

  Walking down Chestnut toward Columbus, she hastens her pace. She enters the now-familiar Falcone Café quietly, eavesdropping on the barista, who hasn’t yet noticed her behind the long line of customers. From this vantage point she gets to study him in the same way she peruses her clients’ homes, trying to get close but from a distance. She watches how he moves swiftly, with the certain grace of an athlete; how he sways from his waist, side to side, all his vertebrae involved, each one communicating with the next. She figures he’s her age, maybe older. His hair is curly and black, more like Kinky’s than her own. She didn’t notice that before. His eyes are dark and intense, separated by the lovely straight slope of his nose. Some stubble dots his face. Would that bother her if she were to kiss him?

  She’s imagining their first kiss when she hears his voice.

  “You’re in the ’hood again,” he says, turning. “Mondays. Zack, the timekeeper.”

  “It’s like a church in there with all the bells.”

  “Of course, he has a house full of clocks.” He chuckles. “Are they driving you nuts?”

  She hesitates, but decides to tell the truth. “They’re weirding me out . . . it’s like walking around in a time machine that’s going off,” she says, flapping her hands.

  “You’re certainly concerned about time.”

  “I guess I feel like I’m running out.”

  “But you have all the time in the world. You’re still young,” he says.

  Lavinia never feels she has all the time in the world—it’s always seemed more that time is lost to her. She just looks at her new friend, trying to conjure up something that might make sense to him, or to her, for that matter.

  “He’s something else, isn’t he?” she says, not knowing what else to say. “And the books he reads!”

  “What are they about?” he asks.

  “Guess,” she teases.

  “Time?”

  She giggles and nods.

  He looks toward the back corner of the café. “A double for you today?”

  “Yep, a double.” The handle on the espresso machine reminds her of Las Vegas. She’s never been but she’s often dreamed of playing the slots and winning a barrel of money.

  The barista sets her small cup on the counter in front of her. She watches his muscular hand on the handle. Lingering, she watches his moves, feels an attraction for his body, likes it, and feels surprised by her reaction.

  When there is a lull in customers, he walks back to her, facing her from the other side of the bar. Just looking.

  “Do you dance?” she asks, breaking the silence.

  “Dance? Well, sometimes. What makes you ask?”

  “You have a dancer’s body.”

  “How’s that?” Smiling, he moves closer.

  She twirls a clump of her hair. “You know. You sway; you’re connected.”

  He approaches even more now, so close his nose alm
ost grazes her face. “How about you?”

  “I dance alone in my own space,” she says, thinking about how she dances with her shadow.

  “Well, let’s change that,” he says, winking at her.

  Lavinia smiles before taking a serious sip of espresso. “I’ll consider your offer, Barista. But, I’ll need to know your name if we’re going dancing.”

  “Mario,” he says. “And yours?”

  “My name is Lavinia Lavinia.”

  “Lavinia Lavinia. First and last?”

  “Yes, an old custom in Italy.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to know you, Lavinia Lavinia. You so fit your name.”

  “How so?”

  “Lavinia was the name of the daughter of King Latinus in Roman mythology.”

  “Ah, yes, she was a princess. I’ve heard of her.”

  “And then a queen. Did you know that Ursula Le Guin wrote a book from Lavinia’s point of view, published in 2008?”

  “No! Wow. You astound me, Mario. I’ll have to go check that out. Thank you.”

  “You know, Lavinia married Aeneas, the son of Aphrodite,” he says.

  Lavinia can hardly believe how much he knows about this myth, one that she’s never bothered to look into even though it’s her namesake. She just stares at him, feeling overwhelmed with happiness.

  “Somehow it fits that you’re a laundress, Lavinia Lavinia. I’m glad you got a job in the neighborhood.”

  She smiles. “Me, too.”

  Chapter 7:

  LA QUERENCIA

  It’s late afternoon, and Lavinia walks in the Mission thinking about Mercedes Montoya, Kinky’s mother, who touches a soft place in her heart. It’s not just the food she makes; it’s something else, too. She quickens her pace, heading for their house on Florida Street. She knows Kinky’s not home from work yet, but it’s Mercedes she wants to see.

  She knocks and waits at the door of the old-style Mission cottage.

  Mercedes opens the door. “Pasa adelante!” she cries, and greets Lavinia with her usual warm hug before leading her into the den in the middle of the house. “Sit, mija,” she says, gesturing to a soft chair with round, padded arms. “I have a story for you about the bulls in Spain.”

  Lavinia is intrigued by Mercedes, who always seems to have just the story she needs to hear. She figures the older woman is gifted in this way.

  Mercedes begins with her hands solidly placed on her knees. “La querencia is a safe place in the bull ring, the place where the bull goes to stay alive, to stay away from the lance of the matador. But more, chica, it’s a place to regain his power.”

  Lavinia stares at the floral plastic oilcloth on the side table. She’s not sure what Mercedes is saying, or why she’s telling her about bulls and matadors, but she listens.

  Mercedes continues, “The matador doesn’t like this place because he will not be able to kill the bull if he stays there. But the bull”—she stops to laugh—“he likes it there because he can gather his strength. Sometimes a bull might sit down and won’t fight, or he might stay so close to the gate that the matador can’t get close to him.”

  “La querencia.” Lavinia says the word slowly, allowing its four syllables to melt on her tongue. “Querer means ‘to want’ in Spanish, doesn’t it?”

  “The wanting place, mija. The bull wants to stay alive and to feel safe and strong, too.”

  “He knows when he is in danger, then, and does something about it.” Lavinia looks down at her intertwined hands.

  “Yes, this is the place you will find within yourself. It’s the place where we rest in the midst of the turmoil.”

  “And out of the bull ring?” Lavinia asks. “There’s danger there, too.”

  “Yes.” Mercedes nods sagely. “We can even find the safe place here in our lives when we are in the midst of danger.”

  “I have a hard time finding that place,” Lavinia confesses. She feels like Mercedes can see right through her, as if they’re talking about what Lavinia is going through, although she hasn’t told her anything about it.

  “You can find it because it’s within you.”

  “When I eat your great food and hear your stories, I find that place.” Lavinia smiles and looks through the doorway toward the kitchen counter, where two bowls of the red and green salsa sit.

  “Of course, mijita.”

  Little daughter. Lavinia loves that Mercedes calls her that.

  “Not to worry,” Mercedes says. “You have this place.”

  Lavinia hears the front door open, and within seconds Kinky enters the kitchen, puts her bag on the counter, and rushes into the den to kiss her mama and then Lavinia.

  “Besitos,” she says, placing a kiss on her friend’s cheek. “I’m glad you came to see Mama. And now dinner together.”

  “So many kisses in this house!” Lavinia exclaims.

  “They are whispers sent from God,” says Mercedes.

  “Mama, have you been telling stories again?” Kinky asks, rounding the table to take a seat next to Lavinia. It’s more of a rhetorical question, and Mercedes doesn’t answer. Lavinia can’t remember a time she’s ever come to visit Mercedes when she hasn’t told her a story.

  “She told me about the querencia,” Lavinia tells her.

  “Ah yes,” Kinky says, looking pensive. “Well, that makes sense.”

  Lavinia smiles. “I’m learning to let them sink in and then the light bulb goes off.”

  “That’s how it goes with Mama’s stories, isn’t it? I’m jealous. I could use one of her stories right now,” Kinky says, eyeing Mercedes and then Lavinia. Lavinia wonders for the first time if she might be taking up too much space in their lives. “Speaking of stories, Armando had a bad day again today.” Kinky grabs her friend, leads her into the kitchen, and sits at the table next to her.

  Lavinia knows that she takes on Armando’s burdens as her own. “Still writing his story of escape?” she asks.

  “Oh, it’s one step forward, two steps back. He looked like he might cry today.”

  “Slowly, slowly.” Mercedes places her small hand onto Kinky’s arm. “He will need his time—not to worry, not to push too hard, mijita.”

  “My mother’s a guru.” Kinky smiles.

  “I’m beginning to see that,” Lavinia says. “She reminds me of Strega Nonna, a nice witch from a childhood story Sal used to read to me. Strega Nonna can make pasta out the door to feed the entire village. Her generosity drowns the town in pasta!”

  They all laugh.

  “And chef extraordinaire,” Kinky adds, accepting the large burrito her mother is serving her.

  They hold hands in a prayer of gratitude and then, as usual, all goes silent, except for the sound of chewing and swallowing and a little hum Mercedes makes as she tastes her food.

  “And your day?” Mercedes asks Lavinia, breaking the silence.

  Lavinia relates the pleasure of her first day in Zack’s apartment—the stacks of books to the ceiling, the clocks.

  “God is with him.”

  Lavinia looks at Mercedes, not knowing what to say to that.

  “Have some agua fresca, sandia, mijitas,” Mercedes offers. She pours the watermelon water.

  Lavinia sips the sweet, cool drink, which is refreshing after the spicy salsas. “Gracias, Mercedes.”

  The meal finished, Lavinia readies herself to go to her flat but hesitates. A fear flutters inside her heart, pressing her to ask if she can stay the night . . . but she doesn’t. She feels a deep, empty space inside her that can’t be filled so she thinks of the story of the bull who manages to find his strength. She inhales the image of the self-protective bull, gathering her own strength.

  What she really wants is to be Mercedes Montoya’s daughter and Kinky’s sister, to be part of their family. She admires Mercedes’s round and powerful body, her latte-colored skin. She kids herself that she could pass for a brown girl. Mercedes’s eyes are deep brown like her own. They both have round faces—Lavinia’s with a chocolate chi
p stain and Mercedes’s with large dimples on her cheeks that seem to rotate when she moves her full, rosy lips. Doesn’t Mercedes call Lavinia mijita? Just that affectionate nickname alone fills her with love, even if she has to go home to an empty flat.

  “Before I leave, Mercedes, how did you mean the story to be for me?” she asks.

  “You will find your way,” Mercedes says. “Don’t worry. The path is just beneath your feet.”

  “Thank you. I guess I need patience.”

  Mercedes nods.

  “I made this CD for you, Lavinia,” Kinky says, placing it in her hand.

  “Thank you.” The jacket reads, “Dance Your Heart Out, Love Kinky.”

  When she turns to go she hears Kinky whispering to her mother—something about how they’re spoiling her, how she needs to get it together.

  Lavinia’s heart sinks a little at this, but she shakes it off.

  The air is still warm for November. Lavinia could walk miles like this but soon she’s at her door. Before unlocking it, she looks to both sides to make sure no one’s around. She slips easily into her studio and bolts the door.

  She puts on the disc Kinky gave her. Kinky put it together by using something called Sound Hound. Lavinia can just see Kinky listening to her music, then dashing to her app and pressing the orange button to enable Sound2Sound to activate. It’s an incredible matching technology to a never-ending database of music. She’s touched to think Kinky made this with her in mind. It’s true she is spoiling her, but Lavinia likes to think she’s welcome in the Montoya household and not overdrawing on their generosity.

  She listens to the first song. It’s called “Fare L’amore”—“Making Love.” She wonders if Kinky is encouraging Lavinia to open up to the new guy. Then she thinks how hard it was for her to open up freely to Andy; how she never felt relaxed in his bed; how sex was scary and tense; how when she did open up and let him see her cry, he left.

  The staccato beat pulses and then her feet pound the wooden floor, calling her to bounce and press her feet into the floor, stamp away these thoughts, unearth her own querencia.