“‘In memory of sons and daughters lost to war from 1917 to 1921,’” he reads.
“That’s a hundred years ago!” She’s in awe.
“I love this place,” he says, still holding her hand, looking up at the trees. “Redwoods. I hunt them down.”
“Hunt?”
“Hunt. I know almost all the redwood groves in the park and all over the Bay Area, too.”
Lavinia loves holding his hand, as smooth as the polished stone with little grooves in his skin. She can’t believe she’s danced in a fairy circle with Mario in a mini forest in the city. Her cares drip off her, joining the mushy ground cover.
“I know why you come here,” she says.
“It’s alive. Can you feel its heartbeat?”
They walk in silence deeper into the grove, down a steep ravine that narrows like a canyon with the giant trees growing on each side. The world is deeper here—quieter, darker. As they make the descent, she becomes even more still inside herself. They walk slowly at times, supported by the cushion of pine needles and fallen branches, and at other times she slips a few steps, laughing softly like a kid at a playground. Together, these hundreds of small steps, equivalent to the length of three short city blocks, take them to the edge of the grove at Park Presidio, where they have to climb out of the mini canyon and up a steep hill.
Lavinia’s shoes slip on the trail. Mario, standing uphill from her, takes her hand and pulls, then stands at her back for a last gentle push over the hump.
Like magic, they are now standing in front of the Rose Garden, which abuts the busy Park Presidio on one side and JFK Drive on the other. They stop in front of the largest roses; their pink faces glow in the night light like a baby’s face smiling in glee at the young couple. They kiss in front of the roses. Mario’s breath, warm and wet, brims within the fragrances of roses and pine, offering Lavinia another moment of bliss. She smiles to herself as she nuzzles into his shoulder. She swears the roses are dreaming her secret feelings of love.
“Let’s go toward the museum. It stays open until ten o’clock on Thursdays,” he says, plucking a rose and putting it in his buttonhole. He takes her hand and moves knowingly from JFK Drive to the Academy of Science, across the concourse.
They move gracefully up the Academy of Science’s grand steps to the front door. It’s all lit up and festive, and the foyer is filled with other patrons. It looks as if a party is going on, with music and a bar. Is she in a fairy tale? A sign in the foyer reads, Thursday Nights: Music, Creatures, and Cocktails.
“Amazing gatherings happen here on Thursday nights,” Mario says.
“You knew,” she says, poking his side, as they enter the hall.
“They even serve drinks—but first let me show you Claude, my favorite alligator.” He guides her toward the swamp terrarium off the main hall.
Lavinia shivers at the thought of an alligator, but follows Mario off the main lobby to a large enclosure where the white reptile lives. She grabs Mario’s arm, amazed at this albino creature, Claude, who lives in a swampy area of the museum.
“He has a missing digit,” Mario says, pointing.
“No! I don’t want . . .” she says, but peers anyway at Claude’s missing finger or toe. When the thing stares back at her, she’s reminded of Don, Nina’s husband, that cold and sneaky man. She feels threatened by this creature, the way she does by Don, and wonders why she puts up with it, why she agreed to work at their house again tomorrow.
She imagines that Don has an evil twin, Claude, who lives at the Steinhart Aquarium in Golden Gate Park. Then she imagines pushing him into the pen to duel with his shadow. A sense of vindication runs through her veins as she clings to Mario’s sleeve, catching her breath. They linger close to each other; she feels the warmth of his breath on her face. She turns away from the creature.
“They’re frightening, aren’t they?” Mario says, holding her tightly. “They have a reptilian brain.”
“I know a lot of people who still have a reptilian brain. Most of my clients, in fact,” she says half laughing, as they walk away, leaving the gator behind.
They wander toward the main foyer, where they order white wine. Most of the patrons are young—people her age. She stares at their gaiety and social expertise, thinking how much she has to learn about this beautiful city, despite having grown up here.
Outside the building, the soft taste of wine lingering on her lips, she queues up with Mario in a cab line. The fog mists their faces and moistens their kisses as they wait. The chill she felt earlier is gone as he embraces her.
Mario presents her with the pink rose from his jacket. He places it behind her ear. She has never had a man embellish her so lovingly before, and she looks adoringly at him.
“I’m a flower child in Golden Gate Park in 2017,” she says with a thrill.
“Fifty years after the Summer of Love,” he reminds her.
“Thank you for this magical evening. I love all of this, Mario—the walk in the woods, the fairy circle, the rose garden, and the museum,” she says, adding his name silently to the list.
“You forgot Claude,” he says.
“I’m not sure I can love him,” she says, wondering if he wanted to say, “You forgot me.”
They get into the taxi and sit quietly, hand in hand, as they head toward her apartment. It’s maybe a twenty-minute drive before they’re in front of her place. She waves bye to Mario and watches the cab leave, already wishing she had invited him in. But she’s glad she’s waiting. She wants it to be right. She wants to be ready.
She turns away and moves into her studio. It’s 11:00 p.m. On the floor beside the outgoing letter she wrote to Uncle Sal, there’s now another letter. How so? Then she remembers seeing the shadow of a man near her door earlier this evening.
She picks up the envelope. It’s sealed, with no name or return address. Something personal, but from whom? She takes it back into her studio living space. Before opening it, she pours herself a glass of wine.
Dear Lavinia Lavinia,
I replaced the tarps you lost. So, no problem. Not to worry. I hope we are back in business soon. The dust from the clay needs to be washed out. I hope we can settle as well. Give me a call. Thank you.
George
George’s note disturbs her—or rather, not the note itself but the idea of his shadow lurking in her doorway. Why didn’t he knock or use his cell, like a civilized person? This is downright creepy, and it confirms her fear that he’s stalking her. She doesn’t remember ever having given him her address. How did he know where to find her? She thinks about him circling her like a great ocean wave, leaving a foam in its wake, then returning to the great sea and pounding back again toward her.
“Whatever shows up on the potter’s wheel has something to teach you.” The thought, as clear as a chime, comes through to her as a wise voice. She looks out toward the back of her place. No, I’m not ready to see George or his workspace or his art, she tells the tree. Her eyes follow the darkened room toward its far end. She can barely see the shadow of the fig, but she feels connected to it at the root level. The nagging feeling of betrayal she feels toward George is loosening, not so sealed into stone anymore the way the memorial sealed all those names in Golden Gate Park.
But then, what kind of man lurks outside at dark? Not knocking on my door. She wonders briefly if George has a life other than his art. Who is he, anyway? The way he seems to lurk in every corner . . . a wave of loneliness spreads into her being.
She picks up her cell and dials.
“Hello?”
“Kinky, did I wake you up?”
“Still correcting some papers for tomorrow. Left them for the last minute.”
“I came home from a glorious evening to find a note from the clay thrower.”
“He came to your house?” Kinky asks.
“Like a rat, scurrying away in the dark.”
“What does it say?”
“Just that he wants me to come back to work.”
“Still no explanation of his behavior?”
Kinky’s comment startles her; she hasn’t thought of wanting or needing an explanation from him. She merely wanted to wipe him off her skin and watch the dirt go down the drain. But now he’s reaching out to her and wanting to begin anew.
“Do I even want that from him? I’m working on my righteous indignation,” she says. But then she adds, “‘Whatever shows up on the potter’s wheel has something to teach you.’” There’s that saying again. Maybe it’s the wine, she thinks.
“Are you all right, Lavinia? I’ll keep my cell nearby, so call me if you like.”
“You’re a doll, Kinky.”
“You forgot to tell me about the glorious evening,” she hears Kinky say just as she’s hanging up. She’ll tell her all about it tomorrow.
Lavinia slips into her room, draws the covers up over her head tightly, and falls asleep, dreaming of the good fairies.
Chapter 16:
QUITTING DAY
At daylight she opens her eyes and sees the fig tree on the patio. The leaves reflect the golden rising sun. When she steps out onto her small patch of dirt, she remembers the redwood grove and dancing in Mario’s arms among the trees. She lets herself imagine having made love to him and wishes they’d done it in the fairy circle last night.
With these thoughts she gets dressed, places the pink rose in her jacket pocket, and heads for North Beach, reminding herself that she must pick up Nina’s blouse at the cleaners.
Just thinking of going into that house gives her the jitters. Chilled, she buttons up her jacket, questioning her judgment in working for them. Am I stupid, or just afraid to quit? More fearful, her heart races as she ponders this tangle growing inside her like the roots she imagines under the city streets. Walking toward Market, she decides to skip the bus and walk the full three miles in hopes of unwinding. With her hand over her chest, Lavinia approaches Columbus Avenue and Falcone Cafe. She steps inside and walks up to Mario.
“Did we really see an alligator and walk in the woods last night or did I dream it?” she says, though she knows they did it all; she’s holding the soft pink rose in her pocket, after all.
“The redwoods.” His eyes caress her.
“My God, they’re so impressive. Let’s do it again.” She hands him two pieces of Bubblicious in exchange for an espresso and a smile.
“Where are you going?”
“Russian Hill clients.”
“On a Friday?”
“Yeah, she asked me to come a second day this week,” Lavinia pauses, feeling that chill again. “The clients from hell.” She wrinkles her nose.
“You don’t have to go.”
“I know, but I told her I’d pick up her silk blouse,” she says, as if that’s a sufficient reason to show up.
His eyes seem to see through her excuses.
She smiles.
“Do that again,” he says, so she bares her teeth at him and growls. He puts his face next to her and whispers, “Let’s go dancing tonight.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She downs the last sip of the espresso, winks at him, and waves good-bye.
She heads up Chestnut Street to Hyde, loving the pull of her muscles working the hill, but again her heart begins to race hard. She covers it with her hand, feeling the thump-thump of it.
She stops at the cleaners to pick up Nina’s blouse. She hopes Don won’t be there when she arrives. Is he home on Fridays? She berates herself for not asking. She remembers the alligator and thinks about how Don looks at her, cold and predatory.
When she gets there, Nina is at the door, waiting. She pulls the blouse from Lavinia’s hands, inspecting it, as if this blouse is the most important thing in the world to her. Then she hands it back without commenting. Lavinia focuses on Nina’s long nails.
“I know it’s not the usual today, but there are some extra linens. We had twelve people here for dinner last night,” Nina says, looking toward the dining room as if the crowd is still there. “Pasta with tomato sauce,” she says, gathering her stuff to leave for her office on the Embarcadero.
Lavinia watches her leave the house and hears her pull the door shut from outside. Relieved she’s gone, she sets to work quickly, so she can leave as soon as possible.
Still holding the blouse, Lavinia walks past the hall to the master bedroom closet and hangs it inside, leaving the tag with Lavinia Lavinia scrawled on it attached. The bed looks like it’s split into his side and her side, with triangular folds neatly creased to meet in the middle, unlike Sal and Rose’s bed, upon which the blankets wrapped around each other. Lavinia wonders if they had sex after the party. She thinks, not for the first time, about how intimately she gets to know her clients through their things and being in their homes. In this case her musings make her not want to touch the bed where Don sleeps or has sex. She wonders how Nina can tolerate living with this man or more, sleeping next to him.
In the bathroom she opens the his-and-hers hampers, then goes to the patio to look at Coit Tower and the Bay Bridge off in the distance. She looks at the crooked street below, tracking her route from here to North Beach, wishing she hadn’t come.
Twenty minutes later she hears the door open, making her jump. She jerks up and walks down the long hall, thinking Nina must have forgotten something but instead it’s Don lurking near the front door, staring deeply into her face as she approaches. Just what she was dreading all along. The thought that he might have been waiting around all this time creeps her out. Surely, this was in the cards all along. It’s just like a predator to trap his victim in this way. Suddenly, she feels threatened.
His presence scares her but she must not back down. She feels the heat of rage rising in her body, thinking how he has harassed her. She’s had enough of him and snaps, “This is not part of my job, to stand here in front of you while you stare at me.”
“Well, pardon me, but this is my house.” He screws up his fist.
“I’m not here for your pleasure!” she screams, not caring whether she’ll lose her job. “I’m sick and tired of you sneaking around when I’m here.” She has a vision of her mother in that little kitchen in Napoli when she was four years old, standing up to her father. What was it she said? “Lasciami.” She repeats these words now. Her mother’s words become hers. “Lasciami. Io non ci sto.” She looks at his fisted hand.
“What did you say?” he says, glaring sharply at her, moving closer so his angular nose is too close to her face. He stops short of her and stares at her birthmark. She thinks he might hit her.
“Leave me alone, I won’t stand for this.” She feels the strength of her mother in these words. She turns and walks to her station, begins to sort the clothes. She runs her fingers over a pair of pants, and, without thinking, she checks the pockets. She’s startled to find another piece of paper. He catches her before she can unfold it, snatching the note from her hands. He crumples the piece of paper in front of her face.
“I don’t appreciate your snooping, either,” he growls.
“Vaffanculo,” she says. Fuck you.
He looks at her, bewildered, and glares. He turns on his heel and walks away. She hears the front door slam, and she knows this is her moment to leave, too. Her work must be over for the day. She rushes to the window, shaken but steadfast in her decision that today is her last day working for them. She looks out onto the street below, where again she sees a car waiting for him. He jumps in, and the driver pulls away.
Lavinia turns on some music to calm her nerves, but it doesn’t help. Her knees are shaking and her ankles wobble. She has to sit down. Her rapid breath seems to be galloping through her. It’s as if the energy she used to confront him is stuck in her vertebrae, palpating, trying to get out. She sits, telling herself she is all right, safe now.
Anxiously, she rushes through the process of what she must do, dying to get out of there, Why don’t I just walk out? I don’t have to finish what I came here for. But then she thinks of Nina, and her resp
onsibility to her, and figures she can just finish the job. Don won’t come back for her.
She dumps a pile of clothes into the washing machine and adds detergent, listens to the water filling the basin. Then she takes the colored teddy, the silk panties and bras, and soaks them in the sink. With the spot remover, she sprays the tomatoes stains off the linen. The cycle of wash continues like the rise and fall of an ocean wave, offering some comfort—until the thought of Don’s behavior agitates her in the way the machine now agitates the clothes. Her feet move to the staccato beat, stamping wildly, as she communes with the washer music.
She picks up her cash, lets herself out, and walks up Hyde, hunting for an ice cream shop that serves bubblegum ice cream on a sugar cone. On her way, she passes a Spanish restaurant on the corner. She comes to a dead stop, dismayed to see Don at the window seat in the company of a woman and two men. What were the chances? It is his neighborhood, but still.
His face is red and screwed up in consternation and malice. He doesn’t see her but she runs anyway, like she’s being chased by the devil. She runs right past the ice cream shop, no longer in the mood for a cone. All she sees is Don’s red face, and she begins to wonder now for the first time about his business. He works in financial services, so maybe he’s a launderer, too, but laundering money. She wonders whether she should tell Nina about any of this, but what does it matter if today’s her last day?
Chapter 17:
VIA TOLEDO, #9
She finally arrives at her apartment, spent and out of breath. In the mail slot is another letter from Via Toledo, #9. Damn! Foreboding grips her, the saying she heard entering the garden of trees pulses through her mind: “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.” She’s not ready for what will surely be another avalanche. She takes a deep breath, thinks of Mercedes, and picks up the letter.
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