“This is how the world should be,” Lavinia says, breaking her silence.
“This is how the world is, Lavinia.” Mario kisses her. “Did you guys know that Lavinia is going to the mountains for a few days?” Mario says, turning to their friends.
Kinky looks at her friend in surprise.
Lavinia says, “I didn’t tell you? Sorry.” Did she really forget to tell Kinky? But of course, so much has been happening lately. She tells Carmine and Kinky about Zack and the mountaintop in Nevada where a clock will beat and ring deep in the limestone mountain for ten thousand years. She tells them how Zack needs help driving; how he has a replica of the Millennium Clock, a weird space-age contraption, in his spare bedroom; and how he’s paying her five thousand dollars.
“But the real reason I’m going is because of his kindness,” she says. “He wants my company to help him drive in the High Sierra. To tell you the truth, I’m looking forward to it.”
“Sounds groovy,” Carmine says.
“He’s dear,” Lavinia says. “He wears a string bracelet with three knots, each representing a sort of wish.”
“What are they?” Carmine asks.
“I’m a bit superstitious about wishes, so you’ll have to wait ’til I come home before I tell you.” She hugs Mario.
Mario moves her away from her friends. “Did you know it’s almost two in the morning?” he asks. They hug Kinky and Carmine good-bye and watch them walk toward the bus stop. Then Lavinia and Mario walk toward his apartment above the shop, entering through the back door.
“Let’s talk about windmills.” Lavinia pulls on his shirt.
They take the steps two at a time, entering the apartment from the back porch. The fog drifts lightly over the full moon, exposing the fullness of the bay. They slip into the apartment, past the cluttered desk where a map of Nevada lies open.
“You’ve been studying our route.” She sees the line from SF to Bishop in Sharpie.
“I have a different route for you to follow right now. Come with me.” He gives her a long, wet kiss; the beer and the tequila they’ve been drinking merge like some colorful ballad. He dances her into his bedroom, where they move slowly and sensually to a rhythm only heard by them, where the staccato builds to chaos and then returns to stillness. She thinks of her mother and knows that she felt this with George, these incredible rhythms of love that move in and around like a great spiral dance. Or, is it an inner spiraling, one into the other? She smiles.
All is quiet outside. The three-in-the-morning stillness is like a blanket covering them as they fall asleep in each other’s arms.
They sleep with their legs and arms wrapped around each other: tangling and untangling, folding and unfolding their limbs and fingers and toes; lips and tongue twirl around each other. She doesn’t want to leave him. What if it is the last time? She thinks of her mother and George. Their parting was forever.
“What’s the matter, Bubblicious? You look so sad.” Mario kisses her quivering lips.
“I don’t want to leave you, Mario.”
“It’s not forever. You’ll be home in less than a week, in time for the next dance.”
“You promise?”
“I promise—cross my heart and hope to die.”
She bursts out in tears.
“What’d I say?” Mario holds her as she cries on his chest.
“Hope to die. Why’d you say that?”
“It’s just a saying, Lavinia. It means I promise. I give you my word.”
“It’s just that it feels too close to home, that’s all. I’m scared to lose you.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t lose me. I just know it. Take my flannel pajamas with you to keep you warm.” He cuffs her gently on the chin. “And besides, my love, you’re not reliving your mother’s life. You don’t have to be held hostage by this curse.”
He winds his fingers through hers. She squeezes back.
The spell is breaking. They hug, and she knows he will be there when she returns.
Chapter 30:
MILES TO FLY
Zack opens the door. “You’re a day early,” he says. “Just checking in to see if there’s room for these flannel pajamas.” Lavinia laughs, holding them up, and glances at an empty backpack he’s placed up against the sofa. “Anything we need?”
She looks around the cluttered living room, seeing his tent and the two sleeping bags, the camp stove, and the lantern. He sees her question before she asks.
“Just in case,” he says, assuring her that he’s prepared. “Let me show you the car.”
She follows him down the back stairs to the garage, where his hatchback is already full and ready to go. Zack takes inventory out loud. “Water containers, flashlights, tarps, walking boots, trekking poles, sunhats with a tube of sunscreen stuck inside . . .”
“It’s all here,” she says. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“It could be a long drive. The shortest route, over Tioga Pass or Sonora, closed mid-November,” he says, “so we’ll have to go the longer way—northeast through Truckee before heading south on 395.”
“Looks like you’re prepared,” she says.
“There’ll be lots of driving, Lavinia,” he says, heading back up the stairs to the apartment. “You’re sure that’s okay?”
“That’s why I’m here—to help with the driving,” she says, entering the flat behind him.
Zack looks around the apartment. “Ah! Here’s what I’ve been looking for,” he says. “Some snacks I put together to munch along the way.” On the kitchen counter are Peet’s coffee, dried fruits, assorted nuts, packs of hot chocolate, canned tuna, a can opener. He gathers them into a blue stuff bag.
“Are we camping?”
“The camping stuff is in case of emergency.” He looks at his tent. “We’re staying in a motel in Bishop.”
“Were you a Boy Scout?”
“Still am.” He puts on a wide-brimmed hat and lifts his bony knees up and down as if he’s in a parade.
Lavinia laughs.
“Are you ready, Lavinia?”
She looks again toward the empty backpack sitting on the floor by the couch.
“For you,” he says.
She walks toward the pack, and carefully places Mario’s soft pajamas on top, and smiles. The red parka and the cashmere scarf will be tucked in the middle pocket with the gloves she has. These clothes give her comfort.
“By that smile, I see you’re excited. I can almost hear your heart beating.”
She laughs, thinking how funny he is to frame her excitement as heartbeats. It reminds her of his fascination with clocks.
“Or maybe it’s my own ticker I hear,” he says. “I can’t wait to be with you among those ancient trees and the mountain.”
The cuckoos burst into song, first the grandfather clock and the others join in concert. Lavinia counts to ten as other various bells whistle and chime. They no longer faze her like they did when she first stepped into this apartment. Then she could only think of spirits. Now they represent this spirited man. Lavinia focuses on his soft slippers as they move over the plush carpet around all the stuff he has accumulated. She sits, quietly watching his movements, smiling inside, admiring how his excitement rides so close to his orderly ways.
“You’re ready,” she says.
“I’ve never been more ready,” he says, standing tall, as if he’s saluting.
At the sight, an eerie feeling passes through Lavinia, along with an image of the great pyramid in Egypt with its entombed pharaohs. The sound of silence is broken by the light ding of the quarter-hour, and Lavinia realizes that fifteen minutes have passed as she’s sat here in contemplation.
“Tomorrow at dawn,” she says, getting up.
“Wait, Lavinia . . . before you go, I have some sad news to tell you. I don’t want to tell you tomorrow, on the day of our travels.”
She turns on her heels, feeling instantly worried. That eerie feeling returns. Zack looks upset.
Zack pulls out the morning paper and shows her the news about a local murder-suicide. At first she feels confused. She doesn’t absorb the words she reads in the article. It’s all scrambled in her mind with her grandfather and her mother.
Zack explains what the article says—that Nina White was killed this week by her crazed husband before he shot himself. “A murder-suicide,” he says.
Lavinia can’t let it sink in. She doesn’t understand. Something is not right. She goes numb. “Nina was alive! No, it can’t be!” She lets out a gasp. “I can’t believe it, Zack. I just saw her a week ago. She asked me to help her move her stuff from the house. Don had left her, and she didn’t want to stay there. Maybe she was afraid of something like this, though she didn’t say.”
“He came back.”
“No, not Nina,” she says again. She has never experienced this sense of disbelief and knowing at the same time. Of course it’s true, even as she yells, “Noooooo, this is not possible!”
Her mind conjures up the heinous act. Of course Don was capable of murder; she sees his disturbance more clearly now and wishes she could have somehow managed to tell Nina sooner about how weird he was acting. She feels responsible. She looks at Zack, wanting to expel her guilt. “What if I had done something . . .” She sobs.
“Lavinia, this has nothing to do with you,” Zack says softly as he reaches for a Kleenex box.
She receives the tissue gratefully, wiping her nose and tears—and then gasps. Instead of Nina and Don, she sees her own mother sprawled out on the trolley tacks, splayed like a baby lamb, splattered before her. Her body convulses and folds over, her heart breaks open. She thinks she’s cracking apart. She grabs her chest at the center of the stabbing pain. Her lower lip quivers, as it did earlier today with Mario. The shudder. The chaos. And then the silence.
“Welcome back,” Zack says as his face comes into Lavinia’s blurry view. “You were out for a minute. You fainted.”
Lavinia looks around at the room as Zack ministers to her.
“I revived you with some smelling salts.”
“You did?” She sits up from her bed on the couch. He must have lifted her up here. “I’m sorry.”
“Please, don’t be sorry.”
“I need to get some fresh air,” she says, standing up.
“Let me call you a cab,” Zack says.
“No, it’s okay. I’m okay. I need the walk. Thank you. Six o’clock tomorrow.”
She leaves and begins her walk downhill on Chestnut Street, her feet and legs wobbling, less grounded than when she climbed the stairs. It’s as if she’s floating on a cloud. She bypasses Falcone, wanting to be alone, to walk through the neighborhoods to the Mission. Her attention moves toward the rare clotheslines where white sheets blow in the wind, like ghosts of people gone by. She takes an unusual and hilly route toward her home. Though her pack is empty, it feels heavy and full, carrying this new burden. She’s grateful for Mario’s pj’s, tucked inside the top pocket.
She enters her studio and walks through to the back, where she sits by the window facing the fig tree—staring, immobilized—until she hears a thump on the window and then sees a tiny sparrow fall onto the outside patio, its wings spread, paralyzed from fear or shock or pain. She stands up and peers out the window, looking down where the bird has landed. With her heart racing, she opens the door and walks toward the little thing, resting on its back with its tail feathers up in the air. The feathers on his head wave slightly in the breeze. She can’t take her eyes off the little bird, keeps watching as its tail feathers become stiff. The bird leans diagonally on her resting head, supported by her belly-breast, which is puffed out like a pillow.
Lavinia quietly kneels beside it. “I hope you are breathing, little bird,” she whispers. “Please fly again.” When Lavinia is convinced that she sees its chest rising and falling ever so slowly, her heart lightens. The bird looks like a Christmas ornament you could hang on a tree limb. Its face now lies on the patio cement at a slightly different angle, resting on point like a ballerina. Oblivious, it doesn’t mind Lavinia’s gawking.
She only has eyes for the little diver, this bombing bird. How long does it take to revive after such a blow? The bird rests before her—a little ball of feathers. Yes, that’s it. It takes rest to revive oneself. It takes time. Doesn’t it, dear God? She prays again, “Oh, little bird, please come to. You have more worms to discover, and figs to peck, and miles to fly.”
The bird lies still, its tail straight in the air, still resting on its chest and pointed beak. Stillness. Stillness. Lavinia’s own heart rate seems to slow down, mimicking the bird’s.
“Oh, little bird, I know you’re still alive. I know you will come through this.” She watches quietly, then prays again, “I know you have come here to teach me, little bird, I know. Thank you. I want to pick you up and hold you in my hands to feel your precious life beat, but I’m afraid. Now your head is off the ground, and you are the ballerina who comes off point and flattens out her feet.”
Time stands still, not moving. Does it matter whether it moves? She thinks of Zack and his obsession with time. But this is eternal, like the end of time. She is fully alive in this moment as she watches the bird slowly turn, tuck in its tail, and sit on the floor of the patio. Its beak looks like a thin sliver of white in the sun. White light reflects on its breast. It rests its head under its left wing, as if in a deep sleep.
Lavinia watches, feeling very protective, like a mother hen. She watches its feathers flurry in the wind as it tucks into itself to save its life energy. It is so vulnerable in its frozen position.
Just then, the little sparrow perks up and faces Lavinia. Seconds later, it is flying diagonally up like an arrow into the fig tree.
Lavinia feels lifted, ready for flight, too.
Chapter 31:
THE SIERRA NEVADA
The car is ready to go. Fresh fruit—bananas, apples, pears, strawberries, a pomegranate, and a persimmon—sits on the backseat in a straw basket. A small ice chest holds some cheeses and soft drinks. By six thirty, Zack is in the driver’s seat, backing out of his garage, heading east toward the Bay Bridge. The morning sky lifts an enormous shade, revealing an orange horizon line. Lavinia has never seen the streets as quiet as this, with barely any commuters. It’s Thanksgiving Day, she remembers. The new span of the Bay Bridge sits like a grand wing of a white bird.
“Incredible,” she says.
“Some engineering,” he says, driving over the bridge as Lavinia takes in the sights, all new to her. She realizes how cloistered she has been living, how small her world has been.
Soon she is fast asleep, her head gently bobbing as if she is at sea. Zack drives smoothly through the East Bay and toward the foothills of the Sierra Nevada as she dreams.
She opens her eyes frequently, catching the California hills—still tawny from the summer sun—Zack’s hum to the soft classical music on the radio, road signs where new developments are springing up, and the multiple exits for Sacramento. A kaleidoscope of images breeze in and out of her consciousness.
When a sign announces Davis, she perks up.
“Is this UC Davis?” she asks. “Isn’t that where Margaret works?”
Zack nods and smiles.
She closes her eyes and disappears again to some suspended place, like the one she experiences just before falling asleep at night. She feels far away with Zack’s soft hum like a chant in the background.
She comes out of her trancelike state when Zack makes a stop in a small historic town called Auburn, just two hours away from San Francisco. He pulls up in front of a corner café with a side patio. No one is sitting outside in the brisk morning air, and this is where she and Zack have their coffee and a blueberry muffin. The cool air wakes her up, and she wants to talk with Zack about his relationship with his daughter. Though he’s told Lavinia before why Margaret didn’t make the trip with him, she asks him anyway why his daughter isn’t spending Thanksgiving with him.
“Ahh!
Margaret.” He mentions her name softly, affectionately. “Margaret is on-call this holiday weekend.”
“But wouldn’t she want to join you in the bristlecone forest?” Lavinia wonders at her not wanting to be here on this momentous occasion. He’s fulfilling a dream for himself, and Margaret is not here to witness it. But Lavinia feels honored to take her place.
“She’s pretty dedicated to her work right now.” He sips his coffee and bites into the muffin. Lavinia watches how his eyelids flutter as he chews.
“Do you see her much?” Lavinia is curious, not really knowing what might be normal. Growing up, Uncle Sal was a father to her, but they never spent one-on-one time together. Rose was always there.
“We speak every week, and she comes to visit every other Sunday.”
“She knows you’re going on this trip?”
“Yes, she knows.” He switches quickly. “But this is our trip, remember? Are you up for driving a stretch over some exciting mountain passes?”
“Yes, I’m very much awake now.” She looks at her empty coffee cup. “I’m ready to drive. You already put in two hours.”
They’re back in the Subaru by nine o’ clock. Lavinia adjusts the seat back, checks the rearview mirror, and pulls out past shops as old as the Gold Rush. Soon they’re winding their way through the foothills with pine trees clustering on the side of the road, while the elevation increases quickly. At Emigrant Gap and Donner Lake, they’re above seven thousand feet and the air is crisp and thin, the bluest she’s ever seen. In the distance, she sees snow-covered mountains.
About fifteen minutes later, Zack breaks the silence. “Would you like to stop for lunch in Truckee?” He points to the exit where Lavinia will bear right into another western town, a railroad running parallel to the road. Lavinia takes the direction and rolls into the quaint town.
“Pull up at that old hotel. They’ll have a brunch today,” he says. “Likely turkey. It’s Thanksgiving, after all.”
“But it’s just after ten,” she exclaims. She parks in front of the hotel.
The Laundress Page 22
