Brush With Death (26 page)

—Georges LeFleur

Mrs. Henderson wasn't the only one feeling a mite peaked. I made it home by three and enjoyed the rare luxury of lolling on the couch with the latest novel Oprah told me to read. My horizontal posture amplified the aftereffects of wine and potato chips, so my reading session soon morphed into a long nap. It was nearly six o'clock by the time I changed into a flowing Indian skirt and embroidered peasant blouse, put my hair up with a couple of chopsticks, drank my afternoon cup of coffee, sprang for a bottle of wine, and screeched to a stop in front of a modest ranch-style stucco house on a quiet suburban neighborhood in Hayward.

The house looked circa 1960, and its façade mimicked every other house on the street. Over the years homeowners had sought to ameliorate the monotony by painting their homes in the hues one more happily saw adorning Spanish bungalows, whimsical Victorians, or Florida cabanas: brilliant blues, soft lilacs, bright yellows, and shrieking pinks. Pete's mother's house was a particularly virulent shade of rose with muddy brown trim.

Before I could extricate myself from the seat belt's embrace, Pete emerged from the house and waved. Two short, stout, older women flanked him, their resemblance to Pete apparent in their sparkling brown eyes and broad faces. All three wore grins from ear to ear.

“Welcome! Welcome, Anna! Welcome!” they called out as I walked up the cracked concrete path to the front porch, where I was enveloped in lavender-scented hugs as the women greeted me in a mixture of broken English and Bosnian. Pete attempted simultaneous translation while he introduced me to his mother and maternal aunt.

“I brought you some wine,” I said, offering the bottle.

“You no need! No need wine! We thank you,” Pete's aunt exclaimed, and rushed the bottle, carried aloft like a great prize, into the kitchen.

We followed her into the house, where the aroma of exotic spices filled the air and family members milled about. There were old, toothless, scarred men; plump, smiling women with polite but guarded gazes; children of all ages, yelling and chasing a curly-haired dog that barked playfully; and several Americanized couples, whom I assumed were the parents of the children. The interior looked like most homes of its era, filled with worn but comfortable upholstered furniture, a few adorned with colorful slipcovers; simple wood tables and chairs that had been polished with lemon oil to a high sheen; a battered leatherette recliner smack in front of the television set; an old, upright piano that played host to a forest of family photos spanning numerous generations.

A frail-looking, elderly man approached us. He held out a small shot glass, and Pete began the introductions.

“Anna, this is my uncle Sidran. Sidran, this is my friend Anna Kincaid.”

Uncle Sidran gave me a gap-toothed smile and handed me the glass, filled to the brim with a clear liquid. “Libation for you. Anna! You drink. Is good!”

I held the glass to my lips and my smile froze. The stuff smelled foul. Uncle Sidran was beaming, so I took a sip. It didn't taste bad, but my lips and tongue went numb.

“Is good?” he asked.

“Yeth. Ith gweat.”

Uncle Sidran slapped me on the back and roared with laughter, while Pete hurriedly exchanged whatever the old man had given me with
loza,
a grape brandy similar to grappa. It was a wicked drink, but at least it didn't turn anything numb.

Uncle Sidran winked, and I winked back. He and Grandfather would have gotten along famously.

Pete's mother came over and Pete introduced her as Bosanska or Businski Bajezdagic; I didn't quite catch the name. “You call me Mama,” she said, settling the issue. Funny how languages had different words for father, but mothers were “mama” the world over.

A good-looking man introduced himself as cousin Catiz, flung an arm around my shoulders, and escorted me to the fireplace, whose simple white-painted mantel was crowded with votive candles and flower vases. Above the mantel hung the painting I had restored, festooned with ribbons. Family members gathered around and heaped me with praise. If I always received this kind of adulation at the end of a good day's work, I almost wouldn't need to get paid.

After introductions too numerous and multisyllabic to remember, I was offered the seat of honor at the far end of the long table in the cramped dining room. The table was covered in a snowy linen cloth, and sparkled with china and crystal. Three long-necked, vaselike ceramic pots contained a regional specialty called
bosanski lonac,
a kind of hot-pot stew. Pete's aunt ladled out generous bowls of the slow-roasted delicacy, which was heavy on the meat and light on the vegetables. I'd made my way through about half my portion, enjoying the food as well as the family's boisterous conversation, when Mama swung through the room carrying a platter of sausages called
cevapcici
that looked remarkably like feces. Confident that Mama was not the sort of woman who would countenance such a thing in her kitchen, I took two. Next came a platter of little patties Pete referred to as
pljeskavica,
which looked like tiny cow pies. I tried two of those, as well.

“You married, Anna?” asked one of the younger women from down the table. I couldn't for the life of me dredge up her name.

“No, I'm not,” I said, shaking my head.

“Ah . . .” said a chorus of knowing relatives.

I shot a look at Pete, who was blushing.

“You wan' get marry, Anna?” asked one of the older, bolder women. I couldn't remember her name, either.

“No, not really,” I said, hoping to nip this discussion in the bud.

“Ah . . .” the chorus repeated delightedly.

Uh-oh. Maybe it was customary for respectable young Bosnian women hell-bent on marriage to deny that they wanted any such thing. Maybe I should have said “Yup, you betcha. Gonna land me a sucker.” Maybe then they would shake their heads at my lack of femininity and drop it.

Time to change the subject.

“So, Pete tells me you all may have ancestors in Bayview Cemetery. ”

Silence blanketed the room. Even the seven children at the kiddie table looked somber.

“What did I say?” I whispered to Pete.

“Mama say our family, they are buried in the Potter Field,” Pete replied. “They have no grave markers. This is very distressing.”

“The location of their graves would have been noted somewhere, wouldn't it?”

“The land is not sacred. She may be sold,” Catiz explained. “The bodies would be disemburied.”

“Such talk no good. Is happy time,” Mama Pete interjected, and I got the feeling that despite her motherly smile Mama ruled her realm with an iron fist. “Anna, you like my dolmas?”

“They're delicious,” I said. Dolmas were balls of meat and vegetables, wrapped in grape leaves and kale and seasoned with complex spices. Bosnian cuisine seemed to be heavy on ground lamb and beef. Everything was savory and delicious, but I was unaccustomed to so much meat, especially since I'd been dating Josh the Vegan. In my case semi-vegetarianism stemmed from a lack of funds and cooking skill, rather than from principle.

Just when I thought I couldn't eat another morsel, Pete served me a meat-filled pita called a
burek.
I asked if
burek
referred to the whole dish or to the meat inside, and the men started chanting something that Pete translated as “All pitas are
pitice,
only
burek
is
pitac
!”

Well, of course.

I looked around for clarification, but every question I asked was met with shouted laughter. By then the
loza
had kicked in, so I laughed too.

“Anna! You sing!” someone called out from down the table, and the others joined in. “Sing, Anna!”

I'd never been much of a singer, probably because I couldn't sing for squat, but at the moment I didn't think it mattered. So I stood, held my glass high, and launched into the only song that came into my mind, “John Jacob Jingle-heimer Smith.” The children had learned the song at school or in the Scouts, and chimed in, delighted to show off for their parents. Their high, angelic voices were charming, and the adults beat a rhythm on the tablecloth with their hands, or just watched, eyes glowing, as their children sang. “Ta da da da da da da!” we shouted in unison, and I took my seat to thunderous applause. Nobody requested an encore, though.

After hours of dinner, it was time for dessert. Pete's mother and aunts circulated large platters piled high with honey-sweetened, layered pastries, some of which I recognized as baklava. Accompanying these was salep, or tea, and kava, a strong, espressolike Turkish coffee. Now I knew why Pete was such a wonder with the studio's espresso machine. Good coffee was in his blood.

The men and I lingered at the table, lighting cigars and cigarettes and pouring shots of a dangerous-looking, clear liquid. Probably the stuff that made my lips numb. Either that or lighter fluid.

Uncle Sidran took a seat next to me, elbowed me in the ribs, and gestured with his cigar toward Pete. “Pete. You like?”

I smiled. “Yes, I like Pete.”

Uncle Sidran roared. “All girls like! All girls like Pete!”

The men roared in approval, chugged the liquor, and slammed the glasses on the table.

“Anna!” cousin Catiz called out. “You toast now, yes?”

I was toasted all right, so I followed the men's example and held my glass aloft. “All girls like Pete!” I shouted, chugged the drink, and slammed the glass on the table. The fiery liquid tore down my throat and exploded like a bomb in my stomach. My eyes filled with tears, and for a scary second or two I thought I was going to hurl my dinner back onto the table. I gasped for breath, and let loose a thunderous belch. The men looked impressed.

Sidran poured another round. “Pete big man. Big, strong man! Make big strong babies!”

The men roared again, and I didn't have the heart to squelch their assumption that Pete and I would be making babies. It was kind of sweet, in a misguided and thoroughly outrageous way.

So I held up my glass. “To Pete and hith big, thtwong babieth!”

The women had emerged from the kitchen and were standing around, drying their hands on dish towels and clucking amongst themselves. I realized I had been spending all my time with the men, and imposed myself on the females, tipsy though I was. My timing was impeccable: the kitchen was spotless.

I noticed a Tim O'Neill calendar hanging near the refrigerator. The man's floral infatuations were haunting me.

“I speak with docent Helena yesterday, Anna,” said Mama Pete. “Tomorrow I begin to work there.”

“What will you be doing?”

“The souls of the Potter's Field must be organized. Perhaps we can find where everyone is, Helena says. And we will clean up. Wednesday and Thursday Pete and the other boys will come and help with shovels and pick-axes.”

“That's great,” I said, smiling at the image of a bevy of Bosnians on the job, under Mama's watchful eye.

“I will run the community service program. Naughty young people will help to set things right, maybe they learn respect for the dead. Anna, did you see Helena loves Tim O'Neill too! Helena says one day we live in a world like O'Neill painting. You see I have calendar! How lovely she is, the painting in the office! You could paint like that, Anna, if you tried.”

I gritted my teeth and smiled. “I don't think I have it in me, Mama Pete.”

Around midnight I crashed. I was too drunk to walk, much less to drive, so I was assigned the upper berth of a bunk bed in Mama's cramped guest room. I was awakened sometime later by the ringing of a cell phone. It took me several moments to realize the annoying mechanical tune was emanating from my purse—I'd forgotten to give Mary back her cell phone. By the time I located it, the ringing had stopped. The display said
Number not available.

I heard a strange noise from somewhere below me, and peered cautiously over the edge of the bunk. The lower berth was occupied by a stout, snoring woman in her fifties, her face covered by a mop of gray fur. I blinked, trying to get my eyes to focus. Either her wig was askew or she'd fused with a swamp rat sometime in the night.

With exaggerated care, I climbed down from my perch and made my way down the dark hallway to the bathroom, nearly jumping at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was snarled, my mascara had smudged, and the enameled chopsticks in my hair stuck straight up like a pair of antennae. I looked like a Martian raccoon. I'd left my twenty-first birthday behind more than a decade ago, and the evening's overindulgence showed on my face.

As I ran cold water to wash my face, the cell phone rang again. At this hour I imagined it was probably one of Mary's bandmates looking for her.

“Bosnian hotline,” I answered, chuckling to myself. That
loza
was good stuff. “How may I direct your call?”

“Annie?” Mary's voice sounded tinny, not like herself.

“Mare? What's wrong?”

There was a scuffling sound, and a mechanically distorted voice came on the line. “
Tell us where the box is, and we'll let her out of the crypt.
”

“
What?
What crypt?”

“
The . . . it's a really nasty crypt. If you don't tell us, we'll hurt—I mean, we'll kill her.
” In the background I heard the muffled sound of someone coaching the caller.

“Put Mary back on,” I demanded, anger overcoming my fear.

“How will you know?”