Authors: Beth Gutcheon
“Very good,” he said.
“How is Winston?”
“Fine, except yesterday he ate a sponge,” James said.
“A whole one?”
“Yes, but he ate it a bite at a time. The car is in the parking garage.
Will you wait here while I bring it?” They had reached the main terminal lobby.
“I wouldn’t think of it, I need the hike. How is the baby?”
“Mr. Strouse taught him patty-cake!”
“Oh, this sounds fine.”
“Patty-cake, patty-cake, cake, cake, cake!” James recited.
The two of them walked briskly through the tunnel to the airport garage.
95
96 / Beth Gutcheon
The Strouse house was a four-story brick affair in the Tudor style; it was not small. It had been built in the 1920s on a level block of Broadway in Pacific Heights, the quietest, prettiest, fanciest part of San Francisco, with spectacular views of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. To be on a level block, where you could park your car without fearing you would fall out and roll down the hill when you opened the door, and where the children could Rollerblade or ride bikes in front of the house, was a big attraction in this hilly city. Of course, level rarely meant more than level in front. The ground on which the Strouse house was built sloped down toward the bay so precipitously that the house was actually three stories high in front and six in the back, the lowest level being mostly used for storing garden equipment. There was a small shade garden and a patch of lawn where in the spring and summer there was sun in the afternoon.
In the back of the lot was a large ivy-covered rectangular building that housed the indoor swimming pool.
Doreen opened the front door to Rae, her face smiling a welcome.
Winston Churchill came rocketing down the stairs and shot across the polished slate floor, his whole body wriggling with joy.
“Well, hello, Winston Churchill, hello, my dog. I’m glad to see you too, yes, I am very glad to see you, you bad hound, did you eat a sponge?” Rae managed to greet the dog and give Doreen a hug at the same time.
Winston finally got himself in control enough to sit still at her feet.
He looked up at her with intense joy, his toenails clicking on the stone floor as he tried to be still. Rae gave him a biscuit from her raincoat pocket, and the dog leaned against her leg in adoration. She patted his head and scratched his neck, and he mooed with happiness.
Her husband, Albie, was spending the morning upstairs in the den. His favorite room had been the library, with its walls lined with books, the vast Persian carpet, and his favorite leather wing-backed chair by the fireplace, but now he tended to stay upstairs unless Rae was with him. The den was a much smaller room, with dark green-glazed walls and deep, soft chairs with needlepoint pillows that Rae had made as they watched television together. Here too Rae and
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Doreen had installed baby Scott’s playpen, and Albie and the baby seemed mutually pleased and soothed by each other’s company.
When she walked down the hall to the den this morning, Rae could hear the television. It was turned up loud; Albie’s hearing had been failing. He had surprised her by being rather vain about wearing hearing aids. He had always been a handsome man—slender, with thick brown hair and eyelashes, and a heavy brow ridge and square chin that just saved him from being embarrassingly good-looking. All the same, when it came to it, he refused to wear the large hearing aid that made sense for a man in his condition. He wanted tiny ones that no one would notice. The trouble was, he then didn’t notice them either; didn’t notice where he put them, or whether he had them in at all, and mostly lost them in the cracks of the cushions. He had no idea of the decibel level he had incrementally achieved. That was the danger of clicking the remote control a few extra times and forgetting you’d done it.
Rae stood at the door of the den, buffeted by the din, and looked at her husband. He was wearing a sweat suit, because it was the easiest thing to get him into, and battered boat shoes. He had a box of Kleenex in the chair beside him, and he was gazing at the television, where there was some kind of war show on, a rerun on one of the zillions of cable stations they subscribed to. There was lots of shouting and occasional gunfire, in which Albie was wholly absorbed. Finally she said, “Hi, stranger.”
When he looked up and saw her, an expression of the sweetest joy lit his face. He tried to speak, but quickly turned instead to searching for the remote control, which was wedged between his leg and the chair arm. He aimed it at the television, two-handed, and punched buttons wildly, changing stations, until he happened to strike the Off button.
Rae went in and leaned over him. He put his arms around her and kissed her warmly. “You!” he said at last, beaming with happiness.
“Yes, I’m back. I’m even a little early. And it was a wonderful, wonderful week. We had good weather, and I met amazing people, a
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sweet little girl about as big around as she was tall, and a giant woman who’s a detective, and a dear, brave woman who’s a judge, who just lost her husband. You knew her husband, the tennis player Roberto Lopez, remember, you met him in Washington when you both got awards? You’d have liked them all so much.”
He was smiling at her, watching her face intently and nodding as she spoke.
Baby Scott had now pulled himself up to his feet by the rail of the playpen, and was dancing and squeaking, wanting Rae to pick him up. She scooped him up and gave him a hug and kiss, and sat down on the ottoman at Albie’s feet with the baby in her lap.
“Now, how was your week? Did Doreen take good care of you?
Was Winston Churchill a good dog?”
“Oh…yes…” It seemed his thoughts all crowded up to the front of his brain and got wedged in the door. She could see in his eyes that he had many wondrous things to tell.
“Yes, we…well…”
“I hear he ate a sponge,” Rae said, and Albie cried, “Yes!”, grateful that once again she seemed able to read his mind. Rae got up and put the baby in Albie’s lap. She sat down on the arm of his chair and stroked his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. He leaned his head against her and took her hand. She knew that he had missed her deeply, and that once he got used to her being back the words would come back to him.
“So you had a good week? Did exciting things happen?”
“Oh yes, we…they came for us in a helicopter,” he said. “And then…”
And then he got lost, like someone starting to tell a dream who finds it has evaporated. She gave it a minute.
“On your show, you mean? A helicopter came?”
There was a pause. He raised his hand as if in protest, then put it to his lips, as he used to do when he meant to say “Now wait, let’s think.”
“Yes,” he said at last. “On our show. A helicopter came…” He made a motion with his finger, showing that things had gone round
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and round, and finally, a little frustrated, made a motion of flapping his hands past his ears. “Everyone’s hair blew!” he cried, and looked pleased.
He was out of the dream, now. But Rae wasn’t.
Albie came down to lunch; they ate in the sunroom overhanging the garden. It was small and glass-enclosed, and made the most of the cool winter light, turning it into warmth. Doreen brought them tomato soup with lemon slices, and an omelette. Albie ate slowly and carefully, and with great enjoyment. He had gotten properly dressed in a pair of old corduroys and a dress shirt and jacket. He looked ready for a brisk walk with the dog, or an afternoon of bridge.
Rae told him all about her week at The Cloisters. She told him about how they’d tried to talk Laurie into running for the Senate, and about turning a cartwheel. He clapped when she told that story.
“Good for you!” he said, and patted her arm. As always, his sweet, positive nature shone; as always, he applauded the best in people, and loved to see others’ success.
“Did you go to the club for lunch on Tuesday?” she asked him.
He had to think a little while, but then he found it. “Yes!
He…umm…”
“James.”
“…drove me.”
“And who did you see there?”
“Tony, and…” He made a gesture with both hands of a round belly.
“Gordon…”
“Yes, and…someone…with the…oh…Paul!” He had worked hard for that; he knew it would interest her.
“Paul Prescott? He was at the club? How wonderful!”
“Yes, oh, he looked fine. He ate with us…Paul and…”
“Tony.”
“Tony.”
“Well, I’m awfully glad to hear about Paul. Remember…nobody thought he’d live, and then they said he’d never walk, anyway.”
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“He was walking! He has a little…”
“Limp…”
“…but…he looks fine!”
“It’s a miracle. I’m so happy to hear it, and Peg must be thrilled.
I’ll call her later.”
“Do.”
“Was there interesting mail?”
He nodded. “I put it…”
On her desk, she knew. He went down for the mail every day at noon, and carefully sorted it. He took the mail addressed to him to the study beyond his dressing room. He put the mail for her on the desk in her office.
“Did you pay your bills?”
“Yes, he…”
“James…”
“…helped me.”
“Good.”
“All finish, Mr. Strouse?” Doreen was ready to clear. Albie nodded and smiled.
“Would you like a glass of milk?”
He said he would.
“And a cookie?”
He nodded, happy because he was so predictable, and she was a clever girl. That was right. After lunch he wanted skim milk, and a cookie.
In her office after lunch while Albie had his nap, Rae went through her mail. A few letters, piles of bills, piles of appeals for money. She sorted them into stacks.
She listened to all the saved messages on the answering service.
There was one from her daughter, Harriet, who wondered if she and Albie would like to come east to spend Christmas with them—Walter was coming. There was a message from Walter saying he wanted to spend Christmas with Harriet and her children but could hardly face trading San Francisco’s weather for Mamaroneck’s.
“Call me…” he
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added, in a way that made her smile. Walter was not made for life in the suburbs.
There was a brief message from her sister Velma, in Erie, Pennsylvania. One of her grandchildren was going to be in SF—she said “Ess Eff”—over Thanksgiving. Could she stay with Aunt Rae?
Rae was making notes, and turning pages on her calendar. There was a message from Jean, with whom she served on the board of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, reminding her of a meeting Tuesday afternoon. There was an invitation to lunch at the club to celebrate somebody’s birthday, but she had missed it. There was another message from Jean pointing out that the club was starting Italian lessons with a conversation table at lunch to follow; shouldn’t they sign up? Yes. Rae made more notes.
She turned on her computer and picked up her e-mail. She wrote a note to Jill, whom she knew was still in midair.
“Welcome home, cookie,”
she wrote.
“It’s two o’clock and I’m
waiting for my massage, but nothing happens. What am I
doing wrong?”
She was just ready to attack her stack of bills when Albie came in.
His face was rosy from sleep. He kissed her on the top of the head and said happily, “How about a…”
“Swim.”
“Yes!”
“I’d love it,” she said, wishing desperately that she could have another hour of quiet here. How Albie would have loved computers, especially the Internet! Oh, well.
Together she and Albie took the elevator down to ground level in the back of the house. They walked across the garden; Albie put his hand on her arm to stop her, so they could stand still and smell the air. He never stopped loving the perfume of San Francisco, the smell of moist earth and cut grass, and on a damp afternoon like this, wood smoke. He put his arm around her; he was so glad to have her back. They walked on to the pool house.
Decorously they parted to go into the men’s and ladies’ changing 102 / Beth Gutcheon
rooms. When Rae emerged from hers in her bathing suit, Albie was building a fire in the huge fireplace lined with blue and amber tiles.
There was nothing like swimming on a gray afternoon in a room warmed and flickering with firelight. Rae chose a CD, a Brahms piano concerto. The speakers were high in the corners of the room, and the music echoed wonderfully through the moist air.
Albie and Rae each had a favorite swimming drill, so many laps of breaststroke, backstroke, sidestroke, and flutter kicks. Rae swam, watching the light of the fire reflected against the ceiling, and the dark leaves of the huge rhododendrons that had grown up around the glass walls outside. From time to time she looked over at Albie, paddling up and down in his lane. He looked content. Doreen had found a moment to tell her in the kitchen, though, that while she was away he had often been querulous and puzzled. Cook had found him holding a fresh can of coffee, turning it over and over in his hands in frustration, unable to understand or remember how to open it. There had been periods when he didn’t want to leave the den or change his clothes. He had been depressed.
C
arter Bond stood in the long-term parking lot at LAX
looking at her dented brown Mercury sedan, and thought, What have I done wrong in life to be fifty years old and driving such a piece of shit? Why aren’t I speeding along in a little red Miata, with the wind in my hair? As she turned onto Lincoln Boulevard, she sourly watched a lithe blonde in a tiny convertible cut in front of her and zip off into traffic.
She knew why not, of course. She drove a car that was thoroughly forgettable, like an undercover cop’s. It had a huge engine and a good, heavy frame; she’d chosen it with a friend from the police garage. He worked on the cars that had gotten punched and bashed in the line of duty, and knew the safety ratings of the front bumpers and the rear bumpers and the weights of the engine blocks, a walking consumer report for people who expect to be in accidents.