Authors: Earlene Fowler
I crossed the 5 freeway, the quickest way through Central California, driven best at midnight, and drove past Wasco State Prison slapped stark and cold in the middle of an alfalfa field. Then came 99, the freeway straight into the heart of Bakersfield—home of Buck Owens; trailer parks; used tractor lots; restaurants with dark, fifties-style cocktail lounges; cozy pastel California bungalows set on old streets canopied with full, leafy trees; and Dewar’s Candy and Ice Cream Parlor—where Daddy always took me as a girl when he came here twice a year to visit friends. I pulled over at a Burger King, bought a Coke, and studied my age-softened Bakersfield street map. I was only a few blocks away from Zalba’s. Killing time, I took another sip of Coke, dreading my mission. Each time I encountered another of these people Mr. Chandler had steered me to, I wondered if this one would be the one to unlock the mystery of who he was ... to my mother and to me.
Zalba’s French Basque Restaurant was larger than I expected. Set on a street of car dealers and fast-food restaurants, its newly paved, tar-scented parking lot was already filling up, even though it was only 11:15. It was dark and cool inside with framed photographs on the wall of men playing jai alai. It took me ten minutes waiting in line to talk to the hostess.
“I’m here to see Gabriel Zalba,” I said.
The young, dark-haired girl whose name tag stated Christina looked at me curiously. “Which one?”
That threw me. “I don’t know,” I admitted.
Her expression grew even more curious. “What is it about? Are you a vendor? Old Gabriel doesn’t do much anymore except watch Young Gabriel work. I bet it’s Young Gabriel you want to see.”
“I’m not a vendor.” I wasn’t about to tell my whole story to this young girl. Maybe I’d just speak to both of them. Then it occurred to me. “How old is the older Mr. Zalba?”
She shrugged, her maroon-colored lips drawing downward in a concentrated frown. “I don’t know. Old.” At her age, which I guessed at sixteen or seventeen, everyone over forty was old.
“Sixties?” I asked. “Seventies?”
“Yeah, like that. His hair’s, like, all gray. Young Gabriel is, like, my dad’s age. Only some of his hair is gray.”
“I think it’s Old Gabriel I need to talk to.”
She put on her hostess smile. “Okay. Wait here.” She started to walk away, then turned back and called to me, “Oh, yeah, who should I say wants him?”
“Benni Harper.”
A few minutes later she came back. “Follow me, please,” she said and led me through the restaurant and sat me at a booth. “Your waitress will be right with you.”
“Wait,” I said as she started walking away. “I don’t want to eat. I want to see—”
“Mr. Zalba says you have to eat first. He’ll see you after you’re through. Would you like something to drink?”
“Just water,” I said.
She brought me my drink, and in the next hour I was served by a quiet, pretty waitress named Connie. While I studied the pictures of sheepherders and sheep on the dark paneled wall next to me, I ate a traditional Basque meal: vegetables with onions and carrots, thick and tangy sourdough bread with real butter, pink beans with a sauce hotter than any Santa Maria salsa I’d ever eaten, sliced pickled tongue, salad, french fries, green beans, rice with beets, spaghetti, and beef brochettes with onions and bell peppers. Someone knew I didn’t like lamb, a Basque specialty. For dessert she brought me chocolate mousse topped with vanilla sauce. The one thing you had to say for the Basques, they didn’t believe in people going hungry. I had just taken the last bite of my chocolate mousse when I was joined by a sixtyish man with gray curly hair and black, red-rimmed eyes.
“Miss Harper?” he asked, dipping his head in an acknowledging nod.
“Yes, are you Gabriel Zalba?”
“Yes, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. May I join you?”
“Certainly.”
He slid into the booth across from me and smiled, first at me, then at our waitress when she came to get my empty dessert cup. “Connie, bring me some coffee, please.” He looked at me in inquiry. “Miss Harper?”
“No, thanks. I couldn’t eat or drink another ounce.”
When she walked away, he asked, “So, your meal was satisfactory?”
“It was marvelous.” We studied each other for a moment. I sensed that this wasn’t a man to be rushed, but as pleasant as this all was, I was not here on a social call. “My husband’s name is Gabriel,” I said to start some sort of conversation.
“Yes, I know.”
“How?”
“Jacob told me.”
Okay, now things were moving along. He’d at least admitted knowing him. I pulled the matchbook out of my purse and laid it down on the table in front of him, telling him my story. When I finished, his coffee arrived, and I had to wait while he methodically poured in cream and sugar, tasted it, then added a little more cream.
“So, you do know him,” I said, hoping to hurry him along.
“Me and Jacob were friends. A long time. He saved my life.”
“He did?”
“Not literally, but without him I would not have this restaurant. I would not have my son’s respect or a legacy for my grandchildren. He was a good man. He loaned me money, but more importantly, he told me not to give up, convinced me when I was still just a dishwasher at someone else’s restaurant that I could start my own restaurant. He did this ...” He paused to think. “Thirty-five years ago. Young Gabriel was four, not yet in school. Jacob sold paper goods to the restaurant where I was working. I’d gotten in a fight with the owner’s son, a spoiled boy who was cruel and liked to anger me because I had a wife who loved me and a beautiful son. Jacob saw how he needled me, and Jacob made it a point to call me once a week, tell me to not let Joaquin bother me, to watch and learn everything about this business so one day I could open my own restaurant. He told me to save money. He helped me fill out the loan papers for this building and its equipment. On our opening day, I served him our first meal. He was my friend.”
Not knowing how to break the news that Jacob Chandler had died, unable to look him in the eye, I compulsively folded and refolded my pink cloth napkin. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Zalba. Your friend . . . Mr. Chandler, he . . .”
He reached across the table and patted my nervous hands, his face tight and controlled. “I know. You wouldn’t be here if he were still alive. He told me you’d eventually come. But Jacob knew I would need time before I could speak to you. That is why he bought you dinner.”
“He arranged this dinner?”
“Yes.”
I sat back in my booth, again irritated and amazed by this elaborate game, but also touched by the story this man told me. There was no doubt Mr. Chandler was an enigma. Like two different people almost. I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them. I was learning the rules. “So, do you have something for me?”
“Right here.” He pulled a package out of his tweed jacket and handed it to me. I opened it and found a box containing another wood carving lesson and a stone the length and thickness of a pencil, cut in a triangular shape, made of the same white translucent material as the flat stone in the trunk. I unfolded the piece of paper.
Buy good tools. Keep them simple. You don’t need an expensive set of tools to discover the treasures in wood. It is possible to carve your whole career with a few tools. Add to your tools gradually as the need arises. Treat them with respect, and they will not fail you. Keep them sharp. Sharpening is done on an abrasive stone and is followed by polishing on a leather strop. Use the best quality stone you can find. The stone is important. If you nick yourself, bandage the cut because you most likely will nick yourself in the same spot. Always remember your mind and your powers of observation are your most valuable tools. Don’t underestimate them.
The stone lay cold and smooth in my hands. “Do you know what this is?” I asked Mr. Zalba.
“It looks like a small sharpening stone.”
That’s what I figured. I looked back at the note, and the words
The stone is important
seemed to stand out. Did he mean something about this stone and the other one? I stuck it and the note back in the pasteboard box. “Is that it? Did he have anything else for me?”
“Just the box. Please, where is my friend buried?”
“The Paso Robles Cemetery—under a pepper tree in back of the stained-glass memorial. Someone at the office can give you exact directions. The headstone won’t be there for a few weeks. We had his service a few days ago. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you, but he didn’t leave an address book. If I’d known . . .”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “I will go and say my own good-bye.”
“Mr. Zalba, can I ask you a couple of things?”
“Anything.”
“Did you know an Alice Louise Banks or an Alice Ramsey?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry.”
“Did he ever say anything about where he came from, who his family was?”
Blunt fingers circled his mug. Distress and sorrow were apparent in his face, and I felt horrible about questioning him right now; but I didn’t know what else to do. “Jacob never talked about himself. Always asking about the children and my wife, Rosa. I’m sorry, but I knew very little about him. He was alone, I think. Except for you, he never mentioned anyone to me.” He slid out of the booth, and I followed him.
Taking my hand in both of his, he looked deep into my eyes. “Miss Harper, I don’t know who you were to Jacob, but he cared for you deeply.”
“What did he say about me?” I asked, feeling desperate and suddenly afraid.
“Only that his biggest regret was not having the courage to speak to you. This he told me himself. Go with God’s blessings, Miss Harper, and think of Jacob with good thoughts.”
I didn’t answer. I wanted to do as he asked, and maybe someday I could. But right now irritation was the only emotion I was willing to grant Jacob Chandler, no matter how many kind things he did for people.
Outside, in the sunny parking lot, I shivered under my flannel shirt even though it was seventy-five degrees. The sky was a bright, brittle Central Valley blue. I leaned against the front grill of the truck for a moment, watching traffic pass, trying to get my bearings. Across the street, the Denny’s coffee shop was even more crowded than Zalba’s. Those poor people, I thought, remembering my incredible Basque meal, choosing a fried tuna melt over the wonderful meal I’d just eaten. I glanced over the cars. It was then I noticed it.
A blue Taurus. Or rather the back of a blue Taurus.
Not unusual, by any means. A million of them made every year probably.
It was the broken taillight on the passenger side that caught my eye. A broken taillight taped in the exact same way as a car I’d seen only hours before in Morro Bay.
I pretended to glance past it, feigning interest in the cars speeding down the busy street. Out of the corner of my eye, I could discern the outline of two people sitting in the car. Even from across the street, I could tell one of them had very light hair, fluffy hair.
Light as in bleached blond. A hand rested casually on the open window ledge. A large aquamarine ring caught the bright sunlight and flashed.
Though fear made me want to bolt and run like a new calf, I made myself casually stand up and walk around to the driver’s side. Once inside, I gripped the steering wheel, my mind racing. What was that couple doing in Bakersfield when they had distinctly told me they were going to the north coast? No photographer would choose a Denny’s parking lot in Bakersfield over pictures of Hearst Castle, Piedras Blancas lighthouse, and lazing sea lions.
Unless, of course, their purpose wasn’t to photograph the natural beauty of the Central Coast but to follow me.
Now you’re being paranoid,
my practical self said to the self that was frantically waving red warning flags.
I drove the truck slowly out of the parking lot and headed toward downtown. There was only one way to find out, and that was to try to lose them. I drove all over Bakersfield, stopping once in a shopping center and went into a grocery store. Inside the cool building, I stood slightly back from the window and watched the Ford Taurus drive past my truck and park three rows over. I wasn’t being paranoid—these people were following me.
I wandered around the store for a few minutes, trying to calm my panic and formulate a plan. The drive back to Morro Bay loomed long and desolate in front of me. So I wouldn’t come out of the store suspiciously empty-handed, I picked up a six-pack of cold Cokes and a bag of barbecue potato chips. On the way to the check stand, I paused at the kitchen utensil aisle and perused the kitchen knives, finally dismissing the idea that a steak knife would be much protection and wishing that, illegal or not, Jack’s old .45 was tucked under the truck’s seat. For me, following the law to the letter was one of the harder parts of being a police chief’s wife. As the clerk rang me up, I debated calling Gabe.
No, I decided. He’d insist on me waiting here or perhaps driving to the nearest police station until he arrived. By that time, the people would be long gone, and I’d never find out who they were and why they were following me. Better to just act as if I’d not seen them and head back home before dark. They’d made no move to harm me, and if I were to confront them, it would be better to do it on my home turf. I’d drive back, then call Gabe immediately so he wouldn’t accuse me of running off half-cocked.
Satisfied with my sensible decision, I started the drive back to Morro Bay. I caught the Taurus in my rearview mirror a few times when we had long, straight stretches of road, but these people were discreet and knew how to follow someone—which made me grow increasingly nervous. I would have preferred their efforts to be less professional. Then another thought occurred to me. Could they have had something to do with the fire?
Relief flowed through my tense body when I reached Morro Bay’s city limits. The Taurus was nowhere in sight and hadn’t been for the last half hour but then, these people knew where I lived. Scout greeted me with the enthusiasm given a soldier home from battle. I stooped down and rubbed his chocolate-brown head hard, pushing his soft ears back so they lay flat against his head. His eyes closed in pure pleasure.