A Manual for Cleaning Women (45 page)

I hadn’t noticed the Tampax string among the jet-black silken hairs. The mother says it is her first time. Without irony she says,

“She is a woman now.”

She is in danger now, I think.

“Okay, hold her down,” Dr. Rook says. The mother grabs her waist, the girls her legs, Tony and I hold her arms. She fights violently against us but Dr. Rook at last gets the old button out and puts in a new one.

She was the last patient of the day. I’m cleaning the room, putting fresh paper on the table when Dr. Rook comes back in. She says, “I’m so grateful for my Nicholas.”

I smile and say, “And I for my Nicholas.” She’s talking about her six-month-old baby, I’m talking about my six-year-old grandson.

“Good night,” we say and then she goes over to the hospital.

I go home and make a sandwich, turn on an A’s game. Dave Stewart pitching against Nolan Ryan. It has gone into ten innings when the phone rings. Dr. Fritz. He’s at the ER, wants me to come. “What is it?”

“Amelia, remember her? There are people who can speak Spanish, but I want you to talk to her.”

Amelia was in the doctor’s room at the ER. She had been sedated, stared even more blankly than usual. And the baby? He leads me to a bed behind a curtain.

Jesus is dead. His neck was broken. There are bruises on his arms. The police are on the way, but Dr. Fritz wants me to talk to her calmly first, see if I can find out what happened.

“Amelia? Remember me?”

“
Sí. Cómo no?
How are you? Can I see him,
mijito
Jesus?”

“In a minute. First I need for you to tell me what happened.”

It took a while to figure out that she had been riding around on buses in the daytime, spending the nights in a homeless shelter. When she got there tonight two of the younger women took all her money from where she had it pinned inside her clothes. They hit her and kicked her, then left. The man who runs the place didn’t understand Spanish and didn’t know what she was saying. He kept telling her to be quiet, put his fingers up to his mouth to tell her to be quiet, to keep the baby quiet. Then later the women came back. They were drunk and it was dark and other people were trying to sleep, but Jesus kept crying. Amelia had no money at all now and didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t think. The two women came. One slapped her and the other one took Jesus, but Amelia grabbed him back. The man came and the women went to lie down. Jesus kept crying.

“I couldn’t think about what to do. I shook him to make him be quiet so I could think about what to do.”

I held her tiny hands in mine. “Was he crying when you shook him?”

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then he stopped crying.”

“Amelia. Do you know that Jesus is dead?”

“Yes, I know.
Lo sé.
” And then in English she said, “Fuck a duck. I’m sorry.”

502

502 was the clue for 1-Across in this morning’s
Times
. Easy. That’s the police code for Driving While Intoxicated, so I wrote in DWI. Wrong. I guess all those Connecticut commuters knew you were supposed to put in Roman numerals. I had a few moments of panic, as I always do when memories of my drinking days come up. But since I moved to Boulder I have learned to do deep breathing and meditation, which never fail to calm me.

I’m glad I got sober before I moved to Boulder. This is the first place I ever lived that didn’t have a liquor store on every corner. They don’t even sell alcohol in Safeway here and of course never on Sundays. They just have a few liquor stores mostly on the outskirts of town, so if you’re some poor wino with the shakes and it’s snowing, Lord have mercy. The liquor stores are gigantic Target-size nightmares. You could die from DTs just trying to find the Jim Beam aisle.

The best town is Albuquerque, where the liquor stores have drive-through windows, so you don’t even have to get out of your pajamas. They don’t sell on Sundays either though. So if I didn’t plan ahead there was always the problem of who in the world could I drop in on who wouldn’t offer a wine cooler.

Even though I had been sober for years before I moved here I had trouble at first. Whenever I looked in the rearview mirror I’d go “Oh no,” but it was just the ski racks everybody has on their cars. I have never actually even seen a police car in pursuit or seen anyone being arrested. I have seen policemen in shorts at the mall, eating Ben & Jerry’s frozen yogurt, and a SWAT team in a pickup truck. Six men in camouflage with big tranquilizer rifles, chasing a baby bear down the middle of Mapleton.

This must be the healthiest town in the country. There is no drinking at frat parties or football games. No one smokes or eats red meat or glazed doughnuts. You can walk alone at night, leave your doors unlocked. There are no gangs here and no racism. There aren’t many races, actually.

That dumb 502. All these memories came flooding into my head, in spite of the breathing. The first day of my job at U——, the Safeway problem, the incident at San Anselmo, the scene with A——.

Everything is fine now. I love my job and the people I work with. I have good friends. I live in a beautiful apartment just beneath Mount Sanitas. Today a western tanager sat on a branch in my backyard. My cat Cosmo was asleep in the sun so he didn’t chase it. I am deeply grateful for my life today.

So God forgive me if I confess that once in a while I get a diabolical urge to, well, mess it all up. I can’t believe I’d even have this thought, after all those years of misery. Officer Wong either taking me to jail or to detox.

The Polite One, we all called Wong. We called all the other ones pigs, which would never have applied to Officer Wong, who was very nice, really. Methodical and formal. There were never any of the usual physical interchanges between you and him like with the others. He never slammed you against the car or twisted the cuffs into your wrist. You stood there for hours as he painstakingly wrote up his ticket and read you your rights. When he cuffed you he said, “Permit me,” and “Watch your head” when you got into the car.

He was diligent and honest, an exceptional member of the Oakland police force. We were lucky to have him in our neighborhood. I am really sorry now about that one incident. One of the steps of AA is to make amends with people you have wronged. I think I have made most of the amends I could. I owe Officer Wong one. I wronged Wong for sure.

Back then I lived in Oakland, in that big turquoise apartment on the corner of Alcatraz and Telegraph. Right above Alcatel Liquors, just down from the White Horse, across the street from the 7-Eleven. Good location.

The 7-Eleven was sort of a gathering place for old winos. Although, unlike them, I went to work every day, they ran into me in liquor stores on weekends. Lines at the Black and White that opened at six a.m. Late-night haggling with the Pakistani sadist who worked at the 7-Eleven.

They were all friendly with me. “How ya been, Miss Lu?” Sometimes they asked me for money, which I always gave them, and several times when I had lost my job, I asked them. The group of them changed as they went to jails, hospitals, death. The regulars were Ace, Mo, Little Ripple, and The Champ. These four old black guys would spend their mornings at the 7-Eleven and their afternoons snoozing or drinking in a faded aqua Chevrolet Corvair parked in Ace’s yard. His wife Clara wouldn’t let them smoke or drink in the house. Winter and summer, rain or shine, the four would be in that car. Sleeping like little kids on car trips, heads on folded hands, or looking straight ahead as if they were on a Sunday drive, commenting on everybody who drove or walked by, passing around a bottle of port.

When I’d come up the street from the bus stop I’d holler out, “How’s it going?” “Jes’ fine!” Mo would say. “I got my wine!” And Ace would say, “I feel so well, got my muscatel!” They’d ask about my boss, that fool Dr. B.

“Just quit that ol’ job! Get yourself on SSI where you belong! You come sit with us, sister, pass the time in comfort, don’t need no job!”

Once Mo said I didn’t look so good, maybe I needed detox.

“Detox?” The Champ scoffed. “Never detox. Retox! That’s the ticket!”

The Champ was short and fat, wore a shiny blue suit, a clean white shirt, and a porkpie hat. He had a gold watch with a chain and he always had a cigar. The other three all wore plaid shirts, overalls, and A’s baseball hats.

One Friday I didn’t go to work. I must have been drinking the night before. I don’t know where I had gone in the morning, but I remember coming back and that I had a bottle of Jim Beam. I parked my car behind a van across the street from my building. I went upstairs and fell asleep. I woke to loud knocking on my door.

“Open your door, Ms. Moran. This is Officer Wong.”

I stashed the bottle in the bookcase and opened the door. “Hello, Officer Wong. How can I help you?”

“Do you own a Mazda 626?”

“You know I do, sir.”

“Where is that car, Ms. Moran?”

“Well, it’s not in here.”

“Where did you park the vehicle?”

“Up across from the church.” I couldn’t remember.

“Think again.”

“I can’t remember.”

“Look out the window. What do you see?”

“Nothing. The 7-Eleven. Telephones. Gas tanks.”

“Any parking places?”

“Yeah. Amazing. Two of them! Oh. I parked it there, behind a van.”

“You left the car in neutral, without the parking brake on. When the van left, your vehicle followed it down Alcatraz during rush-hour traffic, proceeded to cross into the other lane, narrowly missing cars, and sped down the sidewalk, almost harming a man, his wife, and a baby in a stroller.”

“Well. Then what?”

“I’m taking you to see then what. Come along.”

“I’ll be right out. I want to wash my face.”

“I’ll stay right here.”

“Please. Some privacy, sir. Wait outside the door.”

I took a big drink of whiskey. Brushed my teeth and combed my hair.

We walked silently down the street. Two long blocks. Damn.

“If you think about it, it’s pretty miraculous that my Mazda didn’t hit anything or hurt anybody. Don’t you think so, Officer Wong? A miracle!”

“Well, it did hit something. It is a miracle that none of the gentlemen were in the car at the time. They got out to watch your Mazda coming down the street.”

My car was nuzzled into the right fender of the Chevy Corvair. The four men were standing there, shaking their heads. Champ puffed on his cigar.

“Thank the Lord you wasn’t in it, sister,” Mo said. “First thing I did, I opened the door and said, ‘Where she be?’”

There was a big dent in the fender and the door of the Chevrolet. My car had a broken bumper and headlight, broken turn-signal light.

Ace was still shaking his head. “Hope you got insurance, Miz Lucille. I got me one classic car here what has some serious damage.”

“Don’t worry, Ace. I got insurance. You bring me an estimate as soon as you can.”

The Champ spoke to the others quietly. They tried not to smile but it didn’t work. Ace said, “Just sittin’ here minding our own business and look what happens! Praise the Lord!”

Officer Wong was writing down my license plate numbers and Ace’s license plate numbers.

“Does that car have a motor in it?” he asked Ace.

“This here car is a museum piece. Vintage model. Don’t need no motor.”

“Well, guess I’ll try to back out of here without running into anybody,” I said.

“Not so fast, Ms. Moran,” Officer Wong said. “I need to write up a citation.”

“A citation? Shame on you, Officer!”

“You can’t be writing this lady no ticket. She was asleep at the time of the incident!”

The old guys were crowding around him, making him nervous.

“Well,” he sputtered, “she’s guilty of reckless … reckless…”

“Can’t be reckless driving. She wasn’t driving the car!”

He was trying to think. They were muttering and grumbling. “Shame. Shameful. Innocent taxpayers. Poor thing, on her own and all.”

“I definitely smell alcohol,” Officer Wong said.

“That’s me!” all four of them said at once, exhaling.

“No sir,” Champ said. “If you ain’t doing the D you can’t get the DWI!”

“That’s the truth!”

“Sure enough.”

Officer Wong looked at us with a very discouraged expression. The police radio began squawking. He quickly put his pad into his pocket, turned, and hurried to the squad car, took off with lights and siren.

The insurance check came very soon, sent to me but written out to Horatio Turner. The four men were sitting in the car when I handed the check to Ace. Fifteen hundred dollars.

That afternoon was the only time I sat inside the old car. I had to slide in after The Champ since the other door wouldn’t open. Little Ripple, who was little, sat on my other side. They were all drinking Gallo Port but brought me a big Colt 45. They toasted me. “Here’s to our lady Lucille!” That’s how I was known in the neighborhood after that.

The sad part was that this happened in early spring. Officer Wong still had spring and summer on that same beat. Every day he had to pass by the guys in the Chevrolet Corvair, smiling and waving.

Of course I had other encounters with Officer Wong after that one, not pleasant at all.

Here It Is Saturday

The ride from city to county jail goes along the top of the hills above the bay. The avenue is lined with trees and that last morning it was foggy, like an old Chinese painting. Just the sound of the tires and the wipers. Our leg chains made the sound of oriental instruments and the prisoners in orange jumpsuits swayed together like Tibetan monks. You laugh. Well, so did I. I knew I was the only white guy on the bus and that all these dudes weren’t the Dalai Lama. But it was beautiful. Maybe I laughed because I felt silly, seeing it that way. Karate Kid heard me laugh. Old Chaz has a wet brain now for sure. Most of the men going to jail now are just kids for crack. They don’t hassle me, think I’m just an old hippy.

The first view of the prison is awesome. After a long climb you come upon a valley in the hills. The land used to be the summer estate of a millionaire called Spreckles. The fields around the county jail are like the grounds of a French castle. That day there were a hundred Japanese plum trees in bloom. Flowering quince. Later on there were fields of daffodils, then iris.