All Stories Are Love Stories (22 page)

For a few more blocks, Gene struggled forward through the heat and undeniable impassability; the wind and the last people fleeing the neighborhood surged through and past and around him. Where to now? All he could see was fire and escape from fire, people running every which way, heads down, the things of their lives in their hands.

The wind changed direction and ripped violently down the hill, stinging his eyes with its thick lace of smoke. Struggling down the last block he could manage, he stood upright, catching his breath. But it was hard to get the lungfuls of air he wanted, and the pain of breathing hit on a primal nerve that spasmed, releasing a backlog of tears.

Blinded by smoke and tears, Gene dove into a stairwell out of the wind, surprising a fusty but kind-faced man sporting a collection of rags, a pyknic belly, and a sleeping bag. “Welcome,” he said, clapping Gene on the back, “welcome to the SS
Sacramento
! I'm the Sea Captain. Leading sailors over rough waters for forty-nine years.” He extended his hand as if gesturing to the sea around them. “Come,” he went on, “get yourself out of the wind.” Gently, he put his hand on Gene's shoulder, urging him deeper under the stairs. In another city, in another world, Gene would have feared for his life if an unhinged wanderer tried to coax him
into a dark corner, but he could feel the good in that touch, see the man's blankets and bed in the corner. Yielding, Gene pressed his palms to his face. He could never and always find his way home. If Wichita was a respectable Episcopalian priest, San Francisco was a wild-haired goddess, as likely to destroy her subjects as to bestow them with ethereal gifts. It was why he had come there, why so many who hadn't found a home anywhere else did: the city wanted the homeless, it wanted those who could embrace the sorrow and ecstasy of living at the whim of a vibrancy greater than anything they could ever invite or invent. Maybe that was why the people of San Francisco were so generally welcoming, knowing that the only real home they could ever hope to establish would be one they could create together, even if their former lives lay in ruins.

“Hey, hey,” the man pleaded soothingly, “it's OK. Don't cry.” And then, swabbing at Gene's face with his own dirty sleeve, “Hey! You've got blood on you! You're dirty!” he exclaimed, surprise taking over his face like innocence.

“I was carrying someone, a man, he died, well, he died on the way, or earlier, and I had to take him . . .” He couldn't find his way to the words he knew would explain who he was and why.

The Sea Captain nodded sympathetically. “Ah, yes. I've been a corpse taxi myself more than once. Carried a dead woman through these streets in broad daylight from Howard to Jones, and nobody stopped me!” He wore a ragged series of cloth pieces, none of which could be described as anything so specific as a shirt or pants. “Of course, no one
saw us.” He paused, picking his front tooth with a thick nail. “Good for the soul, that sort of errand. Good karma.” He squinted one hopeful eye at Gene, searching for a far greater degree of potential than he obviously had. “Do you maybe have any food? Water?”

Gene admitted he had neither. The two of them were quite a pair, trapped in an urban mecca of progress and innovation, miracle drugs and messiahs, and not a drop of water between them. The Sea Captain walked toward the opening Gene had come in through and stared philosophically out at the scene. Gene joined him. The heat was so searing, they might have been standing under a full sun.

“It's gone, isn't it?”

“Eh, maybe,” the Sea Captain said, tipping his head thoughtfully. “But who knows? Either way, I wouldn't worry about it.” He grinned at Gene's expression. “Oh, come now. A city is nothing more than an idea, my boy! We'll rebuild. It's not the first time it's gone down, and it surely won't be the last.”

Max woke suddenly. “You forgot to finish your story,” he said.

Vashti made a sound of recognition.

“What happened after God?” Max persisted.

“It's such a strange story, Max,” she said softly, “they all are, now that I think about them.” She paused. There was less air to speak with, the choice of words more important than ever. “About goats and monkeys—I think they make no sense.”

“Doesn't matter.”

“No,” she said slowly. “I guess it doesn't. They were probably just the sort of thing that parents tell their children to get them to fall asleep. If they made sense, the children would have stayed awake.”

Max didn't say anything. His breathing was shallow and soft.

“My favorite was the story of the baker and the fish.” How strange, she suddenly realized, that she was not hungry. Perhaps cold and fear had stolen her appetite. No doubt she would be hungry soon. Unbearably hungry. But it was nice to have a break from it, a break from need.

“Once upon a time, there was a time when there was no one but God,” she began again. “When people believed more than they could explain.”

“A good baker lived in a small house with his wife, spending long days devoted to his trade, considering the person who might eat each loaf of bread as he made it. A baker of this kind rarely exists anymore, a man who brings such tenderness to his work! At the end of the day, if he had any bread left over, he could not bear to throw it away, so he tossed it into the river for the fish to eat.”

Max imagined a younger Vashti, needing only dessert and stories to be happy. Simple things. Easy to replace if they were lost, easy to hold in the palm of one's hand if they weren't.

“One day a wealthy merchant came and offered him forty days of pay for one day of work, as long as no questions were asked. The baker was a poor man with a wife to feed, so he figured he had nothing to lose. He took the wealthy man's offer, and the next morning showed up on the man's doorstep as promised.”

“What did she look like?”

“The baker's wife?”

“Your mother.”

“Like Javi,” Vashti said after a pause. “Or maybe I've confused the two of them. I remember her voice more than her face.”

She waited so long to keep going, he wondered if she'd fallen back asleep.

“Go on. I want to hear the rest. It's a good story.”

“The baker was led into a home of such surpassing beauty, he could never have guessed the things he saw there
even existed! And the kitchen! It was a cook's paradise. Pans and dishes of the finest materials, acres of marble just for rolling out pastries, the finest ingredients lining the shelves and larders, and an oven so tall it could fit a man. The baker began to get nervous, wondering what his place could be in all this finery. He was only a humble artisan, after all, unfamiliar with such materials. ‘That is where you are mistaken,' the wealthy man confided. ‘This is a task for a true bread maker.' Here he paused to be sure the other man understood his desperation, frowning deeply before he continued. ‘I have had a hundred talented pastry makers and cooks of the finest reputation in to do this job, and not one could complete it.'

“The baker was very curious at this point, and not a little eager to prove his mettle. He told the merchant the job would be done, and well. The wealthy man smiled, quite pleased, and produced a bread pan that could fit in the tallest oven and was of the most intricate design, the shape of a bird and its feathers carved into its massive surface with exquisite detail. The baker was honored to have such material to work with, and he set out happily to complete his task.

“When the bread was done and had cooled and the baker marveled at his work, he called to the wealthy man to say that the job was done. The merchant was satisfied, but when the baker asked for payment, the merchant only smiled and pointed up to the sky. ‘The sun is not yet set on this day of work!' he exclaimed. ‘And your task is not complete.'

“The baker was tired, but he was an honest man, and he
saw that the merchant was right. A group of servants suddenly appeared and began to carve into the bread, hollowing out its tender core with knives so sharp that only the very outer layer, the crusted bird, remained.”

Max was breathless, waiting to hear of the baker's fate, cushioned in the world Vashti was spinning so artfully. He wanted to tell her how good she was at telling stories, but he was afraid that if he interrupted, she would stop.

“The sun had almost set, and the baker stood nervously with his hat in his hands. Finally, the merchant turned back to the baker and told him he must climb inside this crust to see if it could fit the shape of a man. Nervously, the baker did as he was asked, though he did not know why. As soon as he had stepped into the bird's wing, a flock of real birds swept in and lifted the man and the trap he had made with his own two hands into the air, flying them together to the highest aerie, where he was dropped into a nest of jewels. He lay there, swimming in riches with no way out.

“Before long, the merchant came to the bottom of the mountain and called up to him, ‘If you throw the jewels to me, I will tell you the way home!' Having no choice, and knowing the jewels would be of no use to him in his present condition, the baker threw them from the aerie, jewels too beautiful to describe, so that when they were out of his sight, he could not have told anyone about them.”

Vashti paused, reliving the childlike fear this part of the story always left in her.
Maybe stories are memories, too,
she thought.

“Don't stop, Vash,” Max said. “Please. Keep going.”

“It's a silly story, Max.”

“No,” Max insisted, “it isn't. Please. What happened next?”

She felt that if were she to speak again, the ghosts would certainly pull closer. “The baker threw himself off the mountain,” she whispered hesitantly, “and landed in the sea.”

“And the fish saved him.”

Vashti smiled. “Of course they did. I told you it was silly.”

But they'd made a raft of themselves to save him, she remembered. How clever those fish were! She and her mother had remarked on it.

Outside, the silence began to lift. The sound of sirens could be heard.

“But what happened to the man who tricked him?”

“Something. I'm not sure.” She closed her eyes. “Let me see. I think, yes, I think the baker tricked him back!” He heard a smile in her voice. “He disguised himself so that the next time the man came looking for a dupe, he hired the baker once more, not realizing it was the same man. And instead of climbing into the bread bird after it was baked, he asked the man to show him how first.”

“Like Hansel and Gretel.”

“What?”

“Gretel asks the witch to show her how to test the fire in the oven the witch made to cook and eat her brother. God, these stories are terrifying!”

Vashti's laugh resonated in his own chest. “Yes, they are. But we loved them anyway, didn't we?”

“So what happened? Did the wealthy man fall for the trick?”

A flurry of movement was taking shape, something nearby and purposeful, the sound, possibly, of help.

“Of course. He crawled in, and the birds carried him away, and he landed on the jeweled mountaintop.”

“But the fish wouldn't save him.”

“No. He jumped into the sea, but he drowned there.”

“Do you hear that?” Max asked, listening.

And now my story has come to an end
,
but the sparrow never got home.
All her mother's stories ended the same way. Javi and Vashti didn't know why until their father sold their old house and moved to Sonoma. When they were packing up all his old things, they found a book of Persian fairy tales, dog-eared, the pages wavy and stiff with age. Each one began with God and ended with the sparrow.

The warmth and the smoke and the sound of her voice had finally helped them both relax.
Javi will be so glad I finally came to see you
, Vashti wanted to say as she dozed off again.
And she'll be here soon for a visit. She moved away a long time ago. I don't know where she's been.
In her sleep, Vashti watched a sparrow gliding through the air, searching the ocean below for her missing nest.

“A fox, I think,” Phil said into the dark.

“What?” Tia asked, barely awake.

“I've been watching it,” he said, his voice coming from a faraway place but articulate and alert. “I think it's a fox, or a pair of them.”

Tia closed her eyes.

“They're not dangerous,” he said.

She nodded. “OK,” she said.

“You know what?” Phil asked. “Tia?”

She didn't answer.

“I think you're a really great sister.”

Nothing.

“Tia?”

Still no answer.

“That's OK,” he said. “I was just going to say, I think the foxes are a pair. They look like they're working on something together.” He leaned forward into the dark, as if doing so would help him see through it and into the debris all around them—just enough to see the animals he was no longer afraid of seeing, feeling his borders ease to include them. “A family, at least,” he said to himself. “They're smaller than I thought,” he added casually. “Can't see what color they are. Probably red or silver.” An image of a small,
orangeish creature rose to the surface of his mind, something he couldn't remember seeing before. “No, probably red.” He yawned, lying down near the opening.
They remind me of you guys a little,
he told only himself.
Sharp eyes. Pretty ears.
“They're working together,” he commented reverently out loud, a little sadly. He was falling asleep. “I'll keep watch. I know she's afraid of dogs.” He'd always wanted a dog. A little one, smart, with a sharp bark, whose hair smelled dirty and sweet. Finally, his body relaxed into sleep and he was dreaming of a creature running so fast through an open field that all four of its feet left the ground at once.