Pacific Avenue (7 page)

The scared feeling started to come back. “Do you see
someone you know?”

“I guess not.” He looked wary.
Maybe school is
getting to him. Maybe it’s my family. Or maybe he saw someone in a dark coat
that could have been green corduroy, about fifty feet away. That’s what I think
I saw, but I’m not sure.

I reached out to hug him and then remembered the long
walk down the hill to the parking lot. I wondered if the man in the green coat
would be watching me from the shadows.

I drove home so wrapped up in my problems, it’s a good
thing no one got in my way.

In the kitchen, Mom looked up from pouring beef stew into
a tureen. She pointed the spoon handle at a pot on the stove. “See if the rice
is done,” she said. “It better be. I don’t want this to get cold. Sharon and
Sam are coming.”

I bit a grain of rice to test it for doneness. It was
soft, so I fetched a bowl and ladled it in. The table was already set. As I
found a serving spoon, Sharon and Sam arrived. I called to Dad that dinner was
on the table.

“Why aren’t you going to your aunt’s party?” asked Mom
as soon as we all sat down.

Sharon fussed with the bread basket. “Because Richard
wasn’t invited. We didn’t think it was right.”

“Ruth and Joseph didn’t care for him. I mean, ducking
under the table . . . .” Mom ladled stew onto Dad’s plate and
reached for Sam’s.

“If you’d invited him half a dozen times, and he did
something weird every time, they might have a point,” Sharon said. “But isn’t
just once a bit extreme? Even in baseball, you get three strikes before you’re
out.”

“Ruth and Joseph have a right to decide their own guest
list,” Mom said. Her tone was final and—I thought—satisfied.

Sharon wasn’t buying it. “The guests have a right to
send regrets, too,” she said. “We don’t think they’re telling the whole story
about why he’s not invited.” Her face was red and her voice was high and angry.

Dad glanced at Mom, Mom glared at Sharon. Sam looked
down at his plate. No one looked my way. It was probably just as well. The more
I thought about the party, the angrier I got.

My heart started to pound, and my stomach heaved as I
looked at the slippery chunks of beef and carrot on my plate. I was afraid to
open my mouth.

Sam spoke up unexpectedly.

“Almost everyone has problems. If you limited your
guest list to people who’ve never had any, you’d have some small parties.”

“Did you specialize in psychiatry, Sam?” asked Dad.

Sam laughed. “No, I’m an oncologist. But the effects of
stress play out in every medical specialty. I think it’s a mistake to limit our
friends to people who look like winners. Not to mention that putting someone
down doesn’t make me feel good.”

“Well, I may agree,” said Dad. “But I can’t tell my
sister-in-law who to invite to her Christmas party.” His words echoed Mom’s.
Dad?
I can’t believe you’re saying this. You were always the one who told us
segregation was wrong.

“I guess I seem a bit pushy. You must think I’m the
nerviest date Sharon’s ever had,” Sam said. “But I’m counting myself as family
because we were planning to announce our engagement at this party.”

A pink sunrise of happiness dawned on Mom’s face. Even
Dad, who seldom showed much emotion, looked pleased. I felt happy for Sharon.
They’re
perfect together.

“So, why not come and announce it?” asked my dad.

“If I can say so without offense, that wouldn’t be the
way we’d want to start our marriage. We talked it over and decided to handle it
informally, without a big to-do.”

He slipped a small box from his pocket and opened it.
Reaching around the dishes, he put his ring on Sharon’s finger.

I wanted to hug them both. But I had a catch in my
throat, too.
They’re the way it’s supposed to be. I’m not—and I don’t know
how to change that.

If I hadn’t been so worried about that prison address, I
might have given up, because it was no easy job to find Kathy’s sister. There
were fifteen Quinns in the public library’s Baton Rouge phone book, all men’s
names except for a couple of listings that were just initials. I copied every
last one. Over the next few days, I called thirteen of them, asking for Sharon.
Finally I got the right one—Sam Quinn, M.D. A woman answered the phone. It was
Sharon.

I had tried to plan what to say, but I was nervous
anyway. If there ever was a fool rushing in where angels feared to tread, that
fool’s name was Lacey Greer.

I started by telling her who I was, and bumped up my
importance at Giannini’s—made myself sound like a real supervisor instead of
the secretary. Then I trotted out the lie about Christmas presents again.

“She likes books,” said Sharon. “She’s never cared that
much about clothes.”

No surprise there. “What kind of books? Does she
collect cookbooks?” I asked.

Sharon laughed. “No cookbooks, for sure. She likes poetry.
And folktales. Plays. Oh, wait, maybe not. Better get something lighter. That
might be best right now.”

Well, here was the thin end of the wedge. “Oh, I’m
sorry. Is something the matter? I thought she looked sort of sad.”

“Our father passed away this fall.”

“I’m so sorry. No wonder Kathy looks sad.”

Sharon hesitated. I was afraid she might be thinking
she didn’t know me, and I didn’t want that idea to get too big.

“I’ve been concerned about her. I have a daughter
almost the same age as Kathy. I guess you never stop being a mom.” I didn’t add
that my daughter had mentioned once or twice that maybe it was time for me to
consider doing just that. “I’d like to help if I can. She’s so far from home.
Although she did live in Gretna for a while, didn’t she? So, maybe she’s used
to being on her own.”

“She wasn’t exactly on her own,” Sharon said. “She was
living with friends.”

Friends like maybe one Richard Johnson, currently domiciled
in Angola at the expense of the State of Louisiana?

“Well, let me give you my address and phone number,” I
said. “Please do let me know if there’s anything I can do. Oh, and please don’t
tell Kathy I called. It’s a surprise.”

I didn’t want to push it too far the first time I
talked to her. If I was right about Kathy, I figured Sharon would be calling me
before too long.

On the night of Aunt Ruth’s party, we wrapped ourselves in
Christmas cheer as thin as the shiny paper around our packages. My aunt and
uncle lived in one of the newer subdivisions, a few miles away from us. As Dad
drove us to their house, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to ruin Christmas
for everyone, but I was miserable—hurt, angry, and coming down with a cold.

Dad parked the car in front of their house, and I
climbed out, surveying the yard with a bitter eye. It was the same every year:
a mob of electric elves, Santas, and reindeer, topped off with a manger scene.
Did
they ever notice that one of the Wise Men is black? Gee, there goes the
neighborhood. I hope it makes the yardman laugh when he puts it up.

We dragged our grocery bags of gifts out of the trunk
and juggled them up the walk. Uncle Joseph let us in and went back to the
kitchen for Aunt Ruth. While we waited in the hallway, I looked around, trying
to see my aunt’s house as if I were a stranger. Christmas knickknacks were
everywhere. Aunt Ruth had always decorated the house to rival the Christmas
issues of women’s magazines. One year she even had holiday toilet paper.

I’d taken her decorations for granted when I was
younger. Now I had some idea how much work she put into them. Even though I was
furious with my aunt, it struck me for the first time:
She wanted kids, but
she couldn’t have any. Making Christmas a big production is probably the only
way it can feel like a holiday at all. She sews one teddy bear after another to
put on the mantel because she couldn’t have a daughter to make one for.

I gave her a real hug when she came out of the kitchen,
and then I remembered my cold. I drew back, confused.

She looked confused too, maybe even offended.

“Sorry,” I said, “I’m coming down with a cold. Scared
I’ll give it to you.”

Her face relaxed. “Hey, after Christmas, I wouldn’t
mind having a good reason to stay in bed for a while. Joe could wait on me!” We
laughed.
Uncle Joseph is bringing her breakfast and the morning paper on a
tray! The paper has a big headline: Pigs Fly.

We hurried to join the others in the living room, where
the ceiling-scraping artificial tree took up one whole corner and then some.
The furniture crowded together and the presents spilled out around the tree.
There were so many things, there was hardly any room for us.

Mom, Dad, and I pulled the gifts from our bags and
added them to the heap. The gift wrap on the packages I’d brought looked more
special than the things I knew were inside. I hoped no one would be
disappointed. Probably not, since I gave them the same stuff every year. Aunt
Ruth: a Christmas cookie cutter for her collection. Uncle Joseph: fishing
flies. A pair of leather gloves for Mom. And for Dad, a gift certificate at the
garden store, since he returned anything else he got.

No one mentioned his name. The gifts were stripped and
admired, supper was eaten, the men talked sports, and the women washed the
dishes. After a TV special, Christmas was all over for another year.

Next morning I woke at dawn with my cold in miserable
full bloom. I could hardly breathe, and I imagined my throat was like hamburger
swirling out of the grinder in a butcher shop. I got up and rummaged in the
bathroom cabinet for antihistamines left over from the last time someone had
been sick, and washed them down with water from the faucet. Then I went back to
bed and slept till midmorning.

Dad woke me, knocking at the door and peering in.

“Phone for you,” he said. “It’s Richard. Oh, Kathy, you
look sick. Do you want me to tell him you’ll call back?”

“He doesn’t have a phone,” I rasped, trying to look
like I felt better than I did. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

I drank a little water to make my voice sound better.
Then I put on a robe, stuffed tissues in the pocket, and trailed into the
living room where the phone was.

“Hello?” I rasped.

“Uh-oh. I was going to ask how you are, but I guess I
don’t need to.”

“I sound that bad?”

“Worse. It doesn’t sound like you’d want to get together
today.”

“It’s not a case of want. I don’t think I can go
anywhere. Could you come over here?”

“I think I’ll wait. Why don’t I give you a call
tomorrow, and see how you are?”

“Okay.” What I wanted to say was, “I love you. I want
to spend the day in your bed.” But even if I didn’t sound like a fairy tale in
reverse, the princess who turned into a frog, I was on the living room phone,
and Mom could hear every word.

“I have a present for you,” Richard said, “You can
spend the day imagining what it is.”

“I have one for you, too.”

“See you tomorrow, then, love. Get better.”

I hung up the phone and went back to bed. But I was
even sicker the next morning, and for several days I had laryngitis and could
barely whisper. Richard called every day and talked to me for a few minutes, a
monologue that would start with the weather and finish with how much he loved
me, how much he wanted to see me. But even with a good excuse to whisper on the
living room phone, I couldn’t tell him that he was the only person I wanted to
be with anymore. Even the day Mom and Dad went to the sales, and I was all
alone, I couldn’t say it, not in my parents’ house.

I didn’t get a chance to see him again until the
afternoon of New Year’s Day. I left Dad and Uncle Joseph watching football, Mom
already starting dinner. Aunt Ruth, down with my cold, had stayed home. I told
Dad I was going out for a while, and drove to East Chimes Street.

Once again, the neighborhood looked almost deserted. I
supposed everyone else was watching the game. Richard, who didn’t like sports
any more than I did, was happy to walk around campus with me.

I was still sniffling a bit, and I got tired quicker
than I expected. It was warm for January, and not windy, so we sat on a bench
in the sun.

“I missed you this week,” he said.

I felt a little flare of happiness. “I hope you got a
lot of studying done,” I said.

“That was the silver lining.” He looked up as the campanile
interrupted to chime the quarter hour, dee-dah-dee-DAH. “How was Christmas?”

“Dull. I hope I’m not like that when I’m older.”

“Like what?”

“Closed. Doing the same thing every year. Doing the
same thing every
day.
”

“If you want something different, you’re sure to find
it.”
He said “you,” not “we.”
My
happiness evaporated.

I kept my tone light. “Is that the Sibyl’s
pronouncement for 1973?”

“It is.” His face sparkled with one of his all-over
smiles, and I felt better. “I have your present. Happy New Year, love.” He gave
me a package that looked as if a six-year-old had wrapped it. I took the paper
off tenderly—I couldn’t stand to tear it. I opened the box.

A fine silver chain with a single pearl pendant. Now I
could have something from Richard with me all the time. Something secret,
against my skin. He fastened it carefully around my neck.

“I love it,” I said. “I brought yours, but it’s in the
car.”

“Let’s go get it—I can’t wait.”

We walked back to the car, and I watched anxiously as
he unwrapped the book I’d bought him.
Will you like it?
But he smiled when he saw what it was.

“Oh, Eliot. I love Eliot. Thank you, sweetheart.” He
kissed me, and I hoped I didn’t taste too much like cough drops.

“Sharon and Sam got engaged for Christmas,” I told him.

“Hey, that’s great. Tell them congratulations from me.”

We wound our way back to his apartment, hand in hand. I
hoped the man in the green coat was home watching the game.

As we trailed up the balcony to his apartment, a red
tabby kitten ran out, squeaking. Richard picked it up.

“Is it yours?” I asked.

“It’s a stray. I feed it when it comes around, though.”
The squeaking turned to squalling. He scratched the kitten’s head and put it
down. It followed us into the apartment, and Richard poured a dish of milk for
it.

“What’s its name?” I said.

“I don’t know. It’s not mine.”

“It has other ideas. What’s your name?” I asked the kitten.
It looked up from the dish and mewed.

“
Mew
it is. What
else do you feed it?”

“Scraps.”

I stroked its head as it went back to lapping up the
milk. He looked at the kitten ruefully. “I was hoping we’d make love.”

“I don’t feel good right now,” I said. “Could you hold
me for a while?”

We stretched out on his bed, and Mew curled up in the
crook of my arm. We kept each other warm, knowing that the next time would be
exciting, but now, for once, just touching, just holding. The kitten purred. We
all fell asleep.

When I finally drove away from Richard’s apartment
building, the evening star was coming clear in a sky like a stained-glass
window. I didn’t want to go. The house in Magnolia Woods would be bright and
warm, filled with the smells of cooking. But I didn’t feel I was headed home
this time. Home was the apartment, or wherever Richard happened to be. Home was
behind me. I was going to visit my parents.

Richard’s pearl was smooth against my skin, smooth and
cool. In my happiness over his beautiful gift, I brushed aside the old wives’
tale that pearls mean tears to come.

* * *

The atmosphere at home was lighter, now that the holidays
were over. The house began to be filled with Dad’s gardening catalogs, his
midwinter dreams—a part of the year I loved.

He had almost decided to put in the asparagus bed he’d
been wanting for several years. It was a big project, since our heavy clay soil
all had to be dug out and replaced with sand. He couldn’t do that kind of work
himself, so he’d have to hire someone.

And he’d plant tomatoes, of course, and herbs. New varieties
of tomato had to be considered, the bright pictures in the catalogs compared
with memories of the summer before. He’d found a place out on Highland Road
that sold native azaleas, delicate and fragrant. He’d have to plant them early,
though, and this meant making up his mind with less backtracking than usual.

Planning for good meals to come, for the fragrance of tomato
vines and herbs on still summer afternoons, felt much more festive than Christmas.
Dad sat each night in the living room, surrounded by pictures of rose arbors,
tulip beds, and prize vegetables. I had always helped him with the garden, from
planning to harvest. But this year, I couldn’t get into it. This year, I only
wanted to be with Richard.

I saw the guy in the green coat somewhere almost every
day, watching from around a corner in the Union or down a library aisle. He was
almost always there, half-hidden, staring at us. He never spoke.

Once, I tried to stare him down. Without breaking his
gaze for a second, he raised one hand and pointed his finger in imitation of a
gun, the way little boys do when they’re playing cowboy. It should have been
ridiculous, but my mouth went dry, and I looked quickly away.

One day when we were having lunch off campus, I asked
Richard if he’d seen the man.

“Oh, yes,” said Richard, buttering a piece of bread.

“You don’t sound too worried.”

“I’m not—not a lot. Has he ever done anything but
look?”

“No, but it’s weird. I’m starting to imagine he’s there
even when I can’t see him. He gives me chills.”

“I don’t see what we could do about it.”

“Maybe we should complain to campus security,” I said.

“About what? All he’s doing is walking around the campus
at the same time we are.”

“He’s doing a lot more than walking around the campus.
He’s harassing us. We could complain about that.”

“You think campus security would listen to
us
?”

“Maybe we should quit hanging around so much. We could
study at my parents’ house, or else at your place.”

“I don’t think either one is going to work. Even if it
weren’t a problem for me to get to your house, I don’t think your mom wants to
see that much of me. And we already tried my place, remember?”

“We could try again.”

He shook his head. “It wouldn’t work. Besides, he probably
knows where I live. He could watch the door from that fig tree behind the
building.”

“So, what do we do?” The idea of Green Coat lurking behind
the apartment gave me chills.

“Ignore him. He’ll get bored.”

“Why don’t we transfer to LSUNO next year? People in New
Orleans aren’t like this.”

“It would be more expensive for you if you weren’t
living at home,” Richard said.

“About the same for you, though. I’ll get a job or a
loan or something. We can’t stay here—even if that guy does get bored, there’s
more just like him.”

“Not many.”

I knew he was wrong about that. There was an area to
one side of the Union where students were allowed to make speeches to anyone
who’d listen. The ones who preached racism from their soap boxes were a
minority, but there were more than a few. “There are dozens of them. I’ve quit
walking past the Free Speech Alley because they make me mad. Any one of them
could be the next one to follow us around. Or worse.”