Blue Twilight

by Jessica Speart

  I was sitting in my Ford, ready and waiting to go, when Terri walked outside. To my surprise, he looked unusually subdued, dressed in a pair of black jeans and a charcoal gray shirt.

  “Well, you certainly blend in with the weather today,” I noted as he sat down and strapped on his seat belt.

  “Yeah, in more ways than one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rather than answer, Terri simply shrugged.

  Great. That made two for two. Apparently, I was annoying everyone that I came into contact with this morning. I threw the Ford into drive and headed for the Golden Gate Bridge.

  The fog grew thicker with each passing mile, as if we were being sucked into a conspiracy of clouds. The haze could have enveloped the Ford and swallowed us whole, leaving no trace that we’d ever existed. No one would have known any different. Certainly not early on a Sunday morning, when it seemed as though the whole town was deserted.

  Not a soul was around. That is, except for the troops of homeless wandering the streets like ghosts, their numbers having surged with the burst of the dot-com bubble. Materializing out of the fog, they tapped on car windows and begged for spare change at every red light. Then they floated back into the murk like flotsam, having been discarded by the world with no more thought than that given to garbage.

  So far San Francisco had seen two gold rushes come and go, the latest being the Internet boom. But the good times were now gone, having taken a heavy human toll.

  We sped up Van Ness, crossed onto Lombard, and the Golden Gate Bridge soon came into view. Shrouded in mist, it mystically floated between land and water as if held there by thin air. Its orange-gold towers rose forty stories high, beckoning in a siren song of suicide to all who’ve lost hope.

  California has long been the last stop for many who fear they’ll never make good; the Golden Gate Bridge their swan song.

  Come all ye who have lost houses, wives, and jobs, experienced bankruptcy, or are flat-out broke and depressed. When everything else fails, there’s still one place left to go: the most popular suicide spot in the world.

  The bridge offers the ride of a lifetime, providing a four-second dive to the bottom with speeds reaching up to eighty miles per hour on impact. It’s said that San Francisco is a city of dreamers and drunks. If that’s true, then the Golden Gate has come to symbolize the end of the trail for broken dreams. So seductive is its call that even the founder of Victoria’s Secret chose to make his final leap off this bridge.

  Perhaps it was such thoughts that made me realize Terri had been exceptionally quiet so far this morning.

  “How did things go last night?” I inquired, wondering if I’d done something wrong.

  “Hmm, let’s see. How should I put this? I wouldn’t slow down while driving across the Golden Gate if I were you. It might prove way too tempting for me to jump.”

  “What happened?” I asked in alarm.

  “It’s what didn’t happen. None of those clubs would hire me,” Terri wailed.

  That didn’t make sense. Not when Terri had been billed as the top female impersonator back at the Boy Toy Club in New Orleans. He’d nailed Cher, Madonna, and Liza better than they usually performed themselves.

  “There must be some reason. Did any of them tell you why?”

  “Oh, there’s a reason all right,” he bitterly replied. “Do you really want to hear it?”

  “Of course,” I answered, though I suddenly wasn’t so sure.

  “It’s because I’m a washed-up, out-of-touch, over-the-hill transvestite who doesn’t have my finger on the pulse of the club scene anymore. In other words, I’m just too damn o-o-o-old!” Terri elongated the word in a long, drawn-out sob.

  “That’s totally ludicrous,” I scoffed, feeling highly insulted. Neither of us had yet reached the age of forty. If they thought Terri was too old, what did that say about me? After all, I wasn’t that far behind him.

  “Did you perform Cher and Madonna for them?”

  Terri nodded. “That’s the problem. They’re looking for someone who does Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera these days. For God sakes, can you imagine? I’d have to appear in chaps and a thong, with a snake wrapped around my neck, and grind away like a cheap espresso machine. Very classy, huh? They suggested I add Carol Channing to my repertoire and audition at a club that caters to an older clientele, instead. Carol Channing! What do I look like? Chopped liver for the geriatric set?”

  “They obviously don’t know what they’re talking about,” I tried to console him.

  Terri pulled the visor down and examined his face in its mirror. His fingers probed every little wrinkle.

  “I can’t even afford a face-lift these days. Not with that lawsuit hanging over Yarmulke Schlemmer’s head.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t need one, anyway.”

  However, I snuck a peek in the rearview mirror at my own face. How long would it be before I broke open my piggy bank, hoping to scrape up enough for a few nips and tucks?

  “I’m sure there are plenty of other clubs where you can work.”

  “Yeah. I hear they’re having a cattle call for mature transvestites to perform at a local senior citizens center,” Terri morosely responded. “Between Vincent, the lawsuit, and now this, I don’t know what I’m going to do, Rach. I need something solid to hang on to in my life or, I swear, I’m going to float aimlessly along, just wasting time.”

  Time. There it was. That terrible word. I could feel it ticking away inside me like a bomb ever since my mother’s death. It was a constant reminder that there was only a finite amount left, and I had damn well better make the most of it.

  I looked over at Terri’s expression and it nearly broke my heart. “Remember what you told me about having patience, Ter? Don’t worry. Things will work out.”

  He half-heartedly patted my arm and gazed out the window, appearing to be deep in thought.

  The San Francisco skyline faded into the fog behind us, much like an aging movie star taking refuge behind a thick, gauzy veil. Soon a tunnel came into view, its mouth painted in candy stripes like a colorful rainbow. Upon entering, we were magically transported into a California never-never land. We exited to find ourselves in Marin County, home of New Age consciousness, granola bars, wealthy stockbrokers, and aging rock stars. The headquarters for Birkenstock sandals loomed off to the west like the Emerald City, making me feel rather like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

  We continued north on Highway 101 through a landscape of rolling hills bedecked with gnarled oaks. Three huddled together in the mist, their contorted limbs transforming them into a trio of scheming witches from Macbeth.

  From there we sped through wine country, bastion of the good life, with its carefully tended vineyards, gourmet restaurants, and stylish homes, all paid for with great gobs of money. A quick turn onto Route 128 brought about yet an entirely different change of scene.

  A rural two-lane road wound through verdant mountains, its path so serpentine that my car squealed in delight rather than sensibly slow down. Soon the Ford was shush, shush, shushing from side to side with the proficiency of a downhill skier, twisting and turning in perfect unison with each hairpin curve.

  Paul Newman, Tom Cruise, look out. I drove with the giddy exhilaration of a newbie race car driver. The only thing that kept me in check was the sight of Terri’s chalk white knuckles gripping the sides of his seat.

  We were next ushered into what could best be described as a redwood tunnel, with a canopy so dense it obliterated the sky. The remains of an ancient forest, the trees soared above us. Some reached up to three hundred and sixty feet in height, with hefty trunks that were twenty feet in diameter. Each redwood base was surrounded by a network of Medusa-like roots spilling over into a lush fern-filled grove. All this shadowy old growth was caressed by a ghostly fog that provided the forest with droplets of moisture. Looking around, I realized this could very well have been the prototype for Jurassic Park.

  I reveled in t
he fourteen-mile stretch, aware that less than four percent of virgin redwood forest still remains today, and only half of that is protected. The throaty rumble of logging trucks rolling past helped bring the message home.

  What took me by surprise was the whiff of salt breeze that unexpectedly tickled my nose. We reached the end of the Navarro River and turned onto a stretch of ocean road. But I had little time to appreciate its beauty as the Ford was pulled inside a dense pillow of clouds. I drove on instinct alone, aware of the precipitous drop onto the rocky cliffs and pounding surf below. The road was dangerous enough during the daytime. At night it could prove to be deadly.

  A shaft of sun broke through the haze as we continued our approach, its light so bright as to be nearly blinding. It took a moment before my eyes could adjust and I was finally able to see. What appeared to be a New England village lay stretched along the bluffs, staring out toward the ocean. Perched on a craggy coastline, Mendocino was nestled in the curve of a cove, wrapped on three sides by the Pacific.

  The ramrod-straight spine of a church marked the town’s entrance, its razor sharp spire perforating the sky. Its stark primness was offset by a cluster of Victorian houses, all punctuated with steep gable roofs, bay windows, fanciful filigree, and porches trimmed in gingerbread.

  The town seemed to hold its breath as a set of waves violently crashed and churned against the convoluted shoreline. Or perhaps the stillness was due to the wet fog blanketing every surface from the sidewalk to the water towers to the board-and-batten siding on the buildings. I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover this was where the Ghost and Mrs. Muir now resided. More than anything, Mendocino resembled an old sepia photograph that had sprung to life.

  “Unbelievable, Rach. You certainly know how to pick the most out-of-the-way spots,” Terri murmured.

  “What do you think? It looks pretty interesting, huh?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to get back to you on that one. To tell you the truth, this place kind of gives me the creeps. I don’t know whether to explore the town or run for my life.”

  “What say we grab something to eat while you decide,” I suggested.

  “Good idea. I didn’t have any breakfast, and I’m sure you must be coming down from off your Cocoa Puff high.”

  I grinned, accepting the fact that Terri knew me all too well.

  We drove into town and parked on Main Street. Then, following a sign, we climbed a set of rickety wooden steps up to a restaurant that overlooked the bay. The place had the feel of a hippie dive trying hard to appear casually chic. We kicked back, sipped some coffee, and ordered a couple of omelets. After that, we proceeded to study the local wildlife outside.

  One resident wandered around with a furry raccoon tail hanging from the back of his pants. It gave him the appearance of a brand-new species that was half critter/half human. He strolled past a battered VW bus with tattered lace curtains strung across its scratched-up windows. A girl emerged from within wearing a denim vest and a long flowered skirt.

  Our waitress delivered two how-fast-can-these-clog-your-arteries brie omelets, along with a mound of greasy homefries. We promptly devoured them and she returned with our bill. I wondered if it was a requirement to wear over-sized camo pants, a tight T-shirt, no bra, and a belly-button ring to work in this place. A quick glance at the other waitresses revealed that it was her own bad fashion sense.

  I immediately caught myself and wondered if I would have had a similar reaction just ten years ago. Then a worse thought hit me. It was a knee-jerk response to the fact that I was getting older. Terri’s gaze met mine and I knew he was thinking the exact same thing. We nodded in silent agreement, as if secretly vowing to buy identical outfits and make ourselves wear them at home in order to feel younger.

  “Keep the change,” I said, giving the waitress a hefty tip as a form of penance. “By the way, do you happen to know where Bill Trepler lives?”

  Our Lady of Camo wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes. “That old coot?” He lives at the end of town near Portuguese Flats. But I don’t know why you’d want to go see him.”

  “Oh? Is there a problem I should know about?”

  “Only that he’s one of the most unpleasant people ever to walk the face of this earth. That is unless you have a soft spot for right-wing, obnoxious jerks. Then it’s a whole different story. I guess it pretty much depends on which side of the issue you fall.”

  “What issue is that?” I questioned.

  “About turning this area into a developer’s wet dream,” she said, nonchalantly scratching her breast. “If Trepler had his way, every inch of Mendocino would be built up and changed for the worst. You’re not here to see him about anything like that, are you?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  For chrissakes, I might be a few years older than Our Lady of Camo. But no way did I look like some sort of conservative businesswoman. I took a quick gander at my jeans and sneakers just to make certain.

  “No. It involves something totally different,” I assured her.

  “In that case, his place is easy to find. It’s the one with the mountain lion skull over the door.”

  “The guy sounds like a real charmer,” Terri remarked, as we left the restaurant and walked downstairs. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hang around town and let you see Trepler on your own. I spotted a few shops I’d like to check out.”

  “That’s fine,” I agreed, figuring he had the better end of the deal. “What say we meet inside that place around three o’clock?” I pointed to an art gallery just down the street from where we were parked.

  “Sounds good to me. Break a leg, sweetie. Just remember, don’t think twice about slapping him around with some of those fancy moves you’ve learned if he tries anything funny.”

  I promised to do my best, jumped in the Ford, and took off.

  I drove toward the opposite end of town, taking note of all the expensive restaurants and boutiques that were scattered about. Each was quaint enough to make me wonder if Martha Stewart had been set loose in the place. Mendocino was proving to be an interesting mix of hippies, rednecks, and yuppies, with a large dollop of tourism rolled in.

  Turning my head, I looked across the street toward the bluffs and, for one crystalline moment, my heart came to a stop. Striding along the cliffs was a large, imposing figure. The man seemed to have the same startling effect on a few adventurous tourists, who quickly scurried out of his way.

  Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he towered close to six feet five and wore duck boots, carpenter jeans, and an army surplus jacket. Slapped on his head was a navy knit cap, even though it was a warm June day. Long salt-and-pepper dreadlocks hung out beneath, their braids as dark and dense as the links on a ship’s anchor chain. They matched the crinkly dun-colored hairs of his shaggy beard.

  I could almost feel the vibration that came with each step he took, as though the earth were slightly giving way beneath his feet. A worn canvas bag and thick walking stick helped give him an air of homelessness.

  He must have sensed my stare, for he turned and glowered as I slowly drove by. I slyly glanced in the rearview mirror and was taken aback as his gaze locked on mine, his eyes fierce as those of an angry bear. I tried to focus on the road, but continued to feel their glare, hot as a branding iron, demanding to know what I’d been looking at and warning me to stay away. I hurried toward Portuguese Flats, along the western edge of town.

  Six

  Mendocino slowly began to change. Gone were the spruced-up Victorian homes with picture-perfect white picket fences, having been replaced by tired cottages and weed-filled lots. I passed one nondescript place after another, until I finally spotted Bill Trepler’s house.

  Chickens meandered around an unkempt yard while rabbits listlessly hopped in and out of a hutch. Of far more interest was the car that sat parked in the hard dirt driveway. It was a shiny, brand-new, top-of-the-line Lexus.

  I got out of my Ford, walked up to the front door, and brazenly
knocked. But the only sound to be heard were the chickens scratching and clucking in his yard.

  Go away, go away! they seemed to say, as if annoyed at being disturbed.

  I knocked again just to show them who was boss.

  This time they seemed to cluck, What a schmuck, what a schmuck.

  They were probably right. This was getting me nowhere and my inner clock was becoming fed up.

  I turned to walk away when the door swung open, as if of its own accord, and Bill Trepler appeared. He looked to be in his early sixties, had thinning gray hair, and dots all over his hands that fell somewhere between freckles and age spots. As for his face, it was sunburned and displayed patches of dry, scaly skin. Equally apparent was the fact that he was in excellent physical condition. The guy had arms to rival those of Popeye. Trepler clearly spent a great deal of time working outdoors.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested in buying,” he announced in a voice so scratchy that he must have been gargling with kitty litter.

  “I’m not selling anything. I’d like some information.”

  “What about?” he asked, sounding as suspicious as Camo Girl.

  “The Lotis blue butterfly.”

  The words softly floated in the air, light as soap bubbles blown by a child.

  Trepler studied me, giving my presence careful appraisal.

  “And why would you be interested in the Lotis blue?” he finally asked, his raspy voice bursting the bubbles one by one.

  “I’m concerned with anything that’s considered rare and which might prove to be a problem for industrial interests and land developers.”

  Those appeared to be the magic words. Trepler opened the door a little wider.

  “Then it seems we have something in common. That being the case, why don’t you step inside?”

  I entered a hallway that looked as though it had been decorated by an old Irish grandmother. Hand-crocheted lace doilies lay strewn on every tabletop and chair, while porcelain leprechaun knickknacks were positioned just so. Keeping with the theme, the walls were painted dark green and the house had a musty smell about it. My boss had said that Trepler made four thousand dollars a day as a private consultant. Whatever he was spending his money on, it certainly wasn’t the décor.