by Romi Hart
It was difficult to argue with my logic. Keri was well-known for pursuing non-existent relationships.
“She just didn’t expect to be dumped so rudely,” Diana chided gently. “Her feelings were hurt.”
I kept my eyes straight on the road, but my mouth quirked, and my tongue rolled around looking for words. “It’s hard not to be rude, sometimes. It’s easier for you. You don’t have men screaming and banging at your door all the time, trying to get in. I’ve got to nip things in the bud, so nobody gets carried away.”
Whatever she thought about my statement, she kept to herself. She watched out the window as we passed Baker Street and hit highway 101. I tried to think of a way to pass the time. “Tell me about your brothers, why I should be afraid of them, and don’t tell me they’re gangstas. I know better.”
“No, they’re not gangsters,” she admitted. “They’re more like bodyguards.” She tapped her fingers on the windowsill. “It’s kind of difficult to explain.”
The last of the residential areas were rolling back, staggering behind the wire fences of the highway. I geared up. There was nothing but open road ahead. “Try me.”
“It’s true my parents are teachers and that they’ve lived in the same area for five generations. My grandfather bought the house. It isn’t very big, but it’s theirs. The problem is, the house is in one of the poorest districts in Oakland, and they teach in one of Oakland’s poorest schools.”
That explained a lot. Who hasn't heard about Oakland gangs and Oakland violence? “That could be a problem. Why don’t they move?”
“Because they are committed to the community. My brothers belong to a neighborhood watch group. They’re sort of a gang against gangs, but nobody gives them trouble because they’re respected. They keep the neighborhood safe.”
“Then I don’t really have anything to worry about, do I? I’m not a gangster.”
She gave that throaty chuckle that constantly reminded me she wasn’t a young, wide-eyed girl. She was one hundred percent a woman. “If you were to come home with me, oh yes. You should be afraid of them. I’m the baby. They watch me more closely than they do anyone.”
“You think they wouldn’t approve of me?”
She studied me for several long moments. “Probably not.” It wasn’t the most agreeable answer and I frowned, but she added, “don’t worry about it. They don’t approve of anyone I bring home.”
The day had started out foggy, but the sky had cleared just as we reached Sonoma Valley stretched out in summer-green fields and bumpy foothills. I drove past Santa Rosa to its outskirts and turned in at a diner with several semi-trucks parked outside it.
“What do we have here?” asked Diana, looking at the unimpressive, squat building. It seemed like a throw-back from the sixties, with chrome wrapped tables gleaming through the wall-to-wall front windows, and polished checkered tiles on the floor.
I chuckled. “Only the best home-made biscuits and gravy you can find on the West Coast. And peach pie. Not even my grandmother makes peach pie this good.”
She had never been in a truck stop before. She whispered to me that she had always imagined it would be boisterous, like a cowboy bar but it wasn’t. Some local people were there, dressed in their work clothes, enjoying lunch together but most of the customers were truck drivers. Mainly, they looked tired, but their faces were friendly. They joked with the waitresses, called out to several of the local people by name and stuffed bills in a jar asking for donations to a local charity.
She wanted to stick to her diet and order nothing more than barley soup and stone-ground wheat bread, but I would hear nothing of it!
“We’re not talking about the ordinary experience. We are talking about the best sausage gravy on earth. You wouldn’t go to a Japanese restaurant and not order sushi, would you?”
“Probably not.”
“There you go.”
She finally conceded and was instantly regretful when she saw her plate. The biscuits were huge! And they were swimming in thick, creamy gravy.
For myself, I didn’t just order biscuits and gravy. I also ordered scrambled eggs, pinto beans, toast and two slices of peach pie. “You’re going to eat all that?” she asked me with amazement.
“One of the pieces of pie is for you. Eat up. We’ll still be on the road a couple more hours.”
The food was incredibly delicious. It was downright sinful.
Diana was sure that twenty pounds had instantly clung to her hips and it would take the next six months to work it off again. She added, that the peach pie made her throw out any prejudices she might have, about country housewives raising barefoot children and their inability to control them. Any housewife that could set a meal like that on the table, ruled.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Diana’s perception of me was changing. She no longer saw me as a vain, glorified baseball star. She just saw me for who I really am. A young man doing his best to show her how he was raised. Honestly, truthfully. she was just filing the experience away to draw upon as material for one of her acts.
A canopy of trees replaced the open view of the valley, with the sunlight flickering into the cabin patches. Each bright beam lit up her smooth cascade of hair and played across her face. Each shadow was like the murmur of cool water.
By the time we saw a glimpse of the ocean and the giant cliffs that roared down to it, we knew we were almost there.
“I feel a little disappointed,” she said. “I feel I could have ridden all day and night.” That was the effect of the coastal road. As beautiful as it was, it twisted into a new and more dazzling view with each clearing.
The town of Ft. Bragg was much as anyone would expect. It was spread out, with a few modern buildings staggered in among much older, dustier ones that had taken the time to grow plenty of crab-grass in the backyards.
At the far edge of the town, we turned into a side road that dissolved into gravel after traveling on it for two miles. We arrived at a drive with a mailbox out front, and two trees planted to each side of a yellow farmhouse.
“This is where you grew up?” she asked.
I nodded. “I told them I could have their house renovated, but they said no. I even offered to pay for a new house. They are as stubborn as you are! They are attached to old things. My oldest brother won’t be here. He’s out on a boat. The rest of the family will be home by now, though, except maybe my youngest sister. She works at a health resort in Mendocino and doesn’t get home until after eight.”
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“One brother, one sister. I’m the second oldest.”
“Your sister’s the baby?”
I caught her reference and immediately felt a flash of insight. “I’ll bet your brothers are scary. Darren and I, we were always protective of our little sister. I think that’s why she rebelled and went to work in Mendocino!”
Diana laughed. “That’s rebellion?”
“She could have gone to work in Ft. Bragg. She just works in Mendocino out of spite because that’s where all the tree-huggers live.”
We were curtailed from further conversation as mom and dad had heard the grumbling of the big truck and were already half-way down the path to greet us.
Now try to imagine…my father looks like an older, more deeply tanned version of myself. His knees sag a little, but his back is still straight, and his shoulders broad and muscular. My mother is also tall, blonde and slightly dumpy. At one time, she must have been stunning and even now her wide English features aged well. She was almost too fair, too fragile, for the brisk, coastal air, but she still looked so pretty.
Mom and dad greeted us enthusiastically and ushered us both into the house.
“Well!” mom said, after insisting Diana call her Linda instead of Missus James. “It’s been a long time since Cody brought a girl to the house.”
She sat on the couch and folded her hands in her lap as though she deserved an explanation.
“She’s
never really been out of the city,” I said. “I thought I would show her what it’s like.”
Mom looked at her suspiciously. “You’re not from around here?”
“I’m from San Francisco.”
“That’s where everybody is from, you know. And everybody who is living there is from a foreign country. Or out of state. Are you from out of state?”
“No. I’m from the bay area.”
“Oh, my poor dear. You know that all the local people in the bay area are crazy, don’t you? It’s why I told my son to be careful about living there. They released all the loonies from the asylums years ago and they all started having babies.”
I came out of the kitchen with a six-pack of beer and set it on the coffee table. I plopped myself down on the arm of the couch, leaving Diana the empty space. “Mom, you should see the people she lives with! One of them is a drag queen, one is a punk rocker and the other two are actors that say weird things all day.”
“That’s just what I was saying. And have you come to get away from all that?”
Diana accepted the beer I handed to her hand. “Just a breather. They don’t really bother me as much as you might think.”
“She’s a performer,” I said, including dad into the conversation by handing him a beer as he settled into the Easy-Boy. “A singer.”
“You one of those rappers?” dad asked, his voice growling like the big truck’s engine.
“Not a rapper. Rhythm and blues. Jazz.”
“All the old stuff,” I said. “Like you guys like, you know?”
“You know Steely Dan?” Dad’s interest perked.
“I’ve heard of him,” Diana said, “I study classics as far back as the nineteen-thirties.”
“Did you meet Cody at a baseball game?” Mom asked brightly.
“No. I met him at work. I was singing at the Lamplight. Still am.”
She looked somewhat disappointed, but chirped, “I’m sure you’re very good at what you do.”
At least she wasn’t asked for a demonstration! Diana felt somewhat gratified for it. Mom and dad were primarily focused on me, their only son, which is how it should be, I suppose.
My parents filled us both in on everything that had happened since the last time I had been home and brought up the kind of old memories people like to laugh over.
“Oh, and the look on his face when he went out and discovered all the white zebra stripes on his truck had been painted pink!” growled dad. “If Mr. Adams had ever caught who had done it…”
“But he never did,” I said. “And Darren and I got off scot free.”
Mom rose to start dinner but placed a hand on Diana’s shoulder as she passed.
“I don’t know what possessed those two boys, but they insisted Mr. Adams is gay. Who knows? I don’t go peeking into bedrooms, but that does remind me, Cody, Connie Tucker is still asking about you.”
“Mom, I haven’t dated her since I was seventeen.”
“Oh dear, how time flies!”
We had just sat down to supper, which was swimming in as many dangerous saturated fats as lunch had provided when my sister announced she was home in her usual fashion - by banging the door closed first and calling out, “it’s about time you brought dad’s truck home!”
“He’s been staring out to where it used to be every single day as though waiting for his long-lost love to come home,” she laughed. She entered with a stride that sent the swinging doors shuddering and gossiping to each other in tiny, frantic squeaks.
“Oh!” She stopped. “You brought company.” She turned to Diana. “You’re a brave soul. I can only imagine where you found him.”
“At one of those fancy nightclubs,” mom volunteered. “But she’s not a punk rapper or a rocker, so I don’t know why Cody was there.”
My sister filled a plate and sat down next to Diana. “Name’s Becky. So, my brother was expanding his hunting grounds. How did he catch you in his lair?”
Diana gave a vague smile. “That is yet to be determined.” She seemed to like Becky. Nearly everybody likes Becky. Becky has thick, reddish-colored hair, blushing pink cheeks and a mouth that smiles when she talks.
* * *
As always, Becky coaxed me out into the yard for a game of catch after supper. Diana followed, but having no ability for throwing or catching balls, leaned against one corner of the porch and watched us play.
The evening was black, but the yard lights were bright. I didn’t slam the ball hard the way I did at a game. I just threw it gently to Becky, who caught it and threw it back furiously.
“Do you want to join us?” she asked, the words flashing through her teeth in front of her smile.
Diana stuck her hands inside her sweater pockets. The air wasn’t really cold, but the ocean breeze was chilly.
“I’ll watch. I couldn’t catch a watermelon thrown from five feet.”
Becky caught a ball that I deviously tossed low and to the side and straightened up, her eyes watching me closely, trying to trick me back.
“You should have Cody take you beach-combing tomorrow. There’s not much to do around here unless you like pulling weeds. Mom insists on her garden but doesn’t take good care of it.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow. I have to get back to the city.”
“You’ll have time. It’s only a four-hour drive. Tell Cody not to stop in Santa Rosa. He only wants you to get fat so other men won’t look at you.”
“You know about that place?”
“Truck drivers heaven. Of course, I know.”
She had to reach high for the next ball I threw. She wrapped it in her hand, panting a little. “You do know my brother is an asshole, right?”
“Not a complete one, I think.”
“Then you’re an optimist!” Becky said.
She threw one last ball, then signaled she was ready to quit. Becky linked her arm with Diana’s as we returned to the house.
“He’s my brother and I love him,” I overheard Becky say. “But just don’t take him seriously, you know? It would be a mistake.”
“What’s she telling you?” I asked, catching up after putting the ball and gloves away.
“That you should take me to the beach,” Diana replied, delivering half the truth.
“She always says that. Somebody found some glass floats last year and she’s been checking the beach every day since then. Those floats are antiques. It’s probably never going to happen again.”
“But you should still take me. It’s much prettier here than the San Francisco coastline.”
* * *
Mom and dad were viewing Netflix but paused the show when we returned.
“We were doing a little binge watching,” mom said, almost with embarrassment. “But I’m sure you’d want to watch a movie. It’s no fun jumping right in the middle of things.”
It did no good to protest so we watched a movie. Maybe it was the family reunion or just the routine, but everything felt warm and cozy. Dad sat in his Easy-Boy, mom in her rocking chair, while Becky sat on the far end of the couch. Diana snuggled by my side, her stockinged feet curled under her, completely relaxed.
The evening was filled with a homey flavor. We passed around popcorn, drank more beer and scratched the ears of two large floppy dogs with over-sized tongues.
Mom and dad went to bed first. Dad had begun nodding off, sometimes announcing his departure from conscious awareness with a loud snort that shook him awake and caused him to state, “I wasn’t snoring.” After the fourth time, he was led upstairs by mom, who patted his hand and said, “it only happens when your chin drops.”
Then Becky, Diana and I were left alone. We flipped through a few channels, watched a cooking show and some silly bloopers, our conversation lacing in and out of what we were watching and the latest California news.
I kept my arm stretched across the back of the couch, idly stroking Diana’s shoulder. It felt nice. The touch was loose and undemanding. I found her closeness so pleasant, tickling, s
o comforting. She pressed against my side without really leaning.
Eventually Becky stood up and stretched her arms.
“Alright folk. I don’t have the privilege of taking time off in the middle of the week to visit. I’m a working girl. I’ve got to get up tomorrow.”
“Do you call hanging around a hot tub and giving massages work?” I laughed.
“Do you call playing baseball work, smart ass?” Becky shot back.
When she had left, Diana observed, “You and your sister pick on each other alot.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “My dad thinks that my brother Darren is the only one who has a real job.”
“He doesn’t approve of your baseball career?”
“He does. He just thinks that ‘real work’ builds your character or something like that.”
“I’ve known a few working men that seemed to be lacking.”
“Maybe they were in the wrong line of work.”
I continued to absently stroke her shoulder while we stared at the television, even though neither of us was following the program.
“It’s so quiet,” she said, her voice falling to a whisper. She seemed reluctant to disturb the silence. “No traffic. No horns blaring or people shouting. No neon signs flashing. How did you ever adjust to the city?”
“I’m not sure I ever did. Put on your sweater. Let’s go outside. This is the best time of the evening.”
I helped her to her feet. “What about bears?” she asked anxiously.
“No bears. I promise you. No bears.”
She followed me out the door and into the open yard. A nearly full moon shone down, turning the clearing around us silvery white. The stars punctured the sky with sharp, bright points.
I couldn’t remember ever seeing the stars so clearly…or the moon. We broke out in a wide canopy of star-studded sky rotating over their heads. It was so clear, we could see the constellations and the hard, red pinprick of Mars.