“Of course…”
“And I suggest you go home and get some sleep.”
With a quick hug for me, she nodded her goodbye and turned away.
There was a momentary silence as Dr. Teddy left, then Rica’s mother hugged me and my hand was shaken vigorously.
“Has he been named?” her father asked.
“Yes, we’ve named him William Manuel McAllister.”
I could feel my stock go through the roof as my hand was returned after a bone-crushing handshake.
“You must have endeared yourself to Dad,” Juan teased after their departure.
“Yes, and I picked up a few points with Mother, too.”
Feeling utterly drained, I accepted Juan’s offer to drive me home. Along the way, I asked myself why everyone always thinks that fathers get off easily. Then the pain-contorted face of Rica flashed through my mind—and I knew.
• • •
As she sat in her big chair that evening, Dr. Teddy seemed unusually quiet. Sara knew she was exhausted.
“Medical science still has its mysteries,” Teddy spoke thoughtfully, almost as though she was speaking to herself.
“The delivery was progressing normally, but when the baby was far advanced in the birth canal—too far for a caesarian section—unexpectedly it was presenting a breech position. Despite our every effort to reposition it, the situation seemed to worsen.
“As the hours dragged by, the strain grew unbearable as we saw our every effort fail.
“Rica’s contractions slowed and finally stopped. She became unresponsive except for an occasional convulsive push. I heard myself say, ‘We’ve lost the baby.’
“The shine of tears showed plainly in the eyes above the mask of the surgical nurse. I hoped mine didn’t.
“I remember saying that if we are to save the mother, we must take the baby surgically and do it now.
“Dr. Fuller gave an approving nod. Suddenly Rica gave a desperate push—it was almost frightening. The baby moved as if powered by another force. Rica pushed again and then the agonizing finale—the baby crowned.”
Dr. Teddy paused as if re-creating the scene in her mind.
“Now he was in my hand. As if from far away, I heard my unbelieving voice utter, ‘This baby has a heartbeat, a strong heartbeat.’
“ ‘Thank God the bleeding’s stopped,’ came Dr. Fuller’s heartfelt exclamation.
“We looked in amazement at Rica, completely sedated, her eyes closed, but she was smiling as if she had known something we didn’t. Then the muffled sobs of the nurse turned to hysterical laughter as a baby’s lusty cry broke the sudden hush.”
• • •
I called J.W. with the good news, and he generously gave me a week off with his heartfelt congratulations, adding, “Keep in touch.” That had a worrisome sound to it, so I decided to use the pony express should the need arise.
I slept until the phone awakened me. Juan asked, “Are you up? I’ll be right there—I’m anxious to see the baby.”
Hurriedly, I shaved and showered, embarrassed to realize that I’d slept away last night’s visiting hours. Arriving at the hospital, we walked quickly to Rica’s door. After knocking quietly, we stepped in.
Her pale face lit up and she lifted her face for a kiss, laughing as we bumped heads.
The nurse stood with a disapproving look and said sternly, “Dr. Hassé said no visitors, only your husband.”
“This isn’t a visitor, this is my brother.”
With one hand, Rica pulled the blanket away from the little form cuddled in the crook of her arm.
“Look, Juan. Isn’t he beautiful?”
Juan bent to stroke his little hand.
“Ah, yes, yes. How beautiful, so perfect.”
Rica looked up at me.
“Steve, you haven’t even held him yet. Hold out your arms.”
Before I could utter a word, Rica said to the nurse, “Will you hand our baby to my husband.”
Instinctively, I put out my arms as if to ward off a blow. The nurse placed this tiny bundle of life, with only a downy halo of gold showing above his blue blanket, on my stiffly outstretched arms.
Panic flooded through my every cell and I stood as though paralyzed.
“Don’t drop him,” came the nurse’s irritated voice.
“Hold him close for goodness’ sake. He won’t bite, you know,” instructed Rica.
I suddenly turned and thrust the baby at Juan, whose arms received him and held him so closely, so tenderly, as though they were melted into one.
Relieved, embarrassed and, yes, jealous, I looked everywhere except at my wife.
Juan seemed not to know that we were even there. He had found the little toes and almost crooned when he counted, “…eight, nine and ten…” His face was beatific.
One hand held the little head and the downy soft hair curled against his fingers while he murmured endearments in Spanish.
I tentatively offered a finger and stood at a safe distance.
Juan lifted a rapt face. “Look, look, he’s smiling at me.”
Sure enough, the corners of those rosy lips turned up.
“All right,” I said, suddenly possessive. “I’ll take him now.”
“Not so fast,” Juan said, turning. “See, he’s laughing.”
I noticed the baby’s fingers holding Juan’s thumb.
Rica’s arms reached out. “If you two are going to come to blows over my baby, bring him to me.”
As Juan reluctantly returned him, my son delivered himself of a distinct, unmistakable sound.
“See?” Rica laughed. “Only gas.”
“Not so,” Juan countered. “That boy gave the very first smile to his Uncle Juan before that.”
“The baby really should go back to the nursery now,” the nurse declared.
Juan held the door for her and, with a disapproving sniff, she carried the boy to safety.
“Uncle Juan will see you tomorrow, Steve.” Juan grinned as he closed the door behind him.
I could tell that Rica was regaining her strength rapidly as she turned her gaze to me. Her tart comment followed: “On a scale of one to ten, I’d say you rated a two-and-a-half—at the most.”
I pulled my chair closer to the bed and put my arms around her.
“Rica,” I pleaded my case, “I don’t know about babies. He’s so little. I’ll do better. If you can keep that nurse out of here, I’ll spend the whole day with you. I’ll hold him.”
“Not likely.”
I heard the decisive voice of the nurse as she appeared noiselessly from somewhere.
• • •
Despite my early arrival the next morning, I met Juan coming out of Rica’s room.
“Beware the witch,” he muttered as he passed me. “Meet me later?”
I nodded.
The room was fragrant with the many arrangements of red roses. The old nurse grumbled as she positioned the vases.
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’re a country boy,” teased Rica.
Did I imagine that nurse adding, “…with cow shit on his boots”? No, I thought, those words were unknown to that proper lady.
When I bent to kiss Rica, the blanket moved and I looked in wonderment at this tiny replica of myself, his eyes looking up at me as if making a decision. I hoped that Rica had put in a good word for me. Fearlessly, I slipped my arm beneath him, a hand holding his head.
How hard can this be? I thought, psyching myself up while frantically trying to remember in which hand Juan had held that downy head.
Quickly I sat down, holding him close. He seemed to snuggle into his chosen position and, oddly enough, we were both comfortable. With one little fist in his mouth, he closed his eyes, seemingly satisfied with his decision.
I sat with my eyes closed, too, thanking God, then Rica, for her recommendation.
• • •
I met Juan an hour later as he read a day-old newspaper in the litt
le room where I had spent some agonizing hours. He stood, grinning from ear to ear.
“How lucky can I get. At last I get a little uninterrupted time with you. It is a happy day,” he declared enthusiastically.
“Yes, I’ve never been happier,” I said. “I held my son for an hour and he laughed out loud. He probably would have said ‘Daddy’ if that thoughtless nurse hadn’t whisked him away. It is a happy day.”
“Steve, you have everything in life that counts except money…” Pausing, he added, “But I have that, so we’re both happy, aren’t we?”
The tone of his voice had changed. Disturbed, I glanced at him. He was smiling, but the smile never reached his eyes.
I spoke with perfect truth. “Let’s eat—I’m starved. Dinner last night was a can of chicken soup with not a cracker in the house.”
I wasn’t dawdling over lunch, but Juan rushed me anyhow.
“What’s so important that I can’t have dessert?”
“Drink your coffee and I’ll show you.”
Juan drove carefully through the busy city, picking up speed as he started the climb up a hill. A smile seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth, and I could sense his excitement.
“Juan, where are we going?”
His smile widened. “It’s a surprise.”
I allowed myself a brief memory of my first experience in this magnificent part of the universe. Terrified, filthy, reeking of sheep shit, and hiding behind the huge wheel of a semi, I prayed for deliverance. Deliverance came in the form of a battered old Buick where I found sanctuary buried in the backseat, hidden beneath a crumpled tent, folding chair, Coleman stove, dirty laundry and more.
In the front seat, two zoned-out would-be hippies were looking for their dream at eleven hundred Haight Street.
Now it seemed never to have happened.
I suddenly laughed. “Juan, I’ve come a long way.”
“We’ve come a long way,” he corrected. “We still have a long way to go.”
“What is all this secrecy about? You know you’re dying to tell me, so let’s have it.”
His grin plastered across his face.
“Well, Dr. Teddy told me that I must invest some money or it will be heavily taxed. My last two paintings sold to a woman for a ridiculous price. Now she has commissioned me to do a portrait of her and her daughter…money is no object, of course.
“Real estate is the best investment. Dr. Teddy said that God doesn’t make any more of it, the population is growing at a tremendous rate, and the city isn’t keeping up, although some redevelopment has started. So I’ve been doing a lot of research and I want to show you what I’ve found.”
His excitement seemed to grow with every sharp curve.
A winding tangle of streets threaded over an increasingly steep hill. Appearing momentarily were traditional houses, both stucco and wood frame, clinging to the hillsides and adding splashes of color as we continued our climb.
Finally, when it seemed that we could go no farther, Juan turned down a little twisted path, an indication that there had once been a driveway. Seen dimly through the old eucalyptus trees stood a weathered gray house and, as we drew near, Juan turned off the motor and we sat, just looking. I was speechless.
Juan’s face had the look of a man in love. He saw the incredible beauty of a bygone era, still obvious in the graceful lines and steep roof of the Queen Anne Victorian, which was similar in structure to the Hassé house in Pacific Heights, even to the canted chimney on one end.
What I saw instead was the abandoned remains of a house that must have been spectacular even in its time, still standing proudly as if to say, “Do what you will, I’m still here.”
The windows were gone or hung in great broken shards; what was left of the tall front door stood open. One slim ionic column was all that supported the richly decorated portico that sagged in despair as if waiting for the count of nine, but game to the finish. And this was only the front.
“Juan,” I gasped. “You couldn’t have invested any money in this.”
He didn’t answer, but opened the door and got out.
“Are you coming?”
I followed.
“Juan, where in hell are we? All those twists and turns…I don’t know east from west.”
“We are in the center of an acre on Telegraph Hill near North Beach, which is a hangout for artists, poets, Bohemian intellectuals. There’s plenty of nightlife and expensive little shops and cafes there, but Telegraph Hill is much quieter and this house is insulated on this beautiful land. Many of these old homes up here have been bulldozed, but I got here first.” And he laughed as I had not heard him for a long, long time.
“The Spaniards named it ‘Loma Alta,’ then it was known later as ‘Goat Hill’ by the early San Franciscans. The hill now owes its name to a semaphore—a windmill-like structure used to signal to the rest of the city the nature and purpose of the ships entering the Golden Gate…the history is fascinating.”
His head thrown back and arms outstretched, he spoke almost with awe. “You’ve never seen such beauty—the view is forever. Look, the Golden Gate Bridge seems to hang from the sky, and there’s Treasure Island. If you look past Coit Tower, you can see Alcatraz. The murals at Coit Tower make me want to burn my brushes, they are so beautiful. The entire city lies beneath us—imagine what it looks like at night. Steve, say something.”
I laughed. “Watch where you’re walking, Juan. Your head is in the clouds. You’re in love with an acre of dirt, a beautiful view and a house that the bulldozer missed.”
I saw the disappointment in his eyes before he turned his head. Instantly, I was ashamed to have hurt him, to have rained on his parade.
Flinging my arm over his shoulder, trying to soften my words, I said, “You may as well show me everything. What is that building over there?”
He brightened. “That’s the old carriage house and stable. Can’t you just see a fine old buggy drawn by a high-spirited horse?”
He was walking quickly and I stretched my legs to keep up, wondering how he knew about buggies and horses, while I stumbled over a length of iron fencing concealed in the weeds.
“This must have been a lily pond—see the beautiful stonework and the unusual shape? Surely there must have been formal gardens.”
We walked over a large part of the land. I was growing tired, but Juan never slowed.
“You haven’t seen the inside yet, but be careful—some of the floor has been torn up. Vandals have carted off everything they could.”
As we approached the house, I saw it was surrounded by a sea of old boxwood trees, azaleas and wisteria all growing together in a tangle, the wisteria seeking to invade every crevice.
“Can’t you see them all in bloom this spring? The fragrance will be heavenly.”
Juan pushed open a back door—the servants’ entrance, I assumed.
I felt glued to the threshold, horrified at the devastation of this fine old Victorian. The house had been raped. Ornate woodwork had been defaced, windows were broken, and there were gaping holes in the high ceiling where the crystal chandeliers had hung and shone their light on a different generation. The magnificent fireplace looked naked without the mantel that I knew had once surrounded it.
We walked from room to room and Juan painted a visual picture of his plans. His enthusiasm was contagious, but my mind could only see the tremendous amount of work, time and money that would be required to restore this aged beauty.
As if reading my thoughts, Juan said, “I have the time—and the money. I’ll have the best craftsmen in the city.”
“Yes, that would be a good idea.” I laughed. “Remember the bent nails I pulled out of that old ram’s pen?”
His look darkened. “I probably can use a hammer as well as you can use a brush.” Touché. “I love this house. Even the walls whisper to me.”
Looking at the wide carved stairway, I saw that the elegantly shaped bannisters had been spared. We tread lightly as we walked u
p and paused on the second-floor landing. Looking down for a moment, I could almost see the rooms refinished through Juan’s enamored eyes…but, oh, the work, the time…
“Probably needs a new foundation and roof, too.”
“No, the foundation doesn’t even have a crack. Rock, of course. Haven’t been on the roof yet, though. You probably don’t know, but many of these old houses were built of redwood. It was plentiful, cheap and has the rare ability to withstand rot and insects.”
Juan’s determination fought with my common sense.
Slowly, reluctantly, my objections and criticism seemed to leak away like sand through a sieve and I began to see the old house and feel the call as Juan had.
Common sense made a last desperate try.
No sane man would buy a house in this condition. After all, it’s only an acre of dirt and a view, so I pushed away Juan’s vision. But why did I smell the fragrance of azaleas and boxwoods—and spring was months away.
“Juan, have you forgotten I have a wife waiting for me?”
As we drove down the hill, I asked, “Have you discussed this with Dr. Teddy?”
“No, I wanted you to see it first. Why don’t you come to dinner tonight?”
“Aha. You just want reinforcements.”
He didn’t deny it.
But anything Mrs. Mackey fixed was going to beat chicken soup out of a can again, and I knew that Juan needed me.
Back at the hospital, I found Rica sitting up, a beatific smile on her face as she held the sleeping heir to the McAllister fortune. I stooped to kiss her and she raised one arm to pull my head down for a kiss that warmed me to my very bones. Can life get any better than this?
Pushing the blanket aside, she extended a leg for my inspection. “Will you notice that thin ankle?”
My quick response was “I’d like to see more of that leg before making a decision.”
And we giggled like two teenagers, ignoring the indignant look from the hovering nurse.
We would need to get a larger apartment—perhaps a house with a yard. And I was going to need some different transportation what with almost two hundred thousand miles on that truck. So we talked and planned until her eyelids got heavy and the baby had been carried back to the nursery.
And Yesterday Is Gone Page 23