We moved as one down the wide, curving stairway, his one hand sliding lightly on the bannister, the other on my shoulder. The love that was manifested between us was the same, only different.
It was a wonderful occasion, a family reunion of sorts. Rica and Mamá Sara, their heads together, enthusiastically reviewed the plans for the new house as their food grew cold.
“Of course, it will be repainted…”
“The floors are worn and should be replaced…”
Juan reminded them not to forget about the plumbing fixtures.
Dr. Teddy caught my eye.
“Look at all the fun they’re having. I can’t remember when Sara has enjoyed herself so much. She has never decorated a house before. And look at Rica—she is positively glowing. I love our family.”
Her face lit in a devilish smile. “Steve, you seem so much bigger without your spurs.”
CHAPTER 38
Rica wore the key to the house on a ribbon around her neck, supposedly for fun, but I knew in her heart that she was dead serious.
At every opportunity, we would bundle up Billy and drive to “our” house. I knew she had generously put my name on the deed.
The workmen were coming soon, but we wanted to have the house to ourselves first. We examined every nook and corner.
Rica discovered a large space behind the bookcase containing many old magazines. I found the wine cellar complete with empty bottles. We roamed from room to room and, even empty and cold, they were beautiful in their spaciousness. So well arranged, they seemed not to be even a foot too large.
In the garage behind the house we found a wealth of Persian carpets, all rolled carefully and covered. Upon Rica’s ecstatic examination, they seemed not to have a worn spot anywhere.
I gained my knowledge of carpets from the braided rag rug at the farm, and that was as scant as the ragged rug. Obviously my opinion was not sought after.
Juan said, to Rica’s delight, that the carpets had probably cost more than the house.
I got raised eyebrows and amused glances when I asked, “Are you really going to cover those beautiful new floors?”
Rica laughed, answering, “You’d better start shopping for that bearskin rug.”
I gave that some serious thought and concluded that bare floors weren’t all that appealing.
• • •
I was in my cubicle at the newspaper every day at J.W.’s beck and call and couldn’t spend much time at the house.
Acting on the advice of Mr. Carter, Juan kept the various contractors busy at our house. There wasn’t much more than cosmetic work to be done, other than the reflooring, so the project moved quickly.
The house started to glow. The musty smell of empty dissipated; instead, the odor of fresh paint that brightened the rooms greeted us when we opened the door.
We settled in more quickly than I could have dreamed. I guess luxury is easy to get accustomed to—I didn’t give much thought to the cramped little farmhouse in which I was raised.
The windows sparkled, the floors gleamed. Now it wasn’t just a house—it was fast becoming our home.
Sara and Rica had kept a relentless eye on the progress. I’d guess that the workmen sighed with relief when the job was completed.
Rica caught up with a reluctant Billy who was skidding across the shiny new floors, but his tears turned to smiles when Juan appeared and scooped him up.
“This is an amazing boy,” Juan declared. “Already walking, and he’s only a year old. Well, almost. And the words he can say. I’ve just realized that he was born at the same time I signed the papers for my house. Next week they will both be a year old. We need to party.”
And party we did. Except that the guest of honor fell asleep before we cut into the three-tiered birthday cake.
Juan’s work crew was surprised to see a catering truck appear with a luncheon that few had ever imagined. A bottle of the finest champagne for Mr. Carter with the laughing admonition, “Don’t christen anything but your throat.”
The day before the party had found Juan painting a colorful mural on the nursery wall—the imaginary adventures of Humpty Dumpty, Little Bo Peep and others came beautifully to life.
Billy stared in amazement, then pushed his little hand in a leftover pail of paint and planted a perfect imprint as high as he could reach.
Juan was delighted. “See, I knew he had artistic abilities.”
Lifting Billy, Juan left little handprints on the wall at random.
The adjoining folding doors that kept Billy’s sleep undisturbed were painted on the inside with a fierce fire-belching dragon, a golden- haired, laughing little boy astride.
This perhaps brought more joy to me than Billy. The indignant rattling of the crib bars, faintly audible through the closed doors, sometimes indicated my pleasure and his frustration.
CHAPTER 39
I can imagine what the spirit of the house—had there been such a thing—would have thought as it looked askance at the meager amount and condition of the furniture we brought with us: an old bed with a change of sheets, a wooden table and three rickety chairs, and a chest of drawers. The only things of value were Billy’s crib and our big overstuffed chair.
“Rica,” I said in a burst of enthusiasm, “I think we can do better than this. Let’s use some of our savings and buy some decent furniture. A really nice bedroom set, a table that has four legs all the same length, a comfortable sofa and chairs that match. We’ll have to forgo the bearskin rug temporarily.”
“Well,” she said, those brown eyes teasing, “I can probably make do with a new bedroom suite.”
She cajoled the store manager with the promise of payment in full for next-day delivery.
We arrived at the house the next morning to find all new appliances in the kitchen, a formal dining-room set, and the service porch complete with washer and dryer. In Billy’s nursery were a wardrobe, a well-stocked toy box, and a tricycle. The ornate crib that Juan had given us earlier now stood in a corner.
A big sign on the dining room table read, “Don’t give me any trouble. This is a housewarming gift, a customary practice among civilized people.”
Rica hissed through her teeth, “You damn well better be civilized.”
I was. No more tent time for me.
We opened a door to a fully furnished bedroom. Rica said, with a knowing look, “This looks like Dr. Teddy’s work. Very elegant and spare. Done with a wave of her stethoscope, no doubt.”
Then the mailman brought a check from Ma and Charles. “We’re coming to visit and we will need a decent bed and proper accommodations.”
I went into the bathroom to hide my tears and compose myself. Even through my bleary eyes, I admired the beautiful towels that I suspected Sara had thoughtfully provided.
“For goodness’ sake, what’s taking you so long?”
I didn’t dare wipe my eyes on those fancy towels, and used toilet paper instead.
• • •
I stopped in at J.W.’s office to give him my change of address.
“Telegraph Hill?” he asked in surprise. “That’s my neighborhood. That’s about eight blocks from my house. Your rich uncle die and leave you an inheritance or did you marry money? Now I can drop in and give you my condolences when you’re sick—food poisoning, snakebite, things like that—or even say hello to your bedridden mother.” He gave me a sly wink.
I couldn’t contain my grin. We were fond of each other.
“Steve, stay close. I’ve got a big one for you coming up.”
So what’s new, I thought.
We had been in our new house for a few months when Rica found a cooking school in nearby North Beach. To our mutual delight, she loved it. Tacos and beans soon became a thing of the past.
Juan was always happy to keep Billy while Rica was gone six hours a day, three days a week. Billy was all his.
The workmen became accustomed to seeing this tall, dark-haired man conferring with their boss or sketching out a pla
n, with a watchful eye on a playful, curly-haired toddler riding on his shoulders playing “giddy up horsie.”
Billy now had several more teeth and was stumbling over new words every day, even some in Spanish.
Juan adored this miracle that had grown into such a lovable, delightful little person, and made no secret of this fact.
Glued to my desk, or off to the “big one”—they were all “big ones” to J.W., I was weary at the end of the day and not really up to playing horsie on my hands and knees until Billy’s good-night kiss. And so our prime time vanished.
Of course, on occasion we romped and played, but I was no competition for Juan, whose time was his own and it was only a short walk from his house to ours.
“Juan,” I said, joking on the square, “You are stealing my son from me.”
He returned my look, gazing directly into my eyes, a slight smile on his lips.
“Not so, Steve. You placed him in my arms the morning he was born. You gave him to me and I shall never give him back.”
“Billy will always have the best that life can offer. When he is grown and has a family, I will love them, too. He is as close to you as I can ever get.”
And there lay the naked truth.
A long look floated between us, then he turned one way and I the other.
I didn’t speak to Rica about this. My instinct told me there was no need. She had known it from the beginning.
Driving by daily, I marveled at the changes that seemed to happen almost overnight to Juan’s old house. The landscaping crew had recovered the beauty of the land, the trees were heavy with bloom, and the fragrance they had promised over a year ago filled the air. The ornate wrought-iron fence was barely visible beneath the clinging roses.
I left the office early with a throbbing head, which seemed to have been going on for a couple of days.
As I passed the house, Juan hailed me and I stopped.
He said, “I want you to see the progress we’re making.”
He pointed to the rosy pink of the newly cleaned chimney, then turned to point out the graceful symmetry of a turret, shingled insets, and ornate cornices framed above the tall lead-glass windows. “Gingerbread.” Juan smiled.
This old house stood proud.
Through the beautifully carved doors now open, we could see the new floors that supported the scaffolding, hear the noisy sounds of the workers and smell the sawdust.
My eyes kept coming back to the incredible workmanship on the doors.
Juan exclaimed, “Mr. Carter, those doors are magnificent.”
“Yes, carved by one of my best men—an artist in wood, but he has some finishing to do. He has been off for two weeks due to an abscessed tooth, he thought, but he was so sick a doctor finally declared it to be mumps. Very contagious—hope he took it all home with him.”
“I hope so, too.” Juan smiled.
I tried to smile, but my jaw had become so swollen and painful. Surely it couldn’t be an abscessed tooth. I’d never had a toothache in my life, thanks to Ma’s mania for brushing three times a day.
As I bent my head for a closer look at the doors, a pain so exquisite shot through my entire being. When I gasped, Juan looked closely into my face.
“Steve, are you all right?”
He pulled my collar down. “You’re so swollen. I thought you’ve just been putting on a little weight. You’ve got to see a doctor.”
The pain was so intense that I didn’t give him an argument.
It didn’t take long for the doctor to diagnose an acute attack of mumps. Writing out the prescription for the vilest tasting thing I ever put in my mouth, he said, “Nothing much you can do now but tough it out. Take a pill every four hours, use ice packs, and stay in bed. Mumps are bad news. Sure can play hell with your manhood so take care. Don’t worry about infecting anyone—that would have happened a long time ago. Mumps has an eight-day incubation period.”
That cheered me right up.
Despite the doctor’s information about the contagious period, I went to bed upstairs.
My face had swollen to the size of a basketball—at least it seemed so. I was unable to open my eyes.
Unbelievably, another part of my anatomy was so swollen it would have made a donkey blush.
Dr. Teddy arrived, bringing with her more of those blessed ice packs and medication. “This should bring the fever down.”
Juan toiled up the stairs with a rollaway cot riding sidesaddle on his back.
Vaguely, I heard Rica’s voice at various intervals and felt the straw pushed between my lips and tasted the broth. Every four hours, Juan would awaken me for the pills, sponge my sweaty face and reapply the ice packs.
Retreating then to my dreamless sleep, I was comforted by the knowledge that my best friend slept on a rollaway at the foot of my bed.
Several days later, I could open my eyes, the swelling in my jaws had subsided, and my testicles had reverted to their normal size.
It was then that I knew there was life after death.
I had lost weight during the mumps ordeal; even J.W. showed a little compassion when I returned to work.
“You look like hell. Better take it easy for a couple of days. Here,” he said as he shoved a pile of paperwork at me, “you can work on these at home.”
That did give me some extra time with Billy.
Looking across the breakfast table, I was struck by the sight of the oatmeal bowl upside down on Billy’s head, the cereal squishing down through the long golden curls that hung below his ears.
“Rica,” I howled, “Will you look at this kid? He needs a haircut. He is a boy. B-O-Y. He’s almost two.”
“Well, I thought you were helping him. Can’t I turn my back for an instant? He is not a boy, he’s a baby. B-A-B-Y. He is not going to have his curls cut off. Forget it—get your own haircut.”
Rica and Billy disappeared in the direction of the bathroom, Billy waving “bye-bye” over her shoulder.
That afternoon when she went to cooking school, I outmaneuvered Juan and took Billy to the barber’s.
Billy was entranced with the scissors and never shed a tear. I saved curls for Rica and Juan, feeling very generous. Now that the deed was done, though, I felt a little nervous.
I heard the door close and immediately became engrossed in my paperwork. But I was totally surprised at her shriek.
“Steve, damn you! Oh, my baby, my baby,” she cried and damned me again for my sacrilege.
It was tacos and beans for me three nights in a row.
Hell hath no fury like a woman who comes home from cooking school to find her baby has become a B-O-Y.
Even Juan looked pained and tucked away the curl I’d saved for him without even a thank you.
Billy, who had been a bit dubious about the tricycle, now bravely flung a chubby leg over it, seated himself and pedaled away.
The floor lamp was the first casualty; fortunately, it fell in the opposite direction from the little speedster.
In the coming months, he seemed to have grown an inch, could hold a fairly understandable conversation and had toilet-trained himself with very little help. “Unkie Juan’s” pride in this achievement was surpassed only by Rica’s relief.
“Just when you had finally mastered the diaper thing,” teased Juan.
Billy was a happy, loving boy and anything within reach lived a short life—with the exception of the small, shiny silver fork and spoon given to him by Sara. These were always on the tray of the high chair—Juan’s latest gift.
Perhaps it was the shine that caught his eye, or perhaps the fact that he could spear anything within range of his chubby little arm with the small fork that made mealtime an adventure to sit at the same table.
On Billy’s third birthday, in the privacy of our bedroom at a moment I would have promised her anything, she whispered, “Steve, I want a baby…”
“Can we talk about this later?”
“No.”
The flame flickered and died.
“Isn’t one little hellion all we need—for now?”
“No. I don’t want to raise Billy by himself. I want our children to grow up together.”
“ ‘Our children,’ ” I echoed.
“Billy needs a companion, a playmate.”
“Well, maybe. I’ll think about it. We’ve got lots of time. Possibly in a few years.”
The tone of her voice should have warned me. “Steve, you’re not hearing me. I want to start a baby now. I haven’t taken any precautions for several months. If you have, stop now…or it’s back to the tent for you.”
“Surely you can’t mean that,” came my dumbfounded response.
“Believe me. Go to sleep. I have a headache.”
I got lots of sleep—more than I needed. Then it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Billy really did need a playmate.
Every month she waited. Every month she cried. Several months went by with nothing happening. Rica consulted with Dr. Teddy, and we tried everything, including the obvious. Sex on command seemed almost like a duty sometimes. Could her first difficult delivery be causing the problem? The answer was no; Rica was in perfect condition.
More months passed with no results. We’d been trying for almost a year now. Then came Dr. Teddy’s disturbing words to me: “You should be checked, too, Steve.”
That prospect didn’t thrill me. Hadn’t I already sired a child? I was in the peak of good health. But I’d do anything to make it happen. Maybe there was some magic potion.
What Rica wanted so badly, I wanted her to have. Her happiness was my happiness.
Dr. Teddy sent me to a specialist who checked me thoroughly and efficiently, with test after test, until the bad news was apparent. Mumps had destroyed any hope of another child.
“You are producing no viable sperm,” the doctor announced, “and it would take a miracle for you to impregnate your wife. You know, adoption is an option.”
The diagnosis was disheartening and unbelievable.
Compassionate as ever, Dr. Teddy said, “Steve, I think you will have to accept this doctor’s opinion. Perhaps you should consider adopting.”
Rica was heartbroken. She had been painting over Billy’s artistic attempts with Crayolas on the nursery wall. Now she abandoned the partially painted wall and put the paint in the garage.
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