The Devil's Interval

by Linda Peterson

  “As the great-great-grandson of a sharecropper, indeed I am,” countered Hoyt.

  Linda and Andrea were ignoring the exchange, flipping through pages of notes and oversize computer printouts of a rough layout.

  “Okay,” said Linda. “Let’s go over the shot list and see what we’ve got—and what we’re missing.”

  She distributed a summary of photo locations to all of us and shuffled a set of digital printouts like a deck of cards. “I’ve got digital scouting shots of all potential locations from one of the photo interns, so we can see what’s worth pursuing and how Mr. Long Lens here is going to shoot these places.”

  She placed two photos on the bar, slightly overlapping. The first, a small, wood-frame house with a tidy front garden; the second, a Moorish-styled, generously proportioned house with arched windows facing the street and a courtyard fountain in the front.

  “Grace’s grandparents’ house in Oakland,” said Linda. “The place she was raised. And, the house where she and Frederick lived in St. Francis Woods.”

  “Upward mobility. Just one short trip across the bay and marrying a few million bucks got her there,” I said.

  Linda quickly shuffled a handful of other photos onto the bar, capturing Grace’s piece of social San Francisco: first, a head-on shot of the white-tented entrance to the Black & White Ball, the City’s signature charity event; the second, the front door to the Crimson Club.

  “The older ladies-who-lunch are trying to give a more contemporary feel to the big social events,” said Andrea. “Grace was well-liked, fearless about fundraising, and involved lots of Frederick’s venture capital colleagues and their wives in bringing some younger energy to the event, and in contrast…” she pointed to the Crimson Club front door.

  “And we all know about the Crimson,” said Linda. “Though my guess is some of us here at the bar know more than others.”

  “Hoyt, you devil,” said Calvin.

  Hoyt looked uncomfortable. “The appeal of those places eludes me, I’m afraid.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Calvin. “Gorgeous women, no inhibitions, really good call brands at the bar, no-tell policies, really, what’s to like?”

  Linda glanced at her watch, “Gang, I’ve got to get home to my boring little underage darlings soon and get dinner on the table.”

  “Oh, man,” said Calvin. “I can just picture an art-directed dinner at your house. One perfect piece of sushi on a white plate.”

  “Put a plug in it,” said Linda. “It’s mac-and-cheese on Fiestaware. If I’m lucky, I’ll sneak a couple of carrots or tangerines by them, too. They’ll eat anything orange.”

  She quickly spread four more shots in front of us. “Ocean View Day Spa, the place that kept Grace beautiful; San Francisco Botanical Gardens, where she worked as a volunteer; St. Francis Yacht Club, where she and Frederick kept their sailboat; and, here’s the wild card,” she finished, tapping a finger on a nondescript row house, with a tricycle and two collapsed strollers on the front porch. “A Mom’s Place. It’s like a halfway house for single mothers.”

  “The plot thickens,” said Calvin. “Maybe Grace had some little bastard somewhere along the way and left it in a basket on the front door of the joint.”

  “It’s not an orphanage,” said Andrea. “And according to Grace’s medical records, she’d never been pregnant. Grace worked at A Mom’s Place as a volunteer. It’s a residential program for single moms in recovery and their kids. Anywhere from four to six moms and their children live there at any one time. Grace designed and put in a vegetable garden in the backyard. They’ve kept it going, and according to the intern who scouted, it’s quite wonderful. The director says that one of the moms who Grace got really involved in the garden still comes over to tend it, even though she’s got a job, husband, another child, the whole shebang. And, the director also says the garden is so productive, it makes a significant contribution to their weekly food budget.”

  “It might be interesting to talk with the mom who’s still involved,” I said.

  Andrea gave me an exasperated look. “Gee, Maggie, that never would have occurred to me.”

  “Sorry,” I said, meekly.

  Linda moved the photos around on the bar, rearranging them into groups of two and three, “I’ve got to run,” she said. “I’m giving Calvin a final shot list next week, so you guys need to think about anything else we want to add. And, I’m assuming Andrea will go with Calvin on most of the shoots, but Maggie, since you’re taking such an interest in this piece, maybe you’d like to tag along on a couple of them.”

  “I don’t want to intrude,” I began, until everyone but Hoyt burst into laughter.

  Hoyt held up his hand. “Ladies and gentleman, a schedule check, if y’all don’t mind. I’ve got this story on the docket for the July issue. That means lockdown in late May—art and copy. Does that work?”

  Calvin said, “Works for me.” Everyone else nodded around the table.

  “We’re short on evergreens, Andrea,” Hoyt pointed out. Evergreens are magazine safety nets, backup stories that aren’t time-sensitive that can be dropped in at the last minute in case a story blows up, a writer flakes on deadline, or worst of all, the magazine’s lawyers start to back-pedal.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem, Hoyt. Unless…” she hesitated.

  “Unless?”

  “Unless the unassigned writer who’s riding shotgun on this piece throws me a curve.” All eyes on me.

  I shook my head. “It’s your story, Andrea,” I said. “That’s the only way this works.”

  Linda gathered the layouts and started packing up her briefcase. “Calvin, you cool on the look of these shots? I really want that moody, black-and-white noir feel to the whole thing.”

  “Got it,” he said. “You’ll think Lana Turner has come back to life in these shots.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A week later, Andrea and I were standing in the family room of A Mom’s Place. At least it looked like a family room. Two beat-up couches, a wall of built-in shelves overflowing with games, puzzles, and open bins of Legos. A kid-scale table and colorful chairs were tucked in the corner. A girl who looked no more than fifteen had answered the door, with a baby in a shoulder-tied sling on her hip and a toddler clinging to her jeans. We’d asked for Purity Meadows, the director, and the child-mom and her entourage disappeared to get her.

  Now Purity stood before us, five-feet-nothing, probably 105 pounds dripping wet, but ten of those pounds had to be breasts. First Krissy, now Purity. Lawyers, do-gooders, apparently everyone had boobs but me. Purity’s were encased in a snug T-shirt that read, “Bountiful Baskets.” The type was picked out in rhinestones. It was hard not to stare, or giggle. But with superhuman effort, I managed to keep my eyes firmly placed north of Purity’s chest. Watching Andrea, decked out in her usual New England prep gear—black cashmere twinset, gray linen trousers—shake hands with Purity was like observing visitors from different planets, maybe even different solar systems, have a close encounter.

  “Welcome to A Mom’s Place,” said Purity formally, shaking hands with me.

  “I apologize for being a few minutes later than we said we’d be,” I said.

  “No need for apologies,” said Purity. “Everything happens in Jesus’s own time.” An unbidden image of the classical image of Jesus—shoulder-length gold curls, blue eyes, white robes, updated with a digital watch—floated into my brain.

  “Your photographer friend is already here,” said Purity, gesturing in back of her. “He’s outside taking pictures of the backyard garden. It’s still pretty early for the vegetables to be doing much, but we’ve got snow peas and lettuces up.” She shook her head, “Calvin, that’s his name? He said something funny.”

  “Did he?” Andrea and I asked together, exchanging a glance. The thought of Calvin’s reaction to all that bust packed into the rhinestone-labeled T-shirt sent off warning bells for both of us.

  “He’s always making jokes,” I said has
tily. “I hope he didn’t offend you.”

  Tiny lines appeared between her eyebrows. “Offend me? He wasn’t joking; he just told me he was taking black-and-white pictures. Isn’t that an odd way to photograph a garden? Nothing much is going to show up.”

  “Oh, our art director has a photojournalistic vision for this story,” I explained. It didn’t seem like the right time to go into a lot of detail about noir films and an homage to Lana Turner. Although, as a fellow “sweater girl,” they might have seen eye to eye, or at least nipple to nipple.

  “Well, we’re happy for the publicity,” said Purity. “The more people know about what we do here, the better. And I’m so pleased to do something that will honor Grace Plummer. We called her Amazing Gracie; she did so much for our girls.”

  I remembered the last time I’d heard that sobriquet applied to Grace: Travis had told me that the people at the Crimson Club had called Grace Plummer by that same name.

  “I’ve made fresh coffee,” said Purity. “Why don’t we sit down and talk in the kitchen? Unless you need to supervise what your photographer is doing?”

  “You two get started,” I suggested. “I’ll just go say hello to Calvin out in the backyard, and catch up with you in a few minutes.”

  I slid open the glass door from the family room, and descended two stone steps into the backyard. It was an ordinary, Mission District, pocket-size backyard, but every available inch was under cultivation. Four diamond-shaped raised beds occupied the flattest part of the yard, divided by neatly raked gravel paths. Calvin was kneeling in front of one raised bed holding a light meter near a row of staked snow peas. Even from a distance, I could see the slender peapods with their curly hats, dangling off the stalks. The outside borders of the yard were edged with low rock-wall borders, planted with purple, pink, and white sage. Low lavenders and white verbenas spilled artfully over the rocks. A sturdy picnic table with benches, and a scattering of brightly painted Adirondack chairs were tucked into the few empty corners. The effect was an artful combination of French potager and unpretentious mountain vacation home.

  “Calvin,” I called. “How’s it looking?”

  He unfolded himself, brushed gravel off his knees. “Good. A little wholesome, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a vegetable garden, Mags. Hard to make that look very noir.”

  “Oh, you’ll manage,” I said.

  “Do I get to put Ms. Overflowing Baskets in one of the shots?” he asked.

  I looked over my shoulder. “Calvin, for heaven’s sake. That’s exactly what I came outside to talk to you about.”

  Calvin looked delighted and unchastened. “Come on, Maggie. Is she an irony-free chick or what? Absolutely no self-awareness. Just too tempting to poke a little fun.” I must have looked alarmed. “Don’t worry, I won’t misbehave in front of anyone. Did she tell you where she got the T-shirt?”

  “That topic has not yet come up in conversation,” I said. “I’m too busy trying not to react to the Jesus talk.”

  “Too bad. I admired it and she was just happy, happy, happy to tell me that it’s the name of a food-gleaning operation. The volunteers go to growers and restaurants and collect extra, usable food and A Mom’s Place is one of the beneficiaries. Anyway, she’s such a fan of the operation that the girls who live here had the T-shirt made for her with the name spelled out in rhinestones.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said. “I couldn’t quite see a food-gleaning operation issuing rhinestone cowgirl, double entendre T-shirts.”

  Calvin reached over and pecked me on the check. “Come on, Mags, lighten up. This whole story is weirding you out.”

  “It is weird,” I said. “And it just seems to get stranger and a little more puzzling at every turn. How could somebody hang out here and at the Crimson Club––and have the same nickname at both locations?”

  “Amazing Gracie?” asked Calvin. “That’s what they called her at the Crimson Club, too, huh? Ms. Big Baskets already told me that’s what they called her here.”

  He gestured around the yard. “It is amazing what she accomplished here. Purity showed me the ‘before’ pictures of the yard—lots of dirt and weeds and a couple of broken-down metal porch chairs.”

  “It is beautiful,” I agreed. “And productive. So, what’s your thought on the photos?”

  “I don’t know, I’m going to do some medium shots and get the whole place, and then I thought I’d try some tight shots. Maybe compose something.” He pointed to a canvas bag on the ground. “Purity got that out of the garage for me. It’s still got Grace’s gardening gloves and trowel in it, and one of those aprons with pockets you put stuff in—seeds, I guess, plus those goofy gardener shoes.”

  “Clogs?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s what you call ’em. You know, they look like what Hans Brinker would have worn when he took off the silver skates. Anyway, I think I’ll do a still-life close-up—you know, dead broad’s garden paraphernalia in the shadow of the baby peapods.”

  “Sounds good. I’m going to look around a bit, and then go talk to Purity.”

  “Hey, Maggie,” called Calvin, as I began walking around the perimeter of the yard. “See if the girls in the house can get one of those T-shirts for you.”

  “Calvin,” I hissed. “Just shut up and shoot.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he added, sighting through the viewfinder, “I guess your baskets aren’t so bountiful, huh?”

  I wandered around the yard, admiring the elegance with which Grace had designed the space, giving the people who lived there—the ones she knew, and the ones yet to come—a place of both beauty and function.

  “It’s our own little Garden of Eden,” said a voice near my shoulder. I jumped a bit, and looked down to see Purity, two mugs of coffee in hand, looking out over the yard. She handed me a mug.

  “Grace designed this, right?” I asked.

  “Designed, organized the volunteers to build the raised beds, paid for the rock edging, and got everyone in the house to help her with the planting. We even had a meeting to discuss what vegetables we wanted in the garden.” She sighed. “She was a gift from God, taken from us too soon.”

  I took a sip of coffee, so I didn’t have to respond. Being around big-C Christians always makes me nervous. I’m just waiting for them to start trying to convert me or introduce the notion that most of the things I believe in—from a woman’s right to choose to drinking really good Merlot with dinner—are at the least indulgences and probably full-fledged sins. But, it was hard to be very annoyed at Purity, given how she was spending every day of her life.

  “How’d you get involved in this place?” I asked. “And how’d Grace get involved?”

  “I started A Mom’s Place,” said Purity. “I came out of seminary on the East Coast and my first assignment in the Bay Area was at a short-term shelter for runaway kids in the Tenderloin. After a while I realized that preaching at them was kinda counterproductive. These kids needed socks and something to eat, and a reason to try to stay clean. Plus, we kept getting these young moms in there. I mean really young.”

  “Like the girl who answered the door?” I asked.

  “That young and younger. And even though they were really screwed-up and hungry, and most of them had been turning tricks, they loved their kids. And they wanted to keep Child Protective Services from taking the children away. Turns out, no matter how wrecked these girls were, they love their kids, in their own broken-down, self-destructive way.”

  I thought about how most of my mom-pals spent much of every day obsessing about filmmaking camp or tennis clinics for their kids, and snapped at their husbands when they forgot and cut Little Madison’s sandwich into rectangles, after having been issued strict instructions to cut it on the diagonal. I thought about my own willingness to carefully bite the nuts out of Josh’s chocolate chip cookie at a birthday party, because he loved the cookie, hated the nuts. Now, when I mentioned that story, he’d sigh audibly and say
, “Is this about me being a picky eater or about you being a great mom, little buddy?”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said. “Moms are like that.”

  “Anyway, the seminary trustees back home sent me some money to start this place, because I knew if I could get the moms on their own, away from people who weren’t nearly as motivated to clean up their act, everybody would do better—the moms, the kids, everybody.”

  “And here we are,” I said.

  “Day to day, here we are,” she said. “Every morning I worry about how we’re going to pay for groceries, but God always provides. That’s how Grace got to us, I know.”

  “How?”

  “God sent her.”

  “Okay, I get that part,” I said, a little impatiently. “But did God actually deliver her to your front porch, in a reed basket or something?”

  Purity smiled, for the first time. “Almost.”

  I waited. She gestured at her T-shirt. I tried to keep my eyes on her face, and not on what the T-shirt packaged. “Bountiful Baskets, the food-gleaners, used to pick up food from those gardens out in Golden Gate Park.”

  “San Francisco Botanical Gardens?”

  “That’s the place. Mostly I think they grow ornamental stuff, but they’ve got fruit trees and nut trees, and the extra goes to places like us, and St. Anthony’s Kitchen. Anyway, one day, Grace dropped off a couple baskets. I guess it was on her way home, and the Bountiful Baskets truck hadn’t arrived, and she didn’t want the fruit to go to waste.”

  “So she just knocked on the door?”

  “Yes. And at first, I thought she was a new volunteer for Bountiful Baskets. She was coming from her work at the Gardens, so she had on jeans with muddy knees, and a big smear of dirt on her cheek and a beat-up baseball cap. Minnesota Twins. That was five years ago, the Friday before Labor Day. She had two big baskets, one of lemons and limes, and one of almonds in the shell.”

  I thought about Travis’s story about Grace at the Crimson Club, and thought: not only does God move in mysterious ways, but she sends her angels out to far-flung neighborhoods, too. Maybe I should rethink my knee-jerk negative reaction to big-C Christians.