by Lind, Hailey
“Why would a church be so interested in Egypt?”
“Supposedly there was a pharaoh who started part of the belief system . . . but then it’s a Christian church, too. I never quite figured that part out. It’s a bit mystical. The guy who founded the church and museum down in San José, H. Spenser Lewis, went on a whole bunch of Egyptian expeditions and digs in the twenties.”
“Spenser Lewis?” I repeated. “That was his name?”
“Yeah, why?”
“The other day I witnessed a grave robbery from the tomb of a Louis Spencer. And in his tomb there’s a stained glass window with the same design as your necklace. And Egyptian paintings and a saying, ‘may the roses bloom . . . something . . .’ ”
“ ‘May the roses bloom upon your cross,’ ” Annette finished with a nod. “It’s what they say, like a greeting or a benediction. Roses are symbolic of life, the cross is a sign of the human body. But what grave robbery are you referring to, exactly?”
“I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—”
“No surprise there,” Annette muttered.
“—and someone was robbing Louis’ grave. I was with the woman we were just talking about, the grad student from Berkeley who died.”
Bryan and Annette exchanged Significant Glances.
“I know a graduate student at Cal,” Mrs. Henderson said, already catching on to the plan to change the subject whenever the tension at the table rose. “Oh! Look at Pete run!”
We all turned to watch as Pete loped along the shoreline and across the bridge to the island, trying to keep abreast of Mary and Evangeline.
“Why won’t they let him in the boat?” Annette asked.
“He’s afraid of the water,” I said.
“That poor man. He’s besotted,” said Annette, shaking her head.
Mrs. Henderson nodded. “With that large lesbian.”
“What lesbian?” I asked.
“The one in the motorcycle jacket.” Despite the warmth of the day, Evangeline wore her riding leathers. Mary’s ripped black gauze tunic, in comparison, seemed more appropriate to the occasion.
“Evangeline’s not a lesbian.” At least, I didn’t think so.
“She isn’t?” Mrs. Henderson said. “I just assumed . . .”
“We all did, honey,” Bryan said. “Just goes to show.”
I noticed more Goths gathering by the lake and trooping across the footbridge to the island. A few held sock monkeys and flags aloft as they shouted to others ensconced in paddleboats on the water. The Goth fleet seemed to be swelling, the boaters clutching fluorescent green, blue, and pink plastic water cannons that contrasted sharply with their funereal attire.
As I turned back to the clam dip, a war whoop split the air. I looked up to see the Goth fleet dividing and engaging, the boaters’ legs pumping furiously as they splashed toward one another, bellowing taunts and insults.
“Arrrrggghh!” the Goths yelled as they slurped up lake water in the plastic water cannons and stood, paddleboats rocking wildly, took aim at one another, and let loose great streams of the brackish water. A shaggy-haired woman armed with a water cannon half as tall as she was hollered a riposte and fired a stream of water that struck a bald, tattooed man in the chest, sending him tumbling backward into the murky lake. In one final act of heroism, he lobbed his water cannon to his boat mates before standing up in the four-foot-deep water and wading to shore in defeat. The shaggy-haired woman’s boat crew threw their hands in the air and cheered lustily before their attention was drawn to a boatload of Goths clad mostly in pink.
“Arrrggghhh, beware the wrath of the Pinks!” the new arrivals cried, water spewing in great arcs toward the shaggy-hairedwoman’s crew. Shrieks and shouts of vengeance issued from the beleaguered boat. From the safety of our picnic table, Miss Mopsy yapped furiously.
“My word,” breathed Mrs. Henderson.
“What in the world’s going on?” I asked.
“Gommmphhtt,” Annette mumbled around a mouthful of cheesecake.
“Golf what?” Bryan asked.
She swallowed, took a sip of beer, and hushed the dog. “Goth naval battle. I assumed that was why we came today. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it. It’s a tradition.”
“Goths have traditions?” Ron asked.
Just then Mary and Evangeline rounded the bend of the island. Pete, taking in the scene from the top of the bridge, began to shout, “Stop! Evangeline, Mary! Stop!”
It was too late. With a bloodcurdling yell, the pirate crew descended upon our friends, soaking them with a water barrage. I heard Evangeline howl in outrage, and feared the consequences.
Pete ran down the bridge and waded into the soupy water. “Evangeline!” he called. “Mary!”
Bellowing defiance, Evangeline dove into the lake and swam to a nearby boat. Shooting out of the water like a killer whale, she seized a blond woman by the arm and tossed her into the lake, then grabbed the edge of the boat and flipped it over, sending its occupants to their soggy reward. Grabbing a water cannon from a sputtering Goth, Evangeline righted the overturned paddleboat and boarded her spoils of war. She maneuvered the paddleboat into position and took out the head Goth with a well-placed shot in the schnozz. Mary, still in her own boat, leapt to her feet and swore a blue streak, threatening all Goth pirates with lifelong vengeance.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” I asked the representative of civil authority at our picnic table.
Annette looked at me as if I had grown horns. “Like what?”
“Like stop it.”
“On what grounds?”
“Well, because . . . surely they’re breaking some law.”
“I’m eating cheesecake. Anyway, this is San Francisco, girlfriend.” Annette shrugged. “Goth naval battles are the least of our worries. And look—they’re not involving the innocent,” she said, gesturing to a pair of cuddling lovers who paddled past the melee, unscathed.
“They involved Mary and Evangeline!”
“Bad day to go boating in black.”
I heard the roar of a hideous beast and saw Pete had climbed into Evangeline’s boat, and the two of them were dunking all attackers. Standing back to back, Pete and Evangeline strafed anyone who dared come near. Mary paddled over and joined them in the boat, nearly tipping it over. She then provided the leg power as the trio made their way toward the shore, where a knot of irate pirates informed them that they had broken the rules of Goth naval engagement. Evangeline, unrepentant, flipped them the bird.
Our three friends sloshed over to the picnic table, dripping wet and spitting mad.
“Did you see those guys!” Evangeline bellowed. “What kind of place is this!”
“The attack was entirely unprevaricated!” Pete seconded. “They are maniacs, these Golfs! Miscreants! Misnomers!”
“You’ve got to hand it to them, though, they’ve got courage,” Mary said and slogged over to a patch of sunny lawn, where she lay down spread-eagled to dry. “Pink is the new black, you know. I wish I had the guts to wear it, but I’m not worthy.”
“What do you mean?” Ron asked, amused. “How worthy does one have to be to wear pink?”
“When you’re a Goth, it means a lot. It’s a matter of principle. I can’t in good conscience wear pink until I spend at least one night in that damned cemetery.”
“You shouldn’t be in a cemetery at night,” said Mrs. Henderson, frowning. “There are strange goings-on there.”
“Lions, and tigers, and bears . . .” Ron chanted.
“Oh my!” Mrs. Henderson finished.
It sounded as though Mrs. Henderson was slurring her words a bit, though I knew she hadn’t been drinking anything stronger than iced tea.
“Tonight’s the charm, though, I can feel it,” Mary said, ignoring the warnings. “Right, Evangeline?”
Evangeline shook her soaked leather jacket and scowled. “I gotta take a shower. That lake smelled funky.”
“Nothing l
ike a good old-fashioned Goth naval battle to top off a Sunday picnic, wouldn’t you say?” Bryan said cheerfully, putting the food away. Miss Mopsy was on cleanup duty.
After helping to pack up, I wheeled Mrs. Henderson to the truck. Her head lolled a bit. “Are you feeling okay, Mrs. Henderson?”
“Fine and dandy, sweet as candy. Oh, look at the birdies!”
We zipped across the bridge to Oakland, and I pulled into the loading zone in front of Evergreen Pines. All the way back Mrs. Henderson had been singing “The Way You Wear Your Hat,” though most of the lyrics made little sense. I unloaded and unfolded her wheelchair, guided her into it, and whizzed her up the elevator and down the hall to her room.
“. . . oh no, you can’t take that away from me . . . !” she crooned as I helped her onto the bed.
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” I asked, worried now. I didn’t know Mrs. Henderson well, so maybe she always went loony tunes after witnessing a Goth naval battle. Still, it seemed wise to check. “Why don’t I get a nurse?”
“Nun-sense!” she said, and chortled. “Did you hear what I said? And I’m not even Catholic!”
“Yes, but—”
“I can check it myself, young lady. My insulin, I mean. I just need this glu . . . gluck . . . this thing.” She pointed at a machine marked GLUCOMETER.
“Sure you don’t need help?” I persisted.
“I can do it!” Mrs. Henderson said in a tone I imagined she had perfected during fifty-one years of running a large staff. “It’s a brand-new thingie, just got it this morning.”
“I’m just going to, um, get something to drink. Be right back.” I ducked out of the room and made a beeline for the nurses’ station.
A Filipina woman looked up from some charts. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Henderson needs some assistance checking her insulin levels. And . . . she’s acting a little loopy.”
“More than normal?” asked the nurse. “She saw the doctor just this morning. Do you know if she was drinking or eating sugar?”
“I think she was pretty careful.”
“I’ll check her glucometer.” She headed briskly into room 327. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Henderson. Can I help you with that?”
“I’ve got it!” Mrs. Henderson said crankily.
The nurse smiled but did not budge.
“There. See? Perfect.” Mrs. Henderson fell back against her pillows as the nurse checked the reading. I looked at the reading, too, though I had no idea what was acceptable and what should send me scurrying to call 911.
“How do you feel?” the nurse asked.
“I’m a little peaked is all,” Mrs. Henderson said. “I think I’ll just lie down for a few minutes. Then I’ll be fine. Right as rain. Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head . . .”
I drew a crocheted afghan over her legs. “Thank you for coming to the picnic.”
“Thank you, dear. I had a lovely time.”
“Goths and all?” I asked.
“Golfs and all.” She smiled, and closed her eyes.
Chapter 13
I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best.
—Frida Kahlo (1910-1954), Mexican painter
I have painted numerous self-portraits. In each one, I look remarkably like Rembrandt.
—Georges LeFleur
Mrs. Henderson wasn’t the only one feeling a mite peaked. I made it home by three and enjoyed the rare luxury of lolling on the couch with the latest novel Oprah told me to read. My horizontal posture amplified the aftereffects of wine and potato chips, so my reading session soon morphed into a long nap. It was nearly six o’clock by the time I changed into a flowing Indian skirt and embroidered peasant blouse, put my hair up with a couple of chopsticks, drank my afternoon cup of coffee, sprang for a bottle of wine, and screeched to a stop in front of a modest ranch-style stucco house on a quiet suburban neighborhood in Hayward.
The house looked circa 1960, and its façade mimicked every other house on the street. Over the years homeowners had sought to ameliorate the monotony by painting their homes in the hues one more happily saw adorning Spanish bungalows, whimsical Victorians, or Florida cabanas: brilliant blues, soft lilacs, bright yellows, and shrieking pinks. Pete’s mother’s house was a particularly virulent shade of rose with muddy brown trim.
Before I could extricate myself from the seat belt’s embrace, Pete emerged from the house and waved. Two short, stout, older women flanked him, their resemblance to Pete apparent in their sparkling brown eyes and broad faces. All three wore grins from ear to ear.
“Welcome! Welcome, Anna! Welcome!” they called out as I walked up the cracked concrete path to the front porch, where I was enveloped in lavender-scented hugs as the women greeted me in a mixture of broken English and Bosnian. Pete attempted simultaneous translation while he introduced me to his mother and maternal aunt.
“I brought you some wine,” I said, offering the bottle.
“You no need! No need wine! We thank you,” Pete’s aunt exclaimed, and rushed the bottle, carried aloft like a great prize, into the kitchen.
We followed her into the house, where the aroma of exotic spices filled the air and family members milled about. There were old, toothless, scarred men; plump, smiling women with polite but guarded gazes; children of all ages, yelling and chasing a curly-haired dog that barked playfully; and several Americanized couples, whom I assumed were the parents of the children. The interior looked like most homes of its era, filled with worn but comfortable upholstered furniture, a few adorned with colorful slipcovers; simple wood tables and chairs that had been polished with lemon oil to a high sheen; a battered leatherette recliner smack in front of the television set; an old, upright piano that played host to a forest of family photos spanning numerous generations.
A frail-looking, elderly man approached us. He held out a small shot glass, and Pete began the introductions.
“Anna, this is my uncle Sidran. Sidran, this is my friend Anna Kincaid.”
Uncle Sidran gave me a gap-toothed smile and handed me the glass, filled to the brim with a clear liquid. “Libation for you. Anna! You drink. Is good!”
I held the glass to my lips and my smile froze. The stuff smelled foul. Uncle Sidran was beaming, so I took a sip. It didn’t taste bad, but my lips and tongue went numb.
“Is good?” he asked.
“Yeth. Ith gweat.”
Uncle Sidran slapped me on the back and roared with laughter, while Pete hurriedly exchanged whatever the old man had given me with loza, a grape brandy similar to grappa. It was a wicked drink, but at least it didn’t turn anything numb.
Uncle Sidran winked, and I winked back. He and Grandfather would have gotten along famously.
Pete’s mother came over and Pete introduced her as Bosanska or Businski Bajezdagic; I didn’t quite catch the name. “You call me Mama,” she said, settling the issue. Funny how languages had different words for father, but mothers were “mama” the world over.
A good-looking man introduced himself as cousin Catiz, flung an arm around my shoulders, and escorted me to the fireplace, whose simple white-painted mantel was crowded with votive candles and flower vases. Above the mantel hung the painting I had restored, festooned with ribbons. Family members gathered around and heaped me with praise. If I always received this kind of adulation at the end of a good day’s work, I almost wouldn’t need to get paid.
After introductions too numerous and multisyllabic to remember, I was offered the seat of honor at the far end of the long table in the cramped dining room. The table was covered in a snowy linen cloth, and sparkled with china and crystal. Three long-necked, vaselike ceramic pots contained a regional specialty called bosanski lonac, a kind of hot-pot stew. Pete’s aunt ladled out generous bowls of the slow-roasted delicacy, which was heavy on the meat and light on the vegetables. I’d made my way through about half my portion, enjoying the food as well as the family’s boisterous conversation, when Mama swung thr
ough the room carrying a platter of sausages called cevapcici that looked remarkably like feces. Confident that Mama was not the sort of woman who would countenance such a thing in her kitchen, I took two. Next came a platter of little patties Pete referred to as pljeskavica, which looked like tiny cow pies. I tried two of those, as well.
“You married, Anna?” asked one of the younger women from down the table. I couldn’t for the life of me dredge up her name.
“No, I’m not,” I said, shaking my head.
“Ah . . .” said a chorus of knowing relatives.
I shot a look at Pete, who was blushing.
“You wan’ get marry, Anna?” asked one of the older, bolder women. I couldn’t remember her name, either.
“No, not really,” I said, hoping to nip this discussion in the bud.
“Ah . . .” the chorus repeated delightedly.
Uh-oh. Maybe it was customary for respectable young Bosnian women hell-bent on marriage to deny that they wanted any such thing. Maybe I should have said “Yup, you betcha. Gonna land me a sucker.” Maybe then they would shake their heads at my lack of femininity and drop it.
Time to change the subject.
“So, Pete tells me you all may have ancestors in Bayview Cemetery. ”
Silence blanketed the room. Even the seven children at the kiddie table looked somber.
“What did I say?” I whispered to Pete.
“Mama say our family, they are buried in the Potter Field,” Pete replied. “They have no grave markers. This is very distressing.”
“The location of their graves would have been noted somewhere, wouldn’t it?”
“The land is not sacred. She may be sold,” Catiz explained. “The bodies would be disemburied.”
“Such talk no good. Is happy time,” Mama Pete interjected, and I got the feeling that despite her motherly smile Mama ruled her realm with an iron fist. “Anna, you like my dolmas?”
“They’re delicious,” I said. Dolmas were balls of meat and vegetables, wrapped in grape leaves and kale and seasoned with complex spices. Bosnian cuisine seemed to be heavy on ground lamb and beef. Everything was savory and delicious, but I was unaccustomed to so much meat, especially since I’d been dating Josh the Vegan. In my case semi-vegetarianism stemmed from a lack of funds and cooking skill, rather than from principle.