by Lia Matera
At best, I’d be late for my first day of work.
Work: I’d scouted the neighborhood after my job interviews. I’d scoped out the nearest coffee and pastry shops, lunch joints, bookstores, dry cleaners, drugstores.
I’d been impressed with all the back-alley bistros, the mini-plazas with basement delis, the narrow parkways, the labyrinthine connections between skyscrapers. Hurrying, especially driving, through the Financial District gave the impression of big impersonal buildings. But at a leisurely pace, it revealed its architectural grottos and enclaves, its fey staircases and preened alleys.
In fact, we were in front of a tiny plaza now. Sandwiched between skyscrapers, it looked like a subway entrance with planter boxes. But it had escalators up to a barbershop and a travel agency and an escalator down to a market and a deli. The market had a back door. I’d opened it by mistake last week, noticing a storage area with an exit.
I pulled Arthur to the escalator, forcing him to follow me down the moving stairs. I could hear commotion and swearing behind us, people bumping one another in their haste to leave, perhaps. With luck, they would impede the cop.
I yanked Arthur into the market. I let go of his trenchcoat but kept a firm grip on his hand. I dragged him through the store and out the back, to the vocal consternation of its Chinese owners. I thought I heard the cop shout for us to stop, but he wasn’t close enough for us to heed him. I opened a storeroom door labeled STAIRS.
I assumed the cop was somewhere behind us, but I didn’t look. I told Arthur, “We have got to outrun him. Follow me.”
“But Willa—”
“Follow me!” I dropped his hand, willing him to keep up.
I ran up the stairs, to a door labeled EXIT, and pushed out into an alley. I crossed quickly, bypassing the back door of a bank (too obvious) and going into a restaurant. I ran through it, past disgruntled men in tuxedo shirts, and out the back. I ran across the street and into a bank building. I managed to do it looking mostly backward, mostly at Arthur, focusing my imploring panic like a tractor beam.
Arthur remained in tow.
He still carried the gun. “Give me that! Good heavens.” I stuck it into my combination handbag-briefcase. It was a miracle no one else had joined the chase.
The cop, I hoped, hadn’t kept close enough behind to know which building we’d entered.
We ran up three flights, then through another emergency exit. We found ourselves in a carpeted corridor. A nearby door read LADIES.
I pulled off my jacket, saying, “Take off your trenchcoat. Now.”
As Arthur obeyed, I pushed open the restroom door.
“Arthur, you’ve got to find someplace to hide for a couple of minutes, okay?”
“But Willa, I’ve been trying to explain this is all a—”
I grabbed his trench. “I’ll find you in two minutes,” I assured him. “Trust me. Hide.”
I stepped into the bathroom. I stuffed our jackets into the trash, covering them with paper towels. Then I wet my hands. I dampened the ends of my hair, an elbow-length reflection of a midlife yearning for my hippie youth. I twisted it into a skinny rope, which I tucked into my blouse. The blouse was high-necked. Without a jacket, I would look as if I worked in the building. I hoped I would look like a short-haired secretary.
I found Arthur idly reading the front-door directory of a law firm with many names. He was right across from the elevator; so much for “hiding.”
“We don’t have a second to lose,” I warned him. “There’ll be police all around. We’ll have to separate. You take the elevator, I’ll take the stairs. I’ll meet you on the street.”
Could I show up for work without a jacket?
“What happened to your hair, Willa?” He seemed startled by the difference in my appearance.
“Never mind that.” I punched the elevator button for him. “Walk toward Market. I’ll meet you at the corner.”
I dashed back down the stairs. A short service corridor led into an alabaster lobby. A few people waited for elevators, checking their watches. Others pushed through the glass doors of the main entrance. Watching them was the cop who’d been following me and Arthur.
He was intently speaking into his walkie-talkie. I tried to walk past nonchalantly, but my heart was racing. There was a certain unhappy reality that never failed to annoy me; but if it failed this time, I was dogmeat.
“Hey!” the policeman barked. “Did you see anyone on the stair—?”
Before he could say more—maybe too soon—I shook my head.
He scowled, again lifting his walkie-talkie to his lips. Luckily he’d stayed true to guy form. He’d seen me as a blonde, not as someone with a particular face.
I left the building and merged with a river of workers.
Hot from running and worrying, clammy from drizzle on my shirt, I suffered a sudden lack of confidence in Arthur. What if he were caught alone—if he blundered into the police when I left him? Would he name me? Would he tell them what I’d done, thinking they’d believe his exoneration? (One thing about lawyering, it taught you how little the cops were willing to believe. And why.)
My confidence in Arthur was further undercut by the fact that he and my mother were friends. I knew how my mother reacted to being arrested. She was certain being right made her persuasive. Two dozen arrests and five convictions later, she still believed she could change the minds of police and judges; that, hearing her speak with logic and passion, they would be persuaded to take a left turn onto the high road. No doubt about it: In Arthur’s place, my mother would admit another’s complicity as if sharing an honor. And I knew from painful experience that her most well-intentioned friends could pose the biggest threat to my comfort and security.
By the time I joined Arthur, jittering in perplexity on the corner, I knew I’d better keep an eye on him; that I’d better get him safely out of the neighborhood.
I hoped it wouldn’t take long.
For once, I was being unduly optimistic.
CHAPTER TWO
It was taking us forever to get out of the neighborhood. There were uniformed cops on every block. We ducked into buildings, we wound through alleys trying to avoid them. Moments after I dumped the gun in a trash can, we saw police stop an older man walking with a younger woman.
“We’d better keep to opposite sides of the street,” I fretted. “But don’t lose track of me. Stay right across from me.”
Soon after, another cop seemed ready to approach Arthur, though he walked alone. Luckily, he glanced over at me. I pointed out the cop, discreetly, I hoped. He stepped into a nearby bank. The cop seemed about to follow, then went after another December-May couple.
By the time I joined Arthur, we were both as nervous as cats. Lingering a moment in a foyer corner, I snapped, “What in the world possessed you, Arthur? Why were you doing that?”
“Doing what?”
Doing what! “Holding a gun on that guy.”
“Holding it on him? Oh my, no. My my, no.” Arthur’s wrinkled face ironed with astonishment. “Is that what you were thinking? I assumed you realized—I couldn’t imagine why you did such a thing.”
“Me?” People around us turned. I lowered my voice. “Why I did such a thing?”
“Yes! Rushing up like that, pulling me away into this goose flight.” His face crinkled like wadded paper. “Really, I was so surprised. But you seemed very determined. I thought you must have a reason. And I hardly knew how to stop you.”
“Stop me? You’d be in jail right now, Arthur.”
“Oh, no.” His tone was avuncular. “I’m sure we’d have straightened it out.”
“But you were standing there holding—” I made myself shut up. This was not the place.
“I have no idea why he handed it to me. I imagine the policeman would have asked him.”
“Who handed what to you?”
“The gentleman with the scarf.”
I had noticed no scarves. I wondered if we were having different conversat
ions. Like many scholars, Arthur tended to focus on fine points invisible to others.
“We should go,” I pointed out. “Keep heading toward Market.”
His face, as furrowed as a hound’s, reflected my discouragement. We’d been trying to get to and across Market Street this last long hour. Instead, we’d seen the insides of several buildings and taken a dozen alley detours.
“Why don’t we just talk to them, Willa?”
He’d advocated this earlier, but I’d interpreted it as a desire to surrender. It dawned on me he believed the police would accept his explanation.
“No way,” I reiterated. “They saw you take a hostage. They watched you escape. They’ll never believe you.”
“I’ll take the chance.” He wore the same look of naive faith I’d seen on my mother’s face before her disastrous arrests.
“Well, I won’t. The minute they realize we’re friends, they’ll label me your accomplice.”
“How can you be my accomplice? I haven’t done anything.”
“You have now. You’ve resisted arrest. So have I.”
“But—”
I turned impatiently. “I’m a lawyer. Trust me.” Self-canceling sentences, perhaps, but Arthur took them at face value. He followed me out.
We barely got a half-block farther before another cop seemed to ogle him. This time, Arthur slipped into a building with no prompting from me. I supposed I’d made an impression; he realized he was protecting me now, too.
I waited a few minutes, then followed to give Arthur the “all clear.” We continued our parallel progress through the Financial District.
Reaching Market, we saw a police car on the corner. I looked down toward the Embarcaderos. There was another car on the next corner. I looked toward the civic center. There was a car there, too.
They were taking the gunman with a hostage seriously, that was evident.
Even south of Market, along thoroughfares of warehouses and wholesalers, the police presence was noticeable. Street people kept a low profile, lingering in doorways, casting furtive glances at the blue uniforms. I saw a cop questioning a group of men in dirt-streaked clothes.
We walked a mazelike route through a dreary neighborhood that did its business without caring who it impressed.
Eventually, it seemed safe to walk together. But even then, I looked over my shoulder so often my neck ached.
“What did you mean before, Arthur?” I endeavored to squelch my crankiness. I should have been nervously ensconced at work for the last two hours. But I’d jumped into this; it was my doing, not Arthur’s. “What about the man with the scarf?”
“I’ve never been so surprised, Willa. Not here, at any rate. Now, when the Juavaro chief sliced off his rival’s ear and used it—”
“Surprised at what?” Fascinating though rain forest etiquette might be, right now I was more interested in us. “What did he do? The man with the scarf.”
“He handed me the gun.” Arthur had stopped walking. He blinked as if I were a dense student.
“Someone handed you that gun?”
He nodded. “And then stuck his hands right up into the air.” He mimicked the gesture, looking as if I were mugging him.
“You’re kidding. That guy”—I struggled to recall his features, his hair color, anything—“the guy with his hands in the air was the one who handed you the gun?”
“That’s right. He handed it to me, put the handle part in my hand, you know. And then . . .” He raised his hands higher. “Funny.” He let his arms drop back to his sides. “I thought it must be some sort of joke, you know, because of the ululations.”
“The what?”
“Ululations.” He made a series of quiet whooping noises.
“I don’t remember him doing that.” But I wasn’t sure how long it had been going on before I got there.
“Not literally, of course. Not ‘woo woo woo,’ but American ululations. You know, ‘Help, help, don’t shoot’; that sort of thing.”
“He put the gun in your hand and started making a fuss.” I felt drained of energy. In trying to rescue Arthur, I’d let the man with a scarf get away. I wanted to cry. I am not an intervener by nature. It would be too much if it backfired on me the one time I did it so publicly and dangerously.
“Yes.” He nodded emphatically, looking professorial in his turtleneck and cardigan. “So unusual.”
“Talk about timing.” The man made his move in front of a cop. If it was a coincidence, it was a big one. “Was the man facing you when he handed you the gun?”
“No.” Arthur shrugged. “He came up behind me. He put it in my hand, and the next thing I knew he was in front of me, ululating.”
“He must have seen the policeman. He must have been following you, waiting until he saw one.” I was surprised by the authority in my tone. What did I know? I hadn’t even noticed the scarf. “What kind of scarf was he wearing?”
“Wearing?” Arthur looked as if I’d suddenly begun speaking Chinese. “The man?”
“Yes.”
“Was he wearing a scarf?”
I felt trapped in a comedy routine. “You said he was.”
“No, no, not wearing it. He had the gun in it. I felt it on my hand before I felt the gun. I felt it fall away, out of my hand.”
“Did you see it?”
“Mm.” He seemed to be pondering, his thick hair shaking slightly. “Just before that, I had the feeling of an eagle.”
“A what?” A “feeling” of an eagle?
“Yes, yes. I can’t see the scarf, but I can feel its silkiness, and I recall having had the feeling of an eagle.”
I picked up our pace. I had no idea what an eagle might feel like. Right now, I was more interested in a cup of coffee.
One of my biggest fears about this morning had been that Curtis & Huston, where I should be right now, made its coffee too weak. I hoped I wouldn’t be so late it became a moot point. In the meantime, I could use a triple espresso.
“We’ll go to my house.” I’d already blown more sensible options. “I’ll phone work. We’ll figure things out.”
We executed a convoluted half-circle through the Mission District, finally recrossing Market. We were north of the civic center now, with perhaps another mile to walk to the Panhandle and another half-mile to the Haight, where I lived.
I had chosen, for better or worse, to stick with Arthur. I told myself it was safer this way: I didn’t trust him not to confide in the police. I didn’t trust him to be paranoid, evasive, and self-protective; after all, he didn’t have my legal training.
CHAPTER THREE
I found my answering-machine light blinking furiously. Four of the messages were from Curtis & Huston. The first two were polite, almost apologetic: Gee, had I glanced at the clock? The third expressed concern; they had set up an appointment that I would soon miss. The fourth was curt; please call them.
There were two messages from my mother. She’d phoned Curtis & Huston to speak to me. Her squeaky voice informed me that I wasn’t at my new job, and the secretary didn’t know where I was, and she didn’t sound happy about it. Her second message consisted of a breathless run-on: “Willa June, it’s almost lunchtime; you wanted this job so much; where did you go; why didn’t you call them; are you all right?”
I should have phoned work sooner, should have come up with some excuse. I just hadn’t been able to think of one.
I went into the kitchen to put on water for coffee. I still couldn’t think of one. I’d overslept? Passed out? Gotten lost?
Though I had the perfect excuse for tardiness—Sorry, I was taken hostage—I couldn’t use it.
I almost dropped the coffeepot when the phone rang again. I went back into my living room in time to stop Arthur from picking up. After the message beep, I heard my father’s voice:
“Willa, your mother’s very concerned that you didn’t make it to work this morning. She’s on her way over.” A pause. “We certainly hope you’re all right.”
I considered picking up the receiver. I didn’t want him to worry. On the other hand, I didn’t see how the truth would console him, and I couldn’t lie to my father. Anyone but.
“Are you there, Willa?” The worry in his tone almost persuaded me to lay my troubles at his feet.
I looked around the living room for my clock. There were newspapers strewn all over, clothes from this morning’s hurried try-on session. I spotted a corner of my desk clock under some computer graphics journals. I brushed them aside. It was almost one o’clock. The digital clock on my computer—still on since last night—told me to the second how late I was. Our progress had been slower than I’d supposed.
But a woman my age should be able to “vanish” a few hours without her parents freaking out. Hadn’t they joined the Peace Corps in 1976 without telling me? Hadn’t they left for two years without saying good-bye? My mother could live with her worry.
My doorbell began to ring. It rang insistently for a minute, then the bell downstairs began to ring. My mother was buzzing Ben, my landlord. I listened to his bell, then mine again. Apparently, Ben wasn’t home.
“We should let your mother in,” Arthur said gently. “Why, I haven’t seen her since, oh my, was it before Alaska and British Columbia? I think before the hunts?”
“You went hunting?” This shocked me more than having seen him with a gun. I hadn’t quite believed the gun, but this came from his own lips.
“No! Good lord, Willa! The Hunts—a family of Haida craftsmen and artists from the Queen Charlotte Islands. I was introduced by my assistant.” His face lit. “Ah, what a fellow he is, what a truly magical fellow. A shaman, a woodsman, a totem carver, and the most remarkable mind! And he surpasses even Rolling Thunder and Black Elk in spirit, in my opinion. He’s a blessing. Really, a blessing to me.”
“Hm.” The doorbell ringing had stopped. That was all I cared about.