Muni to BART. From Embarcadero to the Richmond/ Daly City line. Her ears rang as the train glided down the Transbay tube and under the bay. Something inside her head began to pound, but she couldn't tell if it was fear or the pressure of the water. The pounding eased only slightly as the train rose above ground in West Oakland. At the station she looked across at the train that had pulled in heading for the city. Women in tennis shoes sprinted for the closing doors and clung to the too-high overhead bars as the other train pulled out. Rayann envied them their jobs. She was mercifully numb as the train skimmed smoothly along through more dark tunnels and bright stations. When they got to the end of the line she took the next train out, bound for Fremont.
Her first priority was a place to live and a way to pay for it. Don't forget, she told herself, you always have your education — at least that's what the campus recruiters had promised. Her attention was captured by a billboard hyping a new apartment complex with all the amenities the single life could possibly want, including, apparently, a scantily clad woman on a sailboat. The billboard wasn't particularly well designed so the text didn't catch her eye; she couldn't afford a place like that anyway. But she was riveted by the sails puffed out to the straining point — like the woman's bikini top — leaping bravely ahead of the wind. If she were a sailboat, she'd say there hadn't been any wind in her life for a long time.
Sure, she'd had a few ideas for wood pieces. She'd had a commission and sold another piece to an interior decorator, but inertia had slowly claimed her. She'd barely found enough energy to crawl to her teaching job, not that it paid much. Her self-image as an artist had become almost non-existent while she had bent and molded herself around Michelle. The loss of her artistic drive hadn't been apparent until now. J will get it back. She congratulated herself for having established two priorities.
That momentous decision left her complacent for quite a while, and she hardly realized the train was pulling into Fremont station. End of the line. Again. She took the Daly City line out of Fremont. Between San Leandro and Coliseum, Rayann decided on a third priority. She wasn't sure how or when or who, but somehow she would show herself and her friends — and Michelle — that Michelle's infidelities had not been because Rayann was lacking in any way. She needed to find a new lover. She would show them all that Rayann was fine.
At Fruitvale, Rayann realized the train was going to take her back through San Francisco, back to Civic Center where she would normally exit. She couldn't go back, wouldn't go back, not until she knew what she was going to do, how she was going to survive. The doors slid open at the next station and Rayann stepped off, her suitcase feeling twice as heavy as when she had got on. The door chime sounded and the train pulled away in a quiet hum of electric efficiency.
Rayann was depressed and empty and the station was freezing. Isn't this the part where I should contemplate suicide? Maybe throw myself in front of a train. Does it hurt? I should have read Anna Karenina.
Another train pulled in and the rush of frigid air and swirl of people around her made her dizzy and nauseous. Food. She was hungry. Maybe there was a place to eat nearby. Near where? She looked up a the signs and realized she was in Oakland's Lake Merritt station. Maybe there was a motel nearby where she could leave her suitcase and go in search of food, and in search of a job, a place to live and self-esteem while she was at it. Did she have enough money for a motel? She looked in her wallet and sighed. She could charge it. But the bill would go to their — Michelle's address. Michelle might pay it again. How many times had Michelle reassured her the money didn't matter, that she loved Rayann, and what Michelle had was Rayann's as well? Rayann had believed that, too.
She'd see if there really was a lake in Oakland. As a native San Franciscan she'd always thought Lake Merritt had been made up by the Oakland Chamber of Commerce. The rowing championships they held every year were probably hoaxes. Maybe she'd throw herself into Lake Merritt — if it really existed.
There was no lake in sight as she climbed the steps out of the station. The water on the wind was all creeping fog. Laney College loomed out of the gray curtain, then the Oakland Museum. She walked past the Calvin Simmons Theater only to find she couldn't cross the next street. Where is Oakland? Was she anywhere near Lake Merritt? Exasperated and more than a little frightened, she sat down on her suitcase and hoped for inspiration.
The fog lifted in a sweep of wind and a burst of sunlight, leaving her blinking. She tried to get her bearings in the hazy late-morning light. Fog clung to the hills but she could make out the tall buildings in Oakland's business district at least eight blocks to the east. The skyline was a pale imitation of the city's magnificence. And there was no sign of a lake anywhere. / knew it — they made it up. She decided her best bet was to look for some food in the business district.
Her mouth tasted of a bad night's sleep, and as she walked she looked for a place to eat. The first coffee shop she passed was too crowded — she might have to talk to someone. The next was too empty. She wanted to be anonymous. So she walked on, frequently switching the suitcase from side to side, and ignored the ache on both calves where the suitcase kept bumping her. She walked through Oakland's Japantown where the aroma of sizzling garlic and roasting ginger made her stomach growl. But none of the restaurants were open yet.
Blocks later she finally found a McDonald's. Anonymity in styrofoam. She ordered an Egg McMuffin only to be told she was too late for breakfast. The Chicken McNuggets she ate instead made her feel queasy so she kept walking, hoping the exertion would make her feel better so she could start thinking about what to do.
She struggled up Broadway, past another BART station at 12th Street and City Center, then another at 19th. All she could see further up the street were car lots and businesses with formidable wrought iron gates across the entrances. She wandered slowly back to City Center. She looked at Christmas decorations and stared at the displays in shop windows. I should have gone back to Mom's. The thought depressed her further.
She watched a fountain bubble into a small pool that had only a few coins in it. She stared into the water then dug in her backpack for her change. She examined the coins — not a feminine symbol in sight. She was not about to give up her lucky Susan B. Anthony dollar. Finally, she chose a dime because FDR was on it and he had at least been married to a terrific woman. She took a deep breath and balanced the dime on her thumbnail tucked under her index finger. Okay, I'm listening. She flipped it out as far into the pool as it would go.
Nothing magical happened, of course, but the fountain reminded her of her ambition to find the supposed lake in Oakland. She had to ask three bustling commuters before a tired-looking woman gave an irritated gesture toward the south. She had only gone a block when she stopped to switch sides with the suitcase and glanced at one of the shops. It wasn't a shop at all — the sign said, "Women's Center of Oakland." Of course! Rayann heaved a sigh of relief. They would have housing and shelter referrals. This should have been my first stop.
The black woman at the desk gave Rayann an odd look as Rayann set her suitcase down. The coffee she poured Rayann was hot and sweet, and Rayann mumbled a request for housing referrals as she warmed her hands on the cup.
"Are you running from someone who hurt you?" The woman's gaze swept over the suitcase. She shifted her weight, opening up her stance, which encouraged honesty from Rayann.
Tears stung her eyes, and Rayann didn't know if the woman believed her when she said, "No, someone just doesn't love me anymore." Rayann wanted to be cuddled and comforted on the woman's ample bosom.
"This won't make sense to you, but I'm relieved. All the shelters are overflowing. But we do have some listings of women who are renting rooms in their houses. That might be just what you need." She showed Rayann where the housing referrals were, and explained how to decipher the codes on the cards.
An older woman came in as Rayann bent over the stack of cards. She shut out the enthusiastic conversation the two women had about events they'd atten
ded. If she understood the codes right, the first card said there was a lovely room in a Lake Merritt Victorian, with kitchen privileges. Rent, which Rayann thought she might be able to raise as a cash advance on a credit card, included utilities. The preferred applicant would be a "LFNSNP17V." She referred to the codes — a lesbian feminist no pets nonsmoker with a child to share day-care responsibilities no alcohol vegetarian.
Vegetarian living would be good for her, no doubt, but maybe there would be one where she didn't need a child. The next listing preferred another smoker or nonsmoker who wouldn't complain. The next one she could afford preferred someone who had been through a twelve-step program for mutual support and would agree to no meat, no eggs, no alcohol, no drugs, no overnight guests, no loud music. The next card said anyone who even knew what a twelve-step program was need not apply.
Rayann sighed. She could live alcohol-free, pet-free, maybe even meat-free, but she was allergic to cats and dogs, though she loved them, which ruled out the studio above the veterinarian's practice. Nor did she feel up to the rigors of separatist living. She'd be turned away at the door as soon as they saw the Gucci emblem on her suitcase. Still, the rent was cheap. Maybe she could say she stole her suitcase from a men's store. No, that won't work. Some of my polo shirts have little alligators on them.
"Finding anything?"
Rayann started. The older woman was leaning over her shoulder. Her hair, falling forward in curls and waves of black and silver, hid her expression.
"Not much."
"I came in to add this to the stack," the woman said. She handed Rayann another card and Rayann took it, then realized she was staring. The woman turned away, saying, "Well, Nance, keep up the good work. I wish I could leave a big fat check with you."
"You paid your pledge, Louisa, so don't worry about it. We get by, as always."
Rayann looked at the card Louisa had given her. A room and kitchen privileges at a reasonable rent. The rent could be partially offset by some hours worked in the bookstore downstairs. Her heart leapt. Louisa hadn't bothered with codes. Firm, bold handwriting stated she was looking for an independent woman, preferably one who wanted to work in the bookstore, which required knowledge of literature and simple arithmetic, in that order.
"Hey," Rayann said loudly. The woman, almost out the door, turned back to her. "I took a year of accounting. I know my alphabet." She smiled giddily. "I was an art major, but I roomed with an English major for two years before she switched to psych. But I read books all the time." She finished her short resume on a note of hope.
"An increasingly rare pastime," the woman said wryly. As the watery sunlight illuminated her face, Rayann realized she was much older than Rayann had thought.
"I'm Louisa Thatcher," she said. She crossed the room quickly, and firmly shook Rayann's hand.
"I'm Rayann. Rayann Germaine."
"Scandinavian?"
Rayann shook her head. "My father was Ray and my mom's name is Ann."
"Oh, a parent splice. Well, it's pretty," Louisa said. She put her hands in the pockets of her denim jacket. "You could have been BobLou or JerryEllie, I suppose." Dark brown eyes studied Rayann, taking in the suitcase and backpack. "I'm guessing you'd like to start right away."
"Yes," Rayann said. She held her breath.
"Okay."
"You mean it?" Realizing she sounded like a child who expected the grown-up to back out of a promise, Rayann tried to put lots of assurance into the way she picked up her suitcase, but her aching arms made her wince.
"I could go home for my car and come back for you," Louisa said. "It's several blocks."
"No, I'm fine," Rayann protested. She couldn't start out looking like a weakling. She tried to give Louisa a carefree smile and then thanked Nancy. "When I can, I'll be back with a big fat check."
"Promises, promises." Nancy waved her away.
Two blocks of pitted sidewalks later, Rayann saw a body of water across the busy boulevard they had arrived at. It was a large patch of smooth darkness between the glass and concrete buildings of downtown and the hills scattered with houses and apartment buildings.
"Is that Lake Merritt?" Rayann set down her suitcase as Louisa stopped to answer.
The older woman nodded. "It's man-made. I like to walk the perimeter about once a week — three and a quarter miles. The path runs the top of the concrete walls, and through the park. It's a nice walk but I sure wouldn't do it after dark."
The lake's surface was broken only by the ripple of a passing scull, its occupant stroking powerfully southward.
Rayann said, "And here I thought Lake Merritt was a real lake. I looked for it all morning."
"It's not exactly a fake lake," Louisa said. She smiled. "It's more of a pseudo-lake. And it's filthy."
Rayann protested when Louisa picked up her suitcase. "I can carry it."
"You probably can. So can I. It's not far now."
They walked in silence again, leaving the lake's calm behind. Rayann heard sirens in the distance mixed with the hum of the freeway and honking cars. Traffic clogged the four-way stops as people left the buildings for lunch. Rayann stole an occasional sideways glance at her guide, but saw nothing more than a high-cheekboned profile and a straight nose accentuated by the plentiful hair swept back by an occasional puff of wind.
They left the high rises behind, then passed smaller office buildings until finally, after a senior citizens residence, they entered a neighborhood with two-story houses, most of which appeared to have been converted to law or medical offices. Louisa, whose pace left Rayann slightly breathless, turned from the street and rapidly climbed steps in front of a house. It was built with a porch ten steps off the street. Protection against floods from the concrete-encased lake? Rayann gave a silent laugh. The porch would be perfect for catching breezes on a sultry night, but sultry nights only happened in the Bay Area once every century or so. The railings, she noted, needed a refresher coat of white paint.
Louisa led the way across the porch, unlocked the metal gate, then the door, and Rayann entered a softly lit interior. Bells tinkled as the door closed. "Just in time to open up, Louisa said. We open late on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and stay open late on Fridays and Saturdays. Well work out a schedule — I'm assuming you want to work in the store."
Rayann nodded. The smell of books drew her inside. She loved the smell — new books with fresh paper and the sharp aroma of ink, and old books reminding her of musty wood. Sometimes she had forgotten all sense of time and missed beloved art classes because the stacks at the Cal Berkeley Libraries had seduced her with their knowledge-of-the-ages headiness. She inhaled deeply, aware of sensations again. Her feet ached. Like damp cedar, the smell of the books was incense to her brain, soothing her ragged spirit.
Louisa unlocked another door in the middle of the far wall of the bookstore's main room. Rayann followed her slowly, feeling a little dizzy. Or is it relief?
The door opened on a stairwell with a very bright light at the top. Rayann blinked several times as her eyes adjusted. She studied Louisa, who was shrugging out of her jacket, revealing a pale blue workshirt left unbuttoned to show a plain white turtleneck. The two layers of shirts were tucked into the slender waist of blue jeans. Yes, the hair was dark, with strands of silver, and the shoulder-length salt-and-pepper was caught back with filigree combs.
Their eyes met as the older woman looked Rayann up and down. Her deep brown eyes seemed to examine Rayann in microscopic detail. Rayann became acutely aware of her rumpled clothing and hair. She thought of Michelle suddenly, for the first time in hours, and a stab of pain must have showed.
"Are you all right?"
"Sure," Rayann said, after she had swallowed. The living room was sparsely furnished with antiques Rayann vaguely appreciated. She moved to the rocker, setting down her backpack while Louisa carried the suitcase into the room to the left of the short hallway. The carvings, which looked handcrafted to Rayann, dated the rocker at the mid-1800s, or, at the very least, a goo
d copy of a rocker from that era. "This piece is lovely," she said.
"A garage sale bargain. Would you like some lunch?"
"What if customers come in?"
"I'll hear the bell and go down." Louisa smiled and Rayann felt as if she had asked a silly question. "You look starved."
Of all the possible expressions on her face, Rayann would not have thought hunger would be foremost. Nevertheless, she gratefully slid into a chair at the kitchen table, absorbing the green and white speckled linoleum and yellow-avocado tones of the appliances. The gleaming chrome toaster and bread box reminded Rayann of decorating books she'd studied, circa 1965. She wondered if the kitchen had looked the same for the last twenty-five years or if Louisa had deliberately decorated it for the Sixties feel.
Rayann's feet and calves throbbed with relief. She watched Louisa skillfully crack eggs open with one hand and toss the shells into the trash can. The eggs sizzled in the iron skillet and the cozy kitchen filled with the aroma of butter and ground black pepper. Rayann's stomach growled. It was unfathomable to her that she was comforted by the smell of frying eggs.
Louisa turned from the stove and caught Rayann staring. She cocked an eyebrow. Rayann said the first thing that came into her head. "You look like a Louisa somehow."
"Do I?" Louisa didn't seem pleased. "I've never thought of myself as a Louisa. Lou is okay, but I've always wished I were named Eleanor. As in 'of the Aquitaine.'" She put a steaming plate in front of Rayann, who didn't hesitate taking her first bite.
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