As La Vista Turns

by Kris Ripper

  “We were already friends,” Obie countered.

  “We already knew each other. But when you started sewing in class, that’s when we became friends.”

  He turned to us. “She means when I let her boss me around and tell me what to do is when we became friends.”

  Emerson choked on a laugh. “Oh man. You so have a type.”

  Dred pressed the jeans down on the rug, stretching them out, flattening them, running her hands all over them. When James toddled his walker over to look, she said, “Hey, baby. You want to help me pick which bits we’re using for the quilt?”

  He replied with a stream of babble.

  “Uncle Obie used to look so damn cute in these jeans. I might get him to make you a pair for when you can walk.”

  Whatever James said then definitely sounded like agreement. She grinned up at him. “You’re so happy. You get that from your dad, not me.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Don’t worry about it, James. Now look. This knee right here, we’re gonna back with something really intense, so people want to see more.” She outlined a rectangle with index fingers and thumbs, playing with the shapes. “But I think we’ll keep the triangles down here, at least two of them. I’ll cut them out of their seams. But I need a third one in situ so we can keep those stitches.”

  Obie, one arm loosely around Emerson’s shoulders, shook his head. “Would you have ever imagined when we were sitting in Chemistry and you were telling me how to secure my stitches that someday you’d be telling your kid how you were gonna dismantle those pants for a quilt?”

  “Nope. Didn’t think either one of us was gonna live this long.”

  Obie’s arm tightened. “I knew we would all along.”

  “That’s why we call you Obi-Wan—”

  “You better not or I’ll cut you.”

  They laughed.

  “Okay.” Mildred locked the brakes on James’s walker and reached for her scissors. “You ready? Once I start I can’t go back.”

  “I’m ready. You’re not even using a pattern right now?”

  “This isn’t the final. I’m just carving it out to see where it’ll fit.” She looked up. “Obe?”

  “I’m ready.”

  She took a long breath. “Let’s do this thing.”

  The first cuts were straight through the leg above and below the knee (which was an impressive shredded hole, from back in the day when we had to wear out our own clothes). Dred set aside the knee on the couch and began to turn the cuffs of the severed leg, searching for the piece she most wanted.

  She seemed to study each triangle for ages, but James wasn’t even impatient yet, so maybe it only felt that way to me.

  “This one, I think. For the stitches.” But before she picked up the scissors again, she looked at the left cuff. “Yeah. This one’s perfect.”

  “Because it’s the one I fucked up most, or the one I did best?”

  “So not answering that.”

  Obie sighed. “Dred has this weird enjoyment of flaws. I don’t get it. I want shit to be perfect, and she wants it to be . . . not quite right.”

  “Isn’t that a quilting thing?” I asked. “Something about not wanting to offend God by creating perfection?”

  Dred rolled her eyes without looking up from her work. “No one who’s ever made a quilt thinks you have to do that shit on purpose. Everything handmade has errors. But yeah, this will remind me of watching Obie do it in class more than one of the better ones.” Another long breath. “Okay.”

  She cut it more carefully than I’d ever seen her cut anything, allowing a lot of denim on the two long sides of the triangle, preserving every bit of Obie’s stitching.

  His face was rapt, watching, Emerson’s arm around his waist.

  “Is it weird?” I asked. “Watching Dred cut up the first thing you ever made?”

  “No. No, actually it’s—it’s kind of liberating. I can get rid of them now, instead of staring at them for the next twenty years. They’ll still be around in the quilt, so it doesn’t feel like a loss. It’s so clichéd.”

  “Makes sense, though.” Emerson, also riveted, leaned closer to Obie. “Easier to let something go when you’ve incorporated it in other ways.”

  All three of us looked at him. James kept playing with his walker.

  “What?”

  Dred went back to work. “Mm-hmm.”

  “What ‘Mm-hmm,’ Mildred?”

  “Nothing. Except I think maybe you’re demonstrating personal growth right now, boy. Watch out for that.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  She grinned down at Obie’s old jeans. “Last cuts. I’m just going to rip these out. If I cut them, they’ll end up too small.”

  With painstaking effort she ripped out the stitches and set aside three pink paisley triangles with the other pieces. Then she bundled up the rest of the pants and looked at Obie.

  “I can’t do it.” He shook his head. “Throw it away for me, okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks. I really wanted them.”

  He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Anytime you want to cut my clothes up and highlight how awful my early stitches were, you know I’m here for you.”

  “You’re a good friend, Obe.”

  Emerson backed to the doorway and tugged Obie after him. “Come on, good friend. You need a nap. Which you might even get if I decide to let you sleep.”

  “Hey, I’m not making demands.”

  They went upstairs. I should have gone back to my column, but now that the machine wasn’t betraying my every lapse in attention I made the most of it, watching Dred from the corner of my eye as she fitted her new pieces together. When James started to fuss, she put him on her lap with a pile of scraps from a different box and told him to start working on his quilt. He crammed bits of fabric in his face.

  She glanced up before I could look away, both of us smiling at James’s antics. The moment seemed to freeze, like the way you can see a drop of water balance on the brink of falling for an impossible length of time before finally going over.

  James yelled something triumphant and shoved a fistful of scraps into his mouth.

  Moment broken.

  “That’s not how you make a quilt, baby.” She pulled the damp clump out and pressed it flat on her thigh. “I think these three look good together. Maybe—” Deft fingers rearranged them in a different order. “Like that?”

  He picked up a few more scraps and layered them over the top.

  “Oh, trying to get super experimental with it, huh? Okay. I hear that. How about this?” She picked another scrap, a long one, and put it perpendicularly across the others.

  Apparently that was all kinds of wrong. James made a protesting sound and dropped the newest scrap over the edge of the couch.

  Dred laughed. “No? Yeah, I agree, that didn’t work. You gotta feel it out, James. Trust your instincts when it comes to quilts. And listen to your Uncle Obie, because he’s way better at this than I am.”

  I turned back to the machine with a lump in my throat. I used to think about parenting a lot, in the years before I was trying to conceive. I had a ton of links and notes tagged with everything about parenting and child development. But until I’d started hanging out with Dred and James, I’d never really seen it up close. I tried not to think in terms of parenting because it just made not knowing how that would ever happen harder to take, but I pretended to rearrange my half-assembled squares and let myself wonder if I’d ever show a kid of mine how to quilt.

  Still at least five days out from ovulation. I didn’t really have an excuse to cry. Except having too many question marks and not enough control over their answers.

  “C’mon, Z. You’ve been working on that awhile. Take him so I can put this stuff away and we’ll do a picnic in the garden.”

  I surrendered my project and reached for James, who held his arms out for me. I didn’t say anything, but it took me a few minutes to stop wiping my eyes.

  The flyers w
ere in neat stacks in the backseat of my car. I drove to the Rhein early Sunday afternoon and brought a few of the more subtle ones up to the ticket booth. Cam wasn’t there, but when I asked if he was around, the woman behind the glass gestured me inside and pointed across the lobby toward concessions.

  The kid could dress. Today’s outfit included an embroidered waistcoat and a shirt with French cuffs. He turned toward me, smiling. “Zane! It’s good to see you. Did you come for the movie?”

  I didn’t even know what movie he was showing. “No, sorry. Now I feel like a tool. You want my five bucks anyway?”

  “You really don’t have to pay in order to drop by.” His eyes slid down to the flyers. “Oh, I’ve already got one. Actually, three. With Keith’s explicit directions on where to put each of them.”

  “I should have known.” I had no idea how to start this conversation, except that I didn’t want to have it in the lobby. “Hey, can we talk for a few minutes? If you have time. Or I can come back later.”

  “I have time. And if this is about the wake, I promise I am not attending against my will. I apologize for giving you that impression.”

  “I’m glad. But it’s about something else.”

  Cam’s expression shifted to cautious. “Ah. Okay. Well, I’m not needed here, so we can go upstairs.” Slight lift on the last syllable.

  “Thanks, Cam. That’d be good.”

  He waved to the folks at concessions and led me outside to the nondescript door on the far side of the ticket booth.

  That Cam lived in an apartment directly next door to the theater shouldn’t have surprised me—he was, in my mind, a figure practically synonymous with the Rhein—but it did.

  “This is you, huh?” I said, totally unnecessarily.

  “This is me.”

  Small dining area next to the door, living area beside the kitchen with a wall full of high windows overlooking the roofs of the next few buildings, and La Vista off to the sides.

  “I bet this was a hell of a view before that parking structure went up, huh?”

  “Actually, they apparently ripped down a department store to put in parking, and my grandfather said the parking structure was an improvement to downtown.”

  “Ouch.”

  “The owners were anti-Semites, I think, which was the cause of his animosity. Though that was in the late seventies, so it’s only little bits of story I’ve gathered through the years.” He gestured to his cute kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? Sparkling water? Still water? Orange juice? I always have almond milk.”

  “Tap water would be great, thanks.” I stood at the windows, sighting toward the Bay. Between the haze in the air and the freeway bisecting the view, I couldn’t actually see the water. Only the absence of more buildings past a certain point. “This is a great place, Cam.”

  “It is. My grandparents lived here when I was a kid. Can you believe they actually raised my dad in this tiny place? I’ve seen pictures, but I can’t really imagine it.”

  I’d bought a two-bedroom for the express purpose of having a room for Future Kid. “I can’t imagine it. Where did he sleep?”

  “In that corner. They built up a little cubby hole for him with a dresser and bookshelves, but there couldn’t have been any privacy.” He shook his head. “I’m glad my parents had a nice house in the suburbs. Though they probably bought more house than they needed because my dad remembered living here for all those years. Oh, sit. Please.”

  We took sides of his surprisingly comfortable red velvet couch, and I sipped my water before putting it on the coffee table. “I need to get your read on a wake-related thing.”

  The skin around his eyes tightened. “Okay. Though you should really ask Keith. He’s a much better event planner than I am.”

  “I actually need to talk to him, and Josh, as well. I figured I’d head over to the center tomorrow.”

  He glanced at his watch. “They’re due here relatively soon in any case. What’s this about, Zane?”

  “I talked to Ed yesterday. He’s been talking to Mr. Rodriguez. The—the father. You know. Joey Rodriguez’s father.”

  “They work together.” His voice held no inflection.

  “Right, yeah. They do. Um. So. Mr. Rodriguez has expressed an interest in going to the wake.”

  Cam sat back and crossed his legs. “Really? He’s . . . going to go to Club Fred’s for it? How strange.”

  “Ed thinks he’s trying to reconcile the side of his son he knows with the side of his son—” I broke off.

  “The side that I know? The side of his son that I met in this room?” He offered a small, forced smile. “Why are you talking to me about this? Presumably Mr. Rodriguez is as welcome at Club Fred’s as anyone else.”

  “Not really.”

  “There’s no reason anyone would know who he was.”

  “He’s asking permission. Ed doesn’t think he’ll go unless we—unless I say it’s all right.”

  “And you’re asking us? Keith will say yes. Josh will go along with whatever Keith says.”

  I spread my hands. “Should I not have come here? If you don’t want to see the guy, I’ll tell him no, Cam. I’m more invested in your comfort than I am in providing him an outlet for his grief. If that’s what it is.”

  He shook his head. “I feel bad for Mr. Rodriguez. And his family. The young man I saw here that night was not anyone I can imagine wanting to be related to.” He stretched his legs and recrossed them. “Tell him yes. After you talk to Josh and Keith. But I’m not sure I can speak to him. I still—” Face turned to the windows, he swallowed. “I still have a hard time walking down the street at night when I’m by myself. I still think he might be right around the next corner. Or around the last one, coming up behind me.” His fingers were curled into the upholstery of the couch like claws.

  I didn’t know what to say to that. “I’m sorry, Cam.”

  “I’m assured the nightmares and flashbacks ease off as time passes.” That smile again, which made my guts clench. “I’m not entirely sure why Mr. Rodriguez wants to go to the wake, but I’m not entirely sure why it’s so important to Keith that I go to it, either, and my lack of understanding isn’t stopping me. I’m okay with it, Zane.”

  “Okay. Thanks, I guess. Though I—I’m still not totally convinced it’s a good idea.”

  “There will be very few people there who get out of it everything you want them to, but Mr. Rodriguez might be one of them. If your idea is closure, or understanding, or a sense of what actually happened. Anyway. Do you want lunch? I can make something if you want to wait for Keith and Josh to get here.”

  “Is that all right? Would you rather I left?”

  “No. Not at all. I’d much prefer it if you stayed.”

  I thought he was telling the truth, so I agreed. “When are you doing another film festival? That was fun.”

  “I’m planning on six Saturdays of Spencer Tracy in April and May.”

  We talked about Spencer Tracy, who’d apparently died days after shooting wrapped on Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Cam was planning to show it last, but confessed he thought he’d probably cry when introducing it. We were still standing at the counter eating cheese sandwiches when Josh and Keith arrived, letting themselves in.

  Keith made a beeline to Cameron and demanded to know what was going on. Since Cam hadn’t had his phone out, it must have been some nuance of his expression Keith had keyed into. At least it saved me from bringing it up again. Cam explained about Mr. Rodriguez, and that he’d already given his permission.

  His prediction was almost perfect: Keith immediately agreed. Josh studied Cam for a long moment before saying it was fine with him too.

  I texted Ed when I got home to let him know. Then I returned to planning with my graph paper map of Fred’s and construction paper tables. She’d given me leave to rearrange as long as I put everything back the way I’d found it. I was already scheduled to go in early the morning of the wake to clean, and I was angling for
Tom to get me in at least once before then. One morning of cleaning wasn’t going to do it for a place that hadn’t seen a duster in a decade (at least).

  I’d ovulate before the end of the week. If all went well, I’d inseminate at least once.

  A week from this moment I could be pregnant.

  I turned my mind away from the thought and back to the right placement of our table of remembrance. Which reminded me: I had to track down pictures. I added it to my list, trying to work out who I needed to talk to. I had pictures of Honey and Philpott and Felipe. Almost everyone had pictures of Mistah Olmes. I knew a few people who’d been close to Stephanie Hawkins. I wasn’t sure how to track down a picture of Steven Costello, whom I’d bought a drink for on the night he died.

  Abruptly, it was all too much. I reheated a cup of yesterday’s decaf and curled up in my bed with a book. Screw my list, anyway.

  I charted my cervical mucus, my basal body temp, and my cervical position. I’d used ovulation test strips for a while, but really, it all came down to this: I knew I was ovulating when my cervix was plump and hungry.

  When I woke up Thursday morning, my cervix was spongy and open. My cervical mucus was all kinds of stretchy egg white consistency. I was ready. All systems go.

  I texted Carlos, as per instructions. I’d dropped off sanitized baby food jars to them last week and he’d told me that he’d take care of Tom’s end of things. I decided I didn’t want to know what that meant.

  He texted back, Come over at ten and I’ll have it ready for you. We take check and money order, sorry, no COD.

  I texted back that he was messed up and I wasn’t giving him a cent.

  Ten. Okay. I texted Steph that I’d be in at eleven because I needed to get jizzed up before work. She texted back a pile of poop.

  If you don’t have that kind of relationship with your boss, you’re missing out.

  It’d been months since I’d done my own insemination, so I got my needleless syringe out, and my hand wipes, and a vibrator, because I was old school and superstitiously thought an orgasm (which I couldn’t do in Jane’s office) might help my chance of conceiving. The internet informed me in no uncertain terms that it both did, absolutely, look at this study, and that it did not, even a little, look at this study.