by Janet Dawson
“I left Wales a long time ago.” His index finger traced the handwritten letters. “I’m surprised she kept it.”
“I’m not. You and Annabel were lovers.”
“I’m not sure how it began,” he said. “But I remember how it ended.”
33
Berkeley, California, Spring 1974
Loud, urgent music played on the coffeehouse’s radio, Steppenwolf on a magic carpet ride. “What are you reading?” Annabel asked.
“How Green Was My Valley.” He held up the well-thumbed paperback. “I’ve read it before, and seen the film.”
“Me, too. I love old movies,” she said. “I’ve been trying to place your accent. You do have one. You’re Welsh, aren’t you? Llewellyn, same as the author of that book.”
He smiled and set down the book. “Yes, I’m Welsh, but Richard Llewellyn, the man who wrote this book, wasn’t. It’s a pseudonym. He was English. I understand he never actually went to Wales, just interviewed people. Still, it’s a good book. My people are coal miners, like the characters in this story.”
“Is Rod short for Roderick?”
“Rhodri.” He pronounced it with a long o. “I’m named for my Granddad. In Welsh, ‘rhod’ means circle and ‘rhi’ means ruler.”
“Circle ruler... How long have you lived in this country?”
“Over ten years, and a citizen for three. You say I’ve got an accent, but when I go home for a visit, my mother says I sound American. I was born and raised in a village called Cwmgwrach.” The name rolled easily from his mouth. She tried to pronounce it and he laughed at the result.
“It sounds like a cat hacking up a hairball,” she said.
“You have to be Welsh to say it properly. Cwmgwrach is a tiny speck on the map, in Glamorgan, a county in South Wales. The closest city is called Abertawe in Welsh, Swansea in English. I left when I was eighteen. Didn’t want to be a coal miner like my father and brothers. I want to see something of the world.”
“So do I.” Annabel’s eyes took on a faraway glow. “I’d like to see Wales someday. Just travel around and look at the countryside. I’ll bet it’s beautiful.”
“It’s grand,” Rod said. “We used to go on holiday to Tenby, an old walled town on the southwest coast. And north into the mountains, a town called Brecon.”
She leaned closer and he caught the scent of lavender. “I want to visit the places I’ve read about in books. London, Edinburgh, and Cornwall. The Cotswolds and Yorkminster. Stonehenge and Skye. I’ve never been farther east than Lake Tahoe.” She sounded wistful. “We go there in the summers. The longest trip I ever took was after Claire and I graduated from high school, to Hawaii with Aunt Rebecca. We stayed at the Royal Hawaiian and saw all the sights of Oahu. Claire sneaked out at night to party with the beach boys and score Maui Wowie.”
“What about you? Any adventures in the tropics?”
“Me?” She shook her head, gold earrings shimmering against her chestnut hair. “I’d never do anything reckless or daring. I’m the good girl. I sat on the beach and read books about Hawaiian history and culture. That’s Annabel, always with her nose in a book.”
“Get your nose out of the book and have adventures,” he said. “It’s time you did. You graduate in May.”
“I start grad school in the fall,” she said.
“You have the whole summer. June to August you’re a free woman. You can see a lot in two months. Just pack a bag and go.”
“A free woman.” She frowned. “Am I? You don’t know my father.”
“I know enough. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? You’re an adult. You can do as you please. As long as you have the time, and the money for a plane ticket.”
“I have both,” she said. “But I don’t have a passport.”
“There’s a passport office in San Francisco. You have pictures taken, fill out a form, and hand over some cash. Easy as that.” He grinned and dangled the names in front of her, like yarn luring a kitten. “The Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, the British Museum, the Tate Gallery. Theatre in the West End, shopping at Harrod’s, afternoon tea at Brown’s Hotel, like Agatha Christie. Then Paris. Stroll down the Champs Élysées from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde, then through the Tuileries to the Louvre.”
A smile teased the corners of her lips. “I could, couldn’t I?”
“Yes, if only you would.” The music on the radio changed. Joni Mitchell declared that she was free in Paris, unfettered and alive.
“My father would have a heart attack. Or insist that Claire and Aunt Rebecca go along. With Max Brinker as chaperone. Wouldn’t that be a band of merry travelers?” She laughed.
“I’ll go along to chaperone,” he whispered.
He was falling off a precipice and he didn’t care. Did it start then? Or the first day he reported for duty at the house on Hillegass? He only knew he was smitten. He enjoyed keeping an eye on Annabel Dunlin, and not for the reason Max Brinker had hired him.
They finished their coffee. He walked her home, dusk darkening the sky. “So you like films,” he said as they turned the corner onto Hillegass Street. “Have you seen any of the new ones?”
“American Graffiti,” she said. “That was a lot of fun. I love the music. I enjoyed The Sting, too. I like comedy, romance and film noir. Old movies from the Thirties and Forties.”
“I like the old ones.” He gazed at her in the soft wash of light from the street lamp. “There’s a film playing in the city Saturday night. Not that old, from nineteen fifty-nine. It’s called Tiger Bay, takes place in Cardiff. I think you’d like it.”
She smiled. “Why, Rod, I’d love to go out with you.”
On Saturday he took her to a San Francisco movie house that had seen better days and now eked out its survival showing art films like Tiger Bay, a gritty black-and-white drama set in a rough Cardiff dockside neighborhood. They shared popcorn, and when it was gone he set the empty container on the floor and put his arm around her. His heart beat faster when she leaned into him. He turned his head and they kissed.
He accompanied Annabel home from class Wednesday afternoon and she detoured into Cody’s Books on Telegraph Avenue. Instead of browsing through fiction, as she often did, she walked straight to the travel section. He hovered at one end of the row, watching while she leafed through the books that lined the shelves. Finally she selected several volumes about Britain, France and Italy.
“I’m planning my escape,” she said as they walked back to the house. “I took my application over to the passport office yesterday. While I was in the city I stopped in at a travel agent’s office and asked about air fares and train passes. I have lots of brochures. Once I started thinking about all the places I’d like to see it was hard to stop. If I’m going to London and Paris, why not Rome and Florence? I could cover a lot of ground over a summer.”
“You could at that. Well, speaking of Italy... That cinema we went to last weekend, it’s showing an Italian film this Saturday. Rossellini, Open City.”
“I’ve always wanted to see that. We should have dinner first. At an Italian restaurant, since we’re seeing an Italian movie.”
“I know a great restaurant, on Russian Hill,” he said. “It would be my pleasure to escort you...”
She nodded. “You’re supposed to escort me everywhere I go.”
He was impatient for Saturday to arrive. His heart quickened when he saw Annabel in a sea-green dress with a matching jacket, made of silk, soft and shiny. The fabric clung to her hips and thighs. The dress’s neckline plunged, revealing a few tantalizing inches of her breasts. Her earrings and necklace were made of silver stars.
“What a tiny little out-of-the way place,” she said. “The neighborhood’s more residential than commercial. How did you find this restaurant?”
“Rambling around.” He held the door open for her. “That’s how I learn about a city. I get out and walk. Or I ride the bus to see where it goes. I’ve been exploring San Francisco that wa
y since I arrived.”
They were seated in a secluded alcove. Annabel studied the menu. Rod studied her, drinking in every detail. When the waiter returned, pen poised over pad, Rod reluctantly tore his gaze from her and glanced at the menu. “Have you decided?”
She shook her head. “Not quite. Let’s have some wine first. That would be lovely.”
“I don’t know much about wine.”
“I’ll choose.” She examined the wine list and selected a Chardonnay. The waiter returned with the bottle and glasses. He poured their wine and left with their dinner order. Annabel picked up her glass and swirled the pale liquid so that it shimmered. “What shall we drink to?”
To us, he thought, but didn’t voice it. He raised his glass. “To your summer adventure.”
She smiled and their glasses clinked together. He drank, deciding he liked the taste of the wine. If she chose it, it must be ambrosia.
The waiter reappeared with a cart, several bowls and some implements. With a flourish and a head of romaine, he made a Caesar salad, tossing it before he divided it onto two plates and served it. Then he left them alone.
Annabel speared lettuce with her fork. “I’m making plans for my trip. I’m leaving the first week in June. I’ll spend a week in London, then Oxford, Cambridge, and York. Then Edinburgh, Inverness and across to Skye. And back down to Glasgow and Liverpool. Then Wales, of course. And Ireland.”
He smiled. “You don’t have to see it all in one trip.”
“I have to see as much as I can. It might be my only chance.”
“You’ll have other opportunities to travel. You have your whole life ahead of you.”
“My whole life. That’s too big a canvas to think of right now. I’ll just think about this summer.” Her eyes gleamed with excitement. “I’ll take the boat train from London to Dover, just like the characters in an Agatha Christie novel, and sail across the channel, then take the train to Paris. I’ll explore the Louvre and Notre Dame. Day trips to Chartres Cathedral and Versailles.”
“See what I’ve started,” he said, “suggesting you go. You took the ball and now you’re running with it.”
She smiled. “No, it was always there, the desire. You helped bring it to the surface.”
They finished their salads and the waiter brought their entrées. Annabel dusted her pasta with parmesan. Rod cut into his chicken marsala, listening as she talked about her trip. All he could think about as he ate his dinner was that he wouldn’t see her for two months.
“When are you going to spring this on your father?” he asked.
“I’ll tell him when it’s a fait accompli.” Annabel touched the napkin to her mouth and pushed away her plate. “When I have my tickets and my passport in hand. Then I’ll say, by the way, I’m going to Europe. He won’t like it. But I won’t let him stop me.”
The waiter appeared and removed their dinner plates, offering coffee and the dessert menu. They ordered cappuccino and panna cotta, a creamy pudding with an underlying hint of alcohol.
“Tell me about your apartment, and your ramblings through the city,” Annabel said.
“I have this grand little flat above a deli in North Beach. I can see Washington Square from my living room window.”
“A view, and food downstairs. What more could you ask?”
Someone to share it with, he thought. He’d always considered himself a loner, content with his solitude, but now he felt a pang of loneliness.
He told her of his forays to the public library, where he checked out books about San Francisco’s history. He read about the Gold Rush and the ships abandoned on San Francisco Bay as their crews headed for the mountains in search of treasure, the hulls and masts eventually forming the bones of landfill along the city’s waterfront. He’d read about the Barbary Coast saloons and brothels, where barflies and prostitutes drank and caroused, where ruffians shanghaied unsuspecting men for sailors. That part of old San Francisco was gone, leveled by the 1906 earthquake and fire. Out of those ruins rose the Financial District. On his days off, he tramped through the neighborhoods where the historical drama had played out, from the narrow alleys and fascinating shops of Chinatown, the sunny Latin-flavored streets of the Mission District, all the way to the shifting dunes of Ocean Beach.
“I wish I could have seen the Sutro Baths in all their glory,” he said. “And that amusement park, Playland at the Beach.”
“Playland was wonderful. We went there when I was a kid,” Annabel said. “It’s a shame they closed it down. At least Laffing Sal is still there, at the Musée Mécanique. That laugh used to frighten me. It’s been a long time since I went out to Cliff House and Ocean Beach.” She leaned forward. “I want you to show me the city. The way you discovered it.”
“You were born and raised here. Haven’t you seen it?”
“My range has been limited, and the past four years in Berkeley, I’ve focused on my studies. I haven’t really explored the city much now that I’m an adult. I want to see it through different eyes. Let’s take a field trip, next Saturday. You’ll escort me to a museum.”
Guarding Annabel made it easy for Rod to spend time with her. They went to the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park that Saturday, holding hands as they walked through the galleries. Then they had tea at the Japanese Tea Garden and walked to the Conservatory of Flowers. On other excursions, they viewed the ruins of the Sutro Baths and took in an art exhibit at the Palace of the Legion of Honor.
The last week in March was spring break at the university, no classes, so they spent one day visiting the Spanish mission that gave the district its name, and another day wandering through Chinatown. On Friday they went to Fisherman’s Wharf, breathing in the aroma of fish and salt air flavored with popcorn and cotton candy. They lunched on crab cocktails from one of the stands crowding the sidewalks outside restaurants fronting the wharves. As the afternoon waned, they headed for North Beach, Rod’s neighborhood, and climbed the steep hill to Coit Tower. At the top they watched cars twist and turn their way down Lombard Street’s steep one-block curlicue. The sunset streaked the sky with red, pink and purple.
They walked down Telegraph Hill to Washington Square, past the looming towers of Saints Peter and Paul Church. The smell of garlic wafting from a nearby restaurant made Rod hungry. “Where shall we have dinner?”
Annabel squeezed his hand. “There’s a deli below your apartment. Let’s get sandwiches and eat at your place.”
They crossed the square. His building was on Union Street, between Powell and Mason, just off the square. The bell above the door jangled as they entered the deli.
“Oh, they have cannoli,” Annabel said. “I love cannoli.”
“So do I.” Already his mouth watered as he anticipated biting into one of the crisp light shells filled with creamy sweet ricotta.
Mr. DeLucci, his landlord, was behind the counter, talking nonstop as he sliced meat and cheese and constructed their sandwiches. Mrs. DeLucci filled a pink pastry box with an assortment of cannoli and biscotti.
“It’s enough food for six people,” he said. “Or if we plan to be snowed in.”
Annabel laughed. “Snow? In San Francisco? It could happen. Anything can happen.”
“No snow in the forecast. The weather will be warm and sunny all weekend.”
“All the better for our rambling.” She took his hand and they went upstairs to his apartment. He unlocked the door. They put their purchases on the kitchen counter and set the table. Then Annabel opened the front window and leaned out. “You need a window box and some flowers. Hey, I can see the wharf.”
“I’ll put on some music,” he said. Brick-and-board shelves held a few books, his stereo and LPs. He turned on the stereo and stacked LPs on the spindle. The first was a favorite, Dave Brubeck’s Take Five. They ate dinner, talking and drinking beer. Then he washed the dishes, while Annabel dried and put them away. It felt cozy and domestic, and somehow right, to have her standing next to him in the little kitchen. He made cof
fee. They sat on the sofa, nibbling cannoli and biscotti, sipping coffee as they talked.
Annabel had ricotta at the corner of her mouth. He wiped it away with a finger. She held his hand against her cheek. He kissed her, finding her mouth much sweeter than the pastry they’d been eating. She pressed closer to him, kissing him back, her own hands tangled in his hair. Before he knew it they were stretched out on the sofa, their bodies molding to one another. His heart pounded as his mouth explored hers and his hands slipped under her shirt and found her breasts.
“I’d better take you home,” he said, his voice thick.
She tugged the zipper of his jeans. “I’m going to spend the night with you.”
* * *
Beginnings and endings, Rod thought.
He and Annabel sat at a table in another coffeehouse, another song in the background, as Carly Simon mused about the way things should be. On this afternoon in late May, unseasonable rain washed the sidewalks of Washington Square and streaked the café’s windows. He spoke words filled with hope. But the coffee in his mug tasted bitter.
Annabel sipped her cappuccino, her face grave. “I don’t want to get married. Not right now. Maybe later. Maybe never.”
He looked out at the pouring rain and longed to recapture the exhilaration of nights in his bed, making love to Annabel, of mornings when he’d awakened with her next to him, her body fitting into the curve of his own, her head pillowed by his arm. The bright sun had poured in through the white curtains, bathing their bodies in its honey glow. Now he felt the gray chill of despair. It didn’t matter that he loved her, wanted her, needed her. He should have known that her plans—graduation and grad school, her teaching career, her upcoming trip to Europe—didn’t include him.
“Is it marriage you don’t like? Or me?”
She shook her head. “Oh, Rod, it isn’t you. I love you.”