The Laundress

by Barbara Sapienza

  PRAISE FOR THE LAUNDRESS

  “I enjoyed the company of tequila-drinking, bubblegum-chewing, dancing Lavinia, the laundress, who took me on a no-tech tour of San Francisco, getting her hands into clients’ dirty laundry and cleansing family secrets, including her own. Sapienza elicits sympathy for her Italian immigrant heroine, who has more ups and downs than San Francisco has hills but whose travails and travels left me happy and hungry for Mexican food and espresso.”

  —ANN LUDWIG, freelance travel writer for The New York Times

  “Spirited, quirky, and independent Lavinia Lavinia makes a life as a laundress in San Francisco. But she feels a painful void: her family history and identity have been kept from her. As we follow her, the mystery slowly unravels, with the help of friendship, love, and adventure.”

  —PATRICIA STEENLAND, College Writing Programs, UC Berkeley

  “Barbara Sapienza draws the reader into the life of Lavinia Lavinia, providing a blueprint for living and prevailing in the modern world of the twenty-first century.”

  —JOHN D BREDEHOEFT, PhD, member of the National Academy of Engineering

  “Set in the aliveness of the city of San Franciso, The Laundress gives us a story of the power of love and forgiveness to break open the human heart, healing the wounds within the self and within others.”

  —CHERYL KRAUTER, MFT, author of Surviving the Storm: A Workbook for Telling Your Cancer Story

  “Written from the heart and spiced with swirling dance, chiming clocks, steaming tamales, sculpted clay, and double espressos, The Laundress tells a beautiful story of lost family and the healing power of friendship. A rich and rewarding read.”

  —DIANNE ROMAIN, author of The Trumpet Lesson

  “Sapienza weaves a tapestry of Old World customs with New Age therapies, cityscape with wilderness, and festering wounds with blossoming love that dances to life on the page.”

  —SHARMON J. HILFINGER, author of Arctic Requiem: The Story of Luke Cole and Kivalina

  “Barbara Sapienza is masterful at creating a powerful story of a yearning daughter driven to know her distant father—not easy, as Lavinia was snatched away from Naples as a baby and brought to San Francisco, creating a chasm of time and place. Readers are not only swept into a passionate pursuit of reunion but by the author’s extraordinary skill at sustaining mystery until we are dazzled by surprise—the best kind.”

  —JOAN MINNINGER, PhD, author of The Father/Daughter Dance

  Copyright © 2020 Barbara Sapienza

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2020

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-679-4

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-680-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019954309

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Peter Sapienza, my love

  She weaves the story

  the gods change them into birds

  so that they can fly away again

  Fillamina and Her Mute Sister

  Accademia dei Lincei, Roma

  Chapter 1:

  THE RINGS OF TIME

  Lavinia Lavinia walks toward Columbus Avenue in San Francisco from the Mission District wearing her work uniform: black straight-leg jeans, a men’s tuxedo jacket, and her T-strap shoes. She carries extra bubblegum in one pocket and in another a few tiny fig leaves she harvested from a backyard tree.

  Monday mornings bring a lazy feeling on the street—if people aren’t late for work, that is, and she isn’t yet. As she nears Columbus, she sees cars looking for parking spaces and people milling around doorways, chatting, espressos in hand. The scent of roasted coffee beans floats into the street from the small cafés, intoxicating and tantalizing. Lavinia pops a piece of bubblegum into her mouth and lets the sugar pool into a liquid puddle on her tongue before she begins to chew. The first bite quells the unease she feels as she walks farther and farther away from her studio in the Mission and toward her new client’s home.

  Zack Luce called only this morning, saying that since his wife died, his clothes have suffered. Now, only thirty minutes later, she is en route to his house in North Beach to discuss his laundry needs.

  Anticipation for this first meeting has brought fear and trembling into her body; a nervousness about entering an unknown house makes her ears ring, and, as she recalls his soft, whispering voice telling her that his wife died, a flutter enters her heart. The way his voice caught, the palpability of his sadness, both touched and scared her.

  Lavinia Lavinia turns her focus to laundry. She loves to wash clothes. It is only while washing and ironing and folding that she feels fresh and free and even unique. She feels blessed by her particular skills. She is a laundress. She enjoys ironing, sorting, and removing stains in people’s homes, their own private sanctuaries; she likes getting an intimate look at others’ spaces. But in the first encounter at the door, when time seems to stand still, she always feels afraid. She’s not sure what to say or do, or who will greet her.

  Once inside, though, she is in awe of these places where people live so fully—unlike her in her storefront studio, which is minimally embellished, empty of her personal touch. With its long, narrow front room, her space is like a barn, more suitable for a horse than a young woman.

  She decides to stop for coffee at Café Falcone in the ten minutes she has before meeting Mr. Luce. The coffee aromas answer her misgivings and pull her inside the café, where she joins six people waiting to order. The wooden tables scattered about seem to say, Sit down here and sip your latte. She orders a double espresso and stands at the bar to drink it, the way they do in Italy. The espresso slides down easily. She pays the barista, a young, good-looking guy, and places a piece of bubblegum in the tip jar before leaving to find the small street off Columbus where Mr. Luce lives.

  She’s in the habit of tipping with bubblegum; it’s something she started doing when she was in first grade. It endeared her to her classmates, and now it, along with the fig leaves, has become her signature. The good-looking guy’s eyes seem to pop as they follow her hand to and from the tip jar. She can feel him still watching as she strolls back out onto Columbus.

  The neighborhood is a revival in Lavinia’s eyes. North Beach’s Italian bakeries, cafés, and delis interlace with the Chinese restaurants, butcher shops, and outdoor markets. Every other place on the block is a patchwork of color, vibrant and seductive.

  Although Mr. Luce’s place is near the café, its location—on a small cul-de-sac—brings it a sense of privacy as a neighborhood home. Lavinia enters the vestibule, presses the white buzzer next to Mr. Luce’s name, then grasps a piece of her silky hair in the fingers of her right hand and begins to twirl it into a tight twist as she waits. He buzzes her in just as she snaps a bubble with her tong
ue.

  She opens the door to the inner foyer, where mailboxes and a wooden table line the walls. The entryway floor is carpeted in beige wool. Her feet press into the luxurious carpet, soft and spongy under her feet, a welcomed contrast to the cement sidewalk outside. The carpet has a few mean stains that make her wonder who spilled or dribbled. Was it a kid? Lovers playing? An old lady with trembling hands? She immediately focuses on what she would do to remove them, should she get the job.

  The aroma of dried lavender permeates the entryway. He told her on the phone to come up one flight and his door would be on the right. She notices an elevator on the left side of the hallway—old-fashioned, small—but she takes the stairs, as instructed. At the top of the stairway she knocks on the door marked #2 and waits with her ear to the wooden door.

  Footsteps approach, and she jumps back a little. When the door opens, an elderly gentleman stands before her. He’s tall and thin, with white, wispy hair and glasses with dark frames. She notices the crease in his pressed slacks and the starched collar of an otherwise soft blue cotton shirt. She imagines pressing its long sleeves, smelling the clean cotton threads.

  Mr. Luce says hello and smiles at her, ushers her inside his flat. His apartment is an Edwardian—once a large home, now subdivided into condominiums. Creamy white gives a light feel. The décor is soft and clean, splattered with fabrics too flowery for her taste. Assorted family photographs adorn the furniture. On a side table sits a bouquet of fresh yellow roses. On a mahogany dining table, set in a small alcove by the window, rests a starched blue linen tablecloth. Beautifully ironed. She feels her body relax.

  “Pleas-s-s-e, sit down.” He points to one of the dining room chairs. His voice—soft, as it was on the phone—puts her at ease.

  “Thank you, Mr. Luce.”

  “Oh, pleas-s-s-e, call me Zack. This work relationship won’t be a formal thing, you know. I just want someone to help me keep up with the laundry. I used to do it myself, but since Elsa died I’m not up to it anymore. I think I did it for her.”

  Lavinia lowers her head at hearing his wife’s name; it brings death too close for her comfort. The fact that this house has seen death scares her. She touches the smooth skin of the fig leaf in her pocket.

  “What exactly do you need?” She eyes his cotton pants, his long-sleeved shirt.

  “I like my bed sheets washed every week, and then there’s the kitchen linens, the tablecloth, and napkins.” He looks toward the blue-covered table.

  Thinking how strange it is to keep up this business of linens with his wife dead, Lavinia says instead, “Nice flowers.”

  “My daughter Margaret sends them. She likes yellow roses and thinks that’s a substitute for visiting me.”

  Lavinia doesn’t know what to say so she stares at the yellow flowers. They complement the blue cloth.

  “Margaret lives in Davis. She’s an ED doc, too busy with her work to do my laundry, and I wouldn’t ask her anyway.” Zack fiddles with a hearing aid in his right ear, moves his head closer to Lavinia.

  “I’d come to your home once a week,” she says, then, stops to look around the apartment. “You have a washer and dryer here? Ironing board and iron? Laundry soap and bleach for the whites? I prefer eco-friendly cleansers, if possible, non-scented or naturally scented.”

  Zack nods. “We’re well-equipped here, but—”

  “I don’t drive and prefer to work in the home where the laundry lives.”

  Zack stares at her, raises his eyebrows.

  By habit, she starts to fidget with her hair. “I guess I didn’t explain. I provide in-home service.” She gets up, moving to leave, thinking Mr. Luce must want his laundry taken outside.

  “Wait, miss-s-s. How old are you?”

  Lavinia stops, turns toward him. “I’m twenty-six,” she says, and takes a card from the small leather purse she wears on her back. She hands it to him and watches him examine it, turning it right side up to discover it’s in fact a business card fashioned into the shape of a long-sleeved shirt.

  He reads aloud, “Lavinia Lavinia Laundress-s-s. Full service in-home laundry.” He smiles at her. “Cute card! But I’m not quite sure whether this will work in this small apartment. I don’t like feeling like I’m falling over someone. I’ve become used to living alone.”

  “Perhaps it won’t work then. I need my quiet, too. People generally leave the home while I work.” She steps closer, extends her arm, reaching for her card.

  “Unless you can come in the afternoon on Wednesdays-s-s. That is, when I’m out a good number of hours.” Zack gets up and moves closer to Lavinia, so close that his breath touches her forehead as he speaks.

  Just then, a cuckoo clock chimes nine times.

  Soon other clocks begin to chime, ringing and buzzing, surrounding her and making her feel twitchy. She imagines being watched by all the faces of these clocks, which she doesn’t see but only hears, as if they are spirits speaking in some strange language. She looks toward the blue cloth, remembers Elsa, and imagines her presence in the house. Lavinia is not so sure she wants to work for Zack and so close to all these gongs that seem to be marking time. She wonders: If spirits could speak, might they sound like this? And what if she should come one morning and find him dead? He’s the oldest person she knows.

  She moves her gum, which has been resting on the back of her palate, to the center of her mouth and starts chewing. When she looks up he’s still facing her, his head bent close to her ear.

  “Well, I’ll have to check my schedule,” she says. “How much laundry do you estimate? And will ironing be involved?”

  He touches the collar of his button-down shirt. “Three or four shirts-s-s a week, two or three pair of slacks-s-s, the usual towels-s-s and underwear. Yes, I would like you to iron.”

  “Sounds like two loads of white, including the linens, and one dark. And the sheets, too. I’d say to wash, dry, iron, and fold would take about four hours.”

  “Did you say four hours-s-s?” He bends forward, places a pink ear with soft white hairs next to her mouth.

  “Four hours. You have my references.”

  “I saw your name at my dentist’s office. Dr. Brady.”

  “I’ve worked for Dr. Brady in his home for years.” She doesn’t tell Zack that they have a barter: weekly laundry service for dental hygiene. She chews hard on her gum.

  “What’s your fee, miss?”

  “Fifty dollars an hour.”

  “Miss Lavinia, I’m curious about how you got into your trade.”

  “My trade?”

  “Yes. Also, your tuxedo jacket. I like it. I used to have one with the thin lapels, too. Where is that thing?” He looks around the room.

  Lavinia doesn’t know what to tell him, though people have asked her this same question countless times before. “Ah, that’s a long story to save for another day,” she says. “I have another appointment now. I’ll confirm for next week.” She moves to leave.

  “I’ll expect a call about whether Wednesdays-s-s work then. You have my number.”

  “Are you wanting my services every week?”

  He nods and walks with Lavinia down the long hallway she didn’t even notice on the way in. He opens the door and waits on the landing as she goes down the carpeted stairway. When she turns back, he’s waving good-bye to her exuberantly.

  Outside she nearly walks into a young boy, tall and skinny, with the longest feet she’s ever seen, who brushes past her and runs up the steps. He wears a Giant’s baseball cap and pants that look too big for him, exposing his butt. And what a skinny waist! When he passes her, he keeps his chin tucked so she can’t see his face. He seems to be headed for the apartment she’s just left. She wonders if he’s related to Zack, or maybe a resident in the firstfloor apartment. Likely the one who stained the carpet.

  Back on Columbus Avenue, Lavinia dips into the same café for another espresso. The barista looks at her with a wide grin. He has a classic Greek nose and dimples. He looks to be about thir
ty. He seems to recognize her. She snaps a bubble at him, which causes him to smile even more deeply. She stands at the bar.

  “You were in here earlier?” He draws her out. “Do you always tip gum?”

  “As a matter of fact, yeah!”

  “What are you doing in the neighborhood?”

  “I’m a laundress.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I detail people’s clothes. You know, so they look sharp.”

  He looks at his apron and smiles. “I could use some detailing.”

  “You know the people who live around here?”

  “Who’s asking?” He leans over the counter up and close to her.

  “I am. I’m about to work for an old man at number 365.” She points to his apartment.

  “Oh, I know that building. Yeah, it belongs to Zack. He’s lived there a long time, as long as North Beach has been in existence. A little hard of hearing, otherwise a nice guy. He’s famous, too.”

  Lavinia’s eyes widen.

  “He patented a coffee maker. A real coffee connoisseur. An inventor. He replaced the old percolators. You know, camp coffee.”

  She raises her eyebrows. Before she can ask a follow-up question, he changes the subject.

  “So a laundress! That’s not something you hear very often. It sounds so old-world, like something from a Victorian novel.”

  “Yeah, it’s as old as camp coffee. I launder people’s clothes. Keep them clean and tidy. I specialize in removing stains with eco-friendly suds.”

  “That’s a new one, and I thought I’d heard everything.”

  Lavinia tips her espresso to her lips and drains it to the last drop. Then she unwraps a fresh Bubblicious, pops it in her mouth, and pays. Before she leaves, she places an extra gum in the tip jar for the barista. He reaches in, picks out the gum, and winks at her before she turns to leave.

  Chapter 2:

  THE BLUE STAIN

  Bubblegum renewed, Lavinia walks up the steep hill on Chestnut toward Russian Hill and her next job. Thoughts of Zack and the cute barista float around like a summer balloon in a soft wind. The barista’s interest in her lingers like a wind that might take her balloon away.