“Deduce! It feels to me like an abduction. Is this even ethical?”
“Ethical, yes.”
“You’re immoral then.”
“If I used my art to make money then I’d agree with you, but that is not my intention. What if I planned to give them to you as a gift, or to ask your permission to put them in my show?”
“I’d refuse you, of course.” She looks away, wanting to leave. But then there is another thing she feels—an intimacy that holds her there in the room with all the faces that look like her. She feels paralyzed, though her heart aches.
George has seen her face, has molded her with his hands, has fashioned the smoothness of her skin without ever touching her. He has sculpted the small blemish and made it beautiful, moving the contours of the earthen clay. He has seen into her soul. No one has ever seen her this way, been this close to her. She can almost hear his heart beating, like soft wings. And yet she can’t stand this feeling erupting within her. It feels like she might explode, break open, and even cry. She doesn’t want to, so she turns away from him and covers her eyes and mouth with her hands, smothering her silent sobs.
When she comes back, he’s looking at her. His eyes are seeing her again.
“Why’d you go and spoil everything? You could have asked me to model for you.”
“I didn’t want you to see them, not yet,” he says.
“When then?”
“In good time.”
“On your time, then?”
“Yeah, I guess.” He looks at his big plastic watch and says, “You’re back sooner than usual. I never expected you so early. You walked in on my space.”
“Well, yes, I returned early because a street person stole my pack with your dirty tarps and rags. I came to apologize.”
George starts laughing, bending over at the waist. On and on he laughs, hysterically.
“Stop it, George. Please stop it.” Her voice tries to catch breath, like a soprano mid-aria.
She storms out.
Chapter 5:
THE TOOL SHED
Walking home Lavinia looks at everyone on the street, feeling less secure. Under normal circumstances, losing a sack of laundry would have sent her into a tailspin, but she’s far more upset now about her discovery of the sculptures and her conversation with George. Perhaps she was meant to lose it so that she’d come back and discover those sculptures, see what George had been up to. She feels an odd sense of vindication for her carelessness—but the emotion is complicated by the loss she feels over George. And today she got into his clay for the first time, and it felt so liberating.
Twisted on the inside, with one cord pulling her away from him and the other pulling her toward him, she walks away. The result, a knot in her stomach that aches. A sense of personal violation mixes with the sweet feeling of being seen by another. She’s confused.
To protect herself from the gaze of others, she places the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and lowers her face. Her legs feel jittery and her head feels light, making it difficult to beef up her pace. She wants to escape the eyes of other walkers. At the crosswalk she puts her hands in her pockets and finds a tiny leaf she didn’t know was there. She takes it out and rubs it on her cheek, letting its coolness seep inside.
As she crosses the busy street, she expects a car to smash into her or for someone to snatch the black purse hanging on her shoulder. Finally home, she rushes inside, double bolts the door, and pulls the curtains tightly closed. She crosses the great, empty space to her small room in the back. The sun sets earlier these days with daylight saving over, robbing an hour of light in the evening. How she longs for spring to come.
She grabs her cell phone and sees a text message from Zack Luce: “You’re A-OK, according to Dr. Brady, except maybe for that gum chewing. My time is flexible. Call me.”
She sticks her tongue through a wad of gum, making a sheer lining for her tongue, then blows an enormous bubble and opens the door to her patio with its high fences and fig tree. She rushes outside and kneels in front of the sprawling tree, focusing on the roots and the dry mulch strewn carelessly on top, not the way Sal would have liked it. She hasn’t cared for it well. That used to be Sal’s job.
She looks to the foliage, where the leaves are vibrant but starting to change color. The small pouches of green figs, beautifully shaped, are hard still, not mature. She doubts a fall harvest.
“Will you yield a second crop?” She looks at the wide, sprawling branches, the large leaves. I’ll give you fertilizer and water you. She waits. Maybe it will shake, or the leaves will whistle in the wind, or one small sack will fall to the ground.
“Tool shed,” she hears inside her head. She’s shocked. There again: “Tool shed.” She looks at the tree and then over her shoulder to Uncle Sal’s small shed, just tall enough for him to stand. He built it under the stairs to the second-floor flat. She can see him unlocking it, opening the door, putting on his soiled gardening gloves, pulling out a twenty-pound bag of mulch, the shovel, and finally a small wheelbarrow—the one-wheel type—he so proudly bought at Ace Hardware on sale for $49.
She bends into the dry, neglected soil around the base of the tree and with her fingers scrapes through the hard dirt, making eight-finger tracks. She rakes through the soil until her fingers begin to bleed.
“Feed me.”
She gets up and goes over to the shed. The key is still on a hook. She opens the padlock and removes the bag of mulch and the other tools and goes back to the roots, where she scoops out the moist black organic mulch and spreads it onto the finger-raked roots, piling it four inches high.
Then she fills the watering pail and begins to sprinkle water onto the mulch. She watches the sprays of water seep into the earth stuff and senses a sigh of relief. She doesn’t know if it’s hers or the tree’s.
She pours herself some wine and sits outside on one of the aluminum chairs, waiting for Kinky, feeling satisfied . . . until she remembers what she saw at George’s. Then she complains to herself that it’s too warm for November, not at all right for San Francisco. “Earthquake weather,” the locals call it, because of the famous quake that came on a hot night in October in 1989.
Last night a large golden moon peeked over the fence for her and Kinky. She wants the moonlight to shine on the fig tonight as much as for her and Kinky. Looking back and forth between the fence and the ground, she waits and grinds her teeth. She lies down to calm her nerves, stretched out on the pavement next to the wet mulch, searching the sky. Faraway birds caw and mingle with the sounds of traffic and people talking in low voices. The rumbling sounds of men’s voices and a dog barking are broken by the ring of her cell phone. She simultaneously hears pounding at her door. She rushes to make her way across the studio.
There’s Kinky, small and round and hidden in her oversized jacket, standing in front of the door with her cell in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. Lavinia hopes she brought tequila. She unbolts the latch.
“What’s with the lock?”
“Some creep stole the bag of George’s laundry today.”
“What?”
“A long, ridiculous story.”
“Sorry.”
Lavinia frowns. “What’s worse than the thief is what I discovered at George’s art studio.”
“Oh, god, what now?”
Lavinia shakes herself to get the bugs she imagines to be swarming around her face and body off. She feels dirty.
“I need to shower, Kinky. Let me do that and then I’ll tell you the whole story, okay?” She holds up her dirty fingers, which are also streaked with lines of blood.
Her friend looks at her with concern and nods. “The tequila will be here when you’re done.”
“You’re an angel.” Lavinia runs the shower. “Help yourself. My glass is outside.”
She meets Kinky on the patio twenty minutes later, wearing a towel on her head. It’s warm enough that she can let it air dry tonight. She places her glass under the spout of the tequ
ila flask. “Cheers.” They taste the yellow liquid and sit quietly with the rising moon.
“What happened today?” Kinky finally asks.
Lavinia sighs. “When I came back earlier than usual to tell George about the missing tarps, I ran into some stuff that clearly wasn’t intended for me to see.”
She describes the first grouping of life-sized sculptures—the heads displayed in a circle—and how one of them seemed so familiar to her. And then about the other bust, a woman about her age with a mole on her face and a cleft in her chin.
“Me.” She touches the mole on her upper lip.
“No!” Kinky is properly outraged, and Lavinia feels some relief.
“Then I saw another torso that was also me. A life-sized me, minus the limbs. Can you imagine?”
“You never sat for him?”
“No way, but I’ve danced with him before. And today he showed me how to knead clay to get out the air bubbles, and I loved it.” Lavinia sighs and lowers her head so far that her chin touches her chest. She closes her eyes. She keeps still for some moments before saying, “I feel so exposed, like he’s seen me too closely. He’s a voyeur, and he’s exposed me without my permission.”
“I get it. I’m so sorry. You know I’d feel the same way,” Kinky says. “But I’m surprised. George has been your favorite.”
“Not anymore! And worse, he didn’t see anything wrong with it. He just said he was an artist. He laughed!” She’s getting outraged again as she recalls the encounter.
“He laughed?” Kinky’s voice raises a notch as she asks the question.
“I don’t know why. He didn’t take me seriously. So I left . . . I had to walk out to get my breath. I’m not working for him anymore, obviously.” Lavinia’s voice shoots up with a high-pitched edge. She drains the glass of tequila.
“Maybe when you calm down you should talk to him about it,” Kinky offers. “There must be some explanation.”
“I don’t think I can do that.”
“How did you leave it, then?”
“I just left and came home. I didn’t even take the cash. Just rushed home.” Lavinia looks into the eyes of her friend—dark, warm and welcoming eyes. They compel her to tell her more, so Lavinia adds the other layer she’s been dealing with, this feeling of tenderness she can’t explain. “I don’t hate him,” she tells her friend. “It’s something I can’t explain. The way he taught me how the clay talked this morning. He acts like he genuinely cares for me. And I could see from the sculptures, too, that he does. It got all confusing! I mean, he’s never acted weird. It’s not sexual. It’s something else. Maybe it is just his art . . .”
“Oh, Vinnie, I’m so sorry. I love you.” Kinky wraps her arms around her. “You look so far away.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It seems I can’t shake my past.”
How has she lived all these years so alone? She misses Sal—even Rose. They were her constant adoptive parents, and now they abandoned her. Why did they adopt her? Why was she whisked away from her birthplace? What she does know is that Sal loved her mother so much that every time Lavinia asked about her, he cried like a baby. Is that why she stopped asking him? She supposes she wasn’t ready to bear his sadness, and yet now her questions eat her up. What happened to her mother? Did Sal know her father? Is he dead or alive?
Kinky gets up, goes into the kitchen, and returns with the brown bag. “Mama made squash empanadas.” She takes them out of the bag. They’re wrapped tightly in cellophane packs, two in each.
“Thank heavens for your mother, or I would starve to death.”
“She misses your visits. She sent Mexican chocolate for dessert.”
“I miss her, too.”
They each unwrap their packages and eat in silence.
As Lavinia swallows her last bite of empanada, she says, “Kinky, can you stay again tonight? I feel a little shaky.”
“Of course. I brought my jammies,” Kinky says, smiling.
They sit and wait for the moon to rise.
Lavinia wakes up later in her own bed to the hoot of an owl. It’s still dark. She doesn’t even remember getting there. Her head feels clamped. Too much tequila. Kinky’s arm is spread across her shoulders, protective. Lavinia listens to her friend’s soft, whirring breath at exhalation. Outside, a car speeds by. The owl hoots again, and then comes a response from another one far away, like the way Kinky responds to her. Lavinia touches her friend’s outstretched arm, noticing how the moon overhead casts a luminous light on her, reflecting silver dust on her beautiful brown skin. Moon dust magic, it is. Lavinia may not have a sister, but Kinky is her sister at heart.
She lets the moonlight caress her, knowing that as a child she would have been drawn to this same perfect moon. One moon. The moon didn’t change just because she moved halfway across the world, away from her birth parents. The same moon comforts her as it might have comforted her dear parents. The thought that they, too, once gazed at the moon, experiencing its silver gifts, makes her want to see them. Can they see me now?
Lavinia imagines her mother sending food on an evening like this, the way Señora Montoya does. But not empanadas. She would send pappardelle Napoletana. Or pizza or cannoli. Foods she loves to eat. Her mother would send enough for Kinky, too.
Lavinia falls asleep in the bosom of the silvery moon mother with her best friend beside her.
After Kinky leaves this morning, Lavinia places a call to Zack and they arrange a time. He tells her he’ll meet her at the house at eight and can go over the arrangements. The good news is he can change the day so she’ll have the place to herself. “Eight, then?” he asks.
“Yes. I’ll be there,” she assures him. She breathes deeply, relieved she doesn’t have to ask Nina to change her day.
She puts on her headphones and listens to some new age music intermingled with Nina Simone’s deep rich voice while she gets dressed. Its bass quality contrasts with her own high-pitched voice and calms her. Lavinia wants to imitate that voice. She holds her nose and then sings along, hoping for the same effect. Maybe if she smoked. She’ll buy a pack later today and it will make her look tougher, stronger, she’s sure. It will help her ward off thieves, George’s glances, Nina’s husband staring at her chocolate mole.
For now she lights a match. The flame buoys her up and enlarges itself as if it is a dragon protector-torch she needs to blow them all off, to keep her safe. She imagines the brave warrior Brunhilde in Wagner’s Die Walkure, who is put in a trance and protected by a ring of fire. She wants that for herself. To be protected.
Chapter 6:
THE NAME
Standing in front of Zack’s house in North Beach, Lavinia presses the bell with a minute to spare. He lets her in. At precisely 8:00 a.m. she reaches his hallway and hears a chorus of chimes, gongs, and bells welcoming her.
Passing the bookcases that line the walls, she asks Zack, “Have you read all these books?” Then, stopping in front of a tall bookcase, she muses, “They’re all about time.”
“Theoretical physics is my vocation,” he responds, nodding.
She’s not sure exactly what that means, so she points one book out. “Have you read this one?”
“Of cours-s-e, all of them, but I don’t remember when, so I start all over regularly. Do you know, I learn something new each time I read one? New eyes-s-s.”
Lavinia hadn’t noticed the wall of books between the entryway and the living room on her first visit. Zack’s collection rests on shelves from floor to ceiling.
He surveys his library with a bright look on his face. “My first love, after Elsa,” he says. But he doesn’t dwell too long. “You want to see the laundry facility?”
She follows him through the living room to a small laundry room.
“Elsa wanted a Miele washer,” he says.
“Honey,” she says, staring at the smart-washer-and-dryer combo. Shelves above the washer contain various detergents and bleaches, stain removers, and spray starch. Whether or not Zack catches
her reference to the Italian word for honey, he ignores it. He follows her gaze to the starch.
“That’s for the blue tablecloth?” she asks.
“She used to starch and iron it every week, while I did the whites.” His voice catches.
“Elsa sounds like someone I would have liked to know.”
He looks away, sniffling, then takes a hanky from his pants pocket and passes it over his nostrils. He’s wearing navy velour pants with two white stripes down the legs. On his way out, he grabs a black zippered canvas sport bag and a Giant’s baseball cap. Why Lavinia cringes when she sees that hat on top of his old head she doesn’t know. It doesn’t fit her image of him, a preppy gentleman engineer.
He seems to have caught her expression because he offers, seemingly by way of apology, “A gift from Margaret. She wants to protect my lily-white skin. Precancerous growths. Silly to worry at my age.”
“Sorry about that. I just didn’t picture you wearing a baseball hat, Mr. Luce. Maybe a golf hat.”
“I’d rather that, too. I like your sense of fashion. And call me Zack.” He opens the door and then looks back at her. “I’ll let myself in about noon. I imagine you’ll be done by then, but leave whenever you’re done. I don’t need you to watch the clock.”
Just then, the clocks in the living room chime on the quarter hour.
“Ciao,” he says.
When he’s gone, Lavinia sits in his study/living room looking at titles in his collection: From Cradle to Cradle, Seven Arrows, The Golden Bough. She doesn’t recognize any of them. The common thread of evolution runs through them, the evolution of time. Is it man in cyclical time? She’s never thought of time that way. She focuses on the clocks of every variety and size, wondering what these intruding clock faces have to do with anything. The tall grandfather clock with the roman numerals and large shiny hands, the one that gives her a sense of dread—its deep ticks and gongs seem to breathe with her, making her aware of how shallow her breath is. She takes one long, deep breath and moves along to explore the many family photos that decorate the room.
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