My Lost and Found Life (22 page)

“Boys, go watch cartoons. I want to talk to Ashley.”

At first they ignored her, squirming around us like Apaches circling the wagon train. Finally, they left when they found no entertainment value in our conversation.

“How's the job going?” she asked.

“Fine.” I stifled a yawn. It had been a long night. “It's an eye-opening experience. Some of the customers are a little bizarre, but I'm getting used to them.”

She put a steaming cup of tea in front of me. “Listen, before I forget, I wanted to tell you we're going to Denver for Christmas. You're welcome to join us.”

“Thanks, Gloria, that's nice of you, but I have to work.” I had been avoiding even thinking about the holidays.

“What will you do for Christmas?” she asked.

“I've already been invited to have dinner with a friend,” I lied.

“Oh, good,” Gloria said in obvious relief. “I was worried that you might be alone. Anyway, I'm glad you stopped by. I've been asking around about Curtis Davidson.”

Back in September I'd told Gloria all about my conversation with dear old Curtis.

“Who have you been asking?” I stirred my cup, watching the white sugar crystals disappear into the murky liquid.

“You know how it works. Someone always knows someone. There are
no
secrets in the suburbs, at least not for long. As it happens, a good friend of mine serves on the Coyote Point Museum Board with Mrs. Curtis Davidson III, otherwise known as Claire. She and Claire went to school together, and they've been close for years. And another friend lives next door to the office manager at Warren Simmons.”

“So what has your network of informants told you about Claire and her hubby?” Stella jumped up into my lap and began to wash her front paw.

“Boys, turn that volume
down
!” Gloria screamed. She took a sip of tea before resuming our conversation in a normal tone.

“For one thing, Curtis is skating on thin ice these days at the company. The office manager told my friend that they've been going through his files, expense reports, and job records with a microscope. Maybe your anonymous note has something to do with that. But the word is out that the other partners are sick of him anyway. Apparently his work ethic isn't that great and hasn't been for a long time. He disappears for hours and spends more time out of his office than in. He claims he's on sales calls and at job sites, but he's been spotted several times at bars during the day. There's also talk about a woman who seems to require hours and hours of his advice about the hypothetical building of an addition to her house.”

“Wow, Diane could really pick ‘em,” I said in disgust.

“Diane isn't the only one who fell for his line of baloney, believe me. He must be quite charming because Claire didn't marry him for his money. Her family made a fortune in San Mateo real estate after World War Two. She's the one with money, and she keeps an iron grip on her share.”

“Smart woman. Does she know he cheats on her?” In my lap, Stella purred as I stroked her soft orange fur.

“She'd have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to—and she's not any of those things from what I hear. She must have been tired of his philandering, because they separated about a year ago. But they're back together now, at least in public. As for what their relationship really is, who really knows what goes on in anyone else's marriage?”

She stood up and peered around the corner to see what her brats were doing. Nothing dangerous apparently, because she sat back down.

“I hope she throws him out, and the company does too,” I growled. “But I don't know if any of that will help my mother, even if she comes back.”

“I don't know either,” Gloria said, staring into her cup. “I just don't know.”

We both fell silent, thinking about my mother. I looked down and noticed the milk carton on the table in front of me. A child's picture was on it with the words
Missing
and
Reward
.

“Hey, do you think I could get my mother's picture on one of these?” I said, tapping on the carton.

Gloria didn't crack a smile at my feeble joke. She just reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.

• • •

The only place I could find to stay for the next few days was a youth hostel. I knew from listening to customers that there were several local hostels where a bed would cost about $20 a night, no credit cards required. I decided to try the Emerald City Hostel, near the club where Tattie worked.

Anxious to mend our relationship I had left a couple of messages on Tattie's cell phone since our blowup, but she hadn't returned my calls. After all, she had come to my rescue when everyone except Nicole had shunned me.

The hostel was on the second floor over a street-level restaurant and an adjacent porn shop. I walked up a narrow stairway to the lobby and waited at the desk while a moonfaced dweeb behind the counter had a conversation (if you can call it that) with a bug-eyed freak who needed to see a dentist.

“This seems like a cool place, dude,” said the freak. He was
wearing a tank top, probably so everyone could admire the tattoos covering his arms.

“Yeah, it's cool. You meet a lot of cool people,” the clerk said, nodding vigorously for emphasis.

“That's cool.” The tattooed freak nodded back. As their heads bobbled, both of them stared at me, as if expecting me to comment on the relative coolness of it all.

“You know what I think would be really cool?” I said. “If I could check in before the century ends.”

Their heads stopped bobbling, and in unison, they glanced at each other, probably thinking I was a she-bitch from hell.

“Well, catch you later,” the guy said. The clerk nodded.

“Stay cool, dude!” I called as he turned away.

I registered and paid for three nights in cash. The place had a decidedly let's-wear-Birkenstocks-and-burn-incense kind of ambiance. I soon discovered the sleeping quarters were only slightly more luxurious than the camper. The women's dorm was sparsely furnished with bunk beds and foot lockers for storing your gear—and nothing else. The bathroom resembled a girls' locker room.

On the plus side, the place was a lot warmer than the camper and had a spacious lounge furnished with couches, tables and chairs, a pool table, and a big-screen TV.

Settling myself down in one of the chairs, I called Tattie's number. She didn't pick up. I left a message telling her I was at the hostel and wanted to talk to her. Then I looked around, ready to enjoy the novelty of relaxing in a warm room and watching television like a normal person. Of course,
Fear Factor
wasn't my choice and the other three people watching were strangers, but still, it felt almost homelike.

After I'd spent two hours watching bad TV, Tattie appeared in the doorway to the lounge, a vision in a pink suede jacket over a form-fitting black strapless dress.

“Hi!” I said awkwardly. “I'm glad you stopped by.”

We moved to the far corner and sat down in a couple of chairs arranged around a table.

“I left you several messages,” I said. “Are you still mad at me?”

“Oh, I got over it.” She stared down at her hands and began chipping the crimson nail polish on her left thumbnail.

Diving right into the deep end, I asked, “How's your job going?”

“There's no business like show business,” she answered.

“I'm sorry I overreacted about it, but you took me by surprise and I was worried. But you look fine.”

She straightened up and looked me in the eye at last. “Actually, the job isn't as much fun as it used to be,” she admitted.

“Oh.”

“I quit yesterday. You know me, I get restless. No big deal. I just got sick of the creeps, and management was always on my ass about something. Be on time, be nice to the customers. Do this, do that. Who needs it?”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I haven't decided yet,” she said. “I know some people heading to Puerto Escondido for the winter and I might go along. Lots of surfing and good shit down there. You should come too.”

“Be careful.” The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them. “I mean, I've heard that it's really bad to get caught with drugs down there. Mexican prisons are supposed to be real hellholes. Anyway, what happened to Amsterdam?”

“I'll do that eventually. I don't like to overplan.”

I shook my head in wonder. “You really amaze me. You do exactly what you want and to hell with what anyone else thinks. I wish I could do that.”

“Don't!” she said abruptly. “I got to this point the hard way. You can't even imagine all of the shit I've had to endure.”

I was surprised at her tone. I hadn't seen a serious Tattie very often. “I know, your parents drinking and all that. It must have been tough.”

She snorted. “Please. Drinking was just the tip of the iceberg. The Mad Russian introduced me to the ‘joy' of sex at the ripe old age of twelve. He was drunk, of course, but he knew exactly what he was doing. I had a good figure even then. When I told the She-Devil, she tossed him and all his clothes out on the lawn. But she blamed me. After that, she made sure I was never alone with any of her boyfriends. As if I was interested in any of the losers she dates!”

My mouth fell open in shock. “Omygawd, Tattie. I had no idea. I can't imagine...you should have had him arrested and sent to prison.”

“I survived.” She pulled a cigarette out of her purse and lit it. “Could have been worse. At least I didn't have to go into foster care or some juvi home. Maybe he did me a favor. I found out how to use my assets at an early age, and I intend to keep using them until I don't have them anymore.”

“Maybe you should talk to someone—you know, a therapist.”

“What for?” she snorted. “Crying in some shrink's office once a week for the next five years isn't going to fix anything. He's the one who needs fixing. Castration would be my therapy of choice.”

Canned laughter erupted from the television across the room.

“Hey, you can't smoke in here!” the guy from the front desk yelled across the room at us.

“Then I'll go someplace where everyone isn't such a tight-ass,” Tattie shot back at him, blowing a big cloud of smoke his way. She turned back to me. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“It's a long story. I'm just here for a couple of days.” I avoided her eyes because I didn't want to tell her about the camper.

“Yeah?” she said, eyeing me with a shrewd look. “I tell you all about the Mad Russian's banging me, and you can't tell me why you're staying in a hostel?”

“Really, it's not that big a deal. I couldn't stay in my place for a couple of days and this seemed as good as anywhere.”

“You're being very mysterious.”

“I don't mean to be. It's just that my place isn't so great. But I'm looking for a better apartment and then I'll have you over. I promise.”

“Sure,” she said. “Are you still working at that dump, the Nuthouse or whatever you call it?”

“Yes. I like it.” As I said it, I realized it was true.

“Whatever,” she said, and reached down with both hands
to pull up her strapless top, which was inching downward in a losing battle with gravity.

“I've gotta go. I always need a little cock and tail on a Saturday night. I don't suppose you want to come out with me tonight?”

“No, I'm wiped out. Another time.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I mean it. I'm not into partying right now, but I still want to hang out with you. I need all the friends I can get. I'll never forget the way you came to my rescue when everyone else was treating me like I had leprosy.”

She laughed. “We lepers have to stick together, don't we? Okay, girlfriend. I'll call you.” She blew me an exaggerated air kiss, then disappeared down the stairs to the street.

A week later I was back living in the camper when Tattie left a message on my cell phone saying she was off to Puerto Escondido.

Another rainy Wednesday. It was seven o'clock at night and I had come to the City Lights bookstore in North Beach to hear an author read his book about the San Francisco earthquake. After the reading, I was working my way through the crowd toward the door when I found myself face-to-face with Patrick.

“Hello, darlin'. When I spotted you sitting there, I couldn't believe my eyes. I had to come see if it really was you.” Patrick grinned down at me.

“Why wouldn't it be me? Did you think I couldn't read?” Actually, I was thrilled to run into him like this, but his arrogant tone annoyed me.

“I was sure you
could
read, I just didn't know you
did,
” he said. “You don't look like someone who would be interested in geology.”

“For your information,” I protested, “I'm interested in all kinds of things. I don't really think you know me well enough to guess what I'm interested in.”

I brushed past him and started out of the bookstore. He followed me.

“True enough,” he said, falling into step beside me. “But you look like a girl who would go in for
Bridget Jones's Diary
or
Pride and Prejudice.
”

“There's nothing wrong with either of those books,” I retorted. “I like a good love story. I suppose you're too intellectual for books like that.”

“Not at all. But someone warned me recently about creating false expectations and romantic fantasies, so I'm trying to stay clear of anything that smells of romance.”

I sniffed at that remark, and he asked, “How is it that you know so much about romance at your young age? How old are you anyway? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

Ignoring his question, I said, “What does age have to do with it? Are you worried I might develop romantic fantasies about you?”