Pacific Avenue (19 page)

I felt like there was a hole at the middle of everything.
But I still had Sam and Sharon, and the Motleys.

And Jamie. I still had Jamie.

Moisant Airport was mobbed the weekend before Carnival. The
gate area was packed with people who’d come to meet friends. We would never
have found Eddie if he hadn’t been holding up a card with “Greer” on it. I’d
also given him a sketchy description of us, so he was on the lookout for a
tall, middle-aged black couple. So, we got together without much trouble.

Eddie was a skinny guy, no more than five-nine, with
short curly hair and dark brown eyes. Even if I hadn’t already known his last
name was Graziano, I’d have said he was Italian in a second. I took to Eddie
right away.

But the crowds in the airport were about enough to make
me scream. And the traffic on the highway going into town was crazy. I couldn’t
understand how Willis could enjoy the crowds, but he watched everything like a
kid at his first circus.

Eddie seemed relaxed too, easygoing. He wore casual
clothes and seemed to belong in them. He probably hung onto a good suit and a
couple of ties forever and didn’t realize how out-of-date he looked on the few
occasions when he wore them.

“What do you do, Eddie?” I asked, more to get a conversation
going than because I thought it would be important.

“I own a vegetable stand in the French Market.”

That figured. The car had obviously been cleaned for
this trip, but it had a slight perfume of onions.

“We appreciate you fixing us up to stay with your
friend,” I said. “Also, coming all the way here to get us. I didn’t realize it
was such a long drive for you.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t see how you could have done it
on the bus. The airport’s way out of town. And downtown isn’t handy to Gretna,
either.”

“It seems pretty far.”

“I guess it’s not that much, though,” said Eddie, “compared
to getting around in Los Angeles.”

“We live in San Pedro. It’s supposed to be part of
L.A., but it’s more like a small town. We rarely go into L.A. Have you known
Kathy for long?” I slipped that in like it was just more chitchat. Willis shot
me a quick look, but then he went back to staring out the window.

“Kathy came to work for me year before last, about this
time of year,” Eddie told me. “Then Richard needed a job, so I got the two of
them together with Martin, over in Gretna.”

“Does he have a vegetable business too?”

“No, a puppet theater. Richard had a lot of talent with
the puppets, and Kathy was doing all the sets, lighting, even the clerical
work. Little of everything. Martin and his wife didn’t have anyone before Kathy
and Richard, now they’re up to six people. That puppet theater is really
something. Better than the movies.”

Eddie slid off the subject of Kathy as fast as I could
coax him back to it. I was about to try one more time when Willis chimed in with
some sports nonsense, and they talked about that for the rest of the drive.
They kept on and on about a new football stadium that was about to open. As if
anyone cared.

I wanted to yell at the both of them, but I smiled and
nodded. And the more they talked, the more that smile of mine felt like
something that Giannini’s crew had poured into forms and left to set for about
a month.

“I had a little nut tree.

Nothing would it bear

But a silver apple

And a golden pear.”

As I sang, Jamie reached
out her hands to me and made gurgly baby noises.

“The King of Spain’s daughter

Came to visit me,

And all was because of

My little nut tree.”

“Is that a children’s song?” asked Thu, balanced precariously
on a stepladder with a screwdriver in her hand. She had made Jamie a brightly
painted mobile and was hanging it from the ceiling. The ceiling wasn’t
cooperating. Hunks of it kept flaking out instead of holding the screws.

“I guess so. I remember it from when I was little.”

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing I know of. Some of the nursery rhymes have
strange meanings, political stuff—‘Ring-Around-the-Rosy’ is about the Black
Death—but the one I was singing doesn’t mean anything, far as I know.”

“It sounds like that’s just as well.”

I laughed.

“Pass me one of those anchors from the toolbox, would
you?” Thu fiddled with it, muttering under her breath until the screw eye held.
She hung the mobile carefully and picked her way down the ladder. She checked
her palms and crossed to the sink to wash her hands.

“Martin’s having a party for my birthday, Saturday,”
she said, drying her hands on the kitchen towel. “Can you and Richard and Jamie
come?”

“Happy birthday! I had no idea it was coming up!”

Thu looked surprised. “You didn’t?”

“No, how could I?”

She laughed. “I forgot you don’t speak Vietnamese.
Thu
means
autumn,
so I guess I assume people will know I was born in the fall.”

“Autumn! How beautiful!”

“But can you come?”

I hesitated. Jamie hadn’t gone out with other people
yet. But Sharon and Sam and the Motleys came over all the time, so what was the
difference?

“I guess so. For a while, anyway.”

Thu turned to Jamie. “Would you like to come to my
party?”

Jamie chuckled. She liked Thu.

“Jamie, may I hold you now?” Thu held out her arms, and
Jamie reached for her.

“She’s such a pretty girl!” said Thu.

I knew parents always thought their child was the most
beautiful, but in Jamie’s case, it happened to be the truth. Her golden skin
was a much prettier color than either Richard’s or mine. Her eyes, large and
baby-round, were dark brown. Mom had told me once that all newborns have blue
eyes, but she must not have ever noticed any babies but white ones. And I’d
accepted her remark without looking around to see whether it was true.

From her perch on Thu’s shoulder, my beautiful golden
baby started to whine.

“Sing some more,”
suggested Thu. I did.

“Speed, bonnie boat,

     like a bird on the wing,

Onward, the sailors cry.

Carry the lad

     that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye.”

“What a lovely song! Is that a children’s song, also?”
Thu laid Jamie gently in her crib and set her tools back into their slots in
her toolbox.

“Hardly. The rest of it is grisly. It’s about a war
between England and Scotland. Here, let me get the dustpan for that.” I kept my
voice down, hoping Jamie would sleep for a while.

“Oh, really! I must admit, I never paid much attention
to European history in school. When did this happen?” Thu asked.

“A long time ago. Eighteenth century? Something like
that.” I didn’t know a lot about the Skye boat song myself. Vague words and
pictures swirled through my mind: Bonnie Prince Charlie, Culloden, Glencoe, the
clans. . . . Did tartans come later? I wasn’t sure.

“What were they fighting about?” Thu asked.

“Religion, I think. And independence.”

“But Scotland is part of Great Britain, isn’t it?” She
sounded puzzled.

“They lost.”

Thu considered this. “Are there any stories we could
use for the puppets?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll take a look next time I’m
at the library. I need to get back to rehearsing, Thu. Here it is November, and
we’re opening at Christmas! I’ve probably forgotten everything!”

“I doubt that. But Jamie
is
going to have to let you start working again. I
still have baby things from Dom and Joss at home, you know. I’ll pull a playpen
out, and you can bring her along. Also, could you do some grant forms for the
NEA? I could bring them here—I don’t think the sound of the typewriter would
bother her too much.”

“No, don’t worry. I can type them. What are we going to
do for Thanksgiving dinner?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Of course, I’d be happy to
cook, but it wouldn’t be traditional American.”

“That’s fine with me.” After the disaster of last
year’s Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving, I didn’t know if I could ever eat turkey
and cranberry sauce again.
Com Chien Thap Cam
would be a lot better. So would peanut butter sandwiches, as far as I
was concerned.

“I’ll ask the others,” Thu said. “Maybe we could have a
potluck—some traditional, some other dishes. Why don’t you invite your sister
and Sam, too? We liked them a lot. I’ll pull out a high chair for Jamie.”

She picked up her toolbox and tiptoed out, blowing a
kiss to Jamie, or maybe to me.

The thought of Thanksgiving with the Motleys made me
smile. Maybe there’d be a mass at Our Lady of Lourdes. Then we’d sit down to a
Motley dinner, fruits and vegetables from Eddie’s stand, Vietnamese food from
Thu and Creole from Francine, jokes and fun, shoptalk about the puppets. Dom
and Joss and now Jamie in the circle, learning from us every minute. Sharon and
Sam were becoming honorary Motleys, and that made me smile too. I opened my
cookbook, wondering what I could give them all that would be good enough for
what I felt. Good enough for my family, my motley family.

For now, Jamie was fast
asleep. I snuggled into a chair with my cookbook and turned the radio on to
soft piano music. I was almost feeling sleepy myself when the news came on.

Today, the House and Senate voted to override
President Nixon’s veto of the War Powers Resolution, requiring the president to
consult with Congress before committing military forces. Unless authorized by a
declaration of war, no military involvement can be extended beyond ninety days.
Opponents of the war in Vietnam have favored this resolution, believing that it
reduces the chance for future conflicts that are not supported by the American
people.

In other news, the Chicago Cubs traded Glenn Beckert
and a minor league player to the Padres for Jerry Morales.

Stay tuned this evening for
a reading from
Black Elk Speaks
in honor
of author John Gneisenau Neihardt, who died on Saturday at the age of
ninety-two. His book, an account of the history of the Oglala Sioux from the
Indian point of view, is known for its historical and spiritual significance.
The book describes a great vision of peace and Black Elk’s lifelong regret that
he was not able to fulfill this vision.

To have a vision of peace and then see it slip away
. . . . I wondered about Black Elk, about what he’d done and why
he’d failed. And I wondered if the War Powers Resolution would fare any better.

I felt chilly as the room grew darker, so I got up to
light the heater and set a kettle on the stove. The door opened, and Richard
edged through with a box of puppets in his arms. I turned toward him, clinking
the kettle against the sink, and was startled by his face, open and wondering,
his eyes like Jamie’s. His love for us reached across the room to me.
How
could I ever have doubted it?

He stood still for a minute. Then he set the box on the
floor. I went to him and he wrapped me in his arms the way I always wrapped
Jamie. I stayed there for a long time without saying anything, being held to
his warmth, listening to him breathe.

* * *

“How do you spell
that
?”
asked Sharon, pushing a flop of hair off her face with the back of her pen
hand.

We sat facing each other across my table, mid-afternoon
sunlight slanting through the window. It picked up the gleam of things I’d
cleaned when I had the time, and a swirl of dust bunnies in corners I hadn’t
gotten around to.

“
B, a, n, h,
new
word,
k, h, o, a, i,
” I read from
Thu’s writing.

“Let me see it.” She reached across the table and took
the paper. “What in the world is it?”

“A specialty from Hue. Thu says it’s a crepe with pork
stuffing.”

“Oh.” She wrote that and then studied the list for a minute,
frowning. “Well, what’s this other one?”

“
Can chua.
Richard
and I had that once before at their place. It has fruit and spices and
vegetables—it’s sour, maybe like Chinese hot and sour soup.”

“What was that one she served last time we were here?”

“The soup?
Pho,
I think.”

“She said it was beef noodle, but it didn’t taste like
any beef noodle I ever had.”

“It has star anise and ginger in it. I like it too.”
Sharon hadn’t exactly said she’d liked it, but I remembered she’d eaten three
bowls of it. In fact, I’d had to snitch the last of it from her.

The conversation was a murmur, because Jamie was finally
sleeping. She had caught a cold, probably at Thu’s birthday party, and had
screamed for about four days, as well as most of the nights between them. Sam
said she’d be okay, but I was beginning to wonder whether
I
would.

Sharon was visiting, staying in Francine’s guest room.
Our current project was fancy menus for the Motleys’ Thanksgiving dinner.
Sharon’s handwriting wasn’t real calligraphy, but it looked good.

“Francine’s bringing Creole bread pudding with whiskey
sauce,” I told her.

“I’ll save that for the end. What are you making?”

“I can’t decide. Got any suggestions?” Cooking was not
my specialty.

“Hey, I’ve got it! S’mores! You were always good at
s’mores!” She pretended to write on the menu, giggling. “Let’s
see. . . .
S,
apostrophe,
m
. . . .”

I shook my head. “Not s’mores. This is a formal dinner.
I’ll make that rice cereal and marshmallow thing.”

“Do you serve that with red or white Kool-Aid?”

I assumed an air of hauteur. “Red, of course. Only a
peasant
would serve white Kool-Aid with marshmallow
squares.”

Jamie’s waking shriek cut through our giggles. I picked
her up from her crib, changed her, and held her close to me. Her breathing was
stuffed-up and snuffly, and she pushed away her bottle. I used a rubber syringe
Sam had provided to clear her nose. She hiccupped for a few minutes and fell
back asleep, wheezing and whimpering.

“Sam and I might move down here after we get married,”
said Sharon. “We both like New Orleans, and Sam has some doctors he might want
to partner with.”

“That’s great!” I loved the idea of having Sharon and
Sam in town.

“Also,” she went on, more slowly, laying her pen aside,
“Dad is thinking of coming down here for a few weeks.”

“What for?”

“He wants to see a doctor at Ochsner Hospital.”

“Why?” My annoyance with Dad didn’t keep me from
feeling a stab of fear. “Is he sick?”

“No, not really. But he did have rheumatic fever, and
he’s having problems. Feeling tired, short of breath, that kind of thing.”

“But he was a kid when he had rheumatic fever!”

“Some of the symptoms don’t show up much until you get
older.”

“Did you ask Sam about it?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“What about here at Francine’s?”

I thought a moment. “Things are awkward right now.”

Sharon frowned. “I think he needs to see Jamie. Kathy,
you and Dad have to work this out. I know they hurt your feelings when Jamie
was born. Dad wanted to come, and Mom wouldn’t let him. And he shouldn’t have
given in, and he’s sorry he did. Give him another chance, would you? He has to
accept his grandchild, and
you
have to
accept that he’s not perfect.” She went back to her lettering.

“What about Mom?” I asked.

Sharon looked up at me with a conspiratorial grin
straight from our childhood years. “Divide and conquer.”

I had to laugh.

“Gotta go, Sis,” said Sharon, packing up her pens. “I
promised Sam I’d call at five.”

There was a knock at the door, and Sharon opened it.
“Hi, Thu. I was just leaving. We’re working on menus for Thanksgiving. See you
later.”

“See you later, Sharon. Hi, Kathy.” Thu closed the door
behind her and looked around. She took off her coat and hung it carefully over
a chair. “How’s Jamie?”

“She’s asleep. I don’t know whether to be happy or worried.
If she sleeps now, maybe she’ll be up all night again.”

“Bad night?”

“Richard couldn’t stand it. He went out and slept in
the car.”

“In the
Volkswagen
?”

“What for?”