Passion's Promise (45 page)

"And not a pizza in sight."

"Don't they have pizza out here?"

He made a face in response. "Yes, but we keep them under control. Not like New York. One of these days, a mad onslaught of crazed pizzas will take over the town." He made fierce monster faces and she laughed.

"You're a nut. Good heavens, look at that car!" They rolled into a drive-in food place on Lombard, and waiting at the window was a hot rod with the back all jacked up. "You'd think they'd fall on then- faces."

"Of course not What a beauty . . . vrooommm . . . rooom!" He made the appropriate sounds and grinned broadly. "Haven't you ever seen one like that?"

"Not that I can remember—and I daresay I'd remember—except maybe in a movie. What a horror!"

"Horror? It's a beauty! Wash your mouth out with soap!"

She was laughing and shaking her head. "Don't tell me you had one like that! I'd be shocked!"

"Well, I did. A lowrider special. My first car. After that I screwed up my image and got a secondhand VW. Life was never the same."

"It sounds tragic."

"It was. Did you have a car as a kid?" She shook her head, and his eyes opened wide in disbelief. "You didn't? Christ, all kids in California have cars by the time they're sixteen. I bet you're lying. I'll bet you had a Rolls. Come on, tell the truth!" She giggled, furiously shaking her head, as they drove up to the window to order their tacos.

"I'll have you know, Mr. Vidal, that I did not have a Rolls! I borrowed a crumbling old Fiat when I stayed in Paris, and that was it I've never owned a car in my life."

"What a disgrace. But your family had one, right?" She nodded. "Aha! And it was . . ." He waited.

"Oh, just a car. You know, four wheels, four doors, steering column, the usual stuff."

"You're telling me it was a Rolls?"

"It was not." She grinned at him broadly and handed him the tacos that had just appeared at the window.

"It was a Bentley. But my aunt has a Rolls, if that makes you feel any better."

"Much. Now hand over those tacos. You may have come three thousand miles to see your old man. I came for the tacos. A Bentley . . . Jesus." He took a bite of bis taco and sighed rapturously. Kezia leaned back in her seat and began to unwind. It was comfortable being with him; she didn't have to pretend. She could just be herself.

"You know something funny, Alejandro?"

"Yeah. You." He was into his third taco.

"No, I'm being serious."

"Yeah? How come?"

"Oh for chrissake, put a taco in you and you get all fun of yourself."

"No, I get gas."

"Alejandro!"

"Well, I do. Don't you ever get gas? Or is that bred out of you?"

She blushed as she laughed. "I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that . . ."

"I'll bet you fart in bed."

"Alejandro, you're awful. That's a highly unsuitable remark."

"Pobrecita."He was a ceaseless tease when he was in a good mood, but she liked it. He had been so quiet on the plane, but now the atmosphere was festive again.

"What I was trying to tell you, Mr. Vidal, before you got outrageous . . ."

"Outrageous? Fancy that!" He had switched from tacos to root beer and took a long swallow.

"What I'm trying to tell you . . ." she lowered her voice, "is that the weird thing is, I have really come to need you. Isn't that strange? I mean, I'd be totally lost without you. It's so nice knowing you're around."

He was silent, with a distant look in his eyes. "Yeah. I feel that way too," he said, finally. "It feels funny when I don't see you for a couple of days. I like knowing you're okay."

"It's nice to know that you care. I guess that's what I feel, and it feels good. And I worry that maybe someone's killed you on the subway when you don't call.

"You know, that's one of the things I like best about you."

"What?"

"Your unfailing optimism. Your faith in the human race . . . killed on the subway. . . . Asshole. Why would I get killed on the subway?"

"Everyone else does. Why shouldn't you?"

"Gee. Terrific. You know what I think, Kezia?"

"What?"

"That you fart in bed."

"Oh, so we're back on that again, are we? Alejandro, you're a shit. And a rude, outrageous shit at that! Now drive me to the bay. And what's more, I do
not
fart in bed!"

"You do!"

"I don't!"

"You do!"

"Ask Luke!"

"I will!"

"You dare!"

"Aha! Then he'd tell me the truth, wouldn't he! You do!"

"I do not! Damn you!"

The debate continued as he backed out of the drive-in, and finally dissolved in gales of then- laughter.

They chuckled and giggled and teased the remaining few blocks to the bay, and then they fell silent. It lay stretched before them like a bolt of darkest blue velvet, and there was a veil of fog high overhead, not low enough to obstruct the view from across the bay, but just enough so that it sat suspended on the spires of the bridge. A foghorn hooted sadly far off in the distance, and the lights around the rims of the shore sparkled.

"Lady, one of these days I'm going to move back here."

"No, you won't. You're in love with your work at the center in Harlem."

"That's what you think. That bullshit is getting to be more than I want to have to deal with every day. People just don't get as crazy out here. You never know, maybe that interview I have lined up out here will pan out."

"And then what?"

"We'll see."

She nodded pensively, unnerved by the idea that he might leave New York. But it was probably just talk, to let off some steam. She decided to ignore what he had said. It was safer that way.

"When I see it like this, I want to stop time and stay in this moment forever."

"Crazy girl. Don't we all wish we could do that. Did you ever come down here at dawn?" She shook her head. "It's much better then. This city is like a beautiful woman. It changes, it has moods, it gets all gray and baggy-eyed, and then turns beautiful and you fall in love with her all over again."

"Alejandro, who do you love?" She hadn't thought of that since the day they'd shared hot chocolate in Yorkville. He was almost always alone, or with her.

"That's a strange question."

"No, it's not. Isn't there someone? Even an old flame from the past?"

"No, none of those. Oh, I don't know, Kezia. I love a lot of people. Some of the kids I work with, you, Luke, other friends, my family. A whole bunch of people."

"And too many. It's so safe to love lots of people. It's a lot harder to love just one. I never did . . . until Luke. He taught me so much about that. He isn't afraid of that the way I was . . . and maybe you are.

Isn't there even one woman you love, as a woman? Or maybe a few?" She had no right to ask, and she knew it, but she wanted to know.

"No. Not lately. Maybe one of these days."

"You ought to give it some thought Maybe you'll meet someone out here sometime." But deep in her heart, she hoped he wouldn't. He deserved the best sort of woman there was, one who could givehim back all that he gave. He deserved that, because he gave so much. But secretly, she knew that she hoped he wouldn't find her just yet. She wasn't ready to lose him. Things were so lovely just as they were. And if he had someone, she would lose him; it would be inevitable.

"What are you thinking about, little one? You look so sad." He thought he knew why, but he didn't.

"Just silly stuff drifting through my head. Nothing much."

"Don't worry so much. You'll see him tomorrow."

She only smiled in response.

They saw it as they rounded a bend on the freeway. San Quentin. Across a body of water, a finger of the bay that had poked its way inland, it stood at the water's edge, looking ugly and raw. Kezia kept it in view the rest of the way, until finally it vanished again as they left the freeway and followed an old country road around a series of bends.

The mammoth fortress that was San Quentin took her breath away when they saw it again. It seemed to stand with its body jutting into her face, like a giant bully or an evil creature in a hideous dream. One felt instantly dwarfed beneath the turrets and towers, the endless walls that soared upwards, dotted only here and there by tiny windows. It was built like a dungeon, and was the color of rancid mustard. It was not only fearsome, but it reeked of anger and terror, loneliness, sorrow, loss. Tall metal fences topped with barbed wire surrounded the encampment, and in all possible directions stood gun towers manned by machine-gun-toting guards. Guards patrolled the entrance, and people emerged wearing sad faces, some drying then-eyes with bits of handkerchief or tissue. It was a place one could never forget. It even boasted a long dry moat, with still active drawbridges to the gun towers that kept the guards safe from potential "attack."

As she looked at the place, Kezia wondered how they could be so fearful. Who could possibly get free of that place? Yet now and then people did. And seeing the place made her suddenly know why they'd try anything, even death, to escape. It made her understand why Luke had done what he had to help the men he called his brothers. Prisoners of places like that had to be remembered by someone. She was only sorry it had been Luke.

She also saw a row of tidy houses with flowers beds out front. The houses stood inside the barbed wire fences, in the shadow of the gun towers, at the feet of the prison. And she guessed, accurately, that they were the houses of guards, living there with their wives and their children. The thought made her shudder. It would be like living in a graveyard.

The parking lot was rutted with potholes and strewn with litter. There were only two parking spaces left when they got there, and a long line of people snaked past the guardhouse at the main gate. It took them two and a hah* hours to reach the head of the line, where they were superficially searched and then herded on to the next gate, to have their pockets ransacked again.

The gun tower stood watchfully over them as they walked into the main building to sit with the rest of the visitors in a smoke-filled, overheated waiting room that looked like a train station. There were no sounds of laughter in that room, no whispered snatches of conversation, only the occasional clinking of coins in the coffee machine, the whoosh of the water fountain or the brief spurt of a match. Each visitor hugged to himself his own fears and lonely thoughts.

Kezia's mind was filled with Luke. She and Alejandro hadn't spoken since they entered the building.

There was nothing to say. Like the others, they were preoccupied with the business of waiting. Another two hours on those benches . . . and it had been so long since she'd seen him, touched his hand, his face, kissed him, held him, or been held the way only Luke knew how to hold her. Kisses are different when they come from such a great height, or that's how it had seemed. Everything was different. He was a man she could look up to, in myriad ways. The first man she had looked up to.

In all, she and Alejandro waited almost five hours, and it felt like a dream when a voice on the intercom squawked out his name.

"Visit for Johns . . . Lucas Johns. . . ." She sprang to her feet and ran to the door of the room where they would visit. Luke was already there, filling the doorway, a quiet smile on his face. He stood in a long, barren gray room, whose only decor was a clock. There were long refectory tables with inmates on one side and visitors on the other, while guards wandered and patrolled, their guns displayed prominently.

One could kiss hello and goodbye, and hold hands during the visit That was all. The whole scene had an eerie unreality to it, as if this couldn't exist, not for them. Luke lived on Park Avenue with her, he ate with a fork and a knife, he told jokes, he kissed her on the back of the neck. He didn't belong here. It didn't make sense. The other faces around them looked ragged and fierce, angry and tired and worn. But now so did Luke. Something had changed. As she walked into his arms, she felt a wave of claustrophobic terror seize her throat . . . they were lost in the bowels of that tomb . . . but once in Luke's arms, she was safe. And the rest seemed to fade. She was oblivious of all but his eyes. She completely forgot Alejandro beside her.

Luke swept her up in his arms and the force of his embrace flushed the air from her chest in one breath.

He held her aloft for a moment, not releasing his grip, and then gently set her down, hungrily seeking her lips once again. There was a quiet desperation about him, and his arms felt thinner. She had felt bones in his shoulders where weeks before there had been so much flesh. He was wearing blue jeans and a workshirt, and coarse shoes that looked too small for his feet. They had shipped the Guccis and everything else back to New York. Kezia had been there when the package arrived, everything crumpled, and his shirt badly torn. It gave you an idea of how it had come off his back. Not with a valet, but at the point of a gun. At the time she had cried, but now there were no tears. She was too glad to see him. Only Alejandro had tears in his eyes as he watched them, a radiant smile sweeping over her face, hiding the panic, and a look of intense need in the eyes of his friend. After a moment, Luke's gaze swept over her head, and acknowledged Alejandro. It was a look of gratitude Alejandro didn't remember seeing before. Like Kezia, he saw that something was different, and he remembered the urgent plea in Luke's letters to come out with Kezia. Alejandro knew something was coming, but he didn't know what.

Luke led Kezia by the hand to one of the long refectory tables, and went around to his side to sit down, while Alejandro took another chair next to her. She smiled even more as she watched Luke take his seat.

"Jesus, it's so good to just watch you walk. Oh, darling, how I've missed you." Luke smiled quietly at her and gently touched her face with his work-roughened hand. The calluses had come back quickly.

"I love you, Lucas." She said the words carefully, like three separate gifts she had wrapped for him, and his eyes shone strangely.

"I love you too, babe. Do me a favor?"