And Yesterday Is Gone (18 page)

“Look,” she said, stepping into the cab and pointing.

I leaned over, my eyes following her finger, to see that the truck was fully automatic.

Heaven and that Mercedes could wait.

While they explored every part of the truck that I could reach, my hands worked independently from my brain, an organ that was trying to sort out the questions becalmed in a sea of disbelief that this could be happening to me.

She handed me the keys, and Juan and Mamá Sara clapped.

“I couldn't possibly…I appreciate…” I stammered.

“You can,” she said with finality.

“I could borrow it until I get my own…” My inadequate protest was cut short.

“This is your own.” She pressed the keys into my hands. “You need reliable transportation until you get your Mercedes.” She grinned. “We don't need it. Actually it's cluttering up the garage. I got it two years ago thinking it would be helpful for Mackey, but when he was going down the hill, he hit the gas instead of the brakes and almost scared himself into a heart attack. He drove back, put it in the garage and threw a cover over it, taking up space in the garage since then. You'd be doing us a favor.”

“Yes, I can see that the garage certainly is a mess.” I grinned. “Guess this is the only way to show my appreciation for all the kindness you've shown me this weekend.”

I put the keys in my pocket. She put her arms around me and gave me a hug.

“Be sure to spell my name right when you're a big-time reporter.”

When the time came, I did.

It was a champagne celebration that evening.

Mamá Sara offered to christen my truck with a bottle—an offer I refused. We drank that bottle and then another…then I forget.

Juan and I laughed and talked way late into the night until I fell asleep drunk with champagne and happiness.

When the aroma of coffee awoke me, I found the blanket at the foot of the sofa and no pillow.

“The service isn't what it was,” I complained.

Juan laughed and said, “I see you're spoiled already,” as he handed me a cup.

We talked nonstop all day Sunday, taking time only to eat. We didn't discuss our time at the ranch—a raw wound barely scabbed over, but spoke of our hopes for the future. Mamá Sara and Dr. Teddy joined us at intervals and it was one of the best days of my life.

I got an early start on Monday morning—I didn't dare be late for class.

It was a happy, tearful leave-taking, with plans for the future assured.

Mr. Mackey, watching through a window, muttered, “They're at it again.”

I drove my truck over the Bay Bridge, high above the water below and certainly not in the slow lane.

My mind relived the unforgettable experiences in another world—a world I never could have dreamed existed.

It had been a storybook weekend that rivaled the Arabian Nights, and was as far from my church-schooled existence as it was possible to get.

The bottom line was that Juan was still the same Juan who had survived that never-to-be-forgotten hell with me. No, he hadn't changed—only the circumstances had—and perhaps myself.

My head was still in the clouds as I scurried into her classroom. But I was late anyway—inexcusable in Mrs. Dowd's opinion.

After her acid tongue had reduced me to buttons and shoelaces, my ego landed with a thud and my normal life went on.

W
hen I wasn't studying, I'd go down to the baseball field and practice with the hopeful amateurs. I had pitched for our school games and wasn't too bad. And dribbling a basketball at the huge gym was pure pleasure. Sometimes I even got it in the hoop. But baseball was my game.

I found the college newspaper's office. It was the “Goliath” to my old school's “David.” It seemed to me that's where my life began.

Hanging out there my every spare moment, bragging that I had been the editor of my school's paper for three years—I failed to mention that I had been fired, but did drop that Mrs. Dowd was giving me Bs and B pluses in her class. Anyone in the writing business knew Mrs. Dowd.

Finally the editor couldn't stand my pleading anymore and assigned me the sports column—for free.

I was ecstatic and gave it everything that was in me. To my super- critical eye, my work wasn't bad. I spelled the players' names right and got the scores correct. I knew beyond a doubt that this was my life.

My trips home became less frequent as the games were mostly on weekends. Classes, studying, writing and rewriting took all the rest of my time.

I kept in touch on the phone and the monthly phone bill grew like Topsy.

Ma was immediately suspicious of an older woman who would give a young fellow a truck, so I dared not go into detail. She was upset, too, because Sis, now in her senior year, was seeing way too much of a guy Ma didn't approve of, especially after she'd discovered the screen that had been removed from Sis' bedroom window.

But the guy joined the Marine Corps and was now training at Camp Pendleton. Ma was relieved and Sis went back to
True Confessions
—maybe.

My friendship with Juan remained as strong as ever. I seldom got over the bridge to see him, but he would drive over regularly and we'd squeeze in as much time as possible.

Usually Rica was with him. She seemed to have a lot of time on her hands—Juan was way past the need for a tutor, but apparently Rica had adopted him. He joked that now he had a sister, too.

Rica had a great sense of humor—laughed at all my raunchy jokes, flirted like crazy with me, holding up that damn ring finger when I'd get too close.

I'd say, “Why don't you marry the guy? You're going to die an old maid.”

She'd defend him with, “He's a busy man—he has his career. Mind your own business, Cowboy.”

“If I was on my way to heaven, I'd take time—all the time I'd need,” I said jokingly. But she knew I meant every word. I was crazy about her. She made me miserable. Both were hard to conceal.

Juan said, “Why don't you give it up, Steve. She's just not for you. Forget it.”

She made every girl I took out come in a poor second. Plus, I had no time and no money for frivolities.

In a weak moment after class, Mrs. Dowd had told me that I was a natural-born writer, a sentiment I had no argument with. I was nineteen years old, full of myself, and figured the big-time was just around the corner and I could make it.

The last quarter was coming up fast and, knowing that would be the end of my formal education since I was out of funds, I badgered the editor of the
Bridgeport News,
a small newspaper nearer the city with a circulation of 25,000. Armed with Mrs. Dowd's recommendation and all other pertinent information I could dig up, I gave him no peace until he said he would consider me for the sports reporter. He had other applicants.

Some months later, when walking out of my final class, I spent my last twelve dollars on a dozen red roses and had them delivered to Mrs. Dowd with a note that read: “There is no person who has influenced my life more or for whom I have more respect. Gratefully, Steve.”

T
he woman who sat so gracefully in the brocaded chair had everything that screamed old money.

Completely at ease, her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, the long legs crossed at the ankle. The lovely gown draped perfectly about her slim shoulders—those shoulders that could hold a priceless fur as easily as the satin straps. Her auburn hair was piled high on a head tilted slightly to accentuate the elegant line of her jaw. He green eyes were glinting with just a hint of “Let them eat cake.”

Sara painted quickly with broad, easy strokes, glancing up intermittently, stepping away only to scrutinize the painting with a critical eye.

She paused, added a color here, blended a color there, redoing a part of what she had thought was perfect at the last sitting. Trying not to show her impatience with a portrait that just would not come together, she put her brush down.

“Perhaps we've done enough for today.”

The woman spoke, a little edge to her voice. “There's something about the eyes that isn't quite right and it must be perfect.”

She stood and rearranged her clothing.

“When will it be finished? It's been a long time.”

“Very soon. It has taken longer than I expected but, as you say, it must be perfect. Shall I ring for your car?”

As the door closed, Sara sank down on a chair. Wiping the paint from her hands, swiping at her tears, she cursed.

“This damnable portrait. Will I ever get it right? Near perfect, except for some elusive little detail. I've gone over it a hundred times in my mind. What is it that I'm missing? What?”

Exhausted, frustrated, she put her head in her hands and sobbed.

Juan had been out. As he entered his apartment, he could hear the muffled sounds from her studio. Quickly, he made tea, then knocked as he came in carrying the tray with a steaming pot.

She smiled tearfully, motioning him to sit beside her. But he deposited the tray and sat with his arms around her waist, comforting her as she alternately cried and raged.

“Truly I'm ready to burn the damn thing.”

Releasing her, he poured the tea and as she accepted the cup, he walked to the easel and studied the portrait carefully. His eyes examined every brush stroke as he looked at it from every angle.

Sara poured herself another cup of tea, her emotion spent, and dabbed at her eyes while she watched him scrutinize the canvas.

He picked up a brush and turned to Sara with a questioning look.

She smiled, nodded, then walked to the closet to retrieve her old paint-spattered easel. After placing a canvas on it, she tacked on a paper cover.

“Show me. Let me be your pupil,” she said, laughing, the tears still drying on her cheeks.

Returning to her chair, she refilled her cup and watched as Juan picked up a charcoal stick and started to sketch. He emphasized the arrogant tilt of the head, the miniscule slant of the eyes, then softened the curve of the cheek. With a sure hand, he shadowed the high bridge of the nose.

Sara watched, her tea growing cold, her eyes wide with disbelief, as the face became all too familiar.

Juan hesitated for a moment, stepped back, then detailed the eyes. As if by magic, the portrait became the face that Sara had been striving for.

Turning to her, he said, “I used to draw pictures of my grandmama on the wall.”

He had so quickly corrected the flaw that had eluded her for weeks. The portrait had become real.

She reached for her brush and it seemed to fly as her eyes flashed from the charcoal sketch to her beautiful oil, correcting, stroke by stroke.

Juan smiled his encouragement.

Suddenly the portrait became alive. Her hand was shaking as she lay down the brush. At last—at last! It was perfect.

Holding hands, they danced like children around the portrait of the senator's wife.

W
hen the caller identified himself, my heart jumped so hard, I thought a rib was broken.

“Prentiss here.
Bridgeport News.
Come in and we'll see if you're as good as you say. If you are, maybe you can write a column.”

“With my name at the top?” Instantly I felt my face flush at the schoolboy sound of my question and hoped he'd think I was joking.

I was so thrilled that my phone bill went up another twenty dollars—I couldn't get Ma off the line.

My first real job. Where I got paid for doing what I loved most. To be able to see my name above my article. I was ecstatic.

I was assigned a desk stuck back in a smoky corner, older than Moses, scarred with cigarette burns, and a typewriter that had certainly seen better days.

My typing skills were not great, but one of the copy boys gave me a couple of quick lessons. The hunt-and-peck system was mastered.

My brain was over the speed limit. I worked harder than I ever had in my life, pouring out the images from my mind, painting them with words to make my readers taste the popcorn, smell the hot dogs, feel the hard seat of the front row.

I considered myself a full-fledged member of the press and wore a button that said so. Unfortunately, that didn't get me into the press box. That was reserved for the announcer and his friends.

I got calluses on my ass from sitting on anything stationary. Sometimes, while trying to meet a deadline, I'd misspell a word or get the names of the players mixed up. The editor and I had some serious talks.

He didn't seem to mind that I'd only had three semesters of formal instruction —he actually said I was a “natural.” I hoped he meant I was a natural writer, but the fact that I worked long hours and never mentioned the overtime may have influenced his opinion.

There were lots of adjectives—not necessarily flattering—floating around the copy room among a bunch of hardcore reporters depending on their moods. Still, I hung out there as if it was home.

“Why in hell don't you bring a sleeping bag?” some wise guy suggested.

•  •  •

The months passed. The truck really got a workout. I mentally thanked Dr. Teddy every time the keys turned and it leaped to life as ready to go as I was.

It seemed that I was always on the road due to my assignments covering various games from the high-school hopefuls to the state championships.

My expense account was bare bones. I met a lot of cockroaches, drank bad coffee and slept in cheap motel rooms.

I loved every minute of it.

Who would have dreamed that a posthole digger, aka sheepherder, and a penniless immigrant well-trained in the production of marijuana could have come so far—in so little time?

Maybe the Lord figured He owed us.

T
he phone was ringing off the hook as I opened the door, cussing to myself. “What the hell now? That last game had been a tie and I've got to write it up before I forget anything…”