And Yesterday Is Gone (30 page)

Rica's arms reached out. “If you two are going to come to blows over my baby, bring him to me.”

As Juan reluctantly returned him, my son delivered himself of a distinct, unmistakable sound.

“See?” Rica laughed. “Only gas.”

“Not so,” Juan countered. “That boy gave the very first smile to his Uncle Juan before that.”

“The baby really should go back to the nursery now,” the nurse declared.

Juan held the door for her and, with a disapproving sniff, she carried the boy to safety.

“Uncle Juan will see you tomorrow, Steve.” Juan grinned as he closed the door behind him.

I could tell that Rica was regaining her strength rapidly as she turned her gaze to me. Her tart comment followed: “On a scale of one to ten, I'd say you rated a two-and-a-half—at the most.”

I pulled my chair closer to the bed and put my arms around her.

“Rica,” I pleaded my case, “I don't know about babies. He's so little. I'll do better. If you can keep that nurse out of here, I'll spend the whole day with you. I'll hold him.”

“Not likely.”

I heard the decisive voice of the nurse as she appeared noiselessly from somewhere.

•  •  •

Despite my early arrival the next morning, I met Juan coming out of Rica's room.

“Beware the witch,” he muttered as he passed me. “Meet me later?”

I nodded.

The room was fragrant with the many arrangements of red roses. The old nurse grumbled as she positioned the vases.

“Why didn't I think of that?”

“Because you're a country boy,” teased Rica.

Did I imagine that nurse adding, “…with cow shit on his boots”? No, I thought, those words were unknown to that proper lady.

When I bent to kiss Rica, the blanket moved and I looked in wonderment at this tiny replica of myself, his eyes looking up at me as if making a decision. I hoped that Rica had put in a good word for me. Fearlessly, I slipped my arm beneath him, a hand holding his head.

How hard can this be? I thought, psyching myself up while frantically trying to remember in which hand Juan had held that downy head.

Quickly I sat down, holding him close. He seemed to snuggle into his chosen position and, oddly enough, we were both comfortable. With one little fist in his mouth, he closed his eyes, seemingly satisfied with his decision.

I sat with my eyes closed, too, thanking God, then Rica, for her recommendation.

•  •  •

I met Juan an hour later as he read a day-old newspaper in the little room where I had spent some agonizing hours. He stood, grinning from ear to ear.

“How lucky can I get. At last I get a little uninterrupted time with you. It is a happy day,” he declared enthusiastically.

“Yes, I've never been happier,” I said. “I held my son for an hour and he laughed out loud. He probably would have said ‘Daddy' if that thoughtless nurse hadn't whisked him away. It is a happy day.”

“Steve, you have everything in life that counts except money…” Pausing, he added, “But I have that, so we're both happy, aren't we?”

The tone of his voice had changed. Disturbed, I glanced at him. He was smiling, but the smile never reached his eyes.

I spoke with perfect truth. “Let's eat—I'm starved. Dinner last night was a can of chicken soup with not a cracker in the house.”

I wasn't dawdling over lunch, but Juan rushed me anyhow.

“What's so important that I can't have dessert?”

“Drink your coffee and I'll show you.”

Juan drove carefully through the busy city, picking up speed as he started the climb up a hill. A smile seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth, and I could sense his excitement.

“Juan, where are we going?”

His smile widened. “It's a surprise.”

I allowed myself a brief memory of my first experience in this magnificent part of the universe. Terrified, filthy, reeking of sheep shit, and hiding behind the huge wheel of a semi, I prayed for deliverance. Deliverance came in the form of a battered old Buick where I found sanctuary buried in the backseat, hidden beneath a crumpled tent, folding chair, Coleman stove, dirty laundry and more.

In the front seat, two zoned-out would-be hippies were looking for their dream at eleven hundred Haight Street.

Now it seemed never to have happened.

I suddenly laughed. “Juan, I've come a long way.”

“We've
come a long way,” he corrected. “We still have a long way to go.”

“What is all this secrecy about? You know you're dying to tell me, so let's have it.”

His grin plastered across his face.

“Well, Dr. Teddy told me that I must invest some money or it will be heavily taxed. My last two paintings sold to a woman for a ridiculous price. Now she has commissioned me to do a portrait of her and her daughter…money is no object, of course.

“Real estate is the best investment. Dr. Teddy said that God doesn't make any more of it, the population is growing at a tremendous rate, and the city isn't keeping up, although some redevelopment has started. So I've been doing a lot of research and I want to show you what I've found.”

His excitement seemed to grow with every sharp curve.

A winding tangle of streets threaded over an increasingly steep hill. Appearing momentarily were traditional houses, both stucco and wood frame, clinging to the hillsides and adding splashes of color as we continued our climb.

Finally, when it seemed that we could go no farther, Juan turned down a little twisted path, an indication that there had once been a driveway. Seen dimly through the old eucalyptus trees stood a weathered gray house and, as we drew near, Juan turned off the motor and we sat, just looking. I was speechless.

Juan's face had the look of a man in love. He saw the incredible beauty of a bygone era, still obvious in the graceful lines and steep roof of the Queen Anne Victorian, which was similar in structure to the Hassé house in Pacific Heights, even to the canted chimney on one end.

What I saw instead was the abandoned remains of a house that must have been spectacular even in its time, still standing proudly as if to say, “Do what you will, I'm still here.”

The windows were gone or hung in great broken shards; what was left of the tall front door stood open. One slim ionic column was all that supported the richly decorated portico that sagged in despair as if waiting for the count of nine, but game to the finish. And this was only the front.

“Juan,” I gasped. “You couldn't have invested any money in this.”

He didn't answer, but opened the door and got out.

“Are you coming?”

I followed.

“Juan, where in hell are we? All those twists and turns…I don't know east from west.”

“We are in the center of an acre on Telegraph Hill near North Beach, which is a hangout for artists, poets, Bohemian intellectuals. There's plenty of nightlife and expensive little shops and cafes there, but Telegraph Hill is much quieter and this house is insulated on this beautiful land. Many of these old homes up here have been bulldozed, but I got here first.” And he laughed as I had not heard him for a long, long time.

“The Spaniards named it ‘Loma Alta,' then it was known later as ‘Goat Hill' by the early San Franciscans. The hill now owes its name to a semaphore—a windmill-like structure used to signal to the rest of the city the nature and purpose of the ships entering the Golden Gate…the history is fascinating.”

His head thrown back and arms outstretched, he spoke almost with awe. “You've never seen such beauty—the view is forever. Look, the Golden Gate Bridge seems to hang from the sky, and there's Treasure Island. If you look past Coit Tower, you can see Alcatraz. The murals at Coit Tower make me want to burn my brushes, they are so beautiful. The entire city lies beneath us—imagine what it looks like at night. Steve, say something.”

I laughed. “Watch where you're walking, Juan. Your head is in the clouds. You're in love with an acre of dirt, a beautiful view and a house that the bulldozer missed.”

I saw the disappointment in his eyes before he turned his head. Instantly, I was ashamed to have hurt him, to have rained on his parade.

Flinging my arm over his shoulder, trying to soften my words, I said, “You may as well show me everything. What is that building over there?”

He brightened. “That's the old carriage house and stable. Can't you just see a fine old buggy drawn by a high-spirited horse?”

He was walking quickly and I stretched my legs to keep up, wondering how he knew about buggies and horses, while I stumbled over a length of iron fencing concealed in the weeds.

“This must have been a lily pond—see the beautiful stonework and the unusual shape? Surely there must have been formal gardens.”

We walked over a large part of the land. I was growing tired, but Juan never slowed.

“You haven't seen the inside yet, but be careful—some of the floor has been torn up. Vandals have carted off everything they could.”

As we approached the house, I saw it was surrounded by a sea of old boxwood trees, azaleas and wisteria all growing together in a tangle, the wisteria seeking to invade every crevice.

“Can't you see them all in bloom this spring? The fragrance will be heavenly.”

Juan pushed open a back door—the servants' entrance, I assumed.

I felt glued to the threshold, horrified at the devastation of this fine old Victorian. The house had been raped. Ornate woodwork had been defaced, windows were broken, and there were gaping holes in the high ceiling where the crystal chandeliers had hung and shone their light on a different generation. The magnificent fireplace looked naked without the mantel that I knew had once surrounded it.

We walked from room to room and Juan painted a visual picture of his plans. His enthusiasm was contagious, but my mind could only see the tremendous amount of work, time and money that would be required to restore this aged beauty.

As if reading my thoughts, Juan said, “I have the time—and the money. I'll have the best craftsmen in the city.”

“Yes, that would be a good idea.” I laughed. “Remember the bent nails I pulled out of that old ram's pen?”

His look darkened. “I probably can use a hammer as well as you can use a brush.” Touché. “I love this house. Even the walls whisper to me.”

Looking at the wide carved stairway, I saw that the elegantly shaped bannisters had been spared. We tread lightly as we walked up and paused on the second-floor landing. Looking down for a moment, I could almost see the rooms refinished through Juan's enamored eyes…but, oh, the work, the time…

“Probably needs a new foundation and roof, too.”

“No, the foundation doesn't even have a crack. Rock, of course. Haven't been on the roof yet, though. You probably don't know, but many of these old houses were built of redwood. It was plentiful, cheap and has the rare ability to withstand rot and insects.”

Juan's determination fought with my common sense.

Slowly, reluctantly, my objections and criticism seemed to leak away like sand through a sieve and I began to see the old house and feel the call as Juan had.

Common sense made a last desperate try.

No sane man would buy a house in this condition. After all, it's only an acre of dirt and a view, so I pushed away Juan's vision. But why did I smell the fragrance of azaleas and boxwoods—and spring was months away.

“Juan, have you forgotten I have a wife waiting for me?”

As we drove down the hill, I asked, “Have you discussed this with Dr. Teddy?”

“No, I wanted you to see it first. Why don't you come to dinner tonight?”

“Aha. You just want reinforcements.”

He didn't deny it.

But anything Mrs. Mackey fixed was going to beat chicken soup out of a can again, and I knew that Juan needed me.

Back at the hospital, I found Rica sitting up, a beatific smile on her face as she held the sleeping heir to the McAllister fortune. I stooped to kiss her and she raised one arm to pull my head down for a kiss that warmed me to my very bones. Can life get any better than this?

Pushing the blanket aside, she extended a leg for my inspection. “Will you notice that thin ankle?”

My quick response was “I'd like to see more of that leg before making a decision.”

And we giggled like two teenagers, ignoring the indignant look from the hovering nurse.

We would need to get a larger apartment—perhaps a house with a yard. And I was going to need some different transportation what with almost two hundred thousand miles on that truck. So we talked and planned until her eyelids got heavy and the baby had been carried back to the nursery.

It was late afternoon as I drove through the city, Juan's dinner invitation lurking in the back of my mind.

Traffic thinned as I started up the long drive. In the distance I could see the lights of the big house. The truck slowed in second gear and slowly made it to the top.

With the addition to my family, a different mode of transportation was going to be a necessity, but how could I part with this faithful old friend?

Even as Juan opened the big door, I could smell the delicious aroma and I knew Mrs. Mackey had done it again.

“Someday I am going to make Mrs. Mackey a better offer and
you
can eat chicken soup out of a can.”

After a quick hug, I heard Dr. Teddy's voice respond, “I doubt that—after twenty-six years.”

She led the way to the dining room that was bigger than my entire apartment.

We finished a dinner that probably ruined me for tacos permanently when Juan announced, “I'd like to show you some pictures of a property I've been looking at, adhering to your advice, Dr. Teddy.”

We followed him to the library. I lagged behind and refused to meet Juan's eyes.

He spread the pictures of the outside of the old house on the library table, then the interior photos, room by room. Pictures of the land lay beside them.