Mary Ann in Autumn (8 page)

“Anyhoo,” said Mary Ann, chirping away the darkness, “I have twenty-six friends already.”

Michael seemed confused. “Oh . . . on Facebook, you mean.”

“Yeah. Ben friended me, and some of his friends recognized my name from my TV days.”

“That’s because they’re old,” said Michael.

Mary Ann batted her eyes in half-serious indignation. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“What other way could you mean it?”

Though Michael didn’t deserve it, Ben let him off the hook. “He was being jealous,” he told Mary Ann. “That comment was for me, not you.”

“His Facebook friends are older gentlemen with facial hair . . .”

Ben grinned at Mary Ann. “He’s exaggerating. A few of them maybe . . .”

“ . . . and they all look like me . . . fleshy features, big bellies. It’s totally unsettling.”

“So?” said Mary Ann with a shrug. “You’re his type. What’s so unsettling about that?”

“Thank you,” Ben mumbled through a mouthful of bread.

“It would be much more unsettling,” Mary Ann added, “if they were all cute little twinkies or something.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Michael. “Now that I know what his type is I have to worry about whether I’m the best version of that type. Not to mention what will happen when . . . you know, I’m no longer that type.”

Mary Ann rolled her eyes so Ben could see it. “He’s always been like this, you know.”

Ben nodded. “I kinda figured.”

“When things are going great, he finds a way to make it not count.”

“Hey,” said Michael. “Gang up on me, why don’t you?”

“I’m not saying a word,” said Ben, exchanging a private smirk with Mary Ann.

It was a moment of bonding he had not really expected.

Chapter 11
An Underlying Agenda

S
o here they were, at last—sitting underwater on a floating island in San Francisco Bay—a wack place to eat dinner if ever there was one. But something about the way the waiter had just crooned the word “gentlemen” as he handed them their menus had turned their excellent adventure into an embarrassing dinner date.

Or so it seemed to Jake. He wondered if Jonah was feeling the same discomfort over the assumption that they were a couple. It was Jonah, after all, who’d insisted on this goofy outing to Forbes Island, so he was the one whose motives were suspect. At first Jake had written off the evening as a boyish whim, but now there was something brightly expectant in Jonah’s eyes that hinted at an underlying agenda.

“May I show you our wine list?” the waiter asked, while a solitary, bewhiskered fish idled in the murk beyond the porthole.

Jake glanced at Jonah, who shook his head. “I’m good with ice water.”

“Same here,” said Jake, relieved that he’d been spared the ordeal of wine selection. He was sure that duty would have fallen to him, since he was the one with the beard, and Jonah, weirdly enough, seemed even younger than his twenty-two years now that he was spiffed up in a blue blazer and a white shirt.

When the waiter had left, Jonah pulled an iPhone from the breast pocket of his blazer and summoned a photograph. “That’s Becky,” he said, showing it to Jake.

The girl was a toothy brunette with flat, shiny hair. She was standing in front of a sign that read
HOME OF THE LOBOS
.

“Smokin’,” said Jake, though she wasn’t especially.

Jonah returned the phone to his blazer. “She works at the chamber of commerce. We’ve been together since high school. How ’bout you?”

“How ’bout me what?”

Jonah smiled. “Is there a girl in your life?”

Jake hesitated, looking for a way to be as truthfully misleading as possible. “There used to be,” he said at last, “but no more.”

The kid frowned in sympathy. “That’s too bad.”

“Thanks, but . . . it wasn’t a good fit.”

Jonah nodded solemnly. “You’ll find the right one.”

“So where’s the chamber of commerce? Where your girlfriend works. What town?”

“Oh . . . teeny tiny little place. Snowflake, Arizona. About six thousand souls.”

“Where it snows a lot.”

“Well . . . a fair amount, but that’s not the reason. It was founded by a guy named Snow and another guy named Flake. Back in the 1870s.”

“Dude . . . shut up.”

Jonah smiled. “My last name is Flake.”

“Seriously?”

“There’s a bunch of us in Snowflake. People tend to stay put.”

Suddenly, the name rang a bell for Jake. “There’s a movie about that town. I saw it on TV back in Tulsa. Some logger who said he got abducted—”

“—by a UFO. Yeah, that was Snowflake.”

“That was some scary shit. They probed him with these creepy metal doohickies. Were you living there when that happened?”

Jonah shook his head. “I remember the movie. The abduction was before I was born. My cousin was town marshal back then. He thought the whole thing was a hoax.”

“Marshal Flake.”

Jonah hesitated, seeing the smirk on Jake’s face. “Actually, yeah . . . Marshall Sanford Flake.” He managed a sheepish smile. “Told you I was a country boy.”

Jake was instantly remorseful. “No, man, it’s cool. I grew up in the suburbs of Tulsa. I would have given anything to live somewhere that interesting.”

“When did you move here?”

“About four years ago. Just picked up and left. Got tired of working at Wal-Mart.”

“So what do you do now?”

“I’m a gardener. Actually, a partner in a gardening firm.” It was stupid, but he couldn’t help bragging a little. For some reason, he wanted to impress this green kid from the hinterlands.

“And it doesn’t . . . you know . . . get to you?”

“What? Gardening? I love it.”

“No . . . this city . . . the people and all.”

Jake was pretty sure he knew what Jonah meant, but played dumb. “How so?”

“You know . . . San Francisco values . . . that sort of thing.”

Jake shook his head, remaining as poker-faced as possible. “Nope. No problem so far.”

The kid nodded rhythmically, as if keeping time with the silence between them.

T
HE WAITER RETURNED WITH THEIR
meals—salmon for Jake, a rack of lamb for Jonah. Jake welcomed this temporary relief from conversation, since there was already a whiff of uneasiness in the air. He was making appreciative noises about the salmon, when he realized that Jonah’s head was bowed discreetly in prayer.

“Oh . . . sorry . . . I didn’t . . .”

“You wanna join me?”

“That’s okay. I’ll just . . . you go ahead.”

So Jonah kept his head bowed while his lips moved in silence for a few more awkward moments.

“Sorry,” said Jake, as soon as Jonah had picked up his knife and fork.

“No biggie. You were thanking Him in your own way.”

“I always thank the salmon.” Jake was joking, but not completely, since he often made an effort to be appreciative when a helpless creature had died for his sins.

Jonah chewed a mouthful of lamb before speaking again. “You’re not a Christian, then?”

Jake shrugged. “I was raised one.”

“But?”

“I dunno. I couldn’t buy it anymore.”

Jonah looked him directly in the eye. “You know, dude . . . that’s why they call it faith.”

“Believing what you know ain’t so.”

A cloud passed over the kid’s face.

“Mark Twain,” said Jake. “ ‘Faith is believing what you know ain’t so.’ ”

“Oh.”

The kid was looking more and more like the bug-eyed fish pressed against the porthole, so Jake kept his tone as gentle as possible. “I just don’t think that anybody’s up there. I don’t believe in life after death. I wish I could, but I can’t. I think if there’s a heaven, it has to be here and now. We’re the only ones who can make it happen.”

“I understand,” Jonah said softly. “That’s why I do what I do.”

Jake just blinked at him.

“I’m a missionary, Jake.”

“No kidding.” For a moment, Jake thought of the classic image, picturing the kid in a pith helmet and jungle khakis. “To where?”

“To here . . . for now.”

“Here? San Francisco?” It took him a while, but Jake finally saw the cold, gray light of dawn. “Oh . . . you’re a Mormon.”

“We actually prefer—”

“Right . . . sorry . . . the Latter Day . . . whatever. You came here for the election, then? To work for Prop 8?”

The kid nodded.

“Canvassing or something? Going door to door?”

“Yes.”

Jake could feel his face flashing red—a sure sign that he was beginning to lose control—but he made no effort to temper his reaction. “How did that work out for you? After you’d won, I mean . . . after you’d taken away people’s rights in a state you don’t even live in, for fuck’s sake. Did you feel you’d done some good in the world?”

Jonah seemed to think about that for a moment. “Truthfully . . . no.”

“Wow. Imagine that.”

“I’m not sorry it passed, because I truly do believe that marriage is between one man and one woman. But I never felt that I’d connected with another soul. Made a real difference, you know. I never had that one-on-one. And when I saw you standing there watching the sea lions, and you seemed so kind-hearted and decent and . . . I don’t know, like a regular guy . . . I felt like I had to reach out to you, because I could help.”

“And how would that be?”

“Look, Jake . . . I thought I might be gay myself until I met Becky.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe I’m totally out of line here, but I’m pretty good at telling when somebody’s—”

“You’re talking labels, Jonah. Around here we don’t put labels on people.” This was completely untrue, Jake realized—San Francisco was obsessed with labels—but he had to say something, and this was all he could manage in the heat of the moment.

“Let’s put it this way,” said Jonah, lowering his voice as he looked around the room. “You sleep with guys, right?”

After a moment, Jake replied quietly: “Yeah. Not often enough, but . . . yeah.”

“And do you know why that is?”

Jonah’s wooden, seminar-style questioning annoyed the hell out of Jake. “Because I’m attracted to them?”

“Yes,” said Jonah, missing the sarcasm completely, “but
why
are you attracted to them? I’ll tell you why.
Because you’re trying to complete your masculinity.
Someone, at some point in your life, said you weren’t man enough, and you believed them, and that’s why you think that being with another man will somehow—”

“Jonah—”

“Hear me out, dude. You’re one of the manliest guys I’ve ever met. Not just in appearance but . . . your manly heart and your compassion. You’re the real thing, dude. You’re man enough for any woman.”

By this point, Jake had lost track of his emotions. He felt flattered, insulted, humiliated and validated all at once. Without making a spectacle out of it (since several of the other diners were already glancing in their direction), he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and removed three twenties, tucking them under the butter dish.

“What’s that for?” asked Jonah.

“I gotta go. That should cover my portion.”

“C’mon, dude—”

“You mean well, Jonah . . . but you don’t have a clue what you’re dealing with.”

“If this is about Prop 8—”

“It’s about everything, Jonah. It’s about all sorts of shit you don’t know about in Snowflake. The world isn’t as neat as you think. It’s not your fault. It’s everybody else’s fault.” Jake pushed back his chair and stood up. “That includes me, for what it’s worth.”

Jonah gazed up at him in forlorn confusion.

Without looking back, Jake headed directly for the stairs, only to remember, as he climbed into the cool night air, that there was no instant escape from this phony island. He stood beneath the phony lighthouse and the real palm tree and waited for the shuttle to arrive, fretting at first that Jonah might follow him out there, then fretting because he did not. He imagined the kid sitting alone in the midst of all those strangers, heartsick that he had failed in his holy mission. He considered going back, but he knew there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make it worse. He was well beyond saving by anyone.

A
N HOUR LATER, BACK AT
the flat, Jake was in bed when Anna appeared in the doorway in her Chinese pajamas. She had been fast asleep when he got home, so he couldn’t imagine how she could have heard him crying from the other end of the hall.

“Is there something I can do, dear?”

“No. I’m fine. Go back to bed.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice at listening.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

She turned to leave, then stopped abruptly, wobbling a little as she did so. “Maybe this Sunday we can go to the new science museum in the park.”

“Sure. That would be nice.”

“I hear they have green things growing on the roof.”

“I’ve heard that, too.”

“Good night, dear. You’re a man among men.”

It was pretty much the same thing Jonah had said, but this time the compliment actually meant something.

Chapter 12
The Elusive Leia

S
hawna’s homeless woman had begun to haunt her. That’s how she thought of her now—as
her
homeless woman—since the poor creature had a way of materializing at the oddest times, though never in the actual flesh. Shawna would flash on her scalded face in the midst of an Almodovar film at the Sundance Kabuki, or down at the Rainbow Grocery when she was scooping rice from the bulk-foods bin. Once, she even dreamed about the woman, dreamed that the two of them were dining at the Cliff House, gossiping like old friends as they admired the sunset, though—as dreams had a way of doing—it wasn’t the sleek new Cliff House but the funky old one with the greasy photographs and flocked wallpaper that Shawna remembered from her childhood.

What bothered her most was that she didn’t know the woman’s name. Her image was becoming clearer all the time in Shawna’s promiscuous imagination, but she still lacked identification, that all-important peg on which to hang her humanity. How could you even survive, Shawna wondered, when no one bothered to learn your name?

She drove back to the underpass one foggy afternoon in the hope of a reunion, but the only person there was an old hippie with a sign reading
GULF WAR VET
. While waiting at the light, Shawna lowered her window and signaled him with a $10 bill.

“Excuse me,” she yelled.

The guy put down his sign and came hobbling toward her. As he took the bill, he examined it at length. “Money looks fake these days, don’t it?”

She smiled but passed on the discussion, conscious of how little time she had. “I was wondering if you know a woman who sometimes signs on this corner. Red tracksuit. Forty or fifty years old, maybe.”

The guy nodded so slowly she couldn’t tell if it was a response or a tic.

“You do know her, then?”

“She ain’t here.”

“I see that. Do you know where she might be?”

“You could try the traffic island on South Van Ness.”

“Do you know her name?”

The guy shrugged. “We call her Leia.”

“What do you mean, you
call
her that?”

“Like Princess Leia.”

“But . . . why?”

“I dunno. It’s a nickname. Ask her.”

The light turned green, signaling an end to their conversation. “Thanks a lot,” she said, extending her hand. “My name’s Shawna, by the way.”

The guy just looked at her hand for a moment, as if it might somehow contaminate him. “Good for you,” he muttered, before shuffling back to pick up his sign.

•••

S
HAWNA LOOKED FOR THE WOMAN
at the traffic island on South Van Ness, but she was nowhere to be found. There were several other signers working the island, but Shawna balked at the thought of interrogating another stranger about the elusive Leia.

That night, when she and Otto were eating at Weird Fish in the Mission, she told him about her abortive search, knowing already that he would question her motives.

“Is this about your writing?” he asked.

“No. I mean, it
could
be eventually, but it’s not about that now.”

“Then what?”

“I dunno. I just feel like . . . I’m
supposed
to find her. I know how fucked-up that sounds, but . . . she’s in my consciousness now.”

“What was it? Her sparkling personality?”

She shot him a peevish look.

“Hey, I’m just trying to nail this down. You should’ve told me earlier.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw her this afternoon. Down at the Civic Center.”

“You’re kidding? What was she doing?”

He shrugged. “Trying a case at the courthouse.”

“What?”

He smiled like a naughty little boy, then popped a French fry into his mouth. “You gotta learn to tell when I’m teasing.”

“No. You gotta learn to not be full of shit. Where was she? What was she doing?”

“She was sleeping in a cardboard box.”

“Seriously?”

“Well . . . as seriously as you can sleep in a cardboard box.”

Now she was really exasperated. “Why are you making light of this?”

“Because, ladylove . . .”

“Don’t call me that. Not while you’re being an asshole.”

“Shawna . . . listen.” Otto’s tone remained calm, maddeningly enough. “I think you’re getting a little ooga-booga about this. I see these people every day, and most of them are seriously loony and dangerous. It’s not as quaint and Dickensian as you think.”

“Did I say that? Did I say it was quaint and Dickensian?”

“Okay. Fine. Sorry.” He held his hands up in placid surrender. “Want me to show you where she is?”

She was surprised by the offer, until she realized the reason for it. “You don’t want me going down there on my own.”

“That’s right. I don’t.”

“Okay.” She gave him a half-smile to show that he was back in her good graces. “I can live with that.”

“When do you wanna go?”

“When do you think?” she replied.

T
HEY FOUND PARKING ON
G
ROVE
Street, not far from City Hall, then cut across the plaza toward the library, passing the organic garden that Mayor Newsom had installed to demonstrate his support for sustainable agriculture. The rustic split-rail fence around the garden stood in ludicrous contrast to the grim-faced granite buildings in every direction. In the daytime, the plaza struck Shawna as a black-and-white movie; at night, even the shadows seemed to have shadows.

“What were you doing here, anyway?” she asked Otto.

“There was a matinee up at the Opera House. Sammy and I were working the crowd outside. We came down to Burger King afterwards.”

It unsettled her when he spoke of the monkey as if they were a couple, but she never let herself say that. Sammy, after all, was why she had fallen for Otto.

“By the way,” she said, “they call her Leia. As in Princess Leia.”

Otto looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh . . . the woman, you mean?”

“Yeah. It’s her nickname on the street.”

“Did she use to wear her hair like that or something?”

“Who knows?”

“Well, it’s appropriate.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Otto melodramatically, “I am about to take you to a galaxy far, far away.”

They followed Grove past the library into the heart of the Tenderloin, entering an extended hellscape of junkies and whores. This was always a shock to Shawna. You would never guess that some of these streets stretched all the way across town to Russian Hill with its cable cars and postcard views of the bay. To make the two-mile journey from there to here was to witness firsthand the gradual degradation of a city’s soul.

Instinctively, Shawna moved closer to Otto. “I thought you said she was in the Civic Center?”

“Well . . . two or three blocks away.” He turned and looked at her earnestly. “Do you wanna call it off?”

“No. Do you?”

Otto just smiled dimly and kept walking. Ahead of them, on the corner, was a vacant lot with a low wall of concrete blocks on two sides, presumably to keep people from parking there. To Shawna it looked like a deserted construction site, or maybe the rubble-strewn remains of a demolition. A billboard on a neighboring building depicted the eyes of an elegant dark-skinned woman gazing over the rim of a whiskey glass, with a tagline that read
THE NIGHT KNOWS WHAT IT WANTS
. The cold white light from the billboard made it easier to spot Leia’s box, but, mercifully, stopped just short of it.

The box wasn’t huge—refrigerator-size, Shawna guessed. There was certainly room enough for someone to lie down in there, though who that someone might be was currently obscured by a layer of black garbage bags. Shawna stopped about ten feet from the box, wary of frightening the resident, and shot a quick glance at Otto.

“What should I do?” she whispered.

He shrugged. “Say hello, I guess. You’re asking
me
?”

Otto was obviously pouting, but she didn’t have time to humor him. She had already noticed several scary-looking knots of men on the other corners. The Orpheum Theatre was just down the street, reassuringly armored in neon, but this was one of those neighborhoods where you knew to stride briskly, eyes fixed straight ahead, if you had somehow made the mistake of passing through. And here they were, stopping.

“Excuse me,” she called. “Leia?”

There was no response. The garbage bag didn’t stir.

“I met you down by the freeway last week. I gave you some money.”

“There’s nobody there,” said Otto.

“You don’t know.”

“If she’s sleeping, then I wouldn’t disturb her.”

Shawna moved closer. “Leia?”

“Don’t, Shawna.”

She was reaching for the garbage bag when it flew back of its own accord, fanning a rotten-sweet stench into her nostrils. The person whose home she’d just invaded sprang up like a crazed jack-in-the-box, making Shawna yelp. It wasn’t Leia, though; it was a pockmarked Hispanic guy in a stocking cap.

“Shit. I’m so sorry. I was looking for Leia.”

He propped himself up on one elbow. “What you want with her?”

“Just to help.”

“She’s down the alley. I’m saving her place.”

Shawna shuddered to think that this wilted cardboard coffin required “saving” for anyone, but she knew the guy was telling the truth. She had just spotted Leia’s
YOUR MAMA WOULD GIVE A DAMN
sign in the weeds behind the box.

“Which alley?” asked Otto, stepping forward.

The man pointed across the street. “Over there next to the blue beer sign. But don’t go down there.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t.” The man lay down again, pulling the plastic bag over himself.

Shawna turned to Otto. “We have to.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Well, I am.” She strode across the lot, stepped over the concrete-block wall, then turned back to Otto. She realized she’d put this peace-loving guy in a terrible spot, and, most of all, she didn’t want it to look like she was testing his loyalty. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll be careful. I just wanna look.”

She crossed the street and walked half a block to the mouth of the alley. She could hear Otto’s footsteps behind her—or what she assumed were his footsteps—but she didn’t look back for fear of engaging him again. This was
her
craziness, not his.

The alley was barely ten feet wide and lit only by a window in the neighboring residence hotel. Even from out on the sidewalk it stank of piss. Someone halfway down the alley was sitting on the ground under a blanket, rocking rhythmically back and forth. In the far distance another figure, this one only in silhouette, was pressed against a wall with odd formality, like someone about to be executed. His stillness was mesmerizing; it took Shawna a while to notice that someone was kneeling in front of him.

“She’s got a trick,” whispered Otto, slipping his arm around her waist.

“Jesus!” She jumped more than she would have liked.

“That’s good. Your reflexes still work. C’mon.”

“Wait.”

“I mean it, Shawna. No more of this. I’m manning up here.”

She turned to him with a crooked smile. “Really?”

“If you wanna get killed over a blow job in an alley—”

“Shhhh.” She took his arm to silence him. “We’re leaving, okay? We can wait for her back at the box.”

“We’re not waiting anywhere. We’re heading straight back to—”

The end of that thought was amputated by a scream from the alley.

“Fuck,” murmured Shawna, swiveling to look down the murky passageway. The silhouetted figures at the end had now become a single writhing mass. The person under the blanket was yelling “shut up” repeatedly, like a mantra, still rocking back and forth.

Then came another scream, even more horrible than the first, prompting Otto to sprint down the alley toward the sound. “Wait,” yelled Shawna. “Be careful.”

I dragged the poor guy here
,
and now he’s going to be killed.

She headed into the alley, though more cautiously than Otto had. “We’re calling the police!” she yelled. “Leave her alone!” She hoped this wouldn’t further inflame the situation, but it was all she could think to do. Then she heard the abrasive clatter of an overturning garbage can and watched as a man bolted into the street at the other end of the alley. To her abject horror, her boyfriend was running after him. “Otto, don’t!”

For one eerie moment Leia was nowhere to be found. Then Shawna rolled away the garbage can and saw the figure lying in the shadows. She knelt next to it and listened for signs of life, taking the woman’s hand in hers.

“Leia?”

A guttural groan.

“Are you all right?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Never mind. Just a friend. Can you sit up?” She slid her hand under Leia’s back only to hit something syrupy and warm and yank it away again.

“Owww,” screamed Leia.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” The carrion stench of the woman was going straight to the pit of Shawna’s stomach. “Just lie still, sweetheart. We’re gonna take care of you.”

Shawna dug her phone out of her coat and dialed 911.

“I have a woman here,” she told the operator. “She’s been stabbed, I think.”

“You
think
?” growled Leia.

“And what’s the location?”

“Oh . . . shit . . . I don’t know. It’s an alley in the Tenderloin. It’s off of Hyde Street. Please hurry.”

“I’ll need a name, ma’am. Is there someone there who can—?”

“Cocksuck,” said Leia.

“Hang on, Leia . . . Operator, maybe I could meet them out at—”

“Cocksuck Alley!”

Shawna looked down at Leia. “Seriously? That’s the name?”

The woman grunted in the affirmative. “The cops call it that, too.”

“Okay . . . great. Operator, apparently it’s known on the street as Cocksuck Alley.”

Silence.

“Please don’t hang up. This isn’t a prank, I swear.” Desperate, still holding Leia’s hand, Shawna looked toward the end of the alley where Otto had just reappeared, breathing heavily. “What does that sign say?” she yelled.

“What sign?”

“On the wall there. Where are we?”

Otto looked. “Cossack,” he hollered back.