Southland (31 page)
In the office, she’d go straight to the couch, where she wouldn’t collapse with exhaustion, but instead sit down on it, hard, as if daring it to prove it could hold her. Frank would go to the desk and turn the chair around to face her, creating the space it would please them both, later, to cross. They talked first, and the talking was easy—details, minor triumphs and complaints about their days. For the first two weeks they met like this, they didn’t touch at all; they were like old friends trying to catch up on each other’s lives. And they realized, then, that they
did
know one another; before the war, Frank had been in her sister’s class. Frank found, with Alma, that he didn’t have to explain things—that when he told her his sister and father had died, she seemed to know what it had been like, marching slowly up the spine of Italy, grieving for the family now placed in the ground, praying for his sinking, jailed mother. That when he said he couldn’t find a job after the war, he didn’t need to tell her about the “No Japs Wanted” signs, the hoots and laughter when he said he was a veteran. That when he told her about traveling up through San Diego after he’d been discharged, he didn’t have to add that the first three motels wouldn’t take him, and that when he finally found one that would, someone heaved a brick through the window in the night. Alma knew these things; she felt them. And while she gradually gave Frank the straightforward, newspaper facts about her family’s history—Reese’s murders and suicide; her aunt’s repeated stabbing of her violent, cheating husband; her father’s drinking and struggling faith—she didn’t have to explain to him, either.
But Frank still wondered. Wondered not about the details of these various horrors, but about what each of them, the sum of them, had done to her. He couldn’t know the abandon with which she threw herself into her work, the beating of rugs, the scrubbing of floors she used to exorcise her rage. He couldn’t know that as much as she hated working for Mrs. McDermott, she was relieved, almost grateful, to have something to pour herself into. Someplace where she worked so hard and so long she didn’t have the energy to think. And what little was left of energy, of thought, pain, herself, she flung at Frank those nights in the back of the store.
He loosened something in her, and he both loved what that meant and feared it. Every other woman had been surrender, acquiescence, soft pleasure wrapped in whispers and laughter. But Alma Sams was like a tidal wave. She didn’t want to be overpowered, or to overpower him. She needed to hurl herself at Frank, and to know that he would be there to catch her. Never, never, as Frank smoothed his lips over the side of her breasts and took her nipples in his mouth; as he ran his fingers over the silky skin on the insides of her thighs; as he pushed as if through a wet, windy storm, he the traveler she both welcomed and resisted; was he not awed by her abandon, or her power. She took him. She contained him without giving way. Those times—wet lashes fluttering over half-closed lids—were the only moments there seemed to be cracks in her, when he could see in through the tiny spaces. The rest of the time, as they sat talking, or even afterward, as they lay naked on the couch, she possessed herself completely. He knew how tightly she kept herself wrapped, how intricate the structure of her defense. If she removed, or let someone else remove, even one small invisible brick, the whole structure might crumble, collapse. And he feared this, and also prayed for it. She was so neatly wound, she had no loose ends; and he loved this about her, admired it. But occasionally, he yearned for some stray end to come free, so he could unwrap it, unravel her, reveal the raw wounds underneath.
She, on the other hand, feared she revealed too much. She thought by showing Frank the result of her need and fury, she was giving him the narrative behind it. But he met her halfway; he let her empty herself with him, and for this she was grateful and loved him. Each of them thought that the other was stronger. Only he was right.
It would be wrong to think their need for each other had nothing to do with race. What he loved in her was not just her intensity, her beauty, but everything she’d come from. He saw in her earth-brown skin not just the girl he loved, but the faces and families of his moved-away friends whom he loved and missed so deeply. He heard their easy laughter as they played football on Sundays, as they passed each other in the hallways at school. He heard the music and saw the swirling smoke of the jazz clubs Victor had taken him to in Watts; tasted the cornbread and catfish and red beans and rice Mrs. Conway sometimes fixed them after practice. And Alma was also simply not-Japanese—not like the small folded-in young women who were so constrained and accepting of him; not the women he had failed to protect.
For Alma, Frank was gravity and fortitude—not a forced, oppressive silence, but a man who didn’t air his grief; who bore his cross alone. She knew that he was pained, but also knew he would never ask for pity. His silence made hers acceptable. And he was not her brother, or aunt, or father—whatever difficulties and self-hatred their lives had conferred had passed over him, or at least taken another form. And yet he
was
her brother, also—another soldier, a man of color. His skin was brown but of a different shade—wet sand, and not the earth.
Years later, when Frank saw her—on the street, with her sons, with other women in the neighborhood—she seemed to him the same. Her face had a few shallow lines now, and her clothes were different; she looked a bit more tired. But the tightness, the tension, were still there. He wondered about her husband, if she unleashed herself with him. He wondered, as she laughed with her friends, if she had any regrets; was struck, all over again, by the pride in the angle of her neck. She would walk by on the street, say hello to him, and the heels of her shoes would tangle and twist his insides. He wondered if he still touched her, or if he ever really had. He wondered if she ever remembered.
M
OST OF California is wide-open spaces, huge expanses of land unsullied by buildings or people. Jackie and Lanier rediscovered this fact as they drove north through the state, windows rolled all the way down. Lanier had taken half a day off from work, and Jackie had skipped her Friday classes. It was warm—another Santa Ana—and the sky was tinged with smog. Still, as they sped along, wind brushing back their hair and music playing so loud they couldn’t talk to each other, they felt alive, refreshed, set free. They’d driven through the Hollywood Hills; battled traffic in the Valley; climbed into the Angeles National Forest. And when they came through the Tejon Pass, clouds clinging to the car, and found the green and brown fields spread out endlessly before them, Jackie thought she could see the end of the world. Only then did Lanier finally speak. “Holy shit,” he said, and Jackie laughed, and felt that laughter break up the tension in her stomach. She realized she hadn’t laughed like that in months.
Jackie had waited until Tuesday to tell Laura about her trip. She had avoided the task for days—not because she knew she’d be telling a partial truth, but because she didn’t want to communicate with her at all. And Laura had not taken the news very well. It wasn’t that Jackie was going someplace without her—or, at least, it wasn’t
only
that. And it also wasn’t that she was going with somebody else—Jackie had omitted the fact that Lanier would be joining her. But when Jackie told her over dinner, she’d gone quiet and started to cry, and her sorrow, Jackie knew, was not even about the trip, but about the fact that things were so strange between them that Jackie hadn’t mentioned it before.
But Jackie did not want to think about that now. Neither she nor Lanier spoke much during the six and a half hours of their drive, and the silence was easy between them. As they approached the Bay Area, Jackie felt herself tighten as she thought about the things that awaited them.
They checked into a small, two-story motel on the border of the Mission and the Castro. Although their business was in Oakland and East Palo Alto, both of them had wanted to stay in San Francisco, which Lanier hadn’t visited in years. That night, they walked up 16th Street to Market, and into the Castro, breathing in the cooler, cleaner ocean air of Northern California, and staring like wonder-struck children at the city around them. Jackie felt both at home and out of place here; both happy with Lanier and uncomfortable. They passed groups of gay men talking in high, fluttery voices, and a couple of built-up macho gays who nodded at Lanier, in challenge and invitation. Jackie watched Lanier smile, ironically, more interested than threatened. And when they passed lesbians on the sidewalk, either low-key and clad in Doc Martens and jeans, or made-up and stylized, they looked at Jackie with their eyebrows raised, or with small sly smiles of recognition. She didn’t know how to react to them—whether to avoid their eyes or smile—and she realized she was acting like Laura that first summer, when they’d walked down these streets every day. Lanier looked at her questioningly, sensing her discomfort. She felt awkward and oddly ashamed of herself, and finally, more out of a need for escape than hunger, she touched him on the arm and indicated a restaurant, a Mexican place on Market.
They went inside, secured a booth, and ordered margaritas. They talked about their plans for the following day—Lanier had found Althea Dickson at St. Mary’s Rest Home in Oakland, and they were going to show up there first thing the next morning, just after the residents had eaten their breakfast. He didn’t ask the woman who’d spoken to him to inform Mrs. Dickson of his visit; they both figured that surprise might yield more answers. His mother had told him, though, that Alma’s sister was fond of crullers, so they needed to leave time in the morning to stop at a donut shop.
They sat with their hands folded on top of their menus, as if praying to each other. Finally, their waitress arrived—a tall, slinky, long-haired Latina whose voice snagged when she got a look at Jackie.
“And our special tonight is crab chimichangas. They come with Mexican rice and black or refried beans. They’re our most popular special and I recommend them highly. They’re really very…tasty.”
At this last word she glanced at Jackie, and Jackie smiled at her and blushed. If Lanier weren’t there, she would try to flirt back—say something silly and suggestive about the drinks or the special, or ask how tasty the things in the restaurant actually were. But she felt watched and restrained, so awkwardly, she ordered enchiladas. Lanier ordered a burrito and the waitress—whose name tag read “Lucy”—dutifully jotted this down. Then she touched her tongue to the tip of the pen and looked back down at Jackie. “If you need anything else, or if”—and now she glanced meaningfully at Lanier—“you’re
displeased
with your selection, please feel free to let me know.”
She spun away, the ruffles of her skirt brushing against Jackie’s arm. Jackie looked at Lanier, embarrassed, and found him laughing. “Well, I guess
you’re
a hit. Maybe we’ll get a free meal out of this.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Well, you know, it comes with the territory.”
“Not necessarily. The guy who took our drink order didn’t try to pick me up.”
“Are you offended?” she asked, smiling.
“No, just jealous. Your friend Lucy is all that and then some.”
Jackie laughed, feeling slightly more at ease.
“You lived here for awhile, right?” Lanier asked. “Went up to school here?”
“I went to Berkeley, but I came into the city almost every weekend. And then I lived in San Francisco for a year between college and law school.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yeah, I loved it. I mean, I was working really hard, but I still played more than I ever have since.” She took a sip of her drink. She felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, but it was finally time to jump now, so she stepped out into the air. “This is where I met Laura.”
Lanier’s expression didn’t change—he looked interested, not bothered or surprised. “How’d she end up in L.A.? Because you were there?”
“Only partly. The main reason was that she got a job with the city. Also, her mother lives in Beverly Hills. I was a factor too, I guess, but not the only factor.” Her hands were clenched on the table now, and she realized they were sweaty. At that moment, Lucy reappeared, bearing another basket of chips although their first was half-full; they all knew this wasn’t her job.
“Just thought I’d replenish you,” she said. Then, looking at Jackie, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” She prolonged and softened the words “anything” and “do,” offered them up like truffles. Watching the waitress’s bright, direct eyes, Jackie felt her heart jump and her cheeks turn red. Lucy walked off again, and Lanier burst out laughing.
“I gotta tell you,” he said. “You really don’t flirt very well.”
Jackie threw a chip at him. “Shut up. You’re cramping my style.”
Their food came shortly and they talked of other things—the animals and ranches they’d seen on their drive, their previous adventures in San Francisco. Lucy continued to flirt with Jackie, and Jackie, much to Lanier’s amusement, continued to fumble her replies. She felt the same relief she always did when some person she cared about finally acknowledged her sexuality. Then, after yet another disparaging comment on her horrible flirtation skills, she said, “What? You think
you
could do any better?”
“Not with
this
crowd,” said Lanier. Then, more seriously, “Actually, no. Not with any crowd.”
“Oh, come on. I find that hard to believe. From what I hear, good-looking, dependable straight men are a fast-dying breed. And I see the way women look at you.”
“Well.” He looked thoughtful. “I don’t have a hard time starting things. But I have a hard time keeping them going. I’m not that great at talking to people.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Jackie said. “You talk to
me
.”
But it was different, Lanier thought, and Jackie knew this. Jackie didn’t ask things of him. She wasn’t trying to get inside. He didn’t feel the same need to protect himself with her. That need had gotten so intense in the last few years that he’d stopped trying with women altogether. But Lanier didn’t want to analyze his deficiencies, so they exchanged stories about crazy ex-es—the veterinarian he’d dated who’d insisted they share the bed with her three large dogs and four cats; the stoner-biker she’d dated her first year of college who’d gotten Jackie’s name tattooed on her rear. Two hours later, after several margaritas, they stumbled back to their hotel, both ready for a good night’s rest. They stood fifteen feet apart from each other, working the keys for their separate doors. Lanier opened his and stepped partway inside. “Sweet dreams,” he said. And then he grinned. “Hope they’re about the right person.”
The next morning, they got up at 7:30. They bought three large crullers for Mrs. Dickson at the coffee shop next door, and donuts and coffee for themselves. As they drove through the city and crossed the Bay Bridge, they didn’t have much to say. Jackie looked at all the traffic on the other side of the road, and beyond it, the green headlands and the dark blue, welcoming ocean. It was a clear, bright morning, theatrical in its beauty.
St. Mary’s was a few blocks off the 580 Freeway. The building was one-story, tan, and unremarkable. They walked through the glass double-door, which was smudged with fingerprints, and nodded at the bored young security guard. Behind the front desk sat a middleaged nun who wore a white habit and thick black glasses. Her nose was red and bulbous, as if swollen from the effort of holding up the heavy frames. Her name tag read “Sister Elizabeth.” When Jackie and Lanier approached, she said, “Good morning,” and her voice sounded exactly as Jackie expected: medium-pitched, thick, without shadows or potholes—the voice, Jackie thought, of someone who’d steered clear of the tribulations of life in this world.
“Good morning,” Lanier said. “We’re here to see Mrs. Althea Dickson.”
“Is she expecting you?” asked the sister.
“Not exactly.”
“Are you a family member?”
“Yes.”
It took Jackie a moment to realize that this was actually true. Still, the nun examined him closely. He and Jackie had both dressed neatly—Lanier in pressed gray trousers and a bright white dress shirt, she in tan pants and a black blazer.
“I don’t recognize you,” said the sister. “Have you visited before?”
Lanier cleared his throat. “Actually, no. I live down in L.A. And I’m kind of a distant relative—I’m a nephew of her sister.”
The nun looked at him again, and then at Jackie. Jackie realized, suddenly, that the nun was scared of Lanier. The dress shirt and pants couldn’t hide the prominence of his muscles, the breadth of his athlete’s shoulders. She wondered, all of a sudden, what it was like to be him, to inspire fear in people he hardly even noticed. Finally, Sister Elizabeth instructed them to sign the guest sheet, then called an attendant over to take them in.
“She’s in the television room,” explained the attendant as they walked down the hall. Her name tag read “Sophia.” They passed several open doors, and when Jackie glanced in she saw old people, lying in bed or sitting in wheelchairs, almost all of them with their arms stretched out toward the door, crying “Help me” to whoever went by. She looked away from them in shame and thought of walking past jail cells, skinny arms held out through the bars. They soon reached a large room full of ratty couches and discolored chairs. Most of the residents in attendance sat in long-backed wheelchairs, set up in two rows to face the television. A morning talk show was on, and the volume was turned up so high that Sophia had to shout.
“Just a second,” she said, “I’ll tell her you’re here.”
She approached one of the chairs, bent down to talk into an ear. Then the wheelchair spun around. Jackie and Lanier stood quietly as the occupant wheeled herself over. Although Jackie knew the woman was her grandfather’s age—seventy or seventy-one—she looked younger. Her curly hair was only slightly gray, and her skin was barely wrinkled. She had funny black glasses, the kind that Jackie associated with phone operators from the 1950s. She wore a blue and green plaid robe over a pair of pink sweatpants. Althea Dickson did not have the withered, sunken look of the other people in the room; as she stopped in front of them, Jackie half-expected her to jump out of her chair.
“Hello,” the woman said, and her voice was loud, commanding—qualities that had nothing to do with her hearing. “I’m Althea Dickson. Who are you? I hear you supposed to know me.”
Jackie smiled, especially when she saw the look of surprise and slight alarm on Lanier’s face. He had expected—they’d both expected—someone elderly, deflated.
“I’m James Lanier,” he managed, collecting himself and offering her the paper bag. “I’m Bruce Martindale’s nephew.”
Althea’s eyebrows shot up and then lowered into a straight, suspicious line. She took the bag from him, opened it, and peered inside. Only one eyebrow rose this time, and she looked back up at them. “Ain’t really sure if I’ve heard of you,” she said. Then, to Jackie, “And I
know
I don’t know who
you
are.”
Jackie gave Althea her name, and Althea nodded in acknowledgment before looking back at Lanier.
“I’m wondering if I could talk to you,” he said politely. “About my uncle and aunt.”
She tapped her foot against the footrest. “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, young man, but I didn’t like your uncle too much.”
Lanier nodded. “That’s all right. Neither did I. I liked Alma a whole lot better.”
“She was my sister, you know.”
“I know,” Lanier said. “I’d like to know more about her.”
Althea looked at him hard, and Jackie thought she was about to tell them to leave. But then she wheeled around without saying a word and headed down the hall. Lanier and Jackie glanced at each other, then followed; they had to walk fast to keep up. About halfway down the hall, without appearing to slow down, Althea took a sharp right through an open door. Lanier and Jackie hesitated at the doorway and then stepped in.