Mary Ann in Autumn (5 page)

“Which didn’t happen in New York, I take it?”

“The cable channel folded before they could get the show off the ground. She was cut adrift and ended up doing infomercials and shit. Then she worked for a fancy party planner, and that’s where she met her husband, apparently. At a party.”

And life got a lot easier,
thought Ben.

“I don’t think she married him for the money,” Michael added clairvoyantly. “I think she loved him. She loved his son, too. She helped raise him.”

“Where is he now? The son.”

“At NYU. Freshman year. She was already feeling like an empty nester when the Skype thing happened.”

It was an opening, but Ben didn’t take it; he could get the details later when the time was right. Instead, he proposed that they take Mary Ann to Pinyon City, where the crisp air and snow-capped peaks might lift her spirits before the surgery—or maybe even help with her recuperation. They could rent their usual house by the river and pay a ceremonial visit to their property. Assuming, of course, she would want to.

“I think she’d love it,” said Michael, who, like Ben, believed Pinyon City could fix anything.

Chapter 7
Somebody to Hang With

“
So where goes my wandering boy tonight?”

Jake was pulling on his flight jacket at the door when Anna asked the question. He knew that “wandering boy” was just one of her old-school expressions, but it still made him feel irresponsible. Anna let him live there for nothing, even paid him for his help sometimes, so he was always wondering if he was living up to his side of the deal. “I’ll be on my cell,” he said reassuringly. “I can be home in no time.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. I was just being nosy.” Anna cupped her hand against his beard and gazed intently—embarrassingly—into his eyes. “Marguerite and Selina have invited me up for a nice Italian dinner. I’m well taken care of.” The upstairs neighbors had been, until recently, the flatmates of Jake and Anna, so, when the upstairs became available, everyone had welcomed the chance to spread out. Jake certainly had, anyway.

It wouldn’t have killed him to tell Anna where he was going, but he knew from experience that it took too much explaining. Most old-time San Franciscans—his boss Michael, for one—could be really rude about Pier 39. They saw the place as a tourist trap and a serious waste of waterfront. Most of them had never even been there, either, never seen what a good time it could be. They didn’t know shit about the fire jugglers or the cool aquarium or the funny “Gumpisms” scrawled on the tables at Bubba Gump’s Shrimp Company. They called it corny, most of them, without ever having seen it.

Jake found Pier 39 a welcome relief from the Castro. The ghetto, for all its acceptance and security, made him feel like all eyes were upon him, since, for the most part, they
were
. If they weren’t sizing him up for sex, they were judging his believability or resenting him for denying the honest butch dyke they thought he should be. At Pier 39 Jake was just another guy in the crowd. His manhood could be casual there, an easy assumption shared by everyone. It was like being back in Tulsa at the mall—only safer.

And Jake had a major thing going with the sea lions. On evenings like this he would ride his bike all the way down Market Street to the Embarcadero just to grab an hour with those jokesters at the pier. Their raucous barking calmed his fears like no other music, and there were more of them now than he’d seen all year, since winter brought more herring. Hundreds of sea lions were sprawled on the wooden rafts provided for their comfort, while the humans watched from the rail, making noises of their own.

“Oooh . . . look at that fat one!”

“Is that one a girl or a boy, Mommy?”

“Awesome! He just knocked that other one into the water!”

“Aren’t they supposed to be at Seal Rock?”

The last question had come from a round-faced young blond guy in a red hoodie, standing next to Jake. It was just one of those things that people said in a crowd, mostly hoping to feel part of the crowd, expecting an answer from anyone or no one.

“They used to be out there,” Jake answered, “but they started hauling out here in 1989.”

The guy turned to him and frowned. “Hauling what out?”

“That’s what they call it. Hauling out. What they’re doing right now. Getting out of the water so they can . . . you know, breed and all.”

“Oh.”

“Some people think the earthquake drove them into the bay, but there were already a few of them here by then. They were probably just getting away from their predators, since Orcas and Great Whites don’t come in this far. They took over a dock that used to be here, so it got kinda testy for a while.”

“Why?”

“Look at ’em. They’re ginormous. And stinky. And dangerous if you get in their way. Some of the old dudes weigh almost a thousand pounds.”

The blond kept his eyes on the raft, where, in the deepening twilight, the sea lions were stacked on top of each other like enormous sacks of flour.

“So cool,” he said reverently.

“Word,” replied Jake.

T
HE NEXT TIME HE SAW
the guy, Jake was down the pier in the left-handed store buying a pocket spiral notebook. He wasn’t consistently left-handed, so he didn’t need most of the things they sold, even their super-cool Bahco pruning shears. Writing was pretty much the only thing he couldn’t do right-handed, and since he liked to take notes on the job (like his hero, Capability Brown), he’d always hated those left-handed spirals. The clerk was putting the notebook in a bag when Red Hoodie got in line behind him.

“Dude,” he said pleasantly, catching Jake’s eye.

“Oh . . . hey.”

“That for you?”

“Who else?”

“Awright!” The guy held up his hand for a high five, so Jake followed through in what he took to be a moment of left-handed brotherhood. As a man, he had never before high-fived with a guy. He would have been too embarrassed to initiate it himself, and no one else had ever offered, maybe because Jake was shorter than most guys and it would probably have looked stupid. This guy was short himself, so they could pull it off.

“What did you get?” Jake asked.

“Just some scissors.” He held them up with a Boy Scout smile. “I had to cut some poster paper last week and got me some serious blisters.”

Jake nodded. “You a teacher or something?”

“Nah . . . it was just for . . . a project.” He looked uncomfortable as his eyes darted around the store. Jake wondered if he was seriously into crafts or something and too embarrassed to admit it. “This place is cool,” said the guy.

Jake nodded. “The first of its kind in the world.”

“Where are the other ones?”

“Fuck if I know, dude.”

He had expected to get a laugh, but the guy just flinched and lost his smile for a moment. “We sure don’t have ’em back home,” he said, recovering. “I can tell you that much.” He handed a $20 bill to the clerk, waited for the change, and thanked her nicely. “Where’s good to eat around here?”

For a moment Jake didn’t realize that the question was directed to him. “Oh . . . well . . . I like Bubba Gump’s, but that’s kinda for special occasions. I usually just get something at the Pier Market and eat it on a bench somewhere. They got good crab sandwiches. The chowder’s pretty good, too.”

“Could you show me?”

“Sure,” said Jake. “I’m goin’ there anyway.”

T
HOUGH NEITHER OF THEM HAD
suggested it, they ended up eating together.

They had waited in line together, so it had just made sense to look for a bench together. They found one at the edge of the performance area and sat on either end of it, eating their crab sandwiches while they watched a tall, skinny clown with a monkey puppet.

“He’s really dope,” said the blond kid.

“Yeah. He is.”

The kid extended his hand. “I’m Jonah, by the way.”

“Jake.”

“My girlfriend would love this. She’s big on clowns.”

“Oh yeah? You should bring her here some time.”

Jonah shook his head. “She’s back at home. I’m just here for . . . work.”

“Missin’ her, huh?”

“Oh . . . man. A month is too long.”

Jake could see the raw truth of this in Jonah’s face.

“It’s the best thing in the world,” Jonah added. “Loving a girl like that.”

There was nothing more to be said about that—especially on Jake’s part—so he underscored the sentiment with a respectful silence.

Jonah, meanwhile, seemed to have embarrassed himself. He tossed his sandwich wrapper in a can and looked out at the bay for an easy way to change the subject.

“So what’s that island out there?”

Jake grinned. “That’s no island, dude. That’s a motorized vessel.”

“C’mon. It’s got palm trees and a beach . . .”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, man.”

“ . . . and a lighthouse! I’m a country boy but—”

“No, dude, I swear. This wack boat builder built it back in the seventies. He’s parked the thing all over the bay. They call it Forbes Island.”

Jonah snorted. “Because it’s an island!”

“No, because Mr. Forbes built it. Or Forbes Somebody, I forget. They run it as a restaurant now. You eat under the water and look out through portholes at the fish.”

“You’ve seen this yourself?”

Jake shrugged. “I YouTubed it.”

“How do you get out there? Or does it come to you?”

“There’s a shuttle. It leaves from the dock down here.”

“We gotta do this!”

“Dude, we just ate.”

“I mean some other day. If you want to, I mean. I’ve got another week here. I could use somebody to hang with.”

Even before his mention of the girlfriend, Jake had decided that Jonah wasn’t gay. There was something in his eyes—or maybe a lack of something—that made him seem unavailable. For Jake this was as much a relief as a disappointment, since the prospect of sex always brought with it the need for full disclosure. Besides, there was something more valuable to be gained here: a brotherly bond with another guy that took for granted their common masculinity. He had longed for such a friendship when he was a teenager in Tulsa, but the visuals had made it impossible. Now, he had a shot at it.

“What the hell,” he said, clapping Jonah on the shoulder. “You’re on.”

A
NNA WAS SITTING UP WITH
a book when Jake returned. She was wearing her green satin kimono—the one with the coffee stains that Jake had tried like hell to get out. The lamplight made a little halo around her head. He wondered how long she’d been there.

“How was dinner?” he asked.

She looked up from her book. “Oh . . . my dear. It was lovely. Marguerite made . . . what do you call them?”

Jake shrugged. She was always asking shit like this.

“Oh, you know . . . those little potato dumplings . . .”

“Au gratin.”

“No . . . they’re Italian. You know.”

“Nucky? I can’t pronounce it—”

“Yes, yes . . . close enough.” Anna smiled. “That’s what they were.” She took off her purple reading glasses and folded them up, tucking them efficiently into the sleeve of her kimono. “How was your evening, dear?”

Jake surprised himself by coming clean: “I met somebody.”

“Ah.” It was amazing how much she could pack into that sound.

“It’s not like that.”

“I see.” She switched off the lamp to relieve her eyes. “Then what is it like?”

“Who the hell knows? It’s no big whoop. We’re just gonna eat out on Forbes Island.”

“Should I know where that is?”

“It’s this . . . floating island thing next to Pier 39.”

She nodded slowly, wordlessly, at the mention of the dreaded tourist trap. “Well,” she said finally. “That side of town can be lovely.”

Chapter 8
Signing

S
hawna was dawdling over a plate of fried artichoke hearts at Pier 23 Café, a funky waterfront roadhouse she had loved ever since her dad took her there for her thirteenth birthday. These days, it was a handy waiting room when Otto had a gig at Pier 39. She could avoid the tourists, have a beer or two, and be pleasantly pissed by the time her inamorato was done with his clowning. Otto enjoyed the walk from Pier 39—the release it offered from all those people—and Shawna liked how she felt (not to mention how she looked) amid the film-noir grittiness of the café. Tonight, as a freighter droned dolefully on the black satin bay, she was glad she hadn’t cut her Bettie bangs just yet.

“Excuse me, I know you must hate this . . .”

Shawna looked up to find what she expected: a typical fan of her blog—early twenties, male, slightly geeky—approaching her with extreme care, as if she were a skittish creature in a forest. Or maybe some bad-ass dominatrix.

“You’re Grrrl on the Loose, right?”

She smiled, giving her stock answer: “That’s the blog, not me.”

“Good title, though.”

“I don’t know. Those three
r
s are getting tired, aren’t they? I may have to put them to bed.” She gave him a friendly, jaundiced glance. “Hope you’ll still read me.”

“My girlfriend loved your piece on eco-friendly sex toys. This is her.” He pulled the poor woman forward to present her. “You friended her on Facebook.”

“Ah . . . right.”
You
and
five
thousand
other
people,
she thought as she shook the woman’s hand. “Nice to see you in the flesh.”

The couple laughed nervously, as though Shawna’s off-handed response had been riddled with innuendo. Why did they always expect her to be dirty? She prided herself on writing about sex in a healthy, joyful, unapologetic way, but people were determined to cast her as the Duchess of Smut. That was still on her mind when Otto strode into the café. As she waved him down, an idea was assembling in her head.

“That for me?” he asked, eyeing the beer she’d bought for him.

“If you play your cards right.”

He grinned and gulped half the glass before sitting down.

“How were the hordes?” she asked.

“Hordey.” He took off his backpack—the one that held the monkey puppet and some of his clothes—and set it on the floor beside him. He’d made an effort to clean up, but there were still traces of clown white in his smile lines, and his big, honey-colored mane was a matted, scraggly mess. “Picked up some cash, though.”

“Cool.”

Otto snatched an artichoke heart and popped it into his mouth.

“You wanna order something?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I had a burger at the pier. Mostly I wanna go back to your place and cuddle the fuck out of you.”

“Okay.” She smiled crookedly, loving the sentiment in spite of his wording. “I wanna ask you something first.”

“Shoot.”

“You know how lately I’ve been sort of disenchanted with the blog?”

“Not really.”

“Well . . . I have. I think it’s kinda run its course. I mean, I think I’ve done some good, but I’m tired of being Debbie Dildo, you know?”

Otto shrugged. “You’re good at it.”

“Thanks, but . . . it gets to be limiting after a while. I think I wanna open it up, talk about life in general . . . you know, the petty shit and the big issues we all have to deal with. Something substantive. I think my readers would follow me, and I would really—”

“Go for it. What’s stopping you?”

“Well . . . I need you to tell me it’s okay.”

“Why?”

“Because I might be writing about us. In part, at least.”

“Oh.” A cloud passed over his face. “Like . . . using my name and all?”

“Yeah, unless . . .” She decided to keep it light. “You’re not wanted for something in ten states, are you?”

He wouldn’t pick up on the gag. “I like my privacy, Shawna. I love what we have, but . . . I don’t know about sharing it with strangers.”

“You just performed on a pier with a ton of strangers.”

“No,” he said quietly. “That was Ottokar. Or Sammy sometimes. But it wasn’t me. That’s why I’m able to do it.”

That made sense, in a way, but she suspected his fears ran deeper than that. “I wouldn’t be writing about our sex life,” she said. “I wouldn’t be as . . . specific as—”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?” She was starting to feel hurt, and, worse yet, sounding that way. “Are we just not . . . that serious?”

Otto saw her mortification and grabbed her hand across the table. “Listen, ladylove . . . if we weren’t serious I wouldn’t give a shit
what
you put in that blog. I just don’t want to feel self-conscious about what we have. I don’t want to be weighing my words all the time. I don’t want to think of us as . . . you know . . . material.”

Anyone else who’d called her “ladylove” would have received, at the very least, a derisive snort, but Shawna found it sort of sweet. It was possible Otto had picked up that expression the summer he worked as a knight at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire, but she preferred to believe it had sprung, freshly minted, from his uncorrupted heart.

She decided not to press him further about the blog. He didn’t read it anyway, and they weren’t on record as being a couple. She could call him her boo or something similarly vague and still do the kind of writing she wanted to do. He was right about the potential for self-consciousness in such an enterprise. It was better just to let the words flow, as she always had, and let Otto be Otto. The less he knew the better, really.

O
N THE WAY HOME TO
the Mission, they were stopped at a light under the freeway overpass when a homeless woman in a dirty red tracksuit approached the car with a ragged cardboard sign that read
YOUR MAMA WOULD GIVE A DAMN
. Shawna wondered how well that actually worked, if most people saw their mothers as pillars of generosity and therefore felt inspired to give. It was original, anyway, and it made her smile.

She dug around in her bag for a loose bill, with no success. Otto saw what she was doing and pulled out his wallet. “Is five enough?”

“Make it twenty,” she said. “I’ll pay you back.”

“She’s a junkie. See those sores on her neck.”

“And your point is?”

“I’m just sayin’.”

Shawna rolled down the window and held out the twenty. The woman took it without a word, then pulled up the leg of her sweatpants so she could stash the offering in her sock. Shawna caught a glimpse of putrid gray flesh, a constellation of sores. The woman’s face, by contrast, was a fiery red-brown, sun-ravaged and grimy. She looked to be anywhere between thirty and sixty. The awful agelessness of the streets.

“The world is fucked,” the woman announced.

“You got that right, sister.”

The woman cackled, showing broken teeth and rotten gums. “You got you a man in there?”

“I do,” said Shawna, casting her eyes toward Otto. “I got me a man in here.”

The woman leaned down and spoke through the window. “You be nice to her, ya hear?”

Otto looked flustered, so Shawna jumped in: “He is. He’s very nice to me.”

“I had me one for a while.”

“A man, you mean?” Shawna couldn’t help grinning. The woman might as well have been talking about a parakeet.

“Yep,” said the woman. “When I was about your age.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I was prettier’n you, too.”

“I’m sure you were” was all Shawna could think to say.

“A whole
lot
prettier.”

“Hey, watch it,” Shawna said jovially, “or I’ll take my money back.”

“You do, bitch, and I’ll cut you.”

Otto was obviously aghast, but Shawna caught the twinkle lurking deep in the woman’s red-rimmed eyes. “Not if I smack the shit out of you first,” she said.

This elicited another cackle. “You’re all right, kid.”

“I don’t know about
that
.”

“Nah. You’re my kinda lady. Nothin’ scares you, does it?”

It was an interesting question. “Not the usual things, I guess.”

“Good for you. Us girls gotta be brave.”

“I guess we do, yeah.”

The woman raised her grimy fist in a show of solidarity with Shawna before trudging farther down the traffic island in search of another handout.

“How does it get that bad?” Shawna asked Otto.

He just shrugged. “Heroin.”

“That can’t be all of it.”

“You’d have to ask her.”

The light changed and Shawna drove away. She felt a shameful rush of relief as the woman grew ever smaller in the rearview mirror.
That’s
why
the homeless beg
at
stoplights,
she thought.
It’s as much for us as it is for them. We’re shielded from the horror by glass and steel, and we can make a clean break as soon as the light changes.

“She was nice,” Shawna offered.

“It’s her routine. It’s part of signing.”

“Signing?”

“That’s what they call it. When they hold out those signs.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I work the streets, too.”

She snorted. “The mean streets of Pier 39.”

“She’s living for the next fix, so she does what she has to do.”

And we drive on,
thought Shawna.
We drive on and do nothing
.

“What’s the matter?” asked Otto.

“Nothing. Everything. She said it herself: the world is fucked.”

“You wanna go back? Offer her a hot shower and a place to sleep?”

Otto knew the answer to that already.

“I could write about her,” Shawna said feebly.

Otto gave her a sly sideways smile. “And who would that help?”

She turned her eyes back to the road. “Bite me, clown boy.”