Rhythm and Blues
True to her word, Laura warned Mike that he needs to keep a low profile in the neighborhood. The boys arrive for their weekly meetings in groups of four or five, instead of individually. That’s fewer cars parked on the street, but teenage boys who travel in packs cause consternation. I know because around six o’clock on meeting nights Carlo walks his pit bull up and down in front of our house. I don’t notice that Petey gets walked much any other time of the day.
Gunther comes out and joins Carlo and they patrol together. We got off on a bad foot with these people at the very beginning, and it seems like nothing we do or say will change that. Carlo and Gunther are like archers with quivers full of sharp arrows they are itching to let fly, and we have presented ourselves as a target. Apparently it’s a spectator sport. Neighbors who are less vocal about what they think goes on at the Glass House are nonetheless interested in listening to the speculation.
As popular as Father Mike has been in the neighborhood, his association with us was not the smartest move he could have made. People wonder why he didn’t take another church after Saint Matthew’s closed. Carlo goes so far as to accost him early one evening as Mike parks his car on the street. I can’t see the two from where I stand in the open doorway, but their voices broadcast through the dusky air.
“Father, why you hangin’ around this neighborhood so much? You’re good with the widows, but this one’s married now, and the one up the street, well...”
If a suggestive wink made noise I’d swear I hear one of Carlo’s saggy eyelids clap shut and open like an old brownie camera taking a picture. Mike’s response is mild and direct.
“Carlo, you have a dirty mind, my friend.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Carlo laughs.
“Carlo, did you ever play football?”
“I sure did! I was quarterback at Saint Mary’s.”
“Tell you what. In the spring I’m going to get the boys together for a scrimmage in the park. Why don’t you come out and play with us? Get to know some of these guys.”
“Yeah, thanks, but I hate kids.”
“Don’t you have kids of your own?”
“Well, yeah, I did. They’re grown and gone. Besides, its other people’s kids I hate. They’re noisy. They leave trash on the street. They got no respect. Mrs. Ibarra and Mrs. Russell, what are they doin’ over there? Fillin’ up that ugly house with a bunch of kids that got nothin’ better to do than...”
“Study the Bible? Try to figure out who they are?” Mike is losing patience.
Carlo’s spit hits the ground. “I can tell them who they are. They’re mop-haired freaks, that’s who they are! They’re druggies. And Scott Schwartz is the worst of ‘em.”
Even though Carlo and Gunther are in thick with Walter Schwartz, Carlo doesn’t hesitate to brand Walter’s son as an addict. Scott is the only one who comes to the meetings by himself. He comes early to hang out with Danny and David, or he comes late. The other boys seem to tolerate him, but they don’t seek him out. If there is any truth to Carlo’s accusations, the trouble likely does start and end with the councilman’s son. I haven’t had the heart to do anything about this, though. Scott is a needy kid.
Carloads of kids start arriving. Carlo growls and goes back into the house, leaving Petey to whine at the end of his leash. That poor dog is staked by a rotting doghouse that sits exposed to the weather all year long.
R
Despite how toxic the environment around us is growing, our patched-together family seems to be working well. Valerie has decided to abandon her quest for tenure at Stanford in favor of teaching Spanish classes at the new junior college that has just opened in Los Altos Hills. Foothill has managed to steal academic talent from the four-year colleges and universities. The location and beauty of its campus, the high salaries they pay, and the flexibility they offer to professors who want to pursue interests outside teaching make the campus an attractive employer. I suppose she’s decided to devote more of her energy to writing novels. A risky business in my opinion.
Andy is trying to interest Danny in law school. Danny has been an invaluable assistant to Andy, but he’s not sure he’s ready to make a decision that will cost his family money when they need to put their resources toward Domeka’s defense. He has found a small computer operation that will hire him as soon as his work permit comes through.
Meanwhile, Danny and David spend all their spare time tinkering with electronics in the garage. Danny tries to explain to me the frustration musicians feel when they have to spend so much time messing with their equipment to get the perfect sound.
“We have to adjust our sound levels depending on if we set up in the garage, out on the patio, or over at the community center. It takes a lot of time to get it right.”
“Yes,” I nod my head politely. “I’ve noticed that musicians fiddle around a lot before they actually start playing.”
David steps up, removing the horn-rimmed glasses Roger bought him when he realized his son was farsighted. He starts talking about variables until I can no longer pretend interest. The boys are trying to invent a device that detects objects in a performance space and makes automatic adjustments to sound levels and reverb settings. This makes sense to Roger, but not to me.
Roger has adjusted surprisingly well to retirement. He doesn’t seem to mind that the kids have taken over his space. He spends more time reading. On the advice of his cardiac doctor he’s taken up jogging. He’s tried to interest David in going with him on a run or to the golf course to hit balls, but David cannot pretend interest in physical activity. That seems strange to me, since he was raised in a farming community, but I’ve learned that he actually spent most of his time with Dara in the classroom.
I thought once we were settled I would want to jump back into the business of art, jurying shows and arranging my own showings. Invitations pile up, but I’m enjoying a season of contentment. I wake up with the sunrise instead of an alarm clock.
Roger is usually awake first. Under the covers, he reaches for my hand when he hears me stirring. Sometimes he reaches for other parts of my body. I always felt tense and unsettled in our rental apartment. It smelled of stale cigarettes after it lost its fresh paint smell. Here I respond more easily when Roger turns over slowly to protect my naked body from any invasion of cold air. He blankets my hip with the pressure of his warm thigh. As I roll over and fit myself to him, I inhale his scent. He smells like freshly turned soil kissed by morning sun. He smells spicy, like geraniums and whole black pepper. He smells sweet, like fresh baked rolls. I will not waste this luxury of time.
R
My coffee cools on the window ledge while I stare at the objects I unearthed on my walk down to the creek to inspect the new deck taking shape. What does a bit of blue eggshell, a dragonfly wing, and a few links of thin gold chain tell me? I arrange the piece of chain over the image of a swan’s neck, a photograph I took at Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. Roger taps on the door and pushes it open to drop a letter on my worktable.
This is the first letter I’ve received from Alaya since Danny arrived about four months ago. She has written to him, but not to me. I pry open the envelope with a letter opener, trying not to tear the fragile paper. I shake out a single sheet of stationery and feel comforted at the sight of her graceful handwriting, evenly slanted letters with perfectly formed loops. The content of her letter has the opposite effect.
Dear Dolores,
Forgive me for waiting so long to write. I tried to wait until I had some good news to share, but there is no good news. The attorney we’ve hired to defend Domeka says there is no way he will avoid prison. He has confessed to making the explosives that were used in a street riot a student group organized and led. While he didn’t participate in the riot, he will be held responsible for a death that occurred as a result of the explosion. I go to Mass every day now and light a candle for the man who died.
The only bright light is that Domeka has no direct ties to the ETA. That may reduce the time he has to spend in prison, but the government is taking a hard line. He will be in prison for years. He won’t talk to us about how he got involved with the Ekin student movement. His attorney has advised us not to press him for answers. Elazar looks like he’s aged ten years and I’m afraid for his health. The only joy I have is when I think of Danel and all the opportunities he has because he’s with you. I miss my boys so much! I miss you too.
I think it’s best if you don’t come for a visit until after the trial. I will need your company after the sentencing. Maybe you can come for the summer? I know it’s selfish of me to ask that. You are married now!
I can’t write anymore. I can’t even think. Dear sister, thank you for giving my son a home. It’s a good thing he isn’t here to see the anger people in our town feel against Domeka, and the shame his father feels. How can two people who love their country express their love in such different ways?
Alaya’s signature is smudged with tears. I add my own. How will we ever recover from this?
R