Signs and Wonders
A “For Sale” sign is up in front of Laura’s house. Roger and I are dining early with Mike and Laura out on her patio, largely because Mike always leaves Laura’s house before sundown so the neighbor’s will see him go. A beautiful widow who has secured the attentions of an unmarried priest is just too juicy.
Since Fred died, this house has taken on a life that his illness suppressed. His moods chased Laura’s natural joy into the corners of the house; now her high spirits run all over the place. Windows that were curtained now look to the hills. The girls in her Bible Study group have introduced her to The Beach Boys and The Dixie Cups. Upbeat tunes play on the radio in the kitchen.
Even though big sweaters defend our bodies against the chill, the bright sun sparkling through the trees lights up the pink dogwoods and fires our hearts with the promise of spring. Goldie turns circles around her mistress as Laura comes out of the house balancing a tray with four glasses of Champagne. Mike looks up at her from where he is stationed at the barbecue, tending New York steaks. I widen my eyes at Roger. Is there going to be an announcement?
Laura hands each of us a small flute glass and that’s when she explains why she’s selling the house.
“It was always too big for the two of us, and now that it’s just me it doesn’t make sense to hold onto it.” Mike moves to Laura’s side, but I’ve noticed he never touches her unless it’s a gesture of comfort. Apparently this is not one of those moments.
“So, we’re toasting the sale of your house?” I don’t raise my glass.
“Yes we are. I have decided that this will not be a sad affair. I’ve had enough sad occasions.”
A sad affair. I release all my expectations and raise my glass with the others.
“To the future.” Mike lifts his glass above ours in salute. We bend our heads toward the stemmed flutes of bubbles that tingle our tongues and pinch our noses.
Dinner is served and Roger relaxes into his juicy steak. I pull a cloth napkin across my lap and look over at Laura.
“Laura, what does the future look like for you?” This doesn’t come out in the friendly way I intended. She’s leaving, and she’s happy, and I won’t have a friend left.
That’s what happens when you put all your eggs in one basket, the accuser in my head says.
My, we’re selfish, the judge says.
You love Laura; of course you’ll miss her, says the mediator, but you don’t know the whole story yet.
Laura ignores my rudeness. “I’ve found a darling little two-bedroom house to rent near the high school. It has a decent sized living room so I can still meet with my girls, and there’s a small, fenced yard for Goldie.” Laura bends down to where the dog has planted herself on top of Laura’s feet. I’m not the only one who would like to see Laura stay put.
“I wouldn’t move without my girl.” She scratches Goldie’s soft ears and looks up at me. “Is there any chance you would still help me with the girls, even though it will be less convenient?”
“You really need to do this?”
“I do.”
R
On a busy Saturday morning, Valerie is running the vacuum cleaner; Andy is finishing up the breakfast dishes; and Roger is in the shower. Danny has taken Andy’s car to deliver some legal documents; David is in his room studying for entrance exams; and I’ve got the laundry started. I head out the door to pick the weekend paper up off the driveway. The sprinklers have just gone off, and robins hop around on the lawn tugging up fat worms that have just had their cover blown.
These are the days I love. Things are getting clean; things are getting done; the people I love are productive and safe and happy. I can file them away in the back of my mind and enjoy my coffee and Herb Caen’s column in the Chronicle.
I’m bending down to pick up the paper, a huge calzone stuffed with the weekend ads and held together with two rubber bands, when a car drives up the street. A yellow cab comes into view, slows down in front of our house and stops. Somebody must be lost.
I move toward the street as the cab driver jumps out and goes to the back of the cab to pull suitcases out of the trunk. When will he figure out he’s at the wrong house? A tall, slender girl with hills of chestnut-colored hair cascading over her shoulders comes around from the passenger side, tips the driver, and sends him away. She stands with her luggage at the top of the driveway. Her full lips break into a wide, cockeyed smile. She looks like a Greek Sophia Loren.
My hand claps over my mouth and then drops to my chest to over my thumping heart. “Sophie! Sophie Doulis!” I drop the paper and stand there like a dope.
Sophie looks relieved that I’ve recognized her. She picks up her cosmetic case and walks toward me.
“You remember me. I’m really glad.”
My brain does a fast rewind to 1955 when I was in New York visiting Roger and we looked up my mother’s family. By then I’d pieced together my father’s side of the family, but I was still a little curious about the big Greek family that Leora was fleeing when she met my father. All I had to go on was that her maiden name was Doulis and that her parents were first generation Greek immigrants who went into the produce business.
It wasn’t hard to track down a brother who was living with his son’s family in a Ditmars Avenue row house in the Astoria neighborhood of Queens. There had been six Doulis brothers and a baby sister, my mother. Their parents were street produce vendors. Equally as enterprising, the boys formed the Doulis Produce Company and stocked the local grocery stores.
My mother wanted nothing to do with the family business. Her brother Gregory told me how much they all regretted putting pressure on Leora to stay in the neighborhood when it was so clear that she had intelligence that could take her places she desperately wanted to go. Sophie is Gregory’s granddaughter, my cousin Christopher’s daughter. The last time I saw her, she was nine years old.
I walk up the driveway and pick up the lightest of her two other suitcases. I’ll have to send Roger out to retrieve the heavier one.
“Why didn’t you write and tell us you were coming for a visit, Sophie?” She dips her head, tucks a long lock of her hair behind her ear, and follows me to the front door.
“This is a gorgeous house, Cousin Dolores.” She stands in the front hallway clutching her train case in front of her with both hands and swivels her head around, trying to take it all in. Then she flashes that crazy generous smile at me.
“What should I call you?”
“Call me Dee.”
I point her toward the atrium and take a quick step into our bedroom to drop Sophie’s suitcase. Roger has just finished dressing. I whisper at him to go up the driveway and bring in another suitcase and then come into the living room to meet someone. I ignore his questioning expression and wave him out the front door.
Following the commotion in the hall, David emerges from his room, blinking like a bat at sunrise. I motion to him to follow me and we go into the living room, where Sophie has dropped her bag and stands staring through the glass panels. She looks like Alice in Disneyland. When she hears us, she rises slightly on the balls of her feet, pivots in a graceful motion, and lands in a lovely third position. Now I remember. Sophie was studying at the New York City Ballet School when I met her all those years ago. She fixes David in place with her smoky blue eyes and bright smile. He comes to a halt and his jaw drops. I have never seen David so unguarded.
Like a Marx Brothers pileup, the others spill into the room.
“Sophie, this is everyone.” I sweep my hand around the room as each member of my family goes for a chair. They want to know who this arresting creature is and why she’s here.
“Everyone, this is my cousin Sophie from New York City.”
I can’t answer the second question. I want to know why she’s here, too.
R
Sophie deflects questions by chattering on about her father and mother, her uncles and aunts, her brothers and sisters. She paints a pretty picture of her family engaged in their various enterprises, growing the business, branching out into the professions, planning weddings and baptisms. I get a glimpse of what it must have been like for Leora to grow up sandwiched in between so many people’s conflicting interests.
Sophie wants to know about our marriages, our jobs, and the house. She sorts us out pretty quickly. It is Valerie who finally takes the bull by the horns. By now, I think we have all figured out that Sophie’s running monologue is designed to put our minds at ease about any problems that may exist back home.
“Sophie, are you on vacation from school?”
“Actually, no.” Sophie swipes her hair back behind her ears again. She pulls her knees tightly together and tugs on the hem of the plum-colored, A-line dress that skirts her legs a discreet few inches above her kneecaps. While we wait for young Sophie to spill the beans, I find myself captivated by her shiny, black, square-toed, chunky heels. This girl is a fashion plate. It briefly occurs to me that maybe she’s here for an audition at the San Francisco Ballet.
“I’m moving to California. I’m eighteen, and it’s time for me to be out on my own.”
Bells are going off in my head. “Do your parents know that you’re here?”
“Yes,” she says, inspecting the clear polish on her carefully manicured nails. “I left them a note.”
That’s more than Leora did when she made her mad dash at the same age. Her family didn’t know where she was for decades. I imagine that Christopher and Pamela are worried and upset. “You need to call your parents. Go into the kitchen and do that right now.”
Sophie freezes.
“Sophie, your parents will be very worried. Let them know that you’ve arrived safely.”
The men have been quiet, but now Andy weighs in. “After that, we’d like to hear a little more about your plans.”