Giant Chinese lions guard the restaurant gates. I approach, the keys to my certified pre-owned Ford economy car jingling from my fingers. I pause to check my appearance in the glass doors. I had blow dried my hair, applied my red lipstick and pulled on a pair of so-called premium jeans that Janet chose for me. I am a persuasive simulation of a normal American woman. I should be able to convince Ted’s friend that I have a newfound passion for sports.
Oscar Ramirez spots me quickly, waves me over from his seat in an oversize booth, two menus on the table. He stands to greet me with a cheerful handshake, “So nice to meet you, welcome to San Diego.”
“Thanks, I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
We exchange pleasantries, ask a few innocuous questions, establishing our provenance, delicately gathering information, like dogs sniffing circles around each other.
By the time the waitress comes I have decided that his immigrant background vouches for a certain open mindedness and his polished English vocabulary belies a considerable intelligence.
I order spicy pork with fried rice. He smiles, nods, requests the house special, rich man’s curry and rice.
“So I’ll get to the point,” Oscar says, “I can hire freelancers and if they work out, I can usually bring them on for a full-time position. Ted says you can write anything, and I saw from your resume that you have impeccable journalism credentials.”
“That’s very kind of you. I’ve made my living as a writer. I’m sure you also saw from my resume that I haven’t done sports writing before. But I’m a quick study,” I try to sound eager.
He fiddles with the chopsticks in their paper wrapper. “I’m sure. We don’t have too many Stanford graduates writing for the sports section, or too many women really. It would be great if we could draw more female readers to the section. Maybe with some non-traditional story angles.”
I have thought about this, actually considered some of the things that might make this job a legitimate pursuit for me. “That’s an interesting idea, maybe a series on female Olympians in the middle of the Olympic cycle, or looking at the rise of more female-oriented sports like tennis and volleyball.”
He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow in polite consideration. “We were actually thinking more along the lines of stories about the Williams sisters’ clothes designers, or interviews with the wives of some of the high-profile players on the big teams.” He proceeds to rattle off men’s names, presumably those who can demand enormous salaries. I nod politely, trying to bluff that I recognize any of the names as my stomach turns at his chauvinistic ideas.
The waitress comes, splashing tiny puddles of frigid water on the table as she places enormous water glasses in front of us.
“Sure,” I concede, “whatever you assign I can cover.” I reach for the bright red plastic straw, draw hard with my inhale.
“That was my attitude when I first came to the Sentinel. Whatever they asked of me. I figured that over time I’d work my way up so I could choose my own stories.” He leans in, hinting at the confidence he is about to reveal, “I thought I was so much smarter than my editors, thought they were dumbing the paper down. ‘The people aren’t just dogs,’ I told them, ‘they know how to read, they want to learn things.’” He sits back, draws imaginary graph lines on the table, “But they have market research, demographic studies, all kinds of data about what newspaper readers want and what kind of readership our best advertisers require.”
I listen, surprised by his frankness.
“I realize now the sports section is just a part of the business. If the paper makes money, I make money.” He looks me in the eye. “My family’s from Juarez, I’m sure you’ve seen the news about Juarez? The drug cartels are waging a war there over territory, over the border and access to the American market. People are dying for making the wrong alliances, stepping into other peoples’ revenge killings. I’ve got two kids, one at UC San Diego and another here in high school. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep those kids here instead of in Juarez.”
I let out a low sound of affirmation. With these few words he has distilled our common purpose. I will write whatever pablum will help me protect and provide for my children.
The waitress brings our food on plates the size of serving platters.
I look up at Oscar, slightly embarrassed at the abundance.
“When can you start?” he asks.
“Today.”
An elderly woman unlocks the door of apartment number 31. “It is not very big,” she says, “but there’s a view.” She opens the door allowing me to enter first. I step into the kitchen; worn linoleum floor and slightly shabby appliances. “You’ll want to see the living room and the balcony.” She steps past me, pulling back floor length blinds to reveal a sliding glass door and a view of the ocean beyond the freeway. I can see how the sun will drop to the horizon and into the sea. The glass door squeaks on its rollers and I step out. The neighbors’ balconies are filled with surfboards, beach cruiser bicycles, volleyball nets.
“There’s a pedestrian bridge,” the landlady explains. “You can see it just to the north, a block from our parking garage so you cross over the freeway to the beach.”
“I have two little boys,” I say, still staring at the horizon.
“The railings have been redone in the last couple of years. They’re up to code, so a child can’t slip through. Just as long as you have no pets, kids are fine.”
“I want it. Can I leave a deposit, Mrs…?”
“Call me Elaine. Don’t you want to see the bedroom first?” She chuckles. “Everyone falls in love with the view, as if they’ll just spend all day looking at the ocean.”
I follow her into the bedroom.
“Great, should I sign a rental agreement?”
She opens the door to show me the bathroom. “You can fill out the application and I’ll run a credit check.”
“Um, is that really necessary? What if I just give you an extra month’s deposit, could you skip the credit check?” I try to sound nonchalant, thinking of the names that would appear on my credit report. The pile of crisp 100 dollar bills in my purse—the exchange for my wedding gold—should eliminate such questions.
She turns and scrutinizes my face. “You have a job?”
“Sportswriter at the San Diego Sentinel.” I proffer my brand new business card.
“I guess an extra month’s rent would do. Cash.”
I smile. “Perfect.”
Michael runs along the beach with his cousin Valerie, her elder sister Amanda carries Andrew on her back. Ted and I walk along without talking, allowing the sound of the waves to substitute for conversation. The crispness of the air fills my lungs and I feel alive.
Michael runs back to us, and holds both of our hands. “Do, 1-2-3. Pleeeeease. 1-2-3 me.”
“OK, hold on,” Ted grins. He and I call out 1-2-3, swinging Michael into the air on the third stride.
Michael squeals, and cries out, “Again!” We repeat the acrobatics a few times, and I feel for a moment like a picture book family. The deep fractures in my life obscured, erased even, by the sound and motion of Michael’s body.
“All right, I think that is about all my back can take,” Ted concedes.
“Just one more!”
“All right, one more,” Ted smiles at me.
Michael rises into the air with our support and then lands safely back on the earth, intact, beautiful, happy. Ted gives him a playful smack on his backside and Michael breaks into a run toward his cousins to beg their launching services.
“So Janet’s totally relieved,” Ted says to me, as we watch Michael.
“Why?”
“She thought you might crash with us forever, and turn into one of those freaky broken widows who never recover.”
I am careful to modulate our path between the soft dry sand that swallows up our footsteps and the wet sand that makes a sucking sound around our shoes and threatens our feet with the tail ends of the waves. “Your friend Oscar said he’d like to bring me on as staff.”
“You’re way more skilled than they need. How’s the salary?”
“I’ll get by.”
Ted leans down and picks up a discarded clam shell, turns it over in his hand. “Tivela stultorum, Pismo clam.” He dusts off the sand, examines the tightly closed seam between the shells. “Hardly find these clams anymore, thanks to the pollution and the refineries.” He tosses it gently into the water. “Hey, what’s happening with the insurance settlement?”
I misstep too far to my right and my foot sinks into the wet sand leaving a border of brown grains on my shoe. “Nothing.”
“What do you mean nothing? What the fuck are they waiting for?”
“A body. No body, no cause of death. No cause of death, no final report from the FBI. No report, no claim.” I reach down and pick up a stone to throw into the water. “Honestly Ted, I don’t think that money will ever come, and that’s probably fine. I don’t want it now. He’s gone, no longer part of my life and I don’t want anything that ties me to him.”
“Well how about those kids? Seems like they still tie you to him.”
I stop walking. “Those kids are mine.”
Ted stops, turns back to face me.
“They don’t have his name, they don’t need his money, they don’t need to know anything about him.” My voice has grown loud, loud enough that even the few sunset surfers might hear me as they ride in.
Ted’s characteristic bemused expression transforms into something that borders on sympathy, or at least a reservation of judgment.
“Andrew won’t even have any memories of him.” My voice grows quiet again. “Anyway, at this point, you’re more like a father to them than he is.”
He turns to look at the children and then back toward me, avoiding my eyes, “So, let’s turn back and go to your place and eat. Janet’s waiting for us.”