A man of the people

Excerpts from Jacki’s Diary

November 16, 1974

We were talking about the Gang of Eight again today.  Those are the kids that ran off with a truckload of our guns to Montana about a year ago.  They wrote a long letter about things they didn’t like about the Temple, most of it just flagrant attacks on our apostolic socialist principles, but then they accused us of being racist.  They were actually pretty clever about getting away for a bunch of kids; they avoided Highway 101 altogether so our plane couldn’t track them. 

In between talking about the Gang, Jim was beating the “paper idol” on the table again.  Jim says the Bible is the opiate that keeps people oppressed, even though he knows that religion is the quickest way to mobilize people around a cause in this country.  It’s deep in American culture, using the church for social change.  Martin Luther King knew that, but he bought the God thing hook, line, and sinker, and it killed him.  Jim believes that if we hook people with religion, we can wean them from it later when they’ve seen the benefit of the Marxist principle they’re living.  But not if we’re being sabotaged by our own people running away and harassing us in writing.

The day they ran away, Jim called about thirty of us together and freaked out, waving his pistol at us, warning us we’d better not defect.  That’s when he started suicide drills for the PC.  He said that day that we all had to kill ourselves and leave a note saying that we “could not keep a socialist organization together at this time” because of harassment, and that’s why we had to die.  We didn’t actually do it, but we’ve been practicing ever since, pretending to drink poison and falling down dead, just in case we have to lay down our lives some day. 

OK, it gave me the creeps at first, I won’t lie.  But I’m pretty sure it’s really only a dramatic way of making a point.  He’s really just training us to see that defectors can’t prevail against him.  He is too powerful, and his plan is too perfect to oppose.  At least I’m not going to try to oppose him.  I’m not crazy, after all. 

December 21, 1974

Now that Moscone didn’t run for governor, we hope he’ll run for mayor instead.  Somebody like George Moscone, who sees past the capitalist power structure and has a heart for the people, is what San Francisco really needs, and what the Temple needs.  With George on our side, we can do so much more here in the city.  Jim and Tim and Deb and I have already been talking about how George would support our work with the elderly and foster children. 

George Moscone understands the poor because he had a strange childhood, kind of like me but different – his dad was a prison guard at San Quentin and he was pretty much raised by his mom.  When you grow up different, you develop a heart for people who aren’t like everybody else, like it was for me with my dad being military and my mom being a religious fanatic.  Besides, George is connected.

 

Our girl Bonnie is close to George, so to speak, so we always know what he’s thinking, and we always have his commitment too, because he knows we know, and we have the pictures to prove it.  We are very connected in the city, and my “diversion unit” is an important part of that.  The “unit” is a group of girls I send out to make friends and keep tabs on the politicos, and to “keep them company” when it serves our purpose.  We stay close to all the higher ups, and make sure we keep a record, so to speak, of everything they have going on, with us, or anybody else.  And then they stay close to us and to Jim, because they know we know, but mostly because they respect us.

We always have lots of cash coming in, and lots of travel to keep it put away.  The way I feel about it, the more we have in banks the better.  Jim likes to keep a lot close to him, but that makes me really nervous.  It makes him more nervous to have too much deposited and accounted for, because then people get the wrong idea, and even worse, then you have to pay taxes on it.  Socialism is an uphill battle when you’re trapped in a capitalist society.  Anything you do to care for the people and their assets is viewed as fraud or theft or some other nonsense.  It’s really the capitalists that will defraud you if they have the opportunity to get their hands on your assets, not the socialists.  The capitalists just project their own evil schemes onto us because they don’t understand our motivation:  to free the people from competition and unhealthy dependence on striving to get ahead.  With Father, the people are secure because their assets are in our care, and they don’t have to manage them or worry about them.  And there is no need for greed because everyone has their needs met.  But it takes everyone to make it work, so once you’re in, you’re not going anywhere.  A commitment to Jim is a commitment for life.

We make sure our assets are in small amounts all over, so they are safe from the prying eyes of the people that want to bring us down.  I know where every single bit of it is kept, because most of it I put there myself.  Jim trusts me completely, and he has every reason to.

January 5, 1975

Sometimes I think Jim is getting way out there, but I don’t dare say it, so I try not to think about it.  He has done so much for me, but he just gets so ragged sometimes.  One o’clock in the morning he got us up out of bed – Judy, Linda, Carol, Sandy, and me – because he’s convinced something bad is going to happen to him, that somebody, some force like the press or the capitalist machine, is going to take him out.  So he audiotapes his instructions for how his wife takes over if he dies.  He kept mixing up what day it was, and even what year it was.  He thought it was 1974, and he kept losing his way and having to start over.  Start the whole damn business over, he said.  And then he’d sigh and get pissed off because he couldn’t remember. We hung with him anyway.

 

There is so much to do, so many people depending on us, we can’t quit now.  Plus everything is so wired as it is, it can’t be stopped.  What we have is huge, thousands of members all over California, busloads rolling to every political event that fits our agenda, and members that will do anything if Jim sends them.  I guess we did a good job.  Now it has a life of its own.  It’s just that seeing Jim so far out there scares me, even though he always seems to come back around, in the end.

*  *  *

VI

It was right before closing on Valentine’s Day, and Bruno and I had a date at The Tide as soon as we closed.  We had skipped snacking on deli stuff for dinner that night so we could split a cracked crab and a bottle of Bolla Soave later on.  That was Petey’s gift to us, Bruno told me, for our two month anniversary and our first real Valentine dinner together; Petey had taken on the role of romantic godfather for us, since we had taken our first steps as a couple on his watch.  The Tide had become “our place,” and in it we had “our booth” and “our song” that Petey always played for us gratis on “our” juke box whenever we came in, “If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago.

I was just wiping the slicer down with my back to the counter, and I sensed a customer behind me with the fine hairs on the side of my face.  It was a skill I had picked up with experience.  The deli was tucked in a back corner of the store, out of sight of the cash register and wide open to the loading dock behind the kitchen.  Even though I knew Bruno was in the store and I was safe, I always had a funny feeling in my gut when someone came in this late and I was the only one behind the counter.

A wave of relief came over me when I turned around and saw that it was Valerie.  All the fine hairs on my face laid down and I smiled the Mona Lisa smile.

“Hey, Val.  What can I get for you?  If it’s sliced Monterey Jack and rare roast beef, tell me in advance so I can slice the cheese first, at least.”

She laughed, her eyes and nose crinkling up, showing the little space between her front teeth and making her amazing green eyes disappear.  “You know I wouldn’t do that to you, Shel.  Give me a double piece of the zucchini and tomato frittata with extra Parmesan, and some broccoli and red pepper salad on the side.  Can you sprinkle some sunflower seeds on that?”

“You bet.  Let me get you some Chablis while you’re waiting.”  I poured her a plastic cup of what I had open and got to work on her order.  She sipped and watched me work thoughtfully.

Then an idea seemed to come over her all at once.  “Hey, you know what?  I’m having a little birthday party for my Dad next week, at my place.  Would you like to cater it for me?  I’d also like to have you as a guest, if you’d like to come.  Whaddya say?”

I looked over my shoulder while I grated Parmesan over the top of her frittata, prepping it for a quick flash in the microwave.  “Wow, that does sound like fun.  I should ask Ray, though, before I say yes.  Usually people order catered events through him and he books the chef.”

“No, honey, this would be under the table.  I want just you.  It would be something you did on the side from your own kitchen.  I’d pay you half in advance so you can shop, and Ray would never know about it.  In fact, I don’t want him to know about it.  Or Bruno.”

I looked around the counter to see if Bruno was behind the cash register, and he was up there alone, starting to go through the drawer for any loose ends.  He was far enough away that I knew he wouldn’t hear us, especially with the store stereo still on.

I surprised myself by not hesitating at all. “OK.  I’ll do it.  I could sure use the money.  Under the table?” I asked, a little guilty, but not bad enough to stop me.

“Cash only, just for you.  You come over to my place Sunday morning early and we’ll plan the menu, if that works.  Deal?”

I knew that would work because Graham didn’t get up early Sundays any more to watch Valerie. The breakfast show had been interrupted permanently by curtains, much to Graham’s dismay, sometime shortly after I first met Val in the deli.  He had since taken to watching for her in case she walked home down Hyde to her flat, admiring her legs in the mini skirts she wore to work every day, and imagining what she would do behind the closed curtains after she went inside.  It broke his heart that she worked an irregular schedule and he couldn’t predict her comings and goings.  I was especially glad for Valerie that she had ordered her curtains lined.

“Now just one more thing before I go,” she added.  I handed her wrapped meal to her over the glass countertop and took her empty cup.  Then she leaned toward me, and asked quietly, “Do you have a card for me?”

I stared back at Val like a deer caught in the headlights.  I was pretty sure Val was not on Ray’s list. 

“A card?” I repeated idiotically.

“Yes, hon.  A card.  Do you have a card for me?  I want one, please.”

I had never been a good liar, and this was the first time the need to really lie had arisen at Lighthouse, now twice in one day.

I was frozen briefly, then shifted my eyes to the left and leaned forward to see Bruno hunched down in front of the candy display beside the register, replenishing the malt balls and red hots for the next day, humming and meep-meeping to the music.

In all the months Ray had had me doing the cards, this was the first time Val had asked for one.  I knew, now that I was confronted with it, that I couldn’t lie to her; she almost felt like family to me, what with her living across the street and practically inside our apartment, figuratively speaking.  But then again, Ray and Bruno had been family first.  I had two voices competing for my attention, and right now, neither one was winning.

 

“Did Ray tell you about the cards?” I whispered.  All I could think about was my instructions – “Only the customers I pick,” he said – and I was already going to “lie” to him about the catering.  Already more lying than I was good at.  And worse, he expected me to tell him if anyone out of the ordinary asked me for a card, and now I would have to lie by omission again by not telling him about Valerie.  But then, she did know the right words, the words Ray told me.  So he must have told them to her.

“I don’t remember if it was him who told me, but I know about them, and I want one,” she replied cooly.  “Do you have a card for me?”

I thought, hard, for a moment.  I had conveniently not given the card game a lot of thought before this.  I had heard the nagging voice, but I had ignored it.  I knew I could not tell Ray about Valerie – my gut told me that could be trouble for her - but I also was beginning to get that if I didn’t give her a card, that could be a different kind of trouble for me.  Valerie, after all, did investigative reports for KPIX.  All at once I felt my face pressed up against the rock, and the hard place flat against my back.

 

“Sure,” I replied, looking her straight in the eye, then turning to get a card from the cash box wedged into a space under the counter.  “It’s basketball now.  Here you go.”  I passed the card over the glass, and she took it, looking to her right to check on Bruno, then slipping it into her pocket.  “How much do you want to pay?  Do you need a pencil?”

Valerie spoke softly.  “No, I’m good for now.  No pencil.  Don’t say anything to Ray about this, please.  OK?  We’ll talk Sunday morning.  This is not about you, not at all.  OK?”

I said quietly from between clenched teeth, not wanting to know what she meant, “If I knew what the hell I was doing, I might worry more.  Honestly, I haven’t much thought about it.  But I can tell by looking at you that I probably should have.”

“It’ll be OK, trust me.  Just don’t say anything to anybody, not about the catering, or about giving me a card.  This is not about you.  OK?  I’ll see you Sunday, about 7:00 am.  Got it?”

“I’ll be there,” I said flatly, thinking I should have paid attention when Ray crossed the line, a line I had let myself comfortably ignore until now.  But if I had paid attention, what would I have done about it anyway?  I probably would have had to quit my job, and that was not an option with my expenses. 

Mainly on my mind that moment was the reality that I now had to lie to Bruno by omission twice, and on our anniversary.

Suddenly I thought, Jacki knows Ray and Bruno.  I never really thought much about it, but she does, I’m sure of it.  She’s a practical gal – I think I’ll call her and see what she thinks about all of this.  A feeling of relief came over me.  Of course.  Jacki - always reasonable, always calm.

The minute Val left, I checked around the corner to be sure Bruno was busy, then went in the back and tried Jacki from the produce dock phone, hoping to set up a day to meet.  Her number was disconnected.  Three beeps, each one higher pitched than the last.  “The number you have reached is no longer in service.” 

The gradually widening empty place in the pit of my stomach tweaked me, ever so slightly.

VII

Bruno came meep-meeping around the corner just as I was covering the last pan and carrying it back to the walk in.

“Just let me run upstairs and lock up the cash and then we’ll go, hippie girl,” he said as he flew by, taking the stairs two at a time up to the loft, his hair flopping up and down.  I thought about how much I wished I had nothing on my mind but crab, wine, and Bruno right now, like I had twenty minutes before, instead of a brand new knot between my shoulder blades and a minor twitch in my left eyelid.

“Take your time,” I called behind him, rubbing the twitch and taking deep, slow breaths.  It’ll be fine, I told myself.  Nothing to concern yourself about here.  Just like she said.

By the time I had everything put away, turned out the lights, and padlocked the walk-in for the night, Bruno was downstairs and I actually felt quite calm.  After all, I trusted these guys, and they trusted me.  There was nothing wrong here.  So what if they bent the law here and there?  These were good people, and they had been good to me.  If Valerie wanted to see if she could find something to report on, that was her job, one she needed to do on her own. 

Bruno and I headed out for The Tide in the little red pickup, and Petey was there to greet us in his grandest, most godfatherly fashion.  There was a big cut glass vase of long-stemmed red roses at our special table, and within seconds after we cleared the doorway, our song was playing on the little jukebox.  Petey bowed low with his white kitchen cloth draped over his arm, the Soave sitting in an ice bucket at the table, and said, “At your service, miss.”

“You are one of a kind, Petey,” I said.  “You are the best.  Molto grazie.”  I smiled him the smile, extending my hand for him to bow over, and then sliding into the booth as he uncorked the wine.  “Prego, prego, è niente,” he replied, shaking his head and bowing.  He popped the cork and poured into two wine glasses he had been holding criss-crossed by the stems.  “My goombah here is showing some taste for a change, and I have to reward him for this.  My pleasure, believe me.  Scusa, bellissima.  I’ll go get your bread.”  Bruno punched him in the arm as he bowed and backed away, and the two burst out into a flurry of fake boxing moves and “stunad” and “oobatz” before Petey made his escape.

Bruno focused on me now, taking my hand and looking quizzically into my eyes.  “Cosa c’è, Tranquilla?  What’s wrong?” he asked, patient and concerned.  “You worried about something?  Non te preoccupare.  OK?  Cosa c’è?”

I shook my head and closed my eyes, tipping my head back.  Then I looked at him, and answered, “It’s nothing, love.  I just have a big project at school.  It’s getting close to the end of the quarter and I have a twenty print portfolio due in three weeks.  I have plenty of time.  It’s just that right now I have a lot of pictures and no ideas for a theme.”  All true.

He broke out in a big grin.  “Is that all?  And I thought you were mad at me or something serious like that.  Ok, then, how can Bruno help?  Whatchu got pictures of?  We’ll think of a theme.  How about bodybuilders?  You can start with me,” he joked, straining the short sleeve over his bicep by flexing the softball sized muscle, turning his fist back and forth and meep-meeping like a crazy man.  Petey came by with a crusty loaf of sourdough and a ramekin of soft butter, popping Bruno on the head and crying out, “Cover it up, finook!”  Bruno slapped him on the forearm with the back of his hand.

“I actually thought about that,” I said.  “Is there an event coming up soon around here that I can shoot?  What does that mean, finook?”

“Ey, he’s just calling me a sissy.  The stugatz.  He should talk, the way he . . . never mind.  There’s a big one coming up in the middle of March, the San Francisco Pro Invitational.  Is that in time?” he asked.

I frowned thoughtfully.  “Too late.  I’ve got pictures of people at Lighthouse, and people in here.  You know, characters.  And then I’ve got the zoo, the animal pictures.  Then I’ve got a study I started of hookers in the Tenderloin.  But I only have three or four good ones from that so far.  If I used that, I’d really have to step it up.”

“Nah, let’s leave the hookers alone.  Probally the same for here and the market, leave it alone.  People like to just shop or drink or whatever and have their privacy, if you know what I mean.  I like the animals.  Maybe we go to the zoo on Sunday?  Whaddya say?  We could have breakfast first.  Go to Mass with me.”

Holy crap, I thought, now comes the lie.  Here I am dancing around what’s wrong and now I’m face to face with the lie.  And him sitting in Mass while I’m living the lie.

Just as I was about to fabricate some barely credible piece of fiction about what I had to do Sunday morning instead of being with Bruno, in walks State Senator George Moscone, and I was saved.  I always knew I liked that man, a real man of the people.  The news of his arrival advanced like flames in dry brush through the whole establishment.  Petey; most of the kitchen crew and wait staff from the neighboring restaurant that the bar belonged to; and the owner of the whole operation were all at once, seemingly by magic, out front in the bar in a pretty row.  The owner, Oriano, a powerfully built swarthy little man no more than five foot seven in elevator shoes, stepped out in front and extended his hand to Moscone, wiping his hands on his pants first.  Bruno watched the pageantry with an amused smile, exchanging nods with Moscone, while I just stared big-eyed.

“Eeyy, Georgie!  Come stai?  You look good!  Eeeyyy, let me look at you . . .” Oriano threw out his arms and grinned.  He and Moscone shared a big bear hug, slapping each other on the back, the Senator having to lean over a little to get a grip on Oriano’s short frame.

“Oriano, my friend, always so good to see you.  Can I have my usual?” Moscone asked, nodding toward the booth behind Bruno.

“My home is yours. Can we sit a moment?  Pietro, the Senator’s usual, andiamo.”

“First, let me say hello to your staff and greet your nice customers,” Moscone said, turning to the aproned receiving line across from him, smiling at each one with his big soft eyes and shaking hands, saying a little something personal to each one.  “Eeeyy, Angelo, how’s your beautiful mama?  Give her my best.  Come sta, Vito?  Gimme a hug.  Good evening, I don’t believe we’ve met.  Paolo?  Molto lieto, Paolo.  Ciao, Adriana.  You’ve done something wonderful with your hair.  How’s the baby?”  A man of the people.

When he was finished, he turned to us and thrust his hand into Bruno’s, wrapping his other hand around and pumping it like they’d met many times before.  Moscone slipped into our booth next to Bruno just as Petey arrived with the drink.  “Johnny Walker Red, over, Senator, the way you like it.  Salute,” Petey said, as he dropped the drink in front of Moscone.  “I’ll run across and get you a fresh crab, Tranquilla, scusi,” he said, dashing out the door.  Oriano appeared behind Moscone’s shoulder with a platter of orange colored melon slices wrapped in prosciutto.

“Ah, melone e proshut, my favorite.  You are a good man, Oriano.  Bruno, a piece for you and the lady?  I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Moscone said, looking over at me now.

“Senator, this is Shelley Hobson, the brains behind our deli.  You know the deli Ray put in a couple years back.  Well, Shelley here – we call her Tranquilla because she’s so sweet -”  He paused to  look at me and smiled as he said this, his eyes warm and trusting. 

“Tranquilla here jumped in and made it special with her delicious recipes and her pretty smile.  She’s an art student, too – she takes pictures.  And she’s gonna be a teacher when she’s done, for high school kids.”  He seemed almost proud of me.  I felt touched, and guilty.

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Shelley.  Bruno here is a good man.  And, it seems to me, you are very special to him!  Eeeyy, Bruno, it looks like you did good with this one.  I’m proud of you.  To the lady, salute,” and he raised his Johnny Walker Red, each of us raising our glasses of Soave in response. 

“Salute, to my Tranquilla,” Bruno replied, glancing over at me warmly, and we all took a sip.  Then Bruno went on, “And here’s to your future in politics, Senator, only the best because you are the best.  Salute.”

“Salute,” we both replied, with sips all around.  “So it’s official, George?  You’re running for mayor?” Bruno asked.

“Yes, Bruno, I’ve decided to run.  I’m going to announce officially within the next week or two, and I’m hoping you and Ray will be with me.  Our good friend Jim Jones has already committed the Peoples Temple to the cause, as well as Cecil B. at Glide, and I’m hoping Oriano here will be behind me, too.  It’s going to be a battle – Barbagelata is strong with the high-rollers, as you know.  But that’s not why we’re here.  We’re all about the grass roots, Bruno, you and me.  We’re in it to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves.  It’s going to take all of us.  Can I count on you?”

Tears were welling up in Bruno’s eyes.  Suddenly I felt my heart doing a complete flip, falling hard into love, where before I had been languishing in mere amusement.

Bruno looked the Senator straight in the eye, turning fully to face him so there was no mistake about his commitment.  “My loyalty is yours, Senator.  Whatever you need, you call me.  Whatever it might be.  The pleasure will be mine.”

“I understand, Bruno.  You’re a wonderful friend.  I don’t know where I would be, especially on the road to Sacramento the way I am right now, without friends like you back at home.  You know my heart really belongs right here in the city, where the people are, instead of running back and forth on the freeway all day and night.  And I miss my wife, Godammit!”  He looked at me and then shared a grin with Bruno, and winked.  And when Bruno turned his grin on me and winked, I blushed from head to toe.

“Alright, you two,” Moscone said, standing.  “I’ll let you lovebirds get back to your dinner while I do some business with Oriano here.  You take care of her, Bruno, you hear me?” the Senator admonished him, tilting his chin down and looking straight across into Bruno’s eyes.

“You have my word.  And don’t forget what I said before, OK?” Bruno replied.

“I won’t, Bruno.  You tell Ray, a più tardi, OK?”  Bruno nodded, and Moscone slid into the adjoining booth across from Oriano, who had been waiting there for him, and they quickly fell deep into whispered conversation.

I suddenly felt overwhelmed by a feeling of relief.  If the Senator and Ray, and even Bruno, were good friends, then I was worrying about nothing, just like I thought.  All at once I was overcome with trust and a sense of family like I hadn’t felt in a long while with Graham, not since we had started living as friends instead of lovers, and especially now that Bob was getting so close to graduation and had begun spending almost all of his time with Scott.  I was beginning to feel that maybe I had found in Bruno what I had been looking for, someone who loved me for me, someone who really cared about other people instead of just himself, and who could fill that empty space inside of me that nothing and no one so far had been able to fill.  Maybe I was finally home.

Meanwhile, a whole pink Dungeness crab arrived at the table with hand towels, picks, lemons, and a bowl of melted garlic butter.  Petey set down two plates in front of us, and said, “This is my gift to the two of you, who fell in love right here in front of me.  Buon apetito, my friends, enjoy.”  He bowed, and for once Bruno did not smack him, but replied warmly, “You are a good brother to me, Pietro.  Molto grazie.”  Petey was right:  I had fallen in love right there in front of him, but it hadn’t been two months ago.  It had been that same night. 

As Bruno dug into his crab claw, he turned his attention back to me.  “So tell me, Tranquilla, can you meet me for breakfast Sunday morning, maybe about 7:00?  Or maybe you can come over to my place, and Mama will fix us something.”

With all the panic and confusion gone, my head was very clear.  I simply told the truth.  “I already promised Valerie I’d have breakfast with her Sunday morning, babe.  She and I have kind of become friends, you know.  And I promised I’d help her plan for her Dad’s birthday party.”

“Absolully, sweetheart, I understand completely.  You know Ray has a special fondness for Valerie, too.  I’m glad the two of you are becoming friends.  Maybe Ray will give you the afternoon off one day this week, and you and I can go to the zoo after you get out of class.  Not to worry about the pay – I got you, bella. Do you want me to ask him for you?”  He looked at me, almost puppyish even with those arresting ice-blue eyes.

“Would you guys do that for me?”  I asked, touched.

“Anything for famiglia, bella.  And that’s what you are to me.  Don’t you forget it.”  He clenched his fist and put it over his heart, and said “meep-meep.”

I melted into laughter.  “Whaddaboutit?  What?” he said, putting his two hands up in the air, his eyes wide.

“You are adorable,” I said.  “I would go anywhere with you.  You pick the afternoon, as long as I don’t have class.  It just needs to be this week so I have time to develop and print and get everything into mattes.  You can be the animal in some of the pictures.”

“You gotta deal, baby,” he said, licking the juice from the crab and the butter off his fingers and washing it down with a little wine.  “It’s good you’re all better now.  Because I want to invite you back to the store with me.  I have something for you in the loft, if you want it.  If you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.  And yes, I want it.  Absolully.”

I fed him a little piece of crab and he winked at me, and we finished our meal, chatting happily, looking forward to what we might find in the loft.  

When the moon hits your eye

Hyde and Vallejo, Chestnut and Jones

“Dogs are wise.  They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more.” – Agatha Christie

I

As fall approached and I rooted myself at my new school in the City, my separation from Berkeley became final, and with that separation, my relationship to Bob took on new dimensions, deeper and better now that the daily jangle of life’s details no longer interfered with it. 

My relationship to Graham, however, even though I had finally laid down the baggage I picked up the day I found the letter from Lois, seemed somehow stripped of depth.  And while certainly a warm familial commitment remained, the intimate commitment to sacrifice, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, was gone.  It had left the building right behind till death do us part. Thus we became the kind of crabby, loving roommates that siblings make.

I found my life spiraling outward from the apartment at Hyde and Vallejo, just as Bob’s life had already spiraled out from Moraga and was beginning to spiral out even from American soil.  Scott, now Bob’s academic advisor instead of his teacher, in addition to being his lover, had a connection in Paris that would result in a job for Bob soon after he finished his BA in romance languages.  The president of the Banco di Roma, whose home was in Paris, had a chauffeur who was getting married in July and planning a permanent move to Greece.  The job was Bob’s, if he wanted it, starting July 1, 1975.  His dream had come true:  he was going to be a European, a free man in Paris.

Graham had developed an obsessive imaginary relationship with Blondie.  He seemed to genuinely enjoy watching whatever she did in the window now, either dressed or naked.  She represented for him, he told me, unattainable female perfection - the key word being unattainable - that allowed him to rationalize that real, sweaty, effort-filled relationships were somehow unsavory, and therefore not for him.  His voyeurism made life much easier, to be sure, both for him and for me.  While photography was now Graham’s perfect medium, he rarely had time even for it any more, what with the world of eight to five pulling at him.  And even Lois had become history.  These were not conscious choices, but they were shaping who he was.

II

One dinner hour while I was behind the counter at the deli, where I had more time to spend now that I wasn’t commuting four hours a day, I was fixing Armistead his favorite hot dish, vegetable lasagna with Boudin bread and butter on the side.  He was due in a couple of minutes and wanted it warm when he got there so he could run home and write a chapter for “Tales of the City,” which still didn’t feature me in it anywhere.  I was just wrapping the foil around his meal when Ray came up.

“Hey, Shel, here’s somebody I want you to meet.  Valerie, this is Shelley, the one who makes your favorite blintzes every Saturday.  Shel, this is Valerie.  She’s a producer for KPIX.”

I said with my warmest voice on, reaching over the glass to shake her hand, “Pardon my fingertips, Valerie; they’re a little olive-oily.”

“Funny, you don’t look like Olive Oyl,” she replied, both of us laughing as she grabbed my hand and winked.

“Well, I can see you two need no further introduction here,” Ray said with gruff amusement, rubbing Valerie on the shoulder blade.  “Take good care of my Val, now, Shel.  Anything she wants tonight, it’s on the house.”

“You got it,” I said, setting Armistead’s lasagna on the counter behind me and wiping my hands with a cotton towel.  “Val, what can I fix for you?  This chicken divan casserole melts in your mouth, and it’s great with the broccoli red pepper insalata.”  She was nodding and grinning as I spoke, so I continued my pitch.   “I’ll pour you a little Pinot Grigio while you’re waiting.  Sound good?”

“You sold me.  Some of that.”  She weaved her fingers together backward and stretched her arms in front of her, yawning out loud.  “MAN, it’s been a long day.  Do you live nearby?”  Just then Armistead walked up and threw his arms around Valerie.

“Val, sweetheart, you look great.  What a doll!  Let me look at you.”  He held up her hand and gave her a twirl. “I hardly see you any more.   Don’t they ever let you out from that sweat shop they call a TV studio?” he chit chatted. 

I slid his dinner up on top of the glass case while I was pouring Valerie’s wine, and he rolled his eyes, giving me a big happy sigh, and patted it.  “Here’s some for you too, Armistead,” I said, pouring a second clear plastic cup and setting them both on top, turning to pull together Valerie’s dinner.

The two of them chatted aimlessly, and then Armistead quaffed his wine, gave a tiny wave with his fingertips, and went home with his lasagna for company.  Valerie picked up where she left off.

“So are you from around here?  There’s got to be more to the deli girl than just deli, with blintzes like that,” she probed.

“You ARE a newswoman, aren’t you?  OK, I go to the Art Institute – you know, just over the hill.”  She raised both eyebrows at me and smiled, tilting her head. 

“Yeah, I’m a photography major,” I went on.  “I’ve taken some shots for the Berkeley Gazette, so that makes us both newswomen.”  We both laughed. 

“And I live right around the corner on Hyde, between Vallejo and Green, right across from that little park.”

She fell silent.  “Really?” she asked, emphasis on the “real.”

“Yeah,” I replied my answer curving up on the ends, like a curious smile.  “Why, do you live around here too?  I live in the gold building, 1555.”

“Really!  I live right across the street from you!  Well, right next to the park, on the Vallejo side.”

Now it was my turn.  “Really?” I asked, turning slowly, now taking in her strawberry blonde hair, her pale freckled skin, her alarming blue eyes, and – the fact that she was stacked.  The look on my face had to be as transparent as Blondie’s picture window.  “What floor?”

“Third,” she answered, then paused.  She took in the expression on my face, and suddenly got very, very pink.  “Can you . . .”

“I’m afraid so,” I said sheepishly.

“Oh, NO.  I knew it, knew it, knew it, knew it, knew it!  I KNEW it!  Crap.  I knew I shouldn’t have put off ordering those curtains.”  She was grinding her fingertips into her eyes, red with embarrassment.

“Don’t be silly,” I said.  “I’m sure I’m the only one who’s ever seen you.  Both of the men that hang around my place are oblivious.”

“MEN?” she exclaimed.  “Please, not men.”

“I’m afraid so.  But like I said, I’m completely sure I’m the only one who’s ever seen you.  Still, I wouldn’t delay on getting those curtains, and in the meantime, I’d dress in the living room and pee in the dark.”

“Oh my GOD!” she said.  “It’s a good thing we met, because I wasn’t in any hurry.  I thought I was the only one up that early.”

I thought it was best not to mention that she was definitely NOT the only one up at that hour, and that Graham had adjusted his sleep schedule just to watch her.  And naked or dressed, she had become the woman of his dreams.  Probably best left unsaid.

III

 One cold Sunday night soon after, Ray came around behind the counter when I was just shutting down.  I had wiped off the meat slicer, which was now sparkling, and was headed back for the kitchen to start a batch of spinach ravioli with garlic cream and parsley to round out the leftover chicken divan and steak and kidney pie we already had for the next day.  I was contemplating whether I had time to add a batch of pan-fried mashed potato patties with scallions when he walked around and asked me to sit at the counter with him.

“But first, gimme a pound of extra rare roast beef,” he joked.  Rare roast beef was the only thing filthier to slice than Monterey jack cheese, which left a thick scum of creamy white all over the surface of the slicer and sticky globs lodged behind the viciously sharp blade that had to be carefully scoured out until there was no trace left.  Rare roast beef was just a pure bloody mess.

“You’re kidding, right?” I said, eyeing my spotless slicer, but still ready to grab the joint of beef and start over.

“Of course I’m kidding, bella.  I wouldn’t do that to you.  I would do it to Jean, but not to you.”  We both chuckled.  Poor Jean.  “Let’s sit.  You want some wine?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, and went over to the walk-in to grab the Cabernet I had uncorked that afternoon, pouring us both a glass.

“Here, Tranquilla, Let me show you something.  We’re going to add a little game of chance – kind of like a raffle - for our favorite customers.  Because we want to make it special, you know, so they know how much we appreciate them, we are going to keep it elite.  Only certain customers can play.”

“That sounds like fun, Ray.  How will I know which ones get to play?” I asked, intrigued.  Ray really knew how to treat his customers - that’s what he and I had in common, that we loved people and knew how to make them feel like they were the one most special favorite customer of all time.  That’s why they always came back, and why Lighthouse was as much of a place to be as it was a place to shop.

Ray laid out a handful of white printed cards on the counter with small type and started explaining.  I leaned over and looked at the cards very hard, trying to connect what Ray was saying to what I saw.  On each card there was a list of football teams, one team vs another team, and after the team names on each line, two numbers, like 6-5, or 4-10.  Ray described something about a point spread and a parlay, none of which made sense to me.  But, OK by me.

He went on. “So I’ll give you a list of people who get to play, and if somebody asks for a card, you just glance over at the list kind of quiet and make sure they’re on it.  If they’re not on the list, just act like you don’t know what they’re talking about, because you don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings.”  I thought to myself, not to worry, I can promise you I won’t know what they’re talking about.  He continued. 

“If they’re not on the list, just say, ‘If you’re looking for greeting cards, they’re over on aisle two.’  Or something, depending on what they say.  Real natural.  Then after they leave, tell me.  That’s important, OK?  Because that might be one of our best customers some day.  Capiche?  The only ones who should even ask you are the ones I tell about it, and they’ll just ask quietly, ‘Do you have a card for me?’  You got all that so far?”

I looked at him blankly probably about a second too long.

“Alright, so do you get it?” he asked again.  “Ask me a question or something.”

“Well – not really,” I had to admit.  “But if you tell me exactly what to do, I can do it.  I probably just wouldn’t be good to play it, or to teach anybody to play.  I’m not great at math games.”

He stopped for a minute, looked down and then back up, and smiled at me broadly.

“You know what?  That’s OK!  In fact, that’s better.  A lot easier.  Just do this:  when somebody says, ‘Do you have a card for me,’ you just give them a card.  If they say anything else at all, play like you don’t know.  And fuggetabout the list.  Too much trouble.   I’ll just make sure they say exactly, ‘Do you have a card for me?’ and nothing else.  So they have to say exactly that.  By the time they ask you, they will know how to mark it, because I’ll tell them how when I put them on my list.  Just remind them to circle all the teams, each one they want.   And then you take their card and their money, cash only, and you put it in this box.”  He pointed to a plain metal cash box he had set at the end of the counter.

“Can I make change?” I asked, now in a territory I could wrap my mind around.

“You sure can!  Good question, Tranquilla.  Everyone will pay a different amount.  Most people will only pay a dollar or two, but once in a while you’ll get somebody who wants to pay a lot.  They’re going to give you back their card when they pay you, and they have to mark what they paid you on the card right after the point spread.  See?  I’ll make one for you.  Every card should look something like this.”

He circled a couple of teams, one team at a time, on the card, and wrote an amount after each one in the space to the right.  “When they give you the money, check to make sure it matches the amounts they put on the card, all added up, and put the card in the box with it, under the tray.

He paused, looking at me to see if I understood.

“OK now, Tranquilla?”

I looked at the card.  “This, I can do.”  Something in this moment reminded me of the night at the loading dock, and I felt a tiny jab at the back of my brain, but I decided to ignore it.

He raised both his eyebrows and smiled.  “It’ll be fun, like a little special treatment for our best people.”

I smiled and nodded.  “One more question:  how do I know if they win?”

“You don’t have to worry about that at all.  If they come in and tell you they won, you just buzz me and I’ll be right down.  All prizes are claimed from me only.  If they don’t win, they might want to see me, too, depending.   Just buzz me, and I’ll come down.”

Way at the back of my mind, right where I had felt the jab, a small voice nagged at me.  This sounds a little like gambling, it noticed.  Might it be illegal, it inquired?  I considered the voice, there at the back of my mind.  Then I made a conscious, but only barely conscious, decision to ignore it again.  It flickered past me, disembodied, like sudden headlights in the fog rounding a corner, in front of a horn muffled and fading as it passed.  I decided not to stop, look, or listen.

“What if you’re not here?  What do I do then?” I wondered, a little worried, but not overly.

“I will always be here when it’s winning day, always.  Don’t you worry.  If I get sick or something, I’ll train Bruno just in case.  OK?”

I smiled and took a deep breath.

“OK!  When do we start?”

“Thursday morning.  I’ll leave you two bundles of cards in the cash box.  Don’t forget, ‘do you have a card for me?’  Don’t forget.”

And so my days as a hapless bookie began, to continue the entire remainder of my time working at Lighthouse.  To this very day, I still can’t wrap my mind around a point spread, let alone a parlay, whatever that is.  And it took a bolt of lightning to the head before I admitted to myself that I had even been a bookie at all.

IV

The store was empty except for me and Bruno one December Saturday night, with lights already turned out everywhere but the kitchen, the loft, and the night lights in the front window.  It was starting to get cold, and you could almost see your breath in front of your face even inside the store now that the heat was off for the day.  I was hurrying to finish up for closing, lost in thought over my work, picking out recipes for the  next day so I could grab the freshest ingredients early before the customers came in.  Bruno and I had been bantering back and forth all day, him “meep meep” -ing around the deli like my shadow; and me noticing his antics more than he realized, tracking his every movement with my eyes, smiling my Mona Lisa smile whenever he noticed me noticing him.

“Merry Christmas, Tranquilla,” he whispered, suddenly out of nowhere, his lips barely touching the back of my hair. 

I gasped and wheeled around, the shock of his unexpected presence, the unfamiliar heat of his breath near my ear, and his granite body behind me causing the fine hairs on the side of my face to stand up.

He laughed as my chestnut mop whipped into his face, catching him in the mouth.  I had been leaning over a little file box in front of the pass through, studying a recipe card, when he had sneaked up and abruptly planted his hands on the counter around me, sheltering me in the space he created.  He let go of the counter as I turned, and backed up, grinning at me.

“You smell nice, bella,” he said.  “What is that?”

“Irish Spring and Tide,” I flirted.  “If it smells like more than that, it must be my natural sweetness.”

“Awwh, you beat me to it,” he joked, pressing his clenched fist into his heart like I’d shot him there.  “So tell me, Tranquilla, do you still have to stop and think about Graham whenever you see me?”

We stood there staring at each other for a moment, the air between us thick with surprise and the electricity of emerging connection.  I looked him over thoroughly as he calmly observed me, waiting for me, while I took in his skin, the thick, loose black hair that he was constantly smoothing out of his eyes, those eyes, like ice but somehow warm, eyes that penetrated deep to the center of me and melted there, leaving something of his behind that didn’t go away.  And the well muscled frame that I didn’t dare look at, not yet.

“No,” I said simply.  “No, I don’t.”

“Well, good for me,” he said huskily, a slow smile still playing around his lips as he held my gaze.  He cleared his throat. “So here I go.  Can I take you out for a drink tonight, bella?  You know I missed your birthday, and I have something to give you I’ve been keeping.  I’ve been waiting, you know, until you didn’t, you know, have anything on your mind any more.  You know what I mean.”

I knew exactly what he meant.  My 21^st birthday had been in October, and even though he and I never talked about Graham, he knew that my heart still ached from something back then, from whatever that thing was that had been hovering over me when he and I shared the bottle of Chianti months ago, the thing I couldn’t tell him about.  And he had waited for my eyes to clear and my heart to lighten all this time.  He had known just the right moment, to the day and hour, when it was time, not a moment too soon, or too late.

I took in a breath. “OK.  Right now?”

“No, next week. Yes, hippie girl, right now.  Can I help you clean up?”

“No, you goof, we’re already clean.  I’ll think about recipes later.  I want a Kahlua and cream.  Two.”  I fake-punched him in the jaw, and he craned over backwards like I’d really jabbed him.

“Oww, Tranquilla, you knock me out.  You can have as many as you want.  I got you.”

We walked the grocery aisles together, looking for items out of place or fallen; then he locked down all of the outside doors and turned out the lights in the kitchen and the loft.  He came back out to grocery, where I was still waiting between the canned fruits and vegetables and the bread aisle, up by the cash register.  He stopped about eight feet back and stood, hands in his pockets looking at me.  His left eye twitched a little, and a smile broke across his face.   He approached me slowly, reaching up and weaving his hand into my hair as soon as the length of his arm would allow.  His fingers came gently around the back of my head, pulling me toward him, bringing my face to within inches of his, his eyes boring into mine.

“I’ll arm the store and meet you at the truck,” he whispered.

 Once we were bouncing along in the little red market pickup, the newness melted away again, giving us the respite of our old easy friendship and gossipy chatter to fall back on.  The conversation came in a flood, almost like a reaction to the intense silences of moments ago: what were Ray and Nannette doing for Christmas; was he giving bonuses, or a party at his big house in San Bruno.  We all loved parties at Ray’s house because he had a home version of Pong, a computer ping pong game that was built into a game table where the top should be.  We would sit around that thing for hours until our brains shut down.  He was going to add Pac Man to it for his two little ones for Christmas, and we were trying to talk him into putting one up in the loft. 

As we got closer to the wharf and could see Alioto’s Restaurant in the distance, Bruno told me word was that two Italians were going to run for mayor, and we debated who our favorite of the two likely contenders would be, Moscone or Barbagelata.  We were kind of leaning toward Moscone, a man of the people who didn’t hide out in his St. Francis Wood home, but spent time in the stores and cafes of the city’s neighborhoods, keeping tabs on people.  Plus he had been majority leader of the State Senate, while Barbagelata had just been a Supervisor, and Willie Brown liked him. And I liked Willie.  He used to give parties for us poster factory kids, since we worked for his friend Jeff, another man of the people.

Solidly back in our comfort zone together, we pulled into the narrow alley beside The Tide, a little bar right down on the wharf where it turned out Bruno was connected.  That meant when he walked through the door, the owner came out and said, “Eeyyy, Bruno, goombah, come stai?” and patted Bruno on both shoulders with his hands.  It also seemed to mean that Bruno could park wherever he wanted, avoiding the need to circle the block countless times to wait for a space to open on the street, or to pay the freight for a garage space and walk.

“Eeyyy, Pietro, non c’è male,” he replied, gathering up the broad-chested barman in a bear hug and patting him on the back.

“So who’s da dish, my friend?” our host asked, wiping his hands on his apron as Dean Martin sang “C’e la luna, mezz’o mare” from the little nickel jukebox in the booth next to where we stood.

“This, my friend, is Tranquilla, of whom I have spoken many times.  Or Shelley, to you.  Shelley Hobson.  Shelley, this is Pietro.  You can call him Petey if you want, or whatever.”

I extended my hand to shake, and Pietro took it in his and turned it, backside up, raising it halfway to his lips and bending down as if to kiss it, but just bowing low over it instead.

“My honor, Miss Shelley.”

“You’re a gentleman, Pietro.  So nice to meet you,” I said lowering my eyes shyly.

“It’s good you didn’t kiss, goombah, cause you should not be gettin’ spit on the lady,” Bruno cracked, and they both chattered off something in Italian, laughing and punching each other in the chest, faking heart attacks in turn.

“OK, Tranquilla, let’s sit.  Petey, can we sit here?” Bruno asked, nodding his head to where Dean – no, Dino – was crooning.

“Be my guest.  My house is yours,” Pietro replied, sweeping his arm across the front of himself like a doorman.

“You are too kind.  No, exactly kind enough – meep meep!” said Bruno, taking my hand and ushering me into the booth.  “One large White Russian for the lady, and a Michelob for me.”

“You 21, paisan?  Just kidding,” joked Pietro, laughing in strange little barks.

“Shaddup, stunad.  Bring a frosted glass, OK?”  Bruno smiled and shook his head.  “We love each other like brothers,” he said to me as Pietro went for the drinks.  “We went to high school together and he graduated a coupla years before me so he likes to bust my balls.  Excuse me, give me a hard time.  You look beautiful, by the way, deli girl.  But that little aroma of mortadella behind your ear I like the best.”

I wadded up a napkin and threw it at him, just as Pietro brought the drinks.

“Kids, kids, let’s keep it quiet in the house now or I’ll have to call the authorities.”

“Funny guy.  This is a funny guy,” remarked Bruno winking, cocking his thumb toward Pietro.  “You make me laugh, Petey.  Now make like a tree.”

“You are a tree,” said Pietro, snapping Bruno on the shoulder with a kitchen towel and scuttling back over behind the bar, with that same rolling shuffle Bruno meep-meeped around the market with.

“You guys almost look like brothers,” I observed, looking around the place and taking in the waterfront paisano ambience.  The tables were thick with lacquer over brightly colored Italian ads for Campari, Galliano, Coca-Cola, San Pellegrino, and Bolla Valpolicella and Soave.  The entire back wall was tight with bottles stuffed into shelves, with liquers, syrups of every flavor and color, and sparkling waters packed in alongside the Johnny Walker Red and Black and the Wild Turkey.  There were mirrors all the way around, making the tiny space look three times its size, and the booths along both walls were upholstered in alternating tufted stripes of shiny, thick red and green vinyl.  The little juke boxes on each table top had a mix of current hits and Italian standards, including C’e la Luna, Volare, and Oh Marie, Bruno’s favorites.  I knew this because he liked to sing little bits from them when he was meep-meeping around. 

But the best part was the sidewalk outside, now dark and covered over with canvas for the night, where the crab pots boiled during the day on either side of the glass cases, filled with whole cracked Dungeness, shrimp, calamari, oysters, clams, and whatever came back fresh from the traps and nets that morning.  Wooden barrels full of French loaves, Colombo and Boudin and Francisco, stood out front, inviting you to grab something in white paper with a plastic cup of wine along with your loaf, and dine by the water.  I had only ever walked this sidewalk as an outsider, but being here with Bruno made me feel like I had more cousins on a new side of town now, where I never had before.

Pietro walked up with a tray. “Here’s your drinks.  Enjoy, brother.  You call if you need me, Shelley, OK?  Don’t you let this one give you a hard time.”

“I can take care of myself.  Besides, he’s a good boy for me,” I replied.

“We’ll see,” said Pietro, winking and walking away, Bruno whacking him on the forearm as he turned.

“A character,” said Bruno.  “Is that good, bella?”

“Wow!  It’s strong.  Is that what Kahlua and cream is, a White Russian?”

“Pretty much,” Bruno answered, taking a swig of his beer, eyeing me.  “Do you like it?”

“It gets better with every sip.  Better order another one because this one’s going down.”

“You got it, Tranquilla,” and he raised his arm over his head without turning around.  In seconds I had another one with a fresh tiny red straw and a little square napkin sitting in front of me.  I almost didn’t notice Pietro come up.

“So, Tranquilla, I have a little belated birthday gift for you.”  Bruno took a small square box out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table.  I felt a little intimidated at the sight of it.

I opened gingerly, and inside tacked to a little loop was one half of a heart with a broken edge, very thin delicate gold, and engraved with what looked like Hebrew letters on the back.

“It’s a mizpah,” he said.  “When I can’t be around to watch over you, you know I have the other half, and I’m thinking of you.  You’ll know I’m always there, always your friend.  See?  I’ll keep the other half with me.”

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet, opening up the picture section and showing me where the other half was inside one of the sleeves.  “Now you have to give me a picture of you so I can put it in here with my heart.  OK?”

I was touched, and uncomfortable, but not so much that I wanted to push it back across the table.  “It’s beautiful, Bruno, thank you.  I’m going to put it on my chain right now, next to Bob‘s locket.  You know Bob . . .”

“Sure, Tranquilla, I know all about Bob.  Great guy.  I would be proud to share a chain with Bob.”

I took off my chain and added the mizpah, then put it back on and held it up to show Bruno.  “I love it.  It makes me feel very safe.  Thank you.”  I was about two-thirds of the way through my second drink by now.

“You want one more of those, Tranquilla?” Bruno asked, holding up his hand.  Like magic, another one in front of me.  I definitely did not see it arrive this time, and before I knew it, I had finished it.  Bruno, I thought, might still be nursing his first beer.  Or it might be my imagination.

“Another?”

“Hell, no.  I think you’re growing another head.  No, it’s a whole twin.  I might be ready to go home,” I said, holding my hand up to my cheek, wondering why it felt clammy on the outside when it felt so hot on the inside.

“You bet, Tranquilla.  Here, let me help you to the truck,” and he came around beside me and lifted up on my elbow, starting to lead me outside.

“Don’t you have to pay?” I asked wanly.

“No, bella, I have an agreement.  You’re always welcome here now too, and come for lunch if you’re ever down here without me.  Petey’s treat.”  Bruno and Pietro nodded at each other, both of them looking very far away to me, and small.

I was both impressed and impaired.  I tripped a little going over the doorstep.

Bruno poured me into the truck and maneuvered it backward out of the alley, then through the narrow, criss-crossing streets around the wharf, and down Beach over to Hyde, making the long pull straight up the cable car tracks, manual transmission and all, without a single slip or grind, the muscles of his forearm rippling under his taut skin.  It seemed like only a minute to me before he pulled into the alley beside Lighthouse and turned off the engine, probably because, admittedly, I was out of it.  Suddenly it got very quiet in the cab of the pickup, and stuffy.

“Why don’t you come inside with me a while, bella,” he said soothingly.  “We can sit in the loft and talk before you go home to Graham.”

I was thinking coffee actually sounded pretty good and had opened the door of the truck, stepping out into the alley ready to go inside for a hot cup.  But as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I was hunched over, all my snacks from the dinner hour at the deli and the White Russians in a puddle between my feet.

“Aayyy, madone!” Bruno cried out.  “Poor Tranquila.  What have I done to you?”  He scrambled over the stick shift to the other side of the cab, reaching over to pet my hair.  “And to me,” he said to himself more quietly.  “It must have been the vodka.”

“Vodka?!!? What vodka?  All I had was Kahlua and cream!” I moaned, retching up nothingness.

“Well, really Tranquilla, you had a few White Russians.  White Russians have just a drop of vodka in there.  Just a drop.”

“A drop of vodka?!!?  I can’t drink vodka!  Ever since I binged on screwdrivers in high school I can’t drink vodka.  It makes me sick.”

“I know,” he mourned.  “I’m sorry.”

“Well, me too.  But next time don’t do me any favors with drinks, OK?  I’d give you a kiss, but I just had vodka.  Again.”

Bruno moaned softly, tilting his head back. “Ay, bella.  Can I walk you home?”

“What, no ride?  Just kidding.  Yes, you can.  I would appreciate it.  Oh, my head,” I groaned.

“Wait, take these.”  Bruno pulled out a bottle of Coke from behind the seat and a bottle opener, handed me three aspirin from a bottle in the glove box, and popped open the Coke.

“You take these now, and you won’t feel a thing in the morning, I promise.”

I obeyed, and walked around behind the truck, meeting him in the middle of the alley.

“I had fun anyway,” I said.  “And thanks for the drinks.”  I poked him a good one in the chest with my free hand and took a swig of Coke with the other.

He took his jacket off and draped it around my shoulders, taking my hand in his and walking me silently all the way to my doorstep, waiting until the door closed behind me.  And I only had to stop and bend over the gutter twice on the way there.  

Out there in the cold distance

University and Oxford

“During the Middle Ages, probably one of the biggest mistakes was not putting on your armor because you were just going down to the corner.” – Jack Handy

I

In March it came – a big packet from San Francisco Art Institute, not the slender letter of rejection I had feared.  The packet, stuffed with forms and brochures covered with pictures of thoughtful looking students working on larger-than-life sculptures and paintings, welcomed me.  It felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my chest, both because I would now be able to bury myself full time in photographs, and because the ragged days and nights of commuting would come to an end, giving me a good four hours a day, at least, that I could now devote to study, work, and the life in between.

The Art Institute was walking distance from our apartment, just a short pull up Hyde Street, up and over Union, then a few blocks more past Lombard to Chestnut, and finally a sheer nosedive down Chestnut to the Institute.   Twenty minutes in a hard rain, fifteen any other time, and a walk with views so jewel-like it was like opening a present each time.  The cable cars clanged by on my left past Alice Marble Park, and Lombard Street, the crookedest street in the world, according to Ripley, lay coiled below me on my right.  Lombard’s loose bricks, flanked by overflowing beds of neon iceplant and marigolds, rattled and popped under the constant stream of cars looky-looing down its snakelike length, becoming a sort of urban river.  To be indigenous in a neighborhood that rare was a kind of fortune that one could not seek and acquire on purpose.  One had to be in the right place at the right time knowing the right person to score the one or two affordable rooms on the Hill, like Graham and I had.  It seemed I was blessed.

With our apartment, my job at Lighthouse, and now my acceptance to the Institute, I suddenly felt a sense of community, like I really lived somewhere for the first time in a long time, and a possessiveness of the life that I now felt more willing to fight for, even head to head with Lois.

I confronted Graham with the letter from Lois and how I had found it in his pocket, and asked why he had not told me he was having second thoughts about our relationship.  The answer I desired, even expected - “Oh, that?  Poor Lois, she has a thing for me, but I had to tell her I was taken” - did not transpire.

Instead, he stared at me blankly, wanting to know what the hell was I talking about, and what was I doing in his jacket anyway.  He had the look of a man who had information, and didn’t plan to give it up easily.

I replied from between clenched teeth, and softly.  “I went to wash your jacket, Graham, and there it was, in your pocket.  It didn’t even have an envelope.  It was folded so the writing was on the outside, with the signature as plain as your face, and the words above it, ‘I think I could fall in love with you,’ right there looking back at me.  I was taking care of you, and that is what I found, so I put it back and left your stinking coat dirty.  Maybe I should have washed the whole thing anyway and handed you back the pulp.  And now you say ‘hell’ to me, like I ought to be on the defensive or something.”

He stood very quiet, wringing his hands together and looking down at them.  It was hard to tell if he was considering the whole situation and felt overwhelmed, or if he was busy constructing the perfect lie, or if he was going over several drafts of some awful truth he was about to spring on me.  As the time passed, I couldn’t help but think about how different my reaction was to him right now compared to my reaction to Bob when he had broken the news he was gay.  There had also been many times when Bob had taken a side trip with other girls and told me about it, and although I had been hurt, I had not reacted like this.  

Right as we stood there, I knew what the difference was.  Besides the obvious fact that Bob and I had never established a home together, Bob had been authentic in all circumstances with me, even in his youthful confusion.  He had always been well-meaning. He had never hidden anything from me when our relationship had been the kind that called for full disclosure.  Even when the news was at its worst, from either of us, he had put my heart on equal footing with his own.  We had a knack for working it out, even through the storm of post-adolescence.  I sensed that such was not to be the case here, with Graham, today.

He finally looked up at me, his hands dropping to his sides.  His left arm rattled back and forth like it was in some kind of a spasm, and he twisted his mustache with his right hand.  “What do you want me to say?” he asked, trying to sound cocky and failing.

“What do I want you to say?  I don’t want you to say anything, except the truth.  Do you need to hear the question again?  Or do you need me to make the question more specific?”

“Ask it again,” he said flatly.

I was in some ways dumbfounded, but in other ways I knew this was predictable.  What made it impossible for Graham to react any other way was his wordless nature, combined with his emotional fragility and his selfishness.  None of these traits were endearing today. 

I knew why he was like this, and in other circumstances I understood and even cared.  I had been right there while he was growing up, and had been inside his home, heard the berating, the belittling, seen the unpredictable highs and lows played out, watched what happened whenever anyone dared speak up.  I knew all of this.  I had protected him from emotional highs and lows throughout our friendship because of this.  Yet here I was, and there he was, and we had a problem. 

“Let me make it simple for you, Graham.  Are you sleeping with Lois, or not?  Yes, or no?”

“SLEEPING with her?  Are you serious?  No!  Hell, no!  You think I have the guts for that?”  I could have sworn his lower lip quivered.  “I wish I did have the guts, but I don’t.”

“What, then, Graham?  Be clear.  And what do you mean you WISH you had the guts to sleep with her?”  I took a deep breath.  So much for protecting him from emotional highs and lows.  My own were on the front burner right now.

I asked again, more patiently this time. “That was good information, really.  But I still need to know, what is going on with Lois?  Do you love her?  Just talk to me.  Please.”

Still more quiet, not a word.  “Let’s sit,” I said.  “Tell me.”

We sat.  Finally he looked at me, from the extreme opposite end of the three piece sectional, and asked, “How come you didn’t get this upset when I told you I might be in love with Bob?”

“That’s different,” I said.  “Feelings like that would be confusing, and it would be understandable if it wasn’t clear what to say or do.  This is damn clear.  So speak up.”

He sighed and looked at his hands again.  “Alright.  Lois and I have been having lunch together every day at work.  There’s just something about her I like.  She has this kind of guy quality that makes up for what I don’t have – she’s so tough and self-assured.”

“Why don’t you just fall in love with Bob then?  He’s tough and self-assured,” I sassed.

“C’mon, now.  She and I work in the same place, every day, and she understands all of the office politics, and how to manage the crap and the gossip and everything.  She helps me work out what to say to Phil when I can’t get my point across with him.  You and I just live in two different worlds now, that’s all.”

“Two different worlds?  You want to see a different world, I’ll show you a different world.  I live in a different world, too, and I think of you as a shelter from that.  You used to feel the same way about me.  Don’t you feel that way about me any more?”  I asked, feeling a little small inside, and distinctly less at home.

“I do, but Lois is my shelter at work.  And she’s just so damn good at volleyball, it’s a beautiful thing.  She’s so full of life and so happy, it makes me happy, too.”

Suddenly I felt very sad, like a whole chapter in my life was done, and the page had been turned, never to be turned back again.

“So do you not love me any more?”

He pressed his lips together and frowned, and then said, ”When you told me that you thought I could love more than one person, you and Bob, in perfectly OK ways, and that none of us knew how to love for life yet, you were right.  I don’t love Lois.  But I do love you.  Still, I don’t know if I will love you for life.  And being with Lois makes me think that maybe - maybe I won’t.”  He breathed.

This time it was me who was quiet, the wordless side of my nature now in control.

“OK,” I finally said sadly.  “Maybe I should move then.  I can look for another place right away.  I can be gone by the first of the month.”

“NO,” he hollered. “What’s the matter with you?  No, no, no, no, no.  Please, you cannot do that.  I absolutely need you.  No.  Don’t do that.  Not now.”

“But, Graham, I’ll be 21 in the fall, and if I’m going to live with a man, he at least has to know he loves me.  Besides - even though to be honest, I have to say I feel the same way you do, I mean about loving you for life - this is still hard for me.  I mean, we knew we were young and not sure where we were going, but I don’t want to be living here when you find the right person.  I have to go, I have to leave, and move on.”

“No, you don’t.  You’re going to go to school around the corner, for God’s sake.  You’re going to teach me everything you learn about photography.  You’re going to sneak me into class so I can imagine what it’s like to be a student there with you.  I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and neither do you.  Just stay with me.  We’ll just be roommates if that’s what you want.  But I need you.  Please.  Please stay.  You are my best friend, my very best friend, and I need you here with me.”

Oh, crap, I thought, groaning silently.  What am I supposed to do?  Do I stay, and have a home - a warm, comfortable, quiet home with neighbors and my job around the corner and school down the street, and my second best friend for a roommate?  The second best friend who just told me that growing up would not move him closer to me, but farther away?  Or do I strike out on my own, like a brave person with a spine would do, and make a life that had a chance of taking its own shape, free of old romances that had not quite panned out?

Finally, it was not a difficult choice after all, because I did truly love Graham in a unique and unconditional way, like family.  Besides, all my stuff was there, and I had never been big on change.  So I chose to stay, and the time of living with Graham as my brother began, until new romance compelled me to do differently.  In the end, Graham was to turn out to be a very fine brother, a brother who was easy to love, even for life.  Still, something inside me was beginning to feel as if it were made of wood.

II

Graham and I opened the mail one Saturday morning, and there was a large, square white envelope with “Mayhew/Berhanu” above the return address.  We looked at each other and smiled, him his big, Best Smile in the senior class smile, and me my little Mona Lisa smile. 

We knew what we would find when we tore it open, and we were not disappointed.  “The parents of Barbara Lorraine Mayhew and Yonas Berhanu request the pleasure of your company at their nuptial ceremony, to be held at the New Life Christian Center, El Sobrante, at 3:00 pm, Saturday, June 10, 1974.  Reception to follow.” 

Bob came over about 10:00 that night waving his copy of the invitation, and after he made us scrambled eggs for dinner, we all slept in a dogpile on the big bed.  He had been feeling a little off his game because his brother Ricky had announced that he was going to become a priest, and he was struggling with his mother’s pride in contrast to her reaction to him when he had come out.  What hurt him most was the way she had said to Ricky, “your father would be so proud,” and the way she touched his cheek and smiled up into his eyes.   And then the way she had looked at him, Bob, after she said it. 

We woke up about 6:00 am, a sweet-smelling spring Sunday shot through with Jacob’s Ladders in the half-light of morning, Bob and I unable to sleep any later than that after years of burning the midnight oil.

“What’s the matter with you people?” groaned Graham.  “It’s Sunday, for Chrissake.  Just because you two have a screwed up schedule doesn’t mean I should have to.”

We had hung a pair of Cost Plus deep red batik curtains in the archway between the living room and the bedroom when Bob had started to spend a lot of nights at our place.  I undid the tiebacks and let the curtains drop into place so Graham could grab a few more hours of sleep, and then Bob and I went into the kitchen to make coffee and waffles for breakfast.

After we got going, we decided to throw a few slices of bacon onto the fire.  Graham appeared in the doorway, his hair sticking out in every direction, rubbing his eyes.

“You are sick people, to be up cooking something that smells that good at this ungodly hour.  Where’s the coffee?”

Bob poured him a cup, and aimed him toward one of the wicker chairs by the dining table in the bay window.  Graham plopped down, sipping his coffee, gazing out the window at the park across the street as he creaked back and forth against the back of his chair like an old man.

Bob and I were just pulling the last waffle out of the iron when we heard Graham call out from the living room, “Whoa!  Come here, you gotta see this!!”

Not inclined to let a perfectly good breakfast get cold, Bob loaded the last waffle onto a plate with the others and grabbed the syrup, and I got three plates and forks and the butter, plus napkins, with the bacon plate resting in the crook of my elbow.  Then we scuttled out to the living room to see what was up.

Graham was standing up now between the table and the window, his face practically pressed to the glass, staring at something across the street.

“What in the world are you looking at?  There’s nothing out there at this hour,” I said.

“Oh, yes there is.  Look,” he replied pointing to the apartment building off left, third floor directly at eye level to our own, the only flat apparently on that floor, at least in front.

The lights were on in two rooms, the bathroom and the bedroom, and there were no curtains.  You could see directly inside all the way to the back of each room, including the bed and the double wide walk-in closet in the bedroom with its wide bay window.  The toilet, with the seat facing us, was visible in the bathroom through the narrow slit that was there, just to the right of the bedroom.  The pale-skinned occupant was currently sitting on the toilet facing us, apparently stark naked.  And she was blonde.

“See?” said Graham smugly.

“How could we not?” replied Bob, smirking slightly.  “Graham, I thought you loved me.”

“I do, dear, but this is special,” replied Graham, winking at him.

“Great,” I said.  “A naked blonde neighbor.  Just what I needed.  Ah, well, at least I can take pictures.  I thought you were half asleep,” I jabbed at Graham, setting the table and putting the bacon down in front of him.

“Well, I’m up now!  I haven’t seen her before, have you?” Graham asked to the room in general. 

“No,” said Bob, “she must be new.”

“Just think - we can turn out the lights at night and have dinner theater,” Graham said.

“God help me,” I replied.  Suddenly I felt like Wendy in Peter Pan, and could have sworn she was allowed to fly away at some point.  But I couldn’t remember if she needed Peter’s help to do that.  Flying would have been a good skill for me right then.

Blondie got up after finishing the job and walked out of the bathroom toward our right.  She disappeared, her back to us, and then popped back into view through the bedroom door.

“She’s stacked,” observed Bob.  “Look, she’s getting dressed now.”

“Come on, guys, this isn’t healthy.”

“She looks healthy to me,” said Graham.

“That’s not what I meant,” I rejoindered, digging into my plate.  “There, she’s dressed now.  You can return to civilization.  Poor thing.”

“Poor thing?  She has to know people can see that,” Bob said.

“Not necessarily,” I replied.  “Remember?  She’s new.  She just might not be thinking about the window.  Maybe she’s from Idaho or something – that’s probably why she’s so pale.  She’ll probably get curtains today, too.  Now leave the poor girl alone and eat your breakfast.”

“I’ll go get the paper,” sighed Bob, and the three of us whiled away the next hour poking through the Chronicle and grazing on waffles before Bob and I had to leave for work.

As I might have guessed, I was going to be seeing Blondie again very soon, both in the way I expected, and in other ways more surprising.

III

June 10^th was just around the corner, marking the day after the last day of my last year at Berkeley – really, the first day of the rest of my life.  It was also going to be Bob’s 21^st birthday and the start of summer, as well as Barb and Yonas’s wedding, all landmarks in our little world. 

Bob, Jacki, and I hung out together now pretty much whenever we were all on campus, knowing we probably wouldn’t see Jacki as much after this year – we’d have to find other ways to do that.  And Barb and Bob and I still met now and then at the Campanile for lunch, relishing the warm joy in Barb that contrasted so sharply with the first lunch meetings the three of us had shared, when she was still grappling with Roger, before he “went away.”  As much as her world had rocked and rolled through that time, “the voice” and her faith had been anchors that she had hung onto, keeping her somewhat grounded even when Roger was at his wildest.  And then she had us.  When Yonas had blown into her life, he was like a breeze from Heaven, sent especially to blow her to shore, out of the choppy waters she was lost in.

One late May morning, with only a week left of school until finals, Bob was home, back on Hyde Street, sick in bed, and Jacki and I were on our daily bus ride up University.  The first thing I looked for when I got off the bus from the city at University and Shattuck was Jacki, waiting there at the kiosk for the last leg of our trip.  Only 20 minutes long at most, those brief rides had become a space where we could just be, without digging too deep, an ear for each other if one of us needed someone to listen.

That day Jacki looked tired and distracted.  She was scratching at a sore on her right hand, and from my spot pressed in next to her on the narrow seat, I could see that it looked like her hands were dry and cracked.

“Jacki, what’s wrong with your hand?  That looks like it really hurts.  Are you okay?”  I asked, concerned.

“It’s just my medication,” she answered.  “That’s what it does to my skin – it dries it out and makes it really thin, and if I get a cut or anything, it takes forever to heal.  When I get really tired or anxious, my epilepsy kicks up a lot worse, and I have to up my dose.  Plus, you know I’ve started doing photography, too, remember?  The fixer getting into my skin doesn’t help any.”

Jacki had told me months before about her epilepsy, how it had plagued her throughout school, causing her to be ridiculed by classmates and affecting her ability to be involved in all the same things other kids could.  We had also talked about the connection between epilepsy and giftedness, how popes and actors and artists and politicians throughout history had been diagnosed with epilepsy.  One scientist had formed a theory that the effect of epilepsy on part of the brain caused other parts to overdevelop, leading to genius in one or more areas.  It was obvious Jacki was special, more special than most people I had known.  But on days like today, when she was not on top of her game, you could see that sad little girl who was sure her Daddy didn’t love her peeking out from behind her eyes.

“So why are you tired and anxious, honey?  What’s going on?”  She thought for a moment, apparently considering whether or not she should tell me what she was thinking.  She and I respected each other’s need for space, considering our relationship really only consisted of little notches and cutouts in time.  Jacki was always a cipher, apparently transparent but in the end impossible to know.

“Well, it’s not so much that I’m anxious, really, just excited.  The church is finally leasing the land for our agricultural settlement in South America.  That’s the overseas project I told you about.  I’ve never been so excited about anything in my life, especially since I’m one of the few people really responsible for it.  There’s just so much work to be done – contracts, agreements, getting passports for all the people who want to go – and a lot of people will want to go, eventually.  It’s a real turn on, a chance to live the way people ought to live, sharing all we have with each other and working the land to sustain ourselves, free from the capitalist system.  It’s just that for me, it’s a lot of travel right now – every time I have a break – and a lot of phone calls, a lot of documents.  Don’t get me wrong, I love it.  It’s the perfect work for me, taking care of people and meeting their needs.  It’s just, sometimes I get worn out.”

After what Bob had told me about seeing Jacki in Paris, I had a gut feeling not to ask any more probing questions.  Bob, Barb, Yonas and I had planned a date to meet for lunch at the Campanile that day at 12:45, each of us planning to pick something up and meet at our bench to eat together, so I decided to ask her to come along.

“Why don’t you have lunch with me, Barb, and Yonas today, Jack?  Meet me at Falafel King at 12:15 and we’ll walk over together.  You don’t have to go straight back when you’re done, do you?”

“No,” she laughed.  “I’m always up for falafel.  I don’t have anything after my 11:00 class.  I just promised to meet someone at Temple housing at 4:30.  But I can make it back in plenty of time.  So Falafel King, 12:15?”

I nodded as we rolled up to our stop at University and Oxford, standing up for the rocky-rolly walk to the back door of the bus.  Then we crossed the street and started the climb up the little hill, past Tolman Hall.  I didn’t realize then it would be one of the last few times I would see her, until I saw her again four years later on the television news. 

* * *

Excerpt from Jacki’s Diary

March 1, 1974

We’ve got a crew of about ten of our people on the ground now at Guyana, working on clearing our 3,800 acres there.  Our project is in a pretty dense forested area off Port Kaituma, and they’re working their hearts out, chopping and leveling for 16, 18 hours a day, which is what Father expects.  We’ve all been working that hard from the beginning, even back here in the states in our own ways, and we’re stronger for it. 

There’s so much to do, shipments to manage, contacts to keep happy so everything goes into Guyana like it’s supposed to – arms, medical supplies, ground transportation, you name it – some of what we need is hard to get in.  But Burnham, the Prime Minister, has assigned an aide to our move and she is really helpful. Whatever we want to send in, she makes sure it goes through on their end and they don’t even worry about what it is, except the guns.  They’re harder and may wind up presenting a problem. 

They’re not used to people wanting to get in, I guess, only out.  And of course it’s no trouble getting stuff out over here on our end.  Our contacts help me with that.

Right now, with everything people give us in cash and property, we’re bringing in tens of thousands every single week, some of it nickel and dime.  The amount of travel and coordination it takes to manage all we get so it’s safely kept out of the wrong hands is tremendous.  Everything our people own, what they depend on to survive, I’m responsible for, with very few others.  I’m running every spare minute just managing accounts, both public and confidential, and it will only get more intense now that school is out.  Jim will expect my all, no question.  And he has it without reservation.  Body and soul, but mostly the body, and in a few ways.  I’m too funny.  

* * *

IV

When we got to Falafel King at 12:15, Jacki and I each ordered a half falafel with hummus and dressing, and tall orange drinks in waxed paper cups.  Then we started the stroll into Upper Sproul, the Hare Krishnas tambourining and chanting behind us on Bancroft, and Holy Hubert hollering from the steps of the student union, waving his Bible and preaching damnation and hellfire if we didn’t repent. 

We pressed on through Sather Gate, past the tables for the Young Democrats and the Young Socialists and every other young thing we could potentially decide to become, and then headed up the hill, to our right, toward the tower.   When we got there, Barb was already there, but Yonas hadn’t arrived yet.

“Hey, look who’s here!” Barb cried, smiling. 

Jacki laughed, carefree for a moment.  “I heard you guys are getting married in a couple of weeks.  Congratulations! Is Yonas coming?” she asked, hugging Barb and then looking around.

“Thanks, and he should be here any minute.  Hey, Shel.  Sit down, guys – pull up a space.  Where’s my Bob – isn’t he coming?”

“Poor boy is home sick today.  I hope he doesn’t sit up too much looking out the window,” I said, quietly amused at myself. 

We snuggled up together on the bench, Jacki in the middle and Barb and I on either side.  Sitting so close together, all of us believers in different ways, we suddenly felt, all at the same time, the presence of God among us, between us, in us, and around us.  Like we were wrapped in the arms of a gentle wind, a sweet movement of pure air.  Barb had a sudden intake of breath.

“Do you feel that?” she whispered.

“I sure do,” I replied, hushed, and Jacki nodded, looking all around at the sky, above and to the right and the left, confused.  Her lips got faintly blue, and she shivered.

Barb tilted her head back and parted her lips slightly, her eyes half closed, as if she were listening for something.  I had a feeling about what was coming next, and about who was almost certainly no more than a few steps away, if not closer.  Sure enough, Yonas walked up from behind us at just that moment and put his hands on Barb’s shoulders, right on cue.  I could hear a deep sound of rushing inside my head, almost like the sound a seashell makes when you hold it up to your ear.  My face felt very cool suddenly, and fresh, belying the warmth of the day as we had felt it just before we sat down.  And then my whole view of the world fell back and away, and everything real around me got very, very small.

It started softly, like a sighing deep at the back of her throat, like a child deep inside her was trying to be heard.  Then it shifted deeper still, a rumbling of magma underground, then finally bubbling to the surface, tumbling from between her lips warm and round, glowing like an ember.

“AT’a lela amalkt lay ǝnen, aT’a lela amalkt lay ǝnen, aT’a lela amalkt lay ǝnen,” she moaned, Yonas’s hands just above her shoulders now.

I thought to myself, I’ve heard this before.

“Thou shalt have no other gods before me, no other gods before me,” Yonas responded, rocking slowly, his head tilted down to her.

“Bemot T’illa mekakkel ínkwa bihêd, ante ke’inê garr nehinna kiffun aliferram.  Beterhinna mirkhwizih ìnnersu yats ènannuññal::  Bemot T’illa mekakkel ínkwa bihêd, ante ke’inê garr nehinna kiffun aliferram.  Beterhinna mirkhwizih ìnnersu yats ènannuññal::”

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.  Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.” A deep sadness appeared to come over Yonas, and he shuddered once, beginning at his shoulders and moving all the way down his body to the ground.  Still he did not leave Barb’s side.

“Näñ, näñ, näñ, näñ, näñ, näñ . . .”

“I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am . . .”

“AT’a lela amalkt lay ǝnen, aT’a lela amalkt lay ǝnen, aT’a lela amalkt lay ǝnen,” she repeated emphatically, desperately.

“Have NO other gods before me, NO other gods!” Yonas had sweat on his brow now, leaning down almost with his face in Barb’s shoulder.

“Agzab’r mǝhǝrätǝ adärägä, Kǝrǝsǝtosǝ mǝhǝrätǝ adärägä.  Agzab’r mǝhǝrätǝ adärägä, Kǝrǝsǝtosǝ mǝhǝrätǝ adärägä,” she wailed.

“God have mercy, Christ have mercy.”

Barb gasped, and Yonas knelt down on the ground right where he had been standing.  I looked up and a cloud had just moved away from in front of the sun, which was now casting a warm rosy light on Barb’s hair, and spilling over onto Jacki.  A flock of birds rushed out of the belfry and scattered across the sky, their wings whooshing gently. Jacki was pale as a sheet, and trembling.  As I looked around the wide, grassy area where we were sitting, in what a few moments ago was the shadow of the tower, there was not a soul in sight, even though it had to be no later than 1:00. 

Finally two people walked over to the bench catty-corner to us and sat down, chatting happily.  Then a dog ran by, and a young man was a few steps behind him, plopping down on the grass and dropping a pile of books beside him.  Back to life as normal.

Jacki opened her mouth and closed it again, then licked her lips, which seemed dry and parched.  I handed her the orange drink she had set down on the ground beside her, and she took a small sip.  Then she turned to me and said, “I felt a seizure coming a moment ago, but it didn’t happen.  It’s almost like He had ahold of me, and wouldn’t let me go.  Like He wanted something from me, and had to tell me what it was.”

Barb raised her head now, and looked over at Jacki with big, sad eyes.  “I don’t know what’s in your life right now, or what it means, but I have to tell you that my body and soul ache for you, and I don’t know why.  Please watch and listen for Him, and do exactly what He asks you to do, and nothing else.  Nothing else at all.”

She put her hand over Jacki’s for a moment, and then pulled it back.  Jacki and I looked down at the same time, and what we saw was beyond belief.  Where the dry, cracked skin and the sore had been on Jacki’s hand, there was nothing but pink, smooth new skin, just like a baby’s.  Her hand was completely healed.

Now it was Jacki who gasped.  “I’ve never seen that really happen – not really,” she said.  “I mean, I’ve seen it happen, things like it, but not really.  And I’ve never seen someone talk like you do and then someone knows what she said.  Only people speaking strange sounds and no one understands them but God.”

Barb looked right in Jacki’s eyes. “God understands my words.  And He sent Yonas so you could understand them, too.  He only talks to us, me and Yonas, when someone needs to hear.”

Barb looked around at Yonas.  “Wow, I’m really hungry.  We haven’t had our lunch yet, have we?  Yonas, are you hungry?”  Yonas popped up from behind the bench, sat down on the ground in front of her, and grabbed her hand. 

“Starved.  Let’s eat.”

All of us were about as famished as if we hadn’t eaten in a week, as if we’d just run a soul marathon.  So we inhaled our lunches, and afterwards, without talking more about what had happened between us, went our separate ways to class and work and home, each pondering what had just transpired. 

In the quiet space afterward, when Jacki was alone, the small voice returned to nag at the back of her mind, wheedling and begging her to turn back and start fresh, begging her to just be a student and make a future for herself, a future apart from Jim Jones.  And instead of listening, as much as she wanted to listen, she very consciously chose to forge ahead anyway, and ignore it.  

* * *

Excerpt from Jacki’s Diary

May 29, 1974

Soon school’ll be out, and I’ll have more time to focus on the tasks at hand.  I’m really going to miss Shelley and Bob, especially Shelley and our bus ride every day.  Our rides are a little “normal” time for me that I don’t always get, time to just rest and be me.  I wish we could be friends like regular people, but she would have to join the Temple for that to happen.  And for her, I wouldn’t want that, not really.  It would eat her alive.  The poor thing is so naïve she didn’t even know Bob was gay until he came right out and told her.

Shelley and I had lunch with her friend Barb and Barb’s fiancé a little more than a week ago.  They’re salt and pepper, black and white (Jim would like that – ha), and they’re getting married in just a few days.  I’d only met them once before, at Shelley’s place where she lives with her boyfriend, not too long before Bob and I left for Paris.  Bruno, one of the guys we get our weapons from, dropped by while I was over there.  He works for Ray, in the grocery store right around the corner from where Shelley and her boyfriend live.  There’s all kinds of stuff going on in that store.  I know Shelley’s noticed before that I know the two of them, too, but it’s just as well she never asks how or why.  Shelley’s out of it like that – stuff can go on right in front of her and she never knows the difference.  So we were cool. 

Anyway, when we had lunch the other day, for a minute it was just me and Shelley and Barb, all sitting on a bench tight together.  And then we had the strangest feeling.  I was in the middle.  I was sure I was going to get hit with a seizure, but then I didn’t.  Instead, this cool, clear space opened up around me, and it was like someone was literally breathing clean air into my mouth.  It was like – the breath of Heaven.  It was what we pray for and wait for that doesn’t really ever come.  It’s what Jim and a few of us try to create, that feeling for our people so they can feel safe and loved.  But this was real.

Barb spoke in tongues.  It wasn’t the same as what we do at the Temple, where people open their mouths and speak so no one understands but God, tongues you could make up if you decided to fake it.  She was speaking in a real language, an Earth language.  And Yonas came up just as she started, and he knew exactly what she was talking about.  She was speaking his language, from Ethiopia. I suppose they could have planned it ahead.  But I don’t think so.  It was like listening to God talk, only it was Barb. 

She touched my hand where it was cracked open and dry from my meds, and when she took her hand away, there was nothing there but clear healthy skin.  Instantly.  That was absolutely real.  I know she didn’t plan that.

Why doesn’t God move like that in me?  Why not?  Where is he for me, when I work so hard for him and pour out my life?  What has Barb done that he talks to her?  Maybe Jim is right, and there is no God at all, just Jim, and maybe the Bible really is just a “paper idol.”

Once, Jim picked up the Bible and threw it out into the congregation and everyone was just dead quiet.  You could hear the thing land on the floor, slap.  Then he said, see?  No lightning came down to strike me. This book has nothing in it you need.  It’s just the white man’s justification to subjugate women and Blacks.  Do you need a father?  I’ll be your father.  Do you need a friend?  I’ll be your friend, closer than a brother.  Do you need a God?  I’ll be your God.  I will be whatever you need.  Jim talks about the Sky God who is no god at all.  Did I see the Sky God at lunch the other day?  Did he see me?  I don’t know.   But it really felt like he did.  It really almost felt like he loved me.  But Jim, I can see.

June 12, 1974

I missed Barb and Yonas’s wedding.  I’m kind of sad about that, partly because of what happened between us that day, and partly because it was the last chance I had to see Shelley and Bob for a long time, if ever.  But it was a sacrifice I had to make. 

I finally met one of Jim’s agency people today face to face.  Jim met him through a friend of a friend of a contact of Dan Mitrione, who Jim talks about all the time.  Dan was friends with Jim since Indiana when Dan was in the police department there.  He and Jim were in Brazil together in the sixties after Dan went to work for the agency, but Dan was kidnapped and killed by the Tupamaros in ‘70.  He was an expert in “persuasion” and mind control and taught the Brazilian police to control guerilla movements that way, which is why the Tupamaros were after him.  They even made a movie about him, “State of Siege,” and Frank Sinatra and Jerry Lewis had a concert to raise money for his funeral.  Back in Brazil is when Jim traveled all over scouting the different places where we could plant our project, and it’s paid off in a big way. 

While he was in Brazil he learned things from Dan to lead people out of poverty, ways that people have been studying underground for years to oppress the poor, and now we’re going to use them to make things happen for their good.  He learned how to change the way people think, day in, day out.  We’re going to build the perfect community, Heaven on earth.  And the powers that have hurt so many of the poor for so long are going to pay for the whole thing.  What the agency taught Dan about oppressing the people we will use to set them free, and Jim will lead the way, with me at his side.

When we were most of the time in Redwood Valley, we worked through our members at the mental hospital to lay our foundation.  We tried out some of the head trips that help people move out of their old habits, and see their lives in a new way, see the power they really have.  We learned a lot about what did and didn’t work up there by trying it out on real people, oppressed people who had nothing to lose and everything to gain, out of the public eye, as long as we could get away with it.  

A backward place like Redwood Valley is in no way ever going to understand what it means to transform an entire society for the good of the people, ever understand that sometimes you have to experiment and try new things to make real change, and that people have to make sacrifices to get things off the ground.  But the end result will be completely worth it, and the world will be changed, without a doubt, forever.  The world will know our name, and they will be amazed.