In Dark Corners (15 page)

My pulse raced. Even after twelve years, just her voice could stir my blood. I glanced in the mirror and could see her face. Not the occasional grainy newspaper photos from over the years. And certainly not the picture with the interview in the
Village Voice
, sent recently by her brother Felix, where she looked gaunt and bedraggled after returning from a trip to Haiti to study folk music and dance. No, the image in the mirror was nothing like that. I saw Grace as I remembered her, and memories
never
age. She was young and bright-eyed—

"Hey, Seamus?"

I jerked around toward the voice, startled from my reverie, and nodded dumbly at the guy from American Can, holding up an empty draft glass. Then I hunched back over the phone and cleared my throat. "You're here in the City, Gracie?"

"Yes, I'm…" Her voice seemed to fade out and for a moment I thought the connection had gone bad, but then she was speaking again quite clearly…"Right here in the City. You inviting me over or what?"

I could see her, standing with her hands on her hips, leaning forward, challenging…I laughed, relaxing a little. "You know you don't need an invitation, Gracie."

She chuckled dryly. "Just testing the water, you know?"

It was difficult to imagine Gracie unsure about anything. She'd always possessed an inner confidence. It probably kept her going during all the lean years in New York and Europe. "Do you know how to get here?" Without thinking I assumed she was calling from her mother's, but her mother had been gone for a long time.

"I'll find it," she said, and hung up.

I handed the phone back to Mr. Mac and made my way along the bar filling orders and ringing up sales on automatic pilot. I couldn't believe it. When you wait for something for so long and it finally happens, you can't accept it right away, because you are afraid it may just be another dream. But gradually the reality hit me. Gracie was back! I dumped the remainder of my drink down the sink and forced my attention back to the crowd.

The game went fast, the 49ers jumping out to a big lead, but then fading in the fourth quarter, the scrambling Fran Tarkenton leading the Vikings back. The final score was 42-40 in favor of Minnesota. I'd never seen a Monday night crowd clear out so fast. By the time Channel 7 news rehashed the game at 11:00, only Mr. Mac was left at the bar.

K.D. finished clearing up back in the kitchen, then she came out into the bar pulling on her coat, lingering a minute before saying, "Well…Good night, Seamus."

"Bye, K.D.," I answered, recognizing the hurt in her tone. She'd expected me to ask her to stay over—I live upstairs. "Thanks for the help. Couldn't've made it without you."

She smiled sweetly, nodded, and left.

A few minutes later, Mr. Mac pushed himself to his feet and followed K.D. out. I was alone with my memories…

***

My father and I had moved to San Francisco from Oregon after he got laid off at the mill, just before basketball season in my freshman year of high school. We found an apartment near the Mission area, a temporary location while he looked for work, or so we thought. That first night, the landlady, recently from Guatemala, gave me directions to a neighborhood recreation center, near the projects.
Si
, she thought they played
baskeet-bawl
there. So, after dinner, I checked the place out.

Inside the old gym, the activity revolved around center court, two teams of skins and shirts racing up and down the floor raining jump shots, several teams of challengers warming up for the winners at one of the side baskets, and a few onlookers standing around, ragging the players. Of course I realized I was the only white guy in the building, but I figured it was a coincidence. I plopped down and pulled my Converses from a paper bag that included a towel. I slipped on the first tenny, noticing from the corner of my eye that three guys had left the nearby side goal and were coming over. They didn't resemble a welcoming committee.

"Hey, man what ya doin'?" asked the leader, a big guy with an afro, wearing blue sweat pants and a Mission High School football jersey—number 77. 707 would've been more accurate. The other two guys were small, one in shiny green sweat pants and no shirt, the other guy wearing shorts and a San Francisco State college T-shirt. The guy in the T-shirt was spinning a basketball in his hands.

"Ya hear me, man?" the big guy growled, a hostile expression on his face.

"I'm trying to pull on my tennies," I answered, feeling my chest tighten as I tried to hide the strain in my voice.

The big guy took the ball from his buddy, dribbled it just inches from my bare foot, and asked belligerently, "Why fo' ya doin' that?" His hands were enormous, his eyes mean.

I pulled my foot away and jammed on the other Converse. "Well, I'd like to play, you know—?"

The small guy in the State T-shirt giggled like a little kid watching a cartoon. "Hey dig this dude, Big Les."

Big Les edged even closer and slammed the ball down so hard, he had to use both hands to catch it. "Forget that jive, man," he said, his posture as menacing as his tone. "Fac' is, ya ain't s'posed to be here, ah-tall."

"Yeah, yo'
mayonnaise
ass ain't welcome, dude," the guy in the T-shirt said, grinning at his own wit.

I rose cautiously to my feet. "I'm not?" I said, keeping the tone neutral.

The big guy flipped the ball nonchalantly over his shoulder to the little guy, freeing up both of his huge hands. "Tha's right man. Rec only for real players at night. Ya dig it?"

I nodded, but murmured, "I am a real player—"

"Oh, wow, a real player," the little guy mocked.

Big Les glared, his eyes smoldering with anger.

The other small guy, who hadn't said a word, stepped forward and explained in an oddly gentle, soft-spoken way, "Big Les
mean
only brothers, man. Best ya leave now, while ya in one piece—"

"Hey, Lester, I'm not a brother!"

I twisted around, facing the new voice. It belonged to a black girl, just about my age, very tall and nice-looking, wearing jeans and a blue sweatshirt that said: WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT, TURKEY? She stood there with her hands on her hips, leaning forward slightly from the waist with her chin out, obviously defying the big guy's mandate.

"You saying I'm not supposed to be here, Lester?"

"Ah, Gracie," he replied, palming his huge hands in a gesture of supplication, "ya know what I mean." He seemed to shrink in stature, the girl's challenge draining his anger.

She nodded, letting a slight smile temper her insulted expression. During the confrontation, the guy in the T-shirt with the ball sidestepped to the right, separating himself from Les. "Maybe he is a player," the girl said in her throaty voice, staring at me thoughtfully. "Got that player
look
."

Big Les shrugged, averting his gaze from me, a pained look on his face. "Okay," he muttered reluctantly. "Baby Junior need another man…"

So I played on Baby Junior's team—
all
brothers, but no players. But it made no difference. It was one of those nights. I was
on
. Like Paul Newman told Piper Laurie in the movie,
The Hustler
, about being
on
with a pool cue, it being an extension of his arm, hooked into his nervous system. I owned the court, the ball part of me. We stayed on the floor winners, game after game, until forced to retire by exhaustion.

Back on the sidecourt everyone was slapping backs, offering skin, yucking it up. Even the soft-spoken little guy, who was named Eugene. He identified my sponsor, "She's Grace, man, Felix Williams' sister." Eugene explained that Felix, the Cat, was the star of last year's team at Mission High, the only sophomore to make All-City, already attracting the attention of big time college scouts.

I sat down and pulled off my Converses, as Grace came over. "Figured you had that look," she said, smiling broadly.

I looked down at my bag, embarrassed by her compliment. "Thanks for getting me a chance to play," I mumbled, feeling suddenly shy.

"Forget it," she said, squatting down. "Hey, you wouldn't be going to Mission High?"

"Yeah, I think so," I replied, tying my street shoes.

"What year?"

"I'm a freshman," I answered, toweling off my face.

"All right!" she said, standing up and grinning. "C'mon, you deserve a cold drink."

I threw the towel in the bag with the Converses and followed her out into the dimly lit corridor to a soda pop machine under a bulletin board covered with graffiti: Yo Mama stoop fo the group…Panther Power…Black Diamond digs Skinny Minny…The machine was an ancient model, the kind that resembled a horizontal freezer. You lifted up the lid and the bottles were arranged in rows by flavor. You picked one, then slid the bottle to the left into a rocker slot, deposited a dime, and pulled out your selection.

Grace operated the machine differently.

A few steps down the hall was the Rec office, someone thumping away at a typewriter behind the closed door. Nearby stood a wall-mounted fire extinguisher, which Grace approached on tiptoe. She made the
be quiet
signal with a finger to her lips, then reached back behind the extinguisher and withdrew a package of straws and a bottle cap opener. She returned to my side and whispered, "What kind do you like?"

I indicated a Delaware Punch.

She leaned over and popped a cap off a Punch. Then she handed me a straw. "My treat,
player
."

Nervously, I glanced at the closed door to the office, the typewriter still clacking away. Then, I took a deep breath, bent over with the straw, and sucked the Delaware Punch dry, while the bottle remained unpurchased in the machine.

Later, I walked Grace home, agreeing to see her at the Rec the next night. She promised her brother would be there, too…

***

I glanced up from the bar and gasped, believing Grace had suddenly materialized in Judnich's. But it was her in the flesh, standing quietly inside the closed doors, with one hand on her hip and her special half-smile, half-smirk that said:
Okay, so you wanna make something out of it
? She looked great, dressed in faded jeans and a crimson blouse—nothing under the blouse—her dark hair styled in a casual wind-blown look, no make-up except for a trace of lipstick. I guess she wasn't really a classic beauty, a little too tall and too thin, but she made men's heads turn when she entered a room. Jesus, she hadn't aged a day in twelve years, matching my memory perfectly, looking nothing like that photo in the
Voice
two months ago. I came from behind the bar with open arms. "Gracie, you are looking good."

We laughed, hugged, and kissed, until the physical contact sobered our moods. She pulled away from my grasp, still smiling, but looking me over in the Gracie way, like a Marine D.I. checking a recruit before final week inspection. "You look pretty good too, Clyde."

We stared at each other for a few moments until the silence grew awkward. "Hey," I said, pointing at the coffee pot near the cash register. "That is
super
Colombian coffee."

I ducked back behind the bar. "Let me get you a cup, then, after I take care of the receipts, we can go upstairs to my flat, nothing more depressing than an empty bar."

She took the coffee cup and browsed the room, looking over the photos of SF sports heroes covering the wall by the jukebox. I emptied the cash register and began to count the money—

"Hey, Clyde!" she said, her voice full of delight. She'd found my old City College photo—canning a jumper against Chabot J.C. "Man, you were a player—those were good times back then."

I felt a tightness in my chest and quickly kneeled to store the receipts in the floor safe under the register…

***

At about the same time the photo had been taken, Gracie and I were living together in a tiny two-room flat downtown, she attending State and me going to City College, full of dreams for the future. I knew I didn't have the skills to follow Felix into the pros, but I was hoping for a scholarship to a four-year college. I'd been doing well in a creative writing class, and I planned on majoring in English, becoming a writer some day. Gracie was taking drama and dance classes and singing with a jazz group on weekends.

Several weeks before the State J.C. playoffs, she burst into the flat, breathless with excitement, and announced that the big break had come early. An agent had seen their act, liked them, and wanted them to move to New York. He was certain he could get them major bookings, and they'd take the Big Apple by storm.

"I've got to go," she explained. "It's my big opportunity. I don't want to look back and be sorry that I didn't try…What we have is special, Clyde, but we can put it on hold for a few months. I'll be back soon as we make it."

Things didn't quite work out. Two weeks after Gracie left I blew a knee at the State playoffs. The scouts disappeared. I dropped out of City College, then floated until I finally caught on at Judnich's, where I'd been a bartender for eleven years.

***

"A real player," Gracie repeated to herself, as I came up behind her.

"Yeah, that was a long time ago," I said, taking her hand. "Let's go upstairs."

Upstairs in my flat, Gracie prowled around, pausing in front of my bookshelves—unfinished one-by-tens resting on used bricks—reading titles, fingering books. She pointed at half a dozen O. Henry's and said, "Still interested in short stories?"

"I read 'em."

She glanced at me, then turned away from the bookshelves and moved to my desk, centered in front of the room's only window, that faced east across the Bay. She brushed her fingers over the old Underwood and said, "Looks kind of dusty, Clyde."

I slumped down on the edge of the desk, not responding.

After a moment she shifted her attention to the records and stereo next to the desk. "Hey," she said, surprised, picking up her album:
With Grace
. It was just being distributed now.