Irish Chain (22 page)

And so could he.

As I studied the list of interviewees, I got that funny feeling you get when you feel someone watching you. I looked up and Todd was standing in the doorway, staring.

“Hi,” I said. “When did you get here?”

“About a half hour ago. I finished everything on the list you gave me. Is there anything else you want me to do?”

I sat back in my chair, pleasantly surprised. “Gee, I have to think ...” This deal with Todd just might work out, I thought optimistically. He was quick, quiet and hardworking. An assistant from heaven. Don’t get too used to it, a voice inside me warned. Remember the unpredictability of teenagers. I looked at my watch. Ten o’clock. “Well, you’re so efficient that I’m going to have to make up another list. Don’t you have any classes?”

“Not today.” He stood quietly watching me, waiting, it seemed, for something.

I looked at him curiously. “I guess you can come back tomorrow. I’ll figure out something for you to do then.”

“Okay,” he said, nervously flipping his shiny brown hair out of his eyes. “See ya.”

I spent the rest of the day setting up interviews and making up a general question sheet that I’d use with each subject. At four o’clock, as I was walking out the door, a group of quilters were setting up in the main studio, ready for an evening of stitching.

“A Quadruple Irish Chain,” I said. “That must have been fun to piece. How big are those squares, anyway?” The stair step squares’ striking color combination of sea-green, antique white and black and gray would make this quilt an easy sale.

“One inch,” one of the quilters said. “And it’s going to take a lifetime to quilt. Not that it matters now.”

“Why is that?”

“We did it on order for Mr. O’Hara, that man who was killed. And he already paid for it. We were going to ask you what we should do with it now.”

“I guess legally it should go to his heirs. I’m going to talk to his great-nephew tomorrow. I’ll ask him.” And, I thought, it’ll give me a legitimate reason to ask him if he knows who inherits in Mr. O’Hara’s will.

“Well, let us know,” the woman said and bent over the quilt.

My alarm didn’t go off the next morning, so when Gabe knocked on my door I was still pulling a brush through hair knots only people with very curly hair understand. He was dressed in casual yuppie clothes—khaki chinos, a pale yellow Izod polo shirt, beat-up leather topsiders with no socks and, his only concession to the sharp Central Coast winter breezes, a brown distressed-leather bomber jacket.

“You look like you need this worse than me.” He handed me his commuter mug of coffee before climbing into the Corvette. “We need to stop by the fish store downtown before we go to Aaron’s.”

“Why?” I sipped at the coffee while reaching over and turning the heater to high. The one thing I don’t like about convertibles is, even with the top up, they never feel warm.

“Pick up some of their smoked salmon for Aaron. Rachel says for some reason it’s one of the few things his stomach is able to tolerate.”

We fought through the senior citizen breakfast-crowd traffic downtown and found a parking space three blocks from Morita’s Fish Market and Deli in the Old Town section of San Celina. Gabe grabbed my hand and tucked it inside the pocket of his jacket. We walked down the street past the restored brick and adobe buildings that once held the city’s major commercial businesses, but now housed funky shoe boutiques featuring Doc Martens and Birkenstocks, French-style bakeries and gourmet pizza restaurants. Right at that moment, strolling down the already busy street, taking in the mixed scents of yeasty bread, the sharp, metallic smell of just-washed sidewalks, the sage and oregano from cooking pizza sauce, feeling the warmth of Gabe’s large hand enveloping mine, contentment filled my heart, all the more sweet for the fact that I knew, like most good things, it would last for only the briefest of time. But I was learning to savor moments like this, store them up in my mind for the future, to withdraw on days when it didn’t seem possible that there was one beautiful thing left in the world.

Mr. Morita, Todd’s grandfather, was wiping off the red-checked plastic tablecloths on the three round tables sitting in front of his combination fish store/deli. A matching awning of red-striped canvas shaded him from the unusually bright February sunlight. He looked up when he heard us approach, his oval face, the color of orange pekoe tea and as softly creased as an old boot, breaking into a welcoming smile when he saw Gabe, one of his best customers. I guessed him to be somewhere in his middle to late sixties.

“Chief Ortiz,” he said. “So good to see you.” He ran a sturdy hand over the thin hair just barely covering his head. “What can I get you today? Nice red snapper? Fresh-caught today. Halibut maybe?”

“Just a pound of your smoked salmon,” Gabe said.

We followed him into the small, clean store and watched him wrap up the order. After he handed the white paper package to Gabe, he turned to me. “Is there something you like?”

I shook my head. “Not today, thank you.” Then it dawned on me that there
was
something I wanted from him.

“Mr. Morita,” I said. “Were you living in San Celina before 1941?”

He looked at me oddly. “Since 1936.”

“That’s great.” I explained to him quickly about the Historical Society book and how his grandson would be involved in it. Maybe that would soften him up about talking to me. “Would you talk to me about that time of your life?” I watched him carefully. About a third of the people I’d called yesterday had refused to be interviewed for the book, though no one had actually been rude about it. Some people apparently had no desire to relive that difficult time of their life and who could really blame them?

He wiped his hands on his spotless apron, his face soft and blank. “I am very busy. There is much work here these next few days with the festival, but maybe next week.” He gave me a practiced, public smile and turned to a chubby woman in hot-pink bicycle shorts who wanted some crawfish for a Mardi Gras party she was throwing that weekend. I mentally put him on my “maybe” list.

Aaron and Rachel lived in a small blue and gray saltbox house in Morro Bay on a bluff overlooking Morro Rock and the Embarcadero. The flower boxes under the front windows were bare, a graphic reminder of the seriousness of Aaron’s condition. Rachel’s needlework and her flowers were her two great passions, her refuge when the pressures of his illness became too much for her. Though I hadn’t known her long, I admired her quiet strength and the dignified way she accepted this tragedy in her life. Aaron was the humorous one, a lover of silly jokes and nicknames; he teased Gabe, causing him to grin like a teenager and blush by telling him he should call me Peanut because I was so short and by the look in his eyes, he couldn’t get enough of me. He made Gabe laugh in a way that gave me a glimpse of what he must have been like as a younger man. And Rachel, with the easy grace of a natural mother, waited on and nagged Gabe in her gentle, affectionate voice. He relaxed around the Davidsons in a way I’d never seen before. A part of me was jealous that they had known him since he was twenty-two, had such a long history with him. I tried to imagine him an eager rookie, riding with Aaron through the rough streets of East Los Angeles. But even with the photos Rachel showed me of a dark, lanky Gabe and a robust, auburn-haired Aaron, I couldn’t picture it.

“I’m glad you came,” Rachel said, leading us into the living room. She was a spare, delicate woman in her late fifties with short, silver-streaked brown hair and eyes the intense reddish-brown of port wine. Her navy wool skirt hung loosely on her hips; her pale blue cashmere sweater seemed a size too big. “Aaron’s out on the patio. He’s been so looking forward to seeing you both.” She pushed back a stray strand of her neat hair and answered Gabe’s worried look with calm eyes. “He had a rough night, Gabe, but he says the sunshine makes him ache less.”

Gabe laid a hand on her narrow shoulder, kneading it absently. “Is there anything you need, Rachel?”

She sighed deeply, letting herself relax for a moment under his touch. “Nothing you can give me, dear.” She reached up and patted his hand. “It’s just enough that you’re here. Why don’t you go see Aaron while I fix us some tea?”

“Go ahead,” I said to Gabe after Rachel went into the kitchen. “You need to visit with him alone for a little while. I’ll come out when Rachel brings the tea.”

“Okay,” he said and walked toward the French doors off the dining room. Through the thin lace curtains I could make out the outline of Aaron sitting on a patio chair, facing the back yard garden.

I sat down on the gray leather sofa and looked around the room. It was decorated in a way that reflected Rachel’s personality, in subtle, elegant grays and blues with touches of maroon and rose in the needlepoint pillows and framed Degas prints. A brightly polished brass menorah reigned alone on the cherry-wood mantel. Framed pictures of their daughter, Esther, a Hebrew translator for a small publishing house in New York, sat on the delicate curved-leg end tables. A piece of needlework lay folded neatly across the arm of a maroon wing-back chair. I picked it up and read the tiny words stitched in single-strand gold embroidery thread on antique white 18-count Aida cloth.

“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, The Lord is One.”

“I started that during Aaron’s last stay in the hospital,” Rachel said, walking back in the room.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, holding it away from me and admiring the elaborate border of intertwined grape vines, deep golden roses and the palest of yellow honeysuckle. “What will go here?” I pointed to a blank area underneath the finished verse.

“The same verse in Hebrew. I can only work on it a bit at a time these days. I think I regret choosing so small a fabric, it tires my eyes so, but it’s too late to change now.” She smiled ruefully.

“It’ll be worth it when it’s done,” I said. “It has a delicacy that would be lost with a larger count. I wish it were finished. I’d love to exhibit it down at the museum.”

“Since I seem to only work on it at the hospital, I suppose I hope it’s never finished. Shall we join them on the patio?”

“Benni Harper!” Aaron’s voice strained with the physical effort of his greeting. His gaunt, sallow face lit up in a smile. “My favorite
shiksa
cowgirl. Come give me a hug. Turned any bulls to sopranos lately?”

He was wearing a navy blue sweat suit and a blue and red Kansas JayHawkers cap, a gift from Gabe. When I bent to hug him, his back felt as frail as fish bones underneath my fingers. I closed my eyes and inhaled his musty, dying scent, trying to imagine the bulk of the man who could once pin Gabe to the ground.

“How’re you doing, Aaron?” I chose a patio chair next to him.

“Still got the forked end down,” he said, gesturing at his thin legs. “Though just barely these days.”

Gabe walked over to the edge of the backyard, peering over the back fence at the Embarcadero below, where tourists took pictures of the crusty commercial fishing boats, bought sea shell wind chimes and Styrofoam bowls of oniony clam chowder. Morro Rock gleamed obsidian-black in the bright sunlight. Rachel handed me a fragile china cup of tea and fussed about, rearranging Aaron’s tea and cakes until he told her to quit being a Jewish mother and go show Gabe the impatiens that were blooming across the back fence.

“She’s always trying to feed me,” he said to me, as we sipped the strong, minty herbal tea. “And she never lets me have caffeine anymore.”

“She feels helpless,” I said. “She probably feels like if she can control your diet, she can control everything else.” I picked up an iced ginger cake and took a bite. Though Aaron and I had visited less than a dozen times since we first met two months ago, from the beginning we’d established an easy, open rapport. We knew the cancer gave us no time for the indulgence of social artificiality, and also knew the one thing we had in common was we cared about Gabe.

“I worry about her.” His dark eyes seemed to sink further into their hollows. I couldn’t help but notice how the yellow in his skin seemed deeper than the last time we’d visited, as if some unknown artist’s hand had painted on another thin layer of color. “She needs to do something besides take care of me. It’s going to be harder for her when ...” His voice trailed off.

I reached over and took his hand. It felt shriveled and dry and scratchy, an old man’s hand, even though Aaron had just turned fifty-nine two weeks ago. “She’ll be okay. It’ll be hard, but she’ll be okay.”

“I know she will. No doubt she’ll be at the synagogue every day, trying to mother whoever will let her. It’s not only her I worry about.” When he looked over at Gabe, his breath came out in a loud shudder. He pulled the black velour robe that was draped across the back of his chair over his shoulders. “I never can seem to get warm these days,” he said with a small laugh. Gabe laughed at the same time. The sound echoed across the lawn and we watched him dip his head close to Rachel’s ear, point at something down on the Embarcadero, and then her high, thin laughter joined his.

“It’s good to see her happy for a change,” Aaron said. “I can’t seem to make her laugh anymore.” His face grew liquid with sadness. “Sometimes, she almost seems angry with me.”