Chapter 4: Walls

...Sherry learns more about Lola...

One day Sherry realized that she and Lola were friends. She would not have predicted it, but as she got to know her, she realized they were on the same journey traveling on different roads.

The expense of lunch in the Financial District brought them together. Sherry had determined early on that she’d have to be frugal. So, every morning she prepared salad, which she carried in a plastic container in her bag. Dessert was usually sliced fruit.

She enjoyed eating at Jackson Square. A small park a few blocks away, it was about two-hundred steps wide in any direction and contained some tall pine trees, a fountain and a hillock of green grass. The pace of the day slowed whenever she entered its confines. Sitting by the fountain, she listened to the musical articulation of falling water and watched the treetops swaying in the wind. She might have been on a mountaintop for the sensations she felt.

While her routine rarely varied, she observed that Lola’s did. After payday, she took lunch at the sandwich shop across from the office, then, half way through the two-week period, disappeared. Her moods followed a similar pattern: happy and animated after payday, sullen and sluggish later on.

One day, she found Lola seated on a bench at the Square, staring into the screen of her cell. She sat without waiting for acknowledgment. Lola looked over and nodded and Sherry prepared her lunch.

After a while, Lola palmed her cell and gazed ahead. Sherry tried to draw her into conversation. When she didn’t pick up on it, she asked if she’d eaten. Lola didn’t want to talk about food, but Sherry offered some salad. When Lola declined, she pushed an apple at her, which she took. She admitted she’d rather sleep in than make lunch and didn’t eat much when money ran out. Sherry learned that was the least of her problems.

“I got into some really bad habits over the summer,” she said, tilting her head up at the sky. “The days were so long, it seemed you got off work early because there was so much time before dark.

“I’d meet friends at a place we went to and we talked and laughed over drinks. One drink led to more and, sometimes, when I tried to remember the night before, I counted drinks instead of time. Of course when the money ran out, it was time to go. Unless someone else was paying…

“As the days grew longer, they got drunker, too. And the nights! When I stepped outside, every light was winking. If I wasn’t just going home, and had money and friends, those winking lights were so alluring. Well, the lights weren’t the only things winking.”

Lola looked over to Sherry who’d stopped eating and was holding her breath.

“Have you ever been drunk?” Sherry shook her head.

“Sometimes you get to a point where every word sounds funny and every thought you think sounds funny. Everyone’s drunk and agreeing with each other, making everything funnier.

“When the group breaks apart, you’re still in that drunk funny agreeable mood and that’s when the winking is so seductive.”

“Winking?”

“Boys. Sometimes I can’t remember agreeing to it—- but it’s one thing to wake up beside someone you know and quite another when it’s a stranger.

“When I can reach over and touch him as he sleeps, and I don’t know his name or remember where we met, lying there, hoping I remember before he wakes, hoping he’s nice.”

“You have to stop!”

“I know.”

“What if he’s not nice? What if he’s—“

“Jack the Ripper. Yeah, I thought about it.”

Sherry sat on the edge of the bench, turning to face Lola squarely. As she did she felt she was filling a mold someone else had occupied.

“What steps have you taken?”

Lola crossed her arms and looked away, sliding down in the bench. Sherry held her position five counts before speaking.

“You have to think hard about what’s right, then draw a line. There you build a wall. On one side are the things you keep. Everything else, you toss over.”

Sherry started bringing extra salad and making a point of inviting Lola to lunch. At first, she resisted but then joined in, contributing to the meals by bringing things like bread or chocolate. Encouraged, but mindful of her diet, Sherry nibbled judiciously at the offerings.

She learned that Lola came from Red Bluff, about two hundred miles north of the city, where her parents and a younger brother lived. She had no religious beliefs, which disturbed her.

Sherry became Lola’s companion, directing her to less destructive pursuits, like the low cost activities she’d discovered. She took her up on a few, but shied from church meetings and lectures. Their lunches were the routine. They even met on weekends. That’s when she realized they’d become friends.

*

Lola was on her mind when she went home to celebrate her 21st. She’d taken a first big step by deciding not to drink. She believed her presence made a difference and worried about a relapse, but maybe that was pride; maybe Lola would be all right. She wanted to tell her mother about Lola, but wouldn’t share everything.

Her birthday was a festive event. Not only had immediate family been there, but streams of aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces and Roger. She felt the warm, happy emotions she’d anticipated.

She hadn’t expected, though, comments about her physical appearance. She had lost weight and dressed differently, mostly because her old clothes were looser. She was paler, too, she was told. It amused her, because everyone acted as if she’d accomplished something. All the while, she thought how much more she was changed inside.

Roger hovered on the edges. She could read the anxiety on his face. He thought he might be losing her. For her part, she worried he was unhappy. She calmed and unnerved him when she kissed him on the lips. The younger people whooped and he blushed. She reveled in her boldness, though felt, from somewhere, her mother’s eyes.

After the party broke up, she and her mother were alone and she felt the weight of what must stay unsaid. She thought her mother sensed it, too, and realized that for all her honesty she hardly spoke of unpleasant things, and didn’t dwell on them when she did. She liked to cite good moral examples in the world, leaving a lot unsaid in between. Their eyes searched each other for clues. But when she asked about her roommates a crush of unhappiness descended.

“Are the girls treating you well?”

“Girls?”

“Mara and Riley.”

Her eyes darted left then down. Again, she wanted to fess up. But a confession would put everything into doubt. Unhappy at the wall between them, she answered.

“They’re fine.”




The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted August 22.

Chapter 3: Attitude

...Mara strives to make a point...

As soon as they met, Mara vowed to introduce Sherry to the larger world. The right attitude was the difference between a rich life and a poor one, she thought. There were two types: “No” and “Yes” people. The No had to be dragged out of a routine existence, protesting all the while: “No, I can’t go. But if I do, I have to be back early.” That attitude was like a wall obstructing the imagination.

She considered herself a Yes. “Yes, let’s surf in the morning and fly to Las Vegas in the afternoon. Yes, let’s catch a show and gamble all night and see that movie when we get back.” Life was a series of connecting activities that, strung together, stretched into a rainbow arching to a pot of gold.

Sherry was rightly challenging the limits someone else had defined and yes she would help. Riley, though, thought she was meddling, causing Mara's eyes to narrow.

So, Mara observed the new roommate with interest and some amusement. Touching base at evening meals, she prompted her to tell what she’d been doing. One night over macaroni and cheese, she described her confusion at an overdue bus that passed without stopping.

“He just pointed behind him.”

“The hitchhiker thumb--reversed,” Riley laughed.

“But why?”

“He’s saying take the bus behind him.”

“There wasn’t one.”

“Typical Muni.” Mara said.

She shared a small victory when she found a smart wool skirt at the second hand. Happily showing it off, she told Mara how much weight she had to lose; she was almost there.

She mentioned going to a church meeting, but complained later that “They wanted to own her time”, and went less often. Mara nodded knowingly.

Once she brought a friend to a meal. Lola was tall, had pale skin, a crop of short cut brown hair and a gold stud in her nose. Her face was like a mask, hiding her emotions. Sometimes differences attract, Mara thought. Sherry confided Lola was going through a difficulty she was helping her through.

Sherry seemed to be making the adjustments all newcomers make, when discovery and acquired knowledge morph into delighted awareness or stoic endurance. All that was fine and good but Mara wanted to do something. Sherry’s upcoming 21st birthday gave her an idea: dinner and dancing. She agreed, but after she returned from celebrating with her family.

*

“I just want to shake her sometimes.”

Riley rested a hand on Mara’s shoulder. Then, standing behind her, he grabbed her other shoulder and started to shake her. The gray-billed cap teetered on her bobbing head.

“Like this?”

“Stop.”

“Does it make anymore sense?”

“Stop, I said.” He sat back down at the kitchen table, a broad smile on his face. Mara looked glum as she pushed the cap back down on her dark hair.

“She liked dinner. So what if she left after the dancing started?”

“She should’ve given it a chance.”

“But it wasn’t the dancing, she said.”

“Yeah, yeah, the atmosphere.”

“Twisting bodies in the dark and a glowing red background. She didn’t feel comfortable.”

“Yes, and will she spend her life running from things that make her uncomfortable?”

*

Early one morning, when Mara rose from bed for a drink of water, she gravitated to the front window to glance outside. When she turned she was startled to see Sherry curled into a ball on the couch and let out a cry.

“Oh!”

Sherry jerked awake, eyes wide with surprise and blinking awareness, pulling the blanket to her chin.

“Sorry,” she stammered, “I know I shouldn’t sleep here—“

Still half asleep, Mara sat beside her to learn what was wrong. At first Sherry leaned away, as if to curl back into a ball, but Mara rubbed her back, telling her she wanted to help. She loosened up and with averted eyes told her about the knocks in the ceiling. Mara stifled an inclination to laugh.

“Show me.”

She followed her into the room. It was quiet. Sherry frowned.

“Wait.” Mara went into the kitchen and returned with a yellow broom.

Speaking in a loud voice that unsettled the morning stillness, she said, “Here’s what you do.”

Moving a chair to the wall, she stepped onto it with bare feet, then jammed the broom handle into the angle between wall and ceiling.

“When they get noisy, knock back---“

She jammed it three times without any response. Sherry’s eyes widened at the boldness.

“---And let them know you’re here!”

Mara marched back to her room, fully satisfied with her demonstration of the right attitude.



The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted August 15.

Chapter 5: Trader

...while Riley sits in lockup, Mara follows Susan reporting the story...


In the same building where Riley sat in jail, Mara watched Susan and a handful of other reporters point microphones at Chief Robert Kelly, adjusting positions every time he turned his head, like heliotropic plants tracking the sun.

Mara stood beyond the cluster, jotting key words onto a notepad. Her job was to back Susan up and offer ideas and leads to pursue.

She glanced at her mentor, jostling the competition for position like a basketball player going for the net. She had the advantage, being the tallest. Slim, as well, she squeezed into a small opening.

“Chief. Have you learned anything about a motive?”

The chief, middle-aged and redheaded, in dark blue jacket with four stars on his collar, seemed to smile at her voice. “The investigation is on-going. I can’t say more right now.”

The chief concluded his remarks and the group broke up. Susan chased him down.

“Chief, can I have a few words?”

He turned and greeted Susan, then frowned.

“Is that still working?” He pointed to the microphone. She passed it back to Mara.

“Did you know the backpack turned up?”

“Work, work, work. You’ll lose your looks only thinking about work.”

“Sorry, Bob. How are the kids?”

“Mary’s at U.C. and Joe’s a senior at high school.”

“That’s great.”

“Any prospects, Sue?”

“Always on the lookout.”

They laughed. Susan, attractive and smart in a black jacket and white silk blouse, looked like she was on her way to a trendy nightspot. She didn’t need to look for suitors. Mara frowned, suspicious.

“You’re not the only one.”

“Not you, Bob?” She pointed at the wedding band on his finger.

“I guess not,” he grinned. “You were saying?”

“The backpack Martin was carrying turned up.”

“How would you know?”

“I met the young man who found it. He turned it in today.”

“Let Henderson know if you have anything.” He flashed a smile as Susan’s waned. He waved, walking away.

“Let’s find Henderson.”

The women walked to the end of the hall and descended marble stairs to the ground floor. The sun was high in the sky and shot rays of light through the windows, boosting dim corridor lighting. They entered onto a bustle of activity, zigzagging past knots of cops, lawyers and worry-fretted people. Susan led the way, pushing through a large wooden door.

A dozen pairs of eyes, mostly male, tracked Susan’s march to the inspector’s glass enclosed office. Mara, her shorter legs working double time, lagged behind.

Henderson, in shirtsleeves, stood looking down at his desk. She stopped at the door, waiting to be acknowledged. He glanced up and grunted. She approached.

“Well, if it isn’t Nancy Drew.”

“I’m following up on the Martin murder—“

“In what capacity?”

“Look, Henderson—“

“No, you look.” He pointed a stubby finger, his face red. “You meddle where you don’t belong, I’ll make it so no one talks to you.”

She stepped back. “What’d I do?”

“Don’t play the innocent. That kid comes in, flashes your card and clams up.”

“But—“

“Are you representing him?”

“You know I’m not.”

“No, I don’t know.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “Suppose you tell me what you know, so I can know, too.”

He sat down and seemed to notice Mara for the first time. He nodded at her.

“My assistant, Mara Ware.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I think Martin's a drug courier.”

“Evidence?”

“The drug killings all over the city.”

Henderson’s tongue worked inside his mouth as if to dislodge something between his teeth. He gazed through the glass at the larger room.

“Martin was homeless and exploitable. He was probably a mule. Someone killed him for it.”

“Evidence?”

Susan shook her head.

“Then why are you talking to me? I have real work to do. Goodbye.” He snarled at a stack of paper.

Susan turned to go, when Mara shot past her.

“Riley didn’t do anything. Let him go.”

He opened his hand without looking up. “You got a card, too?”

“No, but—“

“Out!”

A dozen heads looked up, smirking. In the hallway, Mara tugged at Susan’s sleeve.

“Why didn’t you try to help Riley?”

“He’s going to do what he’s going to do.”

“But he’s locked up someplace terrible. I know it.”

Susan walked on. She tugged at her sleeve again. Susan shook her off. “Stop!”

“The drugs. If the police think he took them, someone else might, too. He could be in danger.”

“Probably not.”

“But the shot of him going to the police--”

“We’ll block his face.”

“But, the protest—“

Susan shrugged and walked away.

Mara was vexed. Susan liked being in the middle of things, trading with the powers that be. She vowed she’d do what she could to protect her friend. But how, she worried, could she do that with only scant knowledge of the threat?


The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted April 4.

Welcome

I am a writer living in San Francisco focused on fiction writing and poetry. No, you haven't read any of my work yet. The purpose of this blog is to provide a space to practice and display my craft. My goal is to artfully and succinctly turn a phrase, render an image or depict a scene while entertaining and, possibly, informing the reader in a non-fiction mode.

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