Emerald City Part 15

"Did you see her?" Lucy hisses, plucking at his sleeve when the waitress has left.

"See who?"

"The waitress!"

Parker stares at his wife.

"Don't you remember? I'm sure it's the same person!"

"Same person as who?"

"On Bora Bora! That blond woman we saw."

"Are you serious? That was ages ago."

Lucy leans back in frustrated silence. But she is excited, and she twists around in her chair to catch another glimpse of the waitress. The woman returns to the table with her order pad, and Lucy looks directly into her face. There is no doubt that it is the same woman-the blond hair, the long, perfect limbs.

"Can I take your order?" she asks.

It occurs to Lucy that she has never heard the woman speak.

"Crab salad," says Parker.

There is a silence. Both the waitress and Parker look at Lucy, waiting. "For you, ma'am?" the waitress asks.

"Oh, I'll have ..." Lucy fumbles, looking down at the menu. "The same. Crab salad."

Lucy sits, watching the sea. She tries to remember Bora Bora. Like all their vacations, that one has faded, blurred with other hotels, other beaches.

"Parker?"

"Mmm?" He is going over some numbers the Santa Barbara clients have given him.

"What ever happened with the Crimean War?"

He looks at her in confusion.

"On Bora Bora. You were so excited ... you wanted to do research, remember?"

"Vaguely."

She can tell he does not want to be interrupted, but persists. "What ever happened to that idea?"

Parker shrugs, frowning. "No time," he says. "Got to make a living."

The waitress returns with the salads. Lucy watches her pour dressing over them and tries to recall the woman she watched on the beach a year before. But already the vision has begun to cloud. No, Lucy thinks, looking down at her plate, no, this cannot be the same woman after all.

When the waitress has gone, Lucy looks at Parker. He is drumming his fingers on the quilted place mat, staring at the bay. Lucy hears his stomach murmur. She watches this man who is her husband, his brown arms with their spa.r.s.e coating of hair, his pale, timid eyes. She feels an urge to say something to him, but can think of nothing worthwhile: A comment on the view? The menu? The night ahead? Their conversation is exhausted.

Instead, she thinks of Josephine. It has been a long time since Lucy recalled her old friend, but suddenly, now, she can see her exactly. Lucy pictures Josephine seated in Parker's chair, leaning forward, resting her chin on one hand. She is poised to listen.

"Wait, wait, back up," Lucy hears her command. "So you're having lunch on a pier-describe it to me. Is the sun out?"

It's low, Lucy thinks, it drifts on the water in flakes. There are gulls with gray-tipped wings and a dot of red on their beaks. The ocean shakes like reams of fluttering silk.

Josephine laughs. It is a cackle of wonderment, a whistle of envy and delight.

"I see it," she says. "I see it exactly."

And for a moment the world ignites, it blazes around them with exquisite radiance. Each detail is right.

"Look where you are," Josephine says. "Look! You're in the perfect spot."

For a magnificent instant, Lucy believes it.

SISTERS OF THE MOON.

Silas has a broken head. It happened sometime last night, outside The Limited on Geary and Powell. None of us saw. Silas says the fight was over a woman, and that he won it. "But you look like all b.l.o.o.d.y s.h.i.+t, my friend," Irish says, laughing, rolling the words off his accent. Silas says we should've seen the other guy.

He adjusts the bandage on his head and looks up at the palm trees, which make a sound over Union Square like it's raining. Silas has that strong kind of shape, like high school guys who you know could pick you up and carry you like a bag. But his face is old. He wears a worn-out army jacket, the pockets always fat with something. Once, he pulled out a silver thimble and pushed it into my hand, not saying one word. It can't be real silver, but I've kept it.

I think Silas fought in Vietnam. Once he said, "It's 1974, and I'm still alive," like he couldn't believe it.

"So where is he?" Irish asks, full of humor. "Where is this bloke with half his face gone?"

Angel and Liz start laughing, I don't know why. "Where's this woman you fought for?" is what I want to ask.

Silas shrugs, grinning. "Scared him away."

San Francisco is ours, we've signed our name on it a hundred times: SISTERS OF THE MOON. On the s.h.i.+ny tiles inside the Stockton Tunnel, across those buildings like blocks of salt on the empty piers near the Embarcadero. Silver plus another color, usually blue or red. Angel and Liz do the actual painting. I'm the lookout. While they're spraying the paint cans, I get scared to death. To calm down, I'll say to myself, If the cops come, or if someone stops his car to yell at us, I'll just walk away from Angel and Liz, like I never saw them before in my life. Afterward, when the paint is wet and we bounce away on the b.a.l.l.s of our feet, I get so ashamed, thinking, What if they knew? They'd probably ditch me, which would be worse than getting caught-even going to jail. I'd be all alone in the universe.

Most people walk through Union Square on their way someplace else. Secretaries, businessmen. The Park, we call it. But Silas and Irish and the rest are always here. They drift out, then come back. Union Square is their own private estate.

Watching over the square like G.o.d is the St. Francis Hotel, with five gla.s.s elevators sliding up and down its polished face. Stoned, Angel and Liz and I spend hours sitting on benches with our heads back, waiting for the elevators to all line up on top. Down, up, down-even at 5 A.M. they're moving. The St. Francis never sleeps.

Angel and Liz expect to be famous, and I believe it. Angel just turned fifteen. I'm only five months younger, and Liz is younger than me. But I'm the baby of us. Smoking pot in Union Square, I still worry who will see.

We've been talking for a week about dropping acid. I keep stalling. Today we go ahead and buy it, from a boy with a runny nose and dark, anxious eyes. Across the street is I. Magnin, and I get a sick feeling that my stepmother is going to come out the revolving doors with packages under her arms. She's a buyer for the shoe department at Saks, and in the afternoon she likes to walk around and view the compet.i.tion.

Angel leans against a palm tree, asking in her Southern voice if the acid is pure and how much we should take to get off and how long the high will last us. She's got her s.h.i.+rt tied up so her lean stomach shows. Angel came from Louisiana a year ago with her mother's jazz band. I adore her. She goes wherever she wants, and the world just forms itself around her.

"What are you looking at?" Liz asks me. She's got short, curly black hair and narrow blue eyes.

"Nothing."

"Yes, you are," she says. "All the time. Just watching everything."

"So?"

"So, when are you going to do something?" She says it like she's joking.

I get a twisting in my stomach. "I don't know," I say. I glance at Angel, but she's talking to the dealer. At least she didn't hear us.

Liz and I look at I. Magnin. Her mother could walk out of there as easily as mine, but Liz doesn't care. I get the feeling she's waiting for something like that to happen, a chance to show Angel how far she can go.

We find Irish begging on Powell Street. "Can you spare any part of a million dollars?" he asks the world, spreading his arms wide. Irish has a big blond face and wavy hair and eyes that are almost purple-I mean it. One time, he says, he got a thousand-dollar bill-an Arab guy just handed it over. That was before we knew Irish.

"My la.s.sies," he calls out, and we get the hug of those big arms, all three of us. He inhales from Angel's hair, which is dark brown and flips into wings on both sides of her face. She's still a virgin. In Angel this seems beautiful, like a precious gla.s.s bowl you can't believe didn't break yet. One time, in Union Square, this Australian guy took hold of her hair and pulled it back, back, so the tendons of her throat showed through the skin, and Angel was laughing at first and so was the guy, but then he leaned down and kissed her mouth and Irish knocked him away, shouting, "Hey, motherf.u.c.ker, can't you see she's still a child?"

"What nice presents have you brought?" Irish asks now.

Angel opens the bag to show the acid. I check around for cops and catch Liz watching me, a look on her face like she wants to laugh.

"When shall we partake?" Irish asks, reaching out with his cap to a lady in a green raincoat, who shakes her head like he should know better, then drops in a quarter. Irish could have any kind of life, I think-he just picked this one.

"Not yet," Angel says. "Too light."

"Tonight," Liz says, knowing I won't be there.

Angel frowns. "What about Tally?"

I look down, startled and pleased to be remembered.

"Tomorrow?" Angel asks me.

I can't help pausing for a second, holding this feeling of everyone waiting for my answer. Then someone singing "Gimme Shelter" distracts them. I wish I'd just said it.

"Tomorrow's fine."

The singer turns out to be a guy named Fleece, who I don't know. I mean, I've seen him, he's part of the gang of Irish and Silas and them who hang out in the Park. Angel says these guys are in their thirties, but they look older than that and act younger, at least around us. There are women, too, with red eyes and heavy makeup, and mostly they act loud and happy, but when they get dressed up, there are usually holes in their stockings, or at least a run. They don't like us-Angel especially.

Angel hands me the acid bag to hold while she lights up a joint. Across the Park I see three cops walking-I can almost hear the squeak of their boots. I cover the bag with my hand. I see Silas on another bench. His bandage is already dirty.

"Tally's scared," Liz says. She's watching me, that expression in her eyes like the laughter behind them is about to come pus.h.i.+ng out.

The others look at me, and my heart races. "I'm not."

In Angel's eyes I see a flash of cold. Scared people make her moody, like they remind her of something she wants to forget. "Scared of what?" she says.

"I'm not."

Across the square, Silas adjusts the bandage over his eyes. Where is this woman he fought for? I wonder. Why isn't she with him now?

"I don't know," Liz says. "What're you scared of, Tally?"

I look right at Liz. There's a glittery challenge in her eyes but also something else, like she's scared, too. She hates me, I think. We're friends, but she hates me.

Irish tokes from the joint in the loudest way, like it's a tube connecting him to the last bit of oxygen on earth. When he exhales, his face gets white. "What's she scared of?" he says, and laughs faintly. "The world's a b.l.o.o.d.y terrifying place."

At home that night I can't eat. I'm too thin, like a little girl, even though I'm fourteen. Angel loves to eat, and I know that's how you get a figure, but my body feels too small. It can't hold anything extra.

"How was school?" my stepmother asks.

"Fine."

"Where have you been since then?"

"With Angel and those guys. Hanging around." No one seems to notice my Southern accent.

My father looks up. "Hanging around doing what?"

"Homework."

"They're in biology together," my stepmother explains.

Across the table the twins begin to whimper. As he leans over their baby heads, my father's face goes soft-I see it even through his beard. The twins are three years old, with bright red hair. Tomorrow I'll tie up my s.h.i.+rt, I think, like Angel did. So what if my stomach is white?

"I'm spending the night tomorrow," I say. "At Angel's."

He wipes applesauce from the babies' mouths. I can't tell if he means to refuse or is just distracted. "Tomorrow's Sat.u.r.day," I tell him, just in case.

We spend all day at Angel's, preparing. Her mom went to Mexico with the band she plays violin for, and won't be back for a month. Candles, powdered incense from the Mystic Eye, on Broadway, a paint set, sheets of creamy paper, Pink Floyd records stacked by the stereo, and David Bowie, and Todd Rundgren, and "Help Me," of course-Joni Mitch.e.l.l's new hit, which we wors.h.i.+p.

Angel lives six blocks from Union Square in a big apartment south of Market Street, with barely any walls. A foil pyramid hangs from the ceiling over her bed. All day we keep checking the square for Irish, but he's disappeared.

At sundown we go ahead without him. Candles on the windowsills, the white rug vacuumed. We cut the pills with a knife, and each of us takes one-third of all three so we're sure to get the same dose. I'm terrified. It seems wrong that such a tiny thing could do so much. But I feel Liz watching me, waiting for one wrong move, and I swallow in silence.

Then we wait. Angel does yoga, arching her back, pressing her palms to the floor with her arms bent. I've never seen anyone so limber. The hair rushes from her head in a flood of black, like it could stain the rug. Liz's eyes don't move from her.

When the acid starts to work, we all lie together on her mother's huge four-poster bed, Angel in the middle. She holds one of our hands in each of hers. Angel has the kind of skin that tans in a minute, and beautiful, snaking veins. I feel the blood moving in her. We wave our hands above our faces and watch them leave trails. I feel Angel warm beside me and think how I'll never love anyone this much, how without her I would disappear.

The city at night is full of lights and water and hills like piles of sand. We struggle to climb them. Empty cable cars totter past. The sky is a sheet of black paper with tiny holes poked in it. The Chinatown sidewalks smell like salt and flesh. It's 3 A.M. Planes drift overhead like strange fish.

Market Street, a steamy puddle at every curb. We find our way down alleys, our crazy eyes making diamonds of the shattered gla.s.s that covers the streets and sidewalks. Nothing touches us. We float under the orange streetlamps. My father, the twins-everything but Angel and Liz and me just fades into nothing, the way the night used to disappear when my real mother tucked me into bed, years ago.

In the Broadway Tunnel I grab for the spray cans. "Let me," I cry, breathless. Angel and Liz are too stoned to care. We have green and silver. I hold one can in each fist, shake them up, and spray huge round letters, like jaws ready to swallow me. I breathe in the paint fumes and they taste like honey. Tiny dots of cool paint fall on my face and eyelashes and stay there. Traffic ricochets past, but I don't care tonight-I don't care. In the middle of painting I turn to Angel and Liz and cry, "This is it, this is it!" and they nod excitedly, like they already knew, and then I start to cry. We hug in the Broadway Tunnel. "This is it," I sob, clinging to Angel and Liz, their warm shoulders. I hear them crying, too, and think, It will be like this always. From now on, nothing can divide us.

It seems like hours before I notice the paint cans still in my hands and finish the job. SISTERS OF THE MOON.

It blazes.