Quicksilver

The twins shared a glance. Larry bowed formally. Lori curtseyed, nicely pulling up the corners of her imaginary skirt. "Good eve to ye, Anty Lidee," they chorused. My eyes were wet again.

"The sun is still up. What shall we do now?" Larry asked.

"The tide is in," Lori said. "It's too high to dig clams for dinner."

"Then we must follow the wishes of the elders," Larry declared, cutely posing as a grown-up.

Lyn and Nate laughed. "Our plan," Lyn said, "is to go walking above the surf line at Ocean Beach, and then I'm buying dinner at Cliff House, where we can watch waves pounding and seal lions cavorting, isn't that right, bro?" She tapped his shoulder.

"No swimming tonight, except in thick sauce on our plates," Nate agreed. "Prepare yourself for a night out, m'lady Lydia. You're dressed for success now; it's time to dress for leisure."

I changed from Gatekeeper garb to beachable casual: tall black boots, tan suede midi skirt, loose floral blouse, and muted brown woolen wrap. This would be fun!

=====

Lyn parked on the slope below Cliff House. The twins scampered along the high-tide's narrowed beach, dodging low breakers, shouting, chasing with excited dogs and other children. We adults strolled more slowly, Nate in the middle, and talked of current events. The Nixon impeachment hearings were unavoidable. That discussion is irrelevant here.

We ventured into the big Camera Obscura next to Cliff House.

"This is like the one in Santa Monica," Larry said. "Why do they always build them on cliffs?"

"So sea lions and krakens can't climb inside," Lori opined. That sounded logical to me.

Conversation over cocktails (fruit juices for the kids) at the Cliff House lounge was more relaxed. Lori and Larry recounted today's sights in great detail, and what they wanted to see tomorrow.

"Nate often plays and sings around Fisherman's Wharf on Saturdays," I said. "It'll be warm tomorrow. Would you like to go there?"

The twins conferred and agreed. "The waterfront in the morning," Lori demanded, "then lunch at Alioto's. Chowder in a bread bowl, please."

"Then you'll play and we'll be pickpockets in the audience," Larry said. "We don't get enough allowance."

"Nobody will notice," Lori said, "and if anyone catches us, we'll just cry and say they're molesters."

Lyn rolled her eyes. I wondered. Nate responded.

"How about we take a guided tour of juvenile hall first? You can see your new roommates then. And you can try the canned food. Do you know all the words to 'Chain Gang?' You can lead sing-alongs and be popular."

His almost-smile reminded me of Mr Salman. I stifled my grin.

"Do they have rats there?" Larry asked. "Rats are smarter than hamsters. We can have pet rats in jail and teach them tricks. Lots of people used to have pet rats. I read that in a history book. Benjamin Franklin wrote nice things about pet rats."

"I want a big sneaky rat," Lori said. "I'll name him Mr Nixon 'cause Daddy says Mr Nixon is a big sneaky rat."

I struggled to contain my laughter. If they did not stop this, I was going to piss myself.

Nate did not help.

"There are flying rats all over; we call them 'seagulls'. When the Bay Area was much poorer, restaurants, even the Cliff House here, served them as meals. The menus said, 'chicken of the sea'; but don't ask for that now because you never know what you'll get. Tuna, if you're lucky. Otherwise, watch out for feathers. They'll tickle your tonsils."

I knew tonsil-tickling but not that way, I thought; no feathers.

"I want a pet seagull, too," Larry said. "I'll teach him to poop on Dwight Markey's head."

"He's a poo-poo head already," Lori said, "so he wouldn't even notice,"

It was all too much. I gasped, "Excuse me." As I raced to the toilet, I heard Lyn say, "Enough with rats and hamsters and seagulls and poop. One more word and you can eat succotash tonight." The restroom door closed behind me on a family chorus of groans.

Dinner was fine. Conversation was appropriate. Wave spray softened the setting sun. Dessert was sherbet cones licked as we fed a few coins to mechanical music contraptions in the Musée Mécanique below the restaurant.

=====

Figgy was impatient for kibble when we arrived home. The twins changed into pajamas and sat at the dining table with my chess set. No, not strip chess! Lyn filled tumblers with a decent Cabernet. We took to the sofa and talked about nothing important.

"Two out of three!" I heard Larry demand from the dining room. So, Lori won the first game!

Night thickened. The kids hugged everyone good-night and followed Figgy through the living room window to the tent. After light and movement stopped outside, Nate brought the tin of joints for more puffing. Nobody requested guitar music; that was for tomorrow.

Night thickened further, along with our brains. Lyn went to bed on the sofa. Nate and I went to our bed quietly. We loved, and drifted into dreamland. I did not remember my dreams but they must have been tidy.

===== Saturday, week 4 =====

Dawn brought Figgy and the twins inside early. Lyn prepared a well-deserved gallon of coffee and a hearty breakfast for all. Watch out, day — here we come!

Nate loaded his guitar in Lyn's station wagon and sat in the back seat between the twins; I heard them whispering plots and plans. I directed Lyn to my favorite free parking spot near the Cannery.

Nate opened his guitar case on the folding stool and serenaded Fisherman's Wharf's morning crowds with mostly ragtime music and corny lyrics. Donations rained. The twins listened a bit but brief attention spans drove them to explore the Wharf and more.

I played tour guide for our visitors. We walked the waterfront to the Ferry Building and back, along piers bustling with merchant vessels, Bay cruise boats, and some former ferryboats converted into offices and studios.

Shahira and Mitzi were in the small crowd around Nate when we returned.

"We heard that Nate played around here so we had to come and see," Mitzi said.

Had I mentioned that at the gym? Probably.

"This guy is GOOD!" Shahira said, "Fine voice, super guitar work."

"So how come," Mitzi asked him, "you aren't a star?"

"I'm not desperate enough. I've seen what it takes to make it, and to stay there. No thanks."

"Would you sing that sweetheart song again?" Lori requested. "With the chewing tobacco?"

Nate plucked a few chords, and sang.

  ♫   ♫   My sweetheart's the mule in the mines   ♫   Down below, where the sun never shines   ♫   And all day I just si-it, and I chew and I spi-it, all over my sweetheart's behind   ♫   ♫

He looked innocent. The twins cackled. Mitzi and Shahira snorted. I probably paled.

Lyn hit her brother's shoulder. "They'll be in trouble at school now, you crud. And from the look on Lydia's face, you'll be in trouble with her. Hope you're happy."

Donations landed in the guitar case. Even my gym-rat friends each dropped in a five.

Nate finished his musical set, was hugged by the gym rats, and gathered his gear. Yes, the kids ate chowder in bread bowls at Alioto's while we adults had cioppino, invented there.

Lyn and I learned what Nate and the kids had plotted.

"There's a skate shop near the Ocean Beach end of Golden Gate Park, just downhill from Cliff House. Lyn and Lydia, you both know how to roller-skate, right? So we can rent skates and do the park, end-to-end. It'll be a great way to spend a fine afternoon."

So that is what we did. Uphill on the winding South Drive, past forests, gardens, playgrounds; then then into the Music Concourse — with outdoor seating before the bandshell, all surrounded by science and art museums — and finishing with a glide through the Panhandle.

Uphill was a bit of work. The easier downhill run on sinuous JFK Drive passed the Conservatory of Flowers, a jewel based on London's 1851 Crystal Palace, and onward past lakes, meadows, the Buffalo Paddock, and more forests and gardens. We circled the Dutch windmills and skirted above Ocean Beach feeling refreshed when we turned in the skates.

The twins were speed demons, of course, often skating circles around us doddering adults, shooting up side paths, skate-dancing with other rolling kids, and yelling in chorus at times.

When us doddering adults were between chats on the downhill glide, Nate's fine baritone filled the air. He sang sea chanteys and ballads of shipwrecks, hanged bandits, and were-seals; ah yes, 'The Great Selkie o' Suleskerry'. A dark counterpoint for a bright day.

"This is a glorious day and the afternoon is only half over," I said, "but let's go back to my place to clean up and decide on what's next."

=====

Back home, Figgy observed each of us taking turns in the shower and dressing afterward. The twins were last. While they used too much hot water, Lyn closely inspected my wall's scattered paintings.

"These are really good," she said. "Mostly exteriors but some inside. You have a studio here?"

I showed her the closed room, a half-finished watercolor still life on the easel, the shelves stacked with my efforts. Lyn leafed through a few, and then more.

"These are REALLY good," she said. "Do you show in any galleries?"

Nate came in behind us. "No, she doesn't, and she should. Hey, here's what we can do next. I sometimes deliver to the Phratos Gallery and I recently mentioned m'lady's work to Argo Phratos. Besides his North Beach gallery, he also has shops in rich-piggy, er I mean elite, neighborhoods around the Bay Area.

"So here's my suggestion. Lydia m'lady, select some of your favorites and we'll go over right now to show him. He has a space out back where the kids can play. I guarantee he'll like what he sees. Much that he shows and sells doesn't match up with you. Cut a deal with him; that could finance a fancier home."

He smiled invitingly. I smiled back but shook my head.

"I can't move anywhere yet," I said. "This is the only home Figgy has ever known. The ground-level living room window is his only portal on the outer world. I'll only leave here when he's gone. But more money would be nice. I could buy better wine than Almaden jugs, and I'll be able to retire sooner. Gatekeeper is a tough job. So sure, I could go now, if it's okay with you." I looked at Lyn.

"Fine with me as long as my 'wee beasties' stay occupied," she said. "I'll make sure they're decently dressed. Pick a place nearby for dinner, bro."

"Vespucci's is across the street; I've only looked at the menu posted by the front door but they seem to have a wide range of light and hearty foods. And you won't go broke there, sis. I know a junior officer's pay isn't huge. Thanks for your generosity here."

"We intruded so I'm paying," she insisted. "Let me check on the kids now."

I filled a portfolio with a mix of watercolors and temperas and acrylics, 'scapes and still lifes and portraits, and a few nudes, mostly of gym-rat friends who were not shy, but not myself in a mirror with my face visible and identifiable. I do not want Salman & Johannes clients to see me raw. That could impact the business.

=====

Nate directed Lyn to the gallery and yes, she thought the backyard space was safe for the kids. Argo Phratos was a sharply-dressed short man with a Greek face and gleaming obsidian eyes. Those eyes carefully scanned my paintings. I held my breath.

"Yes," he said, spreading them across a long work table. "Yes," putting each unframed piece aside. "Yes, yes..." One plain floral still life earned a "no" and I agreed.

He looked at me. "You have more." It was a statement, not a question. I nodded hopefully.

"Delia," he called to his gallery girl, "a contract."

She looked like a stereotypical beatnik chick, beanpole thin, as pale as Argo, in sandals, tight black slacks and thin sweater, and black hair in a long ponytail. She handed him a printed document.

"This is an agency contract. I will represent you and sell your art at all my galleries," he said. "We split the retail fifty-fifty and we'll both get rich."

I manage a law office, remember? I read the three pages carefully and noticed some 'gotchas'.

"Pen," I ordered, and held my hand out. Delia handed me the warm ballpoint nesting on her ear.

I scratched out some clauses and wrote in a few changes. "Sixty-forty of the gross in my favor, adjusted by mutual agreement. Duration is one year unless terminated by either party for stated cause. Stipulations, damages, penalties... I think that covers it." I returned the pen and papers.

Argo glanced at my changes and moaned pathetically. "You're cutting my heart out! I'm dying, I'm dying! What, you're a lawyer in your day job?"

"No, but the bosses whose office I command are. I don't need Mr Salman to review this; I've seen and corrected enough like it. You sign first and we have a deal. Bandage your heart with the money you'll make."

"Moishe Salman? Hoo boy! My brother Milo does my legal work; he won't like this. But I'll live. And we'll make money, especially if you have lots more like these and can produce regularly. I have a few corporate clients with walls to fill and budgets to spend. Others may pay more for the nudes."

"It'll be nice to upgrade my Volkswagen."

"You can afford a BMW in a few weeks."

He signed. I signed. Nate, Lyn, and Delia witnessed and signed. Delia copied the pages and tried to hand the Xeroxes to me. I stepped past her to the copier and picked up the originals.

"Nope," I said. "The counterparts are yours but the originals are mine; they'll go in the office safe. Much surer that way. You saw that clause I added."

"I think I'll have to ream Milo a new... okay, okay. We have a deal."

His hand reached out. I gave Nate the contract, and gave Argo my free hand. We shook. I ostentatiously counted my fingers before and after.

"Hey, no need for that! I'm as honest as they come," he said.

We laughed. Delia only smiled. Keeping her job, I thought.

"You have more? Wait a week, we'll see what sells, then you'll bring me more, probably. Delia, have Piotr matte and frame these. I already know which ones will go to which shops. I'll make Milo deliver them. That'll teach him."

"Mr Phratos? If you saw my TV interview, you heard I'm a 'communications officer'. I'm actually a courier for Quicksilver. We work all over the Bay Area. We guarantee fast, safe deliveries at a good rate, and won't take your brother away from his precious legal practice."

He handed Argo a company business card.

"You're that rescue guy? A careful talker, too. You sound like you can keep secrets. And you, Lydia; you're the 'companion' with the getaway VeeDub." Again a statement, not a question. "I like kept secrets. So, Mr..." he looked at Nate's legible signature on the contract "...Mr Kramer, do you always drum-up business this way? Bring a sexy artist along? And another beautiful woman?"

"My niece and nephew out back are my secret weapon," Nate deadpanned. "None dare resist or deny the wee beasties."

"I'm their mother," Lyn said, "so I'll guess they've rearranged your outside furniture already. But don't worry, they'll leave it all there."

She went to the gallery's back door and called, "Put everything back where it was!"

"Aw, mommy," voices outside piped. Argo blinked.

"What havoc would they wreak if I let them inside?" he asked.

Lyn looked around the gallery.

"Probably sort everything by color and size," she said. "And some of these look upside-down or sideways so they'd fix that. Their father is an Air Force officer; we taught them to see patterns."

Argo blinked again. "Patterns," he said. "And I thought I knew patterns. Wish I was young again... No, wait, I don't, 'cause it sucked. Shaw was right; youth IS wasted on the young. But enough of that. Have we anything more to do? Say, Mrs Neary, would your kids like cookies?"

"And spoil their appetites? Better not," Lyn said.

"We're about to cross the street to Vespucci's for dinner," I said.

"Hold on," he said. He scribbled a note on the back of his business card and handed it to me. "Show this to Gino for an artist's discount. Keep it, it's a loyalty thing; keeps hungry Bohemians with me instead of jumping to another gallery."

He looked me up and down. "Are you a hungry boho? No, not if you work for Salman. You don't have to starve yourself."

"I exercise," is all I said.

Hands were shaken all around. I saw Delia slip wrapped cookies to the twins, and Lyn probably saw too, but we said nothing. Maybe they would have tent-time desserts tonight.

Dinner was fine although Gino had no piano to entertain the twins. One waiter did stroll about occasionally playing a bowl mandolin and singing 'Volare!' and 'Funiculi, Funicula' and other Italian-oid songs recognizable by most tourists. 'Santa Lucía'? Sure. 'Mambo Italiano'? Hey, he has bills to pay.

=====

Lyn detoured along the waterfront so we could watch the Bay's urban lights on the way to my home. Airliners vectored to approach one of the airports.

Larry pointed. "Daddy's not on that plane."

Lori indicated another. "Not on that one, either."

Lyn stopped in a pier's parking area.

"You want to watch the planes, kids? Nate, would you take them out for a look?" I heard tension in her voice.

'Unca Natey' escorted them from the back seat to a clear vantage point on the pier. Lyn gripped the steering wheel and shook a little. I put a hand on hers.

"Oh fuck," she almost whispered. "I know he's safer on the ground than in the air, and we're no safer here than he is there, but that's what my head tells me. My heart is just so..."

I slid next to her on the bench seat and wrapped her in my arms. She only cried on my shoulder for a minute. She reached over me to the glove box, drew out some tissues, and dried her eyes.

"Thanks, Lydia. You're a good woman. Let's go see what they see. They won't see me like this."

We walked to the sky watchers. Nate hugged his sister. I went to the kids peering at the sky traffic.

"What's up there?" I asked.

I heard a string of "He's not on that one," and "Not on that one, either," and "There's another he's not on".

"How do you know he's not on any of those?"

Lori looked at me as if I was mildly retarded.

"Because he'll fly in down south to our home, not 'way up north here, Anty Lidee. Why would he fly in here? He doesn't even know you yet."

Damn, I hate pre-adolescent logic! And she is not even a lawyer. If she keeps that up, she will have either a judgeship or a TV show. Or both. Will puberty soften her mind or will she just get smarter? Is America ready for her?

Nate led Lyn back by her hand. She was composed as she drove to my home. But when the twins scrambled to play chess, she refilled her wine glass fairly often. And when Figgy escorted the kids to the tent and they settled down, she was happy to help us finish three joints. Snugging her to sleep on the sofa was easy. She snored even louder than some well-forgotten old boyfriends.

Nate and I made quiet love again. I got up to pee in the depth of night just as Lyn left the bathroom. She was still rather blitzed. She stopped me at the door.

"Did Nate tell you he's thinking about the Army? No? Well, please don't tell him I said anything. G'night again."

This was NOT a revelation I wanted to hear. I would store it away and try not to let it devour me. Was that the 'option' he had obliquely mentioned? Oh fuck. I hate losing friends. Oh fuck.

I lay beside Nate. I stared at my dark ceiling for much too long.

===== Sunday, week 4 =====

Dawn brought the cat and kids inside. Adults staggered to the coffee pot. Lyn grew less groggy as she built another satisfying breakfast. Everyone hugged everyone, and they were gone.