Going Home Part 3

"Okay, Sam. Put your stuff away and get your pajamas on. The sitter'll be here any minute."

"You look pretty, Mommy. Are you going out with Mister Crits?" My heart rose and sank almost simultaneously, and I shook my head. No, I wasn't going out with "Mister Crits," but I wished I were, and I suddenly began to wonder if Chris might be at the party.

The doorbell rang at eight and Joe Tramino and my babysitter walked in together.

"Hi, Sam's in her room. It's time for bed and I'm all ready to go. Hi, Joe. Goodnight, Barbara. Bye Sam." I blew a kiss toward her room and walked outside with Joe. I didn't want to get into any of Sam's editorials on the situation and I wanted to get the h.e.l.l out. I was feeling restless.

"Christ, Gill, you look fantastic!" I could see in his eyes that he meant it and felt briefly guilty for being unenthused about the evening. h.e.l.l, maybe it would be fun.

"You look pretty good yourself, Mr. Tramino. Very snazzy." He was wearing tobacco-colored suede levis and a dark red turtleneck and it struck me that, side by side, we clashed terribly. But maybe that was just how I felt inside. We walked to his car parked at the curb and he helped me in. It seemed a little funny to be a girl to someone you had played "one of the boys" with, but that's all part of going out with someone you've worked with. It always seems a little funny to me.

"I thought we might stop for dinner somewhere on the way. Do you know Nicole's?"

"No, I'm a new girl in town, remember?"

"You'll like it. French food. It's terrific." He was trying so hard to please that it was painful. Poor Joe. I knew he was considered a prize catch at the agency. He wasn't beautiful, but he was thirty-six years old, had a good job with an impressive salary, a nice personality, and a good sense of humor. And he didn't turn me on. He hadn't before, but now it was worse. He wasn't Chris.

We joked with each other through dinner and I tried to keep a spirit of camaraderie in the conversation. But Joe was trying to turn the tables on me. He was plying me with a heavy red wine and we had one of the best tables in the house. He had chosen a really pretty little restaurant. It was decorated like a large summery tent at a garden party, the tables were covered in red and white checked cloths, and the room was ablaze with candles.

"Who's going to be at this party, Joe? Anyone I know?" I tried to make it sound like idle conversation, but it wasn't.

"Just the usual troops. The art directors from most of the agencies in town, a lot of models, some film guys, nothing special." But he was on to me. He knew I had meant Chris and he was waiting to see what I would say next.

"It sounds like a good group. There's a thing like that in New York every year, but it's so big you never really see anyone you know. Just a great thundering horde, like the rest of New York."

"It's different out here. Everything's smaller. San Francisco is a very small town. And everyone knows everyone else's business." What was this all about? "Like I know that if you fall for some people you could get hurt. I mean Chris, Gill." There, he'd said it.

"Oh?"

"Look, I wasn't matchmaking the other day. I was setting up a job. I even had another stylist lined up but she got sick. Gill, he's a terrific guy and I'm crazy about him, but he has no morals, he collects women, and he doesn't give a d.a.m.n about anyone but himself. He's a lot of fun. But don't go falling in love with him. Maybe I'm way out of line, but I thought I'd say it. And just so you don't get your hopes up, he won't be there tonight. He hates these kinds of parties. Look, the guy's a hippie. You're a nice girl from New York, probably from a good family. And you've had your troubles, you're divorced . . . don't mess around with him." Wow . . . quite a speech.

"You haven't left me much to say, Joe. Of course I'm not in love with him. I just met him last Tuesday, and I haven't seen him since"-G.o.ddam it-"and I agree with you, he's fun to work with but probably lousy to get involved with. But I'm a big girl and I can take care of myself. And I'm not involved . . . okay?" . . . Who says?

"I'll take your word for it. But I'll be sorry if I hear that you two get into something serious with each other. I'd feel guilty as all h.e.l.l. . . and I'd probably crawl the walls of my office in a frenzy of jealousy! Here's to you." He toasted me with the last of the bottle of wine, and, as I drained my gla.s.s, I silently wished that he would be having that jealous fit before too long.

We left Nicole's then and drove downtown on Broadway, past the neon hysteria of the topless dance parlors, and then turned onto Battery Street, near the entrance to the Bay Bridge. It was a district that had once been a port, and the shipping lines were still within a block or two. They had put in landfill in the early 1900s and the area had only recently become one of the more interesting parts of town. A lot of the ad agencies were moving in there, and the decorating business had taken over years ago. The result was a series of dismal-looking warehouses interspersed with well-designed new buildings with brick sides and gla.s.s fronts.

Joe parked outside one of the warehouses and we went inside. It was a h.e.l.l of a scene. Miles and miles of shiny mirrorlike Mylar had been hung from ceiling to floor and flashing strobe and neon lights made the room look as though it were about to explode. There was cellophane confetti all over the floor and an acid rock band dressed in silver lame jeans and shirts was blasting their message through the building at an ear-shattering, heart-pounding pace. There was an ingeniously designed bar in one corner of the room. It looked like an iceberg, and the girl doling out the drinks was wearing a skirt made of plastic icicles, and no top. And in the center of the room and along the walls were the guests. And they were wearing just what Joe had suggested . . . really far-out stuff. Fuchsia satins, and green suedes, dresses that were frontless, or backless, or seemingly both, hair of all shapes, colors, and varieties. Boots by the truckload and blue jeans by the ton. It was a crazy scene and one that only the artistic community of any city could produce. No one else would dare. I almost felt like Little Bo Peep in my gypsy outfit, but I was glad I'd worn it. It gave me a chance to stare at everyone else in reasonable anonymity while still looking fairly with-it.

I noticed a group off to one side of the room staring up at the ceiling then, and Joe tugged at my arm.

"Take a look." And when I did, what I saw made me laugh. Suspended from the ceiling, about twelve feet off the floor, was a small but perfectly normal ice-skating rink, with a girl in an ice follies outfit quietly doing her number. She moved to her own slow, graceful beat, totally apart from the crazed sounds of the acid rock band. She was marvelous.

"Where the h.e.l.l did they get her?"

"I don't know, but you haven't seen anything yet. Take a look over there." He pointed again and this time I saw a ballerina doing quiet spins in the corner, and every few minutes or so she went into a dead faint on the floor. Then she'd revive, pick herself up again, and do her pirouettes for a while before seeming to die on the floor again. She was even better to watch than the skater. And I began to look around the room myself for more oddities. As it turned out, there was only one, a gentleman who looked like a well-dressed, well-stuffed bank president, and who walked sedately around the room, speaking to no one, and blowing huge bubbles with what must have been a wad of bubble gum the size of my fist. They were terrific. And eventually, inquiries disclosed that they and the room's ingenious decor had come from an enterprising service organization called "Rent-a-Freak" run by a young San Francisco artist who thought it was a good idea. He was right, it was. And it made the party.

Joe and I lost and found each other several dozen times in the course of the evening. I met a few people I knew from other agencies, and danced with what seemed like an endless series of similar faces. They all looked the same, none of them looked like Chris, none of them was Chris. And Chris wasn't there. But I was, and in the end I had a good time.

We left a little after 3 A.M. The party was still in full swing, but we'd had enough. Joe took me to the Buena Vista for an Irish coffee and a pleasant view of the bay and Sausalito sparkling on the other side, and then we called it a night.

He pulled up in front of my house and I noticed with some dismay that all the lights were out. Which meant the babysitter had pa.s.sed out. Nuts.

"Thanks, Joe, it was a really super evening. That was one of the best parties I've been to in years."

"And you're one of the best dates I've had in years. Could we make it again sometime?"

"Sure, Joe. And thanks." I pecked him lightly on the cheek, pointed my key in the lock and turned it quickly, and was relieved to see that Joe was on his way back to his car. No sweat. No ha.s.sle at the door. Peace.

I woke the babysitter and offered to call her a cab, but she said she had her own car, so she vanished only moments after Joe, and Sam and I were alone again in the quiet house.

Too quiet. The sitter had said the phone hadn't rung all night. No messages. d.a.m.n.

4.

On Sat.u.r.day morning the sun was up before we were, and Sam and I headed for the Marina Beach next to the Yacht Club for a little sun before lunch. We had a lengthy discussion on the sand about the merits of the life of a cowboy, and I described the party to her. She was impressed. A ballerina and a skater and a man who chewed bubblegum? Wow! That had to be some party! And I noticed with amus.e.m.e.nt that the newspaper said it was, in roughly the same terms as Sam.

At noon, we munched hot dogs and potato chips on the stone steps near the boats and threw bits of the rolls to the sea gulls who waited to be fed.

"Mommy, what are we going to do today?"

"Nothing much. Why?" I didn't have any plans, and I was a little tired from having only managed three hours sleep before Sam arrived to order her corn flakes. Sleeping Beauty I was not privileged to be.

"Let's go see some horses." . . . Christ . . . how about a game of football? . . . You're a girl, Sam. . . .

"Maybe we can go see the horses in Golden Gate Park." But I wasn't particularly enthused.

"That sounds like a nice idea to me." But the voice that spoke behind me wasn't Sam's. It was a man's voice. I turned to see, but I already knew. It was Chris.

"Hi, Gill. Hi, podner. Don't you girls ever stay home? I dropped by twice this week. No one home." I was feeling unglued.

"You did? Why didn't you leave a note?"

"I never thought of that. Anyway, I figured I'd catch up with you sooner or later." Yeah, but it turned out to be later than sooner dammit. But who cared? He was back.

"It's nice to see you. How did our film turn out?"

"Great. Tramino's going to love us." Us? That was a nice touch. And I could see that he was genuinely pleased with the film. "But let's not talk about work. I take it you're going to see the horses in the park. Can I come?" Are you kidding? Of course you can come! After three days of not seeing him he could have come to the dentist with me if he'd wanted to. The three days felt like years.

"Will you come with us, Mister Crits, please?" She stretched out the please and my heart with it, and I nodded happily.

"Why don't you, Chris?"

"Thank you, ladies, I'd be delighted. But don't call me Mister Chris please, young lady. Or I'll call you Samantha. How would you like that?"

"Yerggghh." She made a face that ill.u.s.trated the point and Chris and I laughed.

"That's what I thought. So you call me Chris. Just Chris. Okay?" She was about to burble into ecstatic speech but I shook my head and Chris raised an eyebrow. "No go, Gill? Come on, don't be so stuffy. Okay, how about Uncle Chris?" He seemed amused at the idea and I felt better. Sometimes my stiff childhood training stuck out in funny places.

"That's better." I gave my dowager's approval and all was well.

"Okay, Sam. Call me Uncle Chris. Sound okay to you?"

"I like that better. Uncle Crits. That's good." She nodded thoughtfully and then smiled and offered him the last of her potato chips.

"Thanks, Sam. How about a piggyback ride back to my truck?"

"Yes! Yes!" She hopped on his back and grabbed him around the neck and off we went. I carried the beach towels and a happy heart and we were on our way to a merry day.

We stopped at the house to feed Chris a tuna fish sandwich, send Samantha to the john, comb my hair, and collect a few odds and ends of gear, like Sam's teddy bear and a bottle of wine to take to the park. And then we loaded ourselves into the cab of Chris's truck and headed for the park. We found the horse paddock there and took rides on two rather tired brown horses. Sam rode with Chris and he told her a modified version of our riding on the beach the day of the shooting and swimming from one beach to the other with the horse. Sam thought it sounded wonderful. And on hearing it again so did I.

Then we went to the j.a.panese tea garden and munched strange little cookies and drank tea. And after that we lay on the gra.s.s in the botanical garden till five. Sam played with her teddy bear, Chris and I drank the bottle of wine, we played tag and hide and seek, and it was a glorious day. We hated to go home but it was getting cold.

"How would you like a home-cooked meal, Mr. Matthews? Pot luck."

"Can you cook?" He seemed to be weighing the invitation and I was momentarily reminded of Joe's warning. Maybe he had something else to do.

"I can sort of cook. But if you're going to be picky you can go to h.e.l.l."

"Thanks a lot. I'd rather eat at your house than do that. If that's the choice, I'll come to dinner." He nodded his head sagely and Sam let out a delighted whoop which said everything I felt.

We picked up some groceries at the supermarket, and Chris gave Sam her bath when we got home while I made spaghetti and meat sauce and a giant salad.

Chris and Sam came out of the bathroom hand in hand. She looked terribly pleased about something and I figured maybe they'd faked the bath. But what the h.e.l.l? No one ever died of a little dirt.

"Hey, Gill . . . you've got a problem with the dinner." He was speaking to me in an undertone and I wondered what was wrong.

"What is it?"

"There are worms in the meat sauce . . . but don't tell Sam."

"Worms? Where?" I practically screamed the words. Worms? Never mind upsetting Sam, the very idea made me feel sick.

He nodded his head again, reached into the bowl with a fork, and came up with a long slithering piece of spaghetti. "Take a look at that. That's the biggest worm I've ever seen."

"Oh you a.s.s. That's a spaghetti." As if he didn't know.

"It is? No kidding?" The boyish smile happened all over his face as he said it, and I could have hit him with my frying pan.

"Worms my a.s.s. Now, everybody, let's eat dinner."

"Gillian!" His face froze into a look that reminded me of my father and cracked me up. The three of us sat down at the table. And chaos reigned for the duration of the meal, until Sam went to bed and the dishes were done.

It was a far cry from the evening I'd spent at the crazy Art Directors' Ball the night before with Joe. It was a happy time for all three of us. And Joe Tramino's warning be d.a.m.ned. There was nothing wrong with Chris Matthews. He had his own style, he liked to play jokes and indulge in pranks, he had an enchanting childish side that made me think he was more Sam's friend than mine, but he was a good man, and I could only see happy days ahead.

"Can I take you two to the beach tomorrow?" He was sprawled out on the couch, drinking wine and waiting for me to finish in the kitchen.

"Sure. That sounds like fun. Stinson?" Our eyes met for a long moment as we both remembered what had happened there.

"Yes, Stinson . . . and Gill, maybe there's something you want to know. There's this girl I live with . . . is that okay?"

5.

The revelation that Chris was living with someone had come as something of a shock. The possibility that he was had crossed my mind the first day, but I had shoved the thought away. I didn't want to know. I didn't want him to have anyone else. He said she wasn't terribly important to him. Not to worry. He would work it out. And he had said it all with such ease that I knew he would. I trusted him.

He spent the night at my place and was a good sport about moving from my bed to the couch before Sam got up. I didn't think she ought to know. Not yet. It was too soon.

We left for Stinson Beach at ten after an enormous breakfast of French toast and scrambled eggs and bacon. And we packed a picnic lunch for the beach. It was another glorious day, and this time when we got to the beach I was a little sorry to see that there were people on it. It wasn't just ours. Sam sped off to play with some children down by the water and Chris and I were left alone.

"Does it make a difference to you, Gill?" I knew what he meant the minute he asked.

"About your roommate?" He nodded. "Yes and no. It's sort of a pain in the a.s.s, and I'm jealous. But I'll leave it to you. If she's not all that important to you, I guess it won't make much difference. What are you going to do about her?" That was the key.

"Oh, she'll go. She's just a hippie chick I took in last winter. She was out of money, and she's very young, and I thought I'd give her a hand."

"More than that, I suspect." I was beginning to feel sour about it. She was taking on flesh. She was a real live girl. And she lived with Chris.

"Hey . . . you really are jealous. Cool it, baby. She'll go. And I'm not in love with her, if that's what you want to know."

"Does she have a nice body?" . . . Oh s.h.i.t. . . .

"Yes, but so do you, so come off it. There's only one girl who's ever really meant anything to me, and she doesn't anymore, so you're home free."

"Who's she?" I wanted to know everything.

"A Eurasian girl I lived with a long time ago. Marilyn Lee. But she's in Honolulu now. Far, far from here."

"Do you think she'll come back?" I was feeling paranoid.

"Do you think you'll shut up? Besides, I'm in love with your daughter. So get off my back. As a mother-in-law you're tremendous. Type-cast for the role." I slammed him with a fistful of sand aimed at his chest and he pinned me to the sand and kissed me.

"Whatcha doing, Mommy? Is Uncle Crits playing a game with you? I wanna play too." She lay down on the sand and nuzzled her head in with ours.