Did the missus realize? She rarely ventured out anymore. Perhaps that was why. Not wanting to see.
Or perhaps she just didn't care. Not because of the… financial issue.
Because Mildred was forced to admit that the missus had changed a long time ago.
The terrible weekend in Lake Arrowhead. Then him. Tragedy upon tragedy. Not that the missus had ever complained. Perhaps it would've been better if she had…
The German railway clock over the left-hand freezer chimed. Something else those nasal-voiced Sotheby's people had rejected. Not that Mildred could blame them, hideous it was. And grossly inaccurate. Nine o'clock on its face meant eight fifty-three. In seven minutes, Mildred would be at the missus's bedroom door knocking gently. Hearing “Please come in, dear'' from the other side of the molded mahogany. Entering, she'd set the tray on a bureau, prop the missus while chattering encouragingly, fluff the mountain of pillows, fetch the wicker bed table, set it carefully over the missus's comforter, and arrange the service precisely. Silver-plate toast rack filled with triangles of extra-thin wheat bread, browned lightly, the coffee, freshly ground African blend from that little shop on Huntington Boulevard- one needed some luxury for heaven's sake! Decaffeinated now, but accompanied by real cream, thick enough to clot for the scones; what a job it was finding that! The golden marmalade that Mildred still made by hand, using fine white cane sugar and the few sour oranges she managed to find out back in the orchard.
The sour orange tree was dying, but it managed to produce a bit of lovely fruit. One thing California was good for was fruit. Mildred still loved to stroll the orchard and pick, pretending the ground wasn't hardpacked and lumpy, pretending the herbs were green and fresh, not the tangle of straw thatching the borders.
Pretending she was a girl back in England, out in the Yorkshire country. Shutting out the fact that on certain days- most days- one could hear the Pasadena freeway.
Fruit and weather. Those were the only things to recommend California. Despite living most of her life in San Marino, Mildred considered the place barbaric.
Horrid things in the newspaper. When she deemed them too horrid, she didn't bring the paper up with the missus's breakfast.
The missus never asked about it. The missus never read much anymore, except for those romance paperbacks and art magazines.
The missus never did much at all.
Nothing wrong with her, the doctors claimed, but what did they know? The woman was sixty-six but had suffered centuries' worth of tragedy.
The railway clock said 8:56 and Mildred had only three minutes to cross the kitchen to the creaky rear elevator that rose up to the missus's bedroom on the third floor.
She picked a fine yellow rose from the three without mildew on the thorny grandiflora bush out back. She'd snipped at dawn, trimmed the stems, and placed the flowers in sugar water. Now she laid the blossom next to the covered platter of shirred eggs. The missus rarely ate the eggs, but one tried.
Lifting the tray, she walked speedily, steadily.
The kitchen didn't look too awful, all things considered.
“Very good,'' Mildred said, to no one in particular.
28
I sneak out of the park and go down Los Feliz, staying as far from the light as I can. No one walking up here, just cars whizzing by. Los Feliz ends and Western starts and now the junkies and prosties take over. I turn right on Franklin because it's darker, all apartment buildings; I don't want to be on the Boulevard.
Not too many people out tonight, and the ones who are don't seem to notice me. Then I see a couple of Mexicans hanging around a corner, in the shadow of an old brick building. Probably doing a drug deal. I cross the street and they look at me, but they don't say anything. A block later, a skinny prostie with spiky white hair and bright blue T-shirt and shorts comes out of an apartment carrying a tiny purse. She spots me and her eyes get wild and she says, “Hey, boy,” in a drunk voice and wiggles her finger. She's short, just a kid, doesn't look that much older than me. “Fuck and suck, thirty,” she says, and when I keep walking, she says, “Fuck you, faggot.”
For the next few blocks I don't see anyone, then another prostie, older, fatter, who pays no attention to me, just stands around smoking and watching cars. Then three tall black guys wearing baseball caps and baggy pants come out of the shadows, see me, look at each other. I hear them say something and I cross the street again, trying to seem relaxed. I hear laughter and footsteps and I look back and see one of them chasing me, almost reaching me. I speed up and run, and he does too. His legs are long and he's got his hand up, like to grab me. I run across the street and a car's coming and it has to move to the side not to hit me. The driver honks and yells, “Fucking idiot!” and I'm still running, but the black guy isn't.
I think I hear someone laughing. Probably a game for him. If I had a gun…
I walk for a long time. At Cahuenga, there's more light and the entrance to the Hollywood Bowl, a long curvy road that climbs up. I'm not going up there. Too much like the park; I don't want anything to do with parks.
So guess what comes next: another park, Wattles Park, what a weird name. I've never seen it, never been this far. Not a friendly-looking place- high fences all around and gates with big chain locks and a sign saying the city owns it and it's closed at night, keep out. Through the fence all I can see is plants. It looks messy. Probably full of perverts.
Now Franklin ends, here's Hollywood Boulevard again, I can't avoid it; like it's chasing me, this big burst of noise and light, gas sta-tions, cars, buses, fast-food places, worst of all people, and some of them look at me like I'm a meal. I cross La Brea, it gets quiet again, all apartments, some of them pretty nice-looking. I've never thought of the Boulevard as anything but stores and theaters and weirdos, but look at this- people live here in pretty nice places.
Maybe I should have traveled sooner.
The cut on my arm is dry and it doesn't hurt much. The ones on my face itch.
I'm breathing okay, though my chest still hurts. I'm hungry, but three dollars isn't going to buy me much and I look for Dumpsters to dive. Nothing. Not even a garbage can.
I walk a little bit more and turn off on a real quiet street. All houses, a nice dark street. But no cans here either, or alleys. Cars are parked bumper to bumper and down a ways I see more light and noise, another boulevard. I stop and look around. Some of the houses look okay; others are messy, with cars parked on the lawn.
Then I come to one with no car in the driveway or on the lawn. Totally dark. Old-looking, made of some kind of dark wood, with a slanted roof that hangs over a really wide porch. No fence, not even across the driveway. But the grass is cut, so someone lives here, and maybe they keep their cans in the backyard.
The driveway is just cement with a strip of grass growing in the middle, and I can't see what's at the end of it. I look around to make sure no one's watching and walk back there very slowly. As I pass the front porch, I see a big pile of mail in front of the door. All the windows are totally black. Looks like the people have been gone for a while.
No BEWARE OF DOG sign, no barking from inside the house.
I keep going and finally make out what's at the end of the driveway. A garage with wooden doors. The yard is small for such a big house, just a little grass and a couple of trees, one of them gigantic but with no fruit.
The cans are out behind the garage, three of them- two metal, one plastic. Empty. Maybe the people don't live here anymore.
I turn around and am heading back to the street when I notice a dot of orange over the back door. A small bulb, so weak it only lights up the top half of the door. A screen door; behind the screen is glass. The screen's held in place by two loop-type things with hooks, and when you twist them it comes right off.