1 Above all, the quest. MacGregor West--Mac, or simply West, or even Ho-ho, or sometimes just Soldat duBois--had been walking past a certain Pacific Heights mansion in the city of San Francisco over the course of several weeks. He''d been recently delivered a shoe box full of his mother''s loose ends, and a stack of empty envelopes in it had borne this return address--as much to go on as anything he''d ever possessed. It had brought him to the outside of a place that looked more like a civic building than a residence. But he could not get up the nerve to apply his knuckles to the door. June. The hemisphere was heating up, all over but here. Fog rising in floes off the bay.
Housekeepers and nannies, gardeners and florists, all wrapping up their work for the day. Quaint bumps in the sidewalk, approved bumps, because nothing was out of place around here. An older couple strolled by, walking pugs in handsome sweaters. "Evening," Mac said. "Good evening," they replied. Around here, the animals dressed better than he did. How many serfs had it taken to quarry and haul this granite here, to build this looming edifice? Tonight balloons tied to the front posts smacked lightly against one another in the mist, and the windows flickered with childish silhouettes. Not the time to knock and ask about a matter concerning only him.
Even so, his talent for loitering was rewarded. The front door flew open, and he froze beside the trunk of a street-side mock orange tree to see who emerged. Not a who--a what. A bed on wheels. The sort that folds in half like a sandwich and rolls squeaking out of the closet when a guest appears. This one was being yanked onto the front landing by a handful of adolescent girls. And with a full-size person wedged within the frame, thrashing and trapped--the unexpected sight seemed like an omen. Two bare soles protruded from one side, a set of shoulders and a downward-facing head from the other.
One mischievous girl peered up and down the street. Others were busy securing the bed with string. Then, to Mac''s surprise, they all dashed back into the house. Firmly shutting the door. Leaving the bed alone outside. He heard a muffled "Help!" His mouth felt dry. Should he butt in? Spoil the game? "Help," the voice cried again, and he ambled over to offer a hand. "This as serious as it looks?" he asked.
Her face was upside down, hidden by a spread of auburn hair as full as a hula skirt. "Very!" she said. "My narm is numb." "That''s the worst." He began to struggle with the iron latches on the sides of the folding bed. The brackets were jammed, strangled with yarn. "How did this happen?" "Oh, it''s burning now! What''s wrong--can''t you get it?" In the bright porch light, Mac fumbled with the knots while the crummy old frame jittered on its casters. His suave rescue attempt was fizzling away.
What a pitiful sensation it was when his arm brushed the bottom of her stone cold feet. Pitiful because it was the most contact he''d had with a woman in a long while. Pitiful because the feet were cute, and though they belonged to a total stranger whose face he had yet to see, it crossed his mind to warm them with kisses. And perhaps most pitiful because he associated frigid feet with his mother, cuddling him as a child, taking advantage of his thermally desirable young trunk. Then it so happened that he worked the flesh of his index finger too near the main hinge. "Wait, now, don''t move," he said hoarsely. She moved. "Nnnnn!" The folded bed keeled over, impact jarring the clasps.
Mac''s finger came loose, allowing him to pull it apart and let the girl roll free. She stood and tossed back her hair and showed him her face. "God, sorry!" she said. How often do you remember the exact moment you first see a face? Especially when the vision''s wed with pain. And he''d struggle ever after describing her. She was close to his age, he''d venture. Her green eyes were large and comically round, her forehead broad, her chin small, like the bottom of a heart. She had a pretty mouth, which looked like it would dole out secrets and fun.
She had crease marks on her neck where the bed had squeezed her. And balls of lint strewn through her hair. "Oh no," she said. "That happened here?" His finger was blossoming with color; he shrugged. "How''s the narm?" "Better by the second. Can I get you some ice?" No--to accept ice would reduce him to a bully-pummeled crybaby at the hem of the school nurse. "It''s fine. Forget it.
" "It''s not fine. They thought they were being so funny." She shook out her limbs, kicked her frigid feet into circulation, looked behind Mac to the street. "So, where''s our stuff?" "What stuff?" He noticed, looking back, that the mock orange tree he''d been lurking beneath was dotted with worn, weathered shoes, swinging merrily in the breeze. "You''re not bringing the pizza?" "You think I''m a pizza guy?" "Well, aren''t you?" "Funny you mention it, I used to be one." Sensing her confusion, he added, "I''m kind of between things." Whispers floated down from overhead; he glanced up at the open casement from which the girls bulged like a cluster of toadstools. "You''re not delivering our dinner.
" "Right. You see--" "He''s not our pizza guy!" she yelled at them. "Get back in the bed," someone called back. At that moment the van arrived. A huge, crusty wheel of dough painted on its side. Teo''s. The best in North Beach. "Sorry for the mistake.
You look very familiar. Have we met?" "Never," he said. "I''m MacGregor West." "Carolyn Ware," she said. "What an unusual way to meet someone. Thanks again for helping me." She hesitated with touching discomfort, then tripped down to the van, where the real delivery guy was stacking pizzas and salads and soft drinks, and the girls burst forth from the house, heels thundering like hooves. One of them wore a Giants cap over a head of licorice black hair, an old wooden clothespin clipped to the bill.
"We had a whole experiment set up," the girl with the cap told him. "What was the point?" "To see if there''s such a thing as love at first sight. We''re postulating that there is." "Postulating? About him?" She nodded. Mac glanced jealously at the intended, in a muscle shirt with a vomiting skull on it. "Maybe it was not meant to be." She was studying him with acorn-colored eyes. "It''s my birthday," she announced.
"I''m twelve. My mother thought I was turning fourteen; she always gets it wrong." Surrounded now by a throng of girlish forms, Carolyn Ware held aloft a stack of white boxes and turned back up the walk; because he had not moved away from her house, Mac could see her trying to make a decision on what to do about him. He wondered if he should blurt it all out straightaway. "See, I''m looking for my--" But she was occupied, it wasn''t right. "Need a hand?" "You''ve done enough. Do you live around here?" "I go running in the Presidio." This seemed to satisfy her.
The girls were heading back inside. "It''s the coldest summer ever!" she said. Then inspiration came in a flash; he cradled his throbbing finger, and she noticed. "Hey, want some pizza at least? I don''t usually invite people in--" "No, you wait outside for them in a bed, like bait." "Right. And you got hurt by the hook." "All right. Payment.
I accept." She moved through the doorway, and Mac followed and found himself standing in an entryway as tall and austere as a monk''s tower. A grand stairway climbed to a landing on the next floor, while on one wall rose an elaborate mural, of the type one might find in a medieval church. Sheep, grazing on a hillside, an angel watching over the flock from a cobalt sky. His sneakers squeaked on the floor, and he felt a deep chill rising from the black marble, as if he were skating the surface of an enormous tomb. "Come on back here," she called. He passed through a high, wide archway, from which he could see into--what, the living room? It contained a fair collection of modern sculptures, ancient statues, busts mounted on plinths of stone; the air smelled musty and closed. As he continued through the house, he passed a dining room with a long table and many chairs, and caught a glimpse out the window.
It was a fogged-in of the Marina, Alcatraz, the Marin Headlands, the mouth of the bay, and of course, the Golden Gate Bridge. "In here," Carolyn called. He followed her voice out through another door, across a hallway, and into the kitchen. The girls ran past him, practically knocking him over with their parcels and bags. "I want pepperoni!" someone yelled. The kitchen had high ceilings and old fixtures, and looked as if not a thing had been disturbed in fifty years. "You can have one of everything," Carolyn was reassuring the gluttons. "Molly, get the napkins.
" "We all went riding today," said Molly, the birthday girl. "My horse is an Arabian called Omar; he''s ten years old." "I blew in his nose, and he tried to knock me over," said another. "Horses make friends by blowing in each other''s noses, but Omar doesn''t know any other horses," said Molly. She stacked her plate while the clothespin bobbed on her bill, and Carolyn was directing them to the long table in the dining room and providing beverages to each girl, and once she finis.