We Run the Tides(4)
Mrs. Sheridan, who wore a large cross on a thin chain around her neck, thought this was wonderful news. I did, too. It was hard, at first, to see what Maria Fabiola thought of my lie—her full lips were pillowed together into a pout—but she began to repeat the fib, and then embrace it, and this pleased me. We proceeded to walk around the block, ringing the doorbells and knocking the knockers and I introduced Maria Fabiola to every neighbor as my new adopted sister.
We rang a few more doorbells, almost all of which were answered. Did no one in Sea Cliff work? Each neighbor accepted our lie as truth. The ease of deception made the lying less fun, so we stopped and returned to my house to get a snack. We made ants on a log—peanut butter on celery with raisins on top.
“I didn’t know you were such a good liar,” Maria Fabiola said. She seemed to be evaluating me with new eyes.
“I didn’t either,” I said.
We continued eating without talking, the snap of the celery the only noise.
Maria Fabiola’s mom came to pick her up in her black Volvo. Her mother had dark hair and wore large sunglasses so opaque that sometimes it appeared she had difficulty seeing through the lenses. She often lifted them up in an attempt to get a better view, and then let them fall back over her eyes as though disappointed at what things really looked like. She quickly whisked Maria Fabiola away. I hoped nobody saw her leave. Maria Fabiola’s departure had no part in the narrative of my newly fabricated family life.
It wasn’t long before the phone started ringing. Neighbors were calling to congratulate my parents on the new addition to our family, and to ask if we needed help with the transition. Hand-me-down clothes, food, anything at all.
During the phone calls, my parents were very attentive and intrigued. I couldn’t see their faces because I was hiding in the hall closet, standing inside a long raccoon fur coat that belonged to my mother. I knew the inside of this coat well. Its lining had a complicated brown and black and white pattern, into which my mother’s initials—G.S.—had been stitched and camouflaged. I had been told that if anyone ever stole the coat, she would be able to identify it as hers by pointing out the initials, but it was never explained to me why anyone would want to steal the coat and I never saw my mom wear it outside of the house—or in the house, either. Even the raccoon coat couldn’t muffle the sounds of my parents’ voices; I could hear they were befuddled, and angry. The closet door was opened. I had been hiding inside the long raccoon fur coat since I was little so it was not such a good hiding place, really. Five minutes later I was retracing my steps around the neighborhood, ringing cold doorbells and apologizing to stern faces.
3
My dad comes home one day in September and says that an episode of a TV show I haven’t heard of is going to be filmed at Joseph & Joseph. Joseph & Joseph is the art and antique gallery he owns on the other side of town. My father’s name is Joseph and when he was coming up with the logo he wanted an ampersand because he thought it looked more impressive. One small setback: he didn’t have a partner, so just repeated his own name. Now an episode of a not-well-known detective show is going to be filmed at the gallery and my dad has asked if Svea, my friends, and I want to be in the establishing shot. I don’t know what an establishing shot is, but I call Maria Fabiola, Faith, and Julia, and we plan what we’re going to wear. We’re disappointed when we learn that whoever’s in charge wants us to wear our school uniforms.
My father’s antique gallery is South of Market. He found a small block he liked so he went door to door and offered cash to each of the owners of the houses. A couple of the owners remembered my dad from when he was a kid delivering newspapers. They were happy to take the cash; they were happy to leave. Then my father built Joseph & Joseph. The gallery hasn’t changed the neighborhood much—outside its large French doors, men sit drinking straight from the bottle. But once you step inside Joseph & Joseph, it feels like you’re in a giant dollhouse.
Two floors of the building are filled with antiques. There’s also an auction room, which is often rented out for parties. My father has photos of himself with O.J. Simpson, with Mayor Dianne Feinstein. In the photo I can see her beautiful legs. My dad talks a lot about Dianne Feinstein’s legs. Once, after describing them, he said “Yowzah.”
My favorite thing in the gallery is a Chinese spice cabinet. It’s almost six feet tall and four feet wide, and has forty-two drawers that are deep and long. I love opening a drawer and inhaling and trying to guess what spice was stored there. Then I close the drawer and open the next one. It’s like a library card catalog for smells.
My father has a secretary named Arlene. Arlene is the sister of my dad’s best friend from their days growing up in the alley. My dad is loyal to his friends from the neighborhood. Arlene’s hair is so long it extends past her belt, and she’s partial to blouses with ties and burgundy pants. She can be grumpy sometimes and I know this means that it’s her time of the month. I first learned this from my dad and I hate that he knows this. I hate that I know this. I keep a chart in my calendar of when she’s grumpy toward me on the phone or in person, and it tracks: she’s testy toward me every four weeks.
At other times she’s sweet and attentive. She gives me baby aspirin when I have a headache, and she lets me touch all the antiques, even the indoor marble fountain with the naked angel balanced precariously on top. The water spouts from the angel’s mouth like projectile vomit.