We Run the Tides(44)

“Are you plagiarizing Yeats?” he says.

“I’m quoting Yeats,” I say. “Quoting.”

“You should acknowledge your sources,” he says.

“Everyone should acknowledge their sources,” I say, and walk out.





24


After school I walk past Keith’s house, but he’s not outside on his skateboard. I ring his doorbell. No one answers the door, but this doesn’t mean no one’s home. I hear footsteps inside, running to the back of the house. They’re what I imagine webbed feet sound like on a hardwood floor.

As I walk home I see my mom on her bike, but she doesn’t see me. She’s on her way back from work, and I view her the way a stranger would. That is a determined, beautiful woman, I think. A Swedish farm girl riding a bike on a San Francisco street lined with palm trees.

I arrive home five minutes later. My mother is pulling something out of the freezer. She’s still wearing her support hose, the stockings she wears at work to keep her legs from swelling. She spends most of the day in surgery, standing. The stockings are a few shades darker than her fair skin.

“I’m thinking meatballs for dinner tonight,” she says. “I’m going to hear Angela Davis speak at the public library.”

There’s a book by Angela Davis on the table and I open its pages.

When my dad comes home I find out he’s going to hear Davis speak as well.

I don’t mean to sigh dramatically, but I do.

“What was that sigh about?” he asks.

“Sometimes I feel like I missed out on all the interesting . . .” I am about to say periods but decide on epochs instead. My parents look at me quizzically. I probably didn’t pronounce it right. I move on. “The Velvet Revolution in Czechoslovakia, and even here I missed Angela Davis, the Black Panthers, Patty Hearst . . .” I worry I sound like Gentle.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Patty Hearst?” my dad says. He sits down in the study. This is going to be a story. I sit down across from him.

“I was walking one day on 30th Avenue. You were just a baby. I was going to the grocery store to get something for you. Diapers or a snack or toilet paper . . . What was it?” He looks at the floor.

“You can probably skip over that part,” I say.

“Right,” he says. “Anyway, I was going to the grocery store and I saw a Chevrolet parked on the street. There was a woman with glasses in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead. And then, in the back seat, behind what looked like dog-cage wire, there was a woman lying down across the seats. I thought, That’s Patty Hearst.

“I continued walking to the store, got what I was buying, and then turned back home. By then the car was gone. I thought about it for a few hours and went over what I’d seen. The news said that she was in Pennsylvania at the time—that’s what everyone thought—but I was convinced I’d seen her. The FBI was offering a $50,000 reward for any information about Patty Hearst, so that was tempting. But on the other hand, I was worried that the Symbionese Liberation Army would come after me, and I had a baby.”

I point to myself. Me?

“Right. So, I thought about it for a few hours and then I called the hotline. The man I talked to didn’t seem too interested in my story. Like I said, no one thought she was in San Francisco. But then, later, they found out she’d been in San Francisco all along. And when I saw the photos of the woman who was with her—the one with the glasses—I knew it was her. I knew I’d seen Patty Hearst.”

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “Where was it again?”

“30th and California.”

“Right near Julia’s house,” I say. “I walk there every morning.”

“Yeah, so if they had found her based on my call, I would be $50,000 richer, but on the other hand, I might be dead. And this house would be a tourist attraction. All the tour buses would go by and say, ‘That’s where they killed the man who revealed Patty Hearst’s location.’ So there you have it,” he says.

I don’t know what to say. “Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” he says and stands. At the doorway to the study he pauses and turns back. “Oh, and Eulabee,” he says, pretending he’s had an afterthought. “I locked the liquor cabinet.”





25


As I’m leaving school Tuesday afternoon I see a sign on the door to the front office. “Office closed this afternoon for emergency faculty meeting.” I stand outside for a minute, contemplating the sign. Ms. Mc. and Ms. Catanese walk toward the front office with red envelopes in hand. I bend over and pretend to retie my shoelace, before moving on at a pace that is quick-while-trying-to-appear-slow.

I walk in the direction of my home. I see Keith on Lake Street with two friends I don’t recognize. The three of them are on their skateboards. The two friends are wearing Thrasher sweatshirts. Keith’s wearing one that says “Powell Peralta.” As I approach, the friends stare at me. Keith looks away.

Shit, I think. They’ve heard about the blood.

“Hey Keith,” I say. “How was Yosemite?”

His friends laugh. Keith doesn’t answer.

I look down at the sidewalk, as though I can pretend it wasn’t me who just spoke. I walk past them, with purpose and without looking back. When I’m out of their line of sight, I walk faster, though I’m unsure of my destination. The wind is strong today—all the better to dry the small pin-drops of water I feel collecting in the corners of my eyes.