Impersonal Attractions Page 9

  Miss Anne, you look like you’ve just seen the Big Bad Wolf.

  EIGHTEEN

  Lola Davis, the black lawyer who had answered Annie’s query ad, had called and agreed to see her later that night. Annie set off for her five o’clock exercise class filled with anticipation.

  She’d been working out for a little over a year. The class combined aerobic running and jumping with slow stretches, lifts, and bends, all set to music.

  The repetition and the oxygen coursing through her system both energized and relaxed her. For those three hours every week she thought about nothing. Exercise was a form of meditation. Body on, mind off.

  And it worked. Finding new muscles every week, challenging herself to new heights, her body had grown strong. Some mornings, she’d told Sam, she looked at herself naked in the mirror and could hardly bear to put her clothes on.

  Thinking about it made her laugh. Growing up as her mother’s southern flower, warned not to go out into the sun for fear of ruining her complexion, Annie had never learned to ski, play tennis, or hit any kind of ball. When she’d first moved to California she took one look at all the physical activity around her and decided she’d moved into a gym.

  At first she resisted, and then she gave it a try. But her tennis instructor made her cry. And, at a picnic, she’d embarrassed her jock date by striking out nine consecutive times at bat. When she passed thirty, and the holiday goodies seemed to hang around her tummy long into January, she’d begun to jog. She could soon do two miles, but she thought she’d die of boredom.

  Finally she’d found her exercise class, with its sweet, smiling instructor, Mimi Trask, who regaled them with tales of her life as a beautiful divorcée in Sausalito while she worked their buns off.

  Most of her classmates were female—of every size, race, and age. She’d become friendly with a few, had an occasional cup of coffee at Greens, the restaurant next door to class, and she had a nodding acquaintanceship with the other regulars. She was forever seeing women on the street, at the ballet, in a restaurant whom she couldn’t quite place until she realized she’d never seen them before with their clothes on.

  Tonight Brian, one of the lone males in class, was there. Annie called him Byron, after the womanizing English poet.

  Brian used the class like an ongoing Happy Hour. The policy was that any paying member could bring a guest once for free. So every time Brian picked up another woman, which seemed to be daily, he brought her to class for a no-expense date and also got a free look at her body gyrating in a leotard.

  Or if he had had no luck out in the world that day, he would simply come to class alone and hope to find a fresh victim.

  “You in the pink tights, be careful, Brian’s behind you,” a regular would call out.

  And he almost always scored. Why wouldn’t he? He was tall, thin, well built, with classic mustachioed California good looks and a BMW. Granted, he hadn’t earned the red and white Stanford sweat suit he always wore, but in these times that didn’t seem like much of a flaw.

  Her workout class was at Fort Mason, a jumble of reclaimed military warehouses on the Bay, across the street from the Marina Safeway. It took Annie about four minutes to get from there to her appointment with Lola Davis.

  Like many San Francisco dwellings that look deceptively small from the street, Lola’s white-stuccoed, red-tiled building hid surprises. As did Lola herself.

  A petite, slinky lady of about thirty-five, she was dressed in a white cashmere pullover and matching slacks, which offered a creamy contrast to her café au lait complexion. There was a wiry sensuality in her movement that reminded Annie of Eartha Kitt, as did the quality of her voice. There was also a hint of the South in her throaty “Welcome, come right in” at the door.

  The apartment was huge, with heavily waxed, dark wood floors, elegant cornices, a blue-tiled fireplace in the long living room, and, off the formal dining room, a large, glass-roofed deck. Exotic flowering plants flourished there with the help of lots of Marina sunshine. They were bright spots of color around the sleek, white, Brown Jordan outdoor furniture. Lola Davis not only had taste but a law practice that must have been doing quite well. Annie wondered why a woman like this was looking for love in the personals.

  Of course, she thought, so am I.

  And then she decided to stop talking to herself and talk to Lola instead.

  From the depths of a huge, overstuffed, blue tweed chair, Lola purred, “Before we start, there’s something I wanted to ask you. I almost did it on the phone, but thought I’d wait.”

  “Shoot,” Annie replied, thinking oh hell, she’s going to chicken out on me.

  The hint of a drawl that Annie had picked up earlier in Lola’s speech thickened, deepened in richness like a good gumbo after hours on the stove as she asked, “Honey, where in the South are you from?”

  Annie looked her straight in the eye. “Hotlanta. Georgia, sugah, and wheah did you grow up?”

  “Why, I was raised in Valdosta, Miss Anne.”

  It wasn’t until Annie had left the South that she had learned that Miss Anne is the name blacks use for all white women. It conjures up crinolines, parasols, helplessness, and airs.

  The two women threw back their heads and hooted long and loud, finally wiping tears from their eyes. They slapped their knees and laughed in the way that southerners do, born out of a tradition of storytelling and enjoying a good joke.

  They got up from their chairs and hugged. It was a hug of recognition, of a knowing that exists between southern blacks and whites transplanted from home, grown out of shared roots, shared territory, and a mixture of love and hate for the land that spawned them and for what they represent to one another.

  That settled, Lola began to tell Annie her story.

  Her father had been that exceptional character, a black doctor in a small south Georgia town. His clientele had been his own people, of course, except for an occasional redneck who, having driven off drunk into a ditch, would allow the staunching of his life’s blood by a black. Lola’s mother had been a schoolteacher. They had tutored her at home, stuffing her shelves and mind with books to augment her education at the local colored schoolhouse.

  Lola had easily gained admittance to Atlanta University and then had won a scholarship to Georgetown, where she made Law Review. For graduation, her parents had given her a trip to Hawaii. On her way she stopped over in San Francisco and, like so many others before her, couldn’t wait to get back. Passing the California boards had been no problem, nor was finding a job. San Francisco liberalism, Affirmative Action, the quota system all stood in her favor. She was brilliant and beautiful and black. Everything was going her way—until her workday ended and playtime began.

  “If you think you have problems in this town, try putting yourself in my shoes,” snorted Lola. “How many attractive, successful, intelligent, sophisticated single black men do you know, right off hand?”

  Annie frowned, thinking. “None, but,” she hesitated, “do you date only blacks?”

  “No, but I want to marry black. I’ll go to dinner, parties, dancing with anybody who’s fun, but when it comes to serious romance, the children I want to have, it’s different. And it’s tough.”

  Annie agreed and encouraged Lola to go on.

  “Oh, Lawsy mercy, honey,” Lola joked as she settled back into her chair. “There are tales I could tell.

  “Some friends fixed me up with a blind date. A doctor. A rarity, a black gynecologist. My friends had given Howard a great build up. Fantastic credentials, tennis player, divorced, no children, anxious to settle down again. But I thought to myself, ‘Lola, a doctor who’s available for a blind date, there is something wrong here.’

  “When I opened the door, I knew what it was.” She drew herself up to her full height. “How tall would you say I am?”

  “Five three?”

  “Close. Try five two. I was wearing sandals that were maybe two inches. But when I opened the door, I looked down into his eyes. I have n
ever looked down at a full-grown man in my life.

  “Hell, he doesn’t even have to bend over at the end of the examining table.”

  Annie rocked with laughter.

  “Oh, Lola! But was he nice?”

  “Sure, he was nice, but what did I care? I know it’s silly, but I made him take me to a little French place way out in the Avenues where I knew we wouldn’t see anyone I knew. I just felt dumb. When he called again I’d suddenly become engaged. My friends will never forgive me and certainly never fix me up again.”

  “How else do you meet men? Bars? Business contacts?”

  “I used to do bars. Perry’s, MacArthur Park, you know. But something happened to a friend in Henry Africa’s and I got spooked with that whole scene.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “My friend Lillie hadn’t been in town very long and didn’t know many people. One night she stopped for a drink and began talking with a man who said he was a computer engineer in Palo Alto. The next thing she knew was when she woke up the next day in a hotel room, alone, with a body like a used car. He had definitely run up some miles on her engine and put a few dents in her too. No broken bones, but lots of big purple bruises and belt marks across her back. She didn’t remember a thing. Sounds trite, but it must have been the classic Mickey Finn in her drink.”

  “Jesus. What did she do?”

  “First she had herself a good cry. Then she pulled herself together, called a taxi and went home. Filled her tub with bubble bath and soaked. The next day she went to her doctor and had herself checked for about forty-two kinds of VD and decided to try and forget about it.”

  “She didn’t report it?”

  “Why? What are the cops going to do? She didn’t know his real name, where he lived or worked. And she was a black woman who allowed herself to be picked up. You pays your money and you takes your chances, you know. Most folks think a woman in a bar is Goodbarring, looking for trouble, anyway.”

  “And you think the personals are safer? You can ask for photos, but you really don’t even know what the guys look like until they show up.”

  “Yes, but you can screen them. If you place the ad, you have their letters, photos, and you decide whether to call them. You can tell an awful lot on the phone. You don’t have to give them your name unless you feel good about them. And then you always set up the meeting in a café—for a cup of coffee—no booze, and you can get away quick.”

  “How many responses did you get?”

  “An even dozen. And some of those weren’t even in the ballpark. Four prisoners. Ha! I work the other side of that street.

  “One’s a dentist who sounds nice, if a bit stuffy. And a salesman I’m meeting next weekend.”

  “I wish you luck. And me too.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Lola raised her glass. “We’ll keep each other posted. Okay?”

  The time had slipped by. It was getting late.

  They walked down the stairs together. At the bottom Lola turned, gave her a quick hug, and said, “Ya’ll come back, y’hear?”

  It was the standard southern parting line, often a pleasantry, signifying nothing, but Annie knew that in Lola she had a newfound friend. She would be coming back, soon.

  NINETEEN

  The steps of the Jewish Community Center were humming. Small boys in short pants scampered up and down, yelling. Several gray-haired ladies waited for the bus. A friendly black Labrador was searching for a tossed ball.

  He leaned against the building, watching the scene on the steps while keeping one eye on the door.

  He had only recently discovered the center at the corner of California and Presidio in Pacific Heights, far from his home. In the past few days he had spent several hours here, watching.

  A class let out. Ten or fifteen women exited, cheeks glowing, talking in twos and threes. A few were alone. He noted the time, six-thirty. They were right on schedule, chattering, gold earrings flashing, bursts of red and purple dresses. Their perfume and conversation filled the air.

  A short woman with masses of dark curls caught his eye. She carried a large sketch pad in one hand, a straw tote slung over a shoulder. Her free hand smoothed her full black cotton skirt over her hips.

  She had nice legs, pretty ankles. She turned to see who was calling her. Behind her a woman waved. “Marcia, Marcia.”

  Her glance crossed his. She smiled. Pretty, strong, white teeth. Hints of a full bosom billowed beneath a loose pink blouse. A gold six-pointed star twinkled in the hollow of her throat.

  Marcia. He said the name to himself. Rolled it around in his mouth.

  She was it.

  She didn’t wait for the bus, but walked a half-block to her old orange and gray Volkswagen van. An ancient sticker that read BRANDEIS UNIVERSITY was peeling across the rear window. It was easy to follow the slow-moving vehicle south across town, Masonic to Clayton, along the tops of the hills, intersecting Market, into the Castro area. She parked the van in front of a pink and purple Victorian, and scrambled up the steps with her arms full. She never saw him behind her.

  In the next few days he would follow Marcia to the laundry, the art supply store, her studio on Arkansas Street. Her thoughts were filled with a new sculpture she was doing for a group show.

  His thoughts were filled with her.

  TWENTY

  Like most of her students, Annie usually dressed for class in casual slacks or jeans, a sweater, and a comfortable old blazer. But tonight, this last class before Halloween, the quintessential San Francisco holiday, she was putting on her Halloween costume. Annie was going to class as Dolly Parton.

  She had borrowed the basic components from Sam, who had worn them to a party the year before: a bubbly, bouffant platinum wig and a 40DD bra. Annie provided her own polyester pillow stuffing, heavy makeup, gold hoop earrings, and too tight jeans. The southern accent she already had.

  As she walked down the hall to her classroom, the overhead lamps casting highlights in her silvery hair, a transformation began. She felt herself getting into it: a giggle in her throat, a new wiggle in her walk, a proud, chest-out arch in her back.

  She had planned to be just a couple of minutes late for a dramatic entrance. When she opened the classroom door and sauntered in there were looks of shock, surprise, leers of admiration, but no recognition in the eyes of her students. She had pulled it off.

  “Howdy. How’ya doing this evening?” she drawled.

  “Fine.” “Okay,” a couple of students answered.

  “Ms. Tannenbaum couldn’t be with ya’ll tonight, so she asked me to fill in for her.” She sat on the edge of the desk.

  “Awwwwwright,” cheered Cornell.

  “Why you must be Cornell.” She batted her false eyelashes at him. “Ms. Tannenbaum warned me about you.”

  A few students in the front of the room began to titter. Eve Gold nudged the woman next to her. “Ms. Parton, we’re delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  “Mrs. Gold, that’s not Dolly Parton. She just looks like her,” corrected Cornell.

  “That’s right,” Eve flashed back, “and who do you think she is, if you’re so smart, young man?”

  Laughter erupted in the room and Annie could see the light dawning on Cornell’s handsome brown face.

  “Holy shit, Ms. Tannenbaum, is that you in there?”

  The class broke up.

  Annie waggled over to his desk and leaned down. “Why sure, sugar, who’d you think it was?”

  Eventually the class was able to settle down to the business at hand, which this week was the reading of their horror stories, written in honor of the season. Mayhem, gore, ghosts, dismembered bodies marched up and down the creaky stairs of their minds. There were some real beauts.

  It was all in good fun until Annie called on Eddie Simms, the student who usually slept through class. He smirked as he read his story, the first assignment he had ever completed. Annie wished he hadn’t. His wasn’t just a horror story; it was a loathsome journey into a
country she never wanted to visit.

  “That is sick, man,” Cornell finally said in the silence that followed.

  “Yuk,” Gladys Chiu agreed, and they moved on to old Mr. Garfield’s whimsical tale about a little boy who was afraid of his image in the mirror when his back was turned.

  After class there was some close-up inspection of Annie’s costume and talk of what everyone was going to wear on the big night. Cornell volunteered that he was going as either Colonel Sanders or a chicken.

  *

  At home Annie pulled Agatha up into the driveway of her building’s large communal garage. As she got out to unlock and pull up the heavy door, a couple walking their dog across the street whistled. She was startled; San Franciscans are usually a bit more reserved. Then she remembered her costume and waved at them.

  She flipped the light switch at the door, got back into Agatha, and drove to her parking space toward the back of the garage. Her high-heeled steps echoed on the concrete floor. This walk made her especially nervous since neighbors told her a tenant had once been raped here.

  The safest procedure was to drive the car through, stop just inside, pull the exterior door down, and lock it. But no one ever did. It was too much trouble.

  So too was making sure the connecting door to the lobby was locked from the garage side.

  But the security of that door was problematic. If both the lobby door and the exterior garage doors were locked, the building was secure, but you could be locked in a box with an intruder. The alternative was to make the building more vulnerable to a burglar, who could open any glass-paned apartment door in the building with a glass cutter.

  Was it better to roll down a mountain with one’s seat belt tightly fastened after a picnic and a bottle of wine, or to take one’s chances in jumping? Annie could never decide.

  She kept meaning to speak to Tony, the super, about it.

  *

  Across the hall, Angie was practicing “Für Elise” on her piano. She was getting a lot better. In front of her door was a note from Angie inviting her over for a piece of chocolate cake.