Range of Light Page 2

  “Just jet lag.”

  “Right,” Kath answered dubiously, guiding me to the car. “Must have been a Boeing. They’re notorious for lancing tear ducts.”

  I sniffed and smiled.

  “You could be feeling the altitude. I mean, we’ve climbed a couple of thousand feet.” She looked worried.

  “It’s so good to be in California,” I murmured.

  “Nice to have you.”

  In the car, I closed my eyes, hoping Kath wouldn’t press further, not now. She had been a complicated, flinty girl who walked a fine line between bluster and delicacy. I seemed to be one of the few people who saw her fragility. With her gentle movements and an aureole of blond hair, she was by far the prettiest of us five. Often I was puzzled by my best friend, awestruck by her sureness and independence, perhaps a little scared too. Not that Kath would ever turn on me. The amorphous fear had always been about myself, perhaps that I would never measure up.

  I remembered our first visit in complete scenes—people talking, laughing, pondering with all the inspired, arrogant certainty of youth. I remembered one afternoon particularly, how rain showers drew forth seductive smells in sequoia needles and willow bark as well as the stronger, musty odors of moss, mushroom, lichen. I made my way through the woods tentatively at first, as if rain carried contagion. “Don’t get your feet wet,” Mother had admonished a thousand times. But there was nothing to be scared of on a short jaunt to the lavatory. The temperature was in the high fifties, low sixties. The precipitation was soft, summery—for it was August and among the many things Mother did not distinguish between were summer and winter rains. I took a shower every day and I wasn’t going to be afraid of sprinkles.

  Drops, gems, sparkled in the bushes, despite the sleepy sky. Even in that fathomless gray, I savored the subtle play of shadow and light. In the lavatory, the cold concrete blocks felt like an igloo. I put paper on the seat, although Kath insisted you couldn’t catch anything worth catching from a toilet. How did Kath know so much? How much did she invent? The seat was damp. I watched goose bumps rise on my thighs and I imagined that in a different stage of evolution, feathers or coarse dark fur might emerge from the bumps to warm me. Wind whistled through the ventilation holes in the eaves. I was alone in the bathroom. The other campers either had more disciplined bladders or used the piss pot technique, which Paula and Donna advocated but which Nancy had vetoed as too gross. Perhaps Kath had been wise to go for one last solitary hike, because she was probably a lot happier than the four of us in the tent.

  I could hear Paula complaining as I turned into our campsite. Opening the tent flap, I located the source of irritation: our canvas chamber reeked of nail polish.

  “Fingernails are one thing … ,” Paula argued.

  “Actually, they’re ten.” Nancy smiled, concentrating on shellacking her toenails purple.

  Donna glanced up from Travels with Charley. “Who’s going to admire your pudgy toes in the mountains anyway?” Donna usually sided with Paula, as I often found myself agreeing with Kath.

  “You never know, romance has been found in stranger places.”

  “What does romance have to do with toenails?” Paula suppressed her smile.

  “Foot fetishism is a sign of enormous sophistication.” Nancy sniffed theatrically. Zasu Pitts doing Marat/Sade.

  Presumably the nail polish was the cause of Nancy’s watery eyes. Donna and Paula were right, of course, this stink was an imposition in such a small place. Kath might find us all asphyxiated. If Kath were here, she would simply insist that Nancy complete her left foot outside, when the sun shone.

  “How about it, Adele?” Paula leaned forward in her sleeping bag. “Three to one, right? Democracy requires that she cease and desist.”

  “Well …” I didn’t see how five more toes—I studied Nancy—four more toes—would make much difference. I shrugged, then concentrated on finding my page in The Song of the Lark. Nancy waited until Paula returned to her letter. Paula was always writing to friends in France and Japan and Australia. Mother said Paula had “a lot of energy” as if she suffered from a disfiguring disease.

  Drip, drip, the rain persisted. Nothing to be afraid of, I told myself. Just a benign drip, drip. And the occasional very distant roll of thunder. Kath would be fine. Her ugly black boots had impermeable soles. Kath was, of course, completely prepared for the outdoors in her cheap and hideous army surplus gear. Nancy had brought clothes for sunbathing. Donna, in her own distracted way, had packed nothing but her normal Saturday jeans, T-shirts and loafers. Not even tennis shoes. Paula and I had shopped together at Magnin’s sportswear and while we were stylish, we were also getting much wetter than Kath. I began to doze, waking occasionally to find the afternoon proceeding in a luscious, slow, lazy way with Paula writing, Donna reading, and Nancy primping for her long, lost lumberjack.

  “What’s going on?” Kath opened the flap. The cool, fresh air made me realize how sleepy I was. She looked like a yellow gentian in her nylon raingear. Her cheeks were rosy and her blue eyes wide with amazement.

  “Smells like someone has been experimenting with toxic gases. What is this—a wax museum?” Kath caught sight of Nancy, who had fallen asleep with her feet propped up on the ice chest. “Oh, I get it, the Queen of Sheba!” Laughing, she tied open the other front flap of the tent.

  Nancy sat up.

  “I’m starving,” Kath declared. “And I did the last quarter mile smelling coq au vin. Must’ve been the neighbors. What’s for dinner, guys?”

  Donna leaned forward with a finger in her book. Nancy set down her mirror. I ran my hand over the pleasantly rough texture of my sleeping bag, waiting. Paula spoke up. Brave girl. “We all found it a bit froid and wet for gourmet preparations, so we thought we’d drive over to the grill for hamburgers.”

  I smiled at Kath’s astonished face, then teased, “Or perhaps you were planning to trap a few squirrels for us?”

  We settled on beans and franks. Each of us took turns tending our fire in the light evening drizzle and everyone except Nancy agreed it wasn’t so cold outside after all. She made her social contributions in the form of the fudge, cookies and cream soda her mother had tucked into her care package. And she promised that when dark came, she would prove to us beyond a doubt that her killer nail polish truly was iridescent.

  Often I questioned my attachment to those six long ago sylvan days. All the same, at night when I was anxious, I would deliberately recall moments from the vacation to calm me down, to help me fall asleep. Of course the memory, like the body, adapts over years. And the past survives in pieces. Remembering is like looking at a stained glass window; already constructed in shards, the image shifts with light and time. What shards had Kath preserved? Did we feel the same about the other girls—particularly about our admiration of and fears for Nancy?—or perhaps we were more distant than I had imagined. I really shouldn’t have been so surprised and hurt by our separation in college. Yet I chafed over that rift, ashamed about some unseen transgression on my part, angry at the way Kath abandoned me in painful times, confused about whether I was making too much of it. Lou, hardly a defender of Kath, nevertheless always said I exaggerated her desertion. Yet if the separation had not been that much of a trauma, if we had always been wholly autonomous individuals, why did I continue to dream about her?

  As Kath and I passed through Big Oak Flat, elevation 2,803 feet, where the saloons are not nouveaux but have been around forever, I thought how much I enjoyed old Western towns. People drank hard liquor and real beer, none of this sissy wine cooler stuff. As we moved from the village into the dark forest, I had this ridiculous impulse to name the greens—chartreuse, kelly, lime, logan, emerald. Was this desire a perverse academic symptom—naming as prelude to owning—or was it simply a tentative, urban-bound approach to understanding? Such hectic cerebration reminded me that I needed to slow down, that within twenty minutes I would b
e landing on the moon.

  “Funny,” Kath said, reading my mind, “how the Europeans raced across this continent, turning countryside into city, and now we zip back again, hoping to catch a glimpse of some spot our ancestors left untouched.”

  “So many of us”—I laughed—“that we have to reserve a spot in the High Country a year ahead of time.”

  What I remembered most about his place was the lunar quality: the sheer, silver rocks, ghost white boulders, daunting slabs of stone, reflecting, unforgiving sunlight. Cars, trucks, RVs, motorcycles sailed beside us, higher and higher into the altitude, along the ribboned road. To be alone was why I came here and not to be alone for one summer week. I wondered how many of the city habits of obsession, calculation, time hoarding, self-defense I could release in seven days.

  “Welcome to Yosemite,” read the sign.

  “Don’t worry,” Kath said. “Most of these cars are going to the Valley. They don’t even know there’s a High Country.”

  “Good.” I sensed she was nervous too and this relieved me.

  Kath turned, attempting a smile. “We made it.”

  Subdued by the caravan of cars, I smiled back. Of course it hadn’t been this crowded all those years ago. I had brought a different range of emotions—more excitement then; more trepidation now. In any case, I loved these mountains. I longed for physical exercise. It was ludicrous to worry about Kath. Somehow during the last few decades I had grown less prepared for the mountains and for life. But it was too late to turn back.

  Chapter Three

  Kath

  Sunday, the day before / Oakland

  I SLEPT LATER than I meant to. Baffin was usually up by now, nibbling my ear or making a racket in the backyard. But it was 7:00 A.M. and my gray cat lay sound asleep beside me on the chenille bedspread, purring in her congested way.

  “What a morning to fink out, Baffin. I’ve got hundreds of chores.” Running a hand over my head, I cursed myself for forgetting the haircut. How was I going to fit that in? I rushed into my miniature kitchen and put on the kettle. Then back to the bedroom to slip on running clothes. No sense skipping the run. The rest of the day wouldn’t be worth a damn if I didn’t exercise.

  “Here, Baf, here you go.” I filled the cat’s bowl with fresh kibble and canned fish. Disgusting smells. Amazing the sacrifices you make for love. Sixteen years of early morning tuna. “Come on, Baf, that’s a girl. Breakfast.” I poured the coffee water through the filter, an elaborate contraption that my sister, Martha—who preferred those instant flavored coffees—laughed at. I listened to a couple of items on the radio. Still, my sweet cat didn’t stir. She liked to sleep in sometimes; maybe she’d been roving last night. So much for my jogging companion. I loved the gaping stares of people who ran with Labrador retrievers and Irish bloodhounds. Your cat jogs? they shouted. Why not? I shrugged, gleefully stumping the dog chauvinists. But Baffin deserved her days off like anyone else.

  This morning the West Ridge Trail was cold, damp. Dew dripped from the branches. Of course the fog would lift at noon; still I found the morning veil depressing. Although I’d lived my whole life in Oakland, I couldn’t get used to gray summer mornings. Maybe what I loved most about the Sierra was the brightness right after dawn. Yes there was the occasional thunderstorm, but I could count on at least three crystal mornings each week.

  Rushing through my stretches, I reminded myself that the point was to prepare for the day ahead. Meditate. I entered the trail. Slow down your mind. Speed up your legs. You do this routine every day. Gulping the clean, luxuriously moist air of the Oakland hills, I checked off the tasks: pick up tent and make sure patches are watertight. Stop for groceries. (Would Adele mind I was vegetarian?) Visit Martha to make sure everything’s arranged for Mom and Dad. Fix Señora Castillo’s refrigerator and remind her I’d be gone for a week. Pack food, camping gear, clothes. Call Nancy and wish her well on the surgery. Move the last remaining boxes from the office. Instruct Carter about feeding Baffin. The muscles in my thighs and calves stretched and contracted, stretched and contracted.

  “Hi. Where’s Tiger this morning?”

  I looked up to find the nervous stockbroker who liked to chat me up during stretches.

  “Sleeping in!” I called back, alarmed by my spontaneously friendly voice.

  “Have a good one.” He grinned, heading back to his car.

  Inhaling the eucalyptus-scented air, I began to run. Listening for jays, mourning doves, I felt lucky to live so near the trails. Why worry about starting a little late? Everything would get done. The golden hills had an eerie, winterish cast in this fog. Morning mist kept down fire danger.

  Sweaty and relaxed, I climbed into my car. Might as well get around to moving the boxes from the office. I’d been ready for a week now, but couldn’t bring myself to make the final transfer. There’d be a sentimental scene if I hauled them out during the day. And I’d been too exhausted all week to go in the evening. No one would be there on Sunday morning—at least not at 8:45. I switched on the radio to accompany the transition from outdoor paradise to urban disappointment.

  Broadway, downtown Oakland, looked deserted under this still, milky sky. Three buses snuffled together at the transit shelter. Outside Capwell’s Department Store, a cop car idled. Two ragged men—one black, one white—picked up cans from the trash bin at the BART stop. On the corner, a clutter of ageless, sexless people huddled under blankets and newspapers. I drove with my gaze ahead, as if avoiding eye contact would make me invisible.

  I had heard Tom was living on the streets again, and this made me sad and scared. Sure the remorse was way out of proportion. We’d been a sixties romance, only a few years together. I’d cherished him for who he was hoping to become, his boy’s hands filling into man’s hands, working magic at the garage, with his guitar, in bed. In fact, Tom became someone unimaginable after the war. Surly. Brutal. Hard to believe this sweet, ironic guy could turn that violent and angry. His playful face had grown tight and his eyes darted anxiously. Hard to believe I stayed with him after a dislocated jaw and broken arm. These were accidents, I told myself, he didn’t know his strength. But the accidents continued, and despite a dozen attempts to get him into a rehab program, despite all the years between then and now, I still felt sorry, responsible, still kept a spare twenty dollars in my pocket in case I saw him on the streets.

  The office parking lot seemed creepy this empty, this early. Conjuring reassuring weekday noises of squealing tires and honking horns, I parked a yard from the door. Once inside the multilocked office, I’d be fine. I’d dump my boxes on a dolly and be away in two or three trips.

  Opening the glass door to the third-floor office, I flipped on overhead fluorescence. The light buzzed loudly, filling the vacant room with loss. I’d miss my friends here, people I’d spent all day—sometimes evenings—with for two years. Did they count as “relationships”? There should be songs and poems about losing people on your job. My stomach clenched as I passed Verna’s desk. Verna, who laughed at all my jokes and brought cookies for the office every Wednesday morning. And Carter—whose foul music was always seeping out of those faulty headphones. Carter, who had sat with me in the hospital after Dad knocked Mom down the first time.

  And the kids. Slowly, I removed photos from the board over my desk and put them one at a time into the manila envelope. Marcie and Yolanda and Dina and Hortense and Clarice and Esperansa and Samantha and Amy. “The Miss Pregnant Teen Gallery,” Carter used to laugh. I’d miss these kids and their kids. And the ones who’d have followed if funding hadn’t evaporated.

  Our office was permeated with that funny Monday morning odor of disinfectant and floor wax. The fluorescent light had hit high soprano now. I pulled pens and pencils from the top desk drawer, puzzling about the familiarity of this packing ritual. All my life I’d hobbled from one job to the next. Each of them funded on soft money. Each of them sinking into a lava
of extinguishing ideals. Head Start. Inner-city tutoring. Environmental lobbying. The free clinic. And the last decade, counseling and educational programs for teenage girls. All the jobs had been useful; most had been quixotic. At each of them, people who were less experienced than I rated promotions and better pay because of their degrees.

  Three times I started back to college, even though I knew I wouldn’t learn much. And three times I quit in frustration with academic games. What a ruse—to get a degree to find a better job. Like medieval Christians buying indulgences to enter Heaven quicker. Clearly my intelligence and hard work were more important than initials after a name. But in the end, it was always the same: soft money. Short-term jobs. Packed boxes. Now I grabbed three more NorCal cartons from the storage room, the same blue and white cartons I had brought here two years before. The same goddamned boxes. It was so quiet I could hear the clicking furnace and the buses rumbling outside. What was alive and irritating and hilarious as an office during the week was a square room with four walls, shabby cubicles and filthy windows on Sunday morning.

  One by one I’d watched my friends lift off, with their houses, kids, cottages in the country and now—this was hard to fathom—their retirement portfolios. Maybe I was, as Martha kept instructing me, just not facing reality. For such a smart person, she said, I didn’t show much foresight. Was I always going to rent a one-bedroom apartment at the back of an ancient widow’s house? Well, Señora Castillo was eighty-seven and doing fine. I smiled. Probably I wouldn’t get evicted any time soon.

  Samantha. Amy. Hortense. One by one. Photos for my album. Another job, another album. This was a perfectly reasonable record of a life. A perfectly reasonable life. And yet, as Martha would ask, what was I waiting for? The lottery? The Virgin of Guadalupe? What had I expected? Here, this is what I’d expected: that if I worked hard, proceeded with conscience, I would make progress. A modest presumption. Progress. Not success. Just perceptible change. OK, I had seen that. I should be grateful I had more choices than my parents. An easier—if not better—life. Mom, who had been so proud of my scholarship, had never understood why I dropped out of college. Ever since, she’d fretted about my measly prospects: no husband, kids, steady job. Great, I’d given my mother twenty years of worry. Maybe I didn’t know how to organize my life. But I could organize boxes. Look at this. Four cartons on the dolly in the first load. I’d be out of here in no time.