Midnight Baby

CHAPTER 3

Casey’s fever had amounted to nothing. She was already at school before I managed to get home.

I felt like shit. For more reasons than fatigue.

I had always been a working mom. For the last two years I had been a single working mom. It was a fact of Casey’s life that I was not often at home like the Beaver’s mother, with fresh-baked cookies and milk waiting for her after school. Because of the nature of my job, sometimes it was necessary for me to be gone for weeks, and occasionally for months at a time. Casey accepted my time away from her with various degrees of grace, as I accepted it with various degrees of guilt.

During my absences over the years I have been accused of going to extremes to make sure that Casey was not only well tended, but well loved. If that’s true, it’s a sin I can live with. For the last couple of years the privilege of being with my daughter in my stead had been bestowed upon Lyle Lundgren.

Lyle used to be our back-fence neighbor in the Marina District of San Francisco. When the big quake of recent memory hit, my family was lucky. All we lost was the rear wall of our restored wood-frame Victorian house, while the block behind us, Lyle’s block, was completely leveled. The afternoon of the quake we found Lyle out on the street and took him in. And we kept him.

We have evolved a very happy arrangement. Lyle is our housewife. He works at home as a free-lance copywriter. I charge him some rent for his Bay-view room, but not nearly the going rate. To compensate, he does most of the cooking and cleaning and errand-running. He deals with the workmen who are still making repairs on the house. When I travel, he takes charge of Casey. We adore him. We cannot imagine life without Lyle.

When I called Lyle from Los Angeles before I boarded my plane, he reminded me that it was his day to volunteer at the hospice. He said that on the way he was dropping our beloved dog, Bowser, at the groomer’s to be flea-dipped.

All the way in from the San Francisco airport, I looked forward to having the house to myself for a while.

As soon as I got in the door, I began the ritual of homecoming. First, I put on a pot of coffee – not fresh-ground espresso or caffe whatever, just auto drip stuff out of a can, the way I like it. Then I toted my bag upstairs and unpacked, dumping my dirty clothes down the chute into the basement laundry room. By the time I had finished that, the coffee was ready. I poured a cup and carried it into my workroom. I sorted through the mail and the telephone messages, catalogued the new videotapes, and put the rolls of 35mm stills I had shot into preaddressed processing mailers and set them out for the mailman. It was all very ordinary and, in its way, very comforting.

The next order of business was checking on Sly and Pisces. I picked up the telephone and dialed Agnes Peter.

“How are my kids, Pete?” I asked her.

“They took off, Maggie. Right after breakfast.”

“Did something happen?”

“No. I think they sensed the inquisition was about to begin. They had clean clothes and full tummies, and they just scooted right out the front door.”

“I guess I’m not surprised,” I said. “But, damn, I wish they hadn’t gone.”

“Pisces is a bright little girl. She has our phone number. If she needs us, she’ll call.”

“I hope you’re right. What do I owe you?”

“Whatever you can spare. Walk down the street and put it into the nearest poor box.” She paused, and I waited. “Are you okay, Maggie?”

“Me? Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just asking. You have my number, too. Anytime you want to talk.”

“I appreciate the offer,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”

I hung up and poured myself a second cup of coffee. I had a lot on my mind. My project needed to be refigured. I thought that while I was at it, maybe my entire life could use some refiguring.

Herman Melville said that when a man’s mind turns to contemplation, his feet naturally lead him to water. I did the next best thing. I went up to the third, and top, floor of the house and leaned against the tall front window. From there the view of San Francisco Bay was the stuff of postcards.

The sun shone on the water. Across the Bay, a few dark clouds hovered near the peak of Mount Tamalpais. I watched the ships in the harbor, the ferry crossing to Sausalito, yachts at full sail passing under the Golden Gate. The carillon of Grace Cathedral over on Nob Hill marked the hour. It was better than therapy.

All day, no matter what else I happened to be doing or thinking about, at the back of my mind the film project kept percolating. I saw Pisces as the focal point. Not as a prostitute, but as a child who had somehow lost her family. The title I thought I would use was one of her tough lines, “I remember mothers.” Almost as good was something the pretty little preschooler in Encino had said: “Make an appointment with my nanny.”

I had to redo the working outline and schedule new locations to shoot. The small crew that would help me do the actual filming needed to be booked. The grant people had to be dealt with.

I went back downstairs to my workroom on the first floor and got out my primary resource book, the Metro telephone directory.

In the Yellow Pages I found baby-sitters: live-in, live-out, court-order monitors, nannies. Then I looked under child care: before and after school, latch-key program, swing-shift hours, early mornings, overtime available, vacation day camp, in-home care for sick children, drop-off center for sick children, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Bible stories.

I had a fair list of numbers to work with before I closed the book.

By then it was just after three o’clock, time to start watching for Casey. I pulled a camera battery off the recharges, slipped it into a videocam, and went down to the sidewalk in front of my house. I searched around a bit for the right background, and played with angles to get the light just right. Then I waited.

The primary-grades children in our neighborhood school get out about half an hour before the older ones. At three-fifteen, the parade of children heading home began.

There are many young families on the block. Lots of kids. As real estate in the neighborhood comes dear, there aren’t many single-wage-earner families. When both parents work, someone still has to raise the kids.

The women escorting the predominantly towheaded tots home from school were a fair representation of solid peasant stock from both Asia and Latin America. Now and then a Nordic-looking au pair came into view with a little charge held firmly by the hand.

Visually, the scene was good – happy little faces, crisp hair bows, and thick-soled sneakers coming into view over the crest of the steep hill. The sound was also wonderful. I had the volume input control on my camera turned all the way up:

“Maria,” I heard a little redheaded boy say to the tiny dark woman who carried his Ninja Turtles lunch box and Benetton school bag, “I’m real thirsty. Quiero lemonade.”

“No, mi hijo,” Maria responded, “only leche.”

I was still chuckling when my Casey came into view. The little ones were cute, but Casey stole my eye. She strode down the hill, swinging her jacket from one hand and her book bag from the other, a magnificent, graceful creature. I have a whole wall of tapes and films I have made of Casey, because I love to watch her. Casey is singular. Maybe every mother feels that way. In my case, it’s true.

My sister Emily is six feet tall. There’s a good possibility that my daughter will top her. I kept telling Casey, who had just turned fourteen, that one day she would love her height. Casey wasn’t ready to accept it.

Her one true passion since she was old enough to walk had been ballet. She had indeed become a beautiful, long-legged ballerina with real career potential. The sad thing was, there were rarely boys in the City Ballet tall enough to partner her. Odds are, no matter where she might go, there never would be.

Casey saw me following her with my camera. Ever the ham, performing for her most adoring audience, with a big smile on her face she executed a series of gazellelike leaps for me, incredible legs fully extended, toes like arrows, book bag and jacket whipping through the air as she flung her skinny arms. It was a good show. I am always relieved when I come home to find her intact.

She ended with a showy jete at the base of our front steps, where she dropped her things. She took the camera from my shoulder and turned it on my face.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, grinning so wide I could see all of the bands on her teeth.

“I live here,” I said, grinning back. I reached out and switched off the camera. “Aren’t you home early?”

“I’m ditching study hall. Mr. Stemm isn’t there today. No one will notice.”

“I noticed,” I said, failing to sound stern. I picked up her things as we walked up the steps to go inside. “I’m going to call the school right now.”

“Yeah, sure,” she laughed. She set the camera on the parson’s bench in the entry and took her heavy book bag from me. I had so much to talk to her about. But she pulled out a small paper sack and yelled up the stairs:

“Lyle, Lyle, crocodile!”

“He isn’t home yet,” I said.

“Rats. I brought him a treat. He helped me with my English paper and I got an A.”

“Good girl,” I said, stretching up to kiss her cheek. My voice sounded forced. I admit I was a little jealous. Casey hadn’t brought me a treat. She turned a bright smile on me, though.

“Where’s Bowse?” she asked.

“Getting a flea bath.” I was beginning to feel pouty. I was happy to see her. “Isn’t it time for you to say ‘Hi, Mom, I missed you’?”

“Hi, Mom, I missed you.”

“That’s better. Want to go do something together?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Exploratorium? Ghirardelli Square?”

She curled her lip. “With the tourists? I don’t think so. Anyway, I told Madame Semanova I would tutor some little girl this afternoon. She’s getting ready to audition for a mouse part in Cinderella.”

Casey bounded off toward the kitchen.

“Let’s drive up to Squaw over the weekend,” I called after her, still trying. I felt dashed. Rejected. Fully pouty. “We haven’t been skiing all season.”

She turned and looked back at me as if I had lost my mind. “I’m flying to Denver this weekend. Remember?”

“No, I don’t remember.”

“Oh.” Her attitude deescalated quickly. “Didn’t I tell you? Dad and Linda are baptizing the baby Sunday. I’m the godmother.”

“You are your baby brother’s godmother?”

“Weird, huh?” She headed off again, talking with her back to me. “Maybe you can get someone else to go skiing with you. Janet or Grandma or someone.”

“Maybe.” I followed her to the kitchen and leaned against the counter while she poured herself a glass of juice and slathered cream cheese on a bagel.

“What are you doing home, anyway?” she asked. “You said you’d be in La-La Land till Monday.”

“I missed you. I worry about you when I’m away.” She had her mouth full, so she could only nod.

“I have a new direction for my project,” I said, filling airtime. “It took me a long time to figure out what was missing. But I have it now.”

Casey looked as if she had something to contribute, so I waited for her to wash down a mouthful of bagel with juice. “Did you and Mike have a fight?” she asked.

“Of course not. I didn’t even see Mike.”

She seemed dubious. “I thought that’s why you went down to L.A.”

“I went down to work.”

“So why are you back?”

I sighed.

Casey dumped her dishes into the dishwasher and wiped off the counter. She kissed me as she sped past.

“Glad you’re back, Mom. I gotta go.”

That was Thursday.

Friday I hardly saw Casey. In the morning I kissed her goodbye and saw her off to school as on any other weekday.

I spent most of Friday talking to the staff at a drop-off center for sick kids. It was a nice place. They served chicken noodle soup and soda crackers for lunch. It was probably better than some of the alternatives: staying home alone, Mom staying home and therefore not earning the rent money, going to school sick.

Several anxious mothers and fathers dropped in during their lunch hours. I talked to them, too. They seemed to be far more upset than the children, who by all appearances were generally accepting of the arrangements. I would have preferred being sick in a quieter place, that is, in my own bed with my own TV remote. With the Beaver’s mother bringing me milk and cookies.

I ran into a woman I had met at some charity auction earlier in the year. She was expensively sleek, a decorator or a gallery owner, I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember her name, either.

“Maggie,” she said, kissing the air somewhere around my head. “Do you have a sick little one?”

“Just visiting,” I said. “Doing some background research.”

“You must interview my Rachel.” She carried a bag from a downtown food boutique. “I always bring her favorite soup when she’s sick. Anything to make my million-dollar baby feel better.”

I had nearly asked if she was visiting a grandchild. Even with her face stretched, she couldn’t hide sixty years of sun on her hands. The director had told me they accepted children up to the age of fourteen, but I thought the oldest there that day was around ten. The math didn’t work for this woman.

We found million-dollar Rachel in the television room, reclining on a beanbag chair and wrapped in a small comforter. She had her thumb in her mouth and a stuffed cat in her arms. Her dark eyes were glassy with fever, but she perked up when the woman knelt beside her.

Rachel was about three years old. A pretty child, as dark as her mother was fair. My guess was she came from Indian stock in Central or South America.

“My baby feels better?” The glossy mother hovered over Rachel, fussing with the blanket and kissing the little girl’s damp face. She looked up at me. “Isn’t my Rachel a sweet ums thing?”

“Very sweet,” I said. “Your million-dollar baby?”

“Not really a million. But plenty. And worth every penny and peso.” She hovered over Rachel with a spoonful of soup. “Aren’t you, my precious baby angel?”

I could see she had more than a million-dollar emotional investment in the girl. I was happy for her. I wondered how long her child dream had been deferred.

I left them snuggling together in the beanbag chair.

Early Friday evening, Casey left for Denver to attend her new half brother’s baptism. When I got back from driving her to the airport, the house was far too quiet. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Lyle had a dinner date. That left Bowser and me to entertain each other.

Bowser is nothing much to look at, uneven masses of medium-brown fur over a body built by a genetic committee. But he is an affable fellow. I have had worse dates. He loves two things above all others: sleeping and running. He was beside himself with doggie glee when I pulled out his leash and snapped it to his collar.

We took a long run through Marina Green and Fort Mason, over Russian Hill, then back home by way of Lombard Street. I hadn’t run for over a week, so the course I had set out was much too ambitious. The last mile was sheer torture, all uphill. Even Bowser was flagging.

Halfway back up our own hill, my legs gave out. I stumbled into the neighborhood video store. I wasn’t so much interested in renting a movie as I was in finding a place to catch my breath with dignity before I collapsed. To have his master collapse on the sidewalk might humiliate a sensitive fellow like Bowser. And Bowser is sensitive. Anyone as ugly as he is has to be.

I was choosing between the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Aliens when someone brushed against me. “Hot date tonight, Maggie?”

I turned and found my neighbor, Felix Mack, with two John Wayne movies under his arm. I like Felix. He’s a great talker – a quality I admire in a man. He teaches neurosurgery at the University of California because his mother won the big argument. His ambition was to play sleazy sax in nightclubs. Now and then he jams with a group from the medical school that is equal parts Ivy League surgeons and jive-wise janitors. I love to tag along.

“Bowser is the hottest date I could come up with,” I said to Felix. I tapped his cowboy movies. “Planning a romantic evening at home tonight?”

“Do you like John Wayne?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

He stuffed his tape boxes onto the nearest shelf. “If Bowser won’t mind, you want to go get something to eat with me? No sense both of us soloing on Friday night.”

“Love to,” I said. “Give me half an hour to get presentable.”

I limped home, showered, slipped into wool slacks and a blazer with spangles on one sleeve. Bowser was snoring on the brocade sofa when I passed him on my way out.

Over frittata at Balboa Cafe, Felix and I solved an amazing number of the world’s problems, if none of our own. In no time at all we found the bottom of a bottle of very good cabernet.

It was still early when we finished eating, so we took a cab to Kimball’s, a jazz club over by the Civic Center. We stayed through three sets, another bottle of wine, and a snifter of brandy. Maybe two. By the time our shared cab pulled up in front of my house, I was full-on mellow; equal parts good wine, good music, good company.

“Come in for coffee?” Felix asked as the cab drove away.

The question had undertones that made me uneasy. I really liked Felix. We had had a wonderful evening, one of several over the years. In the cab coming home, because it had seemed to be only a companionable gesture on his part, when he took my hand I hadn’t pulled away. On the sidewalk, with him looking into my eyes, I began to think maybe that had been a mistake. Then again, maybe I was reading a lot into nothing. It’s just that I didn’t want to move our relationship beyond the comfortable point where it had been before we left Kimball’s.

I gave Felix’s arm a firm squeeze.

“This evening was a great idea,” I said. “Thanks for suggesting it. It’s late and I think I’ve reached my limit.”

“Me, too. I guess.” He leaned forward and gave me an awkward hug. “Let’s do it again. Soon.”

It was nearly one o’clock when I opened my door, according to the hall clock. Lyle takes good care of himself and usually goes to bed early. He had left lights on for me, always considerate.

As I locked up and turned out the lights, I tried to imagine Felix as a love interest. I had no success with it. Felix was great. Few better. His only flaw was, he wasn’t Mike Flint.

When I thought about how Mike Flint might be spending his Friday night I went suddenly cold all over. I knew how we used to spend Friday nights. And every other night of the week when we were together. I tried to shake away the images; they made my chest feel tight.

I was so confused. Calling Mike, I knew, could lead to dangerous complications. Not calling him hurt too much. I hated feeling indecisive. I was glad I was a little tipsy so I would fall right asleep.

Bowser was snoring in the living room. After thinking about Mike, I wasn’t going up to bed alone, even if it meant sleeping with the dog. I went in to fetch the old fellow.

Bowser wasn’t in his usual place on the brocade sofa. I couldn’t find him at first in the dark room. Then I saw that the big leather wingback chair that usually sat in the far corner of the room had been pulled around to face the window that overlooked the street. All that I could see of Bowser was his tail hanging over the arm of the chair.

I walked around the chair to rouse him.

Bowser was sound asleep, all right, but it was Mike Flint who was snoring. I looked at him for a moment, making sure that I hadn’t conjured up Mike’s image out of those bottles of cabernet. Booze coupled with lust can do stranger things to the mind.

If I had conjured him, however, I knew I would never have put so many clothes on him. Nor would my erotic fantasies include the dog that was sprawled over him, with his muzzle in the crook of Mike’s neck where my muzzle should have been.

It was a sweet scene, dog and man together, man snoring with his mouth open. Mike is tall, with a distance runner’s slenderness. He is only in his mid-forties – he lies about which zero he’s closer to – but his hair is already silver. He may not be Cary Grant, but he is very striking.

As soon as I saw Mike, I knew I was doomed. I had been almost proud of myself for not calling him, the way a recovering drunk takes pride in avoiding the block where his favorite gin mill sits. Seeing his cheek all pushed out of shape where it rested against Bowser’s skull was like putting a drink in an alcoholic’s hand.

Call me weak. I succumbed. I wrestled the mutt to the floor and took his place on Mike’s lap before either of them had both eyes open.

“Hi, sailor,” I said when Mike smiled at me sleepily. “Looking for company?”

“Mpfh,” he said.

His front was deliciously warm from the dog. I snuggled into him and kissed his forehead, his cheek, his chin, found his mouth.

“Maggie,” he moaned. God, I loved to make Mike moan.

Full dress for Mike Flint included tie, suspenders, belt holster and gun, a beeper, and a detective shield as big as his fist. I began to undo him, keeping his mouth busy with mine while I worked to open the tie, buttons, buckles, clips, and, at last, zipper.

When I got to the point of sliding my hand into his open fly, he grabbed my wrists and held them.

“We have to talk,” he said.

“So, talk,” I said, and leaned around to take a nip of his earlobe.

“Maggie, this is serious,” he said sternly, though he didn’t resist when I kissed his bare chest, starting at the hollow at the base of his neck. I licked and bit him gently, moving slowly all the way down his flat belly to the elastic band of his blue boxer shorts. His erection peeked through the open flap, and I kissed the tip of that, too, with a little tongue.

He began to writhe under me.

I straightened up then and faced him, smiling like the cat who lapped the cream. “So, what did you want to talk about, Mike?”

He laughed and let go of my hands so he could wrap his arms around me. His lips found the place at the back of my neck that sends chills all the way to my knees.

There is something incredibly sexy about kissing someone for the very first time. The joy is discovering a whole new set of textures, smells, and flavors. But the first embrace in no way compares to the sheer, sensual power of being held once again by someone you have loved and lost and thought you might never be able to touch again. I hadn’t lost Mike, exactly. Just mislaid him.

“Will you stay the night?” I asked.

“If you’ll have me.”

I got to my feet and gave him a hand up. With my arm around his solid waist I started moving him toward the stairs. “Where’s your bag?”

“I don’t have one. I wasn’t planning on coming up.”

I laughed. “You just found yourself on an airplane?”

“Sort of. Look, Maggie, we really have to talk. I was going to call, but some things are better said in person.”

I had that cold feeling again. I stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Is there someone else?”

“Jesus, no. Look, just sit down a minute.” He switched on the light over the stairs and we sat on the bottom step. His clothes still hung open, so he fumbled a bit to find his trouser pocket. He took out a color photograph and handed it to me. It was a Polaroid of a very disheveled Pisces. The camera had caught her with her eyes closed.

“She in trouble?” I asked.

“Depends on your theology. Sister Pete tells me you know something about the kid.”

“I know very little. Guido and I found her on Alvarado Street by MacArthur Park. She tried to solicit me while I filmed her.”

“Pete said you picked her up.”

“I don’t like the way ‘picked her up’ sounds. We bought her some dinner. She’s only fourteen, same age as Casey. It made me feel sick to see her on the street. She was a nice kid, Mike, once we got past her routine. So we fed her and took her to Pete’s.”

I handed back the picture. “There was a nine-year-old boy with her.”

“We got him,” Mike said. “He’s in MacLaren Hall.”

“What did they do?” I asked.

“In a minute,” he said. “Tell me everything you know about the girl.”

“She was careful about not saying too much.” I shrugged. “I can only give you my impressions. She is well-spoken, well-mannered. Plays the piano. Probably comes from the West Coast. Doesn’t have anything nice to say about mothers, but she took to me right away. She was pleasant with Guido, not seductive like many sexually abused kids I’ve met. I got the feeling she’s new to the street. She doesn’t like to be dirty, and the park scares her. And that’s all I know. Now, your turn. What happened?”

He was in no hurry to share anything. He puffed out a few deep breaths and absently stroked my back.

“You liked her?” he asked.

“I guess I did. I worried about her. The other kid, Sly, is a little pip, though.”

I tugged on his open shirt front. “Is it that bad?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “She had Pete’s phone number in her bra. And this.”

He handed me a thin gold ring with a tiny opal stone. Engraved inside the band was “Hillary” and a heart.

“Mean anything to you?” he asked.

“Nothing.” As soon as I saw the ring, though, I knew. “Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, damn.” I choked back what felt like rage but came out as tears. “Why didn’t she stay with Pete?”

“That’s what Pete wanted to know.”

“Tell me,” I said.

“A Rampart Division patrolman found her in the park Thursday night. Looked like a routine prostitute slaying. Detectives assigned to the case found Pete’s number on her. Pete referred them to you. And, of course, because you were involved, she called me.”

“So it’s not your case,” I said.

“It is now. I went to the lieutenant and told him I wanted it. He sent me to Rampart for clearance with their detectives. I told them I knew some of the players in the case. They have so many murders down there they were just real happy to let me have this one.

“Besides,” he said, “they generally give me all the murder cases that fall in two categories. The first category is anything with your name on it.”

“You’re sweet, Mike.”

“The second category is anything that’s totally weird. Often as not, it amounts to the same thing.”

I buried my face against him. “Don’t tell me it was really awful for her.”

“No. I think her passing was easy and quick. Her throat was slashed, something very sharp, like a straight razor. It severed her jugular. She would have had time to be scared. But not enough to hurt.”

“You said this case was weird.”

“Your prostitute,” he said, “died virgo intacta.”