The Cloud

14

She looks down. I assume she’s trying to escape the moment, but then realize she’s glancing at the center-console cup holder. In it sits a days-old, half-drunk cup of coffee that has dribbled dark remnants down its side.

“Where are your wipes?”

“What?”

“Every parent has baby wipes in their car.”

She swivels her head to look in the back.

“C’mon, Faith.”

She nods and takes a deep breath. “That really freaked me out-what happened at the subway.”

“And?”

“And I went to Glazed Over yesterday morning to see if he was there.”

“The guy you suddenly remembered knowing.”

“They said they hadn’t seen him.” I can’t tell if she’s tacitly acknowledging that her behavior has been odd or just ignoring my critical tone.

“So you’re convinced it was the same guy from the diner.”

She nods.

“What’s his name?”

“Alan.”

“How well do you know Alan?”

“I talked to him with some regularity at the diner. But he’s disappeared.”

“Since the subway incident.”

She nods. She says that she got concerned because people who worked at the diner were concerned, having not remembered a day when Alan failed to buy a cup of coffee or at least linger at the tables out front among the sometimes trendy set. I can picture the kind of place and the San Francisco patrons, hybrids to the core in every aspect of their lives; they arrive in a Prius, loose from the back a labraschnoodle-one-third each chocolate lab, schnauzer and poodle-and sit with it outside sipping half-caf low-fat lattes. I’m not so different-well, substitute Isaac for the pup.

“Faith, I suppose I appreciate your concern for him but I don’t get why you’re taking such an interest.”

She looks at me. “You think you’re the only paranoid one?”

“Meaning what?”

“I looked you up. You get involved in some weird things.”

“What in the world does that have to do with you? What were you doing at the subway, Faith?”

She looks out her window but remains silent. The dashboard clock moves from 11:12 to 11:13.

“Faith.”

“He, Alan, asked me to be at the subway.”

At last, a ring of truth.

“So you lied to me.”

No response.

“Why, Faith?”

“Why did I lie to you or why did he want me to be at the subway?”

I smirk.

“I’m not entirely sure why he wanted me there. He said he needed my help getting your attention but I swear to you that I’m not sure why.”

“You’re not telling me the whole story.”

“Help me find him so we can both understand the whole story. We’re here. The cafe’s just a block up on the left.”

Her pause seems resolute. I’m making progress. I can afford to wait.

Here is Twenty-fourth and Potrero, which is not just an intersection but also a metaphor for one. This is where old-world, working-class San Francisco meets new money and tastes. Mexican groceries, tamale shops, trinket and clothing stories with pinatas and large inflatable animals dangling from their awnings anchor down a tenacious working-class culture. But they intersperse now with the occasional martini bar, an ice-cream joint that sells bourbon-and-oatmeal-flavored organic scoops, and a cafe that seems to draw from both worlds, the Glazed Over.

Three sturdy wooden tables grace the front, with napkin holders and tins of sugar packets aligned neatly in their centers. At one table sits a woman in formfitting jogging attire and a wool hat, sipping a bowl-sized cup with two hands, braving the chill or inured to it by runner’s high and caffeine. A leash attached to her right arm leads to her feet and an Australian shepherd with furtive eyes.

Through a big front window pockmarked with smudges, I see a setting no bigger than a studio apartment with a handful of tables. Behind the counter stands a stoop-shouldered Latina in her fifties wearing a hairnet, sipping an energy drink in a narrow can. And behind her, dozens of doughnuts lay in racks separating the front from a kitchen in back.

Faith walks to the counter, where I notice the barista has a thin haze covering her dark brown eyes. It might be early onset of macular degeneration, which would be consistent with the condition’s higher incidence in Latin women; it’s caused, I’ve read, by their disproportionate participation in working-class jobs-and their long hours, dim light, overall poor conditions.

Before Faith speaks, the woman turns, uses tongs to pick up a fragrant maple doughnut, whirls back and sets the doughnut on a napkin on the counter. “Coffee with enough room for extras?” the woman asks, lightly accented. Must be Faith’s regular order.

“Thanks, and one for my friend,” Faith says. “But first, I wanted to ask about Alan. Big Alan.”

“I didn’t see him, like I told you. Not for two days. He’s usually here when we open.” She places the top on Faith’s coffee.

“Maybe he’s out of town,” Faith ventures.

“I work with Alan,” I interject. “We’re on an important project and I haven’t been able to reach him by phone. Do you know how I might get ahold of him?”

She shrugs. “Maybe Tony knows.” She walks around the racks and pokes her head into a doorway to the kitchen. Faith looks at me. “That’s the best you can come up with?”

“Award-winning investigative journalist in action.”

We watch through the doughnut racks as the barista talks in Spanish to a man in back holding a large ball of dough. She returns. She stamps her feet in the doorway, sending up a light dusting of cake flour.

“You work with him?” she asks me. “On computers?”

I nod. Good information. “I’m really stuck.”

“You work with him but you don’t know where he lives or how to reach him?”

Checkers just became chess. I’m contemplating which piece to move when Faith reaches into her front pocket. She extracts a twenty-dollar bill. She puts it on the counter. The woman shakes her head.

“The truth is that I’m worried about Alan. He’s sick,” I explain, then pause. I’m woozy, looking for my words. “I like to drink.”

“What?” Faith says.

“I mean, he likes to drink,” I correct. “Alan’s a drinker.”

“Are you okay?”

I nod. I’m fine. But I’m surprised myself by my slipup with pronouns. The barista blinks a couple of times.

“I know you can’t stop people from drinking but you can try. You have to try.”

“He lives down the street,” offers the barista without a smile. “In an apartment over the phone store. That’s what Tony says.”

A line has formed behind us. The barista turns and snags a second maple doughnut and sets it in front of me on a napkin. She takes Faith’s $20 and walks to the register. She deposits the money but doesn’t return with change.

Faith and I exit. She turns to the right, walking with purpose. “How do you know Alan’s a drinker?” she asks.

“A hunch. But that was more of a sympathy play than anything else. Is he-a drinker?”

“She took the bribe, after all.”

I sidestep a woman pushing a stroller, exiting a shop. I pause long enough to see her baby, wearing an oversized red sun hat. I want to tell the mother that it’s okay for the baby to get a little Vitamin D, especially with the sun hanging low in the sky this time of year. Haven’t I tried to tell Polly that Isaac needs more sun?

“Nat?” I feel Faith’s arm on my elbow, nudging me along.

A block and a half later, we cross in the middle of the street as I feel doughnut sugar tickle my brain.

Next to a phone store, there’s a stoop and a stairway to apartments located above. I walk to the intercom laid into the red brick wall. I see among the ten apartments two that might belong to an Alan. “A. Parsons” and, simply, “AM.” I press “A. Parsons,” prompting a buzz. There is no response. I buzz again. Nothing. I press “AM.”

It buzzes. A woman answers with a hello.

“Alan, please.”

“Who?”

“Alan. Big guy. Lives in the building. I’m worried about him.”

“You and me both,” she responds.

“You know him?”

“I’ll be right down.”

I look at Faith, who shrugs. Moments later, the doorway fills with a tall woman in her early thirties dressed from the Banana Republic catalogue. “I’m the landlady.” There’s education in her swagger and my impulse is her parents bought her the apartment building five years ago and she’s managing it. I introduce myself and so does Faith. The landlady studies Faith for a second because, well, how can you not?

“I assume you buzzed Alan.”

I nod.

“I’ve sent him two emails asking him to fix my router. Nada.”

Another reference to Alan’s skills.

“You’re obviously not solicitors,” the landlady says.

“Friends,” Faith explains. “I work with Alan.”

The landlady turns around and starts to walk away, holding open the door. We follow her up a flight of stairs covered in low-cut maroon carpet, the sidewalls painted with care in complementary beige. The landlady stops on the top of the second flight and walks to a door labeled “2C.” She bangs a brass knocker that resembles a lion’s head.

No answer. She knocks again, forcefully. Faith steps forward and reaches an index finger toward a white button to the right of the door.

“Ringer’s busted,” the landlady says, pauses, adds: “Broken infrastructure means I have the right to peek in to see if everything’s okay.”

She reaches onto her belt loop where I notice both the ring of keys and the pronounced blue veins on the back of her thin hands. It’s not a medical condition but a genetic bonus; plump, visible veins give nurses easy access for intravenous lines. She extends a key from her ring and unlocks the door.

She pokes her head into the apartment.

She screams.