Horrid things in the newspaper. When she deemed them too horrid, she didn't bring the paper up with the missus's breakfast.
The missus never asked about it. The missus never read much anymore, except for those romance paperbacks and art magazines.
The missus never did much at all.
Nothing wrong with her, the doctors claimed, but what did they know? The woman was sixty-six but had suffered centuries' worth of tragedy.
The railway clock said 8:56 and Mildred had only three minutes to cross the kitchen to the creaky rear elevator that rose up to the missus's bedroom on the third floor.
She picked a fine yellow rose from the three without mildew on the thorny grandiflora bush out back. She'd snipped at dawn, trimmed the stems, and placed the flowers in sugar water. Now she laid the blossom next to the covered platter of shirred eggs. The missus rarely ate the eggs, but one tried.
Lifting the tray, she walked speedily, steadily.
The kitchen didn't look too awful, all things considered.
“Very good,'' Mildred said, to no one in particular.
28
I sneak out of the park and go down Los Feliz, staying as far from the light as I can. No one walking up here, just cars whizzing by. Los Feliz ends and Western starts and now the junkies and prosties take over. I turn right on Franklin because it's darker, all apartment buildings; I don't want to be on the Boulevard.
Not too many people out tonight, and the ones who are don't seem to notice me. Then I see a couple of Mexicans hanging around a corner, in the shadow of an old brick building. Probably doing a drug deal. I cross the street and they look at me, but they don't say anything. A block later, a skinny prostie with spiky white hair and bright blue T-shirt and shorts comes out of an apartment carrying a tiny purse. She spots me and her eyes get wild and she says, “Hey, boy,” in a drunk voice and wiggles her finger. She's short, just a kid, doesn't look that much older than me. “Fuck and suck, thirty,” she says, and when I keep walking, she says, “Fuck you, faggot.”
For the next few blocks I don't see anyone, then another prostie, older, fatter, who pays no attention to me, just stands around smoking and watching cars. Then three tall black guys wearing baseball caps and baggy pants come out of the shadows, see me, look at each other. I hear them say something and I cross the street again, trying to seem relaxed. I hear laughter and footsteps and I look back and see one of them chasing me, almost reaching me. I speed up and run, and he does too. His legs are long and he's got his hand up, like to grab me. I run across the street and a car's coming and it has to move to the side not to hit me. The driver honks and yells, “Fucking idiot!” and I'm still running, but the black guy isn't.
I think I hear someone laughing. Probably a game for him. If I had a gun…
I walk for a long time. At Cahuenga, there's more light and the entrance to the Hollywood Bowl, a long curvy road that climbs up. I'm not going up there. Too much like the park; I don't want anything to do with parks.
So guess what comes next: another park, Wattles Park, what a weird name. I've never seen it, never been this far. Not a friendly-looking place- high fences all around and gates with big chain locks and a sign saying the city owns it and it's closed at night, keep out. Through the fence all I can see is plants. It looks messy. Probably full of perverts.
Now Franklin ends, here's Hollywood Boulevard again, I can't avoid it; like it's chasing me, this big burst of noise and light, gas sta-tions, cars, buses, fast-food places, worst of all people, and some of them look at me like I'm a meal. I cross La Brea, it gets quiet again, all apartments, some of them pretty nice-looking. I've never thought of the Boulevard as anything but stores and theaters and weirdos, but look at this- people live here in pretty nice places.
Maybe I should have traveled sooner.
The cut on my arm is dry and it doesn't hurt much. The ones on my face itch.
I'm breathing okay, though my chest still hurts. I'm hungry, but three dollars isn't going to buy me much and I look for Dumpsters to dive. Nothing. Not even a garbage can.
I walk a little bit more and turn off on a real quiet street. All houses, a nice dark street. But no cans here either, or alleys. Cars are parked bumper to bumper and down a ways I see more light and noise, another boulevard. I stop and look around. Some of the houses look okay; others are messy, with cars parked on the lawn.
Then I come to one with no car in the driveway or on the lawn. Totally dark. Old-looking, made of some kind of dark wood, with a slanted roof that hangs over a really wide porch. No fence, not even across the driveway. But the grass is cut, so someone lives here, and maybe they keep their cans in the backyard.
The driveway is just cement with a strip of grass growing in the middle, and I can't see what's at the end of it. I look around to make sure no one's watching and walk back there very slowly. As I pass the front porch, I see a big pile of mail in front of the door. All the windows are totally black. Looks like the people have been gone for a while.
No BEWARE OF DOG sign, no barking from inside the house.
I keep going and finally make out what's at the end of the driveway. A garage with wooden doors. The yard is small for such a big house, just a little grass and a couple of trees, one of them gigantic but with no fruit.
The cans are out behind the garage, three of them- two metal, one plastic. Empty. Maybe the people don't live here anymore.
I turn around and am heading back to the street when I notice a dot of orange over the back door. A small bulb, so weak it only lights up the top half of the door. A screen door; behind the screen is glass. The screen's held in place by two loop-type things with hooks, and when you twist them it comes right off.
The glass behind the screen is really a bunch of windows- nine squares in a wooden frame. I touch one lightly and it shakes a little but nothing happens. I touch it harder, knock a few times. Still nothing. Same when I knock on the door.
Taking off my T-shirt, I wrap it around my hand and punch a lower square on the left side pretty hard. It just sits there, but the second time I hit it, it comes loose and falls into the house and breaks.
Lots of noise now.
Nothing happens.
I reach in and feel around and find the doorknob. In the middle is a button, and when I turn the knob, it pops out with a click and the door opens.
Back on goes my T-shirt and I'm inside. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to see in the darkness. The room's some kind of laundry place with a washer-dryer, a box of Tide on top of the washer, some washrags. Next comes a kitchen that smells of bug spray, with lots of plants in pots all over the counters. I open the refrigerator and a light goes on inside, and even though I see food, I shut it fast because the light makes me feel naked. As the door closes, I notice a peace-sign sticker and one that says SISTERHOOD IS ALL.
My heart is really beating fast. But a different kind of fear, not all bad.
I walk around, from dark room to dark room, nothing but a bunch of furniture. Then back to the kitchen. A closed door on the way turns out to be a bathroom, with more plants on the toilet tank. I turn the light on, then off. Clear my throat. Nothing happens.
This place is empty.
This is sort of fun.
I go back to the kitchen. The window over the sink is covered by curtains with flowers on them with little fuzzy balls hanging down. Sisterhood. Women live here; men wouldn't have all those plants.
Okay, let's try the refrigerator again. On the top shelf are two cans of Barq's root beer and a gallon plastic orange juice container with just a little juice left. Three gulps of juice. It tastes bitter. I put the root beer cans in my pocket. Next is a tub of Mazola margarine and a stick of Philadelphia cream cheese. I open the cream cheese and it's covered with blue-green mold. The margarine looks okay, but I don't know what to do with it.