“What’s the Columbarium?” Timothy asked.
Eli looked at him in surprise. “How long have you lived here, anyway?”
He shrugged. “There are a lot of things I haven’t heard of. I’m a computer guy, remember? I have no other life.” Eli shook his head in resignation.
“A columbarium is a building or vault that is used as a storage place for the ashes of the dead. So it’s a cemetery of sorts, and the Columbarium in San Francisco is one famous example. It’s over in the Richmond, close to Golden Gate Park.”
“I went there once with Sherwood,” I said. “Her parents are both there. They were killed in an auto accident, remember? Their cremains are in one of the little niches.”
“Perfect,” said Eli.
“But what do I do once I’m there? Will Sherwood will be popping up out of a corner to embrace me warmly?”
Eli gazed at me with a fond tolerance. He knew me, and knew that when I get flip and dismissive it’s because I’m either upset or worried.
“Who knows?” he said. “But if there’s anywhere you might reestablish the connection, I think there’s a very good chance it would be there. It’s got all the requirements. Another thing that will help is if you could bring a keep-sake with you-something that will help connect her to both you and the here and now. You must have something she gave you, some object, something special.”
I didn’t have to think about very hard about that one. I had just the thing.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give it a try.”
ON THE WAY HOME I STOPPED BY MY FAVORITE taqueria to pick up a burrito. At Twentieth and Mission there’s never any parking, but for once there was an open meter right in front, so I sprang for a couple of quarters.
I ordered a carne asada burrito to go. The burritos there are enormous, more than enough for me even sharing with Lou. He would have preferred an entire one to himself, but a few lunches like that and he’d be waddling instead of prancing down the street.
A few customers ahead of me picked up their orders and left. El Farolito was always busy at night, but afternoons could be slow. The only people left in the place were a trio sitting at one of the small Formica-topped tables along the side wall.
I watched them idly as I waited for my burrito, as one sometimes does in restaurants. An older couple, in their late fifties I would guess, and a young woman, probably their daughter. The couple had that indefinable air of out-of-towners, something that included the clothes they wore, the way they sat, and the curious glances they cast at everything around them. Natives, by the time they’ve reached that age, are blasé even about things they shouldn’t be.
On the other hand, the daughter clearly was a city resident. Again, it’s something hard to quantify, but you can always tell if someone belongs. She had short black hair, and when she turned her back I could see the top of a colored tattoo peeking out just below the neck of her red top.
So they were parents visiting their daughter, and she was showing them around the city. I gave her points for taking them to a Mission taqueria instead of Fisherman’s Wharf, and bonus points for choosing El Farolito over classier and less tasty establishments.
Her parents were scarfing down their burritos with the gusto of intrepid explorers bravely indulging in some exotic cuisine. The daughter looked up and caught me staring at her, which was embarrassing because she was quite attractive, and the natural assumption would be that I was scoping out her obvious charms. Which was true, but not really.
I gave her my well-practiced open and nonthreatening smile, the one that says friendly interest but nothing more, and certainly nothing creepy. She stared back at me with a totally flat affect, giving me nothing. It was beginning to make me nervous when she made a decision and smiled back, jerking her head over at her parents and doing just the hint of an eye roll. It wasn’t mean; in fact, it was done with fond affection, like a mother with unruly kids at the ice cream parlor. A real smile replaced my practiced one; I couldn’t help it. And she saw that, too, and her own smile widened.
So far, I had established a deeper relationship with this woman than I’d had with any woman in the past year, with one notable and sad exception. Too bad I was unlikely to ever see her again.
Then her mother, who had been tearing into her burrito, stopped. She sat quietly for a moment before rising slowly to her feet and standing there, immobile and silent. He husband stopped talking to her and a look of concern appeared on his face. He jumped up and took her arm.
“Lily? Are you all right?” She didn’t answer, just stood there hunched over slightly.
Shit, I thought. That woman is choking.
The husband realized it about the same time I did and started pounding her on the back, which never does any good. I took a quick peek at the door to see if perhaps a paramedic team might have decided to stop by for a bite, but no such luck.
I didn’t have a handy spell available to dislodge a fat burrito from a narrow throat, but I had once taken a class in the Heimlich maneuver at Victor’s insistence. That was ages ago, though, and I’d never had to use it. It looked like that long drought was about to come to an end.
I moved toward their table, not running, but close to it. The husband saw me coming, and God knows what he thought. He might have been leery of being in the Mission anyway, and now his wife was choking and a stranger was rushing toward them with unknown intentions.
I’m six feet tall, I hadn’t shaved, I was wearing old disreputable clothes, and my dark hair was shaggy and unkempt. I must have looked threatening to him, like what he imagined a Mission gang member to look like, although the typical gang member is more often a baby-faced sixteen-year-old with a semiautomatic. But he didn’t hesitate. He jumped in front of me, interposing his body between me and his wife, and stood ready to defend her. His daughter grabbed him and pulled him aside.
“It’s okay, Dad. It’s okay,” she said. I hoped she was right.
I slipped behind the mother and put my arms around her. She didn’t resist; she at least knew what I was up to. I took a moment to review what I’d learned. Find the xiphoid process. Check. Go two fingers below that. Check. Be careful not to be too rough; older bones are fragile and you can break ribs. Check. Make a fist, cover with your other hand, and give a sharp upward thrust. Nothing to it.
Except when I did, nothing happened. No rush of air, no wheezing gasp, no flying food. Nothing. I pushed down the beginnings of panic and thrust again, harder this time. Still nothing. I forgot about being careful and gave three more thrusts, each harder than the last, ribs be damned. On the third squeeze, a large chunk of burrito flew out her mouth and halfway across the restaurant aisle. She took a huge whooping gasp of air as I released her, and then it was over.
I backed off as the other two sat her down, making sure she was all right. She waved them off.
“I’m fine,” she said, when she caught her breath. “Really.” She looked up at me. “Thank you, young man. I thought for a moment I’d never see Cincinnati again.”
“Glad I could help,” I said.
The daughter came up to me and held out her hand. Up close, she was even more attractive, though she looked shaken at the moment.
“I’m Morgan,” she said. “Thank you so much.”
“Mason,” I said, taking her hand. “Well, at least we’ll have quite a story to tell our children.”
Now that the crisis was past, I immediately reverted back to my default flip demeanor. Not an admirable quality, but I’m working on it. She looked at me with that same flat affect and I thought I’d gone too far, but then she smiled again.
“How do you know I’m not married?” she said. “Or gay? Or both?”