days. You let it out a little at a time, till it learns its way around. But she hadn’t done that. She’d been foolish. So now the cat had scattered off somewhere, and she would never find it.
“Eccentric!”
Barbara stood at the top of the cul-de-sac. Her voice penetrated the stucco walls, she imagined. The neighbor could hear it in the garage across the way, his kid could hear it in the bedroom. His wife could hear it in the kitchen as she prepared dinner with the television on, the newscaster giving the local report, broadcasting the photos of the missing.
My voice is not just an echo on this empty street, lost in the wind and white noise from 280. Someone is listening, she told herself. Someone hears. There are houses on this hillside. This is not just some canyon, filled with wind and rocks.
Then she called out again.
“Kitty, kitty.”
Barbara Antonelli shivered under the stars in her olive skirt and her sleeveless blouse. She went inside through the sliding door and lay on her bed. She was far above herself now, looking down. She knew how ruthless her husband could be, how self-absorbed. How foolish without thinking. But there was a moment you went backto, a million years ago, his body and yours, the smell of him as he put his arms around you, your skirt billowing, people looking as you strutted. There was the thrill you felt that first time you slid in the car beside him and the feeling you were safe, under wing, and pretty soon there were pictures in a drawer, furniture, and cloth and silverware, and your daughter racing down the hall “Daddy, Daddy,” and the memory of his hip swaggering next to yours once upon a time, a dress you used to wear, a suit coat still in the closet, all those things that kept you in his bed, bound to him. Now something had happened, and she did not want to admit it, just like she had not admitted a lot of other things. But she knew. She lay in the bed in her olive dress. The pool was blue, and the only sound was that of a woman weeping. Faint at first, then louder. She rolled onto her side, but the wailing only got louder. There was no one listening, she knew that. There was nothing she could do to make it stop.
SEVENTEEN
T he next day, Dante stopped into Prospero’s Realty. He walked up the long stairs to the second-story office overlooking Stockton Avenue. At the top of the stairs, there was a dirty window that looked out into Chinatown—except it hadn’t been Chinatown back then, when Prospero had thrown out his shingle.
Joe Prospero had founded the agency some forty-odd years ago, when the Italians had started leaving The Beach. It took up the whole floor now, and Joe had an office in the far back: behind the bullpen, behind the deal table and the water cooler—a traditional office with a glass wall and Venetian shades. A lot of the old-timers didn’t much care for Prospero. They liked his handshake and his big smile well enough, but not how he ran his business. Or so they claimed. He hired Chinese agents. He had a branch agency called the Five Happiness that advertised North Beach properties abroad, to the Hong Kong market. He never let up with his leaflets and his smiles. No matter their complaints, Prospero was the one they came to when it was time to sell.
At the moment, though, Prospero was out. On the golf course, like he often was; and in his absence, his daughter Beatrice worked the desk. She was a blousy woman with a mole on her neck and hair the color of a pomegranate.
“Oh, if it isn’t the Pelican,” she said.
It was what the old ones called him, except Beatrice Prospero was not one of the old ones. She was no older than Dante, but she had adopted their manners. Beatrice resembled her father. In fact, she looked more like her father than her father looked like himself. She was thicker through the shoulders and had darker eyes. Her voice was different, though. Not high like his, but thick and throaty, sensual. She was almost attractive. Almost. And
“Eccentric!”
Barbara stood at the top of the cul-de-sac. Her voice penetrated the stucco walls, she imagined. The neighbor could hear it in the garage across the way, his kid could hear it in the bedroom. His wife could hear it in the kitchen as she prepared dinner with the television on, the newscaster giving the local report, broadcasting the photos of the missing.
My voice is not just an echo on this empty street, lost in the wind and white noise from 280. Someone is listening, she told herself. Someone hears. There are houses on this hillside. This is not just some canyon, filled with wind and rocks.
Then she called out again.
“Kitty, kitty.”
Barbara Antonelli shivered under the stars in her olive skirt and her sleeveless blouse. She went inside through the sliding door and lay on her bed. She was far above herself now, looking down. She knew how ruthless her husband could be, how self-absorbed. How foolish without thinking. But there was a moment you went backto, a million years ago, his body and yours, the smell of him as he put his arms around you, your skirt billowing, people looking as you strutted. There was the thrill you felt that first time you slid in the car beside him and the feeling you were safe, under wing, and pretty soon there were pictures in a drawer, furniture, and cloth and silverware, and your daughter racing down the hall “Daddy, Daddy,” and the memory of his hip swaggering next to yours once upon a time, a dress you used to wear, a suit coat still in the closet, all those things that kept you in his bed, bound to him. Now something had happened, and she did not want to admit it, just like she had not admitted a lot of other things. But she knew. She lay in the bed in her olive dress. The pool was blue, and the only sound was that of a woman weeping. Faint at first, then louder. She rolled onto her side, but the wailing only got louder. There was no one listening, she knew that. There was nothing she could do to make it stop.
SEVENTEEN
T he next day, Dante stopped into Prospero’s Realty. He walked up the long stairs to the second-story office overlooking Stockton Avenue. At the top of the stairs, there was a dirty window that looked out into Chinatown—except it hadn’t been Chinatown back then, when Prospero had thrown out his shingle.
Joe Prospero had founded the agency some forty-odd years ago, when the Italians had started leaving The Beach. It took up the whole floor now, and Joe had an office in the far back: behind the bullpen, behind the deal table and the water cooler—a traditional office with a glass wall and Venetian shades. A lot of the old-timers didn’t much care for Prospero. They liked his handshake and his big smile well enough, but not how he ran his business. Or so they claimed. He hired Chinese agents. He had a branch agency called the Five Happiness that advertised North Beach properties abroad, to the Hong Kong market. He never let up with his leaflets and his smiles. No matter their complaints, Prospero was the one they came to when it was time to sell.
At the moment, though, Prospero was out. On the golf course, like he often was; and in his absence, his daughter Beatrice worked the desk. She was a blousy woman with a mole on her neck and hair the color of a pomegranate.
“Oh, if it isn’t the Pelican,” she said.
It was what the old ones called him, except Beatrice Prospero was not one of the old ones. She was no older than Dante, but she had adopted their manners. Beatrice resembled her father. In fact, she looked more like her father than her father looked like himself. She was thicker through the shoulders and had darker eyes. Her voice was different, though. Not high like his, but thick and throaty, sensual. She was almost attractive. Almost. And
Similar Books
