The Immigrant’s Daughter Page 11

  “Well, you have done your homework. What else?”

  She locked the door of the store behind them, and they started across the shopping center. “Where are we going?”

  “At the other end of the plaza, under the big Dalton bookstore, there’s a Mexican restaurant call Don Demos. The name sort of enticed me. The food is simple and good, and the college kids drive miles to eat here. I’m afraid I’m not dressed for anything more posh. You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And you’re through with my dossier?”

  “Through with what’s printed. You don’t want me to recite your voting record?”

  “My word, do you know it by heart?”

  “Just about.”

  “Two very lonely people. Is that what you said? My own case I can understand. I was born in Springfield, Massachusetts, only child, which narrows the family. Nothing left now but my kids, and they’re far away. And Miss Lavette, associates are associates, no more, no less. On the other hand, San Francisco and the Bay Area are your nest, your place of nurturing. Did you know that I was on the committee that renamed that short street that turns off Pacific Avenue and used to be called Fritz Street and now is Lavette Place? And aren’t you connected through family with one of the big wineries in the Napa Valley? Gateway or something?”

  “Higate.”

  “Yes, the best Cabernet Sauvignon in California, and also the red mountain wine with their own native label. Good wine. My word, if I had that kind of backup —”

  “You still go to bed alone and wake up alone, and when you pick up a smooth stranger, like the one I’m with, and decide to have dinner with him, no one worries about where you are and whether something might happen to you.”

  “I picked you up.”

  “Oh? Yes, of course.”

  “I knew Boyd Kimmelman,” Holt said. “As a matter of fact, at the end of World War Two, I took my discharge in California and went to school and passed the bar here. I worked in Benchly’s old firm one summer, and I met Boyd there. He helped me along.”

  What a small, strange world, Barbara thought, remembering the Boyd who had entered her life at the beginning, the stocky, cocky young lawyer, with his bristling thatch of sandy hair and his bright blue eyes and his eagerness to grasp whatever piece of life presented itself. The world evoked by Alexander Holt’s words glowed with memories of sunshine and excitement and hope. What had happened? What had happened to everything?

  No answer to that. One dealt with simpler things. Holt knew the owner of the restaurant, a short, mustached Mexican, Don Demos. Smiling and bowing, he selected their table. “For the congressman and his lovely companion.”

  “Who is a contender for my job on the Democratic ticket, this same lovely companion.”

  “No!” It came out as a sigh of wonder without disapproval. Don Demos did not engage in disapproval.

  “Good evening,” Barbara said in Spanish. “What a very pleasant place. Do you vote, Don Demos?”

  “Absolutely. I am not an illegal and I am not a green card holder. I am a citizen, married, three kids, and sole owner of this restaurant — for which I paid with blood and tears.”

  Holt listened, open-mouthed.

  “Then of course you vote.”

  “Of course.”

  “Republican?”

  “Señora, this is most embarrassing.”

  Smiling sweetly, Barbara said, “He can’t follow when we speak this rapidly. I want you to vote for me. I need your vote. He doesn’t.”

  “Señora.” Then in English, “A bottle of wine, on the house. Please?” He paused, glancing worriedly at Holt. “Your choice?”

  Holt was still struggling with what had just happened. “Higate Cabernet,” Barbara said soothingly. “And it must not be a gift, please understand.”

  As Don Demos turned away, Holt finally burst out, “You were telling him not to vote for me. You were telling him to vote for you.”

  “Asking,” Barbara said gently.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Barbara smiled. “Do you know,” she said, “you must call me Barbara, and I will call you Alex. We are going to be much too close for the next few weeks to address each other formally.”

  “Where did you learn to speak Spanish like that?”

  “Just around. You pick it up. They say if you love Spanish, it will speak for itself. Oh, I studied a bit at Miss Leonard’s Classes and at Sarah Lawrence College; and at Higate where they make the wine you admire so, they speak as much Spanish as they do English. Everyone speaks Spanish there.”

  “You won’t be offended, Barbara, if I say that you are remarkably possessed of slender, invisible knives.”

  “It’s a bit nasty, but others have said as much. Shall we be friends?”

  “Someone mentioned that you described me as being slightly to the right of Genghis Khan.”

  “Oh, no. No indeed. When Reagan was governor, I did put that into a piece I wrote for the Nation, but about you, oh, no, never.”

  Don Demos appeared and opened the Cabernet Sauvignon, and took their order for red snapper, Vera Cruz style, with a side order of refried beans, and Holt poured the wine and offered a toast:

  “May the best man—”

  “Not quite,” Barbara interrupted.

  “Amended. May the best person win!”

  “That I’ll drink to.”

  Holt drank and then regarded her thoughtfully. “You are nothing like what I imagined you would be. I did meet you once before, but I am sure you’ve forgotten completely. Somewhere around twenty years ago, at a party given for you in Beverly Hills.”

  “I remember the party,” Barbara said. It was the place and time that she had met Carson Devron, something she was not likely to forget.

  “You don’t remember me, of course. I was there with my wife. She was an actress then, had a bit part in a film. They were making one of your books into a film, as I recall, and there must have been a hundred people packed into the place —” His voice trailed off. “Too many crossed paths to be proper enemies. Politics is not nice. I wish there were some other way to run things, but there isn’t, you know. But of course you believe in sanctity of purpose.”

  “No, I don’t. I think, Alex, that it’s time you took a good look at me. What you see across the table from you is a woman to whom most of the things have happened that could happen to anyone. So don’t spare your punches. I will give what I receive.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  “And now that we understand each other, let’s eat.”

  “I’m with you there.”

  “And incidentally, before we set politics aside, I would like to pick a date for a debate — say, in one of the larger high school auditoriums.”

  “A what?” Holt asked incredulously.

  “Debate.”

  “You mean you’re asking me to debate the issues with you?”

  “Exactly.”

  He leaned back, clasped his hands and nodded at her. “My dear Barbara, I may not be the brightest fellow in the world, but neither am I an idiot. No debate — no way, ever.”

  “But why?”

  “Why? You know, there must have been a period of great innocence in your life. But now it’s simply a ploy. Can you picture the two of us on a platform? I’m sure you can — the saintly crusader and the slick politician. Come on, my dear.”

  He walked with her to her car after they ate, shook hands warmly and said, “I enjoyed this evening beyond words.”

  Barbara nodded. “It’s been fun.”

  “And now, each back to his corner and come out slugging.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  Barbara felt youthful and heady as she drove home, telling herself with some wonder, I’ve had a date; I’ve actually had a date. And it was a very nice date, as she contemplated it: two civilized adults, each with a sense of humor, opponents in a political contest, but sensible enough to realize that it was just that, a political contest.

&nbs
p; Would I see him again? she asked herself. I wonder. She had to admit that it would be pleasant. He was a nice man, low key and a good listener, as few men were.

  Freddie had worked out a plan for door-to-door canvassing. He had made inquiries and had learned what he expected to learn, that no one had ever canvassed the Forty-eighth. There had been no need to. Aside from Barbara’s run of six years before, the Republicans had never been even modestly threatened, and when Alexander Holt replaced the incumbent, the Republicans had no fear of being seriously threatened again. Freddie knew that he could round up at least two dozen couples, but before he sent them off on their mission, he felt that he ought to go out himself and get a sense of the process. He asked Carla to join him.

  “Why? Why me?” Carla wanted to know.

  “Two reasons. First, your Spanish is better than mine. Secondly, I like a man and a woman combination. A man alone tends to alarm people who come to the door. A woman alone makes me nervous. She could go into the wrong house — you know what I mean. So we put the couples together.”

  “You and me?”

  “It’s a good combination.”

  “Where’s May Ling today?”

  “She has the baby and other things,” Freddie said, a note of annoyance in his voice. “What gives with you, Carla? Do I bother you?”

  “These days everything bothers me. All right. Let’s start.”

  “I’ll take my car. We’ll do five houses at the cliffs, five in the tracts, five in the barrio. Then we’ll move out of Chesley into Valley City — if we’re still capable of walking at all.”

  They sat down with Barbara, who freed herself momentarily from the questions, demands and complaints that were being flung at her. Barbara knew that she should have provided for some kind of office in the storefront, but it was too late now to find a carpenter to do the partitioning, and in any case the money could not be spared. Freddie tried to talk to her, and then gave up. Finally they went outside and found a bench in the shade.

  “Let Carla be your point person,” Barbara said. “They’ll respond more easily, but if you see a woman looking at you, Freddie, the way a lot of women do, pick up and make some points. Not complicated, not too many issues. ERA — first and always. The woman doesn’t live who won’t respond to it, even if she snorts at first. Federal child care. Education and the cops are local, but you can suggest that people with jobs don’t commit crimes. Don’t bore anyone. A person bored becomes annoyed. So make it short and sincere.”

  “You’ve changed,” Freddie said. “You never talked like this.”

  “Like a pro? Well, I’m trying. So onward and upward.”

  It was like nothing they had imagined, even in the wealthiest part of the district. They avoided the out-and-out mansions. They wanted voters who answered doorbells, not butlers or maids. “Still, they might be voters,” Carla said pointedly. “A lot of them are my people.” They saw two gardeners, Mexicans, to whom Carla spoke. “Naturalized,” she told Freddie. “They can vote.” They tried a large house. The maid who answered the door was a Chicana, and after a few words with Carla, she called in the upstairs maid and the cook. Great excitement. She had not registered, the upstairs maid had not, the cook had not, her husband had not. The people who lived there were out. Freddie stood back, listening to the flood of eager Spanish that poured out of Carla and the three servants.

  “I like this,” Carla said.

  Back, away from the wealthiest homes, four women were playing bridge. This was upper middle, houses that were better than tract houses, yet by no means mansions. The four women were in their forties, attractive, and when the hostess ushered Freddie and Carla in, they put down their cards. Carla let Freddie take the lead position, and after ten minutes, they had to drag themselves away. Freddie let the main issues go by the board and dwelled on one thing: a society that takes adult human beings of wit and beauty and condemns them to days of playing bridge — not that bridge was not exciting and highly intellectual, but there were businesses to be run, bridges to be built, slums to be cleared and a hundred other things that these women were more than capable of. As Freddie’s rhetoric soared, Carla thought they would be angry and put off. Unexpectedly, they were charmed and delighted with Freddie and his pitch.

  “But exactly what can your Barbara Lavette do for us? We’ve missed the boat. It’s way down the river now.”

  “She can stand as surrogate for you, and believe me, fight with all her strength for the ERA and all that goes with it.”

  Two blocks away, the door of a stately half-timbered house of the 1930s was opened by a buxom redhead who burst into laughter when Freddie began his pitch. “Sweetheart,” she said, “this is a massage parlor.”

  Carla let out a squeal of surprise and delight, but Freddie, unperturbed, nodded and said that masseuses vote, even as beautiful redheads vote.

  “That will get you the jackpot, sonny,” the redhead said. “Come on in. Eleven o’clock in the morning is not prime time in this line of work.”

  Noontime, they were in the barrio, and at an open shed, hungry by now, they filled their bellies with tacos and burritos, washed down with Mexican beer. Freddie, lying shamelessly, informed all who cared to listen that Carla was a famous star of stage and screen, which increased the numbers of the crowd as word spread. Carla made no demur. The sun had put a flush on her cheeks, her face glowed. She smiled upon all as she spelled out the specifications for registration and said a few words about Barbara.

  “You didn’t push one damn issue,” Freddie said later. “My Spanish is lousy, but I could follow enough to see that.”

  “And your brains are mushy,” Carla said. “Star of stage and screen! What a liar! Issues? Dumbbell, they’ll vote Democrat. They’re Chicanos and Mexicans. You go and find a Chicano votes Republican. The point is, they don’t register and they don’t vote, and they say screw the Anglo and his lies and all his garbage about voting, because voting never got anyone anywhere. But they see a pretty Mexican girl, and she tells them a beautiful, good woman is a candidate — maybe they’ll register and vote. Who knows?”

  Door by door, they went on into the area of the cheap tract houses — as the song says, made out of ticky-tacky and all looking just the same.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Can I tell you a few words about our congressional candidate on the Democratic line? Her name is Barbara Lavette — yes, ma’am, the same Lavette family. This little brochure spells out what she stands for, but if you have time, I mean like a few minutes, I’d like to tell you something about her and why we feel that a woman must represent this district —”

  The burning California sun moved slowly across the sky; the temperature rose to a hundred degrees in the shade; and Freddie and Carla doggedly pursued their specified route, made notations in their notebooks, walked a circle of about a mile each time, bringing them back to where they had parked, drove on to the next neighborhood or town or barrio or slum, walked again, rang bells, knocked at doors, made notations.

  The afternoon lengthened. It was half past five when they decided to call it a day. They pulled into the parking lot of a Little League playing field, and Freddie went to a cold-drink dispenser under the grandstand, returning with two Coca-Colas. The car was parked in the shade of a big live oak, and at this time of the day, the field was deserted.

  “Want to talk about our notes?” Carla asked him.

  “Not right this minute. Right this minute I want to drink this bottle of Coke and luxuriate under this tree. Talking about Coke, Aunt Barbara told me an odd story — oh, way back, maybe ten years ago. She was in Assam during World War Two, up at the Tenth Air Force base, and she saw a patrol come out of the jungle. They hadn’t met up with any Japanese, according to Aunt Barbara, but they were exhausted, clothes ripped, dehydrated and miserable. Well, there was a Coca-Cola machine at the base, and she put in all the dimes she had and began to distribute Cokes to the kids, and one of them put the cold bottle up against his cheek and began to cry. Can you beat that? Wh
at an ad for Coke.”

  “Freddie, you have such a weakness for bullshit,” Carla said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “But I love you. I certainly love you. I always loved you,” she continued matter-of-factly. “You were the first man I ever went to bed with —”

  “The first kid. Dumb kid. We were kids.”

  “Did you ever tell May Ling?”

  “No — good heavens, no. I always felt it was like incest. We grew up together. You know, I can’t remember a time when you weren’t there.”

  “I don’t feel like your sister. Not a bit.” She drew his head down toward her, and then he kissed her and she clung to him with an explosive passion, her mouth open to devour him.

  “Podria amarte, damn you, Freddie!”

  “Jesus God, we’re making out in the seat of a car! Carla, we’re not kids.”

  “Freddie, I’m starving, I’m eating myself up. Don’t push me away, you bastard. I got a prior claim. I thought I was pregnant, that time when we were kids, and my father beat the shit out of me. You owe me.”

  They moved to the back seat. Afterward, untangling their intertwined knot of passion, they looked at each other in amazement. Freddie kissed her gently. “Maybe —” he began, but Carla cut him off.

  “Come on, Freddie. Don’t talk about maybe if you had married me. It wouldn’t be any better than it was with Sam. Worse. We’d tear each other to shreds.”

  Five

  The Morning World took its first poll of the Forty-eighth CD. The paper’s first edition arrived in San Francisco early in the morning and was on the stands by eight o’clock. Barbara picked up half a dozen copies on her way to the Forty-eighth, but when she walked into the storefront at Sunnyside, Freddie was standing on his desk, calling for silence from the dozen or so people already there.

  “The Los Angeles Morning World,” Freddie said, holding up the paper, “today, Wednesday, front page: ‘One of the most interesting congressional contests in the state is playing out in the 48th C.D., where maverick feminist Barbara Lavette is pitted against the Republican incumbent, Alexander Holt. The 48th is traditionally a Republican stronghold, where, it is said, the Republican candidate can phone in his campaign. The only time this very large Republican majority was even shaken was six years ago, when Miss Lavette first accepted the Democratic designation. The then incumbent was subsequently indicted for taking bribes, and the seat went to San Francisco lawyer Alexander Holt. In 1974, Mr. Holt received 87 percent of the votes cast. In the telephone poll taken by this paper yesterday, Mr. Holt received 61 percent. Miss Lavette received 29 percent, with 10 percent undecided. The district will be polled by this paper every Wednesday until Election Day, and we look forward to following this very important race.’ Unquote,” Freddie finished.