Free Pacific Avenue by Anne L. Watson Page B

ladies’ room,
afraid no one would ask me to dance. She always told me it would all work out.
She must have thought I’d grow up to be like her. Well, no thanks,
Benedict-Arnold-Judas-Iscariot-Aunt-Ruth.
    My heart started to pound, and my stomach heaved as I
looked at the slippery chunks of beef and carrot on my plate. I was afraid to
open my mouth.
    Sam spoke up unexpectedly.
    “Almost everyone has problems. If you limited your
guest list to people who’ve never had any, you’d have some small parties.”
    “Did you specialize in psychiatry, Sam?” asked Dad.
    Sam laughed. “No, I’m an oncologist. But the effects of
stress play out in every medical specialty. I think it’s a mistake to limit our
friends to people who look like winners. Not to mention that putting someone
down doesn’t make me feel good.”
    “Well, I may agree,” said Dad. “But I can’t tell my
sister-in-law who to invite to her Christmas party.” His words echoed Mom’s. Dad?
I can’t believe you’re saying this. You were always the one who told us
segregation was wrong.
    “I guess I seem a bit pushy. You must think I’m the
nerviest date Sharon’s ever had,” Sam said. “But I’m counting myself as family
because we were planning to announce our engagement at this party.”
    A pink sunrise of happiness dawned on Mom’s face. Even
Dad, who seldom showed much emotion, looked pleased. I felt happy for Sharon. They’re
perfect together.
    “So, why not come and announce it?” asked my dad.
    “If I can say so without offense, that wouldn’t be the
way we’d want to start our marriage. We talked it over and decided to handle it
informally, without a big to-do.”
    He slipped a small box from his pocket and opened it.
Reaching around the dishes, he put his ring on Sharon’s finger.
    I wanted to hug them both. But I had a catch in my
throat, too. They’re the way it’s supposed to be. I’m not—and I don’t know
how to change that.

~ 10 ~
December 1974
San Pedro
Lacey
    If I hadn’t been so worried about that prison address, I
might have given up, because it was no easy job to find Kathy’s sister. There
were fifteen Quinns in the public library’s Baton Rouge phone book, all men’s
names except for a couple of listings that were just initials. I copied every
last one. Over the next few days, I called thirteen of them, asking for Sharon.
Finally I got the right one—Sam Quinn, M.D. A woman answered the phone. It was
Sharon.
    I had tried to plan what to say, but I was nervous
anyway. If there ever was a fool rushing in where angels feared to tread, that
fool’s name was Lacey Greer.
    I started by telling her who I was, and bumped up my
importance at Giannini’s—made myself sound like a real supervisor instead of
the secretary. Then I trotted out the lie about Christmas presents again.
    “She likes books,” said Sharon. “She’s never cared that
much about clothes.”
    No surprise there. “What kind of books? Does she
collect cookbooks?” I asked.
    Sharon laughed. “No cookbooks, for sure. She likes poetry.
And folktales. Plays. Oh, wait, maybe not. Better get something lighter. That
might be best right now.”
    Well, here was the thin end of the wedge. “Oh, I’m
sorry. Is something the matter? I thought she looked sort of sad.”
    “Our father passed away this fall.”
    “I’m so sorry. No wonder Kathy looks sad.”
    Sharon hesitated. I was afraid she might be thinking
she didn’t know me, and I didn’t want that idea to get too big.
    “I’ve been concerned about her. I have a daughter
almost the same age as Kathy. I guess you never stop being a mom.” I didn’t add
that my daughter had mentioned once or twice that maybe it was time for me to
consider doing just that. “I’d like to help if I can. She’s so far from home.
Although she did live in Gretna for a while, didn’t she? So, maybe she’s used
to being on her own.”
    “She wasn’t exactly on her own,” Sharon said. “She was
living