Page 121 of Meet Me in the Garden

We’re silent, listening. Ginny rests her hand on his back.

“Let’s all take a moment for young Leon Posey,” Lionel says. “May he rest in peace.”

Nathalie says, “Should we sing something, Rudy?” And together they sing “Ave Maria,” their harmonies filling the house.

When they’re finished, Adele says, “None of you are to go out onto the streets until it’s over. Al, you hear me? Lionel? Kids? Desmond, even you.”

An extended, pregnant moment. And then Al says, “I agree. We’ll lie low now.” And Saturday goes by, and Sunday, the streets bloodied with more people shot dead, the phone ringing with news from friends, the television screen covered in smoldering buildings and white men with helmets and guns and badges and colored men and women, at times triumphant,at times handcuffed, filing into police buses, and the sky is still thick with smoke, still the wrong colors, gray on black on red, until, finally, it’s over.

THIRTY-NINE

GINNY AND I VENTURE PASTthe gate for the first time in a week. We use rags to clear the ash from the car’s windows, climb in to drive around. Even with the reports and the news footage and the smoke and the noise, nothing prepared us for it. Streets we drive daily, turned unrecognizable. Entire blocks, razed. Rubble, like a scene from a war movie, like after a hurricane. I drive us toward Gerard’s shop. Ginny sucks in a breath as we turn the corner. There, as Lionel promised, his little building stands. The windows are boarded up,Blood Brother Please Let Me Livespray-painted across the plywood. A couple other stores on the block remain, boarded up, too.Negro own. Spare me. Pass me bye.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” I say. “Let’s go have lunch.” I drive north, end up in Chinatown. Ginny knows a restaurant here. We’re seated in the busy dining room, eat wonton soup and chicken chow mein, and at every table surrounding us, people are talking about Watts.

When we get back to the house, Nathalie’s on the patio.

“I thought you went home,” I say.

“I decided we should go to San Francisco.”

“Now?”

“I called Elise and asked her where we should stay. I told her I wanted somewhere simple and quiet. Somewhere we could take walks. After everything this past week… I can’t handle crowds.”

I nod. I feel the same.

“She suggested an inn right across from the ocean,” Nathalie says. “In a mellow part of town. I booked us a room for tonight and tomorrow. And made a dinner reservation nearby at a place called the Cliff House, for three of us for tomorrow night.”

“That’s a quick trip for such a far drive.”

“It’s all I can do. Some of the girls and I are singing this weekend at an engagement party in Beverly Hills.”

“It’s hard to believe that anyone in Los Angeles is throwing a party at a time like this.”

“I know,” she says. “But they are.”

“Should we call Delphine and make sure that tomorrow night works for her?”

“Can you do it?”

“Okay.”

I pretend, for Nathalie’s sake, that the thought of it doesn’t frighten me. I leave the door open to the kitchen and Nathalie stays where she is. I unfold the letter and dial the number she gave us. A woman answers. Not Delphine’s voice, but then again, it’s been so many years. I say my name, ask if Delphine’s there.

“Oh!” the woman says. “She’ll be so glad you called. She’s at work right now, though. My name’s Mary Beth, I’m one of her flatmates. Can I take a message down for her?”

“Will you ask her if she can go to dinner tomorrow night at the Cliff House? Seven o’clock? We’re driving up tonight.”

A pause. “Sure,” Mary Beth says. “She usually gets home from work at around six. Is there a number where she could reach you just in case?”

I move the receiver away from my mouth. “Nathalie, what’s the name of the hotel?”

“The Seal Rock Inn,” she says from outside. I repeat it and Mary Beth takes it down. Ginny and I go into the bedroom. I pack my bag. When I’m finished, we look at each other. She’s calm, present. And there’s a different version of my life, one in which she’s been with me this whole time, ever since we met, knowing me and seeing me through every hard moment, so it’s fine to leave her every now and then. But that isn’t how itwent for us. And now that I have her, I don’t want to stray far, not even for a couple of nights. “I love you,” she says. “Good luck.”

And then we’re driving, Nathalie searching the radio for songs. We stop for fuel, neither of us talking while the attendant fills our car, driving for hours and hours, the feeling that we’re headed somewhere forbidden. It’s almost midnight when we reach the hotel. We fall into bed, sleep into the morning. There’s a television in the lobby, its volume turned low. I carry theSan Francisco Examinerand two cups of coffee up the stairs to our room and we sit in bed together, backs against pillows, reading about LA.

On the front page, below an article on Eisenhower and Bobby Kennedy’s clashing views on the riots, is a close-up photograph of Dr. King, his eyes wide, listening to Negro leaders in Watts. Nathalie reads aloud. “‘The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. flew into Los Angeles yesterday hoping to “redeem despite their guilt” the Negroes who took part in a six-day riot that took thirty-three lives.’ What about the police who actuallytookthose people’s lives? Where’s the part where he callsthemguilty?”