Page 29 of Meet Me in the Garden

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” I say, my head against his shoulder. “I was just remembering what it was like to leave home and arrive here, and now hereyouare.”

“And who is this fine young boy?”

“Clément,” I say. “My son.”

Felix bends at the waist, offers his hand. “I’m a friend of your family’s from back home, in New Orleans,” he says. “It’s an honor to meet you.” Clément straightens, smiles, shakes Felix’s hand.

We peer into the crate, between the slats. The pigeon is beautiful, cream with blue markings, puffing his feathers and warbling. “It’s been a long journey for the little guy,” Lionel says.

“Sixty-eight hours,” Felix says. “I checked on him every now and then, made sure he didn’t get jostled.”

“What’s his name?” Clément asks.

“Doesn’t have one yet.”

“CanIname him?”

“I’m open to ideas,” Lionel says, “but this here’s a professional bird. I see a big future for him, so the name’s got to be dignified.”

“Felix,” I say. “Are you staying in town? Can you come for dinner?”

“Wish I could, but I’m getting right back on board. Got a little more work to do. Then it’s a night in a sleeper car before heading back to Chicago. That’s been home for me for the last couple years. But Ihavebeen considering exploring Los Angeles.”

“We’ll show you around if you come stay sometime,” I say. “The others would be so happy to see you.”

He tips his head, thinking about it. “You know, I would truly love that.”

“We’re in the phone book,” I say. “Call us anytime.”

The next week I spot my friends in the lunchroom. Ivy’s holding a cigarette in one hand and the newspaper in the other when I set my tray down next to her and take an open seat.

“We’re going to see a picture,” Sally says from across the table. “Want to join? My husband’s working late tonight so I don’t have to fix any dinner.”

“Can we make it a second run?” Janine asks. “I’m on a budget.”

Ivy hands me the paper. “I’ve seen everything. You choose.”

I skim until a title leaps out. “The Snake Pit,” I say, remembering Olivia de Havilland on the cover ofTimemagazine.

“We don’t want a comedy?” Sally says. “Or a romance?”

“The Snake Pitsounds swell to me,” Janine says.

“Me too,” Ivy says.

“It’s playing at the Admiral at six o’clock,” I say.

Sally shrugs. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell the others.”

Later, we stand in line at the ticket booth on Hollywood and Vine. I’ve gone to the pictures a few times since we’ve been here, but I’m briefly nauseous as we near the clerk, afraid we’ll be turned away, remembering our separate entrances at the theaters back home, climbing the stairs, craning our necks from balconies. This group of us from the plant is as varied as can be. Janine, born in the Philippines. Ivy, Black Irish with ocean-blue eyes. Sally, blond hair tied in a bow. Claud and her brother, Lawrence, colored and glamorous and tall, Angelenos since birth. And then there’s me, hazel eyes, wavy dark hair, skin just barely brown—a chameleon in more ways than one. Marcus comes jogging up when we’ve just about reached the booth. Sweet-faced, lanky, and young. He looks so much like Cyril. The first time I saw him, my chest got tight, a pressure in my eyes that I had to blink away.

“I found a good spot for my car,” he says. “Made sure theFor Salesign was positioned just right. I’m upgrading to a Kurtis.” He glances at me to see if I’m impressed. He’s asked me out several times, has always been nice about it when I say no. One by one, we pay without hesitation from the cashier.

We have to split up into two rows, and we girls save seats while the boys buy popcorn and sodas and boxes of Sno-Caps and Dots. The theater is dim, warm, a sense of expectation about it, loud with voices and laughter. The curtains part.

I see myself in Olivia de Havilland at first. A working girl like me—likeus—until it all goes wrong. The story falls into place. She doesn’t even know her name. The park bench she’s been sitting on isn’t a park bench at all—it’s on the grounds of a mental hospital. I find myself sitting on my hands as I watch. All these desperate women on the screen,their drab clothes, the crowded rows of beds and the straitjackets and sorrowful moans. How vulnerable the character is, saying,I feel as if I’d done something and I just couldn’t remember what, as if something was following me all the time.Fear in her eyes, slump in her shoulders, strap in her mouth before the electric shock. There’s an ache in my jaw; I’ve been clenching it.

After, we huddle on the sidewalk in front of the theater. It’s a cool night, lit street, dark sky above.