Leftovers
Previously: Paco and Mark chat with Dashiell Reilly and his father.
Need to catch up on The Spring? Visit the chapter index here:
7:25 PM - Thursday, November 6, 2014
Nob Hill, San Francisco
Jeannie trotted to a stop at the corner of Hyde and Beach Streets, pulling a panting Fergus to heel next to her while she caught her breath. Rushing home after the office, she stripped in the hallway, wadding up her suit and gray silk blouse, shoving them into the garbage chute next to the freight elevator. This prompted the instant urge to get outside into the fresh air. She really just wanted to scream, but knew taking Fergus on a run/walk would probably be a better idea for both of them. The big dog needed to run, and she felt like she could possibly outrun him.
The lively Thursday evening cocktail crowd was spilling over to the sidewalk from the front door of the Buena Vista Cafe across the street, while a robust line of tourists stood waiting at the cable car turnaround, even at this time of night. Jeannie couldn’t imagine the appeal of an Irish Coffee at this hour, or any hour for that matter. She knew it was a classic of the city, but she’d take a Tosca Cappuccino over an Irish Coffee every day. Still, the people were loud and rambunctious, totally oblivious to anything other than their imminent cocktails.
A cable car rattled it’s way through the intersection, with the grip clanging the bell as it started its slow climb up Hyde Street. Fergus looked up at her with his best big-fanged smile, silently asking her what was next on the list of adventures for the evening. Jeannie reached down and rubbed his big head, paying particular attention to the area behind his ears.
“Let’s head home, okay?” She said quietly. Fergus licked his chops and followed her lead around to the right and then another right on Columbus, where they headed south again, back up toward Nob Hill. Touristy motels flanked both sides of the street for a few blocks, making for a nondescript landscape of angular modern buildings that had replaced who knew what from the previous generations. Jeannie hated how this stretch of the city had erased everything that had come before, regrowing it into something unremarkably ugly. A few blocks later, the neon beacon of Bimbo’s 365 Club appeared, with “Happy Birthday Lady BJ” written out on the famous marquis. Jeannie chuckled at how many ways that sign could be interpreted: an elegant private birthday party, a launch for a sex-toy start-up, or a tongue-in-cheek drag show? Who knew in this city?
Fergus threaded his way through the sidewalk smokers and those making their way to the entrance, while Jeannie enjoyed being invisible. Crossing the street, another crowd was hustling into the corner doorway of La Rocca’s, whose own neon sign proclaimed “This is It!”, although no one could ever pinpoint what the “it” actually meant. Their classically brash marquis said “Go Giants! Pay Sandoval1 what he wants!”, making Jeannie chuckle.
Although turning up Mason would have been more direct, Jeannie led Fergus further down Columbus, past the quaint little Da Flora restaurant on the corner of Filbert — one of her and Chris’ favorites for a date night, although she couldn’t remember the last time they’d been there to enjoy their famous sweet potato gnocchi. The towers of Sts Peter and Paul were well-lit across the street to the left, lending their glow to Washington Square Park as they passed the now-papered over windows of the former Washington Square Bar and Grill. The “Washbag”, as christened by Herb Caen, had been a local favorite for years, and was probably the first place Jeannie had ever had a glass of whiskey, with her father one night when she’d been a freshman at Cal. The place still had jazz every night then, enjoyed by a plethora of regular characters of every stripe. It closed a few years later and despite an effort to re-open, it didn’t last. Once these old classics died, their best-intended revivals usually faded quickly into nothing.
Continuing a few blocks on Powell, Jeannie noticed the many SFPD black-and-whites parked on the street outside of the intimidating windowless box of Central Station on Vallejo Street. Everything seemed quiet, with a few officers chatting against a car right outside of the building. Jeannie didn’t even know why she bothered, not really knowing anyone at that station, but it always looked so secretive and official, which prompted endless speculation among the rookies.
Jeannie led Fergus a few more blocks to Broadway where the red lights of Chinatown started to become more frequent and crowded.
“You ready to climb, Ferg?” The big dog huffed in response. The pair took a right turn, each loping their way up the steep side of Broadway, moving over the noise of the tunnel up to Taylor Street where they took a left turn which would take them back home. Jeannie felt an icy trickle of sweat make its way down between her shoulder blades, relishing the sensation a little.
Making their way into the elevator at The Park Lane, Jeannie saw herself reflected in the brass — hair coming loose at her neck, cheeks flushed with heat. She stared at herself, wondering if her anger was sated or if she needed to do more to punish it. Fergus whimpered slightly, his tongue hanging out as he bent to look up at her.
“Yes, you’re a good boy. We’re almost home. We’ll get you some treats.”
Jeannie heated up the last of the leftover risotto while Fergus smacked up an array of cookies from his bowl. He nudged Jeannie softly as she stood at the stove and then loped off, pushing the swinging kitchen door open with his snout.
Barely warm, she gobbled up the risotto right out of the pan with a wooden spoon, standing over the counter. She took a bite, then another, thinking of how frustration had followed her all day. The risotto didn’t taste like anything, just grainy and goopy. Taking another bite, she immediately swallowed too quickly, choking on the thick rice. Hacking deep in her throat, she wheezed over to the deep, wide kitchen sink, eyes watering as she doubled over. Coughing again and again, she finally spat out the bite into the sink, coughing to try to clear the sour bile at the back of her mouth. She pushed the faucet on and bent to the side to take a drink of the water, trying to gargle it back to clear her throat, realizing her jaw was painfully tight. Spitting again, she shut the water off and pulled a piece of paper towel to wipe her mouth and eyes, chest heaving.
She stood there, shaking her head slightly, confused with herself. She tried to clear her throat again, the hard pit of sourness still deep and unreachable, mirroring her thoughts.
She wanted to be in that room. She wanted to hear exactly what Dash Reilly had to say about everything, wanted to counter his every word, put him in his place. She wanted Charlie Dagonet to drive directly to Inspiration Point, and never go back to the Hartman’s. She wanted Ryan Dominguez to have a better life, better chances to avoid predators like his brother — like Tripp. She wanted Carolina and Alexa to decide not to drink anything on Halloween night. She wanted Jen Tyson to see Seb Podesta for what he was: weak. She wanted to burn the Hartman house to the ground.
She wanted to be able to trust her command. She wanted her father to stand up and walk. She wanted her brother to pull out whatever stick was up his ass and become a human again. She wanted her mother to be here right now, telling her that maybe if she’d slow down and eat like a lady she wouldn’t be choking on her food. She wanted to dig out the grief that infected her core, spit it out whole and grind it up in the disposal she was staring into. Part of her wanted to go right into the disposal and get ground up too. She wanted to stop time, reverse it, and go backwards — but where would she stop? How far back would she need to go to stop it all? When, exactly, was before all of it?
“Can’t go back.” She said faintly, staring at nothing. She didn’t know what to do with this anger; it was right there under her skin. She knew this was what she’d been avoiding for months. It caught her off-guard: the quick, unavoidable onset of heat, just hours after being unmoored by nausea at the church today.
She huffed a deep, unsteady breath and felt the need to cry but nothing came. Sniffing a little, she went into the dark pantry, poured a substantial rye in a rocks glass, and slid down the cabinets to sit on the shadowy floor.
Chris sat at his desk, watching multiple trading screens of metrics while the evening wound down. The low vibration of his silent phone disturbing his patterning. He smiled slightly and answered.
“Hey — I was just thinking about you.”
“Hey. I — I was thinking about you too.” Jeannie’s voice sounded odd and wiry, his senses instantly alert. “What are you doing?”
“Still at work — leaving soon. I have an 8:30 at the HoPR2. One of the basketball guys has a birthday so…” Chris tried to keep it light.
“So, meat night with the boys?”
“Yup. What are you doing? How — how was the funeral?”
“Um…” Jeannie paused and Chris heard her sniff. “Um it wasn’t good, Chris.” Her voice broke. Chris turned away from his screens and looked at the city lights out the dark window. “I — well, it was all the same songs, the same readings even. I — I got dizzy at first. I — I couldn’t take it. I went outside and sat out there, but I felt like I was seasick.”
“Jeannie —” Chris barely whispered.
“I called my therapist when I got home a while ago, and he said that it sounded like an incident of PTSD.” He heard her swallow. “He suggested I do some EMDR — you know that light treatment? Might be worth exploring. I don’t know.” Her voice faded.
Chris inhaled deeply, unsure what to say. He could talk to anyone anywhere and make a friend, but navigating Jeannie when she was like this could sometimes be a mine field.
“How are you now?” He asked tentatively.
“Angry. Like, really really angry. Like I’m hot all over and I don’t know what to do with it all.” She choked on a sob. “I went out and took Fergus on a long walk and it kind of helped, but it all kind of just rushed over me when I got home. I’m so fucking mad, Chris —”
“Why are you mad? Tell me.”
“I’m mad. I’m mad at myself —” Chris sighed slightly. “I’m mad that I didn’t process all of this before now, and I’m mad at what it’s done to me — to us.” She stopped for a long moment. It took everything in him not to fill the silence with another question. “I — realized that I owe you a tremendous apology.”
“For what, love?”
“For — for the last four years?” She wailed a little. “It’s true. We had, what? One year? And it was all so up in the air and we didn’t know what we were doing or where we’d land and we had so much fun. We were so happy, Chris.”
“Well, we had more sex than any two people on earth.” He was relieved to hear her giggle through her tears.
“We did. We banged it out.” She agreed, laughing a little.
“We did.”
“But then we came home, and Mom got sick…and then she died, and I’ve been whatever I’ve been for the last two years.” She stopped again. He could hear her uneven breathing and then she cleared her throat. “And, I kind of hate myself. I’m — I put you through hell, Chris, and I’m so sorry.” Chris closed his eyes, trying to absorb her pain over the phone. This woman awed him with her strength and leveled him when she was fragile. “I — I just wonder why after everything —” she stopped again, “after everything you still want to be with me.” Chris heard her exhale, while a million alarm bells went off inside of his own head.
“Jeannie. You don’t need to apologize — there’s nothing to forgive,” he told her softly. She inhaled deeply. “I know it’s been awful — and I hate that all of this, everything these last few years has happened. Happened to you. I hate it. But you’re still the girl I fell in love with — the girl who knocked me over and gave me an icy wet ass when I was 12. You knock me over every day and I think I fall in love with you every day.” Chris inhaled, pausing. “And you’re not easy, you know. You’re tough. You snore, you always tell me everything I do wrong — because you’re always right, you worry far too much about what everyone else thinks, you’re incredibly stubborn, you’re maddeningly self-critical, you have a perfectionism streak a mile wide, which is weird because you’re already perfect…you’re brilliant, and kind, and so beautiful it makes me weak.” Chris gasped, his own tears starting. “You - you make me proud every day, Jean. I’m just proud to be next to you. You’re the best person I know — I think you’re probably the best human on this earth. You don’t owe me an apology or anything, because whatever you do, you have my whole heart. And frankly, I’m done trying to convince you.” He stopped, panting. He slouched forward slightly. “I love you. And either you love me and we get past this or we don’t.”
Chris knew this wasn’t at all the path that he intended to take after Jeannie’s admission, but he felt he had to make his case before she made hers. Jeannie was silent, but he could hear her light gasps as she breathed through her tears.
“Well, you know — you’re not easy either, Christopher Rossi.” A slow smile began on Chris’ face. “You’re messy, you’re vain, you’re arrogant and LOUD, you never stop talking, you care far too much about making money — and we both know you’ve made enough, but then again you spend far too much, you spend far too many hours on the golf course, you perpetually need a haircut, you bite your nails, you leave wet towels on the floor, and — and you — you really know how to make everyone around you feel…extraordinary. You’re so creative and I don’t know why you hide it. You’re an excellent cook, and a true gentleman…except when you take me to bed, and then you’re not at all a gentleman and I wouldn’t have it any other way. You make me laugh and you — you’re just incredible.” She finished, huffing a deep breath. “And I love you more than I love myself.”
Relief flooded over him and he looked up to the ceiling, wiping his eyes.
“Okay then.” Chris whispered. “I’m glad we cleared that up.”
“Yes.” He could hear Jeannie’s smile.
“We’re going to get through this. We’re going to get you whatever help you need, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Why — why don’t I come over? I’ll dip out of this dinner —”
“No. Go be with your boys. I need some alone time, I think.”
“What will you do?”
“I’m going to pour another whiskey, take a hot bath, talk to Dad for a bit, and then go to bed.”
“Okay. Get some rest. I love you.”
“I love you.”
In the 7th game of the 2014 World Series, Pablo “Kung Fu Panda” Sandoval made his record-breaking 26th post-season hit of his career. He also caught K.C. Royals’ Salvador Pérez’s pop-up foul ball to clinch the game, winning the series for the San Francisco Giants. Season over, Sandoval’s contract expired, making him a free agent. Just a few weeks later, the Boston Red Sox agreed to a five-year, $90 million dollar contract for the player.
HoPR, or “The Hopper” is the local nickname for the famous House of Prime Rib.