Susan

I heard Susan. “Andrea, it’s so comforting to have you and Travis here.” Then, I realized it was Dolly, the only one of our three daughters who inherited her mother’s voice.

I’m flopped in my TV chair. My eyes close. I hear quiet laughter, a jumble of shared memories, and a hush of sorrow. Appetizing aromas drift from the kitchen. The fridge and the cabinet doors open and close; tableware clatters. Familiar feminine voices confer about the buffet.

Teenage cousins visit on the patio while their parents browse through our albums and chat about where they were when some photo was snapped. “Oh, I remember that time…” they say, before filling in the details of some nearly forgotten day. When someone mentions how beautiful Susan was, I reach for my handkerchief and dab my eyes. I smile when the new baby fusses. She’s not even four months old, but someday she’ll make some lucky guy’s life worth living. It’s in the DNA.

Sharon asks how Susan, her grandmother, and I got together. Dolly says “Uncle Travis’ introduced them”. Linda agrees with her and adds that it happened in Texas. Anna says she thought we met in San Francisco.

Anna got it right. Susan’s brother, Travis, was there, but he had nothing to do with introducing us. It was in April 1964…I close my eyes and hear Linda say, “Let Dad sleep. He’s exhausted.”

~  ~ ~

I’m working my regular shift at Varney’s Roaring Twenties, a theme joint on Montgomery near Pacific Avenue on the south edge of North Beach. The owners spent a fortune capturing the look of a prohibition-era speakeasy and hiring a retro band with a killer piano. The cocktail waitresses wear net stockings, short skirts, low-cut tops, and beehive hairdos. There were two waitress stations, one with a small bar that had only four stools. The rest of the customers stood at the main bar, sat at knee-high tables, or boogied on the raucous dance floor.

I was behind the small service bar when a guy in a Brioni suit and a girl in a classy white dress slid onto the bar stools. They ordered cognac and I set snifters of Courvoisier in front of them. The guy handed over a five. I made change and went back to mixing drinks shouted out by the cocktail runners.

I turned toward the back bar looked into the mirror behind the bottles and stared at a reflection of loveliness, with blue eyes. The room was filled with eye-catching women, but the one sitting at the bar, in the white dress, made all the others disappear.

Waitresses were eager to get their orders filled and tips earned, so I had to stop enjoying the sneaky view and do my job. As I mixed and poured I heard her voice.

“You need a good memory and speedy hands for doin’ your job.” 

I always acknowledged the not-from-here accents, and hers was pure South. As I poured gin and vermouth into an iced martini shaker, I asked, “So, where’d you get that twang?” 

She answered with a comically exaggerated southern drawl, “Yer the one who’s talkin’ funny.”

The guy she was with laughed, and I laughed, too. As I filled another cocktail tray with drinks and turned to ring up the tab, I said, “So what are you two doing for a good time in this foggy city?”

“Besides talkin’ with you?”

I answered, “Hey, that’s my good time. I’m asking about your good time.”

“Well, we just saw a songster at the Hungry i. She was amazing.”

An impatient waitress interrupted, “Four marties up, one twisted. All down on ten.” Reaching for the gin I heard my future brother-in-law.

“Her name’s Barbra Streisand. Fifty years from now, she’ll be thought of as the best female pop singer of the 20^th Century.”

 “You’ll have to excuse my brother. He has a  hard ol’ time makin’ up his mind about things. He’s Travis, and I’m Susan, by the way.”

When my relief showed up, I came around and continued our conversation from their side of the bar. It was noisy, and the music was loud so I stood more closely than I would have in a quieter room. When I said Streisand was the hottest ticket in the city I imagined being in the audience with Susan as my date. Dream on.

Travis said they stopped by Varni’s because they liked to dance, but they were on their way to see the Miles Davis Quartet at Basin Street West. I told them how to get there, just a short, but very steep, walk up Montgomery to Broadway. We talked about music, and I thought I was holding my own while sniffing whiffs of intoxicating perfume and feeling puffs of Susan’s laughter against my cheek. She filled my eyes and my imagination. What did she think I was thinking? Or did she even wonder, or care?

As the banter went on it came out that Travis would be at a business dinner meeting the next night. Susan was not invited “No women, you know”, and she was bummed about being alone in a hotel room with nothing to do.

Calling on all my found nerve, I asked her if we could pass the time together over dinner, cocktails, and conversation at her hotel. Her surprised expression, made me wish I could push a reset button and do the scene over – not so ambitious – less pushy − with not as much risk of a clear rebuff. Travis’ eyebrows went up; his jaw dropped.

Susan said, “We’re staying at the St. Francis. I’m in room 721. Call me from the desk, OK? What time?”

~~~~

“…wake up, dad. It’s time to eat.”

“Huh? OK. I was dreaming − just coming to the best part.”

Dolly says, “Dad, we were wondering how you and mom got together. Will you tell us the story at dinner?”

“I’d love to, sweetheart. I remember it like yesterday.”

The End