Pacific Avenue

By Anne L. Watson

Richard Johnson is a Black veteran, back from Vietnam and trying to rebuild his life by attending college in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He's smart and handsome, yet haunted by memories that plague his sleep and send him flying for cover at sudden noises.
 
Kathy Woodbridge is a white student in one of Richard's classes. She's pretty, idealistic, and drawn irresistibly to Richard's combination of charm and aliveness. It leads her into a relationship different from any she had expected -- and to a tragedy greater than any she can face.
 
Lacey Greer is a secretary in San Pedro, California. When Kathy shows up at her office and is hired with no record of her past, Lacey wonders what Kathy could be running from. She's determined to find out, and to help if she can.
 
Set in the early seventies, "Pacific Avenue" explores themes of love, belonging, helpfulness, hope, forgiveness, reconciliation, interracial marriage, and healing from the trauma of war. 
 
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Anne L. Watson, a retired historic preservation architecture consultant, is the author of numerous novels, plus books on such diverse subjects as soapmaking and baking with cookie molds. Anne has lived at various times in New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and San Pedro, California, the settings of "Pacific Avenue." She currently lives in Bellingham, Washington, with her husband and fellow author, Aaron Shepard.
 
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SAMPLE
 
I chose a window seat on the Greyhound, but I didn't look out. For almost the whole trip, I stared at the rough tan upholstery of the seat in front of me. It had a rip on one side and three dark stains. 
 
A woman settled into the aisle seat. She raised her footrest, but it clunked back down. When I glanced her way, she caught my eye and smiled.
"How do you make these things stay put?" she asked.
 
I meant to answer -- the words were lined up in my mind. But before I could say them, they slipped apart like beads when the string breaks. I gave up and studied the seat cover again. Still tan, still ripped, still stained. The next time I looked, the woman was gone.
 
Evening came, but I didn't use my reading light. Late at night, awake in the breathing dark, I imagined running my fingers over the seat back, erasing the stains, mending the seam. In the morning, I almost believed I could fix it. So, I took care not to touch it, not to find out for sure.
 
In the afternoon, the bus left the freeway and crept through downtown traffic. I turned then, and peered through the mud-spattered window. As far as I could see, Los Angeles was a city of warehouses. I sank back into my seat.
 
When we reached the station, I claimed my suitcase and dragged it through the waiting room to the street. Outside I found blank walls and empty sidewalks. No direction and no one to ask. 
 
Well, I ran away from college, then from New Orleans, and then Baton Rouge. Is it too soon to run away from here?
 
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shepard & Piper
• Release date: Mar 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781620352397

Book preview

Pacific Avenue

Anne L. Watson

Shepard & Piper

Friday Harbor, Washington

2014

© 2008–2009, 2014 by Anne L. Watson

Ebook Version 2.6

Anne L. Watson, a retired historic preservation architecture consultant, is the author of several novels, plus books on such diverse subjects as soapmaking and baking with cookie molds. Anne has lived at various times in New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and San Pedro, California, the settings of Pacific Avenue. She currently lives in Friday Harbor, Washington, in the San Juan Islands, with her husband and fellow author, Aaron Shepard, and their cat, Skeeter.

Novels

Skeeter: A Cat Tale ~ Pacific Avenue ~ Joy ~ Flight ~ Cassie’s Castaways ~ Willow’s Crystal ~ Benecia’s Mirror ~ A Chambered Nautilus ~ Departure

Lifestyle

Living Apart Together

For more about Anne and

her books, please visit

www.annelwatson.com

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Part 1

~ 1 ~

December 1974

Interstate 10, Westbound

Kathy

I chose a window seat on the Greyhound, but I didn’t look out. For almost the whole trip, I stared at the rough tan upholstery of the seat in front of me. It had a rip on one side and three dark stains.

A woman settled into the aisle seat. She raised her footrest, but it clunked back down. When I glanced her way, she caught my eye and smiled.

How do you make these things stay put? she asked.

I meant to answer — the words were lined up in my mind. But before I could say them, they slipped apart like beads when the string breaks. I gave up and studied the seat cover again. Still tan, still ripped, still stained. The next time I looked, the woman was gone.

Evening came, but I didn’t use my reading light. Late at night, awake in the breathing dark, I imagined running my fingers over the seat back, erasing the stains, mending the seam. In the morning, I almost believed I could fix it. So, I took care not to touch it, not to find out for sure.

In the afternoon, the bus left the freeway and crept through downtown traffic. I turned then, and peered through the mud-spattered window. As far as I could see, Los Angeles was a city of warehouses. I sank back into my seat.

When we reached the station, I claimed my suitcase and dragged it through the waiting room to the street. Outside I found blank walls and empty sidewalks. No direction and no one to ask.

Well, I ran away from college, then from New Orleans, and then Baton Rouge. Is it too soon to run away from here?

The traffic light at the end of the block turned green, and cars passed me by. When a city bus stopped and opened its doors, I climbed on. I couldn’t think what else to do.

I paid the fare and took a seat near the front. Even though I pulled my suitcase aside, it poked out into the aisle. More people piled on at every stop, and all of them had to squeeze past it. I expected everyone to glare, but nobody gave me a second glance.

The bus started, stopped, started again. We passed through neighborhoods with trees and shops. The crowd thinned as passengers got off, going home. Should I get off too? No, not here. Where? Next stop, no, the one after. No, not that one. Every stop would be a whole different life, a different second chance.

Choose, choose. I couldn’t. I rode till the bus pulled over and parked.

Seventh and Pacific, San Pedro, Port of Los Angeles, called the bus driver. He turned to me and added, End of the line, Miss.

I waited till the other passengers got out, hoping the driver would help me with the suitcase. He watched blank-faced as I wrestled it down the steps. Setting it on the sidewalk, I looked around.

I’d reached the end of the line, all right. Pacific Avenue was like a street in some Third World country. The candy-colored buildings were old and grimy. Christmas tinsel sparkled around the windows, but the sidewalk glitter was broken glass and gobs of spit. The crosswalk lights cycled green and red, green and red. Their afterimage flashed inside my head when I closed my eyes: Walk, Don’t Walk. Choose, choose.

I couldn’t decide which way to go. The bus pulled away in a cloud of exhaust. A man ran past me, shouting, Hey, stop, hey! Son of a bitch! A few steps behind him, a woman jerked a crying child along by the arm. Gusts of wind sent sidewalk trash skittering after them like rats.

Seventh Street looked quieter, so I tried it first. But after the first block, the buildings thinned out and the street plunged downhill toward a gleam of water. Silhouettes of tall cranes made black Xs against the evening sky. Like scissors, waiting to cut it into strips. Nothing but the port down there. Nothing there for me.

So, it had to be Pacific Avenue. Night was coming, and I dreaded wandering the streets after dark with no place to stay. I backtracked quickly, then began to search for motels, rooming houses — anything halfway decent.

All I saw was stores. I passed the Thrif-T-Mart, with its displays of sun-bleached plastic housewares. The Angel Bakery — a wedding cake behind plate glass, a ventilator spewing the scent of sugar and grease. Next door, a boarded-up entryway added a reek of stale pee. A pigeon flapped past my face. Flinging up my hands to ward it off, I dropped the suitcase on my foot. My eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t have time for them. I grabbed the suitcase handle and kept going.

I scanned the signs, but some of them meant nothing to me — Baile, Mariscos, Menudo Hoy. For all I knew, any of those might have meant Rooms. I hesitated a couple of times, but the places didn’t look like boarding houses, so I walked on by. I passed Antiques, in a window with a black velvet painting of Elvis and a tangle of pole lamps. The next block offered Ten Minute Oil Change, Auto Upholstery, and Radiator. Everything for cars, nothing for people.

In the block after that, I rested beside a storefront — Salvation Army, used Christmases for sale. The dinged-up manger scene in the window was nothing like my family — the mother, the father, and the baby were all there. I laid my hand, then my forehead, against the cool glass. Oh, God, let me find a place to sleep tonight.

When I turned back to the street, I thought I saw a sign advertising Room and Board. I hurried toward it, suitcase bumping my legs. Two motorcycles roared from behind me and pulled over to the curb a few yards ahead. One of the riders looked back, and the low evening sun flashed from his blank helmet. Faceless, dangerous.

I bolted across the street, hardly checking for traffic, and scrambled back the way I’d come. Didn’t even look over my shoulder for half a block, but when I did, no one was following. Shaking, I set the suitcase down and leaned against a wall. Right beside me hung another sign, Madame Sofia — The Mystic Eye — Botanica.

The dusty store window displayed roots, stones, and cards, like the voodoo shops in New Orleans. A sign propped against a plaster pyramid said Apartment for Rent. I went in.

A woman sat behind the counter of the dim shop, spotlighted by a small lamp. A black-and-white cat sat beside her.

She didn’t smile as I came toward her. Her eyes were almost opaque, like pale blue marbles. Her face seemed young, but her hair was white as a piece of paper and nearly as straight. Dime-sized mirrors glittered on her embroidered dress as she reached for a tarot pack at her elbow.

Tell you the future, five dollars.

I would have paid more than that not to know.

I came about the apartment, I said.

Apartment? She sounded so confused, I wondered if I’d come to the wrong place.

The sign in the window, I prompted.

"Oh, the apartment. Two hundred a month, utilities included. You want to see it?"

Yes, please.

She led me out the way I’d come and around the corner to a side door. Instead of unlocking it, she turned back to me.

What’s your name?

Kathy Woodbridge.

Where you from, Kathy?

Illinois. My voice sounded squeaky and forced, but she didn’t seem to notice. She let me into a narrow hallway that might have been white the last time it was painted.

A fluorescent tube flickered on the ceiling. The mustard-yellow carpet was a felted material that trapped twigs and cockleburs. The only way to get rid of them would have been to pick them out by hand, but it looked like no one ever did.

I followed her up a dark red stair at the far end of the hall. At the top were three doors.

This used to be offices, she said, but I decided to remodel them into apartments. There’ll be two, but only one is ready. Judging by that faded For Rent sign, she was taking her time about it.

What’s the third door? I asked.

Stairs to the roof.

She unlocked the apartment door, jiggling the key to make it work.

I could tell the apartment had been patched together from offices. The rooms were all misfits — a living room with tin cabinets in one corner to make a sort-of kitchen, then a too-small bedroom and a too-big bathroom.

At least it was clean. Rips in the linoleum floor were mended with parallel lines of tacks. Everything else, even the light switches and doorknobs, had a fresh coat of paint.

I tried to raise one of the living room windows, but it stuck. Giving up, I stood and looked down at Pacific Avenue, its shabby buildings all but erased by the dusk. If I didn’t take this place, I’d have to go out there and find another one.

I turned and considered the room again, wondering if I could stand to live in it. Madame Sofia watched me take it all in.

The walls are white to go with your curtains and rugs, she pointed out.

Pictures swirled through my mind, almost like a movie. I open my suitcase and pull out my curtains and rugs. A bookcase, a table, all my old stuff. My suitcase is bottomless. I pull out books, dishes, my paints and woodcarving tools, marionettes, our bed. Last of all, Richard steps out, with Jamie toddling beside him.

Tears stung behind my nose, but I pulled myself together. Madame Sofia hovered expectantly. Well, if she sees the future, guess she knew all along I’d go for it. I didn’t have two hundred in cash, but I still had my old checkbook. I fished it out of my purse and began to write.

Make it to Marilu Collins, she said.

I had already written Madame Sofia, so I started over with a new check. No reason to save them — two hundred dollars about cleaned out the account. As I handed her the check, I realized my old address was on it and stifled an impulse to grab it back. But she didn’t even glance at it, only tucked it into her pocket and gave me the key. I said good night and closed the door — my door — as she went downstairs.

A box of crackers and a bag of raisins from my suitcase would do for dinner. As I ate, the room went dark except for streetlights fanned across the ceiling. I spread my coat on the floor to sleep on and wadded up clothes for a pillow.

That was my first night on Pacific Avenue. Nobody knew my name but the woman dressed in mirrors. And no one at all knew where I came from, or why.

~ 2 ~

December 1974

San Pedro

Lacey

Secretaries don’t get rich, that’s for sure. I worked for Mr. Giannini at the concrete company in San Pedro. I didn’t expect to make what he did — he owned the company. But the men in the yard didn’t have the skills I had, and they made almost twice my salary. The company couldn’t pay me less for being black, but they could pay me next to nothing for being a woman.

Just the same, I had too much pride to goof off. I did a good job — except when I did something for George, Mr. Giannini’s son. He’d joined the firm, as they’d worded their announcement, back in July. I couldn’t stand him. He was such a jerk, he couldn’t have worked for anyone but his dad, so I figured on being stuck with him forever. I did his stuff when I was good and ready, if at all.

In December, Mr. Giannini called me into his office about it. Lacey, why didn’t you do George’s letters last week?

He gave me the roughs on Thursday. That was the day I had to type the change order requests for the UCLA job. You weren’t here, and you did tell me projects under construction get priority.

Why didn’t you do them Friday?

Friday was the deadline to finish the bid for the port job.

He frowned. Can you do them today?

Only if they take priority over your meeting reports from last week. And your own letters.

He sat back in his chair and thought a minute.

I guess we’ll have to get him his own secretary, he said. "Maybe a trainee? I’ll rough out a want ad for the News-Pilot."

He brought it to me that afternoon. George will interview the candidates, he said. Then he’ll give you the résumés and you can check references for him. I’m going to be out in the field for a couple of days, so I told George to decide which one to hire.

I could have told Mr. Giannini they weren’t going to line up in the street for what he was paying. I didn’t bother. He wasn’t so bad, as bosses go, but talking to him about money was wasting my breath.

Go ahead and put up the Christmas tree this afternoon, he said. Make the office nice for the applicants.

I stifled a laugh. Partly surprise — I hadn’t decorated my own house that year, and I’d sort of forgotten about Christmas. My daughter Angela had left in the fall for graduate school at Berkeley, and I’d decided not to fuss for just my husband and me. I was busy redecorating Angie’s old room anyway, to use as a sewing room. So, I wasn’t exactly tuned in to Christmas, the way I usually was. Besides, the office wasn’t likely to be any cheerier with a dingy fake tree set up.

But I pulled it out, like I did every year, and decorated it with our garage-sale ornaments and a garland of paper clips. No lights or presents — nothing festive about it at all. In fact, that piece of green plastic junk was about enough to make you cry.

The only girl who came in for the ad looked like she might do that very thing. Probably not on account of the tree — she looked sad when she came in. Her blonde hair hung as limp as her thrift-shop dress. George talked to her awhile in his office. Then he turned and pranced out like Mr. Big Man. Through his window, I saw her hesitate for a second, watching him. With a fast flick of her hands, she tucked a sheet of paper into her purse. She scurried to catch up as he swaggered to my desk.

Lacey, this is Kathy. She’s going to be my secretary. Get her set up, would you? George didn’t give a last name for either one of us. Maybe he didn’t know we had them. Since he always acted that way, I’d had a plastic sign made for my desk: Lacey Greer.

He went back to his office. The girl and I looked each other over. She peeked at my sign.

I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Greer, she said. Kathy Woodbridge.

Southern accent. Not that I thought southerners were necessarily any more prejudiced than California whites. But I didn’t want to work with any redneck either. She seemed okay, though — not all closed in. I thought she’d be fine.

Happy to have you. George needs someone. I can’t do all his work. Did you ever work for a contractor before? I smiled at her, hoping to encourage her a little.

She didn’t look especially encouraged. Not really, she said.

I didn’t press it. I figured she was about twenty. Most likely she hadn’t worked much of anywhere. George hadn’t given me any references to check, just flat-out hired her. I hoped she could type, at least.

When do you start? I asked, remembering I still had to clean up the mess on the extra desk.

Monday.

I’ll have the desk ready for you. Construction paperwork isn’t too hard. I’ll show you.

Thanks. I’ll see you Monday. She held out her hand for me to shake. It was small, cold, and soft. She frowned at the Christmas tree and went out the door. I wouldn’t have been one bit surprised if she never came back.

•

She came on Monday, though, right on time. Her dress was another Goodwill special, and her shoes had the shape of someone else’s feet. But she’d tried to make herself presentable. Her hair was fixed in a braid down her back, and she’d put on lipstick. It was mostly chewed off, but at least she’d made the effort.

Here’s your Social Security forms. Go ahead and fill them out on the typewriter. I motioned toward the other desk. A form’s about the hardest thing to type, and I wanted to see if she’d do a decent job. She did it perfectly, and fast, too. I tried not to show my surprise.

When she was done, I showed her around the office. Supplies are in this closet. This door is the copy room. The break room is over there. We keep a pot of coffee on for Mr. Giannini all the time. Did you bring your lunch? There’s no good place to eat around here.

No, I didn’t know I could.

Oh, yes. I do, nearly every day. But today I’m going to drive to a coffee shop over on Gaffey. Let me treat you. It stuck out all over that she was broke. I had a sack lunch in the refrigerator, but it would keep. If Mr. Giannini minded us both being gone at once, he could put up with it for one day.

She did filing all morning. When lunchtime came, I drove us. She didn’t have a car.

Where do you live? I asked as I pulled out of the lot, dodging one of the mixer trucks. I was hoping her place wasn’t too far away. Buses in L.A. were unreliable. I didn’t want to get stuck with someone who was late every day.

Down the street.

On Pacific Avenue?

Pacific and Eighth. I just moved in. I found an apartment above The Mystic Eye.

That floored me. Pacific Avenue was not a good neighborhood, especially for a little white girl. Now, I knew the woman who owned The Mystic Eye. I wasn’t a customer — no way I’d ever fall for her hoodoo. But I knew her well enough to speak to. Her real name was Marilu Collins, but she called herself Madame Sofia. Knows all, sees all, tells all. Well, the tells all part was true.

But Pacific Avenue — I glanced sideways at Kathy. I was sure she didn’t know what she was getting into. For such a small place, San Pedro definitely had its neighborhoods, and she’d picked the tough one.

The street wasn’t bad on the north end, the industrial section where Giannini’s was. South of us were thrift shops and discount, shabby but safe. At Pacific and Sixth, my husband and some other men had put together a little automotive mall. The next few blocks were probably not too bad — in the daytime, anyway.

But beyond there, the neighborhood got rough. Rough and smutty, and not all the girls standing on corners were waiting for the bus. Winos hung around outside the bars and spare-changed everyone who walked by. As if anybody would be stupid enough to give them a cent.

On the south, Pacific Avenue dead-ended at the ocean — no beach, only a chain-link fence with reflectors and warning signs. No one but bums and gangs went past that fence. A long time ago, that end of the street was a nice neighborhood, but then there was a landslide. Most of the homes got pulled back and moved to other lots, but the paving and the building footings stayed, broken and scattered down a steep slope. They called it the Sunken City.

Kathy didn’t look like the kind of girl who belonged on Pacific Avenue at all.

When we got to the coffee shop, the waiter gave us a table at the back. Kathy ordered the cheapest item on the menu, a cheese sandwich. I didn’t know if she was in the habit of eating cheap, or if she was being considerate because I was treating. I ordered a burger and a big side of fries for us to split. She was too thin. And she was nearly the same age as my daughter.

As we ate lunch, I tried to find out a little more about her. Where are you from? I asked.

Evanston, Illinois.

This caught my attention — she sure sounded like a southerner to me. A lot like my mother’s family. No Illinois there at all.

But you have a southern accent?

My parents are from the South.

I played along. What took them to Illinois?

My dad teaches at Northwestern University.

I bought the university part, at least. It made sense she was a professor’s kid. Shy, kind of correct, not sure of herself. Teacher, yes. Evanston, no. Not my business, I thought. But I wondered why she’d bother lying to me.

What brought you to California?

The climate, I guess. I’d always heard about it.

She ate a piece of pie I’d ordered for her and gazed out the window. If weather was what she’d come for, she was getting her money’s worth. Even in December, it was about seventy-five degrees and the sky was almost the color of a bachelor button. Matched her eyes. She would have been a pretty little thing if she’d fixed herself up some.

When we got back to the office, I set her to copying a big stack of contracts. While she was busy in the copy room, I pulled her employment application, trying to see where she was from. But she’d put Marilu Collins as who to notify in case of emergency, and the education and experience sections weren’t filled out. She’d written Attached across the spaces where those things were supposed to be, but nothing was attached. I went into George’s office and searched through the papers on his desk. All I found there was specifications for concrete.

As far as our records were concerned, Kathy Woodbridge had no past at all.

~ 3 ~

December 1974

San Pedro

Kathy

I liked being alone in the building at Eighth and Pacific after the shop closed. When I lived with Richard, there were always people around us, and unless they were friends of ours, I had to worry about what they might do.

When we first moved to New Orleans, we lived in a rooming house, a sagging wood building at the far end of Bourbon Street. It was a dump, but we were lucky to have it. The first two places we’d tried, the landlords said they’d just accepted someone else. We were sure they were lying, but what could we do? I’d gone alone to apply for this room, and the manager had rented it to me. But now he’d seen Richard, and we were afraid he’d kick us out on the smallest pretext.

One night we got home so late, we started tiptoeing when we were two houses away. Shushing each other, bumping through the unlit hallway like clumsy burglars, we crept upstairs to our room. Even after the door was shut behind us, we tried to be quiet. We didn’t dare turn on the lamp — the manager might see light coming through the transom and get mad about it.

Richard was silent, invisible in the dark. I guessed where he must