journalistâs home. Sheâs in one of the swankiest parts of the City, the Marina. The area was ravaged in certain parts by the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989. I figure thatâs how the journalist must have afforded it. He probably bought it condemned in 1990. Max Schwartz is a television critic for the San Mateo Times . In other words, as long as people can still read about television, Nana has a home.
I knock on her door. Nothing.
Knock again. Nothing.
Banging now. I think Nana is going deaf. âNana!â I shout.
âAre you looking for Mildred?â A voice from overhead calls after me. Itâs the TV dork. Heâs typical for what you imagine a journalist might look like. Fairly small in stature with a goatee trying to make him appear so anti-establishment; dark, closely-cropped hair; over sized glasses. But his strong, straight jaw is somewhat unexpected. He appears intellectual, but of course, he writes about todayâs television shows. Since critiquing Americaâs Top Model doesnât exactly attract the Pulitzer Prize Committee, heâs got a steady nine-to-five and not much opportunity for advancement. We have that much in common. A life without passion, but a job like the other drones in the Bay Area. The biggest difference? Heâs got a majestic view of the San Francisco Bay and a job after Monday. âDo you know where my grandmother is?â I shout up at him.
âSheâs up here. Iâm getting ready for the new television season.â
Sigh. And my Nana is up thereâwhy?
âSheâs making a roast chicken,â Max adds.
Of course she is. âCan I come up?â
âYeah.â He buzzes a gate, and I gain entry to his elitist iron staircase. At the top of the stairwell, he rubs his hand through his hair, then thrusts it toward me. Noticing his faux pas , he wipes his hand on his jeans and tries again.
I take his hand. âGood to see you, Max.â
âYou too, Lilly. Your grandmother was just talking about you. Saying youâre still trying the fashion thing.â
âYep, still working at it. Rome wasnât built in a day and all that.â
âHow long do you think youâll give it?â
I open my mouth, but nothing good will come out, so I snap it shut. I walk into Maxâs house, which is one-fifth living area, four-fifths television screen. My Nana is bent over the stove, a big commercial Wolf one, which is entirely strange, but considering the television, I question nothing. Nana has two oven mitts on her hands and props the chicken on the stovetop.
âNana, whatâs going on? I pounded on your door.â
âWhat do you mean, whatâs going on? I wasnât home. Itâs August. Nearly time for the new fall preview schedule. Do you live in a hole?â
âI just donât watch much TV.â I shrug to Max. âThe rabbit ears, you know. Itâs not really a season at my house.â I look at Max, and he winks at me. Oh brother.
âLook at that television.â Nana waves a wooden spoon out of the salad bowl towards the enormous flat screen that could double for a drive-in should they ever come back into vogue. âThe paper bought him that. Isnât that incredible? Our Max, he knows how to watch television.â
What a gift.
âLilly, have you met Valeria?â Max asks as a tall, lithe figure emerges from the living room easy chair. Sheâs got that exotic look, perhaps a mixture of Indian and something else. She could model if she didnât have such an expansive chest. Sigh.
âNice to meet you.â I smile at Valeria, rhymes with malaria, trying not to gaze down at my own chest. Or lack thereof. I suddenly feel very deflated and for more reasons than just Sara Lang.
âYour Nana has makes me right at home here in San Francisco. She makes me to learn to cook.â Valeriaâs broken English only makes her that much more exotic.
Sheâs
Dana Stabenow
JB Brooks
Tracey Martin
Jennifer Wilson
Alex Kotlowitz
Kathryn Lasky
M. C. Beaton
Jacqueline Harvey
Unknown
Simon Kernick