The Vodka Queen who lived at the top of the hill smiled little for an old lady. It wasn’t that she was unpleasant or rude, but she’d make you work for that first smile of the day. And the smile was worth it. She smiled with her eyes and her mouth, her cheeks puffed out to form sunburned islets that passed the waves of wrinkles from one to the other. How often you got the smile depended largely on your age and what you’d been up to.
Her hands contorted inward, as if through time they decided to serve only two purposes – to hold a pencil and to hold a highball glass. Her knuckles creaked and popped when taken out of their resting positions; brittle oak branches wrapped loosely with a sheer film of skin that dangled the way arm fat does in a Walmart queue.
She dressed inappropriately for someone of her advanced age, in that she wore blouses and pants instead of sleeping garments and orthopedics. You could say she was too proud to dress informally, but pride had nothing to do with it. She just didn’t want anybody to think she was disrespectful of their attention. And the Vodka Queen got a lot of attention.
The sky deferred to her, it seemed. Deep blue hues would melt away at their first sight of her, yielding to yellow, then nothing but the clearest blue you’ve ever seen. Pinks and oranges and purples would celebrate the first Wawona of the day, eventually tiring as she made her way inside for the evening.
The sky turned grey the day she died. It cried at her funeral.
Then she came back.
***
Astros @ Blue Jays
Thursday, July 25 – 6:07pm
Bedard (3-7) vs Buehrle (5-7)
Friday, July 26 – 6:07pm
Lyles (4-4) vs Dickey (8-11)
Saturday, July 27 – 12:07pm
Keuchel (4-5) vs Johnson (1-6)
Sunday, July 28 – 12:05pm
Cosart (1-0) vs Redmond (1-1)
***
I hadn’t been to the neighborhood since her funeral, but I was in town for business and had the day off. I parked on Highland Ave, not far from the walk-street, and watched the waves for a long time. This was the beach of my childhood – Galveston and Bolivar were closer, sure, but I went there to fish. I came to Manhattan Beach to play.
I turned down 4th Street and dodged parked and passing cars until the lanes ended at a series of thick concrete posts, each about waist-high. I remember climbing atop these to get a better view of the ocean in my youth, when they seemed to tower above all else. Now they only served as a barrier for oncoming traffic, which kept the walk-street clean and, more importantly, safe for families.
If you walked the length of the block you’d see decades-old bungalows giving way to multi-tiered mansions – each clamoring to rise above next to achieve a better view of the water. This proved difficult in many cases, as the hill sharply descended from one end to the other. Dozens of feaux-Tuscan skyscrapers now sprouted from the surface, like weeds through cracks in a driveway – new, ugly and completely out of place.
I didn’t have to go far, though, before I found the Vodka Queen’s house. Her two daughters kept the place in the family, opting to keep a link to the past instead of selling to another stucco enthusiast. So there it sat, quiet, clean and unchanged. But not lifeless, I thought. I pondered going inside.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The ocean responded in kind, with an exhale that carried a fresh salty breeze over the surface of the beach, up the hill and past the pink roses that still bloomed in front of me. The combination of smells dropped my shoulders, fluttered my eyelids and seeped into my skin. I sighed and continued the conversation.
A voice snapped me out of serenity and beckoned me over.
I hadn’t seen Marsha since that rainy day six years ago, and we embraced like family. Years of sun and toil scrunched her face to something altogether unrecognizable, like rings of ripples without a splash, but I knew her voice and, of course, knew where she lived. I took a seat on her patio.
Another benefit of a walk-street is that everybody had a patio on their front porch and, it being southern California, the weather always cooperated. So if you were, say, retired and had nothing better to do, you’d sit on your patio all day. Because of this, the neighborhood became a community, and the community became a family.
Marsha had gone inside to grab us refreshments, and I took the time to stare at the Vodka Queen’s patio next door. My eyes strained to find some movement, some ghostly sign of the afterlife, not knowing what I would ever do if I succeeded. Nothing.
Marsha came out with two highball glasses in her hands – Wawonas. The drink was named after a hotel outside of Yosemite’s valley where the Vodka Queen spent her summers with her daughters and grandchildren. It was a simple mixture – vodka and pink lemonade – but it tasted clean and crisp and packed a punch. It probably carries another name in the bartending world, but in this world, on this street, in this family, it was called a Wawona.
I knew why she brought them out. “Is she really still here?” I asked.
“Of course she is. She was standing next to you just a moment ago.”
***
Injury Report
Blue Jays
JA Happ – Yeuk
Drew Hutchison – Botanophobia
Brandon Morrow – Jumping Frenchmen of Maine
Ramon Ortiz – Water-Elf Disease
Luis Perez – Galactorrhea
Sergio Santos – Witzelsucht
Astros
Trevor Crowe – right shoulder
Edgar Gonzalez – right shoulder
Alex White – Yep. Still out.
***
The afternoon filled with neighbors coming by to say hi and catch up on old times. They’d ask about my mother, ask about my kids, ask about my cousins. Age isn’t kind to those who spend their days outside, but what weakens the outside only strengthens the inside. They were genuinely happy to see me and genuinely interested in our conversations.
I kept searching for the Vodka Queen. I’ve always been afraid of ghosts, just the mere thought of someone – something – watching me without my knowledge creeps me out. That they had died and lingered only exacerbated the feeling. But I wanted to see her again. Needed to.
I asked Marsha, my impromptu guide to all things paranormal, what to look for. “You’ll know it when you see her,” was all I’d get in response, and I began to entertain ideas about entering the house. But the Wawonas were sinking in and it was nice outside, so I put it off and tried to enjoy myself.
***
Promotions
Sunday – MR. SUB Cooler Bag to the first 20,000. Don’t know if it carries over to the next game.
***
The rest of the day carried on in normal fashion. People came and went, a mother and son walked past us on the way to the beach, a seagull alighted on a lamppost and watched us. Life continued without asking permission or asking forgiveness. For the first time I felt the pull of responsibility, like a toddler tugging at my sleeve to get up and go back to the hotel.
Six years ago I came to grips with the fact that I would never see the Vodka Queen again, and once again I felt the familiar stabbing grief. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – see the ghost today. It was an outlandish idea anyway. I believed it only because I wanted to believe it and these poor people were doing just the same. And besides, even if it was true, I sure as hell wasn’t going in that house at night.
I stood up and thanked Marsha for the drinks and the relaxing afternoon. The hours were waning and the sun was beginning to duck behind the Pacific. She looked at me with pity.
“You still can’t see her, can you?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve been looking all over, looking for something that doesn’t belong in this world, looking for some sort of supernatural sign, and I’ve got nothing.”
“Look again,” she said, “and tell me what you see.”
I sighed. “I see you. I see the Vodka Queen’s house. I see Marv and Shirley sitting on their patio. Sally and Jack, too. And there’s Peter, over there is Cassidy and Heather. Brady is just coming up from the beach. I don’t know the people down the street, but they’re out, too. Someone’s cocker spaniel is loose. The sun is setting. Are you getting all of this?”
“Are you?”
“Clearly I am!” I said.
“No you’re not. You’re looking for something supernatural. You’re looking for something that doesn’t belong. You’re looking for something that isn’t. Look at all of these people. Look at that seagull. Look at the sunset. Look inside yourself. The Vodka Queen, as you call her, is what drew us together in the first place. She was the constant – she was the rock. In this family of neighbors, she was our grandmother. We all see her.”
I closed my eyes and inhaled again. Then I opened my eyes, for the first time all day, and saw my Grandma Pat.
She was here. And she was smiling.