Martina Reaves - Im Still Here

Im Still Here

Copyright 2020, Martina Reaves

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2020

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-63152-876-7

ISBN: 978-1-63152-877-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019911280

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To
My wife Tanya Starnes
and
Our son Cooper Reaves

I ts the summer of 1969, uncommonly hot, no fog with a glaring sun. The air is still, like summer in New York or Chicago, but not San Franciscos usual June weather.

I wear yellow sandals and a very short shift, shocking pink with yellow stripes, which I made myself from a Simplicity pattern. On the corner of 18th and Sanchez, where I live in a flat with my high school friend Cindy, I see the J Church streetcar a block ahead. The driver rings the bell, and I run hard, making it just before the doors whoosh shut.

I settle into an old, worn, army-green seat and look out the window. Funky, decrepit Victorian buildings line the street on both sides. Market Street! the driver calls out. The streetcar slowly makes its way downtown. Third. Kearny. Geary. The next stop is mine. Im headed to work.

Greyhound Information, Miss Reaves, I purr into my headset. How may I help you? I try to make work fun by messing around with different voices. Last month, after two years at Pomona College, I decided to move to San Francisco and transfer to Cal for my junior year. Fortunately, I landed a summer job at Greyhound that pays $500 a month: enough for rent, food, clothing, entertainment, and then some. I feel prosperous and free.

The next bus leaves for Sacramento at 3 p.m., I tell the person on the other end of the line, and then they leave every hour on the hour until 8 p.m. I make a game out of the job. How many calls can I take in an hour? Once, I get to eighty.

Im off work at 9:45 p.m. By then, the fog has rolled in and I stand at First and Market, shivering in my summer clothes until the J Church streetcar arrives. I havent lived in the City long enough to know I should never leave the house without layers.

The driver has long blond hair. He wears a paisley scarf and next to his foot is a metal lunch box painted in bright psychedelic colors. Seated directly behind him is a Japanese woman, leaning forward with a straight back, a small, white, perfectly folded handkerchief in her hands. From time to time, she pats it against her smooth, pale face as she speaks slowly to the driver in Japanese. Intrigued, I watch from across the aisle.

I look for the streetcar driver again the next night, but no luck. Then, five nights later, he appears again, with the same lunch box, the same paisley scarf, this time with a satchel of books. Because theres nobody else in the car, I sit up front and ask him about his interest in Japanese. I lived in Japan, I tell him. My father was in the Navy, and we were stationed there. Its where I graduated from high school.

His name is David. My friend Yoshiko is teaching me Japanese while I help her with English, he says. Im getting an MA at San Francisco State in Teaching English as a Foreign Language. Since Im an Asian Studies major, we have lots to talk about.

Eighteenth and Church, he calls out, and I jump off and run home to my flat a block away.

I soon learn that he drives the J line by my stop two nights a week just after I get off work. After several weeks of chatting, David asks me to stay on board and have tea with him at the end of the line at 30th and Church. A ritual develops: I join him twice a week for tea and we talk about our lives, Japan, music, books. He appeals to me in so many ways: his long, lanky looks, our Japan connection, his mind. Hes older, of course. I peg him at twenty-nine or thirty, which would be a little old for me, but not enough to deter me. Because of his age, most likely, hes different. He really listens to me when we talk and takes my ideas seriously.

My son is coming to live with me, David tells me over tea at the end of the line one night.

Tell me about him, I say, trying to sound casual. I cant believe he has a child that I didnt know about!

Hes fifteen and wants to live with me instead of his mother. But my life isnt set up for him. I live in a studio. Everything will need to change. In my head, I quickly do the math. David must be at least thirty-five. Im a little stunned and disappointed.

I get off the streetcar at 18th and Church and walk home. My roommate Cindy is with our neighbors, John and Ron, in their downstairs flat. We think theyre gay, but its never discussed.

Holding my hand to my brow, I walk in their door and throw my vintage red velvet coat across the room. My streetcar driver has a fifteen-year-old son! I wail.

The boys laugh and ask me a few questions. Ive been riding on his streetcar for weeks, twice a week. We talk. Ive had my eye on him.

Whats his name? Ron asks.

David Patton.

Oh, my God! I know about him! I just read about him in the Chronicle this morning. Ron runs from the room and returns with the newspaper. Listen to this! Your streetcar driver not only has a son! Hes an Episcopal priest! He reads an excerpt from Herb Caens column. Herb thinks its funny that a priest drives the J Church streetcar looking like a hippie.

Reeling, I pull out Davids phone number from my huge canvas purse and go up to our flat to call him. Its the first time weve ever talked by phone, but I have to know the truth.

I hate people to know Im a priest, he says when I tell him I saw the story, because once they know, they never treat me the same. I have a little church on Mission where I preach on Sundays, but its part-time work. Im mostly out of the church now, since I got divorced.

Im both surprised by the news and relieved that hes finally opening up more about his life. Weve talked a lot about our current lives, but not much about the past.

The next time I see him, I get on his streetcar after work at 9:45. He invites me to come home with him, so I ride with him until the end of his shift at midnight. His studio is a small space on Octavia just off Market Street, sparsely furnished with a single bed, a music stand, a rug, a violin, and lots of books: cookbooks, poetry collections, and school texts. In the minuscule kitchen, his macrobiotic grains and vegetables are lined up, tidy and efficient. Its like a monks cell.

I sit on the single bed, the only space available, and within minutes were making love.

I ts 2008 and Im pacing around our kitchen, talking with Tanya, my partner of twenty-eight years. Shes lounged in a chair, her blue eyes on me, her compact body agitated. We have to let Cooper know, I say. Theres too much risk hell hear from someone else.