12 Bliss Street Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Copyright

  For Richard, John Henry, and Lily, and for my mom, in memory

  Acknowledgments

  My grateful thanks to Alice Boatwright, Richard Conway, Christian Crumlish, Maggie Gifford, Jim Henry, Sonia Lagan, Katie McGlade, Carol Manning, Briggs Nisbet, Kelley Ragland, Miriam Gamoran Sherin, Bill Spieth, the Spiethsteins, Matt Williams, and, especially, Richard Frankel.

  One

  After her divorce Nicola began buying lingerie: dark blue contour bras, demi bras in little-girl white, embroidered bustiers, stretch mesh chemises, and a red girdle with removable garters that the catalog listed as a Jolly Susan. She wore silk panties to work and at night bathed in almond oil baths, the scent of which reminded her of the young boy in Istanbul who sold her husband a wallet. That had been their last trip together as a couple, a belated sort of honeymoon. But it was just another mistake, along with the home haircare pyramid scheme, the water bed, and Scooter’s office fling (if you could call a video-delivery van an office), all of which led to Nicola’s increasing awareness that her husband was unstable and not in the fun way.

  They were together for four years and the no-fault was final four years ago. Nicola married Scooter (Scott, as she tried calling him in the last months) straight out of college, confusing his exuberance for joie de vivre, but as it turned out it was more like the excess of someone in panic. They moved to San Francisco with a group of friends who once a year rented a Winnebago and drove to Tahoe naked, for fun. Nicola was now thirty-one, still living in San Francisco, and had fantasies of sitting in a bar wearing a bustier under her business suit. And where were her friends? Back in New York, back in Michigan, back in Louisville, back with their families or doing time in obscure cities for career reasons, all respectable, all buying, she supposed, one hundred percent cotton underwear.

  Sometimes when her boss corrected her in a meeting (usually erroneously), Nicola shifted just a little to feel the silk of her panties slide over her skin. The feeling was better than chocolate.

  * * *

  The morning Nicola saw or thought she saw Scooter again after almost three years she was sitting on a San Francisco muni train wearing a new chocolate-colored silk bra with a matching teddy under her work blouse. In her purse was a notice of eviction. Nicola kept taking the paper out and looking at it, then putting it back in its envelope thinking, I can’t think about this now, and then taking it out again. She worried by nature; this was one of the things she disliked about herself. Also her need to plan, weak arms, and a tendency to be polite rather than truthful. She had dark shoulder-length hair, very straight, and straight dark eyebrows. There was something Asian about her appearance, an illusion, though she liked to wear short flared trousers when she could find them.

  Nicola looked at the letter again. It seemed so final, so here it is and there is nothing more to say. Frustration clutched her stomach like hunger. She loved her home; she did not want to move. She did not want anything to change. After she left Scooter stability seemed much more appealing, and Nicola had become very habitual over the last few years. Every morning she power-walked on the raised bicycle path along the beach, visited her dog Lester, who lived with her friend Audrey (Nicola’s landlord wouldn’t let Lester in the house), then rode the muni train to work. It was an easy commute, only fifteen minutes, even in traffic. The train went straight up Taraval Street, leaving the ocean behind for coin laundries and manicure shops, copy shops, liquor stores, Chinese herbalists, an Italian restaurant that served Hawaiian entrees on the first Monday of the month. Nicola looked out the window while soft beautiful women waited on the corner like Chinese angels with their hands on their hips. Why should she give any of this up? When she lived downtown it took her fifty-five minutes door to door by the express.

  At West Portal the train entered a closed station that led to a tunnel; this was her stop. As she waited for the doors to open, she noticed a smallish man on the opposite platform wearing a large brown overcoat. He was in profile, and it took a moment to register. Then all at once she turned to fully face him, willing him to turn too. He didn’t turn; he stood still, facing the mouth of the tunnel. Nicola climbed off her train just as another train came in—“Scooter?” she called, but the noise level was too high. She turned and went for the escalator, hoping to get a closer look, but the train just in from the tunnel opened its doors and the man got on and sat in a seat facing away from her. Nicola rode up the gritty escalator anyway, crossing over to the next platform and coming back down to see if she could get a better look from this side? But his train was pulling away.

  “Scooter? Scott?” she called again thinking some of the windows might be cracked open, but the man did not move his head and although she began to run she couldn’t catch up with him.

  * * *

  Nicola worked as a design engineer at an Internet design company called Slash Dezine with offices just three blocks away from the West Portal station. Most of her coworkers were under twenty-five, addicted to sugar and caffeine, and could sleep four hours a night and yet still wake up with great-looking skin. Today was Friday, which meant a CPR meeting—customer project review—at ten A.M. sharp. This was actually difficult to get going since most of the staff straggled in around noon, then worked until one or two in the morning. The exception was her boss, Guy, who was almost for sure at least forty and who had dark, curly hair only slightly too long and long sideburns and was altogether very seventies looking. Nicola had been slightly attracted to him before she realized he was an asshole.

  “Head count,” said Guy. “Where’s Rick?”

  Nicola sat down across from Audrey, her closest friend and the one who had basically gotten her this job two years ago. Eleven of them—everyone but Rick and Alia, the CEO, who was at a Death by Yoga retreat—were sitting around a table in the small conference room overlooking another building’s exhaust system. Alia’s father owned the building and let them use the third floor almost for free. A group of dental offices took up the second floor and, at street level, there was a beloved coffee shop, which paid an enormous rent to make up for the third-floor write-off.

  “Okay, Rick is off the team,” Guy said. “Just kidding. Okay, who’s coffee girl? Laney, are you coffee girl?”

  “How ’bout a coffee boy, ever hear of one of those?”

  “You are so retro,” Guy told her. He sneezed. “Just bring in the whole pot and everything.”

  He was the only one who drank office coffee; the others sat around the conference table holding oversized cardboard cups from the cafe downstairs. Laney came back in with a glass coffeepot and one mug and set them down in front of
Guy, who sneezed again. He had some kind of nasal-sinus-histamine problem and some days sneezed almost continuously, often violently enough to leave the room, yet he never carried a tissue. There were times when Nicola thought, if he sprays my keyboard one more time.… Recently she began keeping hygienic baby wipes on her desk.

  “Ah, God,” Guy said. He unscrewed the top to his prescription nasal spray with hydrocortisone (or was it something silicon based?) which acted as a protective buffer between his sinuses and the outside world of pollen, dust mites, and airborne dander by thoroughly coating his nasal passages with something or other—“like hair implants,” as Nicola’s coworker, Audrey, explained.

  “Ah, God, okay,” Guy said again. He took another shot of his inhaler and shook his head a few times—maybe to distribute the spray more evenly?—then turned stiffly toward Nicola.

  “Nicola,” he said. “What’s the word on Concentric Circles? Figure out the confetti problem?”

  She put down her coffee. “Well, as I explained in my memo—”

  “What memo?”

  “Yesterday’s memo. In your box.”

  “Okay, I didn’t get it, but go on.”

  Nicola paused. If she was too technical, Guy would have to pretend to understand and that pissed him off.

  “We basically have to do a goNetURI and call in an outside program.” She listed a couple of animation programs that Guy always blocked.

  “Why can’t the browser handle it?”

  “There’s a bug and almost half the time it crashes.”

  Guy wrote something down.

  “Go Net whatever is not right,” he said. “You should use a mouse-over command, but in any case, you can figure the specifics out later.”

  She had figured it out, it was goNetURI. Nicola felt a familiar wave of frustration and she moved herself slightly on the seat to feel her silk panties while Guy listed his usual technical grievances and why her solution might not work. He really was awful. His wife had been in a girl band in the eighties and now sold facial treatments over the Internet, and they had one little boy who also had some serious allergy problems—or was it a learning disability, or that problem where every so often you forget to breathe? Nicola couldn’t remember exactly, but she tried to keep little Guy, Jr., or whatever his name was in her mind while Guy was sneezing on her and explaining how she was, once again, wrong. But it was hard. Her friend Audrey was too afraid of him to roll her eyes, but you could see that she wanted to. Only Laney provoked him openly, and they were probably having an affair.

  Rick came in at last and Guy treated him to a paragraph of friendly abuse and then began to question him about college basketball and they laughed about some coach for ten seconds or so at which point Nicola shifted her attention back to herself. She thought about Scooter, then the eviction notice, then Scooter again. The man in the overcoat could not have been him. When had she ever seen Scooter out of his jean jacket? Though it was pretty cold out. The conference room window was decorated with a string of red chili pepper lights—it was Christmastime, which meant rain. Her eviction notice, served to her that morning by an overweight man with a ponytail, had come in a red envelope. A malicious joke, or did they always come that way?

  Nicola took a sip of her coffee. There was one thing she did know: she would never find a house as good as the one she had now. A workman’s cottage they called it, ninety years old and hidden from the street behind a larger family house. She had lived there for four years and the rent, which was absurdly low to begin with, had never gone up. A similar place could go for over three times as much in this market. Maybe more.

  “So we set on that, Nicola?” Guy was saying. “Hello?”

  “What?” Nicola looked up—she had missed the segue back.

  Guy snapped his fingers. “Come on, come on.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’m set,” Nicola said. She picked up her pen. “Test a mouseover command? I’m set.”

  “Jesus, I was talking about Fred,” Guy said. He looked at Laney and rolled his eyes. Nicola felt her face grow warm.

  “He called me this morning,” Guy said again. “He wants me to sit in on your next meeting.”

  “He wants you to sit in?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “But you haven’t even seen the latest milestone!”

  “Well, Fred tells me you’re hard to work with.”

  Nicola stared at him. “What?”

  “I know, I know.” Guy laughed, and Nicola felt her face get even redder. “But I was thinking about it and I thought, maybe you just need to smile more.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, smile, be nice. He’s a good client. I’m just saying.”

  “You think if I smile that will solve all of Fred’s problems?” Nicola asked.

  “I’m just saying.”

  “And yet I’ve never seen you smile in my life,” Nicola said.

  Guy raised his eyebrows. “You can be a little sharp,” he said. “People don’t like that.”

  “I just … I want to get the job done. I want it to be good. Fred and I are actually on the same side on this.”

  “No, Fred is on the paying side.”

  “He wants certain features and when we deliver he decides he wants something else,” Nicola told him. “He’s like a man who keeps arguing with his architect: take down this wall. It doesn’t matter how often we explain that then the whole structure will collapse.”

  “Why are you fighting me?” Guy asked.

  Because I’m right, Nicola thought.

  “Just, be nice when you tell him something won’t work,” he said, and he brought out his inhaler. “Smile, flirt with him a little if you have to.”

  I can’t believe this, Nicola thought.

  “Otherwise,” Guy said, “I’ll have to sit in, and you know how I hate to sit in. I remember all the times I’m forced to sit in when I’m cutting the bonuses.”

  Was that a threat? I practically run this whole business, Nicola thought, and she looked across the table at Audrey, who raised a pierced eyebrow back. Nicola fought the temptation to say what she felt, a familiar feeling. She was from a hardworking family, a family of professionals, all of them smart and patient and willing to try difficult tasks. Her father ran his own cement business; her mother was a speech therapist who specialized in children with head traumas. Nicola grew up in a large stone house in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, and although they had plenty of money she and her brothers went to neighborhood schools—or, as her mother put it, they supported the public school system. Nicola was the middle child, the neat one, the only girl. At seven she was reading to blind children on Saturday afternoons while across the hall her mother fund-raised for upgraded equipment for them. She was raised to be productive, useful, helpful, organized—in short, valued for her abilities.

  And now she was being asked to, what, smile?

  “So, before we move on,” Guy continued, holding his inhaler out like a pipe, “let’s go over Nicola’s tasks. One, test browser solutions before you go all geeky on me. And two, smile. Simple, right? I’m sure you have a lovely smile.”

  Nicola looked at Audrey again then looked back at Guy.

  “Don’t you have a lovely smile?” Guy asked her.

  She smiled.

  “Lovely,” Guy said. “Let’s move on.”

  He turned to Rick again and Nicola felt her face stiffen with embarrassment. What an unbelievable asshole. And he was so wrong about the browser solution. He was just so consistently wrong. She would have to do what she usually did: fix the problem and show Guy the result and then listen to Guy tell her that since it was fixed, okay, but really she could have saved a lot of time by doing something or other else. Mostly she tried not to think too much about it, but the day was fairly crappy already at only ten twenty-five A.M. and she felt annoyed and sick of the whole game. Nicola looked around the stainless-steel table at everyone waiting for their share of abuse, while Guy sneezed again violently (his bowed head pra
ying over his coffee cup) and she thought if I were his son I’d hold my breath too.

  Two

  The morning did not get any better. When she got back to her desk Nicola found e-mail messages from three customers: one had a crashed disk and asked if she could send thirty-five pieces of artwork all over again; one hadn’t paid for their last job and wanted Nicola to “rethink the billing”; and one who called her incompetent.

  Nicola stared at the word on the screen. He actually wrote the word incompetent. How could he say that when last month she customized a java program that solved a problem no one at his company had been able to solve?

  She looked up at the whiteboards above her desk, where part of the code she had written for him was still visible. Nicola shared a room with five other people: Audrey, the Web master; Christian, Andrew, and Louise, the other designers; and Carlos, an artist. Their desks, wooden tables with two or sometimes three computers on each, were divided from each other by industrial metal shelving. Aside from the computer equipment everything in the room was fairly low end—Christian’s desk, for instance, was held together by a bungee cord. Still, it was a beautiful space: high ceilings, a skylight, and along one entire wall a stained oak bookshelf that Audrey made when the company was first getting started, five years ago. Guy had his own office, Alia and her assistant, Laney, sat in the large front room looking out over the street, and the rest of them shared two rooms in the back. Everyone had their own plastic toys and water pistols and user manuals and extra cables or modems, everyone had the same trouble finding the perfect pencil or an empty storyboard page, but they all shared whatever they had. There was a lovely green velvet recliner in the corner where you could sit, flip through a magazine, take a break. Next to it stood a fan that ran without a knocking sound unless it was really, really hot.

  Bastard. That code was beautiful, so simple and useful. Nicola made herself compose a polite reply back, answering his charges one by one, but as the morning wore on she became hungry and less and less patient. Her head felt like a heavy, porous rock steeped in toxic thoughts and even coffee didn’t help, though she tried it many times.