Two young sisters, maybe ages six and three, screamed in the front yard as their parents blew soap bubbles into the summer air. Catching the falling light, the bubbles spun and danced, and with each new bunch blossoming from the wands, the girls chased after the floaters, following dizzying patterns, to capture with claps or open hands the ephemeral and shout with delight at each surprising pop. When the sun had nearly set, the fireflies began to appear, blinking their small lights on the lawn and in the boxwood and fragrant rosebush. The little sisters shadowed these insects, running after the slow erratic flights with outstretched arms to lure one to their fingers or clamp down on one struggling along a blade of grass. Their squeals upon capturing each bug sounded like ecstatic sirens, and they brought every prisoner to their waiting parents to show them the green glow in the cave of their tiny fists, and then, with a shake, released each into the June sky. From across the street, I had watched this comedy unfold, spying on the young family while I pretended to listen to one of the guests at our cookout drone on about marinades. My girlfriend, Sita, was trapped on the other end of the deck by two men from the architectural firm. They wooed her with a story about kayaking down the Potomac River. I longed for her to come join me on the chaise longue and watch the girls chase fireflies. But as the stars appeared in the night, the parents rose and called their daughters inside. My coworker began to explicate aromatic rubs and the Zen of the Maillard Reaction. Sita seemed enthralled by the pair of office goofs. The moment passed, as it always does.
Fingers long and thin and stained with ink and nicotine flashed before my eyes. The old man was fanning his hand before me to see if I was awake or had fallen into some trance. The bubbles that lately had filled the air had disappeared, though the crowd of people in the bathroom was still real as ever. Four of the women stood at the cardinal points of the room’s compass, and Flo slouched, disconsolate, on the edge of the tub. She seemed to be speaking of me when she eulogized the late Mr. Worth.
“I can forgive anything but laziness in a man. Show me a man without ambition, and I’ll show you a living corpse. Sure, he had his ups and downs, what else is life? But to give up like that, to crawl into bed and never try, well, it’s a form of cowardice, isn’t it? I’d take a crooked man, a liar, a brute, a fake, a cheat over the lazy man. Give up on yourself, okay, but give up on the rest of your responsibilities?”
Dolly leaned forward and stuck the jut of her jaw into the cradle of her hand. “So, whatever happened to her?”
“Lived for years in that house and was well known around the city as that old lady with the red box, which she carried everywhere she went. Perished, like so many, in the great quake of aught-six, and when they found her, buried in the rubble of the octagon house, she still had that lacquer box clutched in her hands, had to pry it off her. Funny thing, when they opened it, all they found was an old comb, a silver pocket watch, and a rusty straight razor. Not a cent. She’d put it all in the bank and a few stocks and made do off the interest. Left a small fortune to the Chinese American Benevolent Society.”
The last bit of her story made me remorseful for the hardship and loneliness she had to endure those final decades, and at the same time, I was pleased to learn that she had held on to both the box and the money. And as an architect, I was further delighted to learn that the eight-sided house withstood nearly sixty years of earthquakes, not to mention the hole in the wall. They certainly don’t make them like they used to. Almost by instinct, I began sketching in my imagination the plans for a modern octagon house of two stories and an attic, and thus engaged, I slipped away into the comfort of my mind. Perhaps it was the example of the man so desperate for nothing more than a bed, but an enormous fatigue settled into my bones, and I may have fallen asleep, for the next thing I remember was the sound of the old man’s fingersnapping next to my ear.
“Wake up, Sonny. The night is young, and so are we.” The five women chuckled at his remark. “You were just about to relate how the dancing dames of the Old West were assaulting you with hugs and kisses.”