Outside the hospital, I said good-bye to Derek. He had heard from Gunther, who was insisting on exploring more wineries. Derek muttered something about conducting a more thorough vetting of clients next time; then he took off to join the demanding Gunther and head to points north.
Alice and I followed Mom back to Dharma for dinner. Because of Gabriel’s situation, the meal was a somber affair. I wanted to ask my dad about his trip to the Hindu Kush and find out how well he knew Gabriel, but again, it wasn’t the time or place. The rest of the family didn’t know Gabriel well, but the very thought of such a violent attack occurring in our peaceful little town was upsetting to all of us.
Sunday morning back in the city, I threw on jeans, a turtleneck, tennies, and a peacoat and walked three blocks to South Park, one of San Francisco’s hidden neighborhood treasures and my favorite place for a leisurely breakfast.
The park was a block-long patch of green grass with picnic tables and a small playground at one end. The green was an island surrounded by small storefront businesses, shops, restaurants, and Victorian-style apartments. Like many San Francisco neighborhoods, South Park was a mix of chic and charm with a hint of scruffiness around the edges. During the day, people strolled the sidewalks and parents pushed their kids on the swings. At night, the homeless skulked in with their bags and blankets and took over the park for their sleeping quarters.
My personal choice for best Sunday brunch was a little French bistro at the far end of the green, where I always ordered French toast with a slice of succulent Niman Ranch ham, lots of syrup and butter, and café au lait.
I sat outside, where the air was cold but the sun was shining. The Chronicle was spread across my table so I could read the latest news as I ate my breakfast and zoned out on the background hum of political discussions, French jazz, and children screaming for joy on the nearby swings.
Back home, the rest of the day passed in a quiet blur except for one highlight: a long Sunday-afternoon phone conversation with Derek. At times I felt like a teenager, smiling and sighing at what he said. Despite having seen him the day before, we had a lot to catch up on.
When I was young and received a phone call from a boy, there would always be those long lapses while we both searched desperately for something to say. There was none of that with Derek. It seemed as though we’d never run out of things to talk about. When we finally ended the call, I felt as though I’d spent an hour on a quiet tropical island of calm. Well, calm except for that little spark of sexual tension that ran through the conversation and caused my nerves to quiver nonstop.
Monday morning, I was pouring my first cup of coffee when I remembered I had a funeral to attend. Dismayed, I raced to get ready, dressed in my best black suit, grabbed my coat and headed out for Colma.
I didn’t berate myself too badly for forgetting Layla’s funeral. I’d had plenty of distractions over the weekend. I pumped up KFOG and drove onto the freeway. The drive was relatively painless since I was going against all the traffic streaming into the city.
Colma is a suburb south of San Francisco, located just beyond Daly City, and is where most San Franciscans go to be buried. It’s a pretty little town, but is known far and wide as the necropolis of San Francisco.
Essentially, a necropolis was exactly what Colma was established as. It all started back in 1900, when the geographically minuscule city of San Francisco began running out of space to bury its dead. Cemeteries were banned because the city needed room to house the living.
Nowadays, there are so many cemeteries in Colma that even the Chamber of Commerce admits that the dead outnumber the living. The citizens seem to take their reputation in stride since their official town motto is “It’s good to be alive in Colma.”
I followed directions to Holy Cross Mortuary and found the chapel where they were holding Layla’s memorial service. It was a good turnout, with close to three hundred people gathered in the modern glass-walled hall. Layla would be pleased at the turnout, I thought.
The sun poured in, lending the proceedings a natural lightness that Layla might not have earned were she still alive. I didn’t mean that to be harsh. It’s just that there were a lot more grins and handshakes and business being attended to than any tearful mourning of the dead.