The Columbarium

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Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

The Columbarium is a real place, a designated landmark at One Lorraine Court in San Francisco.  A man named Emmitt Watson helped bring it back from a state of disrepair in the 1980’s. He works there still and calls himself a caretaker/historian. Reports of his accomplishments and the beauty and history of the building are what inspired me, but Jed and all of the characters in this novel, living or dead, and their personal stories, as well as the businesses and events depicted, are entirely fictitious and imagined.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Cover photographs by Andy Beetley-Hagler and Emily Gallo.

The author may be reached at [email protected]

http://emilygallo.blogspot.com/

ISBN-13: 978-1507591154

The Columbarium Copyright 2015 © by Emily Gallo

With much appreciation to my dear friend Tommy Sherwood for introducing me to the San Francisco Columbarium

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To my husband David for helping me pull this story together and then watching me change it a million times

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And my son Chris and daughter Eva just because

PROLOGUE

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White Night! White Night! Everyone to the pavilion right away! Your lives are in danger! Was this the real thing or another one of his cruel jokes, the ones he called rehearsals? We had been on our best behavior for the congressman and his entourage last night. We sang and danced and told them how much we loved being here and how wonderful father was. I asked my mother why she believed all this crap. She looked at me with vacant, fearful eyes but didn’t answer. She just held my baby sister tight to her chest. When his voice came over the loudspeaker, we knew we had to go. She took my hand and we walked to the pavilion.

When we got there, it was obvious that this was not a rehearsal. Armed guards stood along the perimeter and people were running and shouting and crying. I let go of my mother’s hand and told her I’d be back I ran outside to see what was going on. I heard people saying the congressman and others were dead. People had tried to leave. The guards were rounding people up and pushing them inside the pavilion. I could hear words coming over the loudspeaker.  They took us and put us in chains. They robbed us of our land. We tried to find a new beginning but it’s too late.  Don’t lay down with tears and agony. We must die with some dignity. Mother, mother, mother, mother, please. Mother, please, please, please. Don’t do this. Lay down your life with your child, but don’t do this. A boy screamed, No! and staggered out. He foamed at the mouth; his eyes popped out of his head. He fell face down and shook uncontrollably until his body shuddered one last time.

I had to find my mother and my sister. I ran inside to look for them. People screamed and sobbed while father’s slurred words pleaded over the loudspeaker. My throat burned and I couldn’t take a deep breath. It felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I finally saw my mother. She was pounding on a nurse who was pulling my sister out of her arms. I watched the nurse open my baby sister’s mouth and empty a syringe into it. I heard my mother scream Noooo! Then the nurse plunged the needle into my mother’s arm. My chest was pounding. I felt like I would explode. I knew that I had to run or I, too, would be poisoned.

I was quick and small enough to dart through the line of guards without being noticed. Their eyes were focused on the adults. Once I got past them, I ran toward the jungle. The bushes scratched my arms and legs.  My heart beat so fast I thought it would jump out of my body. I could barely swallow. Even my teeth throbbed. I gasped for breath but I didn’t stop. I ran and hid, too scared to think about what was happening. I didn’t know where to go. I just knew I had to get out of there. I ran past the tarmac where the plane was parked. It was supposed to have taken off with the congressman and the defectors. There were people lying on the ground surrounding the plane. I saw someone with a gun and I kept running. The pounding in my chest got stronger and stronger. I thought I was having a heart attack.

I don’t know how much time had passed or how far I had gone. When I couldn’t hear the sounds of screaming and gunshots anymore, I slowed down. I was still having trouble breathing and my chest and back still hurt, but I was too scared to stop. Then I stumbled upon three others who had escaped and together we ran until night fell and we couldn’t go another step.

1

IT HAD BEEN DUSK WHEN JED LEFT LOS ANGELES. By the time he got to Ventura where the 101 hugged the coast, all he could see of the Pacific were the sudden bursts of white foam as the waves tumbled toward the shore. It didn’t matter, though. He had spent the last few years living on the boardwalk in Venice Beach and he needed sleep more than he needed picturesque scenery. He crumpled his jacket into a ball and put it against the window of the bus. He leaned his head into it and shut his eyes. It did its job: a warm soft barrier between him and the cold glass. He closed his eyes and started practicing his breathing techniques. Sleep never came easily. He had spent too many nighttime hours having to be vigilant and had learned to function on very little sleep. But it also meant that sleep evaded him on those few occasions when he felt safe and secure in his bedtime circumstances.

He had learned these breathing techniques when one of the boardwalk denizens had steered him to the Venice Buddhist Temple. They taught techniques called Pranayama as a vehicle for meditation, but Jed wasn’t interested in that. He didn’t care much for the spiritual benefits of the Buddhist religion, or any religion for that matter. He used the exercises purely to release tension. He didn’t care much for the yoga part either. He just liked to walk.

The bus pulled into San Francisco just as the sun rose. It felt good to stand up and stretch his legs. He wasn’t used to sitting for long periods of time. Most of his days had been spent walking on the beach or in the Santa Monica Mountains. He made his way through the throng of passengers standing by the bus, waiting for their suitcases. All he had was his well-worn yellow backpack. Clean clothing was easy enough to come by in thrift shops or the free stores at the homeless resource centers.

Jed was a tall, thin, muscular African-American. He was pushing fifty but easily looked fifteen years younger. His hair, cut short, was barely graying at the temples and his skin was smooth. He was one of those people who turned heads but not because of his physical attractiveness, although he was quite handsome. It was his air of mystery and aloofness that drew them in.

He had the stamina of a long-distance runner with a gait and demeanor that were slow and deliberate. He had anger issues, but he was never physically aggressive unless someone threw the first punch. When he did lose his temper he would walk for miles. That helped some to calm him. He didn’t like to lose control, but it could happen a little too easily.

He hadn’t been back to the Bay area for a number of years. He thought it would be a good place to hide and get the proverbial fresh start. He had already had several fresh starts, but this one was different. This one was imperative. This time he was running from the law.

It was typical San Francisco weather, foggy and cool. He walked through the skyscrapers of the financial district toward the Tenderloin. Watching the people in their Armani suits, rushing to get their next dollar, was a source of amusement at first, but he soon tired of the incessant car horns and cell phone conversations. He decided to go the rest of the way on Market Street where at least high-end clothing shops intermingled with Mini-marts generating a little more diversity in the pedestrians. When he reached the Tenderloin, the attire of the pedestrians changed to sweatshirts and polyester and the noise to drunken, solitary rants. The shop windows were boarded up and the doorways were littered with sleeping bodies and their belongings.

He got to Glide Memorial Church just before they locked the cafeteria doors. The inside of the building was typical of institutions: old, rundown and painted that dull light green. But it was also clean, warm and familiar. Breakfast had ended but they gave him a cup of coffee and some cold pancakes while they finished mopping the floor. He was glad that most of the others had finished eating. He wasn’t big on making small talk. It always surprised him how pompous many of these derelicts could be.

He finished his meal, stopped off at the Free Store to get some clean clothes and got in line to use the showers. He had chosen a pair of clean khakis and a button down shirt so he was ready for a job interview should one materialize. It had been a while since he’d had a shower. He stood there a long time, hoping the warm water would wash away the fear and anguish of the last several weeks, and tried to ignore the relentless knocking and yelling of the impatient men on line.

After his shower, he dressed and went upstairs. He passed a room where babies and toddlers played while their mothers were in the room next door marked Parenting Classes. He turned a corner and came upon another room with a long row of computers and bookshelves. It was occupied by a group of teenagers who were surprisingly hard at work. Music filled the halls as he descended the stairs to the sanctuary where he saw a band and a choir rehearsing. The music was closer to rock and roll and blues, than to spiritual and gospel. It was far superior to the church choirs he remembered from his childhood. 

He found the resource room and entered tentatively, not sure if he was ready for this new turn of events. He hadn’t had a real job for several years. He had been living on the streets and washing dishes in a restaurant, getting paid under the table. But now he wanted something more reliable, something that gave his life some structure and purpose. It would still need to be somewhat under the radar, though.

A tall, stunning, multiracial woman approached him. She was impeccably dressed in understated business attire, totally out of place in this refuge for the homeless and destitute. She looked to be in her mid-forties because of her smooth coffee-colored skin, but her eyes had the look of an older weary soul, one that had seen its own share of anguish and sorrow. 

Can I help you?

I’m looking for housing and a job.

She smiled and motioned him to her desk that was piled high with papers and folders.

Please . . . sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee?

He gazed at her curiously. How many hundreds or thousands of people must walk in with the same request, yet she made the office seem like a regular employment agency, not a homeless shelter. Yes. Black. No sugar.

She came back to the desk with two cups of coffee and handed one to Jed. My name is Monica and I’m a social worker here at Glide. And you are?

Jed. Jed Gibbons.

You’re new here. I haven’t seen you before.

A lot of people must come through these doors. How do you remember?

I remember all of them. She smiled again. Maybe not by name, but I remember their faces.

That’s impressive.

I try. So, Jed, did you just arrive in San Francisco?

Just got off the bus.

Where from?

South.

The South like from Mississippi or from southern California?

Both.

That must have been a long trip.

This last trip was just from Los Angeles.

Well as far as housing goes, the policy for getting a bed here –—

Jed interrupted her. No. I don’t need a bed. I need a room. I have money.

Oh, okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything –—

He interrupted again. Do you know of an SRO hotel; a good, clean, sober one?

She wrote some names down on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Here are some places. I think they’re what you are looking for.

Thanks. He put the list in his pocket. What about a job?

What kind of job?

Anything. I’m smart and capable and a hard worker.

Monica sat back in her chair and grinned at him. And modest.

Jed smiled back and also relaxed into the back of his chair. I’ve done a lot of different jobs in a lot of different places. I’m experienced in just about anything in construction or agriculture. I’ve worked in restaurants, on fishing boats, in manufacturing plants.

And I bet you’re very good at all of them. She winked at him and started to shuffle through some papers on her desk. Actually, I think I have a perfect job for you. I just need to find his number. I’m afraid the information is buried at the bottom of the pile. The job has been open for quite awhile. Mr. Henshaw has had a hard time filling the position.

Why?

She intentionally ignored his question and continued pushing papers around. Ah, here it is. She looked at the paper and then looked back up at Jed.

Do you know what a columbarium is?

No, I don’t believe I do.

She handed him the paper. Call Mr. Henshaw. He needs a handyman.

Jed stared at her for a minute, a little perplexed. He finally spoke. Okay, but are you going to tell me what a columbarium is?

I’ll let Mr. Henshaw tell you, but I think this job will suit you.

He downed the remainder of his coffee, glanced down at the paper and rose, grabbing his backpack. Thanks. He started to leave.

You know, there’s a lot going on here at Glide Church and we can always use volunteers.

I am not a religious man.

You don’t have to be religious to volunteer. Monica handed him a pamphlet. We are affiliated with the United Methodist Church but that’s not what we’re about. Our mission is –—

Jed interrupted her, reading from the pamphlet: To create a radically, inclusive, just and loving community mobilized to alleviate suffering and break the cycles of poverty and marginalization. He looked up at her. Nice sentiment.

Our Sunday services are called celebrations. We have a terrific band and it’s all about the music. Our pastor’s sermons are nondenominational and our members and volunteers are too.

I’ll see after I get settled with a job and a place to live.

Let me know how things turn out, she called after him as he walked out the door.

Jed walked around a ten-block radius of Glide but his search for a pay phone was fruitless. He went into a small grocery/liquor store and approached the counter. Do you know where I can find a pay phone?

A young man sat on a stool, his eyes glued to his cell phone while his fingers whizzed back and forth on the screen. Nope, he said without looking up.

Jed hesitated a moment, hoping the young man would offer his phone. Not only did he not offer it, he seemed oblivious to the fact that Jed was standing there. Jed turned around and left, resigned to the fact that he would probably have to go back to Glide to use their phone. He was reluctant to face Monica again. He felt that she had more than a professional interest in him. That made him uncomfortable, although she was certainly an attractive woman.

Maybe he should go to the hotel first. He was sure there wouldn’t be a phone in the room. It wouldn’t be that kind of place. But maybe there would be one at the front desk and perhaps they would be a little more accommodating than the store clerk. He felt ridiculous at his immature reaction to a woman’s attention. He went back to the church.

He knocked on the window of Monica’s cubicle. She beamed when she saw him. Did you talk to Mr. Henshaw?

Jed shrugged his shoulders and smiled. I couldn’t find a pay phone.

Pay phones are definitely few and far between these days.

Do you have a phone that clients can use?

Yes, but why don’t you use mine. She pushed the phone across the desk. I have some copies to make. I can leave you alone to make the call. She gathered a file folder and left.

Jed took the paper out of his pocket and dialed the number. Hello? Is this Mr. Henshaw? I understand you’re looking for a handyman. Yes, I can do all that. Tomorrow? Sure. What’s the address? Just a minute, I need to get a pen. He rummaged around the surface of Monica’s desk and then opened the center drawer. He found a pen and wrote. Got it. One Lorraine Court. Nine o’clock. He hung up and placed the pen back in the drawer. As he did, he noticed a pill container divided into the days of the week as well as morning, noon and night. Monica walked in just as he was closing the drawer. I’m sorry. I needed a pen. He stood to give her the chair.

She sat down. Did you reach him?

Yes I did. I have an appointment tomorrow. He glanced at the address. Do you know where One Lorraine Court is?

It’s off of Geary between Stanyan and Arguello in the Richmond District. I can look up how to get there on the muni system map for you.

I like to walk. I’ll find it.

She sat back in her chair and took a sip of coffee. So what brings you to San Francisco?

I was born in Oakland, lived there until I was ten. I thought it might be time to return to my roots.

She smiled coyly. Why do I think you’re pulling my leg?

He smiled back. Okay. Maybe it’s more like I needed to leave Los Angeles and this was where the bus was going.

Somehow that sounds more like the truth. There was something about this man that fascinated her. He just didn’t fit the usual profile of the people who needed Glide’s services: addiction, mental illness, physical disabilities, just released from prison. He even seemed to have some money. She was curious why he needed to leave L.A., though. It didn’t sound like it was a choice.

Jed wondered why he spoke so candidly to her. It wasn’t like him to share any piece of himself, especially with a stranger. He liked her, though. And he trusted her. For most of his life he hadn’t trusted anyone, not until he had met Finn in Venice. He had been a true friend. But then, it all fell apart. He started to leave. Thanks for your help.

It was nice meeting you, Jed. I hope you’ll come back and volunteer. Will you let me know how it works out with the interview?

Uh, sure, he answered hesitantly.

She watched him leave and opened the drawer. She saw the pill container and stiffened. Damn. She had forgotten to put it back in her purse after taking her morning dose. How could she be so careless? She had managed to keep it from everyone at work all this time, but not from a man she hoped to get to know better. This was the first time she had allowed herself to think about dating since the diagnosis. What was she thinking? A client? This was crazy. She tried to put Jed out of her mind by busying herself with routine paperwork, but she wasn’t very successful.

Jed took the list of hotels out of his pocket as he walked down Taylor Street. He took a left on Eddy and threw the list into the trashcan on the corner. He didn’t need a list. This part of San Francisco, the Tenderloin, had plenty of SRO hotels to choose from. He didn’t care about how it looked. He just had some basic criteria: his own bathroom and a place where you paid by the week, not by the day or the hour.

He passed a couple of hotels where addicts shooting up occupied the doorways. He kept walking. He went inside another and before he got to the desk, he was accosted by a lady of the night asking if he wanted a quickie. He turned around without answering and continued his trek. He dismissed the next two because they only had shared bathrooms. When he walked into The Windsor, he saw a room off to the left that had an old RCA television and a couple of worn couches. Two elderly men were watching a quiz show. Maybe not exactly watching it, as they were both fast asleep, but they looked harmless. Jed went up to the desk where another elderly man sat watching his own personal TV. He had it turned to a baseball game.

Do you have rooms with their own bath?

Yes, but you know we don’t rent by the night.

That’s good. And I assume you don’t rent by the hour either.

Absolutely not sir! the old man said emphatically. "This is not that