TWELVE.

    Walking back into the courtyard at my building I find Al sitting in the foyer, a newspaper folded neatly on his lap, the edges lined up. He is very quiet -- his eyes don't focus, don't look at anything precisely, his hands resting on the newspapers in his lap, spotted, veined and falling softly from the pink cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. His hair, receding grandly in a kind of half-moon around his skull, is tousled and gray. His lower lip protrudes slightly and the skin on his neck dangles loose, like a cockscomb. He was a handsome man once, regal, and still retains some of that poise, his back ruler straight, his shoulders squared, his clothing pressed. Yet he is jowly, jaundiced and there is something sorrowful about him, which intrigued me before but now that I understand, somewhat, I pity him.

    "Good afternoon, Al," I say, walking up the steps and shaking my umbrella on the red tile floor. I almost walk by with a glance and a nod; sometimes human contact is too much triviality and I can't bear making useless gestures. I am intrigued by Al's history though and wish I could orchestrate some clever plan to glean information from him. Unsolved mysteries are my heart's delight. I am slightly annoyed with his gruff rebuttal the day before, but after reading those articles it puts his curmudgeonous personality in softer light.

    He looks startled at my approach, his focus sliding from memory into the present, obvious in his eyes. "Oh, yes, hello Pennie. Nice day, isn't it."

    "Not for some people," I tell him, gesturing towards the sky. "But I love it. I wish it rained more often. I have two raincoats and I want to wear them. I was born here. When I was little the drought got so bad the lawns turned brown and we had to take short showers, everything concerning water a matter of household economy. It's awful, the soil cracks, your lips feel dry. And then when it finally rains it floods, because the earth is too parched to accept all the water. I hope we get some good rainfall this year."

    Al glances at my yellow galoshes and chuckles. "Some people come to California to avoid bad weather."

    "Some people do," I say. We say nothing for a moment, both watching the fountain in the courtyard bubble and surge, the pattern of raindrops scattering across the basin. I want to ask him about his daughter, about what happened, but how can I talk to him? Even if the accident had happened yesterday I would be at a loss -- I'm sorry seems too banal but anything more feels overstated and clumsy in my mouth.

    "I might remember some card tricks after all," he says. "Come down later for coffee."

    "Sure, yes," I say, bewildered. He smiles at me hesitantly and sets the paper on the table, standing up slowly.

    I want to be the lovely assistant, dressed in sequins and bright eyes. Cuban heeled stockings so sheer my legs gleam. When I was little my mother would play 'Got Your Nose' with me, tricking me into thinking her thumb was the tip of my nose ripped off and concealed in her hand. Perhaps that's as close as I ever got to magic, besides the man in the restaurant who pulled pennies from behind my seashell ears.

    I change out of my wet clothes, strewing items over chair backs and curtain rods to dry. My umbrella creates a small puddle about itself, marring the wood floor. I open it and set it in the bathtub to dry. I put on fresh argyle knee socks with a black knit skirt and a blue wool sweater with a sailor collar. Looking in the mirror, I am not a pretty girl. I am too quirky to be simply pretty. My red hair curls and I'm blessed with the splattering of freckles common to redheads. I am too tall to easily date boys and often feel like a giantess among my friends. Therese is much smaller than I am, but her arms are long like a monkey's so we even out. I have been told I have a heart-shaped face and I always buy square sunglasses because they suit me. On my right hand, my future hand (the left is the past) my life and love line meet and form a M. Therese studied palmistry but that's all she could tell me. She said, “Maybe it means money,” and I replied, “Maybe it means magic. Here, I’ll kiss my own elbow.” In Victorian times apparitions of initials foreshadowed an incipient fiancée so perhaps my tall dark and handsome is a M. I'll think what I like. On one of my fingers there is a freckle.