As she emerged from the ladies’ room I approached her, stopped her.
“Did you ever live in Placentia?” I asked her.
“I grew up there,” Sadassa Silvia said.
“Did you know Ferris Fremont?”
“No,” she said. “He had already moved to Oceanside when I was born.”
“I live in Placentia,” I said. “One night a friend and I found the name ‘Aramchek’ cut into the sidewalk.”
“My little brother did that,” Sadassa Silvia said with a smile. “He had a stencil and he went around doing that.”
“It was down the block from the house where Ferris Fremont was born.”
“I know,” she said.
“Is there any connection between—”
“No,” she said very firmly. “It’s just a coincidence. I used to get asked that all the time when I used my real name.”
“ ‘Silvia’ isn’t your real name?”
“No; I’ve never been married. I had to start using another name because of Ferris Fremont. He made it impossible to live with the name ‘Aramchek.’ You can see that. I chose ‘Silvia,’ knowing that people would automatically turn it around and think I was named Silvia Sadassa.” She smiled, showing her perfect, lovely teeth.
I said, “I’m supposed to sign you up to a recording contract.”
“What doing? Playing my guitar?”
“Singing. You have a marvelous soprano voice; I’ve heard it.”
Matter-of-factly, Sadassa Silvia said, “I have a soprano voice; I sing in the church choir. I’m an Episcopalian. But it’s not a good voice; it’s not really trained. The best I can do is when I get a little drunk and sing bawdy hymns in the elevator of my apartment building.”
I said, “I can only tell you what I know.” Evidently much of what I knew didn’t add up. “Do you want me to go with you to personnel?” I asked. “And introduce you?”
“I talked to him.”
“Already?”
“He was coming out of his office. He says you’re not hiring. You’re overstaffed.”
“That’s true,” I said. We stood facing each other. “Why did you pick Progressive Records,” I asked, “to try for a job?”
“You’ve got good artists. Performers I like. I guess it was just a wish-fulfillment fantasy, like all my ideas. It seemed more exciting than working for a lawyer or an oil-company executive.”
I said, “What about your poems? Can I see some of them?”
“Sure,” she said, nodding.
“And you don’t sing when you play your guitar?”
“Just a little. I sort of hum.”
“Can I buy you lunch?”
“It’s three thirty.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I have to drive back to Orange County. My eyesight goes out entirely when I drink. I was totally blind when I was sick; I used to bump into walls.”
“What were you sick with?”
“Cancer. Lymphoma.”
“And you’re okay now?”
Sadassa Silvia said, “I’m in remission. I had cobalt therapy and chemotherapy. I went into remission six months ago, before I finished my course of chemotherapy.”
“That’s very good,” I said.
“They say if I live another year I probably could live five years or even ten; there’re people walking around who’ve been in remission that long.”
It explained why her legs were so spindly and why she gave the impression of fatigue and weakness and ill health. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Oh, I learned a lot from it. I’d like to go into the priesthood. The Episcopal church may ordain women eventually. Right now it doesn’t look so good, but by the time I finish college and seminary I think they will.”
“I admire you,” I said.
“When I was very sick last year I was deaf and blind. I still take medication to prevent seizures . . . the cancer reached my spinal column and the fluid of my brain before I went into remission.” After a pause she added in a neutral, contemplative tone, “The doctor says it’s unknown for anyone who had it get into their brain to—survive. He says if I live another year he’ll write me up.”
“You really are quite a person,” I said, impressed by her.
“Medically I am. Otherwise all I can do is type and take dictation.”
“Do you know why you went into remission?”
“They never know that. It was prayer, I think. I used to tell people that God was healing me; that was when I couldn’t see and I couldn’t hear and I was having seizures—from the medication—and I was all bloated up and my hair had”—she hesitated—“fallen out. I wore a wig, I still have it. In case.”
“Please let me buy you something,” I said.
“Want to buy me a fountain pen? I can’t grip a regular ballpoint pen; it’s too small. I only have a little strength for gripping in my right hand; that whole side is still weak. But it’s getting stronger.”
“You can hold a big fountain pen okay?”
“Yes, and I can use an electric typewriter.”
“I’ve never met anybody like you before,” I said.
“You’re probably lucky. My boyfriend says I’m boring. He always quotes Chuckles the Chipmunk from A Thousand Clowns in regard to me: ‘Boring, boring, boring, boring, boring.’ ” She laughed.
“Are you sure he really loves you?” It didn’t sound as if he did.
“Oh, I’m always running errands and making shopping lists and sewing; I spend half my time sewing. I make most of my own clothes. I made this blouse. It’s so much cheaper; I save an awful lot of money.”
“You don’t have much money?”
“Just the Social Security for disability. It just pays my rent. I don’t have very much left over for food.”
“Christ,” I said, “I’ll buy you a ten-course meal.”
“I don’t eat very much. I don’t have much of an appetite.” She could see I was looking her up and down. “I weigh ninety-four pounds. My doctor says he wants me up to one-ten, my normal weight. I was always thin, though. I was premature. One of the smallest babies born in Orange County.”
“You live in Orange County still?”
“In Santa Ana. Near my church, the Church of the Messiah. I’m a lay reader there. The priest there, Father Adams, is the finest person I have ever met. He was with me all the time I was sick.”
It occurred to me that I had found someone with whom
