She packed two large bags: one filled with clothes, the other with notebooks and yarns and needles of all sorts. She left some money with Cleo, the neighbor, to buy food for Albert and the cat they kept, and told Cleo to tell Mitch she would send for her things. She left on a 3:00 shuttle flight to San Francisco, to stay with her sister Cypress. In the airports, on the buses, Sassafrass kept saying, “He never promised me anything . . . I didn’t ask for a ring, no money, no monogamy . . . just no dope.” She made no attempt to smile, once she got to Cypress’ house. She was of the same stone as Isis, searching for the lost Osiris. She drank some black Guatemalan coffee, and stalked off to the room Cypress saved for her to begin another piece of cloth.

Chapter 8

Cypress was always smiling. She had made amends with her living, and thoroughly expected everything to happen to her, given time and the way her luck ran. She was round and sturdy, but elastic like a gathering of sunflowers in a balmy night. Cypress liked sweet wine, cocaine, and lots of men: musicians, painters, poets, sculptors . . . photographers, filmmakers, airplane pilots. Her house was full of folks from dusk to noon; and she was usually draped in an oriental robe glossed with coffee stains and the smell of her body. Sassafrass’ arrival didn’t disrupt the hoopla that was Cypress’ home, because Cypress had, in her easy, cynical way, told every soul she knew that her sister would be coming soon. Cypress was sure that no real man could put up with Sassafrass’ absolute demands for total involvement, total perfection, total personhood for more than two or three months. Cypress was sure that when a man knew his woman knew he wasn’t near perfect, or going to be, one of them would have to split. So she held on to a room for Sassafrass, and chuckled about the closed door and glum face Sassafrass used as protection from the many possible suitors lingering around.

Cypress’ kitchen was deep amber, and the rest of the rooms were all swamp green. She didn’t allow any chairs in her house, only pillows—and no shoes, either. She insisted on respect for her space, and was liable to throw out visitors who didn’t follow the rules:

WHEN YOU STEP THROUGH THIS DOOR /
YOU’RE IN MY HOUSE

1. Wash all dishes you use & put them back
2. Empty ashtrays when full
3. Change beds every two days
4. Don’t leave any clothes lying around
5. Don’t use any profane language
6. Don’t talk loudly
7. Don’t bring any dope fiends around here
8. Don’t touch the altar for the Orishas
9. Don’t take anything for granted

MAY THE SPIRITS BLESS YOU