dismissed the whole notion as an incongruous dream.
***
Sally Lavette, Joeâs wife, was, as he would have been the first to admit, a very unusual young woman. For one thing, she had decided at the age of thirteen that Joe would be her husband, come what may. He was then working summers at the Higate Winery. At thirteen, she was a skinny, freckled, tow-headed kid who bewailed her lack of breasts and stuffed a brassiere with absorbent cotton to simulate them. By the age of twenty, when she and Joe were married, Sally had become a tall, slender woman, blue-eyed, blond, with no need to simulate anything. At fourteen, she wooed Joe with sonnets copied word for word from Elizabeth Barrett Browning and blithely signed Sally Levy; at twenty, she published her own first book of poems, which was critically acclaimed and earned her all of eighty-six dollars. She was bright, ebullient, caustic, impetuous, and romantic. She informed her husband, once they were married, that she intended to bear him ten children. After the first was born, she reduced the anticipated number to three.
Sally had many dreams, and one of them was to live in San Francisco in a house like Barbaraâs and preferably within walking distance of Barbara, whom she idolized. She decided that Joe should set up practice in such a house. It was precisely the place and life for a physician that fitted in with her plans. Joe thought otherwise, and this led to their first fight, wildly emotional on her part, stolid on his, and followed by a tearful reconciliation. Joe had his own plans, which he had worked out during the long, wretched years in the South Pacific. He wanted to operate a clinic in East Los Angeles, an area known as the barrio and inhabited for the most part by poor Mexican Americans, or Chicanos, as they called themselves in Southern California. He would have no part of Russian Hill or a lucrative San Francisco practice. He had no good memories of San Francisco, and he remembered all too vividly the stories Feng Wo, his grandfather, had told him of the virulent anti-Chinese hatred that once infested the city. He had grown up in Los Angeles, and he had an affection for the city that was beyond Sallyâs understanding.
Joe applied to the Lavette Foundation for a grant, and with it he acquired an old, one-story, brick warehouse on Boyle Avenue in Boyle Heights. He then went into partnership with Frank Gonzales, whom he had known from medical school and who had been with him in the army. They remodeled the old warehouse into a neighborhood clinic, with examining rooms, an X-ray room, a room for minor operations, and a few emergency beds. They charged a very nominal fee, for those who could afford it, and nothing at all for those who couldnât. For Gonzales, a small, dark, serious Chicano, the clinic was the fulfillment of all his dreams, and he looked upon Joe Lavette as one of the Apostles might have looked upon his Master. Sally, who felt that her husband fell somewhat short of sainthood, adapted to the situation and accepted it. Until the baby came, she worked part time at the receiving desk of the clinic. They had purchased a tiny house near Silver Lake, a place in East Los Angeles that was no lake at all but a large, concrete-lined basin filled with water, surrounded by a chain-link fence and rows of dismal, dreary houses. It was the sort of place from which Sally was repelled at first sight and which did not grow on her. Joe felt that they had to live in East Los Angeles, and accepting that decision, Silver Lake was as good a place as any. Sally, having spent most of her life in the Napa Valley, found Silver Lake loathsome, even more so than the barrio where the clinic was.
Sally still covered the receiving desk two days a week; she would take the baby with her and keep her in a carriage beside her desk. She was a casual, unworried mother, and May Ling was a relaxed and easy child. The morning after Joe went to San Francisco to be with his
***
Sally Lavette, Joeâs wife, was, as he would have been the first to admit, a very unusual young woman. For one thing, she had decided at the age of thirteen that Joe would be her husband, come what may. He was then working summers at the Higate Winery. At thirteen, she was a skinny, freckled, tow-headed kid who bewailed her lack of breasts and stuffed a brassiere with absorbent cotton to simulate them. By the age of twenty, when she and Joe were married, Sally had become a tall, slender woman, blue-eyed, blond, with no need to simulate anything. At fourteen, she wooed Joe with sonnets copied word for word from Elizabeth Barrett Browning and blithely signed Sally Levy; at twenty, she published her own first book of poems, which was critically acclaimed and earned her all of eighty-six dollars. She was bright, ebullient, caustic, impetuous, and romantic. She informed her husband, once they were married, that she intended to bear him ten children. After the first was born, she reduced the anticipated number to three.
Sally had many dreams, and one of them was to live in San Francisco in a house like Barbaraâs and preferably within walking distance of Barbara, whom she idolized. She decided that Joe should set up practice in such a house. It was precisely the place and life for a physician that fitted in with her plans. Joe thought otherwise, and this led to their first fight, wildly emotional on her part, stolid on his, and followed by a tearful reconciliation. Joe had his own plans, which he had worked out during the long, wretched years in the South Pacific. He wanted to operate a clinic in East Los Angeles, an area known as the barrio and inhabited for the most part by poor Mexican Americans, or Chicanos, as they called themselves in Southern California. He would have no part of Russian Hill or a lucrative San Francisco practice. He had no good memories of San Francisco, and he remembered all too vividly the stories Feng Wo, his grandfather, had told him of the virulent anti-Chinese hatred that once infested the city. He had grown up in Los Angeles, and he had an affection for the city that was beyond Sallyâs understanding.
Joe applied to the Lavette Foundation for a grant, and with it he acquired an old, one-story, brick warehouse on Boyle Avenue in Boyle Heights. He then went into partnership with Frank Gonzales, whom he had known from medical school and who had been with him in the army. They remodeled the old warehouse into a neighborhood clinic, with examining rooms, an X-ray room, a room for minor operations, and a few emergency beds. They charged a very nominal fee, for those who could afford it, and nothing at all for those who couldnât. For Gonzales, a small, dark, serious Chicano, the clinic was the fulfillment of all his dreams, and he looked upon Joe Lavette as one of the Apostles might have looked upon his Master. Sally, who felt that her husband fell somewhat short of sainthood, adapted to the situation and accepted it. Until the baby came, she worked part time at the receiving desk of the clinic. They had purchased a tiny house near Silver Lake, a place in East Los Angeles that was no lake at all but a large, concrete-lined basin filled with water, surrounded by a chain-link fence and rows of dismal, dreary houses. It was the sort of place from which Sally was repelled at first sight and which did not grow on her. Joe felt that they had to live in East Los Angeles, and accepting that decision, Silver Lake was as good a place as any. Sally, having spent most of her life in the Napa Valley, found Silver Lake loathsome, even more so than the barrio where the clinic was.
Sally still covered the receiving desk two days a week; she would take the baby with her and keep her in a carriage beside her desk. She was a casual, unworried mother, and May Ling was a relaxed and easy child. The morning after Joe went to San Francisco to be with his
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