A TOAST

Literature needs a new hero? Have no fear, your man is here, Anselm Merrywood. Sitting comfortably? Feel free to fill a fortifying glass. And please pull the curtains, turn off the stupid show, boot the bothersome cat. I have taken trouble in the telling, deserve the fullest focus.

A man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time. The Odyssey, you honor the legend, will cherish this reprise. Oh really! At least you should. Time and place? If you have a little patience, you’ll find out soon enough! But I am a forgiving man, will supply some bearings. Our voyage begins near the fine city of San Francisco, California, at the turn of the millennium. Ancient history again! Well, fellow sailors were already glued to the computer, if not yet appended to the phone. And did I have some company! Readers lose track! Pay attention then! But as another gesture of good faith, your captain will list the crew, a page for future reference. The conquering hero is also a considerate host.

Cheers!

CHARACTERS

Top of the bill

ANSELM, that’s me!

Featuring

ALICE, a certain young lady

Notables

BILL, that girl’s belligerent father

CHRISTINE (Chris), my former wife, and continuing critic!

CORTÉS, a literary luminary                      

EDDIE (Squirt), a sorry acquaintance

GLORIA, the girl’s glamorous mother

GRACE, Gloria’s good friend, and my . . . ?

IVAN (The Terrible), an alleged employee

JILL, my meritorious manager

NICK, an aspiring young writer

RUDYARD, my best friend

SONJA, my scandalous sister

Supporting cast

AGATHA, my beloved

ALFRED NEVADA, a long-suffering server

BERNIE, a disgraced department chair

BETTY, my dear mother

BRADLEY, the vilest of villains

CECILIA, a club member, and regular visitor

CEDRIC, the girl’s special friend

CHANTAL, my sister’s partner in crime

CHAZ, Emil’s wastrel son

CHUCK,  Jill’s jovial husband

CORINNE, an inviting mail carrier

DOROTHEA, an officious club chair

EMIL, a wretched restaurateur

ETHAN, a shape-shifting young man

FOSBURGH, my former boss

GERTRUDE (Gertie), Agatha’s successor in my heart

JACQUELINE (Jackie), a misused mistress

JERRY, a portly party guest

LAMAR, a loquacious club speaker

LILY, the girl’s more sensible sister

LIZZY, an underage drinker

LUPA, the girl’s comely companion

MAGNOLIA, a colorful gallery owner

MELANIE (Mel), the parish pâtissière

MELODY, my wife’s questionable friend

MISSY, a buxom bartender

MONTY, a curious little creature

MOSHE, my romantic replacement

NOAH, the girl’s well-blessed brother

REBECCA, a sorry affair

RITA, Christine’s lovely mother, and wearer of her hat

ROBERT, a pompous professor

SAL, my deceased father-in-law, and original lovely man

SEBASTIAN LEE, an unhappy landlord

ZEKE, a trouble-making youth

CHAPTER I. THE DECK.

Your hero paints the picture.

My name is Anselm Merrywood. And I answer to a call—from a woman! One invitation remained behind, in a cluttered drawer, the envelope of forwarded address. Another was fully on display, atop a spacious deck. You too would find the girl inviting. At least you should.

A fine painting? You have come to the right place! The girl has blue eyes, a button nose, and bantam figure. The picture was mounted on a craftsman railing, framed by cloudless sky and sea. Her wine shone in the sun, hair spiraled over slender shoulders, bare feet toyed with a planter pot, and loose skirt teased your painter, wind-billowed at her knees. A slight smile posed a puzzle, and she knew.

 Like what you see? Please join the party, the picture had peekers aplenty! An unholy stained glass door slid open to a spacious patio, where seasoned redwood made the decking, purple parasols plumed the porch, white-jacketed waiters welcomed the revelers, and a kaleidoscope of goblets studded the ring of tables. My mezcal packed a punch, loose laughter lent more warmth, and a little industry furthered the festival—bees dotting a swath of pink petals, a tranquil hum arriving on the gentle breeze. A bluebird flitted from the fence, goldfinches livened the bushes, and a splash of red flamed across the flowers—a carmine-throated hummingbird darting past the jasmine to hover by a rarer nectar. A flower girl has an attraction.

Let us kneel? The young goddess looked over her garden. And she saw that it was good. The free bird commended my cowboy cool, I have every confidence. She could also observe some opulence: a tall man in tuxedo, his wife in strapless gown. The couple were delighting in a dance of love, to the timely encouragement of Mozart and bare batons of the conductor’s feet. Our angel also swayed in sympathy, her blessing backed by a further beat, the breaking of the surf.

We spoke too soon. Does the weather ever change?! A scowl withdrew the invitation. No more pretty picture, I have to drain the canvas, dull the plumage, cloud her eyes to gray. And I will turn her wine to water, the minuet to a dirge. The winds had picked up, bending boats at sea and fogging out the sun. But the gales of laughter had died, the dropping temperature driving merrymakers inside, a remnant shivering in a silent vigil.

The party was over. Well, the house might still be hopping, who knew? The sliding door, through which boozing butterflies had flit, was now a barricade, the glass discolored. I might also remark the rebuff of a cold metallic chair, the distress of an empty glass, the indifference of the decking. A sentinel stood sullen in a corner, alone on her feet. Her lighthouse beam swept past my mooring, interrogating my witness, exposing my guilt. I could not avert my gaze, pulled to her rocks over an abandoned table where a shabby starling was stabbing a plate of pastry shards. The stony edifice ignored my stillborn greeting, as attainable as Olympic medal to a bedridden invalid. A wisp of smoke wended over the railing, conspiring with the fog. But no warm bonfire beckoned, the changeling waving a cigarette. Her inconsideration imposed before a wind dispersal, though her lips saw little of the vice. I presumed a provocation; my fellow sufferers pretended not to care. The delinquent took a last drag, lost the litter, glanced at the glow, and took care of the business. With her foot. We could pretend no more.

A teenager tosses some trash. So what, you say? I will tell you what: I expect you to pay more attention! A foot trod on the glare. A foot twisted on the smolder. A foot trampled out the fire. And the foot was bare, as I already told you. I caught the eye of a neighbor, his cocktail in suspension, his arm around his date. The well-heeled executive had ignored my shabby insurrection, now we had a bond. What is a man to do?

Merrywood! . . . Some advice? . . . No, you are doomed.

CHAPTER II. THE PALACE

Your hero comes to the party.

 I headed for the house. Pete beats a retreat? Perfectly possible, but I take things calmly in stride, as you will find many an occasion to confirm. The sliding door made my entrance. Inside, a party was a-pulse, though the crowd was milling on best behavior—a palace commands respect.

 Provisions were plentiful. Care to indulge? Truffles tempted, fine wine flowed, and the beef was prime. Our queen was circulating, her black hair, golden dress, glowing skin complementing the cut of her court. Their forced laughter carried over the strings of a fiercely competent ensemble whose formal attire and practiced indifference betrayed a foreign import. Her Highness livened the gala like a gust of summer wind through a cottonwood—introducing strangers, receiving tribute, dispensing charity. A monarch flutters with abandon; courtiers welcomed her interruption, however fleeting the favor. I took up a station by the bar to follow the performance and wait my turn. The grandee did glance in my direction, but royalty pretends no common acquaintance. I knew no insult, trust me, her invisible man hewn of hardened timber. The gathering offered another feast, men foregoing West Coast indifference to wardrobe in favor of expensive sports coats, their partners a buffet of elegant dress, painstaking coiffure, and pampered flesh.

The store is open. The goods are on display. Andy unwraps any candy? Maybe so, but a man of discrimination does not lose his head. And though my hands were empty, I was quite content, have no fear. A hearty eater, I have found plentiful provisions, tasted a singular share of the sweetness. My own outfit might not conform, but so what, an outlaw quickens the maiden pulse! The standout read the room, and single women reciprocated my review, as you would only expect. But the browser was not buying, costly confectionery seldom worth the price. I speak from experience, trust me.

My parents married young. The nuptials were rushed by geographical exigency rather than biblical sin, the mother an exchange student in London where her future bridge partner had disembarked the Royal Scotsman for work. An intransigent Roman Catholic and an ornery Swede, their wedding vows sealed the triumph of first love over in-law reservation—bake a pie with chalk and cheese, why don’t we? The offspring knew an uneasy truce, alternate Sundays imposing the pomp of Latin Mass in the company of a crisp-suited father and the austerity of Methodist hymnal when worshipping with his wife, the chapel of clapboard construction after we migrated stateside on my tenth birthday. The feuding parties of the schism engaged in subterfuge, politicking, and defamation, but left the final decision to the children. When they’re old enough to know their own minds. Unlike the lark, I have yet to find the exaltation. The dispute found no partisan resolution, the first-born sitting on the fence with Huxley, while his sister lost her religion altogether. But the damage was already done, Rome winning naming rights to the boy, the prairie to the girl. And to a lifelong misfortune, George Merrywood, a model of restraint and good sense, pillar of the community, member of the Chamber of Commerce, golfer of steady nerve, reserved his one moment of reckless abandon for the christening of his son after a twelfth-century saint and author of an eponymous proof for the existence of God, foreword to the following chapter. Original sin was only the first offense. Anselm could easily reduce to Andy, or Al. I would willingly share a name with the wilderness photographer. Even Anse would be acceptable. But no, ever since kindergarten I have suffered the same indignity, the bane of my daily round, root of my distress. I may be the only man so burdened on the continent. The mockery arrives like a stomach pang, a burden I cannot dislodge and have done nothing to deserve. For I boast a deep enough voice, guzzle strong beer, can grow a full beard, and know my way around a hardware store. Reginald changed his name, to become a rock star for the ages. I have considered the correction.

“Annie, dear boy, there you are.” The queen could no longer pretend; her peasant’s time had come. “Mr. Bookseller has come to the party.” She cast a long-suffering eye over my untucked shirt. Have no fear, I can afford a visit to a tailor, was just making a little statement. “And how is the Last Resort?

“Refuge!”

“I do have a friend who reads, I should send her your way.” My promoter had yet to visit the store herself, to my certain recollection. “Dottie is single, and isn’t too particular.” Gloria squeezed my hand and pressed close. “Such a scoundrel!” And her eyes fastened onto mine, which I struggled to save from a southerly settlement, where the plunging neckline revealed a generosity.

“The Last Refuge prevails, like Old Faithful. Though I left my staff in charge, so I have to fear the worst.”

“Jolly good. And the dame?”

“Agatha is giving me grief, as usual.”

“You’re a lucky man.” The hostess evidenced no such fortune, inspecting my unshaven jowls.

“She was looking forward to this, likes to get out of town.”

“Naughty boy, you’re moving. I heard the news from Chris, but not a squeak from you.”

“I’ve sold the house, renting an apartment.”

“My lovely invitation—!”

“Pride of place. The post office was able to track me down. They still deliver behind enemy lines!”

“Silly boy!” She leaned yet closer—other guests need not know that a pauper had infiltrated their number. “Why does a single man need a house anyway?”

“The simple life worked for Thoreau. And he’d feel right at home. My landlord has a religious objection to modern convenience.”

“Sounds just darling. Do tell, where?”

“Dolorosa Street. No vacancies on Hope Road.”

“Super. Wait, you’ll be neighbors with another friend of mine. Have you met Grace?”

“A room with a view, according to his advert”—I had met Grace—“which is hard to disprove, if you think about it. I don’t suppose your husband would take the case.” A fixture chez Gloria, Grace would seek me out, making an assumption. The face of my future assumed a complexion. However, as far as I could tell, the worthy Grace was absent.

“We were at Stanford together. Lovely woman. Her husband died a few years ago. He was a lot older, mind you, could have been her father. Now she’s making quite a name for herself, freelance journalist. I should introduce you, she’s not afraid of a challenge, haha.”

“Honored, I’m sure.” I was introduced every six months or so.

“Isn’t the music heavenly? We flew them in from Germany. All the rage in Europe, you know. We’re so lucky they had the time. I asked them specially to play this piece.”

“Beautiful.” I was too numb. The Trout Quintet marks daring musical taste, you know.

“Sorry you couldn’t make it to celebrate New Year’s with us, and the new millennium no less. Quite the shindig, I still haven’t fully recovered.”

“Next time. Only a thousand years to wait.” My good woman, how can I possibly make it when I have no idea?

“Lovely crowd, at least one of us knows how to throw a party. Bill had a veterans’ reunion here last month, professional obligation. They fell on my spread like vultures, you’d think they hadn’t eaten since Vietnam. America insists on integrating the military! And they had to bring their wives, so-called, he never listens to me. The resentment, you have no idea. You’d think it was a crime, having a beautiful house. We’ve earned our money, get over it.”

“Communists! I trust they didn’t loot the palace.”

“So happy to see you, Annie. How are you, anyway?”

Time was up. I have known the queen since she and Bill were dating. Her subject of suspicion was his best man! Familiarity over many years has bred, not contempt but, well, familiarity. In domestic and sober encounters I am immune to her charms, often sweatshirt-and-sneaker muted. ¡Caramba tequila! Caressed by the coos, blessed by her bounty, a poor supplicant now soaked in a spa of stimulation.  

She pulled the plug. My boyhood bane recurred, a mind to prolong the attention vying with concern lest a private protuberance provoke a public panic? Anselm, really! Have no fear, all eyes were on the level. And I will level with you, the dog is no excitable young pup. Maybe a smuggled flask of bourbon was to blame for any bulge! And we really need to know?!

“Actually, Gloria, I do feel a headache coming on. Better sit down.”

“Marvelous, I’ll see if I can find Bill. I’m sure he wants to catch up.” The congested room parted like the Red Sea, and a glory sashayed through, the splendid rump outlined through the cling of her dress.

 Her husband was not her match. But his volume control was stuck on celebration, a fiftieth milestone offering them both an excuse. Gushing guests might spew their spectaculars, but in truth the oceanfront property is too much. Gloria had tasked the architect—a dear friend—with a merger of masonry and beach, and the conceit had been duly executed, as if a shipwrecked shelter builder had the means to indulge his every fancy.

—Crusoe, I have you in mind, of course. You had to strip the ship to fix your habitation. And I commend attention to another element of your story. Of course, that footprint in the sand would leave you thunderstruck. You were not alone on the island; was he friend or foe? But a single imprint, whoever heard of such a thing? No natural explanation; he knew that you were there, was leaving you a message. Will we ever hear his side of the story?—

The design won an award. So what, I won a gold star in kindergarten! Driftwood beams provided irregular support, rocks jutted through the walls, stained glass sold a sanctity, and windows in the floor opened onto a spot-lit tide pool, of evident manufacture. The supposed showpiece did somehow find a spread in a section of the Sunday paper, as an early morning phone call once brought to my attention. I am not remotely jealous, whatever they suggest. Gloria extols joint weekends on the coast, though I could little conceive her consort away from his desk of dividend, no matter how storied the retreat.

Looking for a rich husband? Gloria retained a promising lawyer, the contract conjugal. Fremont and Hayward is the firm, William Connor the name on that desk. And Connor has some clout, the senior partners in clamorous attendance, their wives in glamorous attire. Some bash! And some more biography: I had not only come to Bill’s party, but belonged to the same alumni association, crossed the same Yard. Veritas, I started the juridical journey, to pursue a purer path.

The state school grads met in One L. Merrywood nursed no chip, needless to say, but made few other friends, knowing neither secret handshake nor second home in the Berkshires. Connor roiled with resentment. Preppies and perfume! Aren’t we special? Be fucking you in the ass when I make it. We took the same classes, rode the same train, roomed together at the end of the T-line, where blue-collar locals cut down the Ivy League. One of us never cheated on the test, was generous with late-hour tutorials, worked pro bono, and played in a band. The other serially failed the Bar; but with the compensation of bruising hours and an ambition bordering on mania, established himself as the most sought-after litigator in the state, as his wife frames his repute. The boast has some material justification—witness the weekend house, the yacht, the ease with which they could summon self-important acquaintances to make a tortuous trip, over an hour’s drive from the city.

 I did not make that trip alone. Sherman marched his army to the sea; Merrywood motored his lady up the coast. I am a knight of automotive steed, though the dame was in one of her moods and the going tortuous. Not all cars reach the destination: A soft-top hung shamefacedly over a sandstone bluff, the owner in a daze, staring at the road ahead as if he were stranded on the beaches of Dunkirk. If only I knew!

A lady has an expectation. But a ground campaign moves slowly, and we were already an hour late. A file of pedestrians crossing the narrow road came to an inconsiderate halt. I always make time for turkeys, but a truck was tight on my tail and the horn-blowing driver failed to share my fondness for the fowl. We had to make another stop, where our next foe lay in ambush: The tyke masqueraded as a gas-station attendant and rejected my card, muttering juvenile insinuation. Anselm Thomas Merrywood is the name on the plastic, and I would not budge. Waiting motorists grew restive until the dame persuaded her latest conquest to take a check.

 To what end? The city’s movers and shakers had congregated in the big room to further some business, their circled backs forming a barrier that only Gloria dared penetrate. Less formidable attendees, some of whom I recognized, meandered through the house, clustering in respect of its curious invention. The architect, Japanese, long haired and even more sloppily dressed than I, indulged a succession of reverent passersby. A photographer from the paper was doing the rounds. The mayor was stopping by!

Jovial was the laughter. But I could not breathe easy, a menace threatening the celebration. You know the story. The hero faces a familiar ordeal, the enduring confrontation of good and evil. The road is unforgiving; villains wait in ambush, menacing highway and byway, their crimes shocking the civilized sensibility as lightning bolts disturb a good night’s sleep. And then he crosses a woman.

“Hello, Anselm.” An alarm sounded to my rear. I held my breath. “Anselm!” The din providing an excuse, I might slink to safety. “Don’t run away.” The summons drew near. I could as little escape as a rabbit in a steel claw.

CHAPTER III. THE SHOP

Your hero gets down to business.

My mother is a Methodist. Her son still has a little fun. He also has a métier. We will now visit the location. You will find a refuge, and that more amusement lies in store. At least you should.

Let’s get down to business. But bargain for no chain, we take you to a better place. Classical music, renaissance painting, vintage wine, a scent of the past: The Last Refuge delivers the goods. You fill up my senses! Thank you, although we privilege the mind.

“I find in Philosophy.” Blind to any business, Ivan was thumbing through the find. “Saint Anselm”—you rang?—“Ze Proslogion!” The truant traced the timeless text. “A being greater than vich cannot be conceive.” The store’s alleged employee likes to read aloud. “Hah, this proof belong Shopping Network.” On occasion, his incursions into the thickets of the English tongue chance upon a clearing.

You might conjure up a vodka flask. I too am tempted, despite the haste of that generalization, my familiarity with his diction and faith that the plodding intonation betrays a poet’s soul. Ivan is resolutely sober, an abdication of his national responsibility. The autodidact had pressed a lull in customer traffic to advantage, stumbling across my namesake in the alcove, which unauthorized reading now lay on the counter. The scholar is jealous of speech, a train of interior monologue rolling at the expense of outward expression. “Boss, you think saint really believe proof?” A rare remark will mitigate his commercial apathy, erratic work habits, and antipathy towards the paying public. “Or play viz vords?”

Merrywood! . . . Really the best time, bucko? . . . Mocking the Russian . . . He mocks me, without mercy . . . Giving offense . . . The offended have a recourse, in the self-help section!

“A distinction without a difference. The word creates the thing.” I turned over the volume, Russell’s History of Western Philosophy, $38 used. Bertrand had been sitting on the shelf for years, but lowering his asking price would deliver a slap to a Nobel face. “Although faith does face the question—Why would God have any patience for those foolish enough to believe in him?”

“Good von, boss.” Withdrawing a notebook from his jacket pocket, the poet jotted his first entry in nearly fifteen minutes. My words of wisdom are preserved for posterity. If you could only read the record! “Heaven and hell, ze jealous God!”

“Insecure, more like. If I can create the whole damn world, would I really be so petty?”

“Mama!”

“I can’t take the credit for that one. The song of Sister Sonja, vile heathen that she is.”

“Sonja have soul like Russia. How is sister?”

The Terrible checks few boxes of regular humanity. An unkempt beard, balding pate, dime-store glasses, soiled suit, and tatty tie present a blend of indeterminate vintage. He has been working for me, in a charitable manner of speaking, since high school, when he arrived on these shores with his mother. The eccentric couple took up residence in the shop and soft-soaped the shopkeeper. I had the wisdom of Tolstoy, the depth of Pushkin, the soul of Chekhov. And I found the son in my employment. The inquiry into my sister’s well-being affected nonchalance, but his ribs had felt the tickle. Sonja once passed an interminable half hour browsing in a revealing bend before the house poet, his typically inscrutable features teetering between temptation and terror. The sloppy presentation belies a strict personal hygiene, and after Sonja’s departure, Ivan had to pay his visit to the bathroom. Boss, hot today, must splash vater on face.

Some women wear the pants. Others choose the trousers, mama’s boy betraying the initiative of a rock-hidden centipede. But though his grammar comes scrambled, the polyester-panted son pretends to regular conjugation. Sonja’s mischief recalibrating his nervous system, the store solipsist found his tongue, chatted merrily with the cash register, and on the following day sported a new tie of daring coloration. I had little heart for disenchantment. My sister has a program, her target seldom selected for bedroom design. I did reprimand her after the fact, protective of the victim. You don’t find him attractive, surely?—Annie, all men are attractive, in their own way. Such sad eyes. Her occupational lasciviousness has struck many a blow, redressing the imbalance of folklore. ­My brother, you have no vagina, you will never understand. An astute observation, but still, Ivan?!

 What have we here? The prescient ornithologist will have already made the identification. No bird of teeming species, I can readily introduce the remaining members of my flock. But don’t count your chickens, I might make a special friend while spinning out the tale! You will often find the birds at nest, the main thread of my story unwinding in the confines. All right, the design has won no accolades, but who needs the pretension? I have yet to set the scene. Put yourself then in the shoes of a customer. Refusing a dictatorship of letters, all books deserve a good home. But democracy has a downside; any simpleton can stray from the sidewalk, his opinion in tow. Funny smell in here! The dull color of vintage wine disguises a treasure; what do they know? Got a flashlight, buddy? When the charmed archaeologist uncovered the gold of Tutankhamun, did he complain about a little dust? I can recommend a good cleaning lady. I pay no mind to the mockery, trust me. Indeed, we curry their displeasure, motioning them back to the mall. And that Health and Safety citation is really nothing to worry about, our city bureaucrats as forgiving as Carrie Nation in the brewery. What about Emil’s?! His joint has never been inspected, though my store is spotless in comparison.

Let us take a tour. The street is named after a Spanish city, where stupid tourists run with the bulls. Forsaking the press of Pamplona, you push through a frosted-glass door, upon which The Last Refuge sets an expectation in gilt letters. You hear the tinkle of a bell but no chirp of greeting, will suffer no unsolicited intrusion on your pilgrimage. Picture an ancient market town, growing haphazardly over the centuries around a bustling square, with a maze of narrow lanes disappearing through a patchwork of overhanging dwellings. And that picture is not sketchy, old photographs attesting to the bustle. As the door gives a squeak of welcome, you discover a dark forest of ancient woodwork, through which a clearing leads to the clouded glass of the counter, command center of the operation. There you will find the scoundrel, a nameplate confirming the credentials in copper. Have no fear, I am taking refuge from the madding crowd, just as you are. Assorted wooden chairs, orphaned umbrellas, a serviceable couch, temperamental coffee machine, and beached bicycle line the thoroughfare from which aisles of bookish enticement vanish into the tall but motley shelving. In the dim light, indolent hush, and narrow corridors, you will find your felicity, might make merry with Monty. Our order might stray from the alphabetical, but the fortuitous discovery, the element of surprise! We might lack some modern amenities. Are you not a lover of books? You will feel at home.

 “Ahem. The lady needs some assistance, I believe.” My raised voice broke a religious hush. I had been lunching with a klatch of local retailers gathered at the behest of Emil, drug dealer and owner of the bistro. Beneficiary of an early release program, the man was fully gassed, and his establishment had lately received a suspiciously glowing review in the paper, making his prattle only more punishing. The restaurant critic was a regular, undertaking extracurricular activity with Emil in the men’s room. Our merchant association makes common cause against venal landlord and bothersome official, and the parolee had pushed his better to call another meeting. Some leaders are born, some are made, some are chosen. Anselm was conscripted; the gang knows my good name, refuses to convene in my absence, and I have an obligation. We had no new business, Emil issuing the call to juice his bottom line with a check of no compliments. The Alhambra business district fosters a corresponding Mediterranean work ethic, and my fellow shopkeepers were extending their conference into an afternoon of barhopping, Magnolia and Mel the driving force. The Last Refuge allows no such respite. Already irritable, I barged through the door to find a well-dressed woman waiting at the counter. His nose in the same book, Ivan was oblivious.

“I apologize, ma’am, my assistant is brushing up on his ontology.” I elbowed our budding philosopher aside. A veritable cornucopia, The Last Refuge is a preserve of medieval thought. Bibliophiles also marvel at our military history section, illustrated compendia of world trains, and collections of explorers’ journals. At least they should. Our comely booklover was flirting with world literature. “Le Grand Meaulnes! You read French?” I pay due respect.

She had come to the right place. The Last Refuge is also known for a spread of languages, a source of pride more than financial reward. If Ivan owned the shop, we would only stock the original. The monk considers translation a moral affront, will break his vow of silence to berate an offending purchase. I had been perusing The Brothers Karamazov in anticipation of my forthcoming feature on the radio dial, and The Terrible had picked up the copy I left by the till. We English readers are given to understand that Constance Garnett serviceably renders the spirit of the Russian; he begs to differ. Dostoevsky? No vay!

“Naturellement.” Madame gave a gracious smile. “Je suis française.” And was that a Gallic wink?

“Formidable.” A smooth operator rose to another challenge. The shop attracts foreign visitors, a choice selection with whom the multilingual owner engages in their native tongue. “Quel plaisir.” The entente was cordiale.

“Madame, bienvenue au pays de la liberté.” The wit has a way. “Wonderful little book, a treasure.” The wise know when to quit. “Shame he died so young . . . why doesn’t it get more attention? . . . I read it in French . . . I’ve written a novel . . . we carry it, if you want . . . though I find his achievement quite mysterious.” My extended eloquence owed nothing to her looks, needless to say. An ambassador has a diplomatic obligation.

“It’s for my husband. I haven’t read a book in years.”

 Ivan’s threads hang in unchanging exhibition. The refusenik respects some rules, the funereal suit making the man, like the black habit the nun. His function in our economy cannot be transparent to the casual observer, still less the diagnosis of his complaint, a condition verging on coma. You have yet to make the acquaintance, but my otherwise imperturbable wife suffered ongoing conniption on his account: Was he blissfully unaware of workplace expectations, subverting the only token of capitalism that afforded an opportunity, or taking advantage of my indulgence, the latter hypothesis a truism for an engineer of no nonsense? I thought better of compounding her outrage, telling of the bathroom trips coincident with her visits. In any case, she was wrong; I can stand up for myself, take charge when his shelving is shaky. Ivan is Ivan, an enigma of no profitable interpretation. Yes, I fantasize about a severance, but the deed is humanly impossible, and not for want of spine. Though I write his paycheck and wield considerable advantage in years, he has inveigled a compact whereby proprietor demand constitutes a breach of etiquette, threat of termination a joke of low comedy. The grave is long dug, my prerogative stymied for want of reason why present offense ranks more grievously than past permission. In any case, his dispatch would unbalance an established order, The Last Refuge’s ambience no more feasible without The Terrible than blue cheese with no rot. Ecosystem and bellwether species evolve as one, and my scientist spouse suspected a similar symbiosis between the alleged antiquarian disrepair of the store and dilapidation of the employee’s suit. She may have had a point, but I fail to see the problem. I admire the poet. I have dedicated my life to books, yet my business calling is reluctant. I wish I could sell the shop, retire to my own monastery of the mind. Ivan does not compromise; Ivan does not care. His challenge has no answer, my penance to a better god. And the silence of his company has some advantage.

“How about making yourself useful?” I maintain a pantomime, for private amusement. La tristesse du jour had bid au revoir.

“What you want I do, boss?”

“Check the back section. Maybe Emil needs some help.”

 The fellow has few redeeming features. When not exercising droit de seigneur on his unfortunate waitresses, Emil slouches into the shop, repairs to the back section only to wheedle for a discount. However, he still brings some money my way; I may later divulge the arrangement. And seeking to better himself, he respects my predilection for the nineteenth-century English novel. At least he should.

Please put down that phone! Your congressman has better things to worry about. My nationality might be dual, but I venerate Huck Finn, follow football, and act the jerk like a true American. But the apple pie does know other seasoning, my formative years suffering the blazer and cap of an all-boys primary school. And while I was declining Latin, playing cricket, and breakfasting on canned spaghetti on toast, the paterfamilias patented the device that secured a modest career and the optimal stream of subterranean sewer. Though her father in-law is yet to mark any museum, my normally unflappable wife fessed up to some flutter upon meeting George Merrywood, inventor of the same-named pump. He joined the company that allowed his family to cross the Atlantic and gain the citizenship, but like the flow of a drain, DuPont expects mobility of middle management. The family made stops in Jacksonville, Florida; Annapolis, Maryland; and Detroit, Michigan, my mother’s home state, an unsettled history that she blamed for her son’s alleged inability to throw strikes against the girls’ team. Anselm, a nice-looking fellow like you! It should be easy to find a wife. My friends at church have grandkids.—Don’t worry Mom, the mail-order bride says she wants children.—All your silly jokes! You think you’re so clever, but no one has a clue what you’re talking about.

I had one redeeming quality. A Harvard law degree hangs front and center on her living-room wall. So after passing on the profession, I introduced her to The Last Refuge with the relish of Vladimir Putin’s gay son bringing his boyfriend home for dinner. Mom, it is a little quiet in the shop today, but at least we get to talk.—Anselm Thomas, you had an impressive career, I grew up on a farm. She will come around, someday.

 Emil is a creature of habit. The reliability would little placate my mother, his habits descending from mere nuisance to the loathsome. The dog does not discuss his pedigree. If only the reticence in owning the accent extended to its employment; the septic tank overflows. The language is insulting, the jokes crude, the suggestions improper. I will spare you the proof.

We both have our stories. But there is really no comparison. I have so much to say, my shipment must be sparing; Emil plies the same package ad nauseum. A well-settled dual citizen, I can tell it like it is, my good name accentuating his ill repute. Whereas the ungrateful import subverts the American dream while sniping at my business, his trademark tale an embellishment of native folklore, larded with Dickensian pathos. But no matter how often he spins the story, the fabulist finds fresh amusement, his telling a narcotic wreck of memory lapse and verbal diarrhea. In case you are curious, I will shortly distill the spirit, providing a finer blend. But first—

CHAPTER IV. THE CHASM

Your hero has a reckoning.

“Anselm!” The party volume was set to hubbub. “Anselm!!” But a summons sliced through the festive ferment. “Anselm!!!” A mistress was calling her dog to heel. “Anselm!!!!” She has her way, the stray obeys, but delay will find a way. Permit me a little digression.

 Nothing stops the march of science. Legends lead the charge: Galileo in his tower, training a heretical telescope on the heavens; Darwin in his cabin, poring over the notes that will change the world; Curie in her laboratory, peering at the test-tube radium that will send her to an early grave. No corner of the world escapes the investigation, from the galaxy at light-years’ distance to the amoeba on microscope slide. We read the works in wonder, marveling at the motion of the planets, complexity of the brain, origin of the species, structure of the atom. Yet the edification falls foul of the flesh; bodily functions also demand their reason. Serving the implacable god of knowledge, our scientists must turn their inquiring eyes from the mountain to the dung heap, descend from celestial observatory to basement lavatory. Have you ever asked yourself, how exactly do we know? A dated edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica ($89.99, possibly open to negotiation) has long occupied a forlorn shelf in the store, where the prurient schoolboy can browse entries on fornication and feces, and find the following under flatulence: “Intestinal gas comes from either swallowed air (nitrogen and oxygen) or the fermentation by bacteria of poorly digested carbohydrates in the colon, yielding a mixture of carbon dioxide, hydrogen, and methane.” Science demands deliberate experiment—imagine the necessary research! With what device did our die-hard empiricists collect their material? A desperate professor up for tenure pressed his failing students into service, plying them with beans and beer and exposing their rears for the duration, securing a plastic bag around the orifice of inflation? Inquiring minds might further read, “All the common intestinal gases are odourless; about 1 percent of the flatus consists of a mixture of other gases that causes the distinctive odour.” Wait a minute, now! Chemistry counsels careful consideration, cannot rest content with conjecture. There is no escaping the conclusion: the introduction of the nostrils of science into that plastic bag. Does a public-sector salary offer adequate compensation?

Trust me here. Fine sensibilities may bristle at this levity, but the ambush serves a serious purpose. Let us pass from pure science to the application. First, I will confirm your suspicion: I am a proud old lion of tradition, though like others of crusty temperament, selective of review. The old guard looks fondly on the past, but must grant some promise to the present. I revere the Brontës, consider their nineteenth-century acquaintances holders of the rarest privilege, yet the villagers of Haworth, West Yorkshire, the sisters’ home on the edge of the moor, suffered an open sewer to run down the main street, drank well water contaminated with human waste, and lost appalling numbers of infants to disease. Genteel Charlotte had to squat over a hole in a freezing outhouse. Post-industrial man disowns his excrement, no sooner freed than flushed, and we charge our engineers, trustees of modernity, visionary designers of svelte airliners and luxury automobiles, with dispatching our effluvia to their final resting place. You take the works for granted, the accomplishment coming to the attention only in the breach, when swimming offshore you find yourself negotiating a raft of raw sewage. Spare a thought then for the sanitation professional, wallowing in the mire that you might forget your business. Imagine spending hours in the fumes, wading the sludge, showering with prophylactic soap. Does some psychological abnormality preclude more social career, do the public servants talk shop in euphemism, are their mothers still proud? Someone has to do it. Who are these curious individuals?

I introduce my wife. All right, technically I should say ex-wife, but we still address him as Mr. President. Christine Caprese, she never took my name, earned her MS in Civil Engineering from Stanford in 1986. Adding further injury to a life of insult, she shortens her first—Chris and Annie, I need not recount the innuendo. You might picture a Soviet-era athlete of dubious entitlement to the women’s squad, so I will immediately disappoint the presumption. Christine of my sorrows was strawberry blonde, soft of voice, comfortably curved, if her wardrobe did favor the practical over the preen. And the pragmatic woman knew no embarrassment. An enviable self-possession allowed her to publicly hold forth on her employment, in uncompromising vocabulary, without the slightest blockage. Was the sewage sweet! The proper matron nodded, the hipster canned his cool, the wag would never dream.

—Walter Elliot, conceited character! You paraded in front of the mirror, condescended to the lower-born industrialists eclipsing the landed gentry. Little disposed to favour, you were not fond of the idea of your shrubberies being always approachable. What a particular individual! But good sir, even you would admire her gift. The sanitary engineer was not shy, pronouncing on her profession like a genteel visitor to Miss Elliot’s flower garden, praising the perfume of the roses.—

Another knew her love. And he came first, getting her into bed—with one of his books! No longer of this world, the old-school baseball coach never left her heart. The bereaved still saw his worn mitts on the bench, dusty volumes on the shelf, antique maps on the wall. And she married into a traditional bookstore. Though not the most avid reader, the practical woman rose to a challenge: straightening the merchandise, stopping the leak of patrons, preserving the memory of a father—the one man who could do no wrong.

I met an inspiring woman. I fell for a serious scientist. I married a dedicated professional. That was then. No stranger to emergency, the city engineer faced a crisis of no mechanical solution, the midlife examination. Anselm, you can’t complain, didn’t you change careers before we met? All right, but a bookstore is a serious undertaking! You might hope that a steady New Englander would follow my example, investing her inheritance in some solid venture. You would be disappointed. Pulling up those roots, the transplant found her bliss, unhappily. In rank perversion, the same woman who had uncompromising expectations of a husband was fully forgiving of a friend. Melody hails from Marin, but that isn’t the worst of it. The libertine held me in contempt, helped herself to my liquor, introduced my wife to the Zen Center, and before you could say Adbhutadharmaparyāyasūtra, Christine had converted a shuttered church of Christ the Redeemer into a wellness studio. Hatha Flow has unfortunately come to rest just down the street, and the yoga mats blocking our sidewalk incite the scorn of our more worthy customers. At least they should. We were divorced in less than a year.

 “Oh, it’s you.” I turned to face my doom. “What luck, my toilet is overflowing.”

“Anselm, that was never funny. Gloria told me you’d been drinking.”

“Isn’t this a party? At least I showed—”

“Looking like a homeless person.”

“I thought we were divorced! In any case, Savile Row won’t extend me any credit.”

“You still maintain the other woman, I hear. If only the shop—”

“If only you felt for the finer things.”

“Some of us live in the real world.”

“I thought you moved on a more elevated plane.”

“My studio does solid business.”

“Okay, one member of the family is enjoying her little success. Unlike Don Caprese—”

“Anselm, please. I didn’t come over here for another fight.”

“Have you tried the steak tartare? Very tasty.” I was looking at her plate of mushroom crepes. She went full vegan in the waning days of the union, a ground I generously forswore in the proceedings.

“Oh dear.”

Gloria let me know. Annie, you are such a lucky man. And my wife’s best friend was wont to plant a seed. Was I good enough? All right, Christine is popular, accomplished, nice-looking, intelligent, well-educated, articulate, dignified, self-reliant, energetic, patient, generous, resourceful, trustworthy, helpful, sociable, and solvent. But if a woman is so damn perfect, does she have to puff? And don’t even talk about her insomnia; both occupants of the conjugal bunk have to suffer. The doctor’s news affected me as well, of course. But did I head for the door?

Let me set the record straight. I might still think about the marriage, occasionally. So what, I still think about the accident! The car was totaled, but the crash wasn’t really my fault, and we walked away without lasting injury. Gloria pretending post-divorce that she wouldn’t take sides, I opened her forwarded invitation with a sinking heart, but could only decline on pain of proving the presumption. She had really no need to warn me. How many times must I say? How much supposed sympathy must I take? Yes, my wife walked out, but I have fully recovered, trust me. I harbor no resentment, since you ask. I never dwell on the past, if you must know. I just ignore the reminders—what reminders anyway?! Can we please change the subject? I have plenty of other things to worry about. I have no need to talk about it, really I don’t. I hardly think about her, to tell the honest truth. Let’s just move on, shall we? I rarely think about her at all.

“I was hoping you’d be here.” She could never take a hint. “I hear Betty was in the hospital. I do miss your mother. How is she?”

“The poor woman has no private life, apparently. I’m well, thank you for asking.”

“The lowest form of wit.” No sad piano accompanied her reproach. “I do care, you know.”

Therein lies the offense. The bride reneged on the vow to her husband but still minds his business. And she had come over unaccompanied, sparing me communication with the individual who presently shares her bed. She had left him with a clutch of nodding women, frantic for some fodder.

I will take the stand. No matter what my former partner says, I am not bereft of social grace. Visit me in the store, and we’ll have some conversation! The good soldier is not adverse to a party, but the battle-tested regular made the drive with some damp of spirit. I would face inquiry into the health of my business. I would run into a tedious classmate, of illustrious career. I would be expected to lament the lax morals of the English au pair. Returning guests would not forget that unfortunate scene with the young district attorney—how was I to know she was lesbian? It was just a rhetorical question! Can’t anyone take a joke?

“They thought Mother had a heart attack. False alarm, nothing too serious, apparently. They’re keeping her for observation.”

“I miss her. And how’s George?”

“Just turned eighty, and still a swinger. Though now he’s all titanium.”

“I used to play golf with my father. He never let me use the ladies’ tee.”

I removed her clothes. But private indulgence provides poor compensation. Though she has discarded a husband, the deserter has kept her looks, I have to admit. The married woman wore a short bob, which complemented her features; the yoga instructor had grown her hair out, to less success. Should I remark to that effect, in a public spirit? A history of marital misunderstanding counseled precaution. Why don’t her confidantes offer the hint, Gloria far from timid? The self-explorer and the socialite were close, apple and orange enjoying a rapport that defies all reason. Christine feted her friend’s fandango while treading on my toots! And if I divulge a further development, please suppose no spleen. Rubens would consider her a picture. But I never judge the exhibition, trust me.

“I see the masseur has a fan club.” I nodded in the direction.

“Anselm, it really doesn’t bother me. Just to set the record straight, Moshe is not a masseur. He runs a holistic health practice, and he’s very well regarded. You know that already, whatever you pretend.”

“Maybe he’d give me a discount. Friends and family.”

“You don’t want to talk, that’s fine. Say hello to your folks.”

Lew might stew. But I’m not remotely jealous, trust me. The philosopher views life’s vicissitudes with calm detachment. I knew she would bring her boyfriend, Moshe of the piercing desert eyes—I overheard the unhinged remark, unfortunately. My slight indisposition owed nothing to his presence, trust me. Gloria’s affairs are a bog of affectation. Yes, partygoers were warming to him, saying how happy they seemed, but I’m indifferent to the insult, really I am. He might cut a figure, but can’t they see the chin? If he was creating a little stir, then good for him, I say. I’m no insecure teenager, for heaven’s sake. I still carry a torch? Please, nothing could be further . . . ! She has moved on and I’m on my own, for all the world to see. So what?! Does the lone wolf not inspire?

 A bray bested the babble. A different beast bullied through the bustle. The lawyer’s clock is ticking and rations the minutes he allows for each guest, whether old partner in crime or recent acquisition. I’m not insecure. I don’t feel entitled to his time. Anselm Merrywood is secure in his sneakers, I can assure you of that. But at their parties Bill competes with Gloria, and his self-importance crescendos to an intolerable pitch. The birthday boy modulates the boast only for superficial banter, the moral degradation of which he is insensible.

“Merrywuss!” Must he always? A squat figure approached, on an evident mission. The incoming missile sported a plain open-necked brown shirt and pants. I suspect that Gloria presses underwhelming attire on her spouse, the better to set off her splendor.

“Happy birthday, sir.” I am the taller, but possess no advantage. A bulldog’s presence belies its actual stature.

“Yeah, yeah, fifty years. Nothing to sing about, as we all know.” He patted his stocky frame.

“I’m still shy, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Your years haven’t treated you too bad, skinny bastard.” Unlike the lady of the house, Bill took no offense at a guest’s workaday togs; rude rags read reduced resources. “And we’ve laid on another treat”—the meat was on the cutting board— “your ex-wife!” The knowing cook has a sharp knife.

“Connor, I do thank thee. It’s always a pleasure to see Christine. And she can’t stay away from me. The woman has a genius for walking by the store when we happen to want for customers—”

“Can’t stay away from her boyfriend. Check it out, all over each other.”

“Oh, that’s who he is. I was thinking some party crasher was hitting on her. I was about to do you a favor and kick him out!”

“She does like men.”

“Christine?”

“Just saying!”

“Listen, pal.” The slanderer led me aside. “The wife has invited the whole fucking city, as you can see. I have instructions, talk to every bore she knows, la-di-da. It’s going to be a long day. Before I mosey, got an idea. Let’s take the boat out again.”

“I love it, when we’re cruising together.” I serenaded a startled salon. “So long as there’s no company.” The last time he made the offer I found myself marooned in the middle of the ocean with the upper echelons of Hayward and Fremont and came close to emulating Davy Jones.

“Just the two of us. Get out of your creepy shop for once.”

The Connor consideration carries no conviction. I am his best friend, on Gloria’s rehearsal, an honor compromised by lack of other self-respecting claimants. He has but one gear, unrelenting personal advancement. A boat trip spells submission to his every controlling fancy, the inevitable cock-a-doodle-do. You’re a lucky guy, my friend, this baby cost big bucks, got me half the fucking world begging for a cruise. However, I must overrule my pride, set my stomach for a surfeit. I needed his help. Were he sober on the day, the request would fall on deaf ears, Scrooge as generous with his scrip as the Virgin Mary with her favors. But we sail with some provision, the only time he indulges. In a crowd of celebrants Bill’s forbearance stands out, a circumstance he mordantly brings to the attention. Until the family doctor intervened, he was no stranger to the liquor store, and Gloria would have an Oscar-worthy meltdown over our maritime indulgence.

“Bill, you bring the boat, I spring for the booze.”

“No skimping, now. I know you!”

“Yes, you are a lucky man.”

“I only drink top shelf.” The rooster left me in peace.

 The house was packed. The party was swinging. The bar was well stocked. But my post told a singular story, Gloria somehow failing to weave my threads into the fabric. I have the recurring nightmare, naked in a classroom, and now experienced a like exposure, second-guessing my clothing calculation. A saving Grace typically appeared at this juncture; I should forestall her rescue attempt. My ride was waiting outside.

Mike takes a hike? That is not beyond the realm of possibility, but Anselm is a different beast; the critter is no quitter! And flight only draws attention, good manners mandating interminable goodbyes. An ulterior motive? You will have to wait and see! However, I had been foraging on my own for so long that joining the herd would bleat of desperation, belated engagement surrender my cool. The crowd was too dignified to supply the entertainment of a belligerent drunkard, kids were forbidden, and the musicians had played their encore. Christine and paramour merged on the other side of the room. I could not miss his pat to her rear. You might come to his defense, see no semaphore, and I praise your propensity to forgive. I also could not care less, trust me. The later mishap was a total accident, whatever you might think.

 The sliding door made my exit. O captain, my captain! Our fearful trip is done? Steady on, my hearties, the party might be painful, but a hero has no fear. I just needed some fresh air. A few hands remained on deck, and your skipper stood apart, his back to squalls of laughter, his face to quiet sea. If he gave the impression of deep and distant thoughts, then so be it. And I had a glass in hand, the navy needs fortification. The fog had not made up its mind, the more decided sun had disappeared behind the shingles, sending a shadow to the sand. A staff member clad in white jacket, pressed slacks, and patent-leather wingtips was lighting a heat lamp. The endeavor served little purpose, although a casually dressed couple remained across a table. I suspected some distant cousins of Gloria’s, a Raiders sweatshirt and revealing top further widening the family gap? The late arrivals had made no move to mingle, playing the private finger game. All poor creatures need to eat, but another immaculately appointed waiter was shooing away a starving sparrow while he picked up the litter of indulgence. The playful pair ignored his labors, lost in a land of their own.

The Pacific Ocean spread both vast and near. The seas swelled, the surf broke, the water glistened, but the scene was unequal to the competition. The girl had not moved, though she properly belonged in an older picture, her marble complexion inspiring a befrocked poet as they sat stiffly on a riverbank, watching stately swans drift by. But a cigarette pack lay on the railing, a cord led from her ears, and a bare foot tapped in confirmation. Living in different worlds, standing on opposite sides of the deck, studiously ignoring each other, a dated drinker and a disaffected teenage smoker nevertheless shared a category: the only unaccompanied guests on the premises.

 The memorable story has the moment. Evil was waiting, while Eve eyed the fruit; mankind made a giant leap, when Neil took his short step out the capsule; the plot took a fateful twist, when Oliver asked for more. And you will hold your breath, as Merrywood makes his move. At least you should.

The stage was set. A heat lamp warmed my watch, a trumpet blew encouragement into my ears. What a wonderful world, Louis, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here! The amorous guests were feeding each other’s faces, while exchanging no sensible word. My own stomach was full enough. Another pang was plaguing, the confectionery within reach.

Merrywood! . . . What now? . . . Fresh fruit can be bitter . . . I’ll be the judge of that.

The orchard gate is open. A shiny apple catches the eye of passing boys. Many are drawn to the tree; few choose a perilous pluck. But my daring would go unnoticed, the wordless lovers in a world of their own.

Daring?! . . . Just you wait! . . . Haven’t got all day!

She lit another cigarette. We would soon have the stage to ourselves, the smooching simpletons taking a last slug. A silent couple can still communicate, a mutual desire for departure needing no affirmation. The pair rose together, not long for some cheap motel? I mouthed a goodbye, muted a good riddance. Americans have a right to free association, no matter how juvenile, tasteless, unnecessary the exercise.

Bent out of shape? . . . The most upright of men! . . . Who never gets any action.

A man sat on a chair. A girl stood at the railing. We were alone.

Terrifying! . . . Speak for yourself . . . Youth builds a barricade . . . Climb every mountain . . . Caution carves a chasm . . . Ford every stream . . . Age widens the gulf.

I did have some support. A cocktail always makes good company. And the female has no fear for me, needless to say, although the face is an enigma. Should Merrywood mess with the mystery? A careful man takes no untoward risk. A considerate man will not impose. A wise man weighs his words.

The moment! . . . I know what I’m doing here . . . Man or mouse?

The deck was for the birds. The decamping couple had left their plates unfinished, and greedy gulls descended to besmirch the freshly washed wood. The waiters had also disappeared, leaving some pigeons in peace. The girl was staring at her feet, but a sparrow had taken her previous perch and was giving me the eye.

History heralds the hurdles. Washington crossed the Delaware, Caesar the Rubicon, Hannibal the Alps. A new legend would make his mark? I did have a reckoning. Rows of planks marking the distance, the diligent mathematician cannot help but count.

Playing in his pants! . . . Excuse me? . . . Telling of his torment . . . Never let it be said.

A wine glass was empty. A cigarette pack lay crumpled. An antique cardigan was buttoned. A brisk breeze was blowing. A sliding door beckoned. A girl has places to go?

Sentenced to solitary! . . . I enjoy my own company . . . Left all forlorn . . . A lone wolf stands tall . . . Though sensing some solace . . . You’ll shut your trap? . . . The end of the ordeal!

 Our tale started with a toast. Let us now drink to good health. I keep my waist trim, seldom call in sick, favoring the cocktail over the medicine cabinet. But though we benefit from the stance, the upright is a challenge to the human, my frame no exception to the rule. Gravity enervates my lower vertebral discs with a secret squad of saboteurs, set to strike on special occasion. The doctors are stumped, the x-rays no help, the gym a lost cause, a wife given to question—and her system is perfect? The discomfort comes and goes, although one thing is constant. I take it like a man. I do not complain. I seldom even make allusion, as you will surely ascertain. The pain might be prevalent in comely company, but some correlation is just coincidence, as we all know. Can’t a man indulge a show without immature insinuation?

 “Happy birthday to you!” The strain was loud and clear, though stained glass blocked the passage. The starlings were unsettled, the statue less impressed. My lower back also clamored for attention. A cold wind induces the pangs! I am still fond of fresh air and developed an interest in the neighboring yard, where a silver Airstream interrupted the view of surrounding hills, a red-headed woodpecker beat a lonely drum, and a child’s swing hung from the leafless tree. In the corner of my eye, a maid sat motionless, before lighting another cigarette. The sparrow had been keeping her close company, enjoying full use of only one leg. The solitary scavenger now limped off the edge of the deck, a plaintive cheep sounding the retreat.

Make your own move, man! . . . A smooth operator takes it easy . . . Rooted to the spot . . . A successful suitor slows it down . . . Nailed to a cross.

Deliberation doomed the donkey; a medieval philosopher posed the paradox. Mind the mettle of the man; Merrywood has a more stirring proposition!

A young deer is skittish. The hunter must tread lightly in the forest, coolly lift his rifle, calmly draw a bead, patiently wait the instant of alignment. Surgical precision spells success.

A true hero needs no help. A lone climber braves the mountain. A peak performer is a born artist of the move . . .

I am losing the train. But I found myself transported over the timber. The back protested, the birds stirred in indignation. The girl noticed my approach but added no further sign of alarm.

“Uncle Annie!” She took a short drag, deigned a little dimple.

“Alice. Long time.”

CHAPTER V. THE MENAGERIE

Your hero gets back to nature.

The Last Refuge welcomes you back. Ivan was idling at the counter, for all the world to see. Emil prolonged his rear secretion. Would that the exceptional silence set to steady rule! How many times have I heard his fable?

A memoir is a record. And the writer has the privilege. But suppose another would like a word? I am also a generous man, so I will open up the book. Emil’s allegory is insulting, the facts fanciful, the language improper. But he does have a decent story.

I promised to tell the tale. So shelving my reservations, I will now share his liberties with American history, but purged of incontinent expletive, senseless digression, and infinite loop.

 The Rockefeller story: Our legendary banker’s fortune disguised ragged origins, running with ne’er-do-wells on the Lower East Side. The ravenous crew could only afford the price of a grubby apple, one cent apiece on the curbside barrow. Forged of finer metal, the future tycoon would neither admit defeat nor allow despair. He tendered his only penny, but with the vision that set him apart and paved the yellow brick road. The other urchins, slaves to immediate gratification, sank greedy chops into their small nourishment, but our hero steeled himself against the growl of stomach, fixing on greater reward. The lad swaddled his purchase in a discarded newspaper, took leave of the gang, and set off across town, cradling the cargo in a tattered coat. Alas, the launch of his business career coincided with an early winter storm. The wind howled, freezing rain lashed his cheeks and pooled on the sidewalk. Starving, shivering, muttering to himself, the boy bent into the gale, splashed through icy puddles, and trudged the interminable length of unfamiliar avenue, a migratory bird homing by instinct on a more clement destination.

His compass was true. Hours later the clouds parted, and he found himself gazing at sunlit rows of uptown mansions, visual confirmation of street legend. His threadbare coat, inherited when a brutish father succumbed to tuberculosis, did not belong, but the ragamuffin installed himself on a busy street corner, polished up his apple, and boldly hawked his wares to passersby in varnished carriage or custom footwear. A novelty in these splendid environs, the spectacle generated amusement and open ridicule. But manifesting in embryo the discipline, grit, and self-assurance that would spur a relentless rise to the top and control an unprecedented financial empire, Rockefeller refused to relent. Satisfaction arrived within the hour. A fine lady labored by, a wailing child in tow, and spied the gleaming red apple on an outstretched palm. She took possession; a colorful distraction might quiet infant cacophony. Bowing to his first customer, the nascent magnate pocketed his earnings, wearily retraced his steps, and it was nightfall before he collapsed into his rough cot, puffed up by his feat, two cents beneath his pillow, fairytale mansions before his eyes.

Force of will overcame protests of the flesh. The following morning Rockefeller hobbled back to the humble barrow. Selecting two apples of retail promise, he walked the goods uptown on blistered feet, beating a blighted path that would become a road to riches. A patrolling policeman approached his first choice of location, administering the boot. But his young determination failed to flag, and he returned home in the afternoon with a hard-won four cents. In just two days, a quadrupling of seed money, with continuing exponential prospect. The subsequent trajectory of his profit deviated from that curve. Already an astute salesman, he gauged the apple-buying public and varied his asking price to suit. But sales growth experienced interruption. Several days passed with no commerce. The policeman returned and exacted a bribe. Local hoodlums emptied his pockets and boxed his ears for good measure—anticipating the misfortune, he had stowed a goodly portion of his earnings in his shoes. The sun continued to shine, and at the end of a week his initial investment had increased twentyfold.

A business model must adapt. In due course he was dealing in quantity and able to extract disgruntled concessions from the apple vendor. Bulky merchandise requires supplemental transport. A delinquent orphan of his acquaintance suffered from pronounced limp and ugly cheek scar, to the prevention of gainful employment. The villain demanded five cents for a day’s work, but Rockefeller knocked him down to three and so had to endure the cripple’s constant cussing as they staggered under the bulge of sack. Contracting out the haulage increased his sales volume but proved a mixed blessing: While Rockefeller was conducting a difficult negotiation, his miscreant porter helped himself to the goods, forcing the entrepreneur into regular inventory. A month passed and he had made his first hundred, a princely sum for the streets but just a promissory note in his book. Success requires singleness of purpose. Resisting the urge to flaunt, he folded back all gain.

Winter wore on and turned bitter. The apprentice quit, the money inadequate compensation for the misery. Rockefeller’s bare hands could barely grip the produce as he braved snow and ice for the convenience of an affluent clientele. The city stayed indoors and business plummeted. Customers’ heavy fur coats, much less his own flimsy threads, were no match for biting cold. Holes threatened the integrity of his boots, his only cap vanished in another ambush, and his coat shredded under the weight of canvas sack. His imagined future allowed little indulgence; new garments would have to wait until he acquired his own cart. But though the cash flow was miserly and his ordeal unremitting, Rockefeller had invested too much to give up. If he could only make it to spring. Then his uncle had a heart attack and left him fifty mill.

 A preposterous implication! Okay, I did inherit the purchase of my store from a proverbial rich uncle, my gambling godfather, but the good fortune was incidental. I took over an established concern: Herzog and Herzog claimed the mantle of oldest business in the borough and had supported my novel from the first. The brothers did solid business, but one Herzog discovered the pleasures of the other Herzog’s wife, and a misfortune at a pedestrian crossing put paid to the joint enterprise. Their lawyer urging a quick sale, they were taken with the idea of a writer-owned bookstore and agreed to carry a loan. We signed the contract before I even heard of my windfall. Emil scoffs, but has he ever tried to keep an honest house? Tell that to the city tax collector, he gloats. All right, I was a wanted man, but so was Dr. King! Big Brother is pitiless, bureaucracy blind to the finer things. Although officialdom has the sharpest eye for unlicensed liquor.

We have seen better days? Stuff and nonsense, your fine old leather shoes are only more comfortable for the wear. Clouds hang over The Last Refuge, but stormy weather is a temporary trouble. Emil casts further stones and they too fall short. Yes, the owner does place his book at the front of the window, but the display is no vanity, a novel never goes out of date. We sold a copy only last month. Yes, business has been more robust, but through no fault of management, the David of small bookshop facing the Goliath of the chain store and death star of the internet. Yes, the couch is slightly worn, carpet faded in places, lighting somewhat dim, and cobwebs occasionally string the shelves, but the neglect is deliberate, allowing customers a comforting trip back in time, recalling the old study where grandpa hung his grainy photographs. Connoisseurs prove a pudding, and Monty’s daily sightings confer his seal of approval. Emil insinuates that the back section keeps us afloat. What does the creature know? That rare retreat captures his squalid sensibility like anus a mongrel’s snout, but makes little impression on our bank balance.

No matter the future! I have nurtured one of the few surviving bastions of fine books, runner-up in voting for best independent bookstore in the city a mere four years ago. We maintain a grove of literature in a wasteland of juice bars, video game outlets, and yoga studios. We feature inspired collections: Where else could you find the amusement of The Scoundrel’s Pick, The Gentile Reader, The Western Cannon? Yours truly is something of a local celebrity, women customers disposed to dally, as you would be sure to remark. And book lovers appreciate the opportunity to talk to a real writer, listen to me on NPR, browse their best hours away. At least they should. Not just a neighborhood institution, The Last Refuge enjoys a worldwide name, my photo adorning an in-flight magazine, to give just one instance. I can recall just two unattended book readings, the first due to a misprinted flyer. If Emil came into some money, a proboscis would be the principal payee.

 Slow down there, Bonzo! You talking to me? How about some more introductions?! And a bookstore owner has all the time in the world, I suppose? You just found time for an interminable story! All right, all right, business is experiencing a brief lull, so I can now discharge the duty, take a little nature walk.

We keep the lamps down low. But an appealing face lights up a place of literature. “I saw the dame outside.” The handsome young bird had just flown in, although our regular visitor favors another means of locomotion. “Figured you wouldn’t be far away.” Nick’s bike helmet protects against the plentiful perils of our presbytery.

“Indeed, the ladies won’t leave me alone.” I was attending to lunch, my daily cottage cheese and lettuce sandwich. “Agatha will have to wait her turn.” But I am no dull creature of habit, whatever they say. The adventurer has been known to chew a little cheddar.

The flock will become familiar. Birds of a feather? No, but they need a place to roost, and The Last Refuge is their home away from home. And continuing the introductions, my house has another resident.

“Agatha does catch the eye.” She was shamelessly making eyes at young Nick. Is age not supposed to bring wisdom? “Chuck can’t stop singing her praises.” Jill is our manager and pillar of the establishment, Chuck her no less worthy husband. “I do get a little fed up, I have to say.” The stalwart of office is not shy of opinion, I am sorry to observe. “If only The Last Refuge shone so brightly!”

Don’t listen to her! Management misses my monthly maintenance. Our executive branch also questions my nose for business, you will be dismayed to discover. The house only took cash before her regime, but my filibuster failed to stave off an inevitable defeat. I had to beg permission to signal the scoundrel? Not so fast, I am the boss, don’t forget. She bows to my encyclopedic knowledge of books. At least she should.

“The menagerie is open, Nick.” Jill never loses an opportunity.

“Monty nibbling on Little Women again?”

“It’s great that Annie is an animal lover, but some customers are scared of mice.”

“So are elephants.” I will not be denied. “We need to think ahead, in case they break out of the zoo.”

“Not a bad crowd last night.” The cyclist was helping himself to a fistful of mints. He stops by on the way to work to talk writing and maintain his blood sugar level.

“A two-pot night. Though what a circus.”

“No boss, von pot. First pot no good.” The Terrible is a stickler for the truth. Brewing coffee for book readings remains his one dedicated responsibility, though customer acclaim does not inevitably greet the execution.

“Not a bad crowd, but we could do better. This mule is so set in his ways.” The manager has an unfortunate fetish for change. “My husband is just the same. Chuck still brushes his teeth with baking soda. ‘My dear, if it was good enough for my mother!’”

“Yes ma’am, you have to adapt to survive. The modern business needs a web presence.” Nick does speak some gibberish.

“And the pope should rap his next homily?” Although somewhat traditional of temperament, I keep up with the music.

“We’re not called The Last Refuge for nothing.” Jill plays on the same team as Nick. Our pillar is also tall enough to make the ladies basketball squad, a daunting presence that restores order whenever the book-loving public gets out of hand.

“Mr. Anselm is escaping the modern world?”

“Stone Age man found a cave quite conducive.” A tireless member of the offense, she always gives it a shot, with an assist from another player, to be named later. “It’s not over yet!”

I was warned!

Nick hails from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. A stately southern lilt sets off his aspiration as man of letters, although the creative writing program that peddled his diploma has since folded. The graduate retains the green Converse high tops, regulation backpack, and unsullied idealism of a permanent student, while a handsome visage buffs the humble verdict. And please suspend the suspicion, I am not remotely inclined that way, trust me. I might give him the occasional hug, but are fatherly feelings any gruel for gossip? And you should really hold no grudge: Good looks may raise the eyeballs, but do they not lower the estimation, in matters of the mind? And a winning smile pays the bills? Our next Faulkner waits tables at Emil’s while developing his métier.

“Nick, they’ll rot your teeth.” Jill dotes on the appealing young man. I cast no aspersions; she has no son and I have no doubt that her affection—like mine— is parental. “I don’t suppose Emil has a dental plan.”

Our youthful visitor returned the favor, brushing crumbs from her lapel. We compete for his attention? Please, if you’re looking for soap opera, you should pick up the remote. And the door is over there.

“Emil uses Mr. Anselm’s services, his own word. What did he mean by that, sir?” Nick holds me in special esteem. At least he should.

“My literary expertise?”

“Annie loves the mystery section. I’ve heard him making some arrangement with Emil, but he won’t give.” Jill, too, has her suspicions. They have no need to know.

“So, the novel is dead?” The wishful writer is a regular at the readings.

“Poor thing.” I lowered my head. The previous night’s speaker, a city resident, had published a book of critical essays that was as likely to sell to our faithful as a BLT on a Muslim pilgrimage. His wife, who introduced herself as his publicist, applied a press that overcame my better judgment; the letters on the cover of paperbacks optimistically piled on his table spelled my mistake. Michael Jackson’s voice impediment little hindered his searing indictment of the literary establishment, a diatribe greeted with respectful dissent from a handful of familiar attendees, but howls of laughter from an alien corner. The large and loudly dressed woman had found the book reading under the direction of evident mental distress, hooting in anticipation, drowning out the speaker with a discordant Billie Jean is not my lover. The more I insisted, the more unshakeable her conviction. I was the latest agent of a worldwide conspiracy. Fortunately, she had sufficient wit to grasp the concept of police intervention.

“I’m not giving up yet.” Nick carries a manuscript in the jealously guarded backpack. The stirring swain has some decency, will not open the zipper for just anybody. He bestows a special favor on his mentor, shyly showing me each newly completed chapter.

 “The novel has been pronounced dead more often than you’ve had fried chicken, my boy.” I will take the pulpit, when my congregation has the need. “No matter how routine the obituary, the doomsayers are blind to metaphysics. The very idea of fiction already makes a misleading assumption; the novel brings us people as real as you and me, their world as solid as the clay beneath our feet.” I was rehearsing my thesis; you will soon read the full account. “That world will as soon disappear as planet Earth. Fiction is the gospel truth.”

“Mama!” Ivan keeps a record, as I already noted.

“I bring the glad tidings. You’re here to spread the news.”

“Big news, boss zink Pickvick real.” To the further security of his employment, The Terrible shares my fondness for the Papers. But his eyes betrayed a more ancient dalliance.

“And the proof needs no theological contrivance.” I acknowledged his page of concentration. Neither Nick nor Ivan are members of the club and so would not benefit from the scheduled presentation.

 The Last Refuge has another regular. He makes one section his own. A truth is discovered in the silence of disdain: Not all society is civil.

“I wish he was at the reading last night.” Nick gestured towards Literature, where the compact figure of its guardian kept a disdainful distance. “You should make him a deal.” Our dignitary was ensconced in his seat of honor, out of earshot, ignoring the attention. Cordelio Cortés, the full name appears on the cover, the first is dropped in the flesh. “Señor would have put that guy in his place.”

“Señor would have made it all about himself.” Jill has little regard for the person, still less for the reputation. “Does anyone understand a word he’s written?”

A ruffling of feathers? Yes, it distresses me to confirm the suspicion. I have welcomed you into a little world of books, which you might hope to find a model of peace, love, and understanding, but the model needs some repair. Jill’s bone of contention is our de facto writer in residence and daily beneficiary of my largesse, but he never stays late. The readings take place after hours, and he dedicates the evening to his calling. Nick joshes with Jill, listens to my learning, but hangs on Cortés’s every last rare word. Our peculiar institution represents the young scribe’s literary archetype, a life dedicated to writing, given to gnomic pronouncement.

“Literature has no more faithful witness than Cortés.” I cast a careful glance. The witness had been wary, but the seer denied any sulk. Do I care about every small-minded review? “But the man goes too far. He has transcended the human condition, prefers the company of long-dead writers to that of any flesh and blood mortal. He once told me that if a fire broke out in his building and he had to choose between saving his books or his lover, the written word would win. I think he was serious.”

“Seriously deluded. If we’re talking about his own work, I’d be tossing it into the flames.” Jill is normally even of temper.

“Cortés gets a lot of respect.” Nick is chronically nice, as I have noted. “Unlike some people. After his talk I googled our Mr. Michael Jackson—”

“Young man, kindly keep your sexual fetishes to yourself. This is a family store.”

“He’s written a couple of novels himself, out of print. And the reviews I found were not flattering.”

“There you go, Nick. Sour grapes. Instead of complaining that readers have been duped, write a great book yourself, why don’t you?”

“He did go rather quiet when you mentioned The Employment.”

“I’m under no illusions. My book is a good enough read, if I say so myself. I’ve never pretended a classic of world literature.”

I drew on the well. Nick aspires to the top shelf, writing his undergraduate thesis on the great American novel. His novel does sport a title. The Running Back starts on a hardscrabble Mississippi farm and details a football player’s steady fall as he ascends the ladder from high school celebrity through college to the Cowboys. The story should have wide appeal. Sex, violence, craven ambition, treachery: The ingredients are there. It screams Hollywood.

The manager has read the manuscript. We are not on the same page. She presented a generous opinion. Annie, I think the Running Back has lots of promise. I never refuse a gift. A lot of promise, like a ticket for the Titanic. Bada boom! Don’t be so mean, Annie, it isn’t Nick’s fault he’s so handsome. Please, the author’s photo would grace the cover, but no resentment prejudices my reading, as I have no need to insist.

Let us get back to nature. Ducks are colorful creatures, though differ in disposition: The wood duck, Aix sponsa, is a solitary specimen, the wigeon, Mareca americana, only seen in flocks. Our native birds, too, exhibit a varied nature: Cortés withdraws, Nick gives us the pleasure, but his company is a mixed blessing. Jill’s notion notwithstanding, I feel some fondness for the boy, yet my spirits drop when he pedals up with the pack. I have not told him of the club, lest he have a wish to share the work in progress. The Running Back drops the ball. You need no replay, trust me.

“Ahem, the bowl is empty.” Nick’s gluttony spares no sweet.

“The name of your next work?”

“No refills today, I’m afraid.” Jill’s pointed look assigned the blame.­ “The cupboard is bare as well. Speaking of which, Annie, I ran into Chris—”

“No big surprise. My ex-wife parades past the window every day, with her man.”

“He teaches in her studio.”

“Oxford University has a college down the street?”

“Doing very well. Quite a crowd, waiting at the door.”

“As she never tires of sharing.”

“When did we last have a line outside?”

“Just a fad. When did you last break out that hula hoop?”

“Chris is a little worried about your drinking.”

“I had no choice. Mutual friends, the party was an obligation.”

“She wanted to say goodbye to you. Your car was outside, but you were nowhere to be found. A little concerning?”

“You can tell dear Christine I’m still alive when you just happen to run into her again. If anything, you should be worried for your friend. There’s a sadness in her eyes now.”

“Seems pretty happy to me.”

 “Refill, señor?” The proprietor was plying the pot.

“Your mathematics selection is to be commended”—the scholar had a stack by his chair—“your coffee not. My stomach is ill-equipped for battery acid.”

“Ivan can be heavy handed. Doesn’t it make for an experience, though? Who knew that caffeine was hallucinogenic?”

“My imagination needs no further stimulation.” Cortés subjects his metabolism to meticulous monitor. The prize-winning psychosomatic selected a vial from the portable pharmacy of his shoulder bag, looking to brick his defenses against the onslaught of complimentary beverage. The Arabian Peninsula lies directly across the street, a hand-painted sign promising brews of distinction, but to my certain knowledge he has never deployed his wallet to the advantage. Our forbidding fixture shows up every day at noon and assumes his reserved chair after dismantling the pile of obscure volumes that he selected on the previous sitting, and never pays for lunch. And attempt no wit. The writer of a lauded short story collection honors The Last Refuge with his presence and will greet your dissident comedy with deserved contempt.

His work enjoys prominent display. The label is taped to the shelf, in line with the giants of literature, a benediction that fails to meet with unqualified managerial blessing, but which makes the store his shrine. The person also enjoys his pride of place, in close company to his creation. A generous institution, we save the seat, no matter how unprofitable the favor. Should you possess the predilection, the author will graciously sign the rare purchase after you make the hesitant identification from a youthful snapshot on the promotional poster. I will not flesh out the picture, but through no willful tease; the face fascinates only for a formlessness of feature. An amorphous globe sits on slender shoulders, the writer saving all expression for the work. He once smuggled his dachshund past our interdiction and the seated pair made an impression, a face of fur the only personality. His biography is similarly blank, although he does share an esoteric fancy with the Argentine laureate and acknowledges your praise in unaccented English whose propriety could only issue from the long study of a non-native speaker. The flow has a facility of which you will have plentiful occasion. But your offer of flattering handshake puts him in a bind, his constitution allowing no physical contact. Twisting the top off the amber bottle, he shook another capsule onto a diminutive palm.

 “Order!” Cortés cleared his throat. A distinguished speaker expects undivided attention.

“Uh oh. Court is in session.” I had already taken a bench. “But is this really the place? A welcoming bookstore!”

“The Last Refuge has the name. And suspicious characters take advantage.”

“Last week you sentenced Heathcliff to purgatory.” I humor the conceit. “A little extreme, in my humble opinion. Who is in the dock today?”

“The defendant was about to face his justice. However, he died of coronary thrombosis, according to the editor’s note. Deceased . . . and dearly beloved? I hardly think so! He may have avoided the criminal trial, but cannot escape a reckoning. A superior court is in session. I am the judge, jury and executioner. The defendant left a statement, unfortunately.”

“Your honor, would you please repeat his name?”

“Humbert Humbert.”

“You’re a funny one!”

“I have reached a verdict. Lolita, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male, my pronouncement is . . . perjury! The deposition details some serious depravity, but makes a mockery of the truth.”

“Cordelio, for once, I agree with you. The character has a reputation. I don’t believe a word he says.”

—Humbert, did you even know a girl? If so, we are brothers in bewitchment, though fail of fraternity. You are an old-world peacock, charmer of leisure, lover of conceit. I favor flannel shirts, sell bargain books, nosh on instant ramen, noodle on guitar. A bird of plainer plumage, I am still the better man!

So where is that justice? I spasm in spine; you strut in success . . . of your own devising! Humbert please, nymphets, you expect us to believe?! And if you really dispatched a rival, you now face lasting competition.

You do seduce the reader. A wizard of words conjures away the contempt. Your fellow fool will also bare himself, at some risk of summary judgement. I trust my travails will temper the taunts. And unlike you, poet of reprobate lust, I stayed within the bounds. At least my love was legal. Though she was pushing a law-abiding citizen to the limit . . . of his endurance, needless to say!—

“So Cordelio, what is your pleasure today?” I had underwritten the reading material open on his lap. He hoisted the volume for my inspection; Kline’s Mathematical Thought from Ancient to Modern Times is very reasonably priced at $19.95, though the paying public steadfastly spurns the opportunity.

“I have reached the ‘Stagnation in Mathematics.’ Here is Augustine: ‘Whatever knowledge man has acquired outside of Holy Writ, if it be harmful it is there condemned.’”

“Jolly fellow. And so Christianity’s first millennium extinguishes the candle of learning, first lit by the Greeks. We thank the Arabs for keeping the flame.”

“Suppose they were not alone. We talk of the Dark Ages—has darkness not just fallen on the truth?” Cortés has eyes of Andean basalt. The lava of invention stirs, the volcano only dormant of face. “I penetrate that darkness. I see a clandestine academy, a hive of activity, a fount of invention, until some resentful second-rate thinker betrays his better to the clerics.”

“Unfortunate consequences?”

“Not only for the person. An unprecedented wealth of mathematics is consigned to the flames, irretrievably lost.”

“We would never know.”

“I will give him the memorial he deserves. For I see a monk, secreted in an abbey, leading a double life. The thinker discovers calculus, five hundred years before Newton. Received history only tells of a heretic, tortured and burned at the stake. I see him rushing to hide his scrolls, when he hears the sharp knock on his chambers—”

“Cortés, I rarely presume. That reviewer said your stories lack female interest. Maybe she had a point?” I never look for trouble. “Your thinker could be an abbess.” I have an aversion to conflict. “Go for it.” Provocation is the last thing on my mind. “She would do you proud.” A man of sensitivity just cannot hold his tongue.

“Mathematics, Physics, Philosophy . . . ” He perused our periphery. “And the women?”

“How much have we lost?!”

“Women! Spare me the sermon. Sentimentality is the death of literature. One of them calls herself your manager”—he directed his disdain at the counter—“has that woman ever opened a book?” Cortés’ low estimation fails the physical facts: The man looks up to the object of his scorn.

“Reading right now, is she not?”

“Some infantile genre, no doubt. Is she lost in fantasy, hanging in suspense, haunted by horror?”

“She has found romance.”

“I rest my case.”

“Cordelio, welcome to the modern world. Most novelists are women.”

“And most whores.”

“The manager is a master, degree in English.”

“Silly Sally says.”

“Jill! As you well know. You hit her up for ten bucks only this morning.”

“Which she summarily denied. Shouldn’t such an impressive education command a more generous salary?”

“Maybe working in a distinguished bookstore is enough. The characters!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure!” His lids drooped. “An abbess!” His voice trailed off. I know the sign, made no protest. Like a city metro, his train of thought will disappear underground, to reveal itself down the line in one of his “peerless” Confabulations. He deflects personal inquiry about his writing, although gives the occasional guarded report in the safekeeping of club meetings.

“I leave you.” He flipped his silver pocket watch. Cortés’s work requires an unbending routine. I have never seen the inside of his residential hotel room, but he speaks of a typewriter and oak desk, where he must be seated every evening at six. Mathematical thought joined the medicinal contents of the leather bag. My merchandise regularly leaves the premises in that transport, though I have never made the offer and he is yet to return the loan. He found a pressed handkerchief, but the coughing that signaled his departure carried little conviction.

 “I’m looking for Joseph Campbell.” A light brightened my day. The girl was new to the store; I would have remembered a previous visit. Straight black hair, oval face, warm complexion and dark brown eyes—neither overtly friendly nor entirely dismissive—orient the compass, but sometimes you can’t be sure. Entering the rarified world of books, the girl regretted her superficial fashion statement. At least she should have.

“You just missed him. He was here a minute ago.” What a wag!

“Josef Campbell? Ve have good selection, miss. You find in Religion.” The Terrible’s notebook lost the battle. “You vant I help you?” He jumped up from the stool, his first discernible move of the day.

“Er, no thanks, I’ll be fine.” She escaped towards the back of the store. “I’m sure I’ll find the switch.” An ensemble of black tights, knee-length boots, and short skirt lays down a law. Perched behind the counter, two thirds of The Last Refuge’s salesforce monitored the bookcases in her direction until the vision made the turn and disappeared into the penumbra of mysticism.

“Josef Campbell, pfff.”

“Appearances can be deceptive. She might be quite the student.” I managed a chuckle, though my back was acting up again. Please, wipe your smirk of speculation! In reality I had not slept well the night before, should really get a new mattress.

“Back section, vot she vant.”

“We can but dream.”

Scholarship imposes a regime. But proximity to female contour loosens Ivan’s tongue, the severity of his wardrobe belying a baroque imagination. His stunted English, seldom employed in legitimate customer service, imposes little handicap in verbally bending women shoppers over the reference shelves. I offer no encouragement, though must nod to the gusto of invention. But the bravado covers a pity, one of the most woefully undersexed vitae since The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of the Mariner.

—Crusoe, trust me, I have nothing but respect. The very name of self-reliance, your surprizing adventures issue a challenge: How long could modern man survive without the trappings of civilization, endure the solitude? Although given the benighted bent of our literary studies, some obscure journal paper will have cast tedious aspersions on you and Man Friday. Don’t take offense; publish or perish, the sheep will say anything to find favor with the herd.—

Mother and son live in the same apartment. I see them at the supermarket, The Terrible still clad in suit and tie. And I hear her distress. Such good boy, what will become? Mr. Anselm, you know American girl who not smoke the drug or have sex orgy?

Merrywood! . . . Not again! . . . You make mock . . . A little harmless fun . . . Who is the real object of ridicule?

I redress the reproof. My own worldly career may have fed no tabloid frenzy, but is discretion not the better part? Ask Jill, I have ample opportunity; any number of women visit the store on my days of schedule. Magnolia, who owns the art gallery across the street, has suggested dinner. She has her charms and can carry a conversation. If I have yet to make a more intimate acquaintance, the fence is freely founded. The artist possesses a laugh. And she takes advantage of her license.

 “Eeek.” A shriek shattered the silence.­ “Attack!” The news came from History. She returned with some dispatch but no purchase. The fashion boots flashed by the till. “Mouse!” The thrill was gone. And my back pain also left, if you must know.

“Monty checking her out.” I heard the door expel another empty-handed customer.

“Must take break, boss.” The Terrible stashed his notebook and made haste for the bathroom.

 The window told the story. Our counter commands a view of parking spaces, where a distinguished automobile did the honors, the same model as mine. Our small nation has a camaraderie; I always wave. This beauty was convertible, permitting inspection of the driver, who showed no inclination to leave his seat. The worthy individual was my contemporary, favored the same straw hat and was studying our display, sharing my love of books. The good man caught my eye, and we nodded in mutual respect. However, The Last Refuge would not enjoy his business at this juncture. The sitter stirred, and his sojourn explained itself as he got out of the car to open the passenger door for our fleeing customer. A father would share her features, so he must be an older friend, or boss. Or a kindly member of her book club had offered her a ride? Yet again, given her looks, she might need an agent. In any case, the man did have some manners. Tipping his hat in my direction, he chaperoned his charge, civilly took her coat, carefully cleared her seat.

The tableau takes a twist. A gentleman shut his door; a rascal opened my eyes. The overexcitable young woman retreated to the safety, pointing an accusing finger at the scene of a bestial crime, the menace of Monty. Her middle-aged companion shrugged, reached for the ignition, and a throttle sped his face out of sight. Although a revelation remained, a mug of signal satisfaction. A grizzled hunter can bag a trophy. A fawn had planted a kiss.

—Humbert Humbert, the name of notoriety, redoubled. Nailer of nymphets . . . I’m sure! You too are a revelation? Well, you open a can of worms! Confession of a White Widowed Male, the proceedings are preposterous. We can only imagine the debacle driving the deceit. Solipsistic free-fall, libidinal famine, impotent panic . . .? You were no stranger to the sanatorium. Did those stays presage a complete collapse of cerebration?— 

CHAPTER VI. THE SPIDER’S WEB

Your hero flirts with danger.

Lung cancer claimed Grandpa Magnusson. We visited to the end and were spared little, morphine inadequate to the task. I have a dread of hospital wards. The parents caught Sonja smoking in the garage and pressed the warning. They should have known better, the rebel rarely relinquishing the chance.

 Smoke hung in the air. Another girl was taking a drag. She made it her last, killing the light on the railing, declining the drama. The breeze could barely banish the breath of guilt. The consenting party unplugged her earphones.

“Honored to have your attention.” I dared a dart.

“Yes, you are.” She spoke, in my direction. Short of stature, she failed to lift her eyes. The deck was growing dusky, although the late-afternoon fog cracked to spread a hesitant light over the well-scrubbed boarding. But no precaution is perfect; nature’s trespass glinted in the speckled light, waiting in suspension. The fly has no escape, the fineness of the thread no measure of the danger.

“What happened to the party spirit?”

“Haven’t pulled out my machete.” The glass of wine was still perched on the railing, in need of replenishment. A husky voice belied the tender years.

“Boadicea slaughtered a hundred thousand Romans. We should give thanks for your restraint.”

“She’s such a good girl. You should know, checking me out like a perv.”

“I had strict instructions. Now I’m off the hook, leaving soon.”

“Isn’t he the lucky one? Gotta stay over. Lollapalooza dragging on all night.”

“Your folks throw some party, unfortunately. I should have brought a book. You remind me of a painting. Aren’t you cold?”

“On fire.”

 Gloria and Bill have children. All three were present, two were correct. Lily, the eldest, was following her father’s footsteps into law, though propelled by less venal ambition. She featured cropped hair, square-cut jacket, businesslike blouse and slacks, and had invited a female friend of notably matching presentation to the party. This turn was news to me, and I would enjoy quizzing bombastic Bill for confirmation. Noah, the only son, had decamped to an East Coast prep school but had nevertheless managed to procure a brown-eyed Californian girlfriend, who was trailing him around as if leashed to a guide dog. Lily and Noah mingled inside, reeling in a generous catch. The parents hymn their praises, Bill’s devotion to his children redeeming his extensive list of crimes against humanity. Offspring of some privilege, they were nevertheless likeable, had inherited neither Gloria’s artifice nor Bill’s ego. The affable pair had little enthusiasm for the early guitar lessons of my recruitment, but we formed a bond, greet each other fondly. They appreciate my avuncular advice. At least they should.

 Yes, Bill is devoted. But the fatherly favor is compromised. There is an apple in his eye. Another daughter holds his heart, a possession as publicly evident as privately denied. Mr. and Mrs. Connor rarely speak of the recluse. Family intimates know the drill, but a first acquaintance might suspect some guilty secret: a baby that they made her give up; a lover biding time in state penitentiary; a hit-and-run manslaughter that her father had contrived to dismiss? The girl is pleasant to behold, can carry a conversation, acquit herself with adult aplomb. And she is smart, accepted by the nation’s top public university, if her attitude does test the limits of standard teenage deviation. Gloria never delivers on the deviant, whereas her spigot is impossible to staunch over the other two.

 “Uncle? I wasn’t expecting such respect.”

“Wish you could trade places with my real uncle. Don’t let it go to your head. Total douche.”

“Bill’s brother? Runs in the family.”

“Daddy is an asshole. My rock! Hates Ray too. I could tell you some stories.” The news anchor nonchalantly shook the pack. “Dude now has stomach cancer, nasty business. I cried when I heard the news, with joy.” Cold lips took another Camel. “We had an issue. Never touched me though. Daddy would have cut off his nuts.”

“I’m happy you warned me.” I would be even happier to change the subject.

“You’re cool. Some chicks click with older guys.” She took a drag. “Don’t be getting ideas, my gangster.” The lighter added an exclamation point. “Ray was a cop, until he lost his badge. Not angry, I like men well enough.”

“Thank you for clearing that up.” The older guy also had an issue, his ground as solid as her smoke. “So, what hideous racket were you listening to?” I tapped her equipment.

“James Brown. Got soul, Uncle Annie?”

“Stay on the scene . . . uunh . . . like a sex machine.” I am not responsible. Did I write the damn lyrics? “I got the music in me. And no more Uncle Annie, please.”

“You’d like me to call you—”

“Sex Machine.” That chorus erupted again, with inebriated brio.

Oh God! What was I thinking?! It meant nothing, you must understand. I’m perfectly innocent; Gloria had charged the waiters, no empty glass. It wasn’t my fault. Chip might lose his grip. But I’m a man of restraint, really I am.

Regret scalded my fibers. Party guests would have another story: A man of half century was hitting on a girl, his oldest friend’s daughter, no less. Defiling a treasure. The beloved child will rat and the father will have to punch me out, the paternal prerogative. Excommunication! The afternoon lurched from bad to worse, an abyss of stupidity. Oblivion, swallow me up. I finally find someone to talk to, if thirty years my junior, and scare her away like a homeless lunatic shrieking at a pigeon. And I couldn’t muster the simplest apology.

The bird giggled. “Cracking me up.” The mirth blew in like a rain shower in the desert. “Mr. Sex Machine. Totally.”

“James Brown. My man.”

My cheer outlasted her chuckle. And I had to celebrate in silence, finding nothing to match the wit. A buzz animated the party hive, and lanterns shone through the stained glass as the gray fog enveloped two wayward insects and smothered the ocean waves. But a glow suffused my core. Who would have thought? I had last known a gawky adolescent, undistinguished to male survey. That small, skittish shadow had firmed into the sunlit form I had assayed from an earlier remove. With button nose, upturned lip, angle of assurance, and those eyes of enigma, she faced the world on her own terms, although proximity replaced the flattery of distance with some pallor. But a spring blossom possesses a pollen. And she knew.

The skin betrayed no blemish. And our solid deck gave onto a well-tended garden, no sore blighting the bucolic scene. The beach beckoned, waves broke calmly within earshot, and I heard another melody; we shared a taste in music. The surest web spreads gently. The long and winding road. The girl had her song.

June sings a different tune. D-Day immortalized the month, thousands of Allied forces perishing on Omaha Beach. A long way from home, the GIs peered over the bow of their landing craft, where ominous cliffs concealed hell’s artillery. Earlier in the war, nearly half a million Allied forces were trapped on the beaches of Dunkirk. Out of his element, his defenses down, his equipment wanting, another valiant soldier surveyed his own fateful stretch of sand.

 “Can I fill up your wine? Doing the math here, you won’t get me into trouble?”

“You should be so lucky. My mother said she wanted me to enjoy myself.”

“Very generous, given all the judges in attendance.”

“Reverse psychology. I’m onto her, as usual. I’m fine.”

She was fine. I withheld the quip; the older player should hold his cards. And he should not inadvertently brush her arm—even when she waives her right of recoil. You might suppose an understanding. However, pages had turned since we were playing hide-and-go-seek in their overgrown yard. I recalled a cycling route around the neighborhood, with a detour to the swings and slides of a small park. But in later visits to the family home, she was sighted as often as Huckleberry Finn in the employment office, her adolescence sequestered in a rumored attic.

—Huck, you came and went, of your own free will. You wore castoffs, one suspender supported your trousers, and your hat was a vast ruin. Luckiest of boys, the more properly dressed envied your latitude. The town mothers issued strict orders of avoidance; the oppressed sons could only dream. Yet I have a sneaking suspicion: Becky Thatcher, of the lovely blue eyes, long blond hair, white summer frock, and embroidered pantalettes was in love with your friend, respectable Tom Sawyer. A vagabond will whistle, but didn’t you ever have the thought?—

“Your folks are really lucky, having this place.”

She turned her back. The banal remark placed me in exile. Silence hung over the deck with the thickening fog, though strains of laughter still escaped the house.

“Don’t want anything more to drink. I am jonesing for some weed.”

Drugs fuel the teenage fire. Dealt a royal flush, the poker player gulps. But I play my cards with calm, trust me.

“Here?” I shrugged. Suppose she lit up in front of me. I would be an accomplice, and I needed a father’s good grace.

“Timbuktu. I’ll borrow Daddy’s private jet.”

“Funny girl. I don’t suppose Daddy would be overjoyed, in full view of the—”

“I don’t suppose he’d be overjoyed.” She knew her scoff. “I’ll go for a walk on the beach. What can he do?” She rose to full contempt.

Troy falls for the ploy? Quite possibly, but I am Anselm Thomas Merrywood. A walk on the beach? The news aired with some static. She was Bill’s daughter. She had a worrisome way. But even a rebel respects the rule—a culprit might share the contraband, but a girl will never ask.

 We studied the surf in silence. The wind was waning, the weed was waiting, but the wench offered no encouragement. I took it all in stride, needless to say.

“Well, Alice . . . I’m actually in no big hurry . . . I don’t . . .” I am never at a loss, trust me. “I’m thinking . . .” I get right to the point. “If you . . .” I am a conversationalist of some cool. “If you want some company, that is . . .” All right, these words might seem a little wanting. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? But even the Bard would lose the facility, if thou blowest cigarette smoke in his visage.

“Wild man! I’ll get my stuff.”

CHAPTER VII. THE BEACH

Your hero takes a trip.

Let’s go for a walk. Not interested? Too bad! Anselm Merrywood is the name, and I’m in charge around here, lest you forget. But though Canute was king, even he could not command the waves.

 The girl did have some sense. The small feet were bare again. Wooden steps led down through dense ice grass to a public beach, and a mother’s contempt. Frightful people. No respect for common decency, there should be a law. But it is a tsunami zone. We can only hope! My companion skipped ahead, and occasional evening strollers were exercising their birthright to the sands. But the sea’s surge has first dibs, sparing no shoes!

Let me sketch the shore. The ocean meets the sky in hiding, a band of fog hanging over the horizon. In the foreground, a diminutive girl with hair blowing over her leather backpack and a tall, thin man with cold, wet feet are pacing side by side. She relied on her cardigan; he retrieved his sneakers from the car, which sorry items now received a soaking. Ambling over to a driftwood tree trunk on the sand above the tide line, they plopped down on the seaward side, where a depression hid them from the row of rich real estate.

 She was a woman. I found a safe distance, where a small blackened stub stuck out from the sand.

“Not the first time, apparently.” I waved the evidence.

“Not me, dude. Lizzy hangs out here, with her hoebags.”

The ceremony calls for concentration. She extracted a small cigarette from a Ziploc bag, flicked open the cardboard folder, struck a pliant match, and brought the cradled flame to a pout. A small cough followed the intake, and the pungency of infraction marked off our lair from a disenchanted world.

“Wanna hit? Hella strong bud. Don’t want an old geezer going apeshit on me.”

“You’re kidding.” I smoked pot with the band, it must have been twenty-five years. “Stronger the better.” All right, I did spend the night in the woods, aborting our rehearsal. But I wasn’t disoriented at all, just have an affinity for owls.

She passed the baton. Our fingers brushed. Lungs burning, I hacked against the wall of the log.

“Another one?” The gremlin has a grin.

“I’m good. More for you.”

We had touched. She took a deep draught, crushed the end against the wood, and fell into a spasm of dry cough. “Don’t do this every day.” Her fit faded. “Or do I?”

“Smoking up a storm back there.”

“Trying to keep the bugs away. But here you are!”

She closed off the investigation. I sketched an outline under her outfit and praised our privacy. My transportation yet to arrive, the driver was fussing over nothing. Her hands wrapped her knees while feet massaged the sand.

“Nice spot.” I am well-versed in the travel section. “Quiet.” A pod of surfers bobbed in and out of view, but the beach was now deserted.

“Quiet.” She lay back on the sand, head pillowed in hand, and an open cardigan fell to either side. “Wouldn’t come here with anybody else, just you.”

Stay calm man, stay calm. Tobacco breath affirmed the suggestion. No one would see, the log completely shielded us from the view of any window, and the surfers would be otherwise occupied.

“Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?”

“I brought Cedric here once, but he just drinks Coke. My mother wouldn’t have him in the house—”

“I’m not surprised. Coke!”

“Such a bigot. You’re different. You don’t impose. I’m good with that.” Her scrutiny confirmed my essential goodness. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” Discretion is the better part . . .

“Feeling anything yet?”

“Nope. Never affects me that much.”

 “Wanted to be nice.” She gestured towards the twinkle of party lights. “For Daddy’s sake. You’re only fifty once, don’t be harshing the mellow.”

“Your mother went all out, wanted a memorable occasion, she told me.”

“So she throws the most boring party in human history, for the win. Old farts are all the same, what am I going to do when I graduate? I’m like, going to fuck like a rabbit.”

“I thought the men looked excited.” One man tried to stay calm.

“Wish I’d said it. What am I going to do when I graduate? Where’ll that bird be tomorrow?” A solitary tern swept over the breakers, blown here and there on the wind.

“Amen.” I nodded in sympathy. And I had to give thanks, about to pursue the same line of inquiry. “They’d have got more joy from your siblings. Speaking of which, I noticed Lily has a friend.”

“Julio, the dealio?” Nefertiti traced a slow rune in the sand. “The folks went to visit her, Cambridge. Daddy never shuts up, but he doesn’t want to talk on the phone, and as soon as they walk through the door, oh my God. My mother’s all peeved, Lily lives on the fourth floor, no elevator. Daddy goes, ‘your sister’s decided she’s a dyke.’ He’s got a mouth, gotta love it, but jeez! I’m thinking, curtains for Lily. Then he goes, ‘I’m okay with that, her life.’ But I guess we’re talking major scene. My mother likes to yell, you should see how she treats the housekeeper, makes me vomit. And Daddy, poor guy.”

“Daddy can do no wrong.” I happened to notice the skirt. “Just like me!” The hem was enjoying a little hike.

“Daddy’s all wrong.”

“Birds of a feather?”

“I don’t really belong.”

“Hell is other people?”

“I like everyone. They just don’t like me.”

“Just quoting. Plenty more where that came from. You should visit my bookstore. We welcome the serious student.”

“I’m not spoiled. Working in a coffee shop.”

“Helping Starbucks take over the world?”

“Dude I know owns a café, Valencia. Great guy.”

Cafés offer a place to meet. But a great guy? I was unable to find the words to ask about the establishment, without intrusion, without interrupting the precious silence, without indicting a tedious old man, without making appalling suggestion, without falling off an existential precipice, without remembering what I wanted to ask in the first place, and the verdict was in. A bird was flying high. Someone lay back and gazed at the fog streaming inland overhead. How could he cultivate his mystery, how much silence is golden, had he outstayed the welcome? They had been quiet for hours, whose voice was this, why do others always take charge, had he done something wrong? What was he doing here, who is this girl, what does she want? Ding-a-ling, he doesn’t understand a thing. I’m high, how do I know I’m high, everything is so clear, what was the question . . . ?

 “Mister, where you going?”

“Just a little walk. I want to check out those birds. I think I saw a phalarope.”

“We’ll say goodbye then.”

“Might have just been a common sandpiper.”

“Sex Machine isn’t happening, I’m here to tell you.” She chuckled in reproof.

“Do you need to call me anything?”

“For real. Who else could I be talking to? Except myself. And the ocean. You’re Mr. No-Name.”

Triumph turns transcendent. We had a deep connection, understood each other perfectly, without verbal compulsion. She was wise beyond her years, but only I could see. She needed me. Right here, right now, there is no other place I’d want to be. Thoughts chased each other’s tails and disappeared, like the strands of fog overhead.

We had company. A pair of beady eyes was spying on our council from a post at the end of the log. The girl had a feathered follower, the spy its handicap. The limping sparrow showed no fear, shuffled closer to our hollow, studying the strangers. And one study was ready, reached for her backpack, unwrapped a paper bag, withdrew a fistful of some mix. I was witness to a ritual. Saint Francis preached to the birds; his daughter fed the faithful on her hand? The little cripple fluttered to the floor, found some hallowed ground, awaited the consecrated bread. To witness was a privilege, the world worshipping as one.

“Stupid bird!” She smacked away a pest. The fragile felon narrowly escaped with its life, flapping frantically for freedom. A comedienne collapsed into giggles, sinking chops into the candy.

“Good grief, Alice!” The witness was beside himself. “You think that was funny?!”

“Told you, I don’t really belong.”

“Stupid bird!” I too found myself in tears. Our choir joined in celebration, laughter howling from the hollow. A charmed exit leads off the congested freeway, invisible to the daily traffic.

 “Mr. No-Name, you make all good and proper. Tell me something depraved. And I mean depraved.”

Pity the poor mouse. The most tempting piece of cheese lays a mortal trap. If I took the bait, I would reveal myself a pervert, if I refused, a bore. Surf pulsed over the sands, and a chill blew through my bones. An enormous seagull hovered overhead, with a mew of menace. The cruel vulture attacks a stricken deer by first pecking out the eyes. I should sit up, shield my sight, show some sign of sentience, but could not stir. My feet could take no walk, but my fancy would still wander, watching the whirling wings, a wisp of waders wending over the waves. Christine shut the door on our marriage, sentencing me to exile with neither fair hearing nor hope of reprieve. Anselm, I’m sorry, you’re a good man, but I’ve got to move on. Your road runs straight, my road is winding, and I need to see what lies beyond the bend. The girl wanted depravity. A good hour passed, without a word. My tongue had frozen, the canvas of my thought splattered like a Jackson Pollock. Or was it just a second?

“You’ve got to tell me one too.” My tongue paid another visit. “Fair’s fair.”

“Tell you what?”

“The worst thing you’ve ever done. We had an agreement.”

“Liar. I only make oaths in blood.”

She was a woman. And she lay with her back to me, ringlets parted to reveal the pale skin of her neck.

I have a hand. And I accepted the invitation with a gentle scratch. I was high, but this was no hallucination. I scratched her neck.

 “All right, Alice, you asked for it, depravity. I was an Aztec high priest in a past life. The gods demanded human sacrifice. And I was preparing for the festival, held a beautiful virgin personally captive in the temple—”

“My nigga! Against the rules to talk about your past life. Want to know about this man here, not no fucking Aztec.”

“You run a tight ship. How about this, I once tried to murder my wife.”

“Now we’re talking.”

“Christine was the name, cheating the game.”

“Still in love.”

“You know the guilty party, she came to your house often enough. At least she enjoyed some people’s company. We were sitting at home one evening, I’m reading my paper, she’s all tense, not talking. She spills her tea, never happens. She wants a divorce, seeing another man. She was going to live in the guest room. I didn’t get any sleep for weeks. Couldn’t take it anymore, so I crept into her room in the middle of the night, smothered her face with a pillow—”

“Bad boy.”

“I felt like a zombie. And I didn’t know what to do next. Should I confess or bury her body someplace? Or should I drive to the bridge and jump off? I opened a bottle of whisky and drank myself to sleep. Next morning, she was up and cooking breakfast.”

“You gave it a shot.”

“Your turn.”

“Listen up, America. You want to know what I’m going to do when I graduate? Maybe I don’t dig your wonderful careers.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, everybody thinks they’re different.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Your depraved thoughts?”

“See myself as a hooker.”

“Don’t all girls have that fantasy?”

“Doing my daddy. You know he doesn’t get enough.”

“You win.”

“Francine says I have the complex.”

The sand was steady. The surf broke in regular time. The world walked upright. A young man wandered past, his nose in a book, but betraying no other sign of aberrant psychology. My back was bound to bother, a ringed plover could still balance on one leg, luminescent fog confirmed the sun’s steady descent, yet we knew a different law. Alice had introduced me to Wonderland. I had stumbled into another realm, a place where girls lie next to older men, no secrets are kept, no wishes forbidden. This world had been here all along, waiting the key. A girl had let me stroke her neck.

 She was staring at the breakers. “Wonder what it’s like to drown. Only the dead know for sure, and I haven’t asked them.”

“I’ve never drowned, myself.”

“Shall we try?” Her whisper presaged an anguished confession, or meant nothing. “What do you think happens—”

“When we die?”

The meaning of life. Her enlightenment posed a risk: I was well baked. I might rise to brilliant disquisition. She would hang on my every word, place me among immortals. I might spew out gibberish.

“I want to come back as a swallow.” My tongue now took flight.

“Nice to meet you, my swallow. What’s up?”

“I’m heading for the moon.”

“Tell me about the dark side when you get back.”

“You’re a funny bird.”

“My personality is out of whack with my age, my mother keeps saying.”

“And ground control would like a word.”

“She wants me to talk like a teenager.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Dysynchronicity!”

“Is that a word?”

“It is now.”

“Fucking showoff!”

 “You’d like to be a swallow. Praying mantis over here.”

“Some guy making you miserable?”

“Men have it easy.” She would unburden, as I wrapped a friendly arm around her muffled sobs.

“No question, I haven’t had a bikini wax in ages.”

“Me neither. And it shows. Often take a dip when I come here. No checking me out, my swallow.” Her dress revealed no swimsuit. The garment in backpack, she would have to get changed!

“I’m game, if you’re going for a swim. I’ll jump in just like this. I’ll be driving home in wet clothes, what the hey.”

She yawned. I had made a complete fool of myself. I had to get away. I joined the gulls, looking down on a displaced soul with terrible clarity. The detachment folded in on itself. Why did she want to drown, should I follow up, or was I just incapable of insight? I was too high to figure out if I was too high to figure if I was . . .

“I am he, as you are he, as you are me, and we are all together.” The girl has a voice.

“I am the walrus.” And I would keep following her lead, no matter how cursed the road, how heavy the toll. What did I ever see in her? The truth is blindingly obvious: a complete mystery. A voice carries part of the blame. She could sing the song.

“Yes, you are. Happy you’re here, my swallow. Good talking to you, and not talking to you. Thank you.”

 Sand broke my fall. The lights came up for intermission. I lay back to review the show. They will jump to conclusions. All right, I wear no wedding band, spend evenings behind a nameplate, but the scoundrel was not always single. Party of one. The waitress relegates me to the end of the counter, pours my coffee with a hon’. If only she could see the dame! Music please, Gilberto. The girl had let me stroke her neck. At least I think she did. Words drifted away, leaving a pleasant tickle. The ambient noise resolved into breaking waves, retreating waters, mewing gulls, and shouting surfers. And I heard the sound of her breath. And I felt her warmth.

 I woke to darkness. A strip of lighter sky lay beyond the fog bank; the sun was gone. The tide had risen, though water’s edge kept a distance. Surf glistened in the twilight. I was hungover. And I was alone. Had I been dreaming? The dim light showed an impression in the sand to my side.

CHAPTER VIII. THE HOLE IN THE WALL.

Your hero makes a confession.

I aim to please. You have met my circle, enjoyed the company. At least you should have. We have discussed literature, philosophy, science, touched on religious belief, and you expect the conversation to continue on that level. In which case, you deserve due warning. I have another acquaintance.

 “C’mon bub, I know what I’m doin.” He has no acquaintance with the truth. “Chrissakes!” And, unlike our savior, he has no mercy. “Gimme a break.”

“I gave you a break last year. Against my better judgment, I might add.”

“Last year is last year. I’m clean now.”

“My friend, look at the state of you. You’re a wreck. You’re shaking. You can’t look me in the eye. Can we get serious for one second? You’re as clean as explosive diarrhea.”

“Medical condition, bub. I was born shakin.”

Is there a doctor in the house? A tremulous emergence from the womb seems a stretch, although the dissolute creature can control neither limb nor tongue. So they find him irresistible. Or so he says. I shut up shop Mondays and we were fronting the bar at Dick’s, a nondescript tavern holing a wall on El Camino, my drinking companion overstaying his welcome at the city’s more particular watering holes. Eleven thirty in the morning, the establishment had yet to welcome other customers, of flesh and blood. Dick himself hung in a frame, at the wheel of a faded Coupe de Ville. An inflatable Elvis in full Vegas lorded over the desultory dance floor, and snowboarders hotdogged across a humongous screen, the hour offering little live sporting diversion. The Yankees had just won another World Series, but do they really need to rub it in?

“Trying to make ends meet.” Missy was mistrustful, likely taking me for an undercover cop. “A girl has to take what comes.” Our bartender was able to pour a pint, so I made no further inquiry into ownership. “I’ve seen some things, I tell you.” We could say the same. The worldly observer gave our empty glasses an extended rinse, her inclination and immodest top offering an eyeful.

 A man will get ideas. The philosopher duly studied the scene, in contemplative silence. My fellow thinker favored the dialogic mode. “Can’t win em all, babe.” The scholar is also a fount of wisdom.

Our joint enjoyed a jukebox. “I fought the law”—Missy’s belt was off-key and unabashed—“and the law won.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” My compromised acquaintance spoke from long experience. Squirt is the sobriquet. And he needs no further encouragement. A pair of diseased lungs added to the cacophony, and I took the law into my own hands by ordering replenishment.

A man has his needs. Sharing the tribulations of single motherhood, the raconteuse bent close and blessed the needy, to the good fortune of one and forlorn hopes of the other. A physical impediment abets his wandering gaze, the cross of tangled eyes. The runt boasts of manly success, but they just pity the sorrow. At least they should.

A man will take a shot. “Missy, I own a bookstore. We have an extensive women’s section.” For the record, the bookstore owner is tall, has dark hair and blue eyes. “You should come over and see us sometime.” And as you see for yourselves, he has a silver tongue.

The echo had less eloquence. “Gals come over to my house”—he has a house now?—“they also finds something extensive. In my pants, heh heh!”

“Sir, this is a respectable establishment!”

The establishment righted her position. And her departure was abrupt, though our eyes met at the parting. A look of long-suffering, contempt, shame . . .? Or warning, she was about to call 911?

 Talking of shame! The theft was brazen, the thief returning to brag. I have put his offense behind me, really bear no grudge. Yes, I was wronged, but heedful of eudaimonia, no true Aristotelian obsesses over sin. I rarely think about the crime, to set the record straight. And justice has been served. Just look at the wretch! A scrawny frame twitched on the stool, thin hair hung in a ponytail, hollowed chest expelled a horrible hack, and an unkempt mustache glistened with my subsidy. Damaged goods find female forgiveness, to believe the blowhard. But he can’t even buy a beer.

The widescreen went to wrestling. And the narrow saloon saw more business, an elderly patron with a stick and baseball cap shuffling through the door. “Mornin, Frank.” Our comely concierge acknowledged the old-timer without a glance, preoccupied with a fresh tale of woe. Frank’s impatience grew and grew until the cane rapped on the counter. After an interval adequate to her displeasure, Missy upended a bottle of well whiskey over a shot glass in his vicinity.

“Do a bang up job for ya, bub. I need me some cash, serious.”

“I’m not an ATM.” I rarely reveal the full truth.

“Just wanna make an honest livin. No work in this town. Frickin economy, what can ya do?”

“The economy, my grandmother’s bunions! I’m not a complete fool.”

I am a complete fool. Once a Catholic, always a confession: My resolve would suffer the fate of an iceberg in the tropics. Practically pleading for punishment, I would give him the project and plunge into an inextricable vortex of melodrama, incompetence, and need.

 Noblesse oblige? Steady there, Freddy! I may enjoy a higher elevation on the social ladder, but my sideboard boasts no silver spoon. Great Uncle Horace did sit in the House of Lords before the foxhunter fatally lost his saddle, but no snobbery runs in the family, trust me. I may have bristled when the lowlife chatted up my wife, but the bum would make Karl Marx reconsider. We formed the band in my first years at law school. Squirt was born Edward, and a card, pinned to the board of a Boston music store, made a call. Eddie is back from Vietnam and looking to sing the blues. My other life dispensed some cool in the regard of fellow law students, my Fender making regular inroads into the female cohort, trust me on that. We were the 69th Airborne, other personnel drifting in and out. I wrote the songs and Squirt fronted the outfit with a shirtless abandon that compensated for our inability to provide fans a stable lineup. We enjoyed a local following, free beer, and a write-up in the alternative weekly. Screeching Squirt was banking on a future as the next Robert Plant.

The Airborne flew a regular circuit. We knew the drill, drank with the bouncers, and found familiar faces on smoke-filled floors. And we could hope for wider renown, our self-proclaimed manager—Squirt’s equally wastrel brother— scoring us a spot opening for Creedence at a cavernous club on the shore. The Airborne overshot the runway. But the story gets it all wrong. I really heard no jeers, although the misfortune did close that chapter. I was well-enough attuned, the band a diversion, and I put the debacle behind. But the other founding member never escaped a rut of fantasy and substance abuse. Squirt attempted to keep the Airborne aloft, but encountered crippling turbulence, my guitar-playing replacement stealing the equipment. The stymied vocalist parlayed his local notoriety into a gig as a late-night deejay, but any broadcasting career was cut short by a penchant for inviting listeners—underage daughters of Boston bluebloods—back to the studio for a full board of debauchery. He followed me out West, where he formed a one-man band of petty criminal, incompetent handyman, and skilled welfare recipient. The hound dog casts a doleful eye—I could have been somebody!

You let him down? Joe, just let it go! Guilt, too, fails as an explanation—I have already suffered a surfeit; my conscience is clear. That failure is just fate; the acquaintance brings no profit, you might scratch your head. But an analyst has nothing more to go on, as you can take on another authority: The Last Refuge offers a haven for my fellow philosophers, and for a reasonable $17.50 you could benefit from A Treatise on Human Nature—the real cause is fool’s gold, a tale told by a third party. But suppose the party is closer to home, a man doesn’t know his own mind? He just has more stake in the story.

—Fair enough, Holmes, you did deduce who done it, but what about the why? That question is another story. The corpse is cold, to the confirmation of your touch; the murderer left a footprint, for the inspection of your glass; the weapon is lodged in the back of the victim, for the gawk of any witness. But what about the motive? That curiosity lies in the eye of the beholder.—

I compromise myself? Get with the program, Sam! Let’s stick to the subject at hand. In any case, can the anthropologist not live with a cannibal tribe without developing the taste? The student of primitive behavior has no need to voyage to New Guinea, the dive bar has its natives. Like a cheap horror movie, the freak had found a fan club, the buxom barkeep following his volley of expletives as if a metamathematical proof. The hearer was in hysterics, but a shameless server stops at nothing for a tip. And though my senses were sullied, my soul saw no stain, trust me—his deviant barrage had no conceivable interest, the nonsense falling on deaf ears. Like the city on the hill, my character needs no defense. I might be laughing too, but the funny was all peculiar.

  “Too late, my friend. I’ve already talked to a moving company.” I had talked, but balked at the quote. Have no fear, I could afford the service, would not suffer the gouge. Christine and I bought, before the present boom in real estate, a modest two-story next door to a kindergarten that offered safe parking, but little peace. I leveraged the equity to pay off the divorce settlement and rented the top floor to her distant cousin, a reserved teacher fleeing the war zone of inner-city high school for the quiet of seminary. The sale spared me some reminders, but not all debt, and I duly joined my housemate in an inhospitable rental market. Chancing on a small apartment in need of repair, I haggled the slumlord into waiving three months for the work, but had little time for manual labor, still less the inclination. Kowalski keeps it close, but he was honored to acquire a distinguished tenant. At least he should have been.

The giggling was grating. But Missy was pleasantly plump, the years little wearing out the cushion. Her big auburn hair agreed with lipstick of reddish-brown hue, and her perfume offset the vinegar we had liberally sprinkled on fish and chips, risked from the adjacent takeout. Diligently wiping my counter, she appreciated the visit of respectability to her poor premises. At least she should have. The hard luck story she was spinning both lowered her in my estimation and raised my worldly hopes. Opportunity came knocking. Old Frank downed his whisky and took his leave of her lounge, and the compulsive fidget who had lowered the tone disappeared into the bathroom, an underworld phone call the more likely necessity.

I could give her undivided attention. Taller than the bum, she found me more pleasing to the eye and rewarding of conversation. At least she should have. The cool customer apologized for some unfortunate language—Missy, I won’t be hanging out with him again, believe me—complimented  her fine establishment and extended the comedy to his own flourishing concern. The Last Refuge still has a few vintage business cards, one of which happened to find its way onto the counter. I alluded to the radio show, brought up the success of my book, gave her to believe that I owned a house on a desirable street—a claim not literally false, the sale yet to close.

The table was set. The counter was mine. A barkeep has a reputation. Wishful thinking, you say? Maybe I will silence your skepticism, before the night is through! My conversation partner was a well-constructed and fine-looking woman, whom I engaged with admirable aplomb, given a lower back distraction. Curtail your conjecture, the bar stool has no mercy! The bar steward was more forgiving, greeting my literary license with no discernible distress. And she inspected my card with some interest, refilled my glass with a knowing smile. Missy gave a generous pour.

 “Quality residence, bub.” We were inspecting the damp rooms and discolored walls of the suite on the third floor of the Dolorosa Apartments. “As soon as I work my magic.” The forensic team was now drawing up the report, over a  wobbly kitchen table. The supposed contractor had been scribbling a series of vital repairs on a legal pad that I had just purchased at the corner store. A fresh coat of paint and working sockets were all I wanted, but my grill lacked the chops.

“Pass me a brew, bub.” The poet laid the pen on the parquet, his well of invention dry. King Edward was enthroned at the head of a banquet, where he popped the can of Bud Lite. “Home Desperation, I’m there, first thing tomorrow. I’ll give ya a special deal, we go back.”

“The last time you gave me a deal, I ended up in court.”

“There was excrementing circumstances, bub.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. In any case, I’m not bankrolling any more drug abuse.”

“I gotta eat.”

“Even if I were completely soft in the head, I can think of far more deserving recipients of my charity.”

“You’re cold!”

“Freezing, in here. So you won’t need a fridge. We’ll take a trip to the corner market. But forget about booze.”

“You got it, bub. A professional never parties on the job.”

“I ain’t no millionaire’s son.” The acceptance letter from Harvard Law, opened in a suburban kitchen, occasioned both joy and calculation. The parents could help, but Uncle Sam must also lend a hand. Pursuing the career of preparation, the law school graduate returned to his summer internment camp. Fanshawe, Fanshawe, Elliot, and Cooper occupied the top three floors of a high-rise overlooking Boston Harbor, though my modest office was untroubled by the light of day. But a regular disturbance made up for lack of visual stimulation. A law firm cannot discriminate, and so the whole floor heard Fosburgh berating secretaries, paralegals, clerks, and junior associates alike. One of the oldest firms in the country, the institution is prestigious, the work of handsome pay, and minimal fulfillment. I had breezed through the previous summer on their books, but was now staring at life as a corporate lawyer. Fanshawe was representing an international pharmaceutical company, their malaria pill implicated in third world birth defects, whereupon my inflexible sister launched a blistering attack on my very being. The case dragged on, met with complication, and a favorable outcome would establish my reputation. Despite the recency of my recruitment, I had full rein and a recurring migraine. Gordon had been my doctor since law school. He played guitar; our bands had regularly shared a bill. I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in! Confound the condition. We talked music; the rotund reveler knew my combo rocked the harder. At least he should have.

 A magazine needs a winning cover. The handsome tennis champion flashes a boyish grin and lofts the gleaming trophy, champagne wetting the broad chest of his sponsor’s T-shirt. The newsstand features the iconic photo, to the swoon of female fans. But what does the picture say?

He is the Man! Spare a thought then for his opponent, alone in an anonymous hotel room. The ball took an unfavorable bounce, he was battling the flu, he tripped at match point. The misfortune warrants no mocking nickname. The word is unworthy, the sentiment unjust. Prize tulips bloom late; hasty judgment speaks ill only of the judge. Let us stop the nonsense. We really should know better. No man is a loser.

 I never call in sick. I allude to a doctor only to forestall sorry speculation. The maligned cannot control all rumor, but can return a vicious volley with a shot of honest accounting. Gordon wrote his note. However, the case was coming to a close, the firm could ill afford delay, and the music club debacle still festered. Plane Crash—a local rag sparking the wildfire—I would add no further fuel. I could pay off my loans in less than two years and dragged my reservations back to work. So there!

Wanton tongues will wag. Bill never lets me forget, my sister has little more sympathy, my wife got wind. The world insists on Annie, but call me what they will, I face adversity like a man. The fall proves no exception. I was under inhuman strain. Whatever the idle gossip, I had no nervous breakdown. Absurd! The custodian did find me on the floor, but he just panicked. I was drained, not overwhelmed. All right, I was hardly able to move, temporarily, but had gone months with little sleep and no proper nourishment. I did briefly collapse, in a manner of speaking, but would have recovered just fine. I didn’t need the ambulance. A chance mishap fells the sturdiest of men. And it never happened again, I can assure you.

Let’s put things in perspective. I spent just two nights in the hospital. Will a mason not disappear from sight to work steadily on the foundations? And after a week at home, I had completely recovered. The firm found me other work, to which I was able to give my full attention. Only Fosburgh cast aspersions. Working all night was not enough, my briefs were subjected to minute and terrifying scrutiny, but the despot rages over a split infinitive, to properly assign the blame.

The decision was all mine, trust me. Most partners were understanding, sorry to see me go. One of them offered to use his connections, put in a good word. What more proof do you want? Corporate law is a trap. But a wily fox sees the glint. And he found employment on more forgiving slopes of the income-distribution curve.

 “When ya movin, bub?” One eye pursued the interrogation. The other wandered off on a mission of its own.

“I’m at your mercy, unfortunately. How long will your exquisite craftsmanship take?”

“Honestly? Won’t tell ya no lie, shitload of work here. I’m a professional, gonna bust my balls. Have the place ready in a week. Gua.ran.tee.”

You see the problem. Fluffing the figure by a factor of fifty would likely still lowball the longevity of distress. I had to be out of the house by the end of the month. The budding tenant would be bunking in a building site.

 The great outdoors! I joined the National Park Service. My migraines disappeared, along with the smoking habit. I even moderated my alcohol consumption, though soon came back to my senses. Family and friends discovered that the proud holder of a U.S. passport had willingly traded the tailored suits of a promising legal career for park-ranger green. They saluted my spirit, envied my freedom, respected my integrity. At least they should have. At the beginning of the adventure, I phoned home regularly, telling the mother how the magnificent scenery and wide-open spaces had expanded my own horizons. She kept coming back to Disneyland. I opened the address book, mailed postcards of invitation from Joshua Tree, Yellowstone, Mt. Rainier. I received no reply. Annie had taken a back road to nowhere. The hippie would come to his senses, the insurrection run its course.

 “Let’s wrap it up. I’m tired of this dump already.” A bulb hung from the ceiling, and its harsh light made the bare, cramped kitchen even less welcoming. I was squatting on the worn linoleum, my back to the yellowing varnish of an ill-fitting cabinet door. We had finished off another six-pack.

“Okay to drive, bub?” The derelict has some presence. I occupy a pedestal, testament to the world of legitimate income.

“I’ll get a cab. Need a ride?”

“I like to walk. Good for the noggin.” Squirt jealously guards the location of his living quarters. The lodger pays no rent, mining an inexhaustible resource, the forgiveness of a lonely woman. I’m the gangster of love. Oh please, they only see you as the tapeworm!

“I’ll need a key, bub.” Our roost had been interrupted only by trips to the market for chips and alcoholic refreshment. A churlish Mr. Choi dragged his eyes from a tiny television to view us with suspicion, likely attributing the repeated visits to preparation for a heist. Squirt updated me on his conquests and elaborated, as usual, on his tours of duty in ’Nam. And, as usual, the shoe and sock were shed to showcase the missing toes. His yarns wander haphazardly and contradict each other to the extent that I have long ceased to believe in any vicinity to a military base. Vietnam, the excuse that keeps on giving.

Does the toeless wonder toot?! Some of you know another tale, a senatorial candidate and future president claiming combat experience. Lyndon memorably married a Lady Bird, but did he ever come under hostile fire? The Texan did once fly over enemy lines, on an information-gathering mission, which trip he spun out into a whole wartime of heroism and courage. What are we ever to believe? In any case, I’m not at all jealous of Squirt’s way with women. Like the concoctions of a certain literary character—and I think you know who I mean—why suppose his reports have the remotest resemblance to reality? And I have worked my own way, trust me. Who is better off, really? Will you look at the state of the man?!

The pot was a-boil. The stew was rank. I suffered in silence, a stir only releasing further effluvium. But we had indulged, and libation loosens more than the tongue.

“Tearin up, bub?” Alas, he does not rest content with autobiography.

“A man can’t wipe his eyes without spurious accusation?”

“Still keepin the flame!” As usual, his barge has lost its moorings. The bookseller might be burdened with some feelings, but boys don’t cry. Please!

“I’m just fine. Although your nonsense would make a stone statue weep.”

“I met yer wife once. Ya done well.”

“She has some good qualities, so I’m told. Although that’s neither here nor there.”

“Cutie pie. I’d give her one.”

He wants to be a paperback writer? Since you ask, I wanted gold records on the wall, more than anything else. But a published novel would spell redemption. The park ranger looked beyond the boundary. A wagon train was crossing the high desert, carrying a rough load, painted in bright colors, as you have come to expect. The adventure would resonate with telling detail, the womenfolk valiantly attempting to keep up appearances in dust and drought, their men hunting for food in the dry scrub, but returning empty-handed after draining a whisky bottle. The pioneers schooled their children, prayed to their God, and worried over unsettled debts. The reader would be privy to jealousy and petty squabble, an intimate domestic round set off against a bleak landscape. Youngsters would grow up fast, fall in love, snatch any moment of privacy that the wagons permitted. High drama would punctuate days of boredom, a son’s challenge to his father’s leadership, resolved in the elder’s favor by a brutal fistfight. Facing daily adversity, we would salute their survival, indulge their weakness, and ache for their loss. I would wait until the very last page to drop the bomb, stranding the party I had brought to life in a blizzard on Donner Pass.

 A telling story demands authentic set. The family station wagon once plied the entire Eastern Seaboard on vacation, but my worldly knowledge never made it through the Cumberland Gap. I now pored over a National Park map and bought a one-way bus ticket to Zion Canyon. The uproot spent his first week working a concession stand, my only memory an awkward encounter with a law school classmate who felt morally diminished in my presence. At least she should have. I acquired a ranger’s hat, rose before dawn to find the folding table that did duty as a writer’s desk. The endeavor proceeded apace, slowed down, and gave out altogether. I had no trouble painting a landscape, conveying a sense of place. But my rugged individuals were sketched with a generic pencil; the wagon train connected formulaic dots. I lugged a suitcase and guitar to the Greyhound station in St. George. The pattern repeated itself in Death Valley and the Grand Canyon. I migrated from Utah to California, Arizona high desert to Wyoming geyser, running into the same youthful German tourists and RV-driving retirees. The intended quarry remained elusive. My suitcase held one change of clothing, a few toiletries, packages of writing paper, and a portable typewriter over which I spent my free time, holed up in the spartan accommodation of the seasonal employee. The sheaves I carried over state lines recrossed largely untouched.

The ranger was a quick study. My visitor center lectures were attentively received, the same audience taking up their seat day after day, little motivated to abandon the cool theater for scorching heat outside. I led nature walks and entertained campers around the fire circle, my rendition of park fable accompanied by the crackling of burning logs and nocturnal forest music, the smell of lighter fluid wafting through the campground over pine needles and lichen-covered rock.

 “Give ya a buzz mañana!” Weeks would pass before he made any attempt to reestablish contact. We were parting company on the corner outside the apartment building. The degenerate would win no Boy Scout badge, but can hold his liquor. A more upright citizen was steadying himself against a telephone pole.

“Well, look who’s here. Good evening, Anselm. How lovely to see you.” The woman was approaching on the sidewalk. A silver swirl framed her features, a couple of handsome boxers followed on a leash, a long skirt and sensible shoes furthering the distinction.

I have already prepared you. The person never made that party, and my previous memorandum left out a statistic of vital impression, the information having little bearing at the time. And in truth, I am poorly fitted for assessment. Have you remarked the conundrum? You notice a thing at some remove from normal expectation. Should you care? You are bothered by the mother berating her child on the sidewalk, the couple smooching at a fine-dining table, the teenagers gossiping in a quiet library room, though the public makes no protest. Are you making a big deal out of nothing? Like the opinion that others hold of you, you can never know. Grace is the person, of most appropriate appellation. Although she does walk the earth on legs of mismatched length, with no enhancement of heel. I admire the stance, the indifference to cosmetic expectation, and have no idea how to hold her handicap. I share the observation in the interests of full disclosure. No one else makes remark. Is it just me?

“Hello Grace, nice to see you too.” Suffering my own impediment, I enunciated with care.

“Sorry I missed you at the party. Gloria told me about your move.”

“Indeed, I now rent an apartment. She had to quarantine me.”

“I’m actually quite envious. Owning a house is a burden when you’re out of town. Tanzania is a little far away, haha. I’m working on a story, African women running their own business.”

“Not easy for them, I’m thinking? I hope we’re giving good support.”

“We would best get out the way—I’m walking a fine line. The New York Times seems interested, cross fingers. I’m sure you’ll like the neighborhood. We should have coffee sometime.”

“Um, this is Edward. He was just leaving. Eddie’s a contractor, going to do some work for me. The apartment could use a little touch-up.”

“Delighted to meet you, Eddie. I’m Grace.” She risked a hand.

“Fine looking dogs, ma’am. You take good care, I see.”

“I’d like to take the credit, Eddie. They’re not mine. I belong to the local Presbyterian Church.”

“I hear good things, ma’am. Soup kitchen?”

“We’d love to see you sometime, for the service, of course. The minister is in the hospital, and I volunteered to walk the boys.”

“I used to have boxers myself.”

Claptrap! The only animal he ever owned was a pit bull that had to be put down after relieving a concubine’s corgi of an ear. I only heard the story after he begged me to cover a five-hundred-dollar fine. One soulmate had caught him with another and reported his beast to animal control. Gullible Grace beamed at the bricolage. Merrywood has his morals and the righteous will take umbrage, trumpet truth to lie. But the bottle betrays the bugle boy. Her fuss had always prompted flight. I now had to share the attention, and she represented all that was good in the world.

“I enjoy a good walk, now that I’m on my own. Dogs are such good company, don’t you think, Anselm?” My imbalance needed the lamppost, but she had no idea. The animals sat patiently, fixing me with an alert stare. Why can’t Rudyard do me proud? “Well, gentlemen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got work to do. Here’s my card, Anselm.” She reached into a canvas shoulder bag. “Do give me a call.” The churchgoer smiled warmly and allowed the young men to lead her away. I waited for Squirt’s heartless joke as we followed her limp of departure.

“Classy broad. And she likes you, bub.”

“That comes as a surprise?”

“Nice looking, too.” He would follow with some vile suggestion. “Don’t let this one git away. Lady save yer sorry ass from the frickin books. Ain’t natural, bub.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“I’m outta here.” He saluted. The derelict took one direction, Grace the other, while I shivered in place. Underdressed, overwrought, decision-impaired, I was cemented to the sidewalk, following a gradual reduction the length of Dolorosa. A new bow pulled my strings as the dusk disclosed the undulation. She must live in that direction. The card remained in my clasp as the form dissolved from view.

CHAPTER IX. THE BASEMENT

Your hero betrays a secret.

The Pickwick Club survives. You prize the original; you will savor the succession. At least you should. The Samuel Pickwick Appreciation Society was holding its annual meeting. Welcome to the club.

 “Order!” She takes unhesitant charge. Sister Dorothea—we stand on ceremony—ascended to the chair only last year, but rules like a hereditary tsar. The club elects its officers by secret ballot, and I can only attribute her failure to win unanimous decision to marital discord. No diplomat, she had unilaterally evicted her deadbeat stepson from permanent residence in front of the living room television, and cantankerous Brother Henry is more than capable of delayed retribution. He has further cause for complaint. The couple’s offspring having all decamped, she had elected to rent out a room to a lodger, to a penalty of litigation and our present disturbance. The novice landlady voices no misgiving, referring to her whimsically paying guest only as that man.

Clandestine is the club. We were convening in their basement. Standard access is provided by a carpeted staircase, leading down from the garage. Today that route meant detection, so upon arrival Dorothea smuggled us into her laundry room, to tug at the trapdoor, from which covert portal a set of rickety steps leaves the ordinary world and plummets into darkness. Our subterranean retreat was ringed with folding chairs and a miniature couch, presided over by a rusting water heater and lit by a bare bulb; shafts of brighter light betray. His wife abominating the gridiron, Henry has to obey the sporting call in domestic exile, and an old television sat on a box-like fridge, whose powerful hum belied the sorry source. Two cords arced across the wall through a blanket of cobwebs to an outlet by the staircase door. Already hampered by electric buzzing and crepuscular illumination, our concentration had to contend with an intermittent thumping that shook the plaster overhead. That man had installed a sound system and set of weights in the garage. And energized by the beat of seventies disco, the brute was now pumping his already swollen musculature in ignorance of the finer sensibility under his flip flops.

“Order”—the chair is notoriously abrupt—“please!” Standing members cut short their conversations, hurriedly took a bow, and carried their glasses over to the assigned seating. A hush settled over the still creatures of the grotto, though the Bee Gees were staying alive.

“The first ray of light”—Dorothea broke the silence—“which illumines the gloom”—our obedient echo following her cue—“and converts into a dazzling brilliancy, that obscurity”—The chair’s recitation was word perfect, as always—“in which the earlier history of the public career”—The assembly lowered their heads and raised a chant—“of the immortal Pickwick”—a ritual that united bodies present and past. The same incantation opened club meetings for our forebears, summoned a timeless company, and warmed to a Disco Inferno, burning overhead—“would appear to be involved”—We needed no prompt, new recruits having to recite extended passages of the masterwork from memory—“is derived from the perusal of the following entry”—I had shortly to give the annual address but forgot my nerves, lost in the chorus—“in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club”—Her vocal lead continued uninterrupted as the mistress of ceremonies retrieved Sister Cecilia’s fine cognac from the fridge top and dispensed the potion into upheld tumblers—“which the editor of these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his readers”—A few years ago, we began to emulate the immortal with regular libation, and attendance halted its slide, though the returning delinquents swore to coincidence—“as a proof of the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity”—I have to note that on this occasion, careful attention and indefatigable assiduity fell short of uniform display—“and nice discrimination with which his search”—an unmistakable snore coming to the attention— “among the multifarious documents confided to him has been conducted.”

To take advantage of a gentler descent, Dorothea had urged early arrival on the more senior cohort, Cecilia and her eighty-year-old husband. Junior was now taking a nap on the couch, a further auditory distraction that we tolerate without complaint. Their cocktail cabinet enables the toasts. My forgiveness owes nothing to the fact, of course.

 The Society meets twice a year. As you have surmised, the need for concealment militates against more auspicious venue. A portable heater would have taken the edge off the underground chill, though no shivering soul saw fit to complain. A particularly violent crash overhead dumped flakes of plaster on Sister Jocelyn’s newly styled hair, but she silently brushed off the deposit. You might then wonder, Why the commitment? A hardened Mafia family resists betrayal with a terrible test; the member must murder to belong. Reclusive religious cults are held together by an otherworldly faith; the more strenuous the stretch, the more tenacious the hold. The animating beliefs of our society are no exception to such exacting rule, our claim to a world-famous founding father easy for the outsider to ridicule. You would scour biographies in vain, but that silence is no proof, Dickens covering all tracks. Yes, the world at large knows nothing of the club, as you can vouch for yourself. That ignorance has good cause, the meetings of this chapter of the Pickwick Preservation Society closing with a renewed vow of secrecy. Our tight lid is no small achievement. Rumors circulate, inquisitive young Nick has made conjecture, my ex-wife submitted me to interrogation, and a lingering customer once pointedly winked on sharing her fondness for Pickwick. I deflect all suspicion. You have a special privilege.

No man is perfect. At confession, the sinner has no secrets. I earlier let slip the club’s existence, a storyteller losing all bearings in the isolation tank. Without due reflection, I hinted at an esoteric wisdom. And that blunder now leaves me in a bind. In sharing these proceedings, am I not reneging on the vow? Yet if I say no more you might suppose me a shallow tease, withholding the riches of that knowledge. I have decided to flutter the veil, but with misgiving. You might suspect vain puffery, as if a high school classmate, whose photo goes unremarked in the yearbook, were to corner you at the reunion and prattle of Hollywood celebrity. You might question our illustrious origin. You might doubt whether law-abiding citizens could maintain such an extraordinary double life. I offer a little circumspection. During Prohibition, an unsuspecting pedestrian passed a quiet street door, which a special knock would open onto the riot within. A passenger walking the rainy deck of a cruise ship glances over the side, where a gray monotonous sea conceals the vibrant colors and teeming life of coral reef beneath. Your own world may know its dissimulation. Like Thornfield Hall, a solid family house on your street might cage a lunatic.

—Jane, the memory must sear, please forgive my liberty. A mad woman burned the house down; a passionate admirer has just struck another match?—

The kindly old man who sells hotdogs in the park might be a concentration camp guard; your darling daughter, educated in Catholic school, enjoying an envied career, might plunge late night into a cesspool of anonymous depravity. Your own town might boast a chapter of our society and you would never know. Am I then claiming a worldwide diaspora? My lips are sealed.

 “Brothers and sisters, I have to apologize. I ran out of paper. I will have to ask you to share.” Dorothea sent the clipboard and documents on a tour of the circle, a journey made to musical accompaniment. We are family, I got all my sistas an’ me. My feet were not tapping, really, just experienced an involuntary twitch.

We signed the sheet. Though bound to discretion, I can safely suggest that viewers of a local cooking show might recognize one name on the list. Repeated and unexcused absence can result in termination, as Brother Ellsworth, our former historian, found to his cost, though his disgrace may not have been unrelated to some ill-fated liberties with Dorothea during a period of conjugal stress. Brother Henry got his revenge by taking over both the duties of his misguided rival and credit for the annals. Dim light already strained the eyes, and as a further ordeal, Dorothea insists on printing the business in miniscule font. A puddle had seeped onto the concrete floor of the basement, and so the paperwork clung to the precarious dry land of our laps. Despite the makeshift accommodation, society meetings adhere to strict order, though the governance knows neither formal regulation nor concrete constitution. Unwritten rules bind only the tighter.

The member must be sparing. The memoirist can tell you this much: Like Dark Age monks on the furthest Celtic isle, we shelter the flame passed down the generations; like the Incan priesthood, we affirm our devotion through demanding ritual; like aristocrats of the Hell Fire club, we lose ourselves behind closed doors. But needing neither virgin sacrifice nor orgiastic debauch, the members of the Samuel Pickwick Preservation Society bond by reading aloud from the liturgy, cover to cover, an ordeal of sleep deprivation that on the legendary and fractious year of Anna Karenina lasted over two days and nights.

—Anna Arkadyevna, you are the very name of tragedy; I would never make light. But like an unhappy family, every fellowship is unhappy in its own way.—

 The Society practices a rigorous regime, pledging allegiance to a select library, which titles make our better world, furnish our saints, and outside of which any reading is confessed to our fellows as readily as bible study to the Taliban. Our dedication is hard tested. We are pressured by unknowing forces and beset by temptations of which Lady Marmalade could have no idea. Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir? Pah! My vocation affords an unofficial dispensation, and so when Sister Coralynne caught me in flagrante delicto with Stephen King on an aisle seat of a Los Angeles flight, she never broadcast my guilt, in gratitude of which I moved her illustrated children’s stories to the front of The Last Refuge’s window. Chains fail at the weakest link, and we guard against corrupting influence by admitting new members only by invitation. Brother Benedict, our most recent addition, received Dorothea’s endorsement three years ago, his interrogation lasting long into the night, prompting a recourse to several bottles of single malt and a review of The Scarlet Letter’s place on our top shelf.

—Hester, rest easy, you have no more ardent champion. Like a determined cardinal importuning the Vatican, I begged for your beatitude.—

 We have built our retreat on a rock of shared faith, but unlike the more promiscuous, feel no urge to grow, call to preach, need to compromise; treasured knowledge remains the more secure, the more jealous the custody. Modernity starves for lasting nourishment, and if the word escaped, who knows what mobs of unworthy supplicants would come pounding on the door?! However, just as the poor light rendered the present company indistinct, I must keep you in the dark about their features. And as long as I withhold full names and certain identifying eccentricities, betray no special signs, pass over the fortuitous bookstore conversation that led to my recruitment, make no further mention of a member’s local celebrity, remain silent on a history that spans continents and centuries, I see no harm in cracking open a window.

 “Samuel Pickwick, we salute you.” Standing tall by the water heater, Dorothea made the sign of commencement.

“We salute you.” All members took to their feet, save one.

“Samuel Pickwick, we bless you.” Dorothea raised the chalice.

“Bless you.” The club turned to face his presence.

“To a better world.”

“A better world.” At some risk of discovery, we loosed a cheer. The uproar roused Junior from his slumber. And as the bodybuilder dislodged another plate of plaster, the faithful downed their fortification in one draft, otherwise decorous women finding permission in the bonds of ritual.

“I have to amend the agenda.” Officious Dorothea could not hide her disappointment. “Brother Cordelio may not be able to join us this evening.” A murmur met the news. “He called me on the telephone, and I can attest to a cough. Our esteemed brother suspects walking pneumonia. In any event, his voice is not up to the task.” Cortés allows the first name in the sanctity of the club. And he relaxes his rigid routine twice a year to read from his work in progress, an honor enjoyed by no ordinary reader. The lauded writer and I owe our original acquaintance to the Society, though make no mention of our secret life when communing in the store. Other members visit the refuge, but unwritten rules deter outside interaction.

“Can we move to a vote?” Dorothea removed her reading glasses. “All in favor?” The chair could show more patience. Sister Jocelyn had redacted last year’s minutes in excruciating detail, and I still had a good page to cover. Secretarial duties are assigned by lot, Brother Thomas having the misfortune to draw the short straw in the cavernous gloom.

“Madam Chair, I must register my dissent.” I traced the offending lines with a deliberate finger. The meeting betrayed no consternation, my notice posted in advance.

“Brother Anselm, be so kind—”

“Madam Chair, fellow Pickwickians, we need to set a precedent, record an unequivocal message, for the sake of posterity. I refer to the unfortunate affair of the excommunication. The minutes now before us read, ‘a dispute arose,’ but with no adjudication.”

“Brother Anselm”—Dorothea measured her tone. The softness of delivery little compromised the force, and I could draw no encouragement—“I remember the unfortunate affair only too clearly. The former member resigned before the meeting considered any motion.”

“Madam Chair, your observation is technically correct. But with respect, I also remember that the meeting shared my point of view, after the fact.”

I must confirm your suspicion. Even the most august of bodies, drawing on uncommon reverence for literature and offering the rock of shared faith in a better world, provides no shelter from the ill winds of personal animosity. The former member never accepted the legitimacy of my membership. But like other irreconcilable conflicts, the origins of the feud have long faded into oblivion. Our meetings provide a moveable feast, as Cecilia’s arthritis flares up in wintry weather, and I had volunteered the store for the occasion. The Society appreciates the necessities of my trade, but the former member was impervious to reason. Like knights of old, the Pickwickians prove our devotion through stringent self-regulation, submitting to lifelong proscription of the tawdry pleasures of science fiction and horror, the routine recipes of romance, and the detective novel.

—Sherlock, don’t swallow that pipe. I only said routine. Our society has some sympathy for the sleuth who set the stage.—

 Yes, I accept that categories lend themselves to interpretation, lines may blur. But some cases leave no doubt. And so when the former member found Danielle Steele hiding in the shelves and proceeded to mockingly read aloud during my treasurer’s report, the challenge allowed no standard response. The Samuel Pickwick Preservation Society, nearly razed to the ground in the Henry and Ellsworth conflagration, could no longer accommodate our joint membership. I am still troubled by the calm with which the former member strode out the door, by the last remark he flung, I haven’t lost this one, my friend. Who knows to what betrayal the villain might stoop, what calumny spread? Worse, suppose the traitor has formed a breakaway sect, a Pelagian Heresy, leading wavering members down the road to perdition, compromising the one true church. We could never know. Crazy talk, you say? I ignore the impudence, though wish you were right.

 “Next item”—Dorothea squinted at the agenda—“this year’s reading. Brother Lamar, will you make your case?” The meeting had overruled my request for a more favorable statement, so I could only record a protest.

“Madam Chair, I thank you”—Brother Lamar rose to his feet, the Society allowing no informality of address—“from the bottom of my heart, for the kind words.” Our brother has some hearing! His oration rose to full voice until Dorothea tamped the volume with a warning palm. “God bless you, ma’am, and all who sit before you.” Lamar likes to talk. Despite the Freak Out! of musical encouragement, members resignedly settled in for the hearing.

“Brother Lamar was unusually reticent about his proposal. The brevity of announcement on the agenda was his doing.”

“Madam Chair speaks the truth. I have it with me now.” Lamar comes equipped with a black attaché case, which now perched on the tenuous ledge of his vacated chair. “Let no brother or sister entertain suspicions of precipitation. No one is more cognizant of our exacting standards than Brother Lamar, no one. I am honored to count myself a member of the Preservation Society, I hold every man and woman before me in the highest respect, and I hear your reservations, I hear your reservations.” Knowing nothing, we had yet to vent the merest squeak, but the orator had just begun. I must conceal biographical details, though were you to hazard his occasional ministry at the United Tabernacle Church of Judah, in a neighboring city, I would not squelch the speculation. Brothers Lamar and Thomas became members in succession; the club sees only the local color of literature. “Baseball aficionados among us still lament the expansion of the major leagues, an unforgivable dilution of talent from which the American pastime has yet to recover. What’s done cannot be undone, as Lamar knows only too well. Yes, I too have sinned, good people, I too have sinned.”

“Brother Lamar, in the interests of closing before midnight, could you please just name the work?”

“Madam Chair, Lamar understands the gravity. The admirable Winston Churchill proclaimed, after the outnumbered Spitfires of his glorious Royal Air Force had beaten back the Luftwaffe swarm, that never in the course of human history had so much been owed by so many to so few. I was stationed in England, that noble isle of freedom, and followed dogfights in the blue skies over my head with eyes of consternation. I was just a pup, but knew right from wrong and had volunteered, putting my mortal soul at risk, to rid the world once and for all of the evils of Nazi Germany. And I was rarin’ to go, would have landed on the beaches on D-Day, were it not for the debilitation I sustained in a military exercise—”

“My brother, you was a cook.” Tommie and Lamar go back. Armed with nothing but pen and pad, our scribe was facing his own bombardment.

“So many to so few. By the same token, the many strengths of our society vary in inverse proportion to the works we treasure. I have studied Brother Henry’s careful research, the list is engraved on the tablet of my soul. Our sacred books are few in number, and I appreciate the necessity. The proof sits here before me, in the continuing vitality of our remarkable association. Change for its own sake is human frailty that we must fight at all costs.” Patting the leather case, he solemnly lowered his head. “Good people, I feel the weight of history—”

“Brother Lamar, please, can we move it along. Just tell us the work.”

“Over a year has passed since our last decision. Members present will recall the painstaking deliberation, the heat of debate, the agony of conflict. We knew full well the stakes; no mere addition, but revision of very first principles—”

“And I still take that decision personally. I love Candide like one of my children, the Enlightenment on holiday.” Childless Jocelyn is a retired teacher. She is fond of a revealing tank top, and the darkness could little deny an axillary abundance. “I disagreed with the decision then, and I disagree with it now.” The radical caucuses with our minority expansionist faction. “We risk irrelevance if we cut off the life blood of essential reading.”

—Candide, vous avez déjà suffert sans fin. So it pains me to add to the load. For I bring you bad tidings. At our last conference, a committee impugned the virtue of your story, questioning the development of your character.—

 “And we risk dissolution if we kowtow to popular taste.” Henry is our only self-confessed Republican. “We define ourselves in isolation from the herd.”

“I must call the meeting to order, again.” Dorothea all but had to hiss. “We made our decision, the matter is closed. Now, Brother Lamar, if you would tell us of your proposal, we might avoid another outburst.”

“If I could just offer a little disclaimer.”

“Absolutely not. For the last time!” The chair was rocking. The Society possesses a gilt-framed oil painting of our rotund captain and his gentlemanly cohort, stiffly spruced in bygone tailoring. The precious portrait now hung incongruously on the unfinished basement wall. His oversight curbs unruly inclination, and Dorothea’s pointed glance invoked that rein.

—Jovial Pickwick, your good humor is second to none. You will surely forgive a little levity.—

 “Brother Lamar! Which work?”

“Very well, ma’am. You will have it, Lord of the Rings.” The words dropped like a guillotine. The audience shifted to the squeak of a metal chair. “I say it loud, I say it clear. Lord of the Rings! Brother Anselm will shortly shed light on the truth of Samuel Pickwick and extended company, and I propose that we welcome Bilbo Baggins into that fold.” Lamar’s concentrated beam circled the table, proof in rapture of the startling pronouncement.

—Baggins, your turn has come. I will content myself with this greeting. Another admirer has plenty to say on your behalf.—

 “Capital suggestion, young man.” Junior had just woken. “Grand slam.” Junior and Lamar share a vintage and love of the game. But poor light could not conceal the more prevalent unrest. Jocelyn stared at the floor, as if finding that our foundations were fashioned of sand. Other eyes strayed to Lamar’s empty glass, in search of extenuation. My graph, too, registered the seismic shock, but I will confess also to a certain relief. On Sunday, Lamar reads from King James, to an expectant congregation. Less formally attired, he can leave the pulpit behind.

“Brother Lamar, your proposal is duly noted.” Dorothea stepped into the breach. “I pass no judgment. Protocol, unfortunately, requires that you attest to the lasting moral influence Mr. Baggins has exercised over your own character and conduct. I will permit no further digression.”

“My pleasure, Madam Chair, my pleasure. Members of the Samuel Pickwick Preservation Society, my eyes behold a vision of love, but I also see a question on those faces, I feel a trouble in your souls. Is Brother Lamar playing a trick, you ask, has he lost his mind? No, good people, I have never felt stronger of conviction. But I stand before you with a cry for help. I have come to beg, I repeat to beg, for your compassion. I have in my possession a source of grave distress, the root of tribulation.” Lamar laid a tender hand on the attaché case. “Lord of the Rings. Yes, the book is popular, but you must not harden your hearts. Bilbo’s popularity rages without check, a millstone around his neck, a curse upon his name.” Lamar held forth without restraint. The music overhead had ceased along with the nerve-racking thumps, to the indication of a deserted gym, and abandoned competition. “They have graven his image onto candy bars, Corn Flakes boxes, Happy Meals. They have spread false tidings on video screen, I have witnessed the torment with my eyes, my own grandchildren play the game. Members of the Pickwick Preservation Society, we must come to his rescue, offer him sanctuary—”

“My brother, they my gran’kids. Your chicks flown the coop.” Tommie fails to fully credit his friend’s generosity of spirit. Like Socrates, Lamar considers the whole world family.

“Madam Chair, you would have me speak to his moral influence, an obligation which I will discharge with gratitude. For that influence has no parallel, I owe him too much to express in these brief inadequate words. The good Bilbo never asked for his fame, he suffers the gravest injustice through no fault of his own. The world does not care, the world takes advantage, the world offers him no peace. And that treatment has taught your humble brother a most cherished lesson. Brother Lamar worries not what the world thinks, he cannot control his fate. Brother Lamar can only be true to himself. And for that wisdom, Bilbo Baggins, I thank you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

CHAPTER X. THE OTHER WORLD

Your hero tells it like it is.

“The mystery of literary creativity!” Our annual address calls for standing delivery, at present peril of low ceiling. I was well rehearsed, fortunately, as the dedicated lighting was inadequate to the penciled handwriting of my prompt. My audience awaited the edification. You also are in luck, as I am prepared to share the notes. A rare wisdom, as you will acknowledge. At least you should.

“Pickwickians, your brother humbly submits that he has solved that mystery. What we are wont to call creation is another thing altogether. My solution would strike prisoners of conventional wisdom as extravagant, but will come as little surprise to you, free of those chains. I make no secret of my thesis and am honored to accept the challenge of considered exposition.”

The floor was all mine. Common respect for Lamar and a motion to rein in runaway discussion had led to a stunning vote. Lord of the Rings would make our next continuous reading, at a time and place of later negotiation. You may assume that no member voting in favor had performed the mental arithmetic. “This address has flowered in a soil of exasperation. As you all know, my bookstore thrives, and we recently offered a forum to a local writer, who proceeded to abuse the privilege by contending that the subject of his talk, the mainstay of my business, the very foundation of our society—the novel—was dead. And I am sorry to report, the audience did not laugh him out the door. Contemporary critics wallow in obituary, and I know of no writer who stands tall in defense. A crisis of confidence has befallen the world of books. Great novels have shaped humanity, but such noble ambition is now subject to the derision of small, ignoble minds. I have taken it upon myself to stop the rot, bring the literary world to its senses.”

No one stirred. I enjoyed undivided attention, as you will appreciate. Tommie could take a break from clerical duties, as I had promised him a written statement. I took center stage for no momentary edification; we enshrine any address that passes oral examination as our official position. “You may have quenched your thirst for ideas at the fountain of physical sciences and encountered the hypothesis of a parallel universe. Cosmologists believe that a world of antimatter exists alongside our visible home—”

“One other universe? I would hope a veritable cornucopia.” The fusspot failed to fully respect the occasion. Sister Coralynne is want to take an unnatural position during extended meetings. I had consented to questions from the floor.

“The indulgence might amuse.” A latecomer had taken advantage of the staircase, joining us for the main event, suppressing the supposed cough. “But speculative metaphysics hardly lends itself to Nobel Prize consideration.”

“Brother Cordelio, I share your reservations.” And if I survived his scrutiny, I would be in the clear. “The idea runs afoul of the nagging positivism of freshman indoctrination. But my thesis contrives no world of extravagant speculation. Had I no argument, I would have refused the invitation.”

“Brother Anselm in the batter’s box.” Junior underwrites the refreshment. “No curveballs over here.” We never schedule the annual meeting during the season.

“Writers confess to exhaustion”—I was just getting started—“supposing that, like the age of chivalry, the novel has run its course, the reader no longer willing to suspend disbelief. Like small-town rubes disgorged from a tour bus into full Manhattan, they mistrust the evidence of their senses. What we please to call fiction is no quixotic realm cooked up in the writer’s fancy. Rather, that world is as real as our own, and exists alongside, discovered by a sense of uncommon possession, a critical clairvoyance, a cosmic telepathy. For just as mankind needed Galileo to bring the heavens into telescopic sight, we depend on gifted novelists to share the news. The inspiration they claim to cherish is rather a peephole opening onto that other world. What makes a great novel is not fertility of invention, but depth of perception—”

“Were it more on display.” Cortés takes a dim view of the literary scene. Our kingfisher flashes over a sluggish river of inconsequential hacks.

“Sister Jocelyn inquires after his health.” I nodded toward the portrait. “A customary pleasantry. I am now dislodging that tongue from cheek. The well-being of Pickwick lends itself to genuine question. Samuel, I will never meet you in the flesh. Jane Eyre, I would count myself the most blessed of men. So-called fictional characters have no creators, rather confidants. The genius of Charles Dickens and Charlotte Brontë is the gift of special vision, they have seen that world, have met the denizens, and returned to tell the tale. We talk of lifelike characters, but should make the likeness identity. They have a life as real as our own.”

“Brother Anselm, you have whetted the appetite.” Dorothea had relieved the last folding chair of electric cord entanglement. “Your advertised support?”

“You will have it. Pickwickians, I expect no uncritical reception. You are no credulous children, believing in Santa Claus. But I need appeal to no considerations more abstruse than your own reading pleasure. Sister Cecilia cannot count the nights she has gone to bed with Madame Bovary.”

—Ma chère Emma, s’il vous plait, pardonne mes libertés.—

 “Brother Lamar claims the company of Bilbo Baggins, and we have no reason to doubt his word. I pick up Jane Eyre every year, at the very least.”

“You rascal.” A guffaw enlivened the gloom. “A fine filly, no doubt.” Junior had his day.

—Jane, you might not follow the merriment. Trust me, ignorance is bliss—I admit to some weakness for a play. Women now have the vote, men have been to the moon, and girls rarely die of the tuberculosis that took your friend Helen, but the march of progress has yet to fully make it through the mire.—

 “What keeps us coming back?” I had plenty more! “The element of surprise is long gone, we know what will transpire. We appreciate fine language, but simple words often exercise the most tenacious hold. The indubitable phenomena call for clarity. And my thesis best delivers the goods, closely shaved by the razor of worthy Occam: We never tire of our favorite books because they bring us real people, whom we care about as friends, with whom we cherish the time together. Were they mere fancy, why would their suffering move us, their mistakes disappoint, their triumphs lift our spirits? Sister Coralynne weeps at the murder of poor Nell, our dear Brother Warren, sadly taken from us last year, waxed indignant at the suffering of the Joads.”

—Friends, Romans, countrymen were put on notice. I now call on my people to lend their ears. It gives me great pleasure to address your cohort. I also suffer a handicap, unable to acknowledge you all. I have my own story to tell!—

 “Brother Thomas rages over the infamous battle royal.” I allowed myself a stretch.

Tommie mustered a grunt. The clerk is guarded of opinion, a study in contrast with neighboring Lamar.

“Those feelings would be frankly perverse, were they not occasioned by real people.”

“I hear you, Mr. Speaker. Men are such a disappointment.” Coralynne was picking up the pieces after the breakdown of a third marriage. “I might be more forgiving had I never fallen in love with Atticus Finch in high school. He spoiled me for any other.”

—My people, settle down now. Mr. Finch has found some favor; Ms. Eyre enjoys my eye. But so many of you have our blessing. And the love will never die.—

 “What would Oprah make of all this?!” Junior’s mischief belies his age. I have mentioned the availability of liquid refreshment.

“The speaker has been meaning to call her.” I will not be outdone. “Brother Cordelio could use a little help. If only the celebrity would recommend his Confabulations to her book club!”

“Popularity?” Cortés picked up the gauntlet. “I pooh-pooh the easy pickings! The most memorable book does not cater to the public, a new reader is born of the book.”

“Our brother believes in immaculate conception.”

“Magic? Rather, because I say so! Like the making of a promise, the word creates the thing. And I give readers my word, they are reading an original, which very declaration suffices for success.”

“Our brother is very sure of himself.”

“On good authority. The daredevil gets the girl, the dauntless fighter delivers a knockout punch, the confident writer builds a trust.”

 “Isn’t that the truth!” I picked up the podium.

Merrywood! . . . I am the speaker here! . . . Is this a memoir, or manifesto? . . . A Lovely Man is a novel undertaking! . . . All well and good, but can you really deliver? . . . Just you wait and see!

 “Homo fabulens, the storytelling animal.” I held on to the  thread. “My store carries a collection with that title. The contributors pontificate on our suspension of disbelief, which credulity survives the turgid tests of postmodernism and experimental fiction, although I cannot speak from experience, as my reading rarely strays into such benighted territory, just as I pillory the moral collapse of magic realism, the antinovel. One essay amuses with evolutionary psychology—a propensity to explore counterfactual space would have secured our ancestors’ survival, no less. The speculation misses the point, no disbelief needing suspension. I find the ubiquity of the otherworldly perception more interesting—do we possess the faculty in embryo, which needs development like Sister Cecilia’s hard-won appreciation for fine wine? Or is the endowment fully formed, but gifted only to the few?”

“Brother Anselm, you make an ingenious case, we expected nothing less. But I foresee a chilly reception, at least in some quarters. Does not an observer best withdraw from notice?”

“Madam Chair, let us not scant the observer. Observation changes the phenomenon.”

“Yet writers thrive on adulation, could never efface themselves.”

“The medieval craftsman left his maker’s mark, a gargoyle carved on the cathedral arch, hiding in plain view. The playful author may leave his own signature, an enigmatic construction that makes no contribution to the architecture.”

 Reader, I have posted an alert. Some may not remember, others may miss the mark. But if you uncover the author’s person, you win the reader’s prize—best of the bibliophiles! And be warned, you need to pay close attention, will find no further announcement.

 “You deny me credit?” Cortés had no need to expand, in present company.

“Brother Cordelio, the club imposes, the speaker must tell it like it is. No one here denies the singularity of your work. But with respect, I do question its source. Recall our last conversation, Plato supposed that mathematical insight was really memory. His contemporary Pythagoras might suppose he were exercising himself on a novel proof, but in fact his soul had previous exposure to the timeless truth. Similarly, I suggest you mislead yourself about your famed invention. You suppose your ideas drawn from a well of your own possession, but like the same Plato’s cavemen, you must look outside for the truth. Literary inspiration is really vision, though of a reality different than the dull prison that confines us here—”

“You can’t expect a basement . . .” Sister Dorothea is proud of her house.

“Brother Lamar, Matthew 8:26. And he saith unto them?” I will admit to some rehearsal.

“Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?” Lamar knows the good book like Junior the baseball almanac.

“I have a like message for wavering writers. You fret that the end is nigh. Have faith. Like Paris, we will always have that other world. You must trust the deliverances of your special sense. Readers will no sooner tire of literature than reject their closest friends. The people of that other world, like our own, remain an inexhaustible source of interest, a trove of good company. How could the novel ever run its course?”

“My brother, like our Lord, you have rebuked the winds and the sea. I feel a great calm.”

“The club relies on his dictionary, and my respect for the good Doctor knows no bounds. Fiction is what did not happen? You are wrong sir, it did happen, only elsewhere.”

“Isn’t that the truth!”

 “. . . so much more to say. But I will end the address now, with a prescription.” I am a merciful man, as you must admit. “We are all no doubt immersed in a novel, that is who we are, why we gather here today. When you next pick up that reading, turn your attention on itself. Why are you so absorbed? Why do you care? Oliver Twist asks for more, and you are moved. Could you really lose yourself, believing you were tracing a fabrication of Dickens’s arbitrary choosing? You care about the boy because he lives in a poorhouse and is hungry. Oliver, you had your share of indignity, without us blasting your very being. No well-adjusted individuals could so engage with the fluff of concoction, and Pickwickians, your radios are tuned to a fault. You must then suppose writers enjoy special access to the truth, albeit of some camouflage, even to themselves. They abuse the privilege, test you with unreliable narration, try you with tedious cleverness, and torture you on a rack of verbosity. You survive the challenge. You are reading a novel, making the acquaintance. This character confesses, that one confides, yet another confabulates, and you listen to them all, sharing their hopes, feeling their pains, considering their ideas as much as anyone you know. Your very reading is the proof!”

CHAPTER XI. THE GREAT OUTDOORS

Your hero finds romance.

Jess will obsess? That might be, but Anselm is no neurotic, a-gnaw over character flaw. The wounds have healed. I mentioned a supposed nervous breakdown only for an unreliable exception to prove a stable rule. I may be revisiting the episode, but please suppose no fixation. I just need to set the record straight, for your benefit.

I have a law degree. The ambition died; the confidence suffered no injury, trust me. I no longer possess a suit, which spares tiresome trips to the dry cleaner. The world imposes its trappings of success; I defy the definition. I have a dame, for goodness’ sake! Women turn when we pass; men ogle her in envy. Your soldier marches in full stride, his bearing impressive, his head held high. I have touched on a marriage, as you might recall. Christine is no longer my wife. I accept the legal truth, understand no lasting trouble. For all you know, the years we spent under the same roof were a necessary stage on a road to fulfillment. A girl might be shy, suffer a bad complexion, enjoy no boy’s attention, but why pity the dull duckling who blossoms to a bird of beauty? And if I tell of another woman, the tale stirs no distress. The desertion was no real loss, her betrayal for the best. There have been plenty more, I can assure you. In any case, I rarely remember the affair, revisit the evidence, replay the crackling record. Fading photographs, torn letters, gifted garments, what are you talking about?

The Park Ranger worked into the night. I left a band but not the calling, and my guitar closed campfire gatherings with distinction—God made rock ’n’ roll and saw that it was good. Park visitors heard my own compositions, but I leavened the mix with familiar fare: A blackbird sang in the dead of the night; I took them by the hand and led them through the streets of London, then beat their lonely hearts against the sky. My playlist had no sing-along intent, though a chorus might sputter into life, visibly stoned couples shedding their inhibition in the warm anonymity of the forest darkness. I had gone well beyond the call of duty, for which they shared their thanks. At least they should have. Rebecca plopped her welcome mat down at the front. Her eyes locked onto mine. And she remained behind after fellow campers dispersed through the starlit pines. I perhaps quickened at her arrival, couldn’t help but notice two fine legs on the walk I led earlier that day, overhearing a story of a park visit taken with no company. My evening talk was animated, but that was always the case, I’m no panting poodle! She was now squatting against a log, hands clasped around her knees, her face glowing in the dying light of the fire. Baggy shorts, sandals, bandana complemented her freckled good looks like high fashion. My campfire entertainment respected no rule; her tie-dyed T-shirt covered no restriction. The free spirit said I cut a fine figure in my ranger green, and she was far from the first, if you really need to know. The latest admirer found the wilderness night enchanting, had been moved by my songs, and invited me back to her tent.

“I, wanna rock ’n’ roll all night!” The information arrived from my rear. I still needed the support of a lamppost, suffered the chill night air. Your shivering scribe was falling asleep on his feet, a bleary fog occasionally lifting to reveal the departing Grace, distance smoothing out the irregularity. The raucous attempt at song had no such leagues to travel.

Her wishes came true. She had the white wedding. He promised to love her, till death do them part. They had a solid marriage, two kids, good friends, a nice house. But like a brick building in an earthquake, a solid structure may not last—he was seeing someone else. He told her what happened, any further lie unbecoming. He made a terrible mistake, never felt so low, implored her to stay. They talked to a counselor, friends rallied, her mother visited often, and long. He stopped drinking, joined her church, redoubled his attentions. She gave him another chance, would forgive, if not forget. A chastened man came home from work, with roses and affectionate greeting. But eyes serve as reminder.

“And party ev.er.ree day!” He had never left. I would not risk my balance and so he had to make the circuit, surer of his footing. Squirt’s crime has long passed the statute. I never read an indictment; he never entered a plea. My lids were drooping, I could only faintly fix his features. But when his errant gaze finds my center, a guilty party is back in the dock.

“Bub, I just thought of somethin.”

“I already told you, I’m not giving you any advance.”

“That lady—”

“Grace.”

“Amazin Grace. A.maz.in!”

 The cackles discovered my headache. He wheeled and disappeared around the corner of Dolorosa. I checked for my wallet, but with no suspicion, trust me; a Boy Scout is always prepared. The fire hydrant and I celebrated with a two-step. I lost my watch, found another, to the face of eleven o’clock. The neighborhood abed, the street was all mine until a raccoon coalesced out of the night air to sniff at the row of garbage cans awaiting early morning collection. The forager recorded the obstacle, describing a semicircle around my center. My bed beckoned, twenty minutes’ drive at this hour. Fortunately, I had parked out front. Plopping behind the wheel, I caught my foot behind the pedal, fumbled the ignition, stalled the reverse. Sleeping bag, inflatable mattress, foam pillow—my camping gear was stowed in the trunk.

Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca! The following day we exchanged the unforgiving ground sheet of her tent floor for the single bed of my cabin, tree-hidden behind the park village. She spent another, unplanned, week in the park, constant company as I discharged my duties. A matronly park visitor inquired—on a rare occasion when my affectionate companion wandered out of earshot—if my wife was also a park ranger. My fingers forgot the typewriter, and my foundations fell to the wrecking ball of female frolic. She clung to me at night, petting a pliant puppy. I could do little wrong. Anselm, how come you never talk about any girlfriends, you’re really quite the charmer. As if there were any doubt! I’ve never met anyone like you before. Isn’t that the truth? We squabbled; she was easily hurt, just as ready to forgive. I had made a best friend, in less than a week. As my eyes followed her dusty red VW Bug receding toward the park exit, they were far from sad. She was driving all the way back to Manhattan, a graduate student at Columbia. City life would resuscitate my writing.

 Another floor was hard. No mercy tended my headache, no padding my bones. I had woken in the middle of the night, the air mattress deflated and a rolled-up sleeping bag supporting the crick in my neck. The streetlight in the bare window traced a puzzle: I must have bedded down in the new apartment. The cause of waking pressed, and I despaired of timely release. Nauseous, sightless, his neck stiff as a rusty bolt, his bladder fit to burst, a mole groped for the tunnel. No light penetrated the hall, neither was memory able to provide a lamp. The blind must feel the way. I might be weaving in the wrong direction, why not just pee right here, no one would know? I am not usually afraid of the dark, but the pitch was total black. Have you ever seen The Cave? I will not recount the horrors. I could keep going on and on, deeper and deeper into the tar pit. I was lost, I was alone, I could not turn around. An abandoned dog begins to whimper. Time slowed with fumbling progress. What was this? I brushed against a doorframe. My fingers located the knob, my shoulder pushed the door. My eyes met a blaze of light.

 Rebecca found pay phones on the road. The car seat was her bed; gas stations, convenience stores, small-town diners her only break. She missed me terribly. I passed the evenings lying on my bunk, wearing her socks, flipping through her postcards, waiting her call. A keen geographer followed her trajectory on a highway map, purchased at the village store for the purpose, anticipating the next area code. The old VW broke down, but she made it back to New York in less than a week. I was biding my time. Rebecca, I’m ready when you are, just give me a date. I would have talked for hours but she was preparing for seminars, meeting advisors, grading undergraduate tests, and had to end the call with an apology. You do understand? She had rented a tiny studio, but put her name down for one bedroom. City living means close quarters.

Sight returned with revulsion. No decent, law-abiding, tax-paying American should face such an abomination. The grunting had registered; the warning came too late. Missy was naked. With large ornaments asway, paws pressing the carpet, blank eyes fixed on high, the figure I had last seen working behind a benighted bar was now frolicking over a familiar face. Pants gathered around his ankles, hands behind his head, Squirt need expend no energy, a spectator to her rut.

“We meet again.” She extended a smirk. I was barely conscious, but the vision sadly no dream. The uninvited houseguests showed no inclination to curb their industry. I knew he was fully capable, having already felt the lash. That previous offense was yet more galling, but at least I had no visual evidence.

“Bub, can’t a boy and gal have a lil privacy?”

We were all agreed then. I was in the wrong.

A dissertation chapter arrived in the mail. Her advisor was enthused, her presentation well received at a national conference. I diligently read each page, hailing the ideas, if not the affectation. The studied detachment of her prose was the more pronounced next to the handwritten love letters that arrived in the same envelope. She left for Central America, a field trip with a group of fellow graduate students, to observe a religious festival central to her research. The arduous journey would impose unreliable layovers and end with a five-hour bus trip over primitive mountain roads. She would be gone for a few weeks, the first time we had been out of touch since the campfire.

I was fully awake. Hours spent on the hardwood had fused my neck and shoulders into a plank of pain. Three thirty, I was now sober enough to drive. Rudyard heard the key in the front door, greeted me in near panic. The light on my answering machine was blinking. The father had called from the condominium development in Arizona, his normal, decent, dependable tones offering a measure of reassurance. Merrywood Sr. has an aversion to the phone, Mother’s health might have taken a turn, but I could hardly call back at this hour. I washed off my disgust in the shower, gobbled a surfeit of analgesic relief, and woke to full daylight, the bedside clock reading eleven o’clock. But I enjoyed some clavicle liberation, and my unwitting voyeurism faded like a fever.

One week stretched into two, then three. Any threat to a group of well-connected Americans in Guatemala would make the news, but I scoured the papers in vain. The silence underscored my place on her periphery; I could contact neither family nor friends. A secretary, fortified with the Brooklyn accent that I remember with dismay to this day, answered the phone in the department office. She little trusted my story, would only take a message. I was hurting for information, but will never abjectly beg, trust me. I tried again the next day, hoping to hear a human, but the harridan as good as hurled the accusation—stalker! Over a month passed and a small printed envelope arrived in the mail, postmarked Amherst MA, her hometown. The letter inside was penned in a familiar script. Her field trip had been aborted. Ongoing hostilities between government forces and guerrillas had flared up, and the consulate issued a strong advisory. She had other news. Her ex-boyfriend had been a member of the group that had to pass time waiting for the return flight. The two of them had signed up months in advance, when they were still together. She had too much respect for me to lie about this development, keep me in the dark. She was so very sorry, hadn’t mentioned him before, really thought it was over. She had driven across country in the summer to get away, think things over, never expected to meet someone like me. I crumpled the letter on the tiny table we had dined off together. We shared nothing else again.

CHAPTER XII. THE STRANGE TERRITORY

Your hero goes into a skid.

Anselm was a Boy Scout. He should have been prepared? The footloose seek adventure, strapping on their boots, while strollers of more sense rarely shed the slippers. Things did go from bad to worse, but I am really not to blame, in the final reckoning. Put yourself in my shoes. The mountain road sign reads, BEWARE FALLING ROCKS. But really, what can you do?!

 I stood in strange territory. A lost soul will grasp at any straw of direction, and the chipped lettering spelled some semblance, an exception to the recondite signage of Santa Ana South. I had never done this before. The novice pushed through an old glass door and further freight filled a laden hull of reservation. Some women are just down on their luck, posting an indictment. The weary embodiment sank into a worn armchair, barely registering my arrival. Business as usual. What should a new customer say, in the circumstances? I grunted a guilty greeting. She remarked, as I sat, that I looked just like her father. The minister passed away last year. Was such a shabby apparition really cut from a man of the cloth? And what would he think, if he knew? The preacher’s daughter brought our brief pleasantries to a close, pulled up a baggy sweater to spill an immodesty into plain sight. What was I doing? A mortal mistake, a man like me. She stifled a yawn, undressing in front of a stranger was routine. Was it too late?

We were not alone. A sallow individual with shaven head, monkish brown cape, and clasped hands occupied a dilapidated church pew, lost in meditation. Café Bolivia drew its sparse clientele from the district’s struggling artist population, the garments on extended hiatus from the Laundromat, the furniture discarded from an adjacent thrift shop. The catalogue continued, a large green fly on an unchecked excursion across the pastry case. Framed portraits lined the walls, the menace of gang members splashed in black against a pool of red. The artwork was for sale, the price confirming my exile from the real world. And the extortion extended to their exotic coffee blend, a buck and a quarter, and no refill. The most egregious assault rode a different modality. Unchecked baby screams had been provoking me to fantasies of tabloid mayhem, although other patrons showed no distress, indulging the disturbance with smiles of sympathy. The plumage might conflict. But all the birds were cool.

 My prose was plodding. And as the afternoon wore on, my inspiration faded further with the light. I had left the store in Ivan’s incapable hands. Possibly the world’s least assiduous salesman, The Terrible can nevertheless rise to the occasion if his opponent absolutely insists on a purchase. And he is honest. But business sales were out of mind, my other work the only occupant. That industry, too, was turning little profit.

I can still write. Although my first publication has resisted replication. I pitched the amorous adventures of a gangly young park ranger, strumming a guitar and working his way through the tents and cabins of a succession of nubile visitors. Private frolics were interrupted by marauding bears, swarming insects, sudden thunderstorms, and the rescue of canyon-fallen hikers. All jolly good fun. My agent had her finger on the pulse; Seasonal Employment rewarded her confidence.

Literature is my life. Low comedy pays the rent. That seasonal employee took his instrument and a young camper behind the bushes of a forest glade, where she removed her clothes to the sound of music and scent of insect repellent. But while she was nakedly distracted, a gang of marmots stole her every garment. Please, revenge on Rebecca was the farthest thing from my mind! The young women may not have been totally dissimilar, but is not imitation the sincerest form of flattery? I had completely moved on, trust me, and now added physical miles to our distance, my percentage underwriting my relocation. The book attracted further attention, to subsequent regret, the screenwriters tasked with so sexing up the action that the Village Voice titled its review “Ranger on the Rampage.” The long-delayed cinematic release was a flop, the ill-advised contract paid nothing, but the movie afforded a brief cachet, attendance at book signings spiking over the months that ensued. Against my better judgment, my wife persuaded me to break out the ranger uniform for the occasion from a forgotten trunk in the garage. And that titillating title made its mark in the language of our love: Swann and Odette had their cattleyas; Mae West challenged swains to come up and see her sometime; Marvin grooved her good. Christine signaled heat with her R-word, which happens to rhyme with danger.

 The bothered clock ticks slowly. My well of patience was running dry. I had no earplugs. You suspect another motive? A young acquaintance might work in the district, but you should pay the matter no mind. In any case, the owner was a great guy, and big men are territorial. A certain member of his staff might appear, penciled in for the late shift, but so what? The fish could lie easy, my vessel on no trawl. I was here to work, the laptop incontrovertible evidence. I am a writer. And if the venue I chanced upon for the struggle happened, without the remotest foresight, to be that café, well . . .

A writer has his needs. Little wonder that my prose was plodding—Please put a plug in it! The joyless bundle latched onto the distended nipple that hovered over my computer screen, its dam stroking wisps of fluffy hair with fingers that bore no ring. I met her eye—Sweetheart, you insist on waving your jugs in my face. The display brought no arousal, the piglet welcome to the teats. I ventured a disinterested smile and deleted another sentence as the exhibitionist suckled the fruit of her illicit liaison, while flicking through a community broadsheet. The bawling ceased only to uncover my displeasure at the music selection. I can stomach the Dead, in measured doses, but any place of hospitality boasting a sound system should really have more than one album at the disposal. What in the world ever happened to sweet Jane?

—Jane, ignore the impertinence. The world I have the misfortune to inhabit is drug addled, poorly educated, and ill-read, unworthy of your time.— 

 I had met a girl. We passed time on a beach. You know the story, but I told no one else. The notary had nothing to hide, was just preempting a tedious audit. Yes, we lay on the sand together. The memory would buffet a man of feeble construction, her voice lingering as the tide wiped away all trace. Anselm Thomas Merrywood is built of solid timber! We enjoyed some understanding, but I am aware of circumstance, the fellowship of weed showing no fine discrimination. Christine stoops to intimation, supposing a breezy butterfly longing to emerge from a caterpillar of caution. And who drunk her tea every day at four?! I take pride in my character, am content with my life, have enjoyed my manly success, if you really need to know. In any case, the volumes on my shelves offer all the company I desire. Some men have ideas, but trust me, this one labors under no illusion. If I chanced . . .

 The writer’s concentration confronted a novel challenge. Our population exploded, a clutch of high school kids descending on the barren nest like pigeons. The youngsters deposited skateboards by an adjacent table and peeled off backpacks plastered with peculiar patch and gaudy sticker. The birds returned from the cash register pecking at doughnuts and clawing soda cans, mistook my naturalist’s eye for an attempt at greeting. The minors registered a serious writer, accorded him due respect. At least they should have. Textbooks, notepads, and pencil cases now cluttered the furniture. Boy sat next to girl, but no evident pairings precipitated out of the mix, and books stayed shut as they hunkered over new-fangled devices of distraction. My manager, too, has caught the plague, picking some manner of berry, and the missionary is leading me to reconsider her position. A religious hush took over the fledgling flock, though ripples of mirth suggested other channels of communication. A budding Spanish rose, with rich curls and black eyes of trouble, somehow came to my notice, although a bothersome back distracted my attention. It often happens when I spend hours in heedless hunch! The gaming boys were either oblivious to their comely companion, or their junior operating systems had yet to load the program. They seemed like good kids.

 We lay on a beach. Many a memoirist will sift through the sands, a few see a bigger picture. A sleuth was replaying his tape, amplifying the signal, but please suffer no suspicion: A code just calls for a break. And the meaning proved opaque, the interpretation as little settled as the resolution of an optical illusion. Chicks click with older guys. I was no mere familial imposition. Don’t be getting ideas, my gangster. I must not abuse the credit.

 The suckling was sated into stupor. Mom bagged her sleeping charge and hoisted the pack onto her ample frame of likely food-stamp provenance. “Lovely talking to you, sir, hope to see you again. Have a blessed day.” Her essential goodness registering too late, I followed its disappearance around the corner.

The peace was soon broken. A brash warlord usurped her chair; his tailored gray suit, starched white shirt, and red power tie broke a compact, but he little noticed and had less reason to care. Compromising the all-business presentation, Johnny-come-lately jabbered like a vagrant, a black leech in his ear. He was apparently haranguing an assistant, our whole menagerie privy to minutia of relentless profiteering. The animals began to stir. Hipsters who had endured baby screams without a ripple now glared across the room; the Dalai Lama showed signs of reluctant life; even the slacker kids joined the opposition, the world intruding with the rare disturbance that could pry them from the gadget. An aging hippie, comic book in hand, assumed leadership—“Sir, if you don’t mind”—and motioned with a fan. Slick Rick returned a middle finger.

 A man meets a girl. He might give her an occasional thought. I also think about Eleanor Roosevelt, is there a law? I might find myself doodling the letters, but what’s in a name? You can get anything you want at Alice’s restaurant! I might drive by her house, but the street offers a convenient shortcut. She was a girl of  nineteen; I was a man of dignity and a call to her home too forward. Besides, what would I think to say? If Bill picked up, he would only make some absurd assumption. A chance meeting would more satisfactorily scratch the itch, although the prick was puny. But how many cafés lay within the perimeter of reckoning? What days did she work? A thorough search could exhaust the whole summer, not that I had the least inclination, of course. She had already moved on from a short-lived and insignificant employment. She had invented the job, in mischievous anticipation. At this very minute, our babe was bathing in Bali, boozing in Budapest, bonking in Barcelona.

 Bolivia fell to Pizarro. And a latter conquistador showed no mercy, the volume of the diction compounding the venality of the deal. My creative impediment was proving similarly stubborn. Why not stretch the legs? Have no fear, I was set on serious writing, not some silly surveillance. I was only thinking of my work! A more inviting locale might well unblock the flow.

 And the weather warranted a walk. Another station might just happen to be the one, affording some quiet amusement: The scribe would be sitting in a quiet corner, engrossed in his work. A server returns from a break, spots a familiar face, shuffles over to say hello. She hopes he doesn’t mind the interruption. The preoccupied writer will look up in surprise. Alice, how nice to see you, of course I don’t mind. I remember now, you said you worked in a café. What a coincidence.

 BERLIN was now hidden from view. I have never been, but the destination must offer some reward, virtue visible on the visage of its visitor. The souvenir wearer had patiently helped an elderly gentleman read the menu, chalked high up on the wall. Our public-spirited citizen was making good use of the wait, her nose in a book. A trim bottom nestled in snug jeans. Cast no aspersions, I noticed only because the line formed in single file ahead. But my back, how much longer would I have to stand?! I had followed the mass of dark hair, fading T-shirt, coiled wool scarf, and shouldered book bag over the crosswalk, but would have stopped in anyway, Fertile Crescent marking the last café on the strip.

A writer needs his observation. But a quick scan revealed no familiar face, not that I had the motive. Still, remarking the subdued music and well-tended plants, I decided to weigh anchor, Mesopotamian fertility more inviting than Bolivian blight. The price list on the wall extended less welcome, but a thorough emptying of my pockets proved the possibility, foreign travel rarely coming cheap. The pleasing booklover deciding on decaf indicated her preference for a mug of in-house consumption, though it was really all the same to me. Our barista, pert and chatty, her nametag an open invitation, had her thing, asking all comers a stock question, And what would you like?

“Chloe, do you really want to know?” I had a ready response, delivered with a roguish grin. If I could just ignore the vertebrae, the vexation returning with a vengeance! My moment arrived, and she looked straight through. A landfill of patchy facial hair, gratuitous tattoo, derailed baseball cap, and jeans of alarmingly low elevation festered to my rear. They knew each other. Interminable minutes passed as she grinned to his grunt, giggled to his cuss, glued to his insufferable mug. She would do unspeakable things for the oaf. I have noted the human need to understand, but on occasion the fog thickens to rank impenetrability.

Customers vented sighs. At least they should have. But the glacial service might redeem itself, make good an afternoon of futility. BERLIN and I were standing side by side. My motor idling, I eyed her paperback. And quietly rubbing the seat of distress, a daredevil engaged his overdrive of bravado.

“I hope you’ve got plenty more pages to read. This could take a while.”

“Whatever, they’re a cute couple.” Her educated enunciation allowed me to overlook the lapse of judgment.

“Decaf latte.” Chloe interrupted our burgeoning acquaintance. But I had made a connection.

I found the front. My espresso came to a drip, Chloe to no tip. Two nearby tables were vacant, and my new friend glanced back at me before her installation, I’m almost sure. Were I to wobble my wares to a more distant destination, I would spill half the purchase, so I could only follow her lead. But I had come to work, remember. We sat facing each other, though I was really little heedful. Unfortunately, I was more than conscious of a stab in the back. But what would you expect, when a writer works the whole afternoon on the hardest wood?

Had I looked up, I could have remarked natural good looks, a complexion of no cosmetic enhancement, long wild hair, and the insouciant apparel of the gainfully unemployed. An avid reader, she would respect my vocation, though my present page was blank.

I recalled another. They would have a similar youth. And they shared a further distinction: A man of straight lace, I still rhapsodize over Bohemia. I mention the coincidence as a mere aside, wasn’t fishing for free spirit, let alone expecting a catch. This was not the day. The family friend would have other opportunities—a cocktail party, backyard barbecue, graduation ceremony—though he would be wearing an uncle’s hat and facing a father’s suspicion. Which rancor had no reason. I was innocent of intention, as I have already made clear.

A writer faced the block. Words refused to emerge, like a load of constipation. Inspiration came to the rescue, a book cover of familiar tease, deliberately tilted towards my table? I had written no full sentence; a deliberate pause could serve a double purpose. Her coffee finished, her concentration wavering, the demure bibliophile would welcome an interruption. A chair was tucked into her table. Who does not like to talk books? She had chatted with another neighbor. Women enjoy my company. I was feeling it today, yeah baby!

Merrywood! . . . Watch me take a plunge . . . In the shallow end, again.

—Humbert, get over yourself. You found some fame, but you fascinate only like the mangled steel of freeway pileup. No rational reader man finds the words worthy of belief. However, when a girl is willing to be seen with you in public, she makes an announcement. What was I supposed to think?—

 “Young lady.” A dutiful priest stood at an altar. “We belong to a church, you’re reading the liturgy.” The duty was not free, purchased at the price of some perpendicular problem.

The worshipper kept her eyes on the page, awaiting benediction. Her finger traced a line, her lips mouthed a prayer.

“May I?” Braving my back, I took the empty pew. The scholar devotes his day to literature, but the scoundrel knows his women, trust me.

“Light of my life, fire of my loins.” A man of fine attunement can recite from memory. I might be a few years older, but a silver tongue enhances the silver hair. The audience was duly impressed, but greeted my esprit with coy silence. She wanted further demonstration? Easy enough, I could draw on a whole reservoir of proof. My gaze settled on the wall above her head, where leafy fronds gave their encouragement. “I stood listening to that musical vibration from my lofty slope, to those flashes of separate cries with a kind of demure murmur for background, and then I knew that the hopelessly poignant thing was not Lolita’s absence from my side, but the absence of her voice from that concord.” The learning astonished, my listener finding no meet response.

“I own a bookstore.” A leading light knows when to dim the dazzle. “The Last Refuge, you might have heard of us.” A man of substance had established his credentials. “Literature creates a bond, don’t you think?” An assiduous reader got the message. My rare find closed her book, the striking eyes giving me full attention.

“Asshole!”

God, no.

“What gives you the fucking right?” The rage packed a brutal punch. “Can’t a woman get any peace?” The ugly witch pushed back her straggling hair, her outburst turning heads across the room. A daylong skid of regret slammed into a solid wall of remorse. “Get the shit out my face.”

CHAPTER XIII. THE BUS

Your hero has a thrill.

You are enjoying a classic. At least you should be. You also hanker for film noir? All right, I will indulge the whim, this once. Merrywood is the still the name on the marquee. Let the show begin.

 The hard-boiled detective is not a morning person. So though familiar with the street, first light found me furtive. The early birds had left for work, leaving curbside spaces open, but closer parking would risk detection. Marked men drive a memorable motor, so I pleaded another automotive distress and borrowed Jill’s Toyota. A sentry will draw notice; I pulled in a few doors down, which remove still allowed an unobstructed view. A private eye might need distraction. I had brought Wodehouse along for company, but had little patience for the prattle. And the radio waves failed the surfer: NPR was imposing a pledge drive, the other morning fare a famine.

 Sunrise paints fresh colors. I can still see the blaze of red that fronted the cream of the desirable Victorian, rose bushes canopying the path that led from an olive-green porch to the copper of leafy sidewalk. No property in the picturesque row comes with a double garage, and a black BMW stood in the sycamore shade, the master of the house still home. A few blocks distant, the quiet residential street intersected a busier thoroughfare, city buses passing with rush-hour regularity. A woman in a business suit emerged from a neighboring house, caught my watch, and skirted past, key in hand. I caught her glare in the mirror. Lady, I’m not casing the damn joint. Sure enough, ten minutes later a police cruiser swung by, the locals well connected. I attempted a guileless nod, my alibi prepared. Nice to see you, Officer. I’ve lost my dog, the mailman thought he saw it on this street.

 Dashboard digits displayed the news. My vigil had extended to a second hour. I was little pressed for time, the notice on the shop door announces ten thirty, but reality often disappoints the advertisement. The street came with a sign, NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH. A foreign spy accepted the invitation, to keep a close eye on the real estate. But boredom set in, my attention wandered, my muscles ached, but stretching my captive legs ran the risk of recognition. I discovered makeup in the glove compartment. A squirrel darted across the road, I applied a smudge of lipstick, and Connor closed the front door. He was leaving on his own, which crossed off one possibility. The black car took off, and I sneezed into the concealment of cupped hands.

 The clock showed nine. Life hid behind those stolid walls. A girl was smoking up a storm, feeding her fish, messing with her mother, brooding in bed? Maybe she had some company! Rapunzel’s knight confidently waited as she let her hair down, but my presumption of maidenly residence rested on no solid ground. My lady had absconded, already many leagues distant?

Merrywood! . . . Any better ideas, bucko? . . . All yours, on that beach.

I allowed myself ten minutes. Funereal faces leaving for work had offered a diversion, but the fleeting flurry was finished. A UPS truck pulled up; someone would answer the bell. If I just caught a glimpse, my time would not have been totally wasted. The driver left the parcel at a neighboring door.

Film noir, I prepared you for a show. The Big Sleep? If only! I got little the night before. And no coffee. Fumbling for the holder, I had spilt the contents of the cup. Some hard-boiled detective, you say? You might snipe, you might sneer, you might snigger. The underworld! Who was casing a joint, staking out a suspect, mocking the neighborhood watch?! Do you have the stuff?

Ten minutes passed. Paralysis postponed the promised parting. Customers would be lining up, but the store can open without the fullest preparation, and I could survive for once without a McDonald’s breakfast stop. A small package on the passenger seat now held only empty foil, but my jaw muscles continued to work a wad of gum. The sun rose over the roof and dazed my gaze. I lowered the sun visor, felt for the door pocket, reached for my shades, lost the glare, and found the girl.

The figure took flight. Low-hanging branches and parked SUVs allowed only intermittent vantage, but I let a calculated interval elapse before turning the key. And I timed my pursuit, reaching the quarry at the intersection. The pursued passed over the unprepossessing car, crossed the street, and plopped down on the bus-shelter bench. She was wearing the same dress, carrying the same cardigan, hoisting the same backpack. Her eyes on distant traffic, I turned the corner undetected and sped three blocks to the next stop, where I swung into side-street parking. A man in an overcoat was talking on a pay phone, but I had no reason to fear the vice squad. At least not yet. With neither spare time nor change, I was at the mercy of the meter maid and made out an illuminated bus number approaching the stop. A passenger might see me waiting, but so what? I’m a man about town. Alice! Great to see you. I’ve been running an errand. Small world.

I had no doubt. But the bus door slid open to a crowd of concealment. Clete gets cold feet, I boarded with calm—the onlooker at a roulette table follows the dice roll with detachment. The machine had no change, the driver no compassion, and I wasted a ten-dollar bill. And my largesse bestowed no privilege, late arrivals pressing against my ribs. The city was on the move, a wall of humanity that hampered easy espionage. However, a few stops down the road the bus route crossed a streetcar line to some passenger exodus, uncovering a new lineup of suspects, but no person of interest. I did spot an empty seat towards the rear and pushed my way back. A newspaper hid a prospect on the aisle, though the language alienated the reader. Closer approach revealed an elderly Chinese man, clad in khaki work clothes. A like-dressed woman sat behind, tapping on his shoulder, a seat back obscuring a shortish rider to her side. I drew abreast, and a glimpse of dark hair resolved into the portrait of an artist as a young woman.

Fortune favors the brave. And my daring met with further success, the bench at the back commanding the length of the bus. I could not see the sitter, but located her row and locked on that latitude whenever the bus slowed to a stop. Once she made for the front, I would be primed to follow. She would suspect nothing. We would tread the same sidewalk, wait at the same crossing, glance at the same shop window until her destination delivered the goods. The spy knows a thrill. I had found a new pastime, would pick on random pedestrians and tail their trajectory. I would be part of their lives, privy to their routines, closer than a best friend. They wouldn’t have a clue.

 The 57B owns the city. We barreled past movie-theater neon, derelict liquor stores, and street-corner hookers, before plunging into the canyons of the financial district, where the sun never shines. Office workers made their exit, merging into a flow that lugged briefcases and sipped from paper cups. The vacated seats were available. I wanted more, and the opportunity presented itself, across the aisle and one row behind. The Chinese lady denied a thorough inspection of her neighbor, but I could make out the pencil and pad on her lap. And I could trace a profile: a small round face, button nose, pale skin, ringlets tucked into red paisley cardigan, restless lips, eyes tightened in concentration. How would man feast on woman, did propriety not prohibit the peer?

My beam had one direction. We must have emerged from the concrete cliffs, like a canoe through a river gorge, but I knew neither time nor place. Elvis could have returned in sequined Vegas splendor, serenading us from the stairwell, and I would be the last to know. One incident could not escape my attention: The bus must have just stopped, freeing the seats immediately in front, and the khaki-clad woman crossed the aisle, firing staccato shots at her husband. He ignored the summons, but the disturbance had a greater moment: The space next to the girl was empty. I enjoyed an uninterrupted view of a delicate hand creating a cartoon, of a dress stopping short of the knees. She was a few feet away, yet in a world of her own.

 I had it made. The bus brushed a city park, where I could peer at pollarded planes, parading past the dust streaked windows. But a pair of paler limbs lay closer, in the corner of my eye. Peeping Tom? I do not make a habit, trust me. Monsieur Voyeur, cependant, ne pouvait pas demander plus! I should just enjoy the show, count the marvel of my blessings, get off the bus a fulfilled and reputable man. But no, the buck must push his luck. Prior success raised my level of ambition from risk to rank peril. I could get away with anything, forget all caution. The empty seat issued a terrible challenge. Confined to her creation, she would notice nothing else.

I made the move. My prediction proved perfect. She continued drawing without the slightest flicker. I made no attempt to brush, the adjacency was consummation. And I had no desire to touch, really. Closeness actually came with a cost; any contact would caution, bend of neck betray. I could still follow her handiwork: The cartoon creature was some carnivore. The fingernails gripping the pencil were free of varnish, and the knees that nudged the sketch pad bare. I had previously resigned myself, would never even see her again; now she was inches away, for ease of a wrap. Wonderland was waiting. I settled in, enjoying my rightful place. I closed my eyes, the better to savor the achievement. The throb of the bus engine massaging the reverie, I began to drift.

 “Animal!”

The Chinese woman spoke English. The blast jolted me awake to find the whole bus looking round. The speaker was stabbing a finger. Why?! What was she pointing at? I looked down. Horror. My pants were undone. But worse, so much worse. So much worse. A trouser malfunction might have an explanation, but engorged manhood no excuse. The offense was standing to attention, for all the world to see. I pleaded for mercy. I didn’t mean it. It was an accident. I was really no sicko, however bad it looked. I knew it sounded stupid. No one would understand.

“Stop the bus.” The girl had her own scream. “He’s been following me.” I had to escape. I ran towards the door. Too late, black-uniformed police flooded on board, guns at the ready. Life was over . . .

 My alarm clock takes a bedside chair. Electric red numerals were alone visible in the darkness. I woke from the nightmare shortly after midnight.

CHAPTER XIV. THE LONELY HIGHWAY

Your hero finds a woman’s bed.

The pigtails retarded recognition. I still made the find. Our curiosity was pacing a row of courtesy vans, bemused drivers giving her the eye. Cradling a phone, bobbling her head, twirling her tassels, she spotted me through the glass wall and pranked a pirouette. I am a beacon of tolerance, but my sister strains the sympathy, her denim jacket, tartan miniskirt, knee-length white socks, and black Doc Martens suggesting the delinquent schoolgirl of comic-book cartoon. The doors parted, and I wheeled my unfortunate baggage out to a furnace.

 “Annie!” She shelved her dilemma, closing her cell. The siblings do not hug, though I would be quite receptive, trust me.

“Little sister, don’t you . . .”

“How was the flight?”

“Nightmare.”

“Screaming babies?”

“Another cat! On the next seat.”

“My brother, you really need to let it ago. Hypatia just liked a good scratch.”

“A vicious unprovoked attack! But here’s my favorite person, we’re all good now. You look incredible. Literally.” Was this her new thing, or whimsy of the day? The classroom is surely no place for a teen porn star, but now the third wave is crashing against the walls . . .

“Let’s hit the road. The vultures are circling. I pull over for a second, and this pig is already blowing her whistle in my face. Smell my pussy, bitch!”

I do apologize. And I would love to offer some reassurance. In truth, there is little guarantee. You might wish my manners ran in the family, but the liberated sister operates under a wearisome assumption: Offense only furthers the cause.

“I admire the woman’s dedication in this heat.”

“No kidding. I saw a hundred and ten on the way over. The folks retired to a crematorium. What’s the big hurry?”

“It was either Arizona or Florida. Pick your poison.”

 My sister took the wheel. She also had a phone. A compact rental car has room for two, but I was on my own.

The congested interstate skirted the runway. A pause in jet propulsion passed the skies over to a hovering hawk. Flowering bushes of unnatural color lined the shoulder, where gaps of rigid regularity opened onto a spread of tract homes, shimmering in the desert broil. Behind the wheel, my sister’s powers of concentration fall short, mishap likely following any quiz of her apparel. The drive-through chicken wings spilling over the back seat competed with the rental-car smell, but my starving research found only skeletal remains. We exited the freeway for a two-lane artery that skirted faux Spanish malls, gated communities of mosaic walling, and lonely cacti. Churches of futuristic architecture suggested a hidden world, but a suicidal roadrunner offered the only sign of extra-vehicular sentience. Dark clouds threatened the crawling traffic: A jalopy overloaded with yard tools had broken down, and an oversized truck of white supremacist slogan conspicuously circled los tres hermanos sleeping in the cab.

Rap music erupted from a purse. The guilty party pleaded extenuating circumstances. We pulled off into an oceanic shopping center, where I had to borrow the price of our prepackaged flowers and special-offer beer. Mission accomplished, I surveyed a vast parking lot with desperation: a migratory bird blown off course, the malevolent concrete of the inferno willing my collapse. Heatstroke takes a tender transient? A blur of movement condensed out of the vapor, the cavalry riding up to the rescue, a phone glued to her ear. I planted a frigid beer in the driver’s lap, and we merged back onto a barren thoroughfare.

 Our destination fronted the highway. We only got lost once, a detour due more to the pilot’s phone than her navigator’s beer, trust me. She dropped me outside the main entrance, where I conveyed a bouquet across asphalt-refracted heat to the sanctuary of the lobby. Her nose in a book, the receptionist gestured towards a row of glass doors, but refused my further inquiry. A panel pinged, and the elevator discharged me onto the eighth floor. Her hallway was deserted, the doors closed, the notices unhelpful. But all signs led me to a bed. Betty has a way.

The patient plumped her pillows. “Not you, as well—”

“Hi, Mom. What a welcome!”

The ward was a ward. But a wall of windows was generous with the light, framing a distant range of arid mountains. And a floral abundance ringed her center, so I made my sorry offering with minimal ceremony. Other beds in the room were occupied, wizened eyes trained on the main attraction. A hospital always takes me back. Yet I shudder at no memory, an intake of free will.

“Always happy to see my son, shirt tucked in or not. But there’s really no need, I’m quite well. Sonja was here this morning, she didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“We wanted a surprise. She’s parking the car, said she’d be back soon. But so did Amelia Earhart.”

“I didn’t say anything, but what do you make of her getup? Isn’t she a little old for . . . or am I just an old fuddy-duddy?”

“You are an old fuddy-duddy, Mom. As for the catastrophic fashion statement, probably best not to dwell. Her midlife crises are a point of pride.” Sonja’s desire for disapproval gives neither woman any peace.

“Your sister’s still complaining about that check we wrote you, needed money just as bad.”

“She shacks up with a jailbird. Go figure.”

“Not her first experience. Twenty years, and I still think about it every day. My own daughter in prison. Your father’s lawyer could have taken care—”

“And spoiled her show.”

“My family! I try to be a good mother. Not always easy.”

“Things could be worse.”

“I suppose. Mildred’s eldest son has just opened a homosexual video store.”

“Give thanks you’re not a spider.”

Matriphagy! Since you ask, it means having your mother for lunch. Immediately after giving birth, the desert spider, Stegodyphus lineatus, regurgitates a store of nutrition for her young. But once the ungrateful brats have scarfed down this limited resource, they proceed to eat her alive. Look it up, if you don’t believe me!

“Not always easy! I’ll never forget seeing my son on the stand.”

“Where he acquitted himself admirably.”

“You did look most handsome.”

“The tax thing was an honest mistake. You both meant well, I’m sure, but no need to show up in court.”

“And your business survived—”

“Thriving.”

“At least one of my children is trying to stay out of trouble. Aren’t you going to stay a while? Sit down, boy.”

“Mom, I need the inheritance, shouldn’t you be dead by now? You look better than I do.” I had not seen the good woman in some years. She had aged but not horribly deteriorated, retained her midwestern heartiness, eyes radiating a wrinkled mirth. “How do you feel?”

“Like getting the hell out of Dodge, is how I feel. They insist on keeping me for observation. Am I a goldfish?”

“You’ve had company.” I toured the wealth of flowers.

“Everyone has been worried about me, and very kind. Now Anselm, you still haven’t given your mother a kiss.”

 “Had to talk to a colleague.” Sonja materialized at the bedside, a full hour behind schedule. “But I see lunch is getting cold.” Two adults exchanged glances as a third party requisitioned a chair.

“Wonderful to see you both, I must say. Anselm Thomas, do you want this?” The good woman prodded a hospital hamburger.

“Anselm Thomas Merrywood!” The sister is not timid of taunt. “The ATM was out of money today.” Her humor is no improvement on her fashion sense, as you surmise.

“After your filthy germs, Mother?” The son had noticed the discarded sandwich, but was far from fixation, trust me. I will own to some care with my spending, though the cheap suggestion has no justice. An upright citizen refuses the price of airport food on moral principle.

“Couldn’t you two wait until I’m out of this dump? There’s always wine in the fridge, I think. Do you know something that I don’t? What have they been telling you?”

“You’ve been hitting on the doctors. Tut-tut.”

“That orderly was pretty cute. I’d do him.” Sonja finds a way. She removed her denim jacket to the revelation of a new tattoo, revolutionary flames licking at the sleeve of her faded, black Ramones T-shirt. A frail elderly woman started to cough uncontrollably, but the family considered the curiosity with calm.

“Where’s Pop?” Sonja’s lifelong mission of disfavor is selective; Mother’s grief is Daddy’s girl.

“Playing golf somewhere. He’s got more sense than to worry about me. Not like you two.”

“Mom, it’s got to be a thousand degrees out there. Playing golf, at his age? Does he have a death wish?” I would shortly die as well, for lack of nourishment.

“And I don’t I tell him? The old fools drop like flies on the golf courses round here. Now where are those darned nurses? I’ve been ringing for ages. Out of water.”

“I’m on it.” Sonja grasped at the excuse. All heads in the ward turned to follow a skirt riding over forty-year-old knees.

And all ears heard the sigh. “Where did we go wrong?”

 I suggested the visit. My sister needed little persuasion. Mary Mary is quite contrary, but will not miss a family gathering. The maternal bane lives in Oregon, hunts wild boar, and teaches at a large state school, whose immigrant and blue-collar students find her license comical. At least they should. The chosen career cages the cantankerous canary, clueless conservatives clipping her wings. Please pity the poor professor! An evil economy harrows the halls, a cabal of conniving administrators and reactionary regents the curriculum. She has tenure, a designated parking space, collegial solidarity, but anxiety is a mark of academic rigor. The struggles must never, ever cease.

“Well dear, what seems to be the trouble?” A plump middle-aged nurse had answered the summons.

“Sally Mae, there you are. This is Anselm, I was telling you about him. My son normally looks quite presentable, but he’s just flown in from San Francisco.”

“I have a son. He’s dyslexic, so he refuses to come here in the summer.” Sally Mae was fussing with the sheets, addressing no one in particular. “My friend lives in San Fran—”

“Maybe Anselm could give you a tour.”

“What was the problem, dear?” She ignored the motherly machinations.

“Oh, I just wanted some water. My daughter is taking care of it, but who knows.”

“If you need anything else dear, just ring.”

“They think I’m an old nuisance.” Mother puts the world at ease. And a rapt audience proved her boss of the ward. Her bed had the only visitors; on what lonely highway did the others dwell? “I’m sure George will have to pay good money for this.”

Sonja returned with the jug, to stare pointedly out the window. “High desert. Good for deer in Oregon. Always happy to hunt, but I think I’ll give Arizona a miss.”

“My girl, I’ll take the heat over arthritis any day.”

 “Mrs. . . . Mellywood, how you doing, ma’am?” A young nurse pulled up with a cart, her clipboard under cursory examination. The American medical facility offers a range of provision. I am fond of hot tea, find jasmine particularly inviting.

“Young woman, if you can’t read English, I pray you’re not dispensing my medication.”

“The Merrywoods are proud of the name.” I stroked a finger of tutelage over the block letters of offending pronunciation. “Though Sista Sonjah had her moment.” And effective education calls for some proximity. But please, the nurse’s looks had no influence over my diplomatic mission. Betty was in town!

“What indignities, now?” The incivility was not entirely feigned, Mother’s antagonism towards fetching young women as predictably exposed as vehemently denied.

“Going to take temperature, ma’am. And doctor wants to know chart.”

 “My dear mother is only kidding.” I closely followed a thermometer. The intriguing new arrival leaned over the bed, and the dip of loose green smock was generous enough to reveal warm brown skin, leading to the clinical whiteness of a bra. How often did she make her rounds? However, the delight was compromised by a darned pain in the district of a disc. The provenance was evident, whatever you might suppose: Is it really impossible for a hospital to provide enough chairs? “We’re visiting. I’m from San Francisco. I own a bookstore. That’s my sister, in case you’re wondering how she got past security.”

The nubile nurse turned to the source of wonder. “Cool shoes.”

“You have a Band-Aid?” Sonja came to life. “I bought them yesterday. Department store, not my bag, but I had to escape the heat. I thought my town was criminal extortion. As my sex-starved brother noted, I’m not from here. Portland, Oregon.”

“Been there. Dig scene.”

Sonja and I had dispatched the six-pack, a decision I was beginning to regret.

“Don’t know what got into me. I sometimes have to shoot, can’t resist.” My sister played the mime, training a rifle on her newest purchase.

“I can never say no.” The young woman had a wistful way.

Even so, I had to leave. And I disappeared with dispatch, despite the dorsal discomfort.

 My only sibling is five years my junior. We have been gifted decent, loving, well-adjusted parents, but our respective childhoods and subsequent careers testify to the burden of that blessing. I bear them no ill will, my life story just happening to thwart a mother’s every expectation. Whereas the woman’s middle-American rectitude and wifely contentment has driven Sonja to open rebellion. Student years occupying administration offices paved the way for more consequential activism, a burst of police brutality making the ten o’clock news. She wore her jail sentence as a badge of honor, insisted on visiting home to flaunt a baton-inflicted wound—whereupon she suffered my own lash, have no fear.

Thankless politics take an inevitable toll. The revolt against bourgeois oppression modulated into the personal: a series of unworthy men, the deliberate disappointment of which she vehemently denies. Annie, you insist on sharing every last detail of my personal life with our mother, what do you expect?! The career started young. Was the farm boy to blame for the bio? She has crossed the border, relying on an undocumented yard worker to pull her weeds until his services assumed a more intimate course. She met a recovering alcoholic when tagging along with her father to Sunday Mass, a development about which I have been sworn to silence—the suspect has no compunction with one parent, but would spare the old man. She is presently enmeshed with a gun-toting, out-of-work contractor who lives in a trailer park with his pregnant daughter. But the approach of middle age has sanded down the splinters. The full professor took a temporary chair, has purchased permanent housing, and threatened to dump Donnie, the Second Amendment enthusiast, unless he finds a job.

 “We were just talking about you.” The good woman rejoiced on my return. My unbidden tour of cardiology led to a destination of disappointment: The nurse never said no, but was quick to say goodbye. “We think you’re brooding over Chris.” Sonja’s rolled eyes denied complicity. Agreement with her mother amounts to existential crisis. “I was talking to that nurse. Well, it turns out she’s single, the poor girl has had all kinds of trouble meeting the right man. I can tell she likes you. It’s unnatural for a man your age to be on his own.”

The man of my age jumped at the news. I removed a green smock, ran fingers over flawless brown skin, unclipped pure-white bra. My matchmaker continued, “She’s got a couple of kids, but they’re already in college.” A desert landscape loomed. I was staring at the clutches of matronly Sally Mae.

“Brooding, yes. Did I really marry an alien? One minute my wife is a professional with a pension, sensible shoes, likes her meat and potatoes. The next, she’s gone full chakra, Birkenstocks when we go out to dinner, bean casserole, complains about my drinking—”

“It’s hard when a woman loses her mother.” Betty retook her rightful place, the center of attention. “I was never the same.”

“You still vote for the forces of darkness.” Sonja will not be denied.

“You two can’t stop talking about the woman. Does she really deserve the attention? I’m so over it!”

“Don’t listen to him, Mother.” Sonja resides in Oregon, but lives in a world of her own. “Desperate Dan would still love to dance.”

“Would he ever!” The play runs in the family. “Cha-cha-cha.” The bedridden can still rise to the occasion. “Your brother left his wallet on that chair when he went to the bathroom. It happened to fall open when I asked the nurse to pick it up. Guess whose photo?”

“Happened to fall open?!!!” I had every right to the rage! “Actually, that wallet is a spare . . . haven’t used it in years . . . that photo is stuck.” Would I rifle through her purse?

“Calm down boy, you’re spitting!” A mother made a show of wiping her magazine. “You want me to call security?”

 Complain, who me? A good mother has her son’s interests at heart. Let us wind back the clock. Charity work consigning her to the church-hall kitchen, Betty took charge, volunteering a nice parish daughter to help young Anselm with the deliveries. Her son dutifully walked the gifted pies and skirted company to some gratitude at the destination, but received no other blessing, other than a subsequent interrogation. How did you get on, my boy?—Fine.—Isn’t Patsy pretty?—If you say so. In truth, the girl was too skinny, wore soccer cleats, and wouldn’t stop giggling. She did find my silence intriguing, a sign of unusual depth. At least she should have.

A good mother’s love is unconditional. But she wants the best for her son. And doing her proud, I enjoyed quite a distinguished school career, trust me. Another singular distinction extending into adulthood, she fretted lest Uncle Percy’s inclination ran in the family and so welcomed in the Christine era, even inviting us to stay. Our first visit started inauspiciously, one guest conspicuously refusing to say grace when she sat down at the table. And the sanitation engineer then took her future family on an extended tour of a sewage system, over a roast beef dinner of daylong preparation.

A good mother is forgiving. The two women warmed to each other, confounding the practiced antagonism of female in-laws, my wife a tap of the womanly conversation that my sister screwed shut. An unlikely pair joined forces, one midwestern, God-fearing and full family, the other a homesick Bostonian, secular and only child. They did share a love of horticulture, spending visits in the yard, but would happily cultivate the garden while leaving me in the shed. The younger sought out the elder’s confidence, to my further disadvantage and the confidante’s detail. Betty, I’ve been married to your son for seven years. Every evening it’s the same old: his comfy chair, his paper, his glass of whisky. Couldn’t we go dancing, every now and again? False! I am quite partial to a splash of gin. And my maligner knew I loved to dance; she just has no taste in music. The malcontent also knew a mother would not meddle, but neither hold her tongue. Betty, I don’t need a rich husband, just hate the idea of losing money, so unnecessary. A sounding board does not distort, but will repeat a message. Betty, I could turn that shop around, he refuses to listen. An engineer is equal to any enterprise.

A good mother dotes. But Betty was in a bind, the impending breach pitting the burden of wifely complaint against the loss of surrogate daughter.

Merrywood! . . . Give me a break! . . . A good mother has faith . . . A good Christian has to listen . . . Her son can do no wrong . . . However sad the squawk.

I bear no grudge, trust me. The perfect is the enemy of the good! And my conscience is clear. A friendly woman might nurse a little disappointment, denied the company of another. But we are talking about a Merrywood, for heaven’s sake! Betty took the news in stride; a farm girl knows hard winters.

 Give me some credit. I could have written a letter; I bravely picked up the phone. A good mother was losing her daughter-in-law. But Betty was not lost for words. Poor Chris, I feel for her. Nor did she lack for birthday presents, my bygone betrothed gifting her some overpriced paperbacks of profoundest platitude. No Anselm, I didn’t toss them immediately in the trash. At least someone remembered! I am her only son, but claim no exclusive privilege, as you appreciate by now. She sent poor Christine a letter of thanks, probably profuse, but the greatest generation is infallibly courteous. I do not feel betrayed. All right, one of the books was written by my replacement and sits shamelessly on her shelf. I do not care, believe me. Whose sweater am I wearing?

CHAPTER XV. THE OCEAN SWELL

Your hero takes to sea.

This chapter paints a novel picture. I am now at sea. That change is just location, as there is no call to clarify.

 A city dweller was out of his element? Like any American of sensible stomach, I favor turf over surf. A seafarer might have the legs, but steps safely to dry land, every paddler, yachtsman, ferry passenger assuming an irregular risk. Although when the big one hits, the ocean is the safest place—fish fear no tsunami. A distant splash of white skimmed the gray canvas, the albatross flagging the only life this side of Japan. With my crossbow I shot. What possessed the Mariner? My newspaper was no match for the breeze, but I had scanned the front page while we were roped to the dock. A ferry had capsized in the Philippines, hundreds missing. The gulls would witness spastic thrashing, the circling of sharks. The waters before me were cold and deep, the shore barely visible. Who knows when help would arrive? I am not the strongest swimmer.

And I faced the seas alone. The craft had a crew, but my shipmate was away on business. Balancing himself at the prow, he clutched the rail with one hand while deploying the other for more intimate support. Long khaki shorts revealed stocky legs smeared with industrial-strength white sunblock. A narrow stream departed to starboard, briefly sparkled in the sun before the wind dispersed the spray over the ocean heave. I took advantage of his deserted post to change the CD. The boat’s constant pitching was already troubling my terrestrial innards, and Huey Lewis pushed the torment beyond human capacity. Would the other party possess any passable music, let alone the provision? I rummaged through his monogrammed leather bag—AC/DC make a bigger blast, and I made the substitution before his circuitous return.

“Ahoy Cap’n.” I dug for another icy can. “After half an hour fondling yourself, you must be thirsty.”

“Have I got something to fondle! Drives them crazy. I’m feeling it today, yeah baby.”

“And I’m feeling nauseous. That didn’t help.”

“No doubt, Merrywuss. No action in your bed”—the man taunts like a show wrestler—“other than turning the pages of a book!” But really, what does he know? If I am little inclined to boast, that does not mean . . .

“Nothing coming your way either, sport, I hope. Three men on a boat here.”

The boor bolted his beer. “You might have a surprise coming.” The tease withdrew a phone from the pocket of his shorts, “Meh. No signal!”

“How will the world survive without you?! We’ll get back, and dogs will have forgotten how to fart.”

“Fuck you.” The boor was playing the role, but with little conviction. “Fuck you”—the loudmouth was uncommonly muted—“and your mother.” The villain was preoccupied. “Though let’s wait till you’re out of the hospital, I told her!”

 The lawyer was still on the clock. Bill reads the fine print, subjects his wife’s bank statements to microscopic scrutiny, and depends on a designated driver: a freckled, tousled-haired friend of his son. Emerging sporadically on deck, our helmsman had little to say, his nautical experience on tap for monetary reward rather than love of the sea. The yachting marina trades solid land for a slippery realm of brown skin, bare feet, loose women, and little gainful employment, for which Zeke made no apology, holding his present company in predictable contempt. Bermuda shorts and a surf shop T-shirt bagged his wiry frame. Still, a girl might give him an eye. One had already stepped out of her dress for his benefit, a coupling that an older man might chance to picture? That vision was the farthest thing from my mind, trust me. Bill refused his crew member another brew, and the insolent brat grumbled back to the wheelhouse.

Drake sailed the coast of California. Another expedition was underway, our compass set to north. A brick-red fortress guards the gate, but we escaped the Bay unnoticed, sneaking under the steely span. Our Golden Hind chugged past a raft of pelicans, school of dolphins, and disorientation of kayakers before making the ocean our own. A terrestrial animal only takes to the ark with trepidation, and I had fortified my stomach with Dramamine, wrapped my bones with a thick sweater, and shaded my eyes with a floppy canvas hat that left my face exposed to saltwater spray. The coastline was still visible, though Bill had lost his bearings, his phone out of range.

“How are your kids?” I was just making casual conversation.

“Doing great, man, doing great. Lily’s got a job lined up, going to work for the EPA. Not my first recommendation, but it’s her life.”

“A liberal in the family. Tell me it’s not true.”

“And Noah got the letter a few days ago, accepted at Princeton.”

“Congratulations. No surprise, he’s a smart kid. Unlike some of his buddies.” I nodded behind us.

“Takes after his father.” He checked his phone again, a pigeon forlornly pecking an empty husk. “You hungry? Grub in the cabin, and a microwave. I won’t even charge you.”

“Stomach’s a little dodgy, shame to throw up all over your shorts. Look so good on you.”

“I’d rub your nose in it.” The marauding Viking scanned the distant headlands, closing the book on family news.

“And Alice?” I was taking a risk. The prosecuting attorney is given to cross-examination. But liquor dulls suspicion. In any case, I was entirely above reproach.

“Fine, I guess. Who knows?” He interrogated his beer.

“Not following in your footsteps, huh? Mr. Greed is good.”

“Tell you what, sonny boy, whatever my wife says, I don’t have any special soft spot for Alice. I treat all my kids the same. I’ve given them the opportunity, whatever it takes. Up to them to take advantage. I’m not spoiling anyone, don’t have any time for, you know, Woe is me, I’m so depressed.”

“That’s what she says?”

“What she tells her mother. Knows better than to pull that shit on me.”

“And I was going to share my feelings!”

“I had nothing when I was a kid, had to look after myself, no real parents, you know the story. And I made it just fine. Quit feeling sorry for yourself, you don’t know how good you’ve got it.”

Bill is a despicable creature. Yet a dog barks for attention, and booze boosts a show. The lawyer denies favoring the younger daughter, but the case would not stand up in court. “By the way, my friend, you’re very curious about her.”

 “Man, I love this baby.” He fondled the virgin varnish. Greta Garbo rarely sets sail, a craft of harbor display more than maritime adventure. “Cost a fortune, I’m telling you.”

“Just as well your billing statements run to extortion.” I chose to make light. The braggart gives me to believe his ownership, though the yacht belongs to a client. I had a favor to ask.

“And what keeps your precious store going?” His beer consumption over the threshold, his native belligerence spilled. “Porno. Yeah, slap that bitch.”

“We carry some classic erotica, not that your diseased imagination could understand the difference. It’s hard for you to credit, but many people live for serious literature.”

“Merrywuss has been on precious NPR. Whoop-de-doo.” His jacket flapping in the wind, his horn drowning out the throbbing engine, a liberated litigator leaned back and harangued the cloudless sky. “Give me a break. You couldn’t make it as a lawyer, don’t forget, couldn’t take the heat. Mommy’s boy had to have his little nervous breakdown.” Resentment chafes his vittles. A charitable admission, he struggled in law school. Students of better breeding overlooked his rough-and-tumble background, recoiled at his unprovoked animosity, though I saw through the self-protective bluster when we roomed the first year. I had to abet his graduation, and revenge has charted his subsequent career. Although his friendship with a serious bookseller redeems a mercenary reputation, and he accepts the debt. At least he should.

“Water off a duck’s back!” A wave did break over the deck. I gripped the bench, remote from public radio. “Nervous breakdown, chirp chirp chirp. I left the firm of my own free will. I’d rather be Socrates dissatisfied, as a utilitarian once said.” I really don’t care, trust me. What a crock. All right, I might have raised my voice a little, but though the actress belonged to the silent era, our Garbo had a diesel engine.

“Socrates! Nice to meet you, I’m sure. Got it all figured out, haven’t you? I don’t think so, Socrates, your dingy little refuge is an escape from the real world. Harvard was expecting more of you.”

“Indeed. Their endowment is down to forty billion, practically staring at the poorhouse. They hit me up for money every week.”

“Like trying to get laid in Antarctica—”

“I’m not destitute.”

“Yup, you get a woody down there, often enough!” The man dropped a childish finger. “Not that I’ve been looking, but you know how women love to gossip. My wife finds it quite flattering, I’m sorry to say.”

“Connor, you’ll have to try harder than that . . . er, in a manner of speaking.”

“You can’t get any now, never gotten married in the first place if it weren’t for me. Spent life on your lonesome, spanking the monkey sore.”

“I enjoy my own company, more than I can say for—”

“Now your wife, a different story.”

I ignore him, trust me. The savvy stroller steers clear of the gutter. Some accusations are so preposterous that the tongue is simply inadequate for meet response. My dignified and long-suffering sigh would have to serve as his rebuke. The blur of truth in his inebriated outburst was ancient history. Christine was Gloria’s sorority sister at Stanford, a regular guest at their dinner table and visitor to the vacation hotel. He insists they sent her my way, but the claim lacks corroboration. In any case, I have really nothing to thank them for. Better to have loved and lost than not have loved at all, according to Mr. Faulkner, but why such a bleak dichotomy? Seasonal Employment led to fan mail, even some phone calls, if rather awkward. Maybe I could have started something with that woman from Connecticut who wrote. The photograph was quite interesting.

 The sign designates a scoundrel. But the bearer burrows in his books. You might then suppose a delicate nature, like the indoor plant, dairy cow, church mouse, plump house cat. And I rarely set foot in a boat. Miles offshore, at the sea’s mercy, a dignified bookseller had leave to heave, suffered a sun-grilled headache, squinting at the unforgiving churn through salt-encrusted and wind-blasted eyes.

Yet I am no benighted bookworm. The retired ranger still loves the great outdoors. Christine was a cyclist, and I could easily keep up, thank you very much. Hit the road, Jack! I’m going to the country! Climb every mountain! I throw myself at the elements, like a surfer to the wave. Haul away Joe, sing the sea shanty, and pour me another beer.

“Compete with everybody, don’t you Connor? Just can’t relax.”

“What am I doing now?” He popped another beer, took a sloppy draught. Waving round the lurching vessel, he contrived to spill over my sneakers.

“You could say goodbye to your ulcers if you gave up trying to impress the world. Live longer too.”

“Human nature, all about competition.”

“For the developmentally disabled.”

“I’m the truth.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“My constitutional right.” He belched on cue. I would remind him that he failed that class, but the squabble was growing tiresome. And prudence prunes the vine of venom.

 We need the check of conversation. My supposed companion is not the most rewarding source at the best of times, but even that distraction was denied me, the sorry source now slouching in slumber. Another head was swimming. Some fish can really fly. The whale was on the tail of the Pequod. How long before the ghost ship? The song was turning stale, monotonous seas taking their toll, wave upon wave upon wave, our course singularly lacking for island interruption. The most seasoned sailor surely stirs at the sight of shore.

Let’s take a stand. Men belong to the earth. Yet that element, too, wearies the walker, when the long, dusty trail is far from cooling dip. The landlubber is still drawn to the water’s edge, hikes along the creek, picnics by the pond, vacations on the beach, builds a house on the lake. And water stops the gaze of another traveler. Through the airplane window, the setting sun fixes a fascination, a vein of gold that bends across the land, imposing a proportion on the continent, circulating the vital fluid around the world. A river has a mouth. I made out our destination.

 I quite like to paint a picture, as you know. I really love to sing a song.

Rolling, rolling, rolling on the river. A high snow field gives birth to an infant stream, which runs wild through mountain meadow, rushes through steep gorge, carves into inhospitable desert before coming of age between banks of human reinforcement. And the course reverses medieval alchemy, precious metal turning base, quicksilver trout to leaden lamprey, clear creek to muddy estuary, mountain air to industrial smog.

Take me to the river. A bookseller takes pride in his geography section. And a young schoolboy found inspiration in a classroom atlas, whose bright colors patched the Earth into water and dry land, black circles dotting the borders, a graph of townships clustering on the shore.

Down by the river. Our cities find the inlet: How many tribes have settled, writers dreamed, inventors schemed, explorers launched their voyage where the river meets the sea? Neither can we ignore the desperate smuggler, convict stowaway, shanghaied cabin boy, nor forget the bloated flotsam corpse. At the collision of disparate elements, no single law prevails. Fresh water sours into salt, the land’s waste drains into ocean dump, low tide exposes rank mud, and the bend of sluggish river defies correction.

  “I have no problem with charity.” Our skipper assumed the prow. The helmsman had cut the motor, and we were gliding upriver into the once thriving harbor of our destination. “But I’m not supporting your sorry ass all day. Daddy needs an hour to himself.”

“The righteous never rest!”

Little else was moving. A row of dilapidated warehouses lined one bank, while the wooded hillside of the other rose steep and uninhabited. Fishing boats mingled with leisure craft under the high span that carried the coast highway. A couple of raucous gulls had flown out to greet us, and as we slid by a quaint pink houseboat, the giant gray mass on the floating dock resolved into the fur of a lumpen marine mammal. The weathered planks abutted a pier leading to an old canning plant, converted into the inevitable tourist gallery. Passing the sea lion, I had to hold my nose, but we tied up landward of the foul-smelling obstruction.

“That joint has a bar.” Bill motioned towards a mollusk in sailor’s cap, River Clam House waving over the tinkling of moored yachts. “Got me some business. I’ll holler when I’m done.” Our captain signed his orders with a belch.

“Business? You’re wasted.”

“I got this.”

 “Good job, young man. I’m having a blast today. ‘A sailor’s life for me.’” Our ground was allegedly solid, but the world still turned, my head revisiting the swell. The shack featured the usual nautical bric-a-brac and one alleged server, who contrived to ignore my presence. I insisted on the Clam House’s signature dish, before berthing unsteadily by the window, Garbo faking innocence below. The city lay hours down the highway. Bus service was unlikely. I could try and hitch a ride.

“Lend me ten bucks, bruh.” Zeke had followed me ashore, evicted from his post. “Starvin’ like Marvin.”

“No cash, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll put it on your tab.” The youth had stuffed his face all morning, but I thought better of refusal. The seas were rough enough already, without a malevolent hand on the wheel. He did the thumb and pinky thing. “Wanna drink with you, bruh. We got a minor age problem. Waitress don’t care.” She certainly cared little about my lack of utensil. “It’s her boss. Next trip, maybe?”

“Can’t wait.” I saw no need to pretend, the brat to hide a smirk.

“You know Bill’s daughter, right?”

“Our captain has two daughters, at least we are led to believe.”

“Alice. The funny looking one, thinks she’s a nigger.”

“Charming! If I ever see her again, I will be sure to relay the compliment.” His elder and better put the budding Klansman in place. “You know her too, forsooth?”

“For sure.” The buffoon overdid the chortle. “Lots of guys know Alice, haw-haw.”

I steadied myself. But please, suppose no blow of consternation. The high seas had been pounding my equilibrium all morning long.

“Big trouble bruh, gonna get yourself burned.” My oracle shook his wrist, blowing on his fingers. “Whew.”

 I engage in entomology. The giant horsefly, Tabanus bovinus, needs blood to rear its young. The parasite uses scissorlike mandibles and anticoagulant to create a lasting wound, leaving the host susceptible to disease. Some creatures are malignant in the membrane. The fly bites with abandon, although the thick hide of the elephant is impervious to attack.

I swatted him away. A flagrant attempt at mischief, the punk would have to do better than that.

My bottle sat untouched. The stomach had yet to extend permission. The scrounger made his grab, tipped the contents down his underage throat, and fled for more lively company. The greetings he first exchanged with the short-skirted waitress suggested prior acquaintance and forecast my neglect, her tip seeing yet further reduction. The river snaked into the coastal redwood forest in the vapors of the early afternoon sun. And little stirred, the log we brushed past in the channel still floating in midstream. Flags flapped lazily on the mast. A cormorant with outstretched wing perched on a metal piling, the monstrous sea lion still lay on the dock, between our deserted yacht and the pink houseboat. Spent from his ocean battering, another log began to drift.

 I revived to some development. A picturesque woman had materialized on the boards below, her reddish summer dress a splash of color against the hazy riverscape. The arrival lingered at the top of the ramp. She must live on the boat at the end of the walkway and had returned to find an unwelcome visitor, the massive sea lion blocking her way home. Pauline takes floating residence at her peril, but help might be at hand. A man of business emerged on the deck of the yacht, between imperiled and impediment. Noting her hesitation, he jumped onto the same planks that supported the sprawling behemoth. Dizzy from the ocean’s pummel, my vision blurred by glint, I saw Ahab and his nemesis—the monster had turned white and waved a whiskered cudgel.

I move to mammalogy. The California sea lion, Zalophus californiaus, feeds on shrimp and sardine, but half a ton of blubber presents a formidable proposition; no faint heart would dare. Goliath gave a battle cry, a bark that echoed around the harbor, rattled my clams, and frightened the cormorant into flight. I hold the man in habitual contempt, but had to admire the pluck.

The houseboat had a welcome mat. But a dark gray obstacle rose in defiance. The comely tenant keeping her safe distance, a more familiar figure took his stand, between beauty and a beast. And he stood empty-handed. Pleasure craft have little call for lethal weaponry, and the indifferent river could offer no assistance. The still waters were ready to receive. From my arena seat, I looked over an ominous calm, watched a brewing storm, waited a gladiatorial clash. The lady in distress warily approached her savior, but the torment took a yet more troubling twist. The forlorn woman drew level with the yacht. And as she reached her rescue, the man jumped back up on deck, to extend a helping hand. Hayward and Fremont have clients up and down the state, so I withheld censure as he hoisted her onboard. A disgusted sea lion had seen enough, slid off the dock into a watery purge. Perceiving a pat to a posterior, I could reserve judgment no more. The man was bunking the business.

CHAPTER XVI. THE MOTEL

Your hero sets a woman straight.

“Mom’s ward was heaven”—I retained a relic of the sanctuary, my white plastic ID bracelet reluctant of removal—“compared to this hole.” The evening’s only comfort came in a blue glass bottle, and I summarily screwed off the top. Sonja and I had chanced upon a late-night liquor store when wending back from the hospital. “And at least the women were talking to me.”

“Until you started sharing. Your stool sample, what a line!”

“She was a nurse—”

“Who already has her trauma.”

“I wasn’t really that interested. But a polite man has to make conversation.”

“And your hard on? Just good manners!”

“Sonja, you been doing mushrooms? And why were you looking down there anyway? I’m your brother!”

“My brother, much as it pains me to admit, you’re a good-looking man. You could have some success with the women, if only you’d find a clue.”

“Success!” I poured into the paper cups I had borrowed from the bleach of the bathroom. “We have reached the pinnacle here.” Our house-special pizza brought famine relief but no pleasure, cold slices forlorn on the floor. A dormant flat screen hung over the insufficient separation of the bunks. “Though I am expecting some company in bed”—I seized the moment, Sonja’s phone experiencing an unusual stretch of unemployment—“bed lice!” Taking peremptory charge, my younger sibling had booked us a room near the airport, where thick curtains and double-glazed windows barely muffled an intermittent roar. I will forgo further description; cheap motels vary in fabric, but the fit is everywhere the same.

 “A day of rare visual stimulation. First that skirt, now this wallpaper.” I placed the bottle on the table between us. The stimulant had since changed into a pair of jeans, laced up her boots of combat, and her gray-streaked hair hung loose. Joey, Johnny, and Dee Dee maintained their posthumous watch.

“The girl was bored yesterday. Shopping isn’t my bag, but I will fight for my right to partay.”

“The exercise of which just happens to mess mightily with your mother?”

“Actually, I was looking to bug my brother. And I drive you to distraction, like the consummate professional I am.”

A more mortal distraction threatened, one inbound fuselage grazing the roof. No longer fighting in the street, Sonja still sticks it to the Man. She also finds perverse virtue in discomfort.

“No wonder this dump is cheap.” Our ears under siege, I had little confidence in communication. “Why don’t we just sleep on the runway, probably be quieter?” The upright man does not lean close.

“You Republicans love your swanky hotels.”

The intended needle made no prick. On Sonja’s account, I once voted for the forces of darkness, which primal insult outrages her to this day. But the spade of traditional temperament need dig no partisan trench. I cannot even confirm the Reagan legend; my scurrilous sister does not apply her academic rigor to personal accusation.

“Hey, give me that thing.” She lunged for the remote. “Let’s watch some porn.”

“You have lost your mind. Sharing a seedy motel room with you is quite enough punishment, thank you very much.”

“Don’t panic, incest has no attraction, I’d need a much more inviting proposition for a brother.” A smirk congratulated her bravado. “Uptight asshole. You take right after her.”

“The maternal unit?”

“Anselm Thomas Merrywood thinks he’s so special. ‘I did it my way!’” She has no voice, and even less shame. Unfortunately, air traffic saw a rare lull. “Sorry, mommy’s boy, I’m not buying.” The cell phone interrupted again, from a knapsack of military suggestion.

“Sonja, let it go, can’t you! How many times today? You don’t talk for five minutes, he’s hitting the single’s bar?”

“Wouldn’t dare. He’s seen me at the rifle range. I never miss.”

“You’re incapable of ignoring the worthless specimen. But your own mother, who you haven’t seen in years, you refuse to talk to.”

“I never refuse anyone. It’s made for a full life. And easy for you. Anselm, my dear boy! She’s always so thrilled to see her son, can’t keep her hands off. One of my earliest memories. You know, I don’t think she ever hugged me.”

“The porcupine is not the cuddliest of creatures.”

“No doubt she paid for your plane ticket?”

“She paid for nothing!”

I always tell the truth. All right, I may have benefited from some parental frequent flying, but what you don’t know . . . “I’m no millionaire, do you have to rub it in?”

“‘An honest business!’ Does she ever ask about my career? You’d think a professor in the family would be a point of pride.”

“If you’d stop blabbing about it.”

“At least someone inherited the brains of the family.”

“How’s Mother supposed to respond, when you go full seminar in the hospital?”

“C’mon, you’d heard her, the president’s favorite philosopher is Jesus.”

“All right, but Derrida? S’il vous plait?!”

“I hear you, though. The woman’s stuck in the hospital, while Pop is getting hammered on the golf course.”

“Mom is no tyrant, but Madame Defarge here would happily send her to the guillotine. The woman has got the message. You disparage her small-town respectability. She’s not going to have any grandchildren.”

“I’m doing the world a favor—they might end up like you. I feel for Chris, some tough shit. But if Mother needs grandkids so bad, her son now has an opening. If he could just find that clue!”

“Yet Mom is so cut up about the divorce. Go figure.”

“I liked Chris too. Strong woman, smart—”

“Once upon a time.”

“You’d jump at another chance.”

“Blind Lemon Jefferson! An academic can rationalize any nonsense. Hold that thought, I need to pee.”

 “Gotta go, hon.” She stashed the phone as her brother fastened his belt. Overpowering disinfectant impelled my premature bathroom exit.

“Tell me this, Sis, what do you see in the guy?” I grasped for higher ground.

“Men have an occasional use.”

“He reads Foucault in French?”

“He’s a great fuck.”

“Not buying. You insist that Mom is trapped in the dark ages. You ridicule her values. You jeer decent, old-fashioned womenfolk, putting up with their husbands’ needs. If that revolution has made any woman happier—”

“Happiness is overrated.”

“Mom’s got it together pretty well, if you ask me.”

“Attention campers, the museum is now open. Check out this fossil. Making no sense, as usual. A few minutes ago our mother was just miserable, no grandkids.”

“La textualité de texte. Comes back to bite your sorry ass.”

“We gals should just spread ’em, grit our teeth, and pray! There is no escape. My own brother. Another dog lapping at the bowl of privilege.”

“I’m not quite seeing the connection.”

“Like you can’t see a dishwasher. I have it on good authority.”

“Christine, good authority? The woman who thinks a vegetable has feelings? And she used to drive a truck, degree in engineering. Whiplash! Fortunately my back can take a twist, whatever she thinks.”

“She thought you were a lovely man, for some ungodly reason.”

“Before Melody meddled. My wife’s choice of friends left something to be desired. At least she had enough sense to consult a doctor.”

“And the results, painful for a woman, but liberating.”

“From the burden of sanity.”

“A man can’t control his wife’s life, the outrage.”

“My bowl of privilege?”

“I should bring the dog to school, as a warning.”

I wagged my tail. We discerning viewers surfed the airwaves. A bystander had discharged a firearm outside the White House, though President Bush was unharmed, to Sonja’s sorrow. We did enjoy a mentally disturbed televangelist, one well-oiled pugilist in a sports bra gouging out the eyes of another, two tubby teamsters in a bass boat, before settling on a panic-stricken meteorologist. I was captive to another picture, a woman locked in sweaty coupling with a succession of unworthy brutes. Jealousy gnaws the entrails? Please, a caring brother just tolerates no waste. Sonya plays the harp herself, a mother’s supposed favoritism, will never let it go. Who’s the real obsessive here?

“Sis, you’re really quite sweet, I won’t tell your students.” The well-adjusted sibling reached for the second bottle. “Mom told me you offered to look after her.”

“Not exactly.”

 “So Chris has a new path. Let it go, Buster, what’s happening outside your head?” We had stayed faithful to the Weather Channel, but the fifth tornado in succession retained little entertainment value, the casualty count stubbornly low. “How’s the store?”

“We’re fighting the good fight.”

“Barnes and Noble is extorting across the street from college, all cheap and cheerful. Unfortunately, I can’t forbid my students—”

“Worst came to the worst, I could always come and live with you.”

“Cordelio would be lost.” Sonja asks after the acclaimed writer. They once embarked on some manner of date, but never discuss the event, let alone the level of achievement. The Last Refuge’s resident mystery professes an exclusive devotion to literature, but his studied indifference to women serves as catnip. I have attempted the same ruse, to the opposite effect. “Let’s change the subject, before I find you both at my door. Anything else new?”

“Not really. At least, I don’t think—”

“Hello! You haven’t got a dame in trouble?”

“Agatha purrs in my presence.”

“If anything happens, I’m blaming you.”

“I got high not so long ago.”

“And the excuse for the debauchery?”

“Bill celebrating his fiftieth, at the beach house.”

“White punks on dope!”

“I was hanging with his daughter.”

“Holy cow, a woman. And you didn’t freak this one out?”

“Give me a break, can’t you? How was I to know your colleague was certifiably insane?”

“How fresh is this meat, pray?”

“I’ll probably never see her again, and that’s just fine.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m not a complete idiot.”

“True, you finally zipped up your fly. C’mon, how old?”

“Old enough to drink, if she took an international flight. And don’t they just deafen!” Jet engine roar again filled the room. An investment guru was about to offer life-changing advice, but the inaudible TV condemned us to ongoing penury.

“Okay bro, I wasn’t thinking too clearly.” The culprit offered an accommodating grin. “Men need to suffer, but I’m staying here as well.” The decibel level had fallen below the threshold of pain, for a fresh indignity to announce itself. The blue motel had little to recommend it. But we were not alone. “I’m listening, you were hanging out with the kids. Why not? I sometimes get high with my students, once the class is through.”

“This wasn’t kids, plural.”

“An underage temptress sneaks you into her bedroom? My brother is human, after all.”

“We went for a stroll on the beach.”

“Big mistake, right there. I favor heading straight back to my place, before they change their mind.”

“Well-behaved women don’t make history?”

“At least I walk the walk. My sisterhood is a little too fond of the talk.”

“Your brotherhood fell asleep.” I unfurled my best shrug.

 The volume of disturbance is no measure. Urban living offers a range of nighttime entertainment, about which forensic ears make their best guess. A sharp bang from the street wakes us to worry: Was it car exhaust, juvenile firecracker, or criminal gun? You hear the woman next door crying: Is she grieving her lost mother or enjoying a late comedy show? A squeak in the wall might mean rodent infestation or plumbing protest, but this rhythm had only one explanation.

Sonja pretended not to notice. “Men and young girls, ¡Ay caramba! Even my sorry brother.”

“He’s been dipping in the shallow end?” I gestured towards her phone.

“Donnie? I’d bite it off!” She paused, “No, not him.” She paused again. “Since we’re all full disclosure . . .” Her extended silence relinquished the stage to an ominous disturbance.

“You gave a male student a good grade! What’s come over you?”

“Remember Bernie, our chair?”

“Red hair, beard? And I could never understand a word he was saying.”

“I’d be lost without him. The dean has it in for me, I wouldn’t sleep with her, you know the story—”

“Whether I believe the story is another question.”

“Bernie has too much clout. Other schools are always trying to poach him away. And not just a big man on campus. A good guy is pretty much a contradiction in terms, but at least he—”

“You’re in love, such a beautiful thing!”

“Some men I’m not attracted to. Bernie can be a little much.”

“A professor takes himself too seriously? No way!”

“He’s just a friend, though I understand what women see in him. Anyway, he’s married, until recently that is. Phyllis, the wife, is a piece of work. Bitch is in local musical theater, and never gives it a break. They have no kids, her posture! She visits the department and treats him like dirt, in front of us. I can only imagine their private life. He adored her, his one major flaw, I guess. Give a guy a good pussy whipping and it’s over, in my experience. Anyway, she wanted out—”

“A woman wanted out? Hold the presses.”

“My aggrieved brother puts marriage on a pedestal, but if ever divorce was a blessing! She hires some hotshot lawyer, takes Bernie to the cleaners. He lost his house, renting an apartment, spends all his time with his cats. A diminished man, sorry little place, so depressing.”

“No question. The poor fellow, cats!” My own living rearrangement was a temporary inconvenience, she had no need to know. “He didn’t seem completely intolerable.” I recalled a man of guarded intelligence and perfunctory conversation. He did bring out the bottle when Sonja showed me round Jameson Hall.

“Oh Brother, it gets worse, it gets worse, it gets worse . . .” The free fall finally found a parachute.

“He’s abusing his pronouns?”

“Fourth of July, union barbeque runs late, my peeps smoking some serious weed.”

“And you’re in solidarity?”

“I’m in a daze. On the way home, I stop by school to pick up some stuff. It’s dark and campus is deserted, security had to let me in. For some reason, it’s vitally important I check my email. My computer’s freaking me out, but I have a key to Bernie’s office, so what the hey? Everything was quiet. If the light was on I’d have seen it, didn’t think to knock. I’m already out of it, I tell you, but there he is, Bernie, no question, sitting in the dark, on the couch—”

“Poorly upholstered, I take it, given your distress.”

“The girl was next to him, as good as naked.”

“Appalling.” I could not hold back. “Simply appalling!” A decent man can only groan. “They didn’t hear you?” She has all the luck.

“Trapped.”

“You witnessed the scholarly bottom, seizing an educational opportunity?”

“This is serious shit, Annie.”

“And next time you saw him?” Our cell walls fell silent. The extramural exertion must have found its reward.

“Sick leave. I’m disappointed, I have to say. If he’d come clean, said something—”

“Maybe she was a hooker?”

“If only. One of our majors, Melissa. And taking his class. Teaching her during the day, banging her at night. Textbook! She dropped my class, thank the Goddess.”

“Sweet Melissa!”

“Cutesy. Seemed like she might be trouble, I guess.”

“Maybe she came onto him?” I have often thought about pursuing an academic career.

“You have been watching porn.”

Our break proved a false promise. The motel was built on the cheap, the sound insulation inadequate to the challenge of human need. Sonja rolled her eyes, and the tornadoes whirled into a blonde reporter clad in fluorescent orange, emoting over the lost pets of a firestorm, before another jet engine smothered her lament.

“I was teaching moral dilemmas, and now I’m knee deep.”

“Horny bastard would lose his job, if you go public?”

“Same deal, a few years back. Kaczynski was in music, but that’s not a good enough excuse. There’d always been rumors, then our distinguished professor was busted, spending the night with a freshman in her dorm, and her roommate spilled the beans. Men are so stupid, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I was in judicial affairs, had to interview him for my sins. I’m not at all dogmatic, whatever you think. But insult my intelligence, you lose. The guilty party gives me no respect, and I show no mercy, at the time. Now he’s disappeared off the face of the earth, lying at the bottom of some cliff maybe. He’d been with us for ages too. Jazzy Kazzy, students loved him.”

“Apparently so.”

“You want groupies, start a band.”

“If you’re looking for advice, I have a good friend you could consult, name of Daniels, Jack.”

“Oh Bernie, why do you have to do this to me! I’m fucked, totally fucked. It’s not the age thing. Some boys in my class are hot, I could do them.” The nearby industry made its own admission. “If she wasn’t his student, I’d be happy for my man, after all he’s been through. I owe my job to him. I rubbed the assholes the wrong way, hard to believe, huh? The committee was deadlocked, he had the deciding vote. He’s always been there for me. How can I rat him out? The department would fall apart. My enemies already sharpening the knives. I’d end up with remedial math.”

Her cell rang again. She finally found the fortitude. “But if I do nothing, what does that say?” My sister teeters on a tragicomic track between personal abandon and political commitment. “Might as well announce to the whole world—my beliefs don’t matter. I’m just playing a game. They do matter, they really matter. It’s who I am.”

“Terrifying. Even Stalin made some money on the side.”

“Fucking weed.”

“Tell me about it!”

“Kaczynski tries to blow me off, calls me madam—I’m a vindictive feminist, hating on men. The music department, not a lot going on upstairs!”

“At least he’ll never make it big. Worst thing that can happen to a musician—”

“Mr. Airborne never had to worry about that!”

“They become totally obnoxious, think they’re channeling the divine.”

“Kaczynski was right about one thing. Who was running the show? I had no need to get mad.”

“Just get even. Never let a good opportunity—”

“Music is the food of love, he had the nerve. I ripped him another one.”

“He had a point?” I weighed the heaven of his achievement against the hell of Sonja in high dudgeon. “Schools are terrified of lawsuits, but no code of conduct can stop boys and girls jumping into the sack, if they have a mind. You’re hardly a model of restraint.”

“I’m not in a position of power over Donnie.”

“Ahem, power of the—”

“No way. You and Chris actually had—”

“I don’t know, but I’ve been told, Eskimo pudenda is mighty cold.”

I do apologize. That was totally unnecessary. You should really blame my sister. She somehow has a way. I would never . . .

 “I have no problem with the penis, in principle. And you know I don’t buy the bullshit. The male gaze, bring it on! But when that item is found in the pants of the powerful—”

“Mommy, help! It’s the patriarchy.”

“I hate men? Little did he know. But they have to earn it, don’t just have the right.”

“White male privilege. Where do I sign?”

“They might pause a second before pulling out precious? Intolerable!” Her unseen competition picking up the pace, Sonja had to wait her time, as if allowing a student to finish a tedious digression. An anonymous moan of abandon took the bow.

“Memo to Professor Prerogative.” She took up the thread, to significant silence. “There’s a honey sitting in the front row, she’s paying you attention, you’re dying to jump her bones. You’ve got it made. I’m no sanctimonious schoolmarm, all I ask is this: Put yourself in her shoes, is that not humanly possible?”

“Can we back up a bit? Inviting students congregate at the front—”

“Sweet brother of mine, listen to the truth, for once. I’m not blowing things out of proportion, I’m not out for revenge. We’re not covering our ass­—”

“Sonja, you’re on fire. You should partake of the bottle before class as well.”

“In vino veritas. I feel her. And I’m here to take a stand.”

“And I’m here to spend time with my beloved sister. Doesn’t what I feel matter as well?”

“You pretend you’re a pathetic old misogynist.”

“The freethinking man is an endangered species. I’m just doing the best I can.”

“You do get it, right?”

“Bernie’s little tramp was trouble, you said.”

“If a girl got something, she needs to use it, damn straight.”

“As the professor should know, Plato had a dialogue—”

“Your boy Plato was a pig.”

“Erotic love of teacher and student, the pig sung the praise.”

“My brother was awake in Intro to Philosophy! That love changes the student for the better. Not just a quick screw in the office.”

“You judicial affairs scolds were only too happy to condemn Socrates to death, back in the day.”

“Had good reason, if you ask me.”

“Just a quickie? Bernie’s inspired the girl. She’s studying really hard, wants to impress him. For the first time in college, she loves coming to school. Then some drug addict barges in.”

“You’re trying to wind me up. And as usual, dismal failure. But even a clueless brother has some use. Getting some shit off my chest. And will you stop staring at them?”

CHAPTER XVII. THE GARDENS

 Your hero goes to war.

Books are my love. But a bookstore is a demanding mistress, The Last Refuge open ten hours a day. The dog needs his walk, and Jill occasionally lets me take a break, for good behavior. Please join us in the heights of Alhambra, a steady stroll up the hill.

A statue occupies the center. Francis of Assisi preached to the birds, and Ignatius of Loyola also attracts a flock, the good pigeons of the city religiously anointing his feet. The gardens, which take up two city blocks, were the grounds of a onetime seminary, and the soldier of Christ now has to defend himself against another heathen horde, our belligerent board of supervisors, hell bent on his topple. The saint has the domain under lofty survey, and had little to worry about—as yet!

Midafternoon torpor had settled over the square. The saint shed a shadow on the path, where a black Labrador wheezed on brown gravel. And his sandwich bag empty, beer bottle disposed, the dog’s roommate was not long for his nap. Dos señoras occupied the next bench. The two were silently monitoring the formidable black strollers parked within arm’s reach. I recognized the pair; we nodded upon my seating. Rudyard fastened a quizzical eye on an elderly, white-robed martial artist pirouetting with glacial concentration on the daisy-speckled grass. A swimsuited young woman lying on a beach towel ignored the show, her face planted in a paperback. The brightly colored children’s playground was deserted. Beds of pale-yellow roses and lavender bordered the cloisters, vibrant bougainvillea clung to the surrounding mansions, and the elevation allowed a panoramic view of the jagged downtown skyline. The city below was a toy town, friendly and safe, the siren of a distant fire engine barely ruffling the peace. A biplane buzzed the cloudless sky. Yachts and ferries dotted the Bay, framed by the postcard line of hills silhouetted through the haze. My eyes closed and the sun burned through my dark pants, the bustle of enveloping metropolis fading to an unobtrusive hum.

 My wife was tucking me in. I was a good boy, curled up to her touch. Disaster struck the dream: I dirtied the sheets, stinking up the bed. I’m so sorry, really couldn’t help it. She recoiled in disgust, stormed out of the room, and it was all over. Victorian women insisted on sexual hysteria, so Herr Doktor would have us believe. And our age has its own jeu d’esprit, an obsession with personal hygiene. Christine treated my bodily presence and maintenance with open disgust, a private abdication of professional mettle that she made on principle and I took as perverse. The house we shared was under siege, the products neatly arrayed in the laundry room preaching a biblical wrath—her agents would not only clean, but kill every scourge known to modern health sciences. We ate salads purchased from upscale supermarkets that were not once, not twice, but triple washed. Was that really enough? One can never be too careful! She filled the dirty linen basket with spotlessly clean clothing. Christine, why?—Because! Every encounter was fraught with mortal danger, the threat of vile plague. She might venture from the antiseptic safety of her home, but the bathroom accompanied her in the purse, a survival kit of wipe, scrub, and sanitizer. The enemy never lets up.

 “Adiós, señor.” The nannies left me in the bath. I was swimming in the creek that flowed through Grandpa’s farm, the water warm and clean. Sonja lounged on the bank, with a gangly friend. If only the girls would join me in the water. They were naked. The country has packed up, sold the farm, and migrated to the city. But filth and pestilence allow no escape—odors, fluids, eruptions, pimples, sores, and diseases: The body boasts a carnival of shame. Did Jesus take a dump? At least the Dark Ages had the courage of conviction, mortifying Saint Jerome wholly rejecting the putrid flesh. We dim bulbs of Enlightenment merely hold our noses, shower twice a day, deodorize our privates, freshen our breath, leach all nature from our locks.

Children squealed. The playground pulsed with after-school rambunction. A girl was lying by my side. She put her arms around me, her breasts pressed into my back. I turned to the bidding, and the calf toothed to the suckle, his hooves stuck in the muck. What god allows a fart in polite company, a turd that will not flush? We scold infants for their potty mouths, but adult vocabulary sits longer on the toilet. C’mon folks, get your shit together. What’s your favorite Bach prelude?—You kidding me, I love all his shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! The scholar has to ask, Pourquoi la merde?! Of all potential substance, why do we so revere our waste, make excrement our essence? The incontinence extends to grammar, improper noun to indefinite pronoun, denoting anything at all. You don’t know shit. And the being of an American citizen reduces to the orifice where that reverence meets the light of day—if only the embarrassment we reserve for the bottom would extend to the tongue. Get your ass over here! Gonna teach his sorry ass a lesson. I knew better, but my stupid ass did it anyway. I call on our linguists to explain the choice of anatomy. Why not summon the elbow, identify with the ear, privilege the toe? Even the fairer sex falls foul. Dude, check out that babe, like me some of that ass. And the waitress, damn, nice piece of ass too. To be is to be an asshole.

 Music rent the reverie. My eyes opened on Rudyard, angling his muzzle to the source. A visual offense compounded the audible, startling the bucolic gardens like a daylight mugging. The motorized contraption advanced by fits and starts, the approach tracked on pain of giddiness, a black spiral on white background patterning the wheels. Decals plastered a side panel, and a pendant of clumsy lettering fluttered from a pole. I shrugged at Rudyard’s inquiry, although upon nearer inspection the slogans took up a common refrain: U.S. OUT OF N. AMERICA! CAPITALISM THE DISEASE, REVOLUTION THE CURE! FREE MUMIA NOW!

The eyes of the park turned in ridicule. At least they should have. Our rebel came with a red bandana, a maniacal grimace, and was missing both legs. On his abbreviated lap one hand steadied a boom box that exhorted the park’s handful of bemused visitors. Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights. He reined his rig to a large hound of indeterminate breed, negligible grooming, and painful plod, a violation of territory to which Rudyard offered the obligatory but unconvincing growl. The oncoming menagerie not only disturbed my dog’s fine-tuned propriety, but diverted Sensei from his kung fu, distracted the sunbather from her romance, distanced a wild tennis player from his balls, and endangered the life of a portly, hearing-impaired squirrel lounging on the path.

Brent gets bent? Quite possibly, but Merrywood is a model of calm, patience, and control. The virtues provide sterling service in negotiating the reefs that threaten the most routine voyage: No tempest so rages but that the gales will blow over; no wasp stings but that the swelling will subside. I bide my time, eschew complaint, favor the diplomatic solution. Take charge then, Anselm! Fear not, I am more than capable, just a man of higher calling. The legless conductor pretended to ignore me, although his progress was willfully slow. The reggae crescendoed, motor whined, beast panted. I would have covered my ears, but reaction rides an escalator.

The procession pulled abreast. And at the peak of my punishment, the limping creature slowed to a halt. The wagon kept a-rolling, but our disadvantaged driver responded with alacrity, applying the brakes to avoid the collision I would have had to enjoy in silence. His animal companion was not long for this world, though the dead stop had a more troubling explanation. The ugly brute gave me an eye, lifted his tail, and lowered his haunch. An unnerving paroxysm shuddered through the scrawny frame before the bones wearily regained the upright. I am a man of the world. I have seen my share. I am not easy to upset. But the deposit lay in plain view of the whole park, right in front of my bench.

 Sweet mother of Jesus! They not only get the prime parking spots, lord it over the sidewalk, ramp up the easiest elevation, but have an open invitation to befoul our fair city? A breeze added to my distress, my nose downwind of the drop. And I could read my sentence, passersby supposing my dog the delinquent. How often proximity frames the innocent! Even if I swallowed pride, pushing public spiritedness to an absurd limit, I still wanted the equipment, the doggie bag of foresight already serving its designated purpose. Do I hear some jeering? All right, I know, I really should remonstrate, suppress my good nature. But a wheelchair! And to what end? The clown gloried in his circus, his animal trained for the deed. Or was the desecration a political statement, a shot fired across the bows of middle-class respectability? Why me, surely the revolutionary could find more deserving targets for his cannon? I may wear a button-down shirt, but don’t judge a bookseller by his cover. Fidel, I’m not the enemy. I feel your pain. I read Marx, study Marcuse, know my Chomsky! I give money to Amnesty. There’s really no need.

Luther nailed theses to a door. Lenin distributed pamphlets on the street. But a pile of poo makes a more powerful statement than any manifesto. The incontinent mutt could have produced a more impressive specimen, but physical dimensions are little measure. Saint Ignatius might be stone, but the granite still groaned. A primal affront to all decency and justice, the compact proclamation could be ignored as readily as a spaceship that had chosen these coordinates for an earthly landing. I didn’t want to meet him in the first place. No good would come of the deed; it never does. The squirrel shuffled off, in evident disgust.

 Don’t let appearances deceive. I may dress in worn denim, but drive an eye-catching car. I may rent a temporary billet, but run an established business. My credit card is welcome in fine restaurant, foreign hotel, and fancy emporium. My resume reads Harvard Law, Class of ’77, for crying out loud! I have published a book, shaken hands with a vice president, visited the Galapagos. And I enjoy the full use of all limbs, in case you had any doubt.

War had been declared. But a truncated urban guerrilla had me beat. My defeat came to a head, the wheelchaired warrior further wounding my witness with a whoop of triumph. And surveying the epicenter of outrage, he sprung into motion, celebrating his victory with a lap of laughter.

—Hannibal Lecter, I have some sympathy.—

 The circle tightened. I could not avert my eyes as the curse dropped the leash, swung round his chariot, and circled my failing fort in a choreographed arc that brushed the offending mongrel and cut off my retreat. The attack took an ominous turn, my enemy readying a noose. The cavalier reached into his shorts, withdrew a plastic bag, extended a long arm, and scooped up the evidence like a sea eagle snatching a salmon from the surface of the waters.

“Peace out, brother.” He executed a remarkable bow. Man and dog rolled their rousing concert onward, a merry kaleidoscope of black and white.

“Take it easy, man.” I pointed a finger of fellowship at my latest friend.

CHAPTER II. THE PALACE. Your hero comes to the party.

I headed for the house. Pete beats a retreat? Perfectly possible, but I take things calmly in stride, as you will find many an occasion to confirm. The sliding door made my entrance. Inside, a party was a-pulse, though the crowd was milling on best behavior—a palace commands respect.

Provisions were plentiful. Care to indulge? Truffles tempted, fine wine flowed, and the beef was prime. Our queen was circulating, her black hair, golden dress, glowing skin complementing the cut of her court. Their forced laughter carried over the strings of a fiercely competent ensemble whose formal attire and practiced indifference betrayed a foreign import. Her Highness livened the gala like a gust of summer wind through a cottonwood—introducing strangers, receiving tribute, dispensing charity. A monarch flutters with abandon; courtiers welcomed her interruption, however fleeting the favor. I took up a station by the bar to follow the performance and wait my turn. The grandee did glance in my direction, but royalty pretends no common acquaintance. I knew no insult, trust me, the invisible man hewn of hardened timber. The gathering offered another feast, men foregoing West Coast indifference to wardrobe in favor of expensive sports coats, their partners a buffet of elegant dress, painstaking coiffure, and pampered flesh.

The store is open. The goods are on display. Andy unwraps any candy? Maybe so, but a man of discrimination does not lose his head. And though my hands were empty, I was quite content, have no fear. A hearty eater, I have found plentiful provisions, tasted a singular share of the sweetness. My own outfit might not conform, but so what, an outlaw quickens the maiden pulse! The standout read the room, and single women reciprocated my review, as you would only expect. But the browser was not buying, costly confectionery seldom worth the price. I speak from experience, trust me.

My parents married young. The nuptials were rushed by geographical exigency rather than biblical sin, the mother an exchange student in London where her future bridge partner had disembarked the Royal Scotsman for work. An intransigent Roman Catholic and an ornery Swede, their wedding vows sealed the triumph of first love over in-law reservation—bake a pie with chalk and cheese, why don’t we? The offspring knew an uneasy truce, alternate Sundays imposing the pomp of Latin Mass in the company of a crisp-suited father and the austerity of Methodist hymnal when worshipping with his wife, the chapel of clapboard construction after we migrated stateside on my tenth birthday. The feuding parties of the schism engaged in subterfuge, politicking, and defamation, but left the final decision to the children. When they’re old enough to know their own minds. I have yet to receive the blessing. The dispute found no partisan resolution, their first-born sitting on the fence with Huxley, while his sister lost her religion altogether. But the damage was already done, Rome winning naming rights to the boy, the prairie to the girl. And to a lifelong misfortune, George Merrywood, a model of restraint and good sense, pillar of the community, member of the Chamber of Commerce, golfer of steady nerve, reserved his one moment of reckless abandon for the christening of his son after a twelfth-century saint and author of an eponymous proof for the existence of God, foreword to the following chapter. Original sin was only the first offense. Anselm could easily reduce to Andy, or Al. I would willingly share a name with the wilderness photographer. Even Anse would be acceptable. But no, ever since kindergarten I have suffered the same indignity, the bane of my daily round, root of my distress. I may be the only man so burdened on the continent. The mockery arrives like a stomach pang, a burden I cannot dislodge and have done nothing to deserve. For I boast a deep enough voice, guzzle strong beer, can grow a full beard, and know my way around a hardware store. Reginald changed his name, to become a rock star for the ages. I have considered the correction.

“Annie, dear boy, there you are.” The queen could no longer pretend; her peasant’s time had come. “Mr. Bookseller has come to the party.” She cast a long-suffering eye over my untucked shirt. Have no fear, I can afford a visit to a tailor, was just making a little statement. “And how is the Last Resort?

“Refuge!”

“I do have a friend who reads, I should send her your way.” My promoter had yet to visit the store herself, to my certain recollection. “Dottie is single, and isn’t too particular.” Gloria squeezed my hand and pressed close. “Such a scoundrel!” And her eyes fastened onto mine, which I struggled to save from a southerly settlement, where the plunging neckline revealed a generosity.

“The Last Refuge prevails, like Old Faithful. Though I left my staff in charge, so I have to fear the worst.”

“Jolly good. And the dame?”

“Agatha is giving me grief, as usual.”

“You’re a lucky man.” The hostess evidenced no such fortune, inspecting my unshaven jowls.

“She was looking forward to this, likes to get out of town.”

“Naughty boy, you’re moving. I heard the news from Chris, but not a squeak from you.”

“I’ve sold the house, renting an apartment.”

“My lovely invitation—!”

“Pride of place. The post office was able to track me down. They still deliver behind enemy lines!”

“Silly boy!” She leaned yet closer—other guests need not know that a pauper had infiltrated their number. “Why does a single man need a house anyway?”

“The simple life worked for Thoreau. And he’d feel right at home. My landlord has a religious objection to modern convenience.”

“Sounds just darling. Do tell, where?”

“Dolorosa Street. No vacancies on Hope Road.”

“Super. Wait, you’ll be neighbors with another friend of mine. Have you met Grace?”

“A room with a view, according to his advert”—I had met Grace—“which is hard to disprove, if you think about it. I don’t suppose your husband would take the case.” A fixture chez Gloria, Grace would seek me out, making an assumption. The face of my future assumed a complexion. However, as far as I could tell, the worthy Grace was absent.

“We were at Stanford together. Lovely woman. Her husband died a few years ago. He was a lot older, mind you, could have been her father. Now she’s making quite a name for herself, freelance journalist. I should introduce you, she’s not afraid of a challenge, haha.”

“Honored, I’m sure.” I was introduced every six months or so.

“Isn’t the music heavenly? We flew them in from Germany. All the rage in Europe, you know. We’re so lucky they had the time. I asked them specially to play this piece.”

“Beautiful.” I was too numb. The Trout Quintet marks daring musical taste, you know.

“Sorry you couldn’t make it to celebrate New Year’s with us, and the new millennium no less. Quite the shindig, I still haven’t fully recovered.”

“Next time. Only a thousand years to wait.” My good woman, how can I possibly make it when I have no idea?

“Lovely crowd, at least one of us knows how to throw a party. Bill had a veterans’ reunion here last month, professional obligation. They fell on my spread like vultures, you’d think they hadn’t eaten since Vietnam. America will insist on including women in the military! And they had to bring their wives, so-called, he never listens to me. The resentment, you have no idea. You’d think it was a crime, having a beautiful house. We’ve earned our money, get over it.”

“Communists! I trust they didn’t loot the palace.”

“So happy to see you, Annie. How are you, anyway?”

Time was up. I have known the queen since she and Bill were dating. Her subject of suspicion was his best man! Familiarity over many years has bred, not contempt but, well, familiarity. In domestic and sober encounters I am immune to her charms, often sweatshirt-and-sneaker muted. ¡Caramba tequila! Caressed by the coos, blessed by her bounty, a poor supplicant now soaked in a spa of stimulation.  

She pulled the plug. Anselm, really! My boyhood bane recurred, a mind to prolong the attention vying with concern lest a private protuberance provoke a public panic? And we really need to know?! Have no fear, all eyes were on the level. And I will level with you, the dog is no excitable young pup. Maybe a smuggled flask of bourbon was to blame for any bulge!

“Actually, Gloria, I do feel a headache coming on. Better sit down.”

“Marvelous, I’ll see if I can find Bill. I’m sure he wants to catch up.” The congested room parted like the Red Sea, and a glory sashayed through, the splendid rump outlined through the cling of her dress.

Her husband was not her match. But his volume control was stuck on celebration, a fiftieth milestone offering them both an excuse. Gushing guests might spew their spectaculars, but in truth the oceanfront property is too much. Gloria had tasked the architect—a dear friend—with a merger of masonry and beach, and the conceit had been duly executed, as if a shipwrecked shelter builder had the means to indulge his every fancy.

Crusoe, I have you in mind, of course. You had to strip the ship to fix your habitation. And I commend attention to another element of your story. Of course, that footprint in the sand would leave you thunderstruck. You were not alone on the island; was he friend or foe? But a single imprint, whoever heard of such a thing? No natural explanation; he knew that you were there, was leaving you a message. Will we ever hear his side of the story?

The design won an award. So what, I won a gold star in kindergarten! Driftwood beams provided irregular support, rocks jutted through the walls, stained glass sold a sanctity, and windows in the floor opened onto a spot-lit tide pool, of evident manufacture. The supposed showpiece did somehow find a spread in a section of the Sunday paper, as an early morning phone call once brought to my attention. I am not remotely jealous, whatever they suggest. Gloria extols joint weekends on the coast, though I could little conceive her consort away from his desk of dividend, no matter how storied the retreat.

Looking for a rich husband? Gloria retained a promising lawyer, the contract conjugal. Fremont and Hayward is the firm, William Connor the name on that desk. And Connor has some clout, the senior partners now in clamorous attendance, their wives in glamorous attire. Some bash! I had not only come to Bill’s party, but belonged to the same alumni association, crossed the same Yard. Veritas, I started the juridical journey, to pursue a purer path.

The state school grads met in One L. Merrywood nursed no chip, needless to say, but made few other friends, knowing neither secret handshake nor second home in the Berkshires. Connor roiled with resentment. Rich kids and their perfume! Aren’t we special? Fuck them in the ass when I make it. We took the same classes, rode the same train, roomed together at the end of the T-line, where blue-collar locals cut down the Ivy League. One of us never cheated on the test, was generous with late-hour tutorials, worked pro bono, and played in a band. The other serially failed the Bar; but with the compensation of bruising hours and an ambition bordering on mania, established himself as the most sought-after litigator in the state, as his wife frames his repute. The boast has some material justification—witness the weekend house, the yacht, the ease with which they could summon self-important acquaintances to make a tortuous trip, over an hour’s drive from the city.

I did not make that trip alone. Sherman marched his army to the sea; Merrywood motored his lady up the coast. I am a knight of automotive steed, though the dame was in one of her moods and the going jeopardous. Not all cars reach the destination: A soft-top hung shamefully over a sandstone bluff, and the owner stood in a daze, staring at the road ahead as if he were stranded on the beaches of Dunkirk. If only I knew!

A lady has an expectation. But a ground campaign moves slowly, and we were already an hour late. A file of pedestrians crossing the narrow road came to an inconsiderate halt. I always make time for turkeys, but a truck was tight on my tail and the horn- blowing driver failed to share my fondness for the fowl. We had to make another stop, where our next foe lay in ambush: The tyke masqueraded as a gas-station attendant and rejected my card, muttering juvenile insinuation. Anselm Thomas Merrywood is the name on the plastic, and I would not budge. Waiting motorists grew restive until the dame persuaded her latest conquest to take a check.

To what end? The city’s movers and shakers had congregated in the big room to further some business, their circled backs forming a barrier that only Gloria dared penetrate. Less formidable attendees, some of whom I recognized, meandered through the house, clustering in admiration of its curious invention. The architect, Japanese, long haired and even more sloppily dressed than I, indulged a succession of reverent passersby. A photographer from the paper was doing the rounds. The mayor was stopping by!

Jovial was the laughter. But I could not breathe easy, a menace threatening the celebration. You know the story. The hero faces a familiar ordeal, the enduring confrontation of good and evil. The road is unforgiving; villains wait in ambush, menacing highway and byway, their crimes shocking the civilized sensibility as lightning bolts disturb a good night’s sleep. And then he crosses a woman.

“Hello, Anselm.” An alarm sounded to my rear. I held my breath. “Anselm!” The din providing an excuse, I might slink to safety. “Don’t run away.” The summons drew near. I could as little escape as a rabbit in a steel claw.