12   Sunday morning I was watching the women’s final of the US Open. Kim Clijsters was soundly beating Mary Pierce in the second set when Greg called. “Hi, Dad. It’s a good thing you left when you did last night.” “Why?” “Well, as soon as you left, Carl began by saying to Rebecca, ‘I didn’t want to say anything in front of Greg’s dad, but you are not transferring to Humboldt.’ And it became this huge family fight. Carl Petrich is a real Republican!” Greg said the word as someone of my generation might have said fascist. “He told Rebecca that the summer at Humboldt had turned her into a lefty liberal, and she said no, she voted for Kerry and for Barbara Boxer and for Lynn Woolsey last year, so he said, ‘maybe we should take you out of Sonoma State and send you to Chico,’ and she said, ‘I’m nineteen, and you can’t take me and send me places.’ Then she looked at me and she mouthed like she was saying ‘I’m not going to fucking Chico.’ I don’t think Carl saw her, though.” “Good for her,” I said when Greg paused for breath. I imagined that she had probably said I’m like nineteen. “Jill was stacking the dishwasher,” Greg went on, “but she came in and told the younger kids to go to their rooms. They did as they were told, but they weren’t too happy about it because they seemed to enjoy seeing Rebecca stand up to their dad. He kept on raging about what a bad influence Humboldt had been on her, even though Rebecca had told him how she had voted, and I couldn’t help taking it personally. Finally I spoke up.” He paused again. “What did you say?” “I said, ‘Excuse me, but are you saying something about me when you are talking that way about Humboldt?’ He said, ‘I don’t really know you, Greg, and frankly, I don’t give a damn, because it’s not like you’re going to marry Rebecca. I only care about my family, so would you kindly stay out of this!’ ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ I said and went out to the cottage. Ten minutes later Rebecca came in, crying. She couldn’t talk, so we made love.” It was the first time that Greg was reporting sexual activity to me in the first person. “She stayed with me until early in the morning, when she went back to her room to get some sleep. At breakfast everybody was silent. Now I don’t know if I want to be at their stupid barbecue. Mom and Joyce are supposed to come, so I don’t know what to do.” “Are you asking for fatherly advice?” “Maybe a suggestion?” “Was this supposed to be the occasion for your mother to meet Rebecca?” “Yes.” “Have you called her?” “I tried, but she’s not answering either phone.” “Well, here’s what I would suggest that you do in case you don’t reach her. Unless you decide that you definitely want to be at the barbecue…” “Not bloody likely,” Greg said with a Cockney accent, something he had learned from my father. “Then wait for her on the road near the house around the time that she’s supposed to be there…” “But, Dad, you know Mom and punctuality!” “Do the best you can. When she and Joyce get there, explain the situation to them. If you can get Rebecca to come out so that she can meet them…” “Yeah, she always has her cell phone with her, so I can text her.” “So much the better. And then you and your mother and Joyce can go out for lunch or dinner or whatever.” “Maybe Rebecca will come.” “Maybe.” “Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate this.” “Any time, son. Good luck!” After reading some of the Sunday Chronicle I bicycled downtown in order to watch a professional bicycle race, the Barclays Grand Prix, in which such Tour de France racers as Fabian Wegmann (the King of the Mountain), George Hincapie (who won two stages) and Levi Leipheimer were to participate. As I rode I wondered if a part of my route was the same that Libby took when she biked to my office. I also wondered if, were I to run across her on her bicycle, I would recognize her beneath her helmet and behind her sunglasses. I rode around among various crossing points of the racecourse, and managed to catch several stages. I took a lunch break and got to the Embarcadero just as the three leaders were speeding to the finish, probably at well over thirty miles an hour. Wegmann won the race by half a wheel. My ride home seemed puny after watching several scores of men who had ridden one hundred eight miles in four and a half hours. But it did not feel puny to me, and when I got home I was ready for a nap. I need to do some more riding on hills, I said to myself. After my nap I was hungry. I did not feel like cooking, nor did I feel any desire for company. Friday’s dinner with Chris had whetted my appetite for Mexican food the way Elena – who was from Jalisco – made it, and there was a restaurant a few blocks away that had Jalisco in its name. I walked there, had a platter of so-so enchiladas – nothing at all like Elena’s – and a big glass of tequila. I wondered if I would get drunk, as I had at Ann and Jeff’s, but I left the restaurant feeling quite sober. On the walk home, images of Libby and Chris alternated in my mind’s eye, as though a slide projector with just two slides in it had been set on automatic. Finally, just as I reached home, Rebecca came into my mind. I had underestimated the girl, I concluded. And I felt fatherly pride at the way Greg had handled himself.   The forecast on Labor Day morning was for clear and warmer weather, and by nine-thirty, when I was reading the Chronicle with my post-breakfast coffee, the sun was coming through my kitchen window. Three front-page articles dealt with the destruction wreaked by Hurricane Katrina. An article on the Supreme Court seemed to have been written before the announcement – which I had already heard about on the radio – of Roberts’ nomination as Chief Justice. I finally got around to reading the opinion pieces and book reviews of the Sunday paper. The previous evening’s disappointing enchiladas spurred me to make a batch of my own, as close to Elena’s recipe as I could remember, to bring to Jerry’s potluck. I made two dozen, estimating that to be the number of people at Jerry’s. My estimate proved very close. More than half of the guests – some fifteen – were women. Of the women that I knew – all but three – every one had, at one time or another, been known, biblically speaking, by Jerry Brucker. Jerry navigated with aplomb the treacherous sea of the sometime recipients of his knowledge. One of the recipients, Rose Bargallo, was talking to a lawyer of my acquaintance, Harris Lowitzer, when I came in. As soon as she saw me coming out of the kitchen, where I had left my pan of enchiladas, Rose took leave of Harris and came over to me. She was wearing jeans with a frilly white top. “We must stop meeting like this,” I said. Rose ignored the quip. “I talked to Thomas again last night, and I’ve found quite a bit more.” “Okay,” I said, “just let me get something to drink and sit down.” “You’ll need it, the stiffer the better, and sit down.” “Forget the movie,” she began as she sat in a chair facing me when I was seated in the corner of a sofa with a glass of sherry in my hand, “it’s a soap opera. First of all, when Thomas was talking the other night about the lady and the woman, he meant two different people. The lady was the wife of a hospital director. White. The woman was Vicky, a nurse, a former girlfriend of Thomas’s, black, and HIV-positive. And Andy fell in love with her.” “He seems to have a thing for people who are HIV-positive,” I said, “male or female. It gives a whole new meaning to accentuate the positive.” Rose, once again, ignored my cultural allusion. “Altogether Andy seems to have spent about four years there, and… get ready for this: he spent a year in jail.” “For what?” “It isn’t clear yet. He seems to have gotten in trouble with everybody – his company, the government, the hospital administration, Vicky’s family – and I think he was just in jail awaiting trial, and finally released. Thomas thinks that there was a local lawyer involved, but isn’t sure who it was. Would you like me to pursue that lead?” “Sure, anything you can get.” “One more thing. Thomas gave me permission to tape-record our conversations, but there is still only so much I can put together from these phone calls. And, by the way, it takes Thomas twenty minutes to tell me what I tell you in five. It seems to be a tribal storyteller thing. What I’d like to do, Gary, is to fly up to Vancouver when he has a day or two off, and talk at length, so that I can get the full story in one shot. Are you willing to cover that?” “Of course. The sooner the better, before Andy comes back from Louisiana. Now, what about the two women, or rather the lady or the woman?” “The lady was the company’s contact for the study. She’s South African, but studied in the US. And Andy had an affair with her. Big scandal. Vicky was involved in the study, which by the way was never completed. What’s more, Thomas lost touch with her and doesn’t know if she’s dead or alive.” “This is fascinating, Rose. Please get as much information as you can.” “You know I will. But I think it’s time to get up and mingle with the crowd.” As we stood up, I suddenly remembered something. “By the way,” I said, ‘there’s something I almost forgot that I need you to do for me, something routine.” “Yes?” “Locate Peter Hart’s next of kin.” “Piece o’ cake. The Harts are a prominent family. Five minutes online and I’ve got it.” By then Rose was walking away from me and towards another man of her acquaintance. In the course of the gathering I made a point of meeting the three women whom I didn’t know. None of them seemed interesting to me beyond the reach of a brief, casual conversation (How do you know Jerry?). Two of them complimented me on my enchiladas. In the end there were two enchiladas left over in the pan – one each of chicken and cheese – and Jerry insisted that I take them home with me.   When I got home there was a message from Chris. I called her back, and she answered after the first ring. Her hello sounded nervous. “Hi, Chris, it’s Gary.” “Hi, Gary, I’m glad you called. About the other night… I want to thank you for being so understanding.” “Sure,” I said, feeling not at all sure. “I mean, if you’d been a little more aggressive, or insistent, then maybe, I don’t know… But I’m glad, the way it ended.” “I’m glad you’re glad,” I said, still unsure of what I was trying to convey. “Would you like to go out again?” “Sure,” I said, this time feeling that I meant it. “What would you like to do?” “Maybe something a little less ex… less energetic, like maybe a movie.” “That sounds good. There’s a movie that I’d like to see, called The Constant Gardener. Have you heard of it?” “Yes. It’s with Ralph Fiennes.” She pronounced the name authentically. “I like him a lot. Also, I read the book,” she added. Aha! I said to myself. “If we see an early show then we don’t have to wait till Friday,” I suggested. “I’d rather wait,” she said after a brief hesitation. “Is that okay?” “Sure. Would you like me to pick you up at your place?” “If you’d like.” It seemed like a curious response. If she had any thoughts of getting serious, I thought, she would want me to meet her kids. “You know what I would like,” I said, trying to sound flirtatious. “I know, Gary.” She paused. “But for me it’s important to wait. I hope it’s going to be worth your while.” “I think it is,” I said, not sure whether I meant it. “I’ll check the times and figure out a place to have dinner. Tell me your address.” She lived in the Dolores Park area, on the edge of the Mission. There was plenty of opportunity for her kids to speak Spanglish. I wondered if they went to Mission High. “Will I get to meet your kids?” I asked. “If you’d like,” she said again, and it sounded curious again. Ambivalent, perhaps. “What are their names?” “Julio and Livia.” I had the sense that Chris was uninterested in continuing the telephone conversation. Our date was set, and that seemed to be it. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll see you Friday, and I’ll call you with the details.” “Good. Thanks again, Gary.” After hanging up I spent a little time wondering what she had thanked me for. Could it be for agreeing to go out with her again after she had declined to go to bed with me on the first date? Was that such a rarity in her experience? And the more I thought, the more puzzled I felt. Just how did she intend to figure out whether she wanted it to get serious with me? Where was I in her scheme of things? What was I? Why didn’t she ask me how I felt about getting serious? Was she deliberately confusing me so that I would be wondering about these things and thereby keep her on my mind? I realized that I knew very little about Chris, except the external facts of her life and that she was fun to be with. For the first time since becoming single I felt the need to talk to someone about a woman. Which of my friends could I do that with? I began to run through a mental list, alphabetically as is my wont, but I stopped at the first item: Ann Mason. It was Ann who introduced us, after all. And the memory of the intimate time that I had with her on the morning after the party gave me a feeling of trust. Ann and Jeff don’t have separate telephone lines, and I definitely wanted to talk with Ann, not Jeff. I knew that Ann uses e-mail a lot, and checks her inbox very often. I sent her a message asking her to call me, and she did so within fifteen minutes. “I guess you know that Chris and I went out,” I said after the initial greetings. “Yes. Isn’t she great?” “I think so, but she puzzles me a little. Maybe more than a little – I’m feeling some frustration with her.” “Maybe you should talk to Jeff about her, then. He knows her a lot better than I do. In fact he’s known her since before we met.” I ignored the biblical implications of know. “He isn’t home yet. He’s working late tonight. I’ll tell him to call you tomorrow.” It wasn’t clear if tomorrow modified tell or call, but it didn’t matter. “Working? On Labor Day?” I asked. “There’s some kind of security issue. They come up all the time.” Ann chuckled, but mingled with the chuckle I heard a sigh of dissatisfaction in her voice. “It sounds like you’re feeling some frustration too,” I said with a laugh. Ann laughed in return. “I guess so,” she said. After a pause she cleared her throat. “You know, maybe you and me could get together and relieve our frustrations.” She laughed again, nervously this time. My first impulse was to decline the invitation, but it was quickly caught by a second impulse whose message was why not? “Would you like to come over?” I asked. “I would, but my car’s a little out of sorts. Why don’t you come here? I’m not expecting Jeff for quite a while.” She was right. After I had been there for an hour and a quarter, and was leaving to go home, Jeff was not home yet.