He picked up his mobile and called Norma’s home phone, in the hope that she was out. An unanswered call could save him the trouble of riding the lift to her top-floor apartment, where he felt neither comfortable nor, if he were entirely honest, welcome. Of course Norma wanted him to visit her, as a gesture of attention, but she did not want him overstaying whatever tight-lipped welcome she gave him. Since selling the family home, Norma had sent a none-too-subtle message to Gordon by purchasing this stylish ocean-view apartment with just one bedroom: no spare room, not so much as a study nook or sofa bed. She could have afforded a second bedroom, even a third, but her pointed down-down-down-sizing told Gordon: Don’t you even think of it. Gordon felt complicatedly grateful. Knowing that the prospect of sharing a home horrified her as much as it did him brought them, in his heart, closer together.

Norma’s phone rang out and sent him to voicemail. ‘This is Norma’s phone. She is not home at the moment, so please leave a message.’ Norma had been incapable of figuring out how to record the message, so Gordon had done it for her. Feeling too weird to speak to his own voice, he hung up. He had made half an effort. It was the lack of thought that counted.

He glanced at the gift-wrapped vase, a silent witness to his deceitfulness. Are you with me, or against me? Gordon asked it. A thought came to him: it was Norma’s birthday in a week’s time. She had invited them all—himself and Ben, also Lou and Kelly—to play happy families over lunch at the Bluebird Country Club, her personal seat of power. If he gave her the vase today, he would have to buy something else for her birthday. So, best that he not see her today. He gave the package a comradely pat. With me.

In a brighter mood, he started his car and set off for his father’s nursing home. As he drove, whistling, through the back streets of Capri, he was pulled up by an unexpected sight: that same father, bent over his wheeled walker, waiting for the traffic signal on the corner of Whiting and Bream streets. Gordon wondered if it wasn’t his father but a lookalike nursing home escapee. He wouldn’t put it past Ron to seed the neighbourhood with doppelgangers to throw his imagined pursuers off his trail.

When the light turned, Ron levered himself off the kerb and began his long trek across Bream. Gordon, tooted by the car behind, was tempted to leave his father to his adventure, but Ron might just make it to Norma’s place, where he would unleash havoc. The man’s iron will to escape was admirable, even awesome. If character is a composition of desire, Ronald Grimes was certainly a character. His desire was pretty much all there was left of him.