He with his lawyer’s gift of tongue. “Are you sitting down?” he asked. I said, “Yes,” and he said, “I’ve fallen in love,” and a terrible emptiness filled my heart, my hand holding the phone shook, all in a swift, everlasting second. “I’ve fallen in love” (did he have to repeat it?) “with San Diego,” he said. “It’s beautiful, the beaches and Mexico so close, no snow. And through Jack, he’s my client, I can get a good buy, an acre on a hill facing China.” So I’m off tomorrow to take a look at the property. I’ll send our new address as soon as we’re settled in. As for Dil, he had a garage sale of my clothes and Navajo jewelry but I learned about it too late to buy them back. Did I mention that Dawnette sends you her best regards? Since the funeral she seems to have dropped out of sight. Her grandmother’s ranch, which she inherited, is up for sale. I hope this finds you well and happy.

—Your loving Mother

TWENTY-THREE
SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NAUGHT AVAILETH

After leaving the studio, we had wandered the streets within a cone of silence, through an evening of hot stale air, shadowed by skyscrapers. Walking beside her gave me a feeling of accomplishment, a curious tincture of excitation and tranquillity. I could have walked with her, arm in arm, forever.

It was she who spoke first. As the moon rose high and lopsided over Wall Street, “What’s Queen Anne?” she asked.

“Don’t you mean ‘who’?”

“I mean El Supremo’s got a Queen Anne swimming pool in Jersey. He told me. Barfield,” she said. “On second thought, forget it. Screw him and his swimming pool.”

“Where’re we going?” I asked.

“The harbor?”

“Sure. Would you like a drink?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Again a mountainous sound-void settled between us; I had the feeling I was somebody else, a deaf-mute, a dumb animal incapable even had I willed it of breaking this speechless conspiracy. And I was sweating, mostly from the exertion of lugging that awkward can of film.

“Speaking of El Supremo,” I transferred the can from one bloodless fist to the other, “are you going to take that job?”

“What job?”

“The bull pen.”

She shrugged. “Derek wants me to.”

“Why?”

“To make more money.”

“Hasn’t changed much, has he?”

“Derek? He’s changed a lot, since he’s been taking acting lessons. Always quoting this pusbag of a teacher. A regular motormouth.”

“Derek?” I couldn’t believe it.

“The pusbag. And Derek too.” Her eyes strayed to a clutch of young men in Wall Street suits and ties, drinking beer around a keg in front of Roebling’s. “I think I’ll quit. Tell Barf what he can do with his job and his Queen Anne pool and his sleazy evening gown.”

“He wears an evening gown?”