We can drive but only so far, as there are no roads through the park, which is wide where we are but in other parts very narrow. Motorized traffic is prohibited inside the acres of well-kept grass, shrubs and hardwood trees that stretch between the Charles River and Memorial Drive. I’ve been here many times. It’s a favorite hike from our house near the northeastern edge of the Harvard campus.

If Benton and I keep up a good pace we can make the round trip on foot in roughly an hour. That’s if we take the most direct route, and we don’t always. Now and then we wander from one newsstand and outdoor café or market to another, making our leisurely way to the water, especially when the weather is as sublime as it can be in the spring and fall. On Sundays when it’s warm and not raining we love to drink Peet’s coffee and read armloads of newspapers on a bench by the Charles.

In the winter we might hike or snowshoe here and sit bundled up and close to each other, sharing a thermos of steaming-hot cider. All of this is going on in my mind as an emotional subroutine that I don’t focus on but can’t block. I feel the distant echo of nostalgia, of loss, as I’m reminded of how rare it is that Benton and I have had much time to ourselves for leisure—for doing nothing, whatever that means.

We treasure conversations and activities that are unencumbered by broken laws and tragedies. We treat it as a special occasion if no one is committing violent acts or has died during the hours or a weekend when Benton and I are paying attention to each other. This is why our regular outings at the Faculty Club are important and cherished. It’s why having favorite secret places like hotels, the ocean, the river, and scenic areas where we hike is necessary to good relationships and our good health.

The park is a popular place to get away, to have a picnic, to sunbathe, read, study or play a pickup Frisbee game. Only cyclists and people on foot are allowed but that doesn’t stop Marino from sacrilegiously bumping his big police vehicle over grass and a narrow unpaved path. He halts between a big maple tree and a tall iron lamp that glows wanly in the near pitch-blackness, the SUV nose-in toward the Charles River. The headlights illuminate the red-roofed brick boathouse, and to the left of it the bridge I drove past during my fateful ride with Bryce what now seems days ago.