A gust snatched at the dogwood, the shadows of its leaves breaking surflike over Lew. He seemed to be trying to mouth some words, his arms tightening around the shotgun as if, suddenly, it were all that supported him above that terrible drop to the river. Annie sensed, in those taut sinews, his desire to hold on to this life. Another gust; again the leaf shadows broke over him, seething. But he was untouchable, and all at once appeared so, his arms relaxing, his face dilating into what was unmistakably joy. He looked so young, smiling, staring from her to Baby with clear and amazed recognition. Then back at Raj, who had inched forward, his body stiffening against that terrifying precipice. At this, Lew’s face clouded a little, and he regarded Raj with a kind of loving pity, as one might a calf attempting to stand for the first time. He seemed to want to help, trying—again failing—to speak. Letting it fall loose from the shotgun, Lew began to extend his left hand. Raj lunged.

Lunged, at first for Lew’s shoulders, then for that reaching hand, but Lew was receding—both reaching and receding—which it took her a moment to make sense of. And even when she did, it seemed as if it were not Lew but the whole world turning. In a dizzy panic she sprawled forward, snatching Baby tightly into her with one hand and clutching Raj’s ankle with the other as Lew, his arm now fully extended, fell back over the cliff and levered this bluff into the blue-bright and plummeting sky.

SAN FRANCISCO 1985

SAN FRANCISCO
1985

ROSA, PUTTING ON HER COAT IN THE KITCHEN, HEARD someone entering the house. No one was expected. Scowling, she burrowed her burly little body into the hallway, calling, “Hello? Hello?”

A man’s voice sang back, “Hello, hello, I don’t know why you say goodbye, I say hello.”

Delighted, she hurried to the front door, where Raj stood grinning like a guilty schoolboy.

“Mr. Travers, you early.”

“One more day in England would have killed me, Rosa. They eat giblets there, you know.”

“Giblets?”

“Out of old newspaper. And blood sausage with lashings of clotted cream.”

She gave him a brief exaggerated look of sympathy. “How the conference?”

“Symposium, Rosa. Means you get your own little bottle of Perrier for free. Which reminds me.” He opened his suitcase and handed her a silk scarf. “Woman next to me on the plane fell asleep, so I stole that for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Is my beloved family not here?”

“They think you come tomorrow. They out to eat. They want surprise you.”

“Surprise me?”

“Your son, he come yesterday.”

“Clay? From Africa?”

She nodded. “Is been a year, no?”

“Almost two. Oh, that’s great. Did my daughters devour him?”

“They very happy. They want surprise you with him. Go, sir.” She waved her hand toward the door. “Go. Come back tomorrow.” She laughed theatrically, as she always did when she presumed to make a joke. And repeated it, as she always did. “Go. Go, come back tomorrow, come back tomorrow.”