Which is why, when I returned home from my father’s open house, I poured myself a glass of seltzer from the fridge and made myself something simple to eat. I put two slices of bread in the toaster and mixed a tin of salmon with mayonnaise, salt, and pepper. When the toast was done I spread a thick layer of salmon on each piece, arranged them on a plate, and took it to the dining room table, where I sat down in my customary seat facing the bay window, where I liked to watch the fog roll in from the sea.

I had just set my plate and glass down on the table when a small flash of red caught my eye. The light on the telephone was blinking, and upon closer examination I saw that the number in the little window was now an illuminated 2. I have two voice messages, I thought, with some surprise. I lifted my finger to press the button marked play—and hesitated. Would it be better, perhaps, to wait until after dinner? There was so much I needed to think over, and who knew—what I meant was, would it be more prudent to wait to introduce these new variables?

All the same, I thought, and pushed the button. The machine made its preliminary high-pitched beep, and then a youngish female voice filled the room.

“Hello,” she said. “This is Jennifer calling from Dr. Ferguson’s office. Please let me know if there’s a better number—” The machine squawked in protest as I brought my index finger down heavily on the button marked delete. That—an elaborate piece of bureaucracy, due to a misunderstanding that arose the night I’d learned of my father’s death—was certainly not something on which I would spend another moment. The telephone collected itself, beeped again, and Gerry Van Gelder’s deep voice said:

“Hello there, it’s Gerry.”

He paused, clearing his throat, and I heard the faint rustling of papers in the background.

“Ann thought I should call and remind you about dinner on Friday—also to let you know that her father will be joining us; you met at Thanksgiving. We were thinking around…”

Not listening, I let the message play on to its finish. No new messages, pronounced the machine. The red number in the little window changed from 2 to 0.

I took my seat again at the table and spent the next minute or so not moving, staring out the window with no sense of what was on the other side of it. Gerry Van Gelder with an invitation to dinner, of course. It had been ridiculous to expect otherwise. Nothing to consider there; this was not a new variable at all, but a very old one.