More Like Water, Part 1

 Part 1

If . . . Then

Chapter 1

            Beth was still in bed even though the room was starting to fill with light.  Eyes tightly closed, flat on her back, arms lying loosely at her sides.  She had woken several times during the night, disoriented, not sure where she was.  Now she felt very, very tired.  So, she lay in bed today, not sure of the time, not really caring, and started to dream:

            Liz had just finished filling the teapot, and now she joined her friends at the table.  The blue vase with the yellow freesias stood in the center.  And the plate of fresh cakes rested alongside.  The settings were perfectly presented, with the teacups waiting patiently at the ready.

            “Mr. Bear, may I pour you some tea?”

            “Yes, please. If you would be so kind.”

            “And you, Mrs. Bear.”

            “Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”

            “Sally?”

            “I would be delighted.”

            Each morning the four friends would meet like this, drinking tea and discussing everything that had happened since yesterday.  Sometimes Sally, who was quite limp and had to be propped between the chair and the table, would slip to the floor.  And occasionally Mrs. Bear might not seem to be paying proper attention.  But Mr. Bear never missed a word, and would always jump into the conversation at just the right place.

.       .      .  

Downstairs, Peter walked across the kitchen and opened the window to the front yard.  The sounds of the neighborhood drifted in, but no one could be seen.  Only a robin, or towhee, whichever, provided any animation.  Already it had begun to poke about, flipping leaves into the air, looking for whatever lay beneath.

Peter continued to look outside for a moment or so, then turned back to the kitchen.  For a long time, as long as he could remember, he had approached life with a single-minded focus.  Whether from the presence of a distant father or an increasingly troubled mother, Peter had gone to live in his own world.  As a child, in sports, through school, and now at work.  Success was all that mattered.  And everything had to be done just so, over and over, if necessary.  But today, in a change of heart, thinking about that curiously laboring bird, he had to ask why he, too, should keep flipping leaves, not knowing what he was looking for, and never finding it. 

So how do we resolve the discrepancy between our ideals and the way, as best we can tell, things are?  If the difference is not too great, we may try to change reality: eat better, exercise harder, earn more money, whatever.  Failing that, maybe we change our goals.  Rationally, if something proves immutable, we have to make peace or move on.

When we can’t accept reality or change our goals, something mutative occurs.  On the one hand, we lie, or cheat, or steal, defending, justifying, rationalizing ourselves at every turn.  We self-medicate, in whatever form that may take, uncontrollably, seeking any relief.  Or we sublimate, looking for some chance, however delusional, to accomplish something.

At the other extreme, reality becomes unbearable.  A problem arises, can’t be resolved, won’t go away.  Another follows, also persists.  Then another.  They gather, their collective weight grows, incapacitating us from doing anything.  The ego crushed, all confidence lost, depression takes control, and the id gains free rein.

.     .     .

Beth was depressed, seriously, seriously depressed.  She never had a parent, mentor, friend who helped her understand life, how to enjoy it, how to deal with its responsibilities.  When she could function at all, she was wholly impulsive.  Everything was now impossible, nothing was comprehensible.  Other people did not exist.  Pleasure was no longer important, or imaginable.  The last thing she wanted was another problem to deal with.

When she was eight, Beth and her parents moved from town to the country, too far from even the nearest crossroads for her to have any friends.  She knew kids at school, but none came to visit.  Even television couldn’t reach her, the reception always so fractured and scrambled as to make the outside world seem distant and strange. 

Beth’s dad came to California when the war ended, and following a competitive courtship married Beth’s mom.  He didn’t really know anything about business, but agreed to manage the family’s ranch.  Each night after dinner he’d go around to his office by the garage to study the day’s receipts and expenses, although unable to make any sense of them, and worry about tomorrow’s weather.  He was uncomfortable with polite conversation, couldn’t tell a joke to save his life, and became desperately frightened by any occasion requiring him to speak before a group.

Not so Beth’s mom.  Never seeking the spotlight, she easily held center stage.  Always elegant, she seemed to care little for fashion of any sort.  Wealthy from birth, she was a scrupulous saver.  Easily generous, she was a universal volunteer, but unable to forgive anyone for anything.  Loved, admired, or feared, she was the queen bee to everyone who entered her dominion.

Whatever their true feelings, Beth never felt any affection from her parents.  When they went driving, she sat in back, excluded from conversation.  At dinner, talk generally concerned the affairs of the ranch or events in town.  When she was ever noticed, Beth was easy prey for their scorn, as if in ganging up on her they could somehow even their own score: Do you have to dress like that? . . . did you speak in class today? . . . do you have a boyfriend yet? . . .  does anyone like you? . . . sit up straight –– don’t slouch so.  Whatever she might want to say she learned to keep to herself.

.     .     .

One summer, her parents gave Beth a dog, a beagle, whom she named George.  Every morning, Beth would head off from the house, through the vineyard, pass the orchard, and down to the river, George walking purposefully alongside.  At the river, amidst the wildflowers and loose rocks, the two would sit, George standing every so often to look around, Beth gazing absently at the shimmering reflections.

When she returned each day at noon, Beth would open the sliding door at the back of the house, command George to stay, and step inside.  Already her mother had gone into town, leaving Beth alone for the rest of the day.  So, Beth would head to the fridge, grab a soda, and walk slowly down the hall to her room at the other end of the house from her parents’.  Once there, she’d sit at her desk and stare out the window. 

After awhile, George ran off, and her parents bought Beth another dog, also a beagle which she named George.  Soon it too left, and a third beagle was brought home.  By then, Beth had grown more indifferent than disappointed, so that she really didn’t care when this George followed the first two dogs, wherever they had gone.

One day, late in the summer, everything changed.  In one week, her parents told her, Beth would leave for school.  They had talked it over, and that was that.  You’re going to Sacred Heart Convent.  Time to get an education, time to grow up.

The next week passed as listlessly as had the rest of the summer, and at the end Beth had still not decided what to take.  She simply couldn’t imagine what her new life would be like.  Never weaned, she was less thrilled by the possibility of escape than sorry she hadn’t ever figured things out.  Nonetheless, at the appointed time, she got into the car with her dad, starting a journey she had no idea to where.

 .     .     .

At first, Beth thought she liked being away at school.   The campus was beautiful, exotic really, and so many girls were her own age that the possibilities seemed infinite.  Still, Beth felt alone, not sure who she was.  She could have looked around, intrigued by all the possibilities, fascinated by a great, new experience, but she could only think about her isolation.

Seventh grade, eighth grade, then high school.  Beth went home for holidays and at summer, though her parents never seemed glad to see her.  Home may have been nothing like her new world, but she didn’t feel a part of it either.  So back she went to her room down the hall as if nothing had changed and she was still twelve years old.  She felt dead, just marking time.

College started out differently.  This time Beth was on her own.  She could go to class if she liked, study if she wanted to, eat anything she cared to.  But she never figured out what the rules were, nor especially how they applied to her.  Following her junior year, she and some girl friends went to Europe for a vacation.  Travel made her feel even more adrift, however, and she cut the trip short after a couple of weeks.  In the end, the day she graduated, Beth realized that she had no idea whatsoever what she was going to do. 

So, after a summer spent idly back home with her parents, she entered technical school, and took some classes in accounting.  Terrified of interviews, she learned to fortify herself beforehand with cheap wine.  Eventually, to her surprise, she was accepted for a job with the government.  Unsupervised, she went about her business with assiduous effacement.

Time away from the office proved equally precarious.  She had never been taught to cook, and was too frightened to learn now.  So, she often went to Wendy’s, ordered a baked potato, and took it home for dinner.  Sometimes, she’d boil a couple dozen eggs, and then eat them over the next several days.  Nights were spent watching television.  Some weekends she’d shoplift.

Then, Beth started going to clubs, dancing into the morning.  There she made several friends, all of whom belonged to AA.  More a wannabe than really alcoholic, she started to attend meetings, embracing the culture and its practices.  Finally, she thought, someone worse than me.

She also went to church.  Whether the ritual, the sense of poverty, whatever, she felt relieved.  She sat there, service proceeded, time passed.  Perhaps suspension of reality was enough.  Or acceptance of authority.  Either way, she was under no obligation to do anything differently.  Nor did she care to.

.      .     .

In due course, after various jobs elsewhere, Beth came to work at Peter’s office.  A few days on, she was sitting outside smoking a cigarette when Peter saw her from across the courtyard as he was about to go into the building.  He stopped. And, on pretense of checking his phone, stared in her direction.  Well, that’s interesting, he thought.  So pretty.  So isolated.  Like that sad, beautiful girl on the playground who everyone thinks, If I could only make her happy, she’d love me forever. 

A week later, Peter was standing on the fourth floor just after leaving a conference room where a deposition was underway, talking with some associates.  Everyone was dressed in dark grey pinstripes, white shirt, and a red or burgundy tie.  Except Peter, who was wearing a blue shadow-plaid suit, a light blue shirt, and a green tie.  They were just killing time, chatting about yesterday’s games or something. 

Then around the corner came Beth.  Her arms were full of papers for copying, and she was walking very quickly.  Reaching the conference room, she adjusted the papers, opened the door without knocking, and went straight in.  Outside everyone looked at each other, wondering what would happen next.

With all eyes on the conference room, the door burst open and Beth stumbled out, papers flying in all directions.  Through the engulfing sea of grey, Peter was the first to offer assistance, gathering the papers and then extending his hand, his tie falling in front of her face.  Looking up, she accepted his gesture with one hand and straightened her dress with the other.  Standing now, she took the papers, dropped her gaze, and hurried off, back around the corner. 

The next day, late at night, Peter was sitting in his office when he heard a knock at the door.  “Hello.  Come in.”  And Beth entered, wearing a royal blue skirt, a lavender blouse, and a bright green tie.  Rising from his chair, and quickly assessing the homage, Peter feigned a pratfall, reaching out his right hand in greeting as he adroitly closed the door with his left.

                                                            .      .     .

They were still arranging their clothes as they left Peter’s office very late that night. They walked down the hall, and took the elevator to the lobby.  Since Beth had ridden BART to work, they walked around the corner to where they could take the elevator there to the garage.  They proceeded slowly to Peter’s car, leaning into each other, Peter’s left arm around Beth’s shoulders, and both of Beth’s arms around Peter’s waist, and then drove to Beth’s condo in the hills south of town.  They parked outside and walked up a flight of stairs to her place.  She opened the door, revealing a dark interior leading across the room to a very large window, reflecting the lights below.

Beth didn’t have much in the kitchen to fix a regular meal, but neither of them was very hungry, so they sat in the living room, eating popcorn and watching San Francisco appear and disappear through the fog.  The room was still dark, except for a few embers smoldering in the fireplace to the left.  They fell asleep holding each other, their heads resting on one of the sofa’s large pillows propped against an armrest.

Peter woke that morning when sunlight caught him through the window whose drapes were still drawn.  After a moment, he realized he was alone.  He sat up, and then walked around to the kitchen.  On the counter, he saw a note from Beth explaining that she had left to pick up a few things for breakfast.  No time was indicated so Peter couldn’t judge how much longer she might be gone.  Resisting the urge to inspect the condo, Peter returned to the sofa, put his feet on the table in front, and stretched out, his head against a pillow along the back.  The dazzle of the night before was replaced by a view of cars stuck in traffic trying to reach work.

How will this turn out?  I hardly know Beth at all.  Looking around now, he could see that the place was far from tidy, pretty much like his own.  Judging from the rather basic furnishing, a few pieces of furniture, no paintings on the wall, or really any decoration, Peter guessed that Beth didn’t spend much time here.  Whatever that might mean.

He stood, again, and walked over to the window and looked down.  Focusing closer now, he could see Highway 280 curve its way toward its eventual merger with Highway 101, where the real jam-up began.  I think I’ll call in sick.

Peter could hear a key turn in the lock, and he hurried over to the front door in time to lift a bag sitting just outside.  He invited Beth in, and kissed her cheek.  He placed the bag on the counter and inspected its contents.  Eggs, bread, butter, and instant coffee.  “Great,” he said.

Peter would later wonder what went wrong.  The first couple of days were spent lazing around the condo, with a couple of forays for late lunch, dinner, or breakfast.  Life was cozy and self-contained.  Living alone has its advantages, Peter thought, but it’s not perfect. 

They shared stories.  Beth talked about growing up, getting sent off to school, and not really knowing what to do when she graduated.  She added some details from time to time, but mostly repeated the same account.

She said she liked dancing and rollerblading, which worried Peter because he didn’t really enjoy either.  She showed him her neighborhood, some places she’d go to, Safeway for groceries, Wendy’s for a baked potato, and Peter began to gain a sense of what life was like for her.  Simple, fearful, lonely.

                                                       .        .         .

One evening that first week, Beth said, “Let’s go out, tonight.  See a show.”

“Okay.  Who’s playing?”

“Chris Isaak’s at ‘Bottom of the Hill.’”

“Great.  Let’s go.”

                                                        .          .         .

Arriving around 10, they stood in line for a moment, paid, and entered the club just in time for the second set.  The crew were finishing up, plugging in guitars, checking the sound.  Soon, the lights lowered, the band took their positions, and Chris walked on stage, the spotlight setting his black suit ablaze and the crowd reacting with wild, wild applause.  The lights burst, and “American Boy” exploded.  Then, “San Francisco Days,” “Somebody’s Crying,” and “Dancin.”

A brief pause, while everyone caught their breath, allowing Chris an opportunity for a little interaction.  “Thank you for coming out tonight to support live music – because if you didn’t, I’d be walking around San Francisco in a sequined suit with nothing to do.”

And, after “Lovers Game,” “I don’t know if anyone told you not to take pictures, but go ahead and take all you want.  I didn’t get all dressed up like this for nothing.”

Another pause, as the guitars continued to be re-tuned.  Then, “Wicked Game,” with the crowd instantly, excitedly cheering the first note of the simmering intro.  Followed in quick succession, the pace building, by “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” “Miss Pearl,” and “Dixie Fried,” which prompted an exchange with the drummer.

“So, Kenney, tell these people why this last song was banned from the radio.”

“Well. Chris, I heard that, much like yourself, Carl Perkins liked to wear these effeminate, girly-looking suits . . ..”

“No, Kenney, that’s not why it was banned.  And, I want you to know, there’s nothing effeminate about this suit.  Your most macho athletes . . . you know, your figure skaters . . . they wear suits just like this.”

“Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing” began, and, looking out on the audience, Chris asked, “Any young ladies out there who’d like to come up here and help the band out?”

Immediately, Beth bolted, walked quickly to some stairs on the right, and then onto the stage.  A half-dozen or so others were directed to stairs on the left, leading in no time to a high-spirited mélange.  Except for Beth.  Once on stage, she moved further right, slowly, slowly swaying, eyes closed.

At first, Chris mixed with the dancers, crooning away.  Then he noticed Beth, and went over to her for a verse or so.  When he returned to the front of the stage, she followed, dreamily in tow.

The song ended, and the dancers were escorted quite happily to the left and off the stage.  But not Beth, who continued her slow swaying, now in the back of the stage where Chris was selecting a guitar.  Crew arrived to facilitate her departure, but she didn’t seem to notice, implacably disregarding their remonstrations.  She found her spot, finally, and had no intention of leaving, now or ever.  Sizing up the matter, Chris headed to the stage’s left, Beth again swaying along behind, where the crew were able to block her path. 

Observing all this as best he could, Peter hurried over, up the stairs, around a corner, to backstage.  From there, looking about, Ah, over by the riggings, Beth still swaying, eyes closed, and a couple of the crew, wondering what to do. 

“Hey,” Peter called. “Thanks very much.  I’ll take over from here.”  Puzzled, uncertain, or relieved, they quickly relented,

“Honey, that was great.  But the show’s over.  And now we need to find our car.”

He put his coat over her shoulders, saw a guy further back pointing to an open door, and proceeded in that direction.  Nodding to him, he led Beth out into the night.

                                                         .         .        .                                                    

By Sunday, Peter said he needed to go back to his place for a bit, to collect some things and get ready for work on Monday.  He thought she registered disappointment, but she said nothing.  They walked to the front door, she stood on her toes to give him a kiss, and then waited at the door until he had reached the landing and turned the corner.

Driving over to the East Bay, Peter tried to sort out the past few days.  Despite the fog, the long week had been like a trip to Hawaii.  The condo completed the scene.  No clocks, no cares, really nothing you had to do, as if you were in a world of your own creation, everyone and everything else simply there for your amusement, if you even noticed.  So now he was going home, vacation over, getting ready for a week at the office.

His thoughts turned to Beth.  What must she be thinking?  Why had fate brought her to his office?  Why had she taken that wrong turn into the conference room?  Had she seen him around the building before she stumbled out?  How could she have so easily slipped into this relationship? 

A new relationship always seems so simple, but inevitably turns complicated.  How does it mesh with the life you were already living?  How do two lives merge?  Peter well knew that a mystery was about to unfold.  But, so he also thought, the future can be created, and a relationship perfectly realized, even if he didn’t understand how.

Home again, he sorted through his mail, then walked around the house.  Same place, but everything seemed a little different.  Was this still where he wanted to come every day after work?  Opening the front door, he stared absently out at the yard, then stepped onto the porch, and picked up the accumulated newspapers.

Back inside, he went into the bedroom, perused the closet, grabbed some suits, a couple of shirts, ties, etc.  All packed and about to leave, he stopped in the kitchen, found a game on the TV, and grabbed a beer.  Finally ready, he loaded the car, sat behind the wheel for a moment, then slowly, very slowly, drove out of the garage, down the driveway, and onto the street.

Traffic on Sunday night leading to the Bay Bridge and into San Francisco was heavy and very slow.  A long, long crawl.  Darkness had fallen, and red tail lights began to predominate.

Arriving at Beth’s place, Peter found the front door unlocked. He walked inside, and then, to the left on the kitchen’s counter, spied a large brown bowl with a beer next to it.  On closer inspection, he could see it was filled with guacamole, and chips were stuck in it randomly.  He tried some.  Great guac, soggy chips.  He reached for the beer.  Warm to the touch.  He took a sip anyway, placed the bottle down, and went to look for Beth.

Down the hall, he looked inside the bedroom, and saw Beth lying on the bed, facing away.  He went into the room, slipped off his shoes, and lay down next to her, his right elbow on the pillow, his right hand supporting his head.  He lightly touched then held her left shoulder.  After a moment, she said, “You’re late,” and rolled over face down.

                                                             Chapter 2

Noonish, the first week back, stepping into the courtyard outside his office, Peter saw Beth, as she was leaving through the opening at the far end.  He headed in that direction, stopping when he reached the street, and looked around for her.  Yes.  There.  On the other side, nearly a block down.   Huh, where’s she going?

“Hey, Peter, like to get a bite to eat?” Ben, from down the hall, and a friend from college.

“Uh,” looking to the left, and then back to Ben, “Sure.  Where to?”  

“Blanche’s?”

“Great.”

                                                            .      .      .

From Montgomery, Beth walked to Green, and then nearly to Jones, where she stopped and greeted the doorman. “Hi, George,” who tipped his cap, and held open the door.  Smiling, she entered, and crossed the lobby to the elevator.  Several floors up, she stepped out, turned left, and paused briefly at the second door before knocking.

 It opened slowly, and Louise, Beth’s mother’s younger sister, appeared, along with her Maltese, who jumped up and down, just behind.

“Hi, Sweetie.  Nice to see you.  And, I guess, Jake thinks so, too.”

Kissing her aunt on the cheek, and picking up Jake, Beth walked over to the large window in the back of the room, framing San Francisco Bay from Oakland to the Golden Gate, with Marin County in between and beyond.  Still holding Jake, she stood there for a long moment, looking out. She turned back toward Louise, sitting at one end of the sofa, and joined her at the other, Jake leaping out of her arms, and curling up next to her.

“How’ve you been?”

“Well . . . I’ve met someone.”

“So, tell me.”

“Someone at the office, you know, where I just started.”

“Yes?”

“Tall.  Thin.  Probably a few years older.”

“Okay.”

“He’s an attorney.”

“How’d you meet?”

“Umm.  He did a favor for me.  And I went around to his office the next day to say, thank you.  Actually, I went around the next evening.  And we’ve pretty much been together ever since.”

“So far, so good?”

“Well, he’s kind of controlling.  Wants to do everything his way.”

“So, how’s that going to work out?”

“We’ll see.  For now, we’re still getting to know each other. So, maybe, but I don’t know.”

                                                                 .       .       .    

The next night, Beth and Peter were sitting in bed.  She was watching television, and he was reading a book.  “Peter, do have a second?”

“Uh huh.”

“Could you please watch this show with me for a little bit?  It’s an episode of Forensic Files about a woman who’s so tormented by her husband and his constant criticism that she and her friend decide to kill him.  Now they’re trying to dispose of the body.  Here, let me wind it back a bit.”

“Okay.  So . . . whose body are they disposing of?”

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.  You just said – “

“No.  I mean you’re not really listening to me.  Would you please close that book.  This is important.  All I want is for you to watch this show for a couple of minutes.   After that, if you don’t want to watch it, fine.  But could you just watch for a moment?”

Peter turned the book upside down on his lap, sat more upright, and faced the television.

After a few minutes, Beth said, “Pretty interesting, huh?”

“Umm . . ..”

“Never mind.  Go back to your book.  It doesn’t matter.”

“You know, Beth, I’m not really very fond of these shows.  The scripts are lousy.  The acting is terrible.  And, actually, knowing that you watch them makes me kind of nervous.  I just hope you’re not getting any ideas.”

“As a matter of fact – never mind. Read your book.  If you don’t like the show, please just don’t make fun of it.”

                                                           .     .     . 

Then, over breakfast a few days later, Beth looked up from the table, and said, “I have a problem.”

Peter pushed aside his plate and leaned forward.  “Yes?”

“I don’t feel well. . . .  I can’t seem to focus, can’t get anything done.  My taxes are coming due, and I can’t even put the papers together for the accountant.”

“Okay.”

“Not okay.  I don’t want to do anything.  And I feel really bad about it.”

Peter thought, this sounds straightforward.  “Can I help?”

“No, you can’t.  I have to do this myself.  All the papers have to be rounded up, and I’m the only one who knows where they are.”

“You know, I’m sure if you just put everything in a box the accountant could sort it all out.”

“No.  You’re not listening.  I said I have a certain way to do this, and I’m the only one who can do it.”

Okay.

“Also, I have all these bills to pay, utilities, credit cards, and stuff.  And they’re all overdue.”

“Well, why don’t we take a moment now, and go over them, divide them up, and send them off.

Pause.  “And this house, it doesn’t clean itself.  It gets dirty and has to be cleaned. .  .  .  I’m not a maid.  That’s not how I want to spend the rest of my life, keeping this house clean.”

“Well, I don’t mind cleaning.”

“But you don’t know anything at all how to clean a house.”

“Well, give me a chance.”

Silence.

“Or how about getting someone to come over every so often and do all the things you don’t want to do?  A housecleaner.”

“I feel like I have to do everything around here, and it’s just not fair.”

“Well, in fact, since we’ve been together, I’ve done all the shopping and cooked all the meals.”

“But you always make such a mess in the kitchen, and I don’t want to have to clean it up.”

“The pans and stove are always cleaned.  And all the plates and glasses and stuff put into the dishwasher.”

“I don’t even like the food you cook.  It’s so rich and fancy.  I’m trying to lose weight, not see how big I can get.”

“So . . .?”

“Look, I’m not happy.  You’re always so late getting home.  Then we have to eat late.  I’m not hungry.  But I can’t help myself, and I eat everything, anyway.  I just feel so controlled.  Everything has to be done the way you want.”

Peter was confused; astounded, really.  How can two people see things so differently, he wondered.  Rather than taking it as a warning, however, Peter considered this simply as another problem to be solved.  After a while, he thought, maybe we should move to my place in Oakland.  One roof, more time to spend together.  Beth agreed, and they did.  But, because she didn’t like the East Bay, missed San Francisco, or felt drawn more under the sway of Peter in his home, Beth never adjusted, growing ever more depressed, and so lay in bed today, unable to get up.

                                                              .     .     . 

As she lay dreaming, Beth started, recalling an article she recently read about people who jump from the Golden Gate Bridge.  Apparently, the fall doesn’t kill them.  It breaks their bones and smashes their organs, but they don’t die from the impact.  Instead, they float about for awhile, like jellyfish, conscious of what’s going on around them, yet incapable of controlling movement.

This pleased Beth.  Floating along, with the lights of the bridge overhead, the sound of a foghorn somewhere in the distance, and the sight of San Francisco from between the waves.  So much energy spent hurrying about, never enough time really to do anything.  Far, far better to slip along, languidly, lazily, to the sound of the gently lapping waves.

                                                        Chapter 3                                                 

A hummingbird flittered into Peter’s view and began examining the blooms overgrowing the path, like a beachcomber making his solitary rounds along the shore.  It paused on a branch, looking this way and that, and then launched a staticky soliloquy. Peter tried to mimic the sound, something like a typewriter.  Perhaps irritated, the hummingbird zoomed away.

Just then, he heard commotion from outside the front door.  Knock.  Knock.  Knock . . ..  Knock.  Knock.  Knock . . ..  Giggle. Giggle. Giggle. . ..  Opening the door, “Hello?”

“Hi.” Three little girls.  “Would you like to buy some cookies?”

“What kind are they?”

“I call them, ‘Know Thyself.’”  

“So, then, how much are they?”

“Four dollars each.”

“No. That’s too much, Avery.  Remember, ‘Nothing in excess.’”

“Okay,” interjected Peter.  “How about four dollars for the first one and one dollar each for the others? – Wait, sweetie.  You’re spilling the cookies.”

“Shellie!” said one little girl.  “Shellie!” said the other.  “Here,” said Peter.  “Use both hands and hold the plate steady.”

“Shellie!  You’re spilling the cookies again,” said the first little girl.

“Shellie!” repeated the second.

But Shellie only smiled, shyly, and spilled the rest.

.     .      .

Peter closed the door, walked back to the kitchen, placed the plate of broken cookies on the counter, and went to the refrigerator. 

“Damn. No milk.”

Oh, well, Peter mused, we need a couple of things.   I’ll get the milk on the way.

He walked down the hall, and called up the stairs, “Honey, I’m going out now, back in a bit.”

Beth said nothing.  Instead, reverie broken, she stretched, turned, and clutched herself.  Falling back to sleep, she remembered a bit more.  Soon small fish stop by to nibble.  Eventually, sharks are attracted, and they finish the job.  The remains then break apart and disperse beneath the waves. 

.     .     .

Peter selected a bit of cookie and took a bite as he walked out of the house and toward the car parked in the driveway.  Looking around he could see that the neighborhood was still asleep.  Where did those little girls go?  Where had they come from?  He got into the car, locked the seatbelt, started the ignition, and turned on the radio:

Is it getting better?
            Or do you feel the same?
            Will it make it easier on you now?
            You got someone to blame

You say, one love, one life
            When it’s one need in the night
            One love, we got to share it
            Leaves you baby if you don’t care for it

Did I disappoint you?
            Or leave a bad taste in your mouth?
            You act like you never had love
            And now you want to go without.

.      .     .    

After tea, Liz cleared the table and put away the cups and plates.  She placed her friends against the pillow on the bed so that they might be comfortable.  Jumping up, she climbed alongside.  Lying quietly, she smiled, and began to dream.  Outside, a cloud passed by and the room filled with light. 

.     .     .

            Driving along, Peter thought about the times he had tried to break off their relationship.  More than once he felt that he was responsible for saving her, but that she refused to do her part.  He believed that anything was possible if you just tried hard enough.  This made life with Beth so difficult.

                        Did I ask too much? More than a lot
                        You gave me nothin’ now it’s all I got
                        We’re one but we’re not the same
                        Well we hurt each other and then do it again

You say love is a temple, love a higher law
Love is a temple, love the higher law
You ask me to enter but then you make me crawl
And I can’t be holdin’ onto what you got
When all you got is hurt.

.      .     .

Beth first tried therapy many years ago when her parents told her, don’t bother us, you’ve got plenty of money, go see a doctor.  That lasted a while, followed sporadically by sessions with a series of other therapists.  But nothing really changed.  She would talk about the same people, relationships, and events over and over and over, without making any apparent effort to understand them, resolve them, and then move on.  Session after session, year after year, she never saw that other people don’t change nor realize that she had to in order to survive.  She was just like this at home: always the same litany of blame, never any willingness to accept responsibility, do things differently.  This maddened Peter.

            At Beth’s insistence, they tried counseling.  Peter would have preferred that they work things out themselves and not get someone else involved.  Still, that approach hadn’t succeeded.  So, Peter told himself, let’s give it a try and see whether a professional can help.  At least, hopefully, Beth would have to confront her actions and their effect on him.

                                                                           .     .     .

            Dr. Henry asked Peter, Why are you here, what do you want to accomplish?

            “Well, I wonder how we can go forward if Beth doesn’t change the way she does things.  When we first got together she was carrying around all these problems, none of which she ever took care of, so that the next thing would simply crush her, and send her out of control.”

Well, let me ask you, Beth, how do you see all of this?

“Yes.  I needed help.  I was very lonely and my life was in chaos.  And, yes, he tried to help.  But everything has to be done his way.  You know, he just thinks he’s always right, and that means, as far as he’s concerned, that I’m always wrong.”

Peter had to jump in.  “But she just won’t deal with anything.  And she’s nasty about it.  You caused the problem, she didn’t.  And she’s screaming, and calling you names and anything she can think of.”

Beth?

“Yes, I know I’ve been abusive.  I know I’ve said some hurtful things.  But I’m really not very happy.  I have all these problems and I just don’t think Peter wants to help.  I mean, he has his own life and doesn’t really seem to have any time to be with me and help me take care of the things I need to do.  And when he finally gets home, the time is so late, and I’m frustrated, so I get very angry.”

So, Peter, what do you want to do?

“Well, for a long time I tried to get Beth to go to therapy again, but this time to focus on learning how to solve problems.  I thought, maybe something like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, you know, whatever exactly that is.  And she got started.  But from everything I heard she never, in any practical way, got down to learning how to do it.  So, I felt frustrated because, not only was she not dealing with her problems, she won’t even try to learn how to deal with them.”

“That’s funny.  Just like my parents, he tried to send me off to a shrink.  Let someone else deal with this.  He’s done.”

Suddenly, paying attention now, Peter could see a deer just ahead, near the bend, standing in his lane.  Too late he tried to brake, smoothly at first, then frantically.  He steered hard to the left, but the car skidded to the right, out of control, catching the edge of the road, and flipping onto its roof, the tires spinning round and round.  Dust rose.  And the outside world was shut off from view.  Light streaked through a side window, causing a million particles to sparkle like gold.

Chapter 4

“Hello, are you alright?”

Moving his head, cramped between his shoulders, slowly to the left, Peter could see a face, upside down, staring in.

            “Are you alright?”

            Peter thought for a moment.  Good thing I didn’t take the car into the shop last week.

            “Are you alright?”

            Trying to adjust his position, but restricted by his seatbelt, Peter managed, “Yes.  Thanks.  Just a minute.  Okay.  Thanks.  Could you reach the handle, please?  I think I can get the seatbelt.  There.  Thanks.  Now, just catch my feet if you can.  Yes.  Thanks.”

            Peter crawled out, righted himself, leaned back against the car, and then slid to the ground. 

            A long silence followed in which Peter could hear the dust settle.  He looked up and she bent down, looking at him slowly, closely. 

            She stood up.  “Like a hand?”

            “No.  Yes.  Thanks.  I think so.”

            Back on his feet, Peter stretched his neck and tested his limbs.  “Not too bad, I guess.  Yikes, what a mess.”

            “Hmmm.”  Surveying the site, “I’ve seen worse.” Pause.  “So, care to get this back on its feet?  Okay, then.  Come around here. . ..  Now, rock it a bit.  There.  A lot harder.  Okay.  Now!”

Thump.  Rattle, rattle, rattle.

“So, that wasn’t too bad.  Looks pretty good, actually.  Now, mind giving me a ride into town?”

“Okay . . ..”

                                                                   .    .    .

They got into the car, followed by a long pause while Peter reflected on recent events.

“Like me to drive?”

“No, I’m just . . ..  Okay, then.”  Moment of truth: “We have ignition.”

As the car, sputter, started off, sputter, sputter, Peter resumed his reflection.

Regret after regret proceeded to fill his head.  He began to recall one stupid, selfish thing after another.  Still, he thought, I’ve never done anything mean or nasty, never tried to hurt anyone.  Lazy, yes.  Meanspirited, no.  At least I don’t think so.

 “Care for something to eat?”

“What?”

“Like to stop for a bite?”

“Umm . . ..”

“What about that place up there?”

 “Okay. . ..  Alright.”

Peter angled the car into a space just in front, turned off the engine, and leaned back.

“Shall we?”

“Sure.  Yes.  Okay.  Let’s.”

Getting out, “By the way, I’m Peter.”

“Eve.”

Okay, “Eve.”

He stopped to consider the car, but couldn’t really focus.  What a mess.  Fortunately, it was covered by dirt so that the extent of the damage wasn’t immediately obvious.

“Are you coming?” Eve called as she stepped inside.

Peter followed after a moment.

“Care to eat outside?”

            Out the long room Peter could see a patio in the back, lit with sunshine.  “Yes.  Okay.”

            The place was like a myriad others in Oakland, Peter thought, as he looked around.  An old store, high ceiling, opened up with tables in the middle and along the walls.  Darker than most, though, without any windows.

            Eve had moved to the register.  Peter saw that she was wearing jeans, heavy black boots, and a white t-shirt.  A woolish shirt was tied around her waist, and a very large, black purse hung from her right shoulder.  Peter joined her, a step behind.

            A waiter appeared, Eve said something to him, and he led the way through the room.

            Walking slowly behind, Peter tried to adjust his eyes to the dim light.  Several paces on, the brightness of the patio through the backdoor caused him to blink hard.  Then, crash!  ––  Peter bumped into a table and stumbled over a chair, catching hold of a counter.  A jar fell, which he grabbed out of the air.  Marmalade: “Mr. Barne’s Old Fashioned.”

            Righting himself, Peter proceeded to the patio, where he saw Eve and the waiter standing in the middle by a table.  “How’s this?”

            He stood in the sunlight, squinting.

            “Peter?”

            “Maybe one more in the shade.”

            Peter and Eve sat down at a table against one wall, and she said, “Excuse me.  I’ll be right back,” and left to go inside.

            Peter looked around.  He could hear music:

                        I disappeared on you
                        You disappeared from me
                        I gave you everything you ever wanted
                        I wasn’t what you wanted

                        The men who love you, you hate the most
                        They pass right through like a ghost
                        They look for you, but your spirit is in the air
                        Baby, you’re nowhere.

            Two men entered the patio and sat down nearby.  One man spoke, very loudly, Peter thought.

            “You know, when I was in New York, I couldn’t get a moment’s rest. Seems everywhere I went I saw someone I knew.  And, you know, everyone said they thought I looked really great.  And, you know, I feel really great.  Like I’m twenty-eight again, or something.”

            Oh, no.  Please.

            “Oh, and did I tell you? I’ve decided after all to take their offer.  An advance of six million and six books.  I know, I know.  I should have held out for just three books, but so what? Six aren’t so many.”

            That’s it.  That’s it.

            And so Peter, who had always considered himself a very good writer –– no, a great writer, potentially –– couldn’t take any more.

            “Excuse me.  If you don’t mind, could you not speak so loudly?  I ––”

            “What?”

            “Would you mind keeping your voice down?”

            Blank stares.

            “I can’t hear the music. Thank you.”

            Peter returned to his chair.  He picked up the menu, then put it down.  He gave the water a quarter turn, then another.  Well, he thought, that’s better.

            The sound of music returned:

                        Oh . . . love . . .  you say in love there are no rules
                        Oh . . . love . . . sweetheart
                        You’re so cruel!

                        Oh . . . love . . . to stay with you I’d be a fool
                        Sweetheart . . . you’re so cruel

            God, Peter thought, Beth is never going to change.  No remorse.  No gratitude.  No empathy whatsoever.  Why am I still here?

            At that moment, Eve returned, and Peter stood.  “There.  Hope you’ll forgive me.  Now,” sitting down and reaching for a menu, “what looks good?”

            And before he could answer, “So . . . Peter, how do you plan to change the world?”

            “Well, I . . . well, I don’t know.  Not very much today, anyway.  I mean, yes, that would be good, I guess, of course . . . but . . . something always seems to come up.”

            The waiter, having returned: Would you like something to drink?

            “Tea,” Eve replied.  “Hot.”

            “Yes.  Coffee.  Black.  Very, very black.  Thank you.”

            Eve picked up her purse from the floor, put it on her knees, and rustled the contents.

            Peter looked at her more closely.  Blond, curly hair.  Very thin.  Maybe the same age.  Maybe older.

            The ice in his glass shifted with a tectonic clink. 

            “Well.”

            Now she looked at him.  “Well?”

            The waiter, suddenly appearing: Your tea . . .. And your coffee.

            After a moment, adding milk to her tea, “So, Peter, are you married?”

            “Married?  No . . . not really.”

            “‘Not really’?  What does that mean?”

            “Well, I . . ..”

            “Do you have a girlfriend?

            “Sort of, I mean . . ..”

            “‘Sort of’ . . .?”

            “Well, yes and no. We’ve kind of been, you know, on and off, off and on, and now . . . we’re off.”

            “Do you live together?”

            “Yes, but –– ” 

            “‘Yes, but’?”

            “Maybe for not much longer. It’s just not working out.”

            Would you like to hear today’s specials?

            Peter and Eve turned to look at the waiter who had just appeared.

            First, Chef has prepared bacon strudel . . . . Also, andouille tartare . . . chorizo carpaccio   . . . true grits a cheval . . . eggs Benedictine . . . crispy sweet potato piperade . . . marshmallow millefielle . . . banana meuniere . . . macadamian gumbo . . . raspberry bouillabase . . . cherry cioppino ennui . . . black and tan blancmange . . . butterscotch and soda parfait . . . roly poly treacle tart . . . kumquat foam malaise . . . rambutan rumble . . . and crumble pudding.

            Peter looked at Eve.

            “Toast, butter, jam,” she said.

            “Um . . . the same.  Thank you.”

            My pleasure.

            No one said anything for a long moment.  Then Peter felt compelled to say, “Funny how people can go on together for so long, even after everything has changed.”

            “‘Like boats against the current borne back ceaselessly into the past.’”

            “‘Or ignorant armies clashing in the night,’” 

            The waiter placed the order on the table, then stepped away.

            “You know, Peter, a relationship is only as good as you are.”

            Peter thought this over.  Yes, of course.  I’m sure that’s true.

            “The point is, are you able to let people be themselves? “

             What if I really am to blame? Peter thought.  What if none of this has been Beth’s fault?  What if I’ve just been a big self-centered, self-righteous baby?  “Well, I . . ..  You know, I think I’m starting to feel a little tired.”

            “I’ll be right back.”

            Peter closed his eyes.  He slid forward to the edge of his chair and let his head rest on its back.  He could sense the shade move across the table and slide over the edge to the floor.

                        I was unconscious, half asleep
                        The water is warm ‘til you discover how deep

                        I wasn’t jumping, for me it wasn’t a fall
                        It’s a long way down to nothing at all

                        You’ve got to get yourself together
                        You’re stuck in a moment
                        And you can’t get out of it

                        Don’t say later will be better
                        Now you’re stuck in a moment
                        And you can’t get out of it

            Eve returned and stood behind her chair.

            Peter looked up, then straightened in his seat.

            “Can you give me a ride to BART?  I need to get to San Francisco.”

            Brief pause.  “Better yet, let me drive you over.”

Chapter 5

            Liz resumed dreaming.  She and her friends had woken from their nap and were now walking somewhere in a forest.  Mr. Bear kept close to Liz on one side, looking up at her as they traipsed along.  Mrs. Bear, who would have fallen behind, jogged as best she could on the other side.  Liz carried Sally, who really couldn’t walk, at her elbow.

            Butterflies were everywhere, and flew about in a shimmering rainbow.  Several lighted on Mr. Bear, who, offended by the indignity, waved them all away.  But Mrs. Bear, who was quickly covered with them, either didn’t notice their presence or didn’t care.

            “Where are we going?” Sally wanted to know.

            “We’re going on a hike, of course,” Mr. Bear tried to explain, without any real confidence that Sally would understand.  “We’ll be there soon.”

            “When exactly will that be, if you know?” Mrs. Bear made an effort to ask between heavy breaths.  “Is anyone else growing warm?”   

            At that point, what Liz had thought to be a grassy floor she now realized was actually a carpet of butterflies which opened ahead as a series of steps, then closing behind as the party proceeded.  And, as if for Liz’s amusement, the little creatures now covered Mr. Bear like a new suit.  Oh, well, he thought, they probably can’t hurt anything.

            Just then a very large crow, large even for a crow, flew in and landed a few feet in front of Liz, scattering butterflies in every direction.

            “May I join you?” he said.  “I’ve lived in these woods for many years.”

            On hearing this, Mr. Bear tugged at Liz’s sleeve, as if to say, please be careful and answer that question correctly.  For her part, Mrs. Bear simply stared at the crow, her eyes wide open and her mouth agape, like she had never seen a talking crow before, much less one so authoritative.

            “Of course,” Liz replied, “we’d all be most happy if you would.  Wouldn’t we?”  Sally, who was very drowsy, seemed to nod assent, and neither Mr. Bear nor Mrs. Bear indicated any disagreement.  “So, then, very nice to meet you.”

            Liz looked around now and realized that her party was completely enclosed by the forest.  Everywhere she saw trees, but nothing beyond.  No opening pointed how they had entered or how they might leave.  Even the sky was blocked from view.  “So, Mr. Crow, where are we, if you know?”       

            “Well, that depends, of course.  Where are you going?”

            “Well, we’ve been out for a walk, you see.  And now, I think, we’d like to go back home.  Do you know the way?  That would be very helpful.”

            “That’s a very good question,” the crow said, which pleased and comforted Mr. Bear greatly.

            “How to get out of here, then?  You know, if you were like I am, a crow, you could just fly away.  But you’re not, you’re a little girl and three dolls, so that’s different.”

            Liz considered for a moment what the crow had just said.  “Well, Mr. Crow, we like your forest very much.  We really do.  But now we have to go home.  How do you suggest we should proceed?”

            In turn, the crow examined Liz, first from his left eye, and then from his right.  “Well, of course you do.  But should you head right or turn left?  Or go forward or backward?”

            “As far as we’re concerned, any direction would be fine, as long as it’s the right direction, the way home.  So, Mr. Crow, if you were one of us, and you know what you know, how would you head?  If you wanted to get home, that is.”

            “Well, I think that’s exactly right.  If I were one of you, and if I knew what I know, what direction would I take? Yes, that’s exactly right.”

            Mr. Bear looked at Liz now, wondering where all this was going, then back to the crow.  Mrs. Bear was also looking at the crow, but her eyes and her mouth had grown fixed.  Sally could be heard snoring softly.

            Liz stood still and seemingly relaxed, waiting politely for the crow to answer her question.

            “Okay, then,” he finally said.  “Let’s go . . . this way.” And off they all went.

            “Oh, and by the way,” the crow added after a bit, “We may meet some other animals, but they’re all friends of mine, so you have nothing to worry about.”

            After some time then spent at a brisk pace, they emerged from the woods to see a lake of great and uncertain size lying a few feet away.

            “Ah, ha,” the crow remarked.  “Well, what now?  You could, of course, walk around the lake to get to the other side.”

            “Oh, no,” Mrs. Bear replied, “not me.  I think I’ve walked enough for one day already.”

            “All right, then,” the crow said, “you all could swim across.  And that might even be quicker.”

            “No,” Mr. Bear said, “I don’t think that would really work.  You see, Mrs. Bear and I are not proper swimmers.”

            From the right, along the shore, an approaching voice could be heard.  “As another option, you could all sit on my back as I swim across.”

            “Ladies and gentleman,” said the crow, “may I present my very dear friend, Mr. Crocodile.”

            “Well, hello, Mr. Crow.  Very nice to see you.  Ladies.  Gentleman.”

            Again, Mr. Bear looked at Liz, and Mrs. Bear did likewise. 

            “Oh, how do you do?  So nice to meet a friend of Mr. Crow,” Liz began.  “We were just telling him how wonderful this forest is.  And now, gosh, what a beautiful lake.  You must be so very proud.”

            “Yes, yes.  You’re right.  We are quite proud.  It is so beautiful.”

            Just then, “Hello, there, Mr. Crow.  Mr. Crocodile.  Who are these people, may I ask?”

            “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Turtle,” said the crocodile.  “I should have known that you’d be about somewhere.”

            “Well, Mr. Turtle,” said the crow, “how very timely.  We were just discussing how these folks might get across the lake, and Mr. Crocodile offered to give them a ride.”

            “A ride?  Mr. Crocodile?  Oh, my, that simply won’t do.  No, no, I don’t think so.  Have you seen all those sharp scales on his back?  No offense, Mr. Crocodile, but your back would make a most uncomfortable ferry.”

            “And you, Mr. Turtle?  You make me laugh.  Everyone knows you only swim underwater.  How would that be for our guests?  Very, very wet I would think.”

            “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the crow intervened.  “Please, please show our friends some decorum.”

            “Harumph!!!”

            With that everyone turned around to see an elephant emerge from the forest.

            “Would anyone like a ride?  I’m heading around the lake and could use some company.  Anyone interested?”

            Mrs. Bear could only stare at the great pachyderm, but Mr. Bear, much excited and relieved, grabbed Liz’s hand eagerly, as if to say, please consider this option very seriously.

            So addressing her friends, Liz asked, “What do you guys think?”

            Then, without waiting for their further consideration, she said, “Well, so, thank you, Mr. Crocodile, and you, too, Mr. Turtle.  And, also, thank you, Mr. Crow.  But I think we will take Mr. Elephant’s very kind offer.  Mr. Elephant?”

            And with that, the elephant scooped Liz and her friends with his very long trunk and placed them gently on his wide, surprisingly comfortable back, directing, “Hold on, here we go!”

            After a while, Liz thought to herself, this elephant is blue. A very, very elegant blue.  So, she said, “Mr. Elephant, you’re not gray like all the elephants I’ve ever seen, are you?  You’re blue.”

            “Well, I’m not really sure what you mean.  But I have to ask you first, what others are you talking about?  To whom do you refer?  Can you name one, for example?  I might better understand your question if you could.”

            “Well, I don’t think –– no, I really can’t name any.  I mean, I’ve never actually met an elephant before, but every one I’ve ever seen has been gray.”

            “But if you’ve never met one, if you can’t refer me to any, well, how can I answer your question?”

            “Yes, you’re right, of course.”  And with that, having suddenly grown very, very tired, Liz stretched out and soon fell asleep.

.     .     .

            Peter and Eve emerged from the restaurant into the sun’s direct glare.  He shielded his eyes and moved automatically toward his car, spied its battered condition, and experienced a visceral recollection of the morning’s events.  “Doesn’t look any better, does it?”

            “No.  Just about the same.”

            They walked over to the passenger’s side, Peter opened the door for her, she got in, and he went around to the other side, wrestled that door open with a creaking squawk, and fitted himself inside.  He was beginning to feel a little sore.  “So,” Peter said as he started to back out the car, “where to?”

            “My daughter’s been managing a gallery in San Francisco, South of Market, and she’s leaving tomorrow for Paris.  Her friends are throwing a party, and I’ve come to see her off.”

            “Really?  Okay, then.  Give me directions as we get near.”

.     .     .

            Driving slowly down the street, Peter thought to test the steering, and noticed that he had to work to keep the car pointed straight ahead.  He eased to a stop at the first intersection, turned right, and proceeded to where a large sign invited him onto Highway 580, heading to the Bay Bridge.  So far, so good.

            Keeping to the far right lane, confidence still shaken, Peter tried to stay in the flow of traffic.  A bit further on, he realized he needed to move to the left to avoid the egress from Highway 24.  Checking the mirror, and signaling his intention, he slowly slid over.  Ignoring the commotion and repeating the maneuver, he managed to reach the second lane.    

            Then, taking the wide curve away from Highway 80, he could see a stagnant sea of red lights flooding the Toll Plaza and an intermittent trickle of vehicles to the left coming off the bridge and out of a billowing fog. Instinctively, Peter attempted to move back to the right where the flow of traffic would be less impeded.  In complementary fashion, reading his car to mean that the driver had nothing to lose, the other cars let him pass from lane to lane.  “So, Eve . . . do you live in Montclair?”

            “Yes, for a while, now.” 

            “What do you do?”

            “I write.  Poetry, mostly.  And teach.”

            Slowly they passed through the toll booth, inched along to the signal lights, and finally eased toward the bridge.

            “So, what kind of gallery does your daughter manage?”

            “Paintings.  Sculpture.  Installations.”

            “That sounds interesting.  Do you see her often?”

            “Actually . . . no, not really.  Not for quite a while.”

            “So, why’s that?”

            “I think . . . we had different expectations for each other.  I watched her grow up, and had these ideas of how she’d turn out.  And she never really got over how I was different from her friends’ parents.  How I couldn’t get a job, keep the house straight, or cook a meal.

            “But we managed to get by.  So that, more and more, she found her way, made her own life.  And, now, she’s off to Paris.” 

            They had reached midspan.

            Peter thought, I’ve always loved this view of the bridge at night as the lights form these strange, flowing patterns of intersecting towers and cables ––

            “Just ahead there, right lane, exit to Fremont Street –– No, better yet, keep going to Civic Center.”

            “Uh . . . okay.”

            They fell quiet as a moment later the car turned off the Skyway and headed in the direction of the intersection below.  Waiting for the light to change, Peter felt the world grow small by force of the encapsulating fog.  The few lights visible glowed dimly within wide, fuzzy auras.

            After the green light, and through the intersection, Eve directed, “Take the next right.”

            “Yes.  Ninth Street.”

            Several blocks later, “Now . . . turn right . . . here . . . and, down two blocks, turn right again.”

            The fog was very thick along here, too, and seemed to absorb all sound.  Every so often a car would materialize and silently drive past.  San Francisco was never so unfamiliar.

            “Okay, so turn next at . . . Quedado Lane . . . and the gallery . . . should be . . . somewhere around . . . here –– yes, over there.  Number 10.  Okay, see any place to park?”

            Peter pulled right in front, and a doorman appeared.  “You can’t park here,” he said, as they started to get out.

            “Okay,” Peter said, as he looked across the hood at Eve, “you go inside and I’ll park the car.”

            “All right.  Do you know where you are?”

            “Pretty much.  See you in a bit.”

            Peter got back into the car, and drove cautiously down the narrow street, searching for an open spot.  Nothing.  Reaching the end, he could see a sign indicating one-way to the left.  Okay. 

            At the first intersection along that route: no left turn.  Okay.  One block further, a stop light with traffic in both directions.  Nothing familiar.  Left, I guess, but how do I get back to the gallery from here?

            At the next intersection: again, no left turn.  Okay, fine, keep going.  At the following one, he could turn left, and did.  One block later, one-way to the left.  Ummm.  No.  Continuing, he came to another one-way to the left, an alley.  No sign apparent.  Okay.  I’ll take that. 

            Then, at the end of the first block, one-way to the left.  Now what?  Okay, well, I’ve just got to . . . get across.  So . . . here goes . . . nothing.  Hitting the accelerator, then braking hard –– Honnnnkkkk –– and flooring it, again, Peter made the other side, stopping to catch his breath directly opposite the gallery.  With no one now anywhere in sight, Peter pulled again into the space just in front, turned off the ignition, sat for a moment, then got out of the car.  Okay, that was easy. 

                                                                      Chapter 6

            “Wake up, dear.  Wake up,” said the elephant.  “We’re here.”

            And indeed they were.  Sitting up, rubbing her eyes, and looking around, Liz could see everyone she had ever known, her parents, her friends, kids from school.  Flags waved, searchlights beamed, and an ocean of acclaim began to roil.

            “Liz.  Liz.  You did it!  You did it!”  Mr. Bear and Mrs. Bear exclaimed in unison.  Even Sally was standing and clapping.  “You did it!  You got us home.  Thank you.  Thank you.”

            The elephant lowered Liz and her stuffed friends to the ground and moved back two steps.  Immediately, from the side, she was handed a microphone.  But before she could speak, the crowd broke, led by her parents, and came charging toward her.

            Grabbing her dolls, and quickly thanking the elephant for his help, Liz ran headlong into the night, faster and faster and faster.  Finally, when she could no longer hear any voice, having long outstripped even the fleetest pursuer, she stopped, briefly examined the microphone, still held in her left hand, and then tossed it aside like Antonioni’s broken guitar.

.     .     .

Peter walked inside to a dark room, a hallway, really.  To the left, he glimpsed a bright     . . . sign.  Moving closer, he read,

                                    HERE YOU ARE, IF YOU ONLY KNEW.

Next to that,

                                    ONLY TIME WILL TELL, BUT NOW’S NOT THE TIME.

Followed by,

                                    MAYBE LATER, MAYBE NOT.

Then,

                                    FOR NOW, THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERS.

And, finally,

                                    CODA PENDING.

            Further along, he brushed against a wall, and traced it to a door –– no, an elevator –– in the middle.

            “Ah, ha,” he said as he pushed a button, and the elevator immediately opened.  He walked in and examined the operating panel.  “Let’s see . . . ‘Ten Quedado, R. Panglossian, prop., Second Floor.’  Okay.”  He pushed the indicated button and began to rise.  He leaned back, closed his eyes . . . but all too soon the door re-opened, revealing a crowded, raucus scene, a melee of indistinguishable voices.

            He stepped out slowly, and looked for a place to sit, to steady himself and gain his bearings.  He saw a bench to his left, and walked over and sat down.  In a moment, bits of conversation bubbled up, as from Barth’s floating opera.  God, he thought, I feel like Jack Bauer on a bad day. 

            “Hi, my name’s Keesha.  My mother said you’d be along.  How are you doing?”

            Peter looked up and saw a young, very tall woman with straight, blond hair, wearing a long black dress, bare at the shoulders.  She smiled when she spoke, showing more very white teeth than he had ever seen at one time. “I’m . . . okay.  Thanks.  What a crowd.”

            “Yes, I guess so.”

            “Your mother is . . . “

            “Really, really nice?  I don’t think so, but that’s all right.”

            “Hi, Keesha,” from another young, very tall woman.

            “Oh, hi, Mimi.  Say, I’d like you to meet Peter, a friend of my mother.  Peter, this is Mimi.  She has some work on display here.”

            “Peter, nice to meet you.”

            “How do you do?”

            “Please excuse me,” Keesha said.  “If you don’t mind, I’ll be right back.”

            “. . . So, uh, Mimi ––”

            “Actually, my name’s not ‘Mimi.’ It’s Molly.  Keesha just calls me that because she says I only talk about myself.”

            “Okay, then, Molly . . . what can you tell me about your work?”

            “You’re sweet. Well, here’s something . . . I’ve been playing around with . . . trying to tell a personal story . . . through abstract, fairly abstract, images.  Or, you might say, trying to express abstract ideas through a kind of contemporary . . . narrative.  You know, something like where modernism meets postmodernism.”

            “Uh . . . kind of like Cindy Sherman . . .?

            “Not exactly, but . . . now, over here are a couple of things I was working on before.  Based on infrared aerial photographs of various places around the Bay Area.  The Bay, of course.  And the Delta.  And some fields of crops.  Still, the effect is abstract, I think, not really pictorial.  No top.  No bottom.  No push.  No pull.  Completely flat.  Absolutely no sense of gravity.  But, in the end, no me.  And so . . . I decided to try something more narrative.”

            “Ummm ––”

            “Molly!”

            “Molly!”

            “Carrie.  Priscilla.  Nice to see you guys.  May I present Peter?  Peter, these are my very good friends, Carrie and Priscilla.”

            Is everyone here tall, blond, and dressed in black?  “How do you do?  Quite an affair.”

            “Yes.  We’re all big fans of Keesha.  Sorry, of course, she’s leaving.  But a good excuse for a party, right?”

            “Right.”

            “Ladies.”

            “Oh, hi, Richard.”

            “Yes, hi, Richard.”

            “What a night, huh?  What a night.  Should be able to sell quite a bit tonight.  Quite a bit.  What do you think?  What a crowd!”

            “So, Richard, I’d like you to meet Peter, a friend of Keesha.  Peter, this is Richard.”

            “Yes, hi, nice to meet you.  Say, has anyone seen Keesha?  I need to speak with her right away.  I think we have a couple of sales pending.”

            “She was here just a minute ago.”

            “Yes, I think she went that way.”

            “That way?  Okay, thanks.”

            “So, Peter, let’s ask, how do you know Keesha?”    

            “Well, I ––”

            “Peter knows Keesha’s mom.”

            “Well, actually, Eve and I just met.  On the way over, I guess you could say.”

            “Molly,” said a voice approaching from behind Peter, “May I have a moment?”

            “Hi, Charles.”

            “Hi, Charles.”

            “Hi, Charles.  Peter, Charles is my agent.”

            “Hi, everyone.  Nice to meet you, Peter.  Wow.  This place is so crowded I felt like Christ entering Brussels.”           

            “All right, Charles, what’s up?   See you all in a bit.”

            “So, Peter, what do you think?”

            “I think . . . no wonder the streets are so quiet tonight.  Everyone must be here.”

            “Yes.”

            “Yes.  At least all of our friends.”

            “Are you guys artists, also, or agents?”

            “Well ––”

            “Agents, of course.  Agents provocateuses!”

            “Yes.  Agents provocateuses!”

            “So, then, Peter, what do you do?”

            “Yes, Peter, what do you do?”

            “Well, I . . . I’m a lawyer.”

            “A lawyer? What kind of lawyer?”

            “Yes.  What kind of lawyer?”

            “Um . . . I’d say . . . about average.”

            “About average?  What do you mean ‘about average?’”

            “Yes.  What do you mean?”

            “Well, you know . . . somewhere in the middle.”

            “Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . ..”

            “. . . Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . ..”

            “That is, I ––”

            “Yes . . .?”

            “Yes . . .?”

            “Well, about half of my time is spent advising clients how to stay out of trouble. . . . And the rest is spent trying to get them out of trouble.”

            “Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . ..”

            “. . . Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . ..”

            “Well, you can try my case any time you’d like.”

            “Yes, or mine.”

            “Well, I ––”

            “Seems like I’m always getting into trouble.”

            “Me, too.”

            “Hi, guys.”

            “Keesha.”

            “Keesha.  Isn’t this fun?”

            “Yes, thanks to you all.  But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow Peter for a moment.”

            “No.”

            “No.  We’re having too much fun.  Come back later.”

            “Well, I just need a moment.  Then, he’ll be right back.”

            “No.”

            “No.  Come back later.”

            “Peter,” grabbing him by the arm, “I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

            “But, I ––”

            “Be right back . . ..  There, now, you were very lucky, Peter.  They . . . can be . . .very dangerous.”

            “Dangerous?  You’ve got to be kidding.  We were just ––”

            “Peter, seriously, step over here for a moment, I ––”

            “They seemed very friendly . . ..”

            “Yes, very, very friendly.  But the important thing is . . . if you ever want to get home, again . . ..”

            “What?  Yes, yes, I would.  Thanks.  Thanks for . . . everything.”

            “Hello, Peter.  Keesha.”

            “Mother.”

            “Hi, Eve.  Say, I’m sorry to run off but . . . I just realized I need to be going.  So, if you’d like a ride back to the East Bay ––”

            “Actually, I think I’m going to stay a bit longer.”

            “Really?  So, then . . . well, nice to meet you both.  Good luck with everything.  And bon voyage.”

            “Bon voyage.”

            Walking across the room, Peter stopped a few feet from the elevator and looked back.  But Eve and Keesha were no longer to be seen, lost somewhere, he supposed, in the ever-milling crowd.   So, turning to the elevator again, just as it opened, Peter stepped inside.

.     .     .

            Beth started, gave a shake, and sat upright.  She paused, then threw herself out of bed.    Standing in the middle of the room, she put her hands to her head, then placed her palms over her eyes.

            God.  God.  God.  This is so ridiculous.  God help me.

            She went to the chest of drawers, grabbed a few things, and tossed them onto the bed.

            She opened the closet, took this and that from several hangers, and collected these on the bed, as well.

            A small backpack lay on the shelf in the closet.  I’ll take that.  And, no, that’s enough.  I’ve got to get out of here.

.     .     .

            Peter stood outside the gallery and looked around.  The fog had grown so thick he couldn’t see beyond his car.  Great.  Moving around to the driver’s side, creeeaak, got . . . to . . .  get this door . . . open. Then, sitting behind the steering wheel, trying not to think, Okay, got to go.

            He pulled away from the curb, and drove down the street, as through a tunnel.  At the intersection, he stopped, then turned left.  Several blocks on, the entrance to the freeway lay straight ahead.

            Back on the Skyway, heading to the Bay Bridge, and Oakland beyond.  Anyway, the traffic is light.  He turned on the radio.

                        The more you see the less you know
                        The less you see as you go
                        I knew much more than I do now.

                        Neon heart, day-glow eyes
                        The city lit by fireflies
                        They’re advertising in the skies
                        And people like us.

                        And I miss you when you’re not around
                        I’m getting ready to leave the ground

                        Wow, this stuff is so thick, I better . . . slow . . . down . . ..

                        I’ve seen you walk unafraid,
                        I’ve seen you in the clothes you’ve made     
                        Can you see the beauty inside of me?
                        What happened to the beauty inside of me?

            Then, approaching the tunnel, on the bridge’s lower deck, he saw tail lights aglow, all traffic stopped ahead.  Slow down.  Slow down.  Jeez, it looks like . . . a giant bloodshot eye.  Exit.  Exit.  Where’s the exit?  Yes.  Yerba Buena to the left.  Okay.  Slowly, now.

            Slipping by two cars blocking escape, then passing through a series of curving turns, Peter came to an opening where he could see the lights of San Francisco smoldering off to the left.  Now, what?  How do I get back onto the bridge?

            A little further along, okay . . .  Treasure Island to the left.  That’s . . . no good.  So . . . let’s try . . . Macalla Road, is it? . . . Yes, to the right.

            Through another series of curves, passing beneath eucalyptus dripping fog, with vague, edificial shapes left and right, Peter dropped down to the foot of the Bay Bridge.  Wow.  Look     . . . at . . . that.

            He got out and stared up at the bridge, then down at the water.  Like I’m at the edge of the world.  Between the living and the dead.  He walked around a bit, within a cloud of unknown dimension, hands deep into his pockets.  Returning to his car, and noting its derelict state, he was reminded, again, of the day’s events.

            He sat on the hood, facing the water, then lay back, as at a drive-in, waiting for the show to begin.  He stayed like that for a long time, hoping his head would clear.  No such luck.

            Sitting up, reluctantly, and with some difficulty, he wasn’t sure what to do next.  I know I want to get away from all this.  I have only so much time, and this whole thing with Beth is really just wasted effort.  All my time and energy are spent dealing with her moods.  All the same, I know if I walk away, call an end to all this, I’ll always wonder whether things could have worked out if only I tried harder. Or, if I didn’t try so hard, and Beth could be herself.  Yes, what if I didn’t try so hard?

            Jesus.  I, I, I . . . I sound like Mimi.

            Back behind the wheel, Peter felt a sudden urgency to get home.  Reversing course, back up and around the island, he eventually returned to the main road.  Looks like San Francisco over the water  . . . and Treasure Island to the right.  So . . . let’s go . . . left.  Yes, there, the sign for the Bay Bridge.

            Okay.  Slowly, now.  Oakland to the left.  Around this curve . . . yes, the bridge.  So . . . nobody on this side.  Whatever happened back there, the road is clear ahead.  Except for all this fog.  A little music would be nice.

                        Some people get squashed crossing the tracks
                        Some people got highrises on their backs
                        I’m not broke but you can see the cracks
                        You can make me perfect again

                        All because of you                                                      
                        All because of you
                        All because of you
                        I am . . . I am

                        I’m alive
                        I’m being born
                        I just arrived, I’m at the door
                        Of the place I started out from
                        And I want back inside

                        All because of you
                        All because of you
                        All because of you
                        I am.

            Okay, stay awake . . .. Highway 24. . .. Highway 13, stay awake . . ..  Park Boulevard, yes, thank you . . ..  Stay awake . . ..  Turn, turn, curve, curve, turn . . .. Ease into the driveway.  Turn off ignition.  Get out of car.  Walk to front door.  Open door.

            Beth . . . Beth . . . Beth . . .? 

Small Steps Create Big Shifts

Confidence doesn’t always arrive with a bold entrance. Sometimes, it builds quietly, step by step, as we show up for ourselves day after day. It grows when we choose to try, even when we’re unsure of the outcome. Every time you take action despite self-doubt, you reinforce the belief that you’re capable. Confidence isn’t about having all the answers — it’s about trusting that you can figure it out along the way.

The key to making things happen isn’t waiting for the perfect moment; it’s starting with what you have, where you are. Big goals can feel overwhelming when viewed all at once, but momentum builds through small, consistent action. Whether you’re working toward a personal milestone or a professional dream, progress comes from showing up — not perfectly, but persistently. Action creates clarity, and over time, those steps forward add up to something real.

You don’t need to be fearless to reach your goals, you just need to be willing. Willing to try, willing to learn, and willing to believe that you’re capable of more than you know. The road may not always be smooth, but growth rarely is. What matters most is that you keep going, keep learning, and keep believing in the version of yourself you’re becoming.

Turn Intention Into Action

Confidence doesn’t always arrive with a bold entrance. Sometimes, it builds quietly, step by step, as we show up for ourselves day after day. It grows when we choose to try, even when we’re unsure of the outcome. Every time you take action despite self-doubt, you reinforce the belief that you’re capable. Confidence isn’t about having all the answers — it’s about trusting that you can figure it out along the way.

The key to making things happen isn’t waiting for the perfect moment; it’s starting with what you have, where you are. Big goals can feel overwhelming when viewed all at once, but momentum builds through small, consistent action. Whether you’re working toward a personal milestone or a professional dream, progress comes from showing up — not perfectly, but persistently. Action creates clarity, and over time, those steps forward add up to something real.

You don’t need to be fearless to reach your goals, you just need to be willing. Willing to try, willing to learn, and willing to believe that you’re capable of more than you know. The road may not always be smooth, but growth rarely is. What matters most is that you keep going, keep learning, and keep believing in the version of yourself you’re becoming.

Make Room for Growth

Confidence doesn’t always arrive with a bold entrance. Sometimes, it builds quietly, step by step, as we show up for ourselves day after day. It grows when we choose to try, even when we’re unsure of the outcome. Every time you take action despite self-doubt, you reinforce the belief that you’re capable. Confidence isn’t about having all the answers — it’s about trusting that you can figure it out along the way.

The key to making things happen isn’t waiting for the perfect moment; it’s starting with what you have, where you are. Big goals can feel overwhelming when viewed all at once, but momentum builds through small, consistent action. Whether you’re working toward a personal milestone or a professional dream, progress comes from showing up — not perfectly, but persistently. Action creates clarity, and over time, those steps forward add up to something real.

You don’t need to be fearless to reach your goals, you just need to be willing. Willing to try, willing to learn, and willing to believe that you’re capable of more than you know. The road may not always be smooth, but growth rarely is. What matters most is that you keep going, keep learning, and keep believing in the version of yourself you’re becoming.