urged someone who would know West Coast values. Then I stood in the middle of my loft in Chicago, held the receiver against my ribs and with one hand hoisted a window open for air. The huge, original frames had been hauled up on a winch and set in place when it had been a button factory. They rode to the top with ease. I looked at the rain hitting my sill, the way it sprinkled the black skirt I wore and the hardwood floor, the spray red from the tail-lights going by. The rush-hour traffic headed from the Loop, the cab late. I put the tiny holes of the receiver to my ear again, looked at the unlit neon signs mounted on my walls. All she wanted was a week of my time.
—You still on the line? she asked.
—Sure.
—Mike and the girls will be there.
I was getting soaked.
—We can do a farewell party to the old place and you can drive the Jaguar while you’re out. . . .
I knew that one of Franny’s neighbors went over to the house weekly to start the motor and inspect the radiator fins flaking off in the salt air. I had always liked that car, and hoped Franny had had a rash moment and left it to me.
From my door-sized windows, I saw the taxi drive up and back, apparently struggling to find my address. But I’d never be able to change and get to the interview in time.
—This will probably be the last chance to be at Franny’s. Nan wants to rent it out until it sells.
No one liked Nan.
—You have to get the art out first, I said.
—That’s why we need you, to tell us that kind of thing. Did I say Mona asked about you? And Livvy. I think she’d like your company right now.
I doubted she had asked for me.
—Just for a weekend, to get you started, I said. Three days. Four at the most.
—I found a pretty good ticket online. But you’ll have to show a medical illness to back out. No refunds.
A few days later, at O’Hare, I ate a green banana, cottage cheese, and two rubbery eggs from a vending machine before the plane boarded. But I had some of my father’s genes, so I couldn’t make myself sick.
......
When I arrived at the Santa Barbara Airport, I chose a subcompact rental. Jane had offered to pick me up, but you have to have your own car in Southern California or you quickly become a dependent. I felt uneasy as I loaded my bags, and I decided to hold off going straight to the house.
Instead I took a detour to Mountain Drive, up in the foothills. I pulled over on a narrow turnout where I could see the city, the cemetery, a large avocado orchard, the marine layer sitting on the beach, the unlimited sky. The chaparral grows up the steep embankment, castor bean digs in everywhere. I thought of times I had spent with Jane: the joint passed across someone’s hot tub, the temperature gauge dropped back into the water. Ease, or something that once felt like ease.
I put the hand brake on and listened to the radio, wondered if I could put the battery at risk that way and stall out there permanently. When that didn’t happen, I went down the hill and drove through the grounds of the Miramar Hotel, past the tennis courts and swimming pools we used to invade. The roofs of the Miramar were still that insane blue, like an advertisement without words: neon poured into shingles. Here. Stay here. The restaurant train car had a new seating area outside with white canvas umbrellas. People were lined up, waiting for tables. I circled round and turned onto San Ysidro Road, past the craftsman-style church. Jacaranda blossoms parachuted along the railroad ties and drifted over to the beach. It made me laugh to see the small purple flowers descend through the air, as if a drama had been saved up to greet me. I punched in the code to the gate and drove through. Then I sat for a while, my car in idle, taking in salt air like an overload of memory. Each summer I’d almost forget what that was like, an intrusion of ocean sound that builds and tears down other sounds until it disappears entirely.
I parked behind the garage. It was the only house that still had one. Years ago the buildings had been spaced apart and there had been some open parking. But all the additions, the desire to cram more in, had pulled them together like row houses. I unloaded the car.
Jane answered the door that day. She seemed confused by my presence, though we had gone over our flight schedules together two nights before. She was thinner than the last time I had seen her, her hair pinned back with tiny butterfly clips, several of which had come loose, as if they were trying to get away from her head. She stepped back into the hall and caught her foot on the cord of a belly board leaning by the door.
—Goddamn it.
Mike stood in the middle of the living room, knee-deep in luggage. He was bare except for his khaki shorts and a pair of battered flip-flops. He smiled when he saw me staring at him. Jane untangled herself. She kissed me on the mouth. I heard the girls upstairs. Mike took my two bags, kissed my mouth as well, and threw on a t-shirt. Jane asked about my flight and if I were thirsty.
—I wouldn’t mind a drink.
Mike put his arm around my waist.
—You’re insane for doing this, he said.
—That’s me.
—How was the flight? Jane asked a second time.
—Direct, I said.
—And the most interesting person you’ve spoken with in the last twenty-four hours? Mike asked.
—The Hertz rental agent?
—The next twenty-four will improve, he said.
—The hotel’s been purchased by foreign investors. They’re going to do a major remodel, make it more of a resort, Jane said.
—Sorry to hear it, I said.
As if she were coming out of a stupor, Jane suddenly offered me something to drink again. But shortly after I said yes, I was thirsty, she looked around, as if she had forgotten something, and then dropped onto the couch. My patience felt like a third suitcase I couldn’t put down. Mike made me a Campari and soda. When I think back on that afternoon, I realize they were like two people with broken whisper phones in a science exhibit. They barely made eye contact with one another.
Finally Jane went off to the kitchen and Mike pushed a handful of dolls in various states of undress to one end of the couch so we could sit.
—You okay? he asked.
—I keep expecting Franny to walk through a door. Mike rubbed my shoulders a little.
—You think the foreigners will leave the blue roofs alone?
—Not a chance, I said.
When Jane returned, I dealt with the topic I imagined she and Mike were avoiding or polarized by.
—I’ll help you work out a rough plan, I said, breaking the skin on the silence.
Jane flinched. Franny’s estate was sizable. She’d been an avid collector of fine and decorative arts. There were the collections of small objects from Africa, Greece, and Egypt; tribal masks; leather-bound books; Moroccan and Chinese rugs. A shelf of
