THIRTY-TWO

I told myself I was just going for a drive, no particular destination.

I found the street without any trouble—Olive Street, where it meets Foothill Boulevard and runs east toward the 580 freeway and the big quarry gash, a landmark you can see even at night in the Oakland Hills, soil and stone ripped to bedrock.

The houses in that neighborhood have metal grills over windows, double doors, filigrees of iron it would be hell to cut through. Dogs bark. Men on street corners watch passing cars.

But at last I reached a quieter part of town, not far from the freeway. I had trouble locating the addresses. Some of the houses had metal numbers attached beside the front door, or glittering on the mailbox, but some did not.

I felt conspicuous in the early evening, out of place. I coasted very slowly, nearly stalling. An out-of-date Ford rusted on the front lawn, on blocks, a white Galaxy. A pickup truck, hood up, occupied the driveway, the garage door open only enough to allow a person to leave and enter. The interior of the garage was dark.

Geraniums flowered up under the picture window, and the curtains were open. The lawn was black in this poor light, a hedge on either side of the house, and a big shrub, something that was not thriving, snaking stems and broad shiny leaves.

No people. The front window—what Mom would have called a “picture window”—was empty; the wall across the room pool-bottom blue. A car approached, headlights in my rearview mirror. The approaching car’s sound system thumped, bass notes all the way through my body. I jacked the Honda into gear and cautioned myself to keep under the speed limit, twenty-five, maybe thirty miles an hour.

I passed the house again and began to wonder if they had all gone out to celebrate, leaving the lights blazing, fooling the would-be burglar. Once again I drove around the block.

This time I let the Honda kiss the side of the curb, stopping, holding my breath. The curtains swayed and began to close in little jerks. The curtains stuck. A figure edged into the narrow space between the curtains, an arm reaching up to adjust one of the hooks that attached the drapery, the person standing on tiptoe, muttering with the effort. I knew how he felt, having to fuss with such a mundane annoyance on a night like this.

A light flooded the garage, the door open only enough for me to see a shadow moving around on the concrete floor, a can of Budweiser glittering beside the pickup truck.

I drove, letting the car find its way.

Deena’s Diner was crowded with cheerful, hungry people. The special was lettered on a white plastic squeak board, the kind Dr. Monrovia had used to illustrate my dad’s injuries. Bea was handing out plates of Caesar salad, plates of vegetarian enchiladas, the two specials for tonight. She gave me a dazed, weary smile, and I could see how satisfied Bea was with her life. She loved this shuffling of orders, the hectic, blackjack dealer side to being a waitress. She liked all of it.

Maybe I had been hoping for some event to deflect my intentions, someone to say just the right thing, some random comment to stop me. But I wouldn’t try to talk to her. I waggled my fingers and mouthed, I can’t stay.

I stopped by a corner grocery on Piedmont Avenue and bought a carton of bean dip and a jumbo bag of Doritos. Just before I gave the cashier the money I hurried back and got a can of tuna off the shelf.

I ate standing up at home, over the kitchen sink, scooping up the bean dip and then eating the tuna out of the can with a fork.

I washed my hands, wiped my mouth and chin with a paper towel. I called Chief’s number, and Harriet answered.

“Tell Chief I won’t be in tomorrow,” I said.

“Bernie is so upset,” she said, a voice that sounded like a singing voice, a contralto, round voice, even though she was only chatting on a phone. She liked the sound of her voice and depended on it to keep her listener right where she wanted him. “We both are. We look around at the world we live in and just don’t know.”

Bernie.

I forgot to tell her how much I enjoyed her sandwiches. It wasn’t quite true, but I wanted to say something polite. I hung up too soon.

The spade was in the shed with the dregs of the lawn nutrient, the nearly empty sack tangled up in the blade of the spade. I stuffed the large paper fertilizer bag back into the shed and then listened to the neighborhood, the televisions, the muted conversations, the background hush of far-away traffic.

The lime tree drops leaves all year round. Once a week or so it lets one fall, tinted with yellow. Mom called up a nursery and they told her this was how a citrus lets go of used-up leaves, little by little, not all at once like the birch or the ginkgo.

I dug into the ground with the spade, the steel chiming and grating against the tiny bits of gravel and concrete in the soil. I took care, not quite sure, digging with my fingers, wondering exactly where.

Deeper than I expected, I remarked to myself. Maybe not here at all.

I was thirsty, even a little queasy. Okay, it isn’t here. Brilliant, another great moment in the History of the Mind. I felt giddy, an audience inside me, a theater with no applause, no laugh track, flat silence.

The plastic bag did not make the rustling sound I expected. One moment I was spading dirt. The next minute the steel met steel, a dark sound, too loud. I fell to my knees and worked with my fingers again, uncovering the weight.