CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Rowan ran with me that morning, huffing along, more and more out of breath.

I ran backward, in no hurry, calling encouragement while he dodged the red plastic space guns and tricycles, the toys kids leave on the sidewalk. “Go on,” he would gasp, and when I jackrabbited ahead I could hear him far down the street, breathing hard.

Rowan wasn’t in such bad shape. It was me—I had never been in better condition. I ran easily up Dad’s street, the morning sun in my eyes, and when I saw him I couldn’t be sure who it was.

I was sure, but I didn’t want to be disappointed. The sun behind him was so strong it seemed to cut him in two, a bleary image I squinted to make out.

“Champion!”

I stopped in the middle of the street, hands on my hips.

He was wearing baggy shorts and a silk shirt with hibiscus blossoms, a man on permanent vacation. I walked up the lawn and he gave me a hug, although I was embarrassed because I was a little sweaty, a spot or two of perspiration soaking through my academy T-shirt.

He turned back to unlock the car in the driveway, a low-slung, exotic-looking automobile. Rowan jogged up the driveway, and Dad asked how it was going, the way men do, so casual and macho they are inarticulate.

“New car?” I heard myself ask.

“Jack loaned me one of his,” he said. He swung the door open and I had a glimpse of a leather interior, the seats worn dark. “An old XKE—it needs all kinds of repairs.”

“That was nice of him,” I said. Niceness was a concept I had picked up from Mom. Calling an act of generosity good made it sound heavy-handed.

“That depends how you look at it,” said Dad.

“Decent body work, though,” said Rowan.

“Jack’s part owner of a shop down in Monterey,” said Dad. “Specializes in detailing.” He slammed the door and fussed with his key chain. The key made a quiet click, and Dad gave us a lift of his eyebrows, letting us in on the question: Will it start?

The engine chattered and stalled. “Every time I turn the key, it’s major malfunction,” said Dad. “This is one of those cars so beautiful it’s about to fall apart.”

He was tanned and had lost weight. Neighbors would be watching, a curtain parting, slipping shut.

“We’ll set up some tennis,” he said. “I bet Rowan’s got a killer serve.” The car coughed and fell silent again. The car rolled a short distance down the driveway, grit crackling under the tires.

I asked, “Where were you?”

For a moment it was like he hadn’t heard me. He set the parking brake, fumbled with a knob on the dash. “Cindy had never seen Tahoe, can you believe that? We rented a cabin with a view of the lake, and a power boat, one of those Formula 27 PCs. I bought a couple of wet suits, some water skis.”

“You had a good time?”

“The best,” he said.

“Maybe it has a manual choke,” said Rowan, leaning on the car.

“It’s flooded,” said Dad.

A moment passed, my dad fidgeting with the gearshift. “You’re not worried, are you, Champ?” he asked gently. “I’m going to come from behind, just like Silky Sullivan. You know the story of Silky Sullivan?” Dad was saying, talking to Rowan, about to embark on a story I had heard a hundred times.

Rowan grinned, a perfect audience, chuckling at all the right places in the tale.

Dad fell silent at last.

“That’s great,” said Rowan, unaware that he had heard a third-rate version of the story.

Dad started the car, the air heavy with the scent of carbon and sulfur. “Jack had the smog device disconnected,” said Dad with a grin: Hope I don’t get caught.

He backed out of the driveway and floored the accelerator, the Jaguar roaring slowly up the street.

Cindy called just before school started in September. “I don’t have time to talk right now,” she said. “I just thought you ought to know.”

I was in a hurry myself, getting ready to see a play at Berkeley Rep with Mom, hopping on one foot, pulling on a pair of what Mom called “sensible shoes.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“I want you to hear it from me first,” she said. What she meant was: You were the one I knew I could talk to. Then she took a moment, like I was supposed to guess.

When I didn’t she said, “Harvey’s going to plead.”