No family saga can be told in its entirety.
Blake thought back on it, feeling wistful and philosophic, his behind on the couch, feet on the coffee table, while the local morning news was on mute (for the commercials, originally). The family saga. What’s its hidden message? What ties one individual to the next? He ruminated on what he knew about his father and his mother. Maybe he could find parallels in his pop’s storied career. Or discover meaning in his mother’s lessons and the way she brought him up. But that’s as far as his family saga could go. After that, things became fuzzy. His grandparents—what were their stories? Great-grandparents. The image even less clear. And beyond, the Hoffer line was unknowable. He thought of the news that his wife Jean carried a little ragamuffin in the oven, and that the Hoffer line might have a new chapter yet, but then what? It would only take a generation or two until Blake was as pinched out as everyone else.
It wasn’t his vanity he worried about. Life went on. There was a beauty to that. Instead, he worried about the family saga. What did it all mean for the Hoffers? Where did the thread begin? What challenges did they confront, end to end, generation after generation? Did they all have the same needs as his father? Did they all strive to keep the peace? Or did the Hoffers begin as crooks? Somewhere in the middle maybe.
Sometimes, when Blake thought about his older brother Cole (whom he noticed he saw less and less, despite the standing weekly dinner he typically attended), he imagined that Cole unconsciously embodied the entirety of the Hoffer family saga in miniature (not that Cole would be aware of it). It was a hunch. He always seemed so damaged, so conflicted, so scarred by drama, despite the fact that Blake well knew they had the same upbringing. He liked to imagine there was a war going on up there in Cole’s head, between different personas, each wanting to make stern points to the others, like all of the Hoffer ancestors gathered in pink brain goop, extricated from space-time, deciding together what the future of the Hoffers would hold, like little aliens in a skull, or kids piled up inside a trench coat and a hat, pretending to play adult.
Poor Cole. What had he thought when he found out about his nephew or niece-to-be? What was hidden behind his canned reaction to the news that the Hoffer family saga was about to continue without him? Were all the ancestral voices in his head finally uniting? Or were they fighting as ever?
Jean joined Blake on the couch and asked why it was on mute. He kissed her on the forehead and she snuggled into his throat while the room remained quiet. He counted the minutes until he’d have to report to work. He stewed in the love. One last cuddle until he’d have to face the unfortunate truths about his city.
One last respite until he finished building a controversial case against one Mia Hattaran.
He’d kept it on the down-low for now—half of the Property Crimes division had no idea, in fact. The case had been festering, developing, like his unborn child, for this whole past month. Picture this: Blake gets a call of a break-in at a pristine, white manse in Pacific Heights, right along Vallejo. Belongs to the De Luca family (one of many for them). Windows busted. Alarms blared. But nothing’s missing. That’s weird, right? And the De Lucas call off the “official” investigation forty-eight hours in. That’s even weirder, isn’t it? Blake’s up shit creek, and he’s got a good paddle, and the paddle’s golden, but his passengers would prefer to sunbathe along the current. But here’s Blake, he’s thinking about his kid, wondering what kind of city he’s leaving behind, what story he’s writing for his saga, where rich, good folk like the De Lucas can get violated like that, and Blake says nah.
So Blake staked out a couple nights by the De Luca household. Looking for repeat offenders. He almost gave up, and then he found something interesting.
Mia Hattaran, driving alone, right by the De Lucas. A wistful look on her face.
He knew Mia, barely, from a banquet or two where everyone had to get all dolled up. He knew she was married to Charles Hattaran, or “Chuck” was what Cole would say, who worked with the San Francisco Police Officers Association.
But what did any of that have to do with Mia’s stakeout across the street from the De Luca complex?
And what did that have to do with the death of Chuck Hattaran?
Blake didn’t know yet. And he didn’t know enough. He’d considered a couple of times sharing his hunches with Cole, but the man could be so insular, so arrogant, so separate to himself. And he didn’t owe him anything, Blake decided. This was Blake’s story. His saga. The Hoffers depended on him.
“Mrs. Hattaran,” Blake had said when he arrived at her home, unannounced. This was three weeks ago, a week and change before her husband passed away. Her husband wasn’t home. She had been in a bathrobe, but Blake couldn’t help but notice as she poured him coffee and her robe slightly disassembled that her undergarments suggested, well, celebration. She had said she had company coming over that night and that she didn’t have much time. Blake cut to the chase without giving away his hunch. He asked if she knew the De Lucas. She said she was familiar with one of them, yes. Craig De Luca (the patriarch to be). But just in passing. Blake didn’t press.
He never did.
“You still don’t think we should find out?” Blake asked Jean, on the couch. “You know, if it’s a boy or a girl?”
Jean nestled even closer into his throat and bit at his skin a little. The answer was no. Blake didn’t press.
He never did.
He finally unmuted the television.
He had a good case. But he needed another hunch. Another clue. Another branch to complete his tree of knowledge. He was confident it would come. Blake wasn’t under any illusions that he was a wise man, but he did have one piece of wisdom he felt was true: there was no benefit to looking too hard at the Bay. You had to let the Bay look at you and it would reveal itself as whatever it was going to be, in its own time, just like this baby.
While Jean was asleep in his arms, his cell phone was vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out.
An unknown number.
“Hello?” he turned on the chipperness involuntarily.
“Blake … it’s me. Cole. I, uh … I need your help.”
For all of the arguments we simulate in our heads where we embrace our mea culpas or shoot down our friends’ advice or stand up for what we believe in, there are only a few choice instances in life where these clarifying moments get to happen for real. Where we can choose between what we think is right and what we think matters. Love or the law. And while we like to think of our internal personas as the sum of those imaginary arguments, the truth is the only ones that matter are the ones that happen for real. Those moments, and those decisions, and those actions are the ones that become our family saga.
“Cole,” said Blake, “tell me where to be.”