Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

mugged at her. “You poor little thing. You had a wonderful river right there in your front yard.”
    “A wonderful, yucky river,” said Anna, climbing out of the pool.
    To a certain extent, DeDe agreed with her, but she wouldn’t think of saying so. Anna ran to her, squealing, then did a little on-the-spot warpath dance, waiting to be dried. True luxury, DeDe decided, was only bestowed upon children.
    “Where’s Edgar?” she asked, toweling Anna’s legs.
    “In our room,” said Anna.
    Something about her daughter’s tone made her suspicious. “You two aren’t fighting again?”
    “No,” said Anna. “He says he feels crummy.”
    “He’s sick?”
    “No. He’s homesick.”
    “Homesick?”
    “For Brother Sun.”
    DeDe blotted Anna’s face, then wrapped the towel around her like a sarong. “Well, I bet if you challenged him to a game of Parcheesi …”
    Anna shook her head slowly. “He won’t,” she said.
    DeDe scooped up her sunning stuff and strode across the terrace to the sun porch, where D’or was kitchen-knifing her way through the bills. “Your mother called,” she said, looking up. “She wants us for brunch tomorrow.”
    “How did she sound?” DeDe asked.
    “Good, actually. Cheerful. Not herself.”
    “Did you accept?”
    “I did,” said D’or. “Even more cheerfully.”
    DeDe smirked. “Look who’s not herself.”
    Dropping her stuff in the kitchen, she swept through the house and up the stairs, then stopped outside the children’s door, which was slightly ajar. He sat Indian-style in the window seat, his diary in his lap.
    “Hi,” she said.
    He looked up gravely. “Hi,” he replied.
    “Lots to write about, huh?”
    He shrugged.
    “Sure,” she said, sitting next to him. “You made lots of new friends, learned how to make wallets … lots of good stuff.”
    He nodded.
    “It’s all right to miss your friends, you know.”
    “I know,” he said.
    “I liked that one boy a lot. Philo? Was that his name?”
    Another nod.
    “Did you write about Brother Sun?” she asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “Maybe if you read it to me …”
    He shook his head.
    “Why not?” she asked.
    “It’s just for boys,” he replied.
    “Oh … I see.”
    “No offense,” said Edgar.
    “I understand.” She put her hand on his little knee, gave it a shake and got up. “D’or is grilling tuna tonight. Your favorite.”
    “With peanut butter sauce?”
    “I think so,” she said.
    “Yum.”
    Stopping at the door, she looked back, to find him absorbed in his diary again. She felt an unmistakable pang of jealousy.

Geordie
    O N A SAND DUNE AT POINT REYES, BRIAN WATCHED until the sun had been extinguished by the coastal fog. Then he trudged back to the car, past the secret inland sea called Abbott’s Lagoon. He loved this spot—had loved it for years—for its desolation and drama, its pristine white knolls and sparkling water, a storybook Sahara rolling down to a Biblical shore.
    The threat of death, apparently, was a last-minute eye-opener for some people, but not for him. He had known already how special this place was. He had said so a thousand times. On the proverbial path of life, there weren’t many goddamn roses he hadn’t already stopped and smelled.
    Shouldn’t that count for something?
    He drove back to the city by way of the dizzying Stinson Beach road, then sat in traffic at the bridge while a wounded Saab was hauled away. It was after dark when he finally arrived at the doorstep of Geordie’s cottage.
    She checked him out through the little hatch, then opened the door. “Forget something?” she asked blandly. She looked less haggard than before. Rested, at least.
    “I’m sorry,” he said.
    She shrugged.
    “I shouldn’t have run off like that.”
    “A week ago,” she said, smiling wearily. “I’ve already forgotten about it.”
    “Can I come in?”
    She shrugged again, then made a frivolous welcoming gesture. He stepped past her awkwardly into the low-ceilinged room. A half-eaten TV dinner, still steaming, sat on the coffee table.
    “I’m interrupting supper,” he said.
    “So what else is new? Sit down.” She raked newspapers off the sofa to make a place for him. “Want me to heat you one? It’s Lean Cuisine.”
    “No,” he said. “Thanks.”
    She could tell what he was thinking, and smiled. “It’s not denial,” she said. “I’m not dieting. I just haven’t shopped since the diagnosis.”
    “Looks good,” he said lamely.
    “Did you take the