Dana came back into the living room and pressed a twenty into Michael’s hand. They had a brief chat about the errand. While I waited for them to finish their business, I picked up one of the silver-framed photos. It looked like Wendell in high school, which is to say dorky-looking with a bad haircut.

Michael left for the store, and Dana moved over to the table where I was standing. She took the picture from my hand and set it back on the tabletop. I said, “Is that Wendell in high school?”

She nodded, distracted. “Cottonwood Academy, which has gone out of business since. His was the last class to graduate. I gave his class ring to Michael. I’ll give Brian his college ring when the time comes.”

“When what time comes?”

“Oh, some special occasion. I tell them it’s something their father and I always talked about.”

“That’s laying it on a bit thick, isn’t it?”

Dana shrugged. “Just because I think Wendell’s a schmuck doesn’t mean they have to. I want them to have a man to look up to, even if he isn’t real. They need a role model.”

“So you give them an idealized version?”

“It might be a mistake, but what else can I do?” she said, coloring.

“Yeah, really. Especially when he pulls a deal like this.”

“I know I’ve given him more credit than he deserves, but I don’t want to bad-mouth the man to his sons.”

“I understand the impulse. I’d probably do the same in your place,” I said.

She reached out impulsively and touched my arm. “Please leave us alone. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want them brought into it.”

“I won’t bother you if I can help it, but you’re still going to have to tell them.”

“Why?”

“Because Wendell could beat you to it, and you might not like the effect.”

8

It was nearly 10:00 P.M. by the time I hoofed it through the strip lot behind the Santa Teresa Yacht Club. After I left Dana Jaffe, I hit the 101 north, tearing back up the coast to my apartment, where I hastily tried on several hangers’ worth of hand-me-downs Vera’d passed along to me. In her unbiased opinion I’m a complete fashion nerd, and she’s trying to teach me the rudiments of “shiek.” Vera’s into these Annie Hall ensembles that look like you’re preparing for a life sleeping on sewer grates. Jackets over vests over tunics over pants. The only thing I lack is a grocery cart for the rest of my possessions.

I sorted through the garments, wondering which items were supposed to go with which. I need a personal trainer when it comes to this shit, someone to explain the underlying strategy. Since Vera is twenty pounds heavier and a good five inches taller, I bypassed the slacks, imagining I’d look like Droopy of the Seven Dwarfs. She’d given me two long skirts with elasticized waists, swearing either would look great with my black leather boots. There was also a forties-looking rayon drop-waist print dress with an ankle-length skirt. I pulled the garment over my head and regarded myself in the mirror. I’d seen Vera wear this, and she’d looked like a vamp. I looked like I was six, playing dress-up in the discards from my aunt’s rag bag.

I went back to one of the long skirts, a black washable silk. I think she intended for me to hem the length, but I simply rolled it up at the waist, a little doughnut effect. She’d also given me a tunic top in a color she called taupe (a blend of gray and old cigar butts), with a long white vest that went over both. She’d told me I could dress up the outfit with accessories. Big duh. Like I really had some kind of clue how to make that work. I searched my drawers for jewelry to no avail and finally decided to wear the long crocheted runner my aunt had made for the dresser top. I gave it a little flap to get all the woofies out and then looped it around my neck with the ends hanging down the front. Looked good to me, kind of devil-may-care, like Isadora Duncan or Amelia Earhart.

The yacht club sits on stilts overlooking the beach with the harbormaster’s office nearby and the long concrete arm of the breakwater curving out to the left. The sound of the surf was thunderous that night, like the rumble of cars moving over wooden trestles. The ocean was oddly agitated, the far-flung effects from some violent weather pattern that would probably never reach us. A dense haze hung in the air like a scrim through which I caught shadowy glimpses of the moon-tinted horizon. The sand glowed white, and the boulders piled up around the foundations of the building were draped with strands of kelp.

Even from the sidewalk down below, I could hear the trumpeting laughter of the heavy drinkers. I climbed the wide wooden steps to the entrance and in through the glass doors. A second set of stairs ascended to the right, and I made my way up toward the smoke and recorded music in the bar above. The room was L-shaped, diners occupying the long arm, drinkers confined to the short, which was just as well. The noise level was oppressive given the fact that most of the dinner crowd had departed and the bar was only half-filled. The floor was carpeted, the entire upper story wrapped in windows that overlooked the Pacific. By day, club members were treated to panoramic ocean views. At night, the black glass threw back smudged reflections, pointing up the need for the rigorous application of Windex. When I reached the maître d’s pulpit, I paused, watching him approach me from across the room.