10/1/11

Grace's Heart - Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE



June, 1993

      Sewing always relaxed Grace.  She loved creating things, and working for Jamie turned out to be as satisfying as she thought it would be.  As she watched Alex play on the floor, stacking tuna and soup cans in among his alphabet blocks, she knew that the move to San Francisco had been a good one.  During the two years she had been here, Jamie's business had grown exponentially.  Grace found that she was able to help him in ways that neither of them had anticipated.  She'd found a wholesale dress company in Tulsa, Oklahoma for him that sold racks and racks of simple but well-made dresses for $3, $5 and $10. With Grace in charge, Jamie could go and hand-pick the dresses, rather than just taking whatever they would send in bulk.  A $3 dress could sell for $300 after embellishment. 
      Earlier in the year, Jamie read an article about a computer programmer in San Jose who had started an online auction website.  He figured he could reach a few more people by trying it, and since he didn't quite have the money to open a store, he bought a digital camera and a computer and started selling on the fledgling eBay.  Grace's big brother now pulled in close to $350,000 a year and had recruited most of his roommates as employees.  At any given time,  there were 4 or 5 men sitting around sewing sequins and feathers onto little black dresses, packing boxes for shipping, or working on the computer offering items for auction.  Grace even got to be the model for many of the photos.
      Jamie was doing very well and so, in turn, was Grace. She had been able to pay her expenses and still put away a good portion of her pay in savings each month.  Her dream was to be independent and start her own business, but the inspiration of what hadn't hit her yet, so she was biding her time and saving her money.  One of Jamie's roommates had moved out to live with a friend, so Grace and Alex now had their own room with a sunny view of the water through the trees.  There were so many people in the house, there was always someone to watch Alex or play with him when Grace was tired. 
      So different from the short span of time Grace had been with her father and Maggie.  She simply said she and Alex were going, and no one really seemed to care.  Grace packed up her few things and used the plane tickets that Jamie sent her.  She made a point of calling her father every week for a while, but many times Maggie answered the phone and said her father was busy or that he wasn't home.  When her father did answer the phone he sounded distracted and was probably drinking.  Grace tried to call early enough to get him before he started on the bourbon, but late enough so that she didn't wake them.  Soon, it became so much of a chore that it was once a month, then once every other month, then more.
      Grace was able to let go of her father and Maggie in the way that children do when they have new and exciting lives.  Her natural process of separating from her father, however, was very unlike the wrenching division from Matthew.   She had loved Matthew for as long as she could remember, and although it seemed as if he had no desire to communicate with her or his son, Marjorie had told her not to give up hope.  Grace would lie in bed at night feeling compassion for the wives of soldiers missing in action, living in the netherworld of possibility and the loneliness of marking time. 
      Every day brought a hope that the phone would ring and it would be Matthew, while every day ended with his memory and the feel of his touch growing dimmer and more dreamlike.  She wore his wedding ring, called herself married and talked to Alex of his daddy, but the inner voice started to take on a strident and desperate quality, like a lawyer arguing a lost case.  Grace kept in infrequent touch with Matthew's parents, sending photos and short notes. Grace liked the Cramers enormously, but they and Grace were simply exhausted by the many months of anxious worrying and futile strategizing for Matthew’s return.  Marjorie wrote her when she received the sporadic letters Matthew would send. 
      Matthew’s original purpose in going to North Carolina was to bring Tony’s body back to Idaho.  That was accomplished within a week, but Matthew failed to accompany his brother on the journey home. Instead, he stayed on, ostensibly to discover exactly what had happened. Matthew interviewed Tony’s friends and colleagues, and his likeness to his brother opened their doors and hearts to him.  Unlike the taciturn and angry husband that Grace knew in their final days together, this Matthew charmed his way into their lives, taking the place of the friend they had lost.  In essence, Matthew became Tony.
      After six months of this, John Cramer had flown there to bring his second son home.  He returned alone, baffled and stunned by the transformation.  Grace knew John was being gentle with her, but he couldn’t disguise his dismay at what he had seen and heard.  Matthew couldn’t, or wouldn’t, come home.  Grace read between the lines of what John said, discerning that Matthew had no more interest in a relationship with Grace than Tony would have.  Grace thought about going to him, but Alex was so little, and John strongly discouraged her from making the trip, just shaking his head and frowning, unable to put words to his experience.  It was hard to believe now that it had been two years since she stood across from Matthew and pledged her life to him. 
      Grace put aside her sewing, and decided to brew a cup of tea as Alex contentedly played on the sun-dappled hardwood floor.  Seeing the blonde sparkle of his head, so much like his father’s, she wondered how she would feel if Matthew walked through the door this minute.  He had changed, but so had she.  Time had passed, and Grace now felt far removed from the young girl who had impulsively fled to Alaska with the love of her life.  Living with Jamie and Alex had given her a warm core of security and love.  And Peace.  And although she missed her dream of being married to Matthew, Grace was happy.
      As the tea steeped, she thumbed idly through the mail on the hall table, and pulled out a letter addressed to Grace in the familiar, compact handwriting of Marjorie Cramer.  A rare letter, these days.  Grace picked up her cup and went back to sit down, wondering how many months it had been since she’d heard from her.  With a twinge of guilt, Grace realized it had been almost four months since she had even spoken with her father, remembering his quick and slurred reply to her happy birthday call.  She glanced at her watch.  10:00 a.m., hopefully early enough to talk to him without competing with the bourbon.  She would call him when she finished Marjorie’s letter.

Dear Grace,
     Thanks so much for sending on the pictures of Alexander.  He's growing so quickly into a young man, and something about his eyes remind me of Nicholas at that age.  We will look forward to seeing him the next time you make your way back to our little town.
     I wanted to share with you the conversation I had with Nicholas two weeks ago.  I'm afraid he won't be back home very soon, as he has enlisted in the Army.  He said he needs to fill the spot that was vacated by our Tony, that he must "live for himself and for Tony" were his exact words.  He has made it known that he seeks active overseas combat, and he expects to ship out soon after his training is completed.
     Matthew's father and I feel terrible about the way he has chosen not to participate in his son's life, or yours, but we have exhausted all avenues of reason with him, I'm afraid.  I think that we may have lost both sons when Tony died.  Nicholas is still with us, but he is not the same.  We still have hope that he will come back to us, and to you, but that hope is diminishing with each conversation and letter.
     Grace, we are so sorry about your father.  He seemed very troubled in recent years, and we must admit we haven't been very sociable since he remarried.  Everyone was surprised not to see you or Jamie at the Memorial, but understand that you are both very busy with your new lives.
     That said, it's not good to turn your back on your home, if you don't mind a little unsolicited motherly advice. Your father's wife said you both had commitments that kept you from coming, and that Ben was very sad at the end not to see you.  That decision may be something you regret later, as you get older, but it is water under the bridge now.  Each of us must make peace with the dead, Grace, and I am surely not one to talk.  I have my peace to make with both of my sons now.
     Give our grandson a big hug from us, and please continue to let us know how he does.  We love the pictures.

Best Wishes,
Marjorie Cramer

      The letter dropped from Grace's hand and fluttered to the polished hardwood floor, settling in a patch of sun.  Grace was having trouble breathing, although her mouth was open in shock.  Her eyes filled and quickly spilled out on to the table, into her tea, on her hands, but still she didn't move.
      Ben was very sad at the end not to see you.  Surprised not to see you or Jamie at the Memorial.  Water under the bridge.  Make peace with the dead.  Oh God oh God oh God Daddy's dead and Maggie said we wouldn't come.  My heart is going to break wide open right here on the table it hurts so much.
      "Graciela, do you have the black size 16?  The one with the feathers?" Jamie came breezing in, saw Grace, and stopped, stock-still.  First he looked to Alex and saw that he was in one piece, and then back to his sister, who was whiter than the walls and breathing like a fish out of water, taking little gulps of air.  She was also crying, wide streaks running down her face. 
      Her right hand still dangled bonelessly over the side of the table, and Jamie followed the line with his eyes to the page on the floor.  He flew to her side, and picked up the letter in one fluid motion.  "Honey, what is it?" He said softly.  "Is it this?"  Holding up the letter, he saw the signature at the bottom.  "Did something happen to Matthew?"  As he asked, he started to read the letter, skimming, looking for some tragic news that would reduce his sister to this state.
      He found it.  And where grief had gripped Grace, rage took up residence in Jamie.  "Oh, that fucking bitch!  Oh, Christ, she didn't tell us? She let him die thinking we didn't care enough to travel from here to Idaho?"  Jamie was shaking now, and the letter shook with him, while he used every expletive he could summon up to describe his stepmother. 
      The letter shook so much that it caused Grace to move.  She reached her hand up and placed it gently on Jamie's and Jamie's anger melted into her sadness.  They held each other then, crying for the father they had found so difficult to reach, crying at the thought of him dying and thinking they didn't care.  And as they cried, Alex stood and wobbled his way over to them, sensing in the way of small children, that something was very wrong.  It looked like hugs, and he loved hugs, so he put his fat arms around his mother and patted his uncle on the cheek, touching tears.
      Grace held him and whispered, "Oh baby, your grandpa died.  That's why we're so sad."



      Grace gave Ellen one last look and a wave as she turned onto the driveway.  Her head actually ached with the thoughts that were swirling in and out of her consciousness.  It reminded her of those awful days right after she found out her father had died.  A thousand times a day, the blissful forgetting and then the painful stab of remembering.  Not that her father had been so much a part of her life at that time, but it was profoundly the end of something.  The end of childhood and the beginning of she and Jamie being the head of their family, the oldest generation of Delaneys.  Whatever her father had been to her, that was all he would ever be.  There was no longer a hope of sudden sobriety, sentimental reconciliation, a child on a grandfather’s knee, or a young man looking into wise eyes and learning from the patriarch’s mistakes.  She and Jamie comprised all Alex would know of family wisdom. 
      Ben was fixed forever, standing on the porch, right arm up, left arm propping his bulk against the post, pipe dangling smokelessly from his yellowish teeth, his lips in the grimace that was all the smile the pipe allowed.  He would never be older than that day to Grace, never get grayer, never more stooped.  He would know of no more Presidents, no more scandals, no more movie stars, no more wars.  He might as well be in sepia tone, as ancient as a daguerreotype.
      And that he had died thinking that Grace and Jamie were too busy to say goodbye, that had been almost more than Grace could bear.  The unfairness of it, the chilling lie they had no more opportunity to refute, and Maggie finally, triumphantly with the last word.  A lie made possible by distance and neglect, and yes, by the busyness of the everyday lives of Jamie and Grace.  A sweet, weak man who had truly done the best he could for his children, abandoned to die without a word from them.
      But all of that could have changed this afternoon.  Grace felt she had been putting the pieces of this puzzle together her whole life with each death.  Ethelyn, Abby, Tony, Ben, Andrew, and so many more.  After talking to Ellen, all the ideas that had formed an amorphous mass in her mind began to crystallize, as though a map had been placed in front of her, suddenly in focus.  They are all okay.  She had thought as much, but with Andrew’s dream and Ellen’s words, she was more sure.  Her father knew what Maggie had done, and knew what was in his children’s hearts.  Abby had seen her grow into a successful, capable woman.  Even Tony stood by his brother, offering comfort and direction.  We are never alone.  Grace so wanted to believe all of it, but still there was the sliver of doubt.  She hoped she wasn’t the desperate relative wanting to believe the quack psychic for the comfort her fiction gives.
      Grace pulled out of the driveway, making her way home.  She couldn’t wait to see Alex, to put her arms around him and feel the reality of her strong son.  Thoughts of her father always morphed somehow into thoughts of Alex, as if the two of them were only connected through her and she needed to be their conduit.  She had meant to ask Ellen about her father.  How he was, was he in school with the rest of the scholarly souls, did he and her mother link together in the afterlife or avoid each other as tirelessly as they did in this one?  They were questions that had flown into her mind and out on the wings of some other amazing revelation of Ellen’s.  And of course the serious question would imply a belief that Ellen’s answer would come from actual knowledge rather than fantasy. 
      Grace leaned forward at the wheel and peered up at the sky from under the van's roof.  Clouds were gathering as they often did this time of year in the afternoon.  What others called bad weather never bothered Grace, she loved the drama of the skies as the clouds blackened and crackled and poured rain.  In fact, it always made her feel cozier under the protection of the house, kind of like a fort when you're little, to have the wind pelting rain against the windows, bundled up with a quilt and a cup of tea, safe and dry.
      She and Alex spent many nights doing just that when he was younger, cuddled together on the couch with the curtains pulled completely back and all the lights out so they could see the trees waving, blurry in the wet windows by the light of the streetlights outside.  As a boy of 6 or 7, Alex had been the one to pull Grace to the couch, getting the quilts, saying "Mommy, let's watch the rain!" and snuggling next to her the way she used to do with Ben.
      Grace pulled the van over to the side of the road, to a wide spot that was perfect for gazing at the San Francisco Bay and the elegant beauty of the city beyond.  The Transamerica Pyramid pointing at the sky, the Bank of America building, black and ominous, and the bridges, from this distance living up to their names, suspended impossibly over the water.  The weather was starting to drift in over the Golden Gate from the ocean beyond, blanketing all but the two suspension towers of the bridge.  When Grace would fly in to visit Jamie years ago, she was amazed at how low and flat the ground was on the water.  From the sky, it looked as if a small wave would engulf the whole of Oakland and Berkeley up to the hills, and San Francisco's wharfs, the Marina and downtown would only be visible by the buildings poking up. 
      Grace looked past Angel Island toward the Sunset district, the long expanse of residential streets filled with white and pink stucco broken only by Golden Gate Park. So flat, so little standing between the immeasurable Pacific lapping at its west side, and Twin Peaks and Mount Davidson on the east, rising 900 feet above the sea.  Grace wanted to believe that all these things were invulnerable, that the things Ellen said couldn't possibly be true.  Grace still had the option to do that, to turn her back on what she had heard and go on with her life as usual.
      But, Grace finally admitted, I can't. I know.
      Grace remembered the morning when she started to understand that she was a part of everything around her.  She was about 14, lying on her bed watching the sun shine through the skin in the spaces between her fingers, what she called the "webs."  She couldn't believe how the color changed where the skin was so thin, it was rose, and yellow, and pink, and so beautiful.  She thought, How could that be a part of me?
      That led her eyes to everything else as if she were seeing it for the first time.  The white eyelet curtains that fluttered in the fresh breeze coming through the window and the way the sun shone through the tiny holes in the fabric.  She followed the miniature rays to the hardwood floor and watched them dance in the grain of the wood.  Then the wood seemed amazing to her, its patterns so intricate that they couldn't be random, but must have been painted there.  That led her to the spider plant trailing its leaves in an explosion of so many shades of green that she was reminded of the huge Crayola box with Pine, Sea Foam, Forest, Apple, and Olive, and she still couldn't name all the greens that she saw in the leaves on her floor.
      As she stretched over the bed and put her hand down by the plant, she saw the light play on her hand in the same way it did on the plant, and it suddenly struck her that she had more colors than she could name, too.  That morning, Grace knew that she was just like everything around her.  And because she knew that, she now couldn't ignore what every cell in her body told her was true.  She had to help Ellen, and as many of her loved ones as she could, no matter what the consequences.
      Grace watched the boats on the water, the planes approaching Oakland Airport, the cars crossing the bridges, and she heard the hum of the city.  She imagined all the souls rising, all the separate lights going skyward, heading home again.  Sadness overwhelmed her then, and she allowed herself to feel what all this meant.  Grace cried, her shoulders shaking, hands clenched on the steering wheel, as she felt the city sinking slowly into the Bay.


 

February, 1999

      "Bring that box in here, Jamie, it's a bedroom box!" Grace called to her brother.  "Follow my voice!"
      Jamie's strawberry blonde head peered around the corner, just visible above a large brown U-Haul moving box.  He looked as if he would be intensely grateful to put it down, and did so, quickly, if a little rough.  Grace tilted her head, looking at the red FRAGILE on the side of the box, and said good-naturedly, "I'm sure nothing broke."
      Looking sheepish, Jamie said, "Sorry. I was carrying that box forever. I keep getting lost. This house makes no sense at all, Graciela."
      Grace laughed. "It's just because you're used to that cavern of a house you live in.  This is cozier."
      They were interrupted by a streak of blue and white that turned out to be Alex, who had decided he would run as fast as he could through every room in the house, touching every wall.  At the end of the marathon in Grace's bedroom, he fell, panting, on the floor.
      "I did it!" he proclaimed triumphantly, through gasps.
      "OK, little man, catch your breath," Grace said. "The movers are bringing in your bunk beds right now, and I'm not sure they know where your room..."
      Before Grace could finish, Alex, with all the exuberance of a 6-year-old, was up and running again. "I'll show them!" he yelled, halfway down the hall already.
      Grace looked tenderly at Jamie. "That was a very sweet gift for you to give him.  He's so excited about that bed."
      Jamie shrugged. "Isn't that how it works?  I always wanted one, so I give one to my nephew." He smiled. "Maybe he'll let me have the top bunk when I sleep over."
      "I love you, Jamie."  Grace said. 
      "Me too you." Jamie replied, as he made his way down the hall for more boxes.
      Grace sighed, wiping the loose curls from her wet forehead.  She loved this house from the first moment she saw it.  As she looked out of the huge window in her new bedroom, she marveled again at the whitewashed trellis that held actual grapevines in some kind of order. Grace's realtor had assured her that the backyard had been in Sunset Magazine in the 1970's, and looking at it now, she wondered if anything had been trimmed since that day.  It was lush and overgrown and abundant, and it was beautiful in Grace's eyes.
      The in-law unit out back was badly in need of some TLC, requiring paint and cleaning to even make it habitable, but she loved the idea of a little apartment out there.  The rest of the house had been added on to, it seemed, without any plan.  It reminded her of the 4th of July Fun House some neighbors put together for the children every year in St. Maries, using plywood and cardboard boxes. Every turn was a surprise, with rooms to rest and hide and tell secrets in.  Grace felt that this house was just like that.
      Grace and Alex had lived with Jamie in San Francisco for more than six years, and although she loved it there, it was time.  Alex was starting school in September, and Grace thought long and hard about where would be best for him.  Marin County, just to the west of the City across the Golden Gate Bridge, was an area full of families, schools and homey neighborhoods.
      Working with Jamie, Grace saved enough to be able to buy the house outright, with quite a bit left over.  Jamie D's was expanding so rapidly that he now had a professional workforce, and although Grace had functioned as his right hand for a long time, the business was ready to survive without her.  Grace knew that she would miss seeing Jamie every day, but she and Alex needed to move on and make their own life. It was only about 35 minutes across the bridge to Jamie's house.  They'd see each other often.
      And Grace was pretty sure now what she wanted to do.  There was no corner of the gay population in San Francisco that wasn't touched by AIDS, and Jamie's circle of friends was no different.  Thankfully, Jamie was very knowledgeable, extremely careful, and was virus-free, according to the tests he had done on a regular basis.  But both Jamie and Grace had lost more friends and acquaintances to the disease than they liked to think about.  The gift for Grace was that she found out she loved caring for people when they were ill.  She didn't want to be a nurse, she just felt she could do some good by sitting with them, so she had started in the City working part-time, taking classes, and then nearly full-time as a home health aide.  When she decided to move to Marin, she found that there was really only one agency that did much in the way of home care, and she signed up with them before even buying the house.  At 25 years old, I'm a homeowner, Grace thought.  Abby would be proud of both of us.  And with a sharp pang, she thought, So would Daddy.
     Grace and Jamie had traveled to St. Maries the day after she received the letter from Marjorie Cramer telling her about Ben's death.  They went straight to the house and found Maggie there, drunk and incoherent.  It looked as if she hadn't left the house in days, or cleaned it in months.  Jamie called Merry Maids and told them he would pay them whatever it took to put the house back in order.  Grace called Dr. Taylor and asked him to come to the house to check on Maggie.  Both Jamie and Grace searched the house for any kind of legal papers or last wishes that Ben might have left, but came up with nothing.  Mr. Cramer suggested a lawyer in Coeur d'Alene, and Grace and Jamie learned from him that without a will, the house belonged to Maggie.  Ben had saved no money, and in fact, had some debt, so Maggie would either have to get a job or sell the house in order to live.
      Grace and Jamie talked long into the night, and no matter how angry they were with Maggie, no matter how much they wanted to throw her into the snow bank in front of the house and good riddance, they just couldn't.  It wasn't really any noble goodness in them that made them decide to help Maggie. It really came down, after their third glass of wine, to two things.
      First, Ben had loved her, and he was their father.  Second, Grace and Jamie had wonderful lives. They were successful with business and in friendships, Grace had an amazing little boy that they both loved to distraction, and they lived in the most beautiful area in the world.  Maggie hadn't, after all, hurt them.
      Their stepmother, on the other hand, was a pathetic mess.  Alcoholic in the extreme, a two-pack-a-day smoker, and desperately sad, Maggie seemed to have lost what little reason she had for living when Ben died.  They managed to sober Maggie up long enough for a meeting with the lawyer who explained the cold, hard facts to her.  Her only hope was to accept Jamie and Grace's generous offer to buy the house.  Ben’s debts would be paid, and the balance of the money would be placed in an account that disbursed a monthly allowance for Maggie's use.  She would be allowed to live there rent-free for as long as she wanted.  Jamie did, however, take the extra precaution of doubling the fire insurance policy.
      While Grace was in St. Maries she took Alex and spent some time with the Cramers. It had been a year since Grace had spoken to her husband, and Grace’s letters, forwarded through the Cramers, never received a reply.   Grace had spent the first couple of months thinking there had to be an explanation, and that Matthew would come back when his own grief had abated.  But as time wore on, she felt hurt, and then angry, and now she seemed to be in a numb acceptance that he wasn’t ever coming back to her.  She knew she needed to talk to them because they were the only others who had lost as much as she had.
      Marjorie looked with compassion at Grace.  “I know this will be hard for you to hear, Grace, but the last time I talked with Nicolas, I begged him to call you.”  She took Grace’s hand in hers before going on. “He simply said you should forget he’s alive.  Those were his words.  He said he’s sorry, but he’s not that person anymore.”  Marjorie looked deeply into Grace’s eyes.
      John sat forward, his anger barely contained.  “Since our son can’t take responsibility for what he’s done to you, it’s up to us.” His face softened.  “Is there anything you need?  Do you have enough money?  Does Alexander want for anything, Grace?”
      Grace looked at John and was surprised, after all this time, to feel tears prick in her eyes.  “No, thank you.  We’re very comfortable, and I’m doing well with money.”  She hesitated, because there was something she needed to ask of them, but wasn’t sure quite how to do it.  She cleared her throat and blinked back the moisture in her eyes.
      “I do want to ask your blessing on something.”  Both Marjorie and John looked at her expectantly.  “Jamie has decided not to have children.”  Grace paused, unsure about how to go on.  John frowned, and Marjorie looked puzzled, as Grace continued carefully.  “Alex is the last of the Delaney line.  There seem to be a lot of Cramer cousins, so I wonder if it would hurt you very much if I changed my name and Alex’s to Delaney.”
      Jamie and Grace got word about Maggie every now and then, and the word wasn't good.  Grace wouldn't be surprised if the next news she got was that Maggie had finally gotten her wish and drunk herself to death.
      Grace pulled the packing tape off of the box Jamie had just brought into her bedroom, and opened the four flaps.  She carefully unwrapped her collection of snow globes and glass paperweights and lined them up on the long windowsill, watching them reflect the sunlight and make colored prisms on the wall.
      These weren't yearbooks, or trophies, or ribbons, or her diary.  They were new memories, untouched, and again she was glad of the decision she made that day, watching her treasures burn.  Let the past go, and skip into the future, Grace thought, smiling.
      "Mommy! Mom! Come! Mom! Come! Mommy! Now!" Alex's loud and insistent voice pulled Grace sharply from her thoughts.  He didn't sound like he was in pain, or danger, but she still made her way quickly through the hallway to his room.  When she got there, she laughed out loud.
      The bed was all set up in its corner, bright red and blue metal pipes gleaming in the overhead light.  Alex was beaming at her from the bottom bunk, and on the top bunk, her lanky, handsome brother, his legs hanging almost to the knee over the edge, was looking like the Cheshire Cat.
      "Cool, huh?" they both said, virtually in unison.
      Grace smiled, happier than she could ever remember being.  "Very cool."



      The drip flew down the kitchen window, followed by another, and another.  The warmth from the oven and the steam from the dishes caused fog to gather in the corners of the glass, and Grace shivered as she became aware that she had been staring at the rivulets for a long time.
      She and Alex had just shared his favorite meal, pork chops and applesauce with red potatoes.  As she watched the rain, Grace realized that she'd fixed it to soften the bad news she knew she must tell him.  All afternoon, she'd waffled back and forth on whether to keep her conversation with Ellen Preston to herself, or to share it with Alex.
      All afternoon, Grace heard the unwelcome voice in her head.  The one that used to say things like, How are you going to raise a child alone? and You can't own your own business, you're not smart enough. That voice had shouted at Grace all the way home, What if Ellen is crazy? You're going to leave everything you've worked toward for so long, uproot Alex in the middle of high school, scare everyone you know to death, and nothing will happen, Chicken Little.  What will you do then, sitting in Idaho with your thumb up your ass?
      Grace really hated that voice.
      But then the other voice, the calmer one.  What would be worse, she thought, to be embarrassed and have to start over again, or to watch my son die knowing I could have prevented it?
      Grace set her teeth as she looked out at the storm beyond the window. I'll take the embarrassment.  That's when she knew she had to tell Alex.  Always the truth.
      He'd finished his homework, and was now happily planted in the TV room, watching a rerun of "Friends."  She could hear him laugh now and then, and wanted to let him have just a few more minutes of obliviousness.
      Since talking with Ellen this afternoon, Grace had been engaging in a solitary game of What will it be like when, when there is no car to drive because there's no gas, when there's no light switch to turn on, no gas oven, no grocery store with its massive shelves full of items assembled in factories by machines that will no longer work.
      As she listened to the familiar sounds of "Friends," Grace wondered how many of those actors would survive, who they would become without photographers and the E! Channel, when issues of survival eclipse our desire for gossip and celebrity. 
      Nothing is the same now, Grace thought.  Using the microwave, opening the refrigerator, answering her cell phone, the computer still buzzing from Alex's homework, the heater cheerfully warming the house. Nothing.  These were no longer things that lived in the background of Grace's life, no longer taken for granted.  She'd started the countdown in her head.  Six months.  Today is May 20th, six months from now is November 20th.  Sometime between now and Thanksgiving.
      And probably much sooner, Grace thought.  Ellen said that six months was the outside date, and realizing that it's not an exact science, Grace felt she needed to begin now.  Make the decision to begin assembling people and the things they would need. 
      Turning out the lights, Grace moved to the living room couch, and plopped down with her arm across the back, looking out at the rain.  She pulled the cord on the curtains, opening them all the way, and watched the trees as they flew in and out of the power lines.  The glow from the streetlight danced across the front walk and the street beyond in the shadows.
      Why me?  she thought.  What sadistic twist of fate left this in my hands?  Can't I just watch the water rise with everyone else, blissfully ignorant of what's to come?  As the rain started drumming harder on the window, Grace laid her hand flat against the hard coolness.  Her warm fingers left five foggy breaths on the window when she pulled her hand away, and Grace watched, feeling very alone, as they slowly disappeared. 
      This is where a man would come in very handy, Grace thought, and suddenly she saw in her mind's eye the Matthew of fifteen years ago, tall, handsome, blonde, and so in control.  Where are you now, when your son needs you?
      Grace didn't love Matthew anymore, she knew that.  He belonged to her childhood, and she had no desire to bring him into her present, except for Alex.  She had always been honest with Alex, at first saying, when he asked, that his Daddy was a soldier. 
      Grace gave Alex the high school graduation picture of Matthew that Marjorie Cramer had given her, and it still sat in a frame on his desk, although through the years it had moved further away, behind a baseball signed by Barry Bonds, and snapshots of camping trips to Lake Tahoe. 
      When Alex was about 8, he'd asked who his Daddy really was, and where he was.  Grace had told him everything.  She knew that at that age he couldn't understand the finer points of the deep grief his father felt and his near insanity after Tony's death, or how relationships can fall apart because of neglect, but he understood perfectly the meaning of "sad," and he knew that people sometimes had to take "time outs" to get better.
      When Alex was 13, he had undertaken a search of his own, which Grace heartily encouraged.  Through talks with the Cramers, searches on the internet, letters to a last known address in Saudi Arabia, Alex had learned that his father had joined the Army, been shipped out, done his tour of duty, and stayed on in the Middle East.  He was currently either living with, or married to, a Saudi Arabian girl, and might have a child, or have adopted her child. 
      Alex had written repeatedly but no answer had come, and short of going to Riyadh to find him, realized he had reached a dead end.
      Since Alex never met Matthew, his feeling of loss was more of the amorphous kind, the ache of being different at baseball games, seeing other boys with their fathers.  There was the pain of knowing that Matthew knew his son existed, and still had no desire to contact him, but Alex had been raised with so much love by Grace and Jamie that he had a very healthy view of himself, and his discussions with his grandparents had convinced him that his father had become a different person.
      Alex and his Uncle Jamie were very close.  In the way that children are when they grow up with something, gayness was nothing unusual, just another way that people can love each other.  He knew Jamie loved men, and he had met many of the gay men his mother sat with in her work as a home health aide. Although he knew kids at school who called them "homos" and worse, most of Marin County was so liberal, it just wasn't an issue.
      So the father influence in Alex's life turned out to be Jamie.  He had functioned as the strong male presence when Alex was going through the terrible two's, and three's and four's, thought Grace, and when she reached the end of her rope, Jamie would jump in and take over.  And he didn't put up with any attitude from his nephew.
      Even after they moved out of Jamie's house, all she had to say when she and Alex reached an impasse was, "Should I call your Uncle and ask him?" and Alex would usually shape up.
      Listening to him now in the other room, his laugh in the deep tones of a young man, Grace remembered when she had taken the upper hand at last.
      Soon after they moved to Marin, Grace and some new friends had decided to take their kids to Great America for a Saturday of roller coasters and sunshine.
      The night before, Grace and Alex had gotten into a power struggle not uncommon with 7-year-olds.  Alex had thrown a full blown tantrum on the kitchen floor over his bedtime, and as he stood, stone faced, red and tear-stained, he railed at her about unfairness, looking alternately furious and pitiful.
      Grace finally said, very softly, "If you say one more word, we are not going to Great America tomorrow."  Alex stood, feet apart, fat little fists clenched, his chin set, his face a ball of rage.
      If he hadn't smiled, it might have been OK, but he looked at her through his fury, and his eyes danced.  And he smiled.
      "Word."
      Graced looked at him in wonder, and she thought, if I don't do this now, he will never believe me.  This was such a challenge, and he was so sure she wouldn't follow through, that she had to.
      She walked quietly to the phone, as Alex, realizing his grave error, began to scream, "No, Mommy, no, no, no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, no!"
      Grace picked up the phone and said, through Alex's wails, "We won't be able to make it tomorrow, because Alex is being punished." Now Alex was close to apoplexy, "Pleeeeeeeeaaaase, Mommy, no, no, I'm sooooooorrrrrrry, Mommy, please, no!"
      The voice on the other end of the line, understanding perfectly, said she was sorry too, and they would miss Grace and Alex.  Maybe next time?  Grace said, yes that would be great, and hung up.
      That wasn't the first time Alex had said "I hate you!" and it wouldn't be the last, but it was the end of his testing her.  The worst part was that Grace loved roller coasters, and she was almost as sorry as Alex not to be going.  Both of them spent that Saturday sulking around the house.
      Grace smiled at the memory, and thought how far she and Alex had come since that day.  Almost 15, he was becoming a man, and he was already talking about what college he wanted to attend after graduation.
      College.  Probably no college.  Some approximation of a higher learning institution within time, but probably not in three years.  How many other dreams am I about to obliterate for my son?
      She heard the familiar theme music from the television signaling the end of the show.  I'll be there for you, she sang in her head. Stop stalling, Grace.
      "Hey, Alex?" she called down the hallway.
      "Yeah, Mom?" he called back.
      "When you get done in there, can you come in and talk for a few minutes?
      "Sure. Be right there."  She heard the TV click off, and the squeak of the aging recliner as he pushed himself out of it.
      Alex walked toward her, and came around the coffee table to sit sideways on the couch with his arm over the back, a mirror image of her.  Both had their legs stretched out on the cushions, so their feet were almost touching.
      Looking straight at her, Alex said, "How come you're sitting here in the dark, Mom?"
      Grace had always been as honest as she could be with Alex about any subject, and right or wrong, had tried to reason with him as if he were an adult, even when he was very young.  She never wanted to be guilty of assuming that her child didn't feel, or understand, what was going on around him.
      Most of all, she never tried to pretend something wasn't wrong when he clearly knew it was.  Whenever Alex had asked, "Mommy, what's wrong?" she tried to be honest, rather than saying, "Nothing," as she heard so many parents do.  Grace wanted Alex to trust his instincts, and if she kept telling him his instincts were faulty, he never would.
      She looked across the couch at her son's concerned face, and said, "I have some stuff to tell you that's going to be hard to hear.  Just give it a chance, OK?"
      Alex nodded, looking very serious.
      Grace started, "I've met someone...."
      Letting out a huge breath, Alex laughed and said, "Whoa, Mom, I thought it was something really bad, that's cool, so you have a new boyfriend?  Awesome."
      Grace looked at him, sternly, and said, "Honey, what have I told you about interrupting?"
      Alex, abashed, said, "Sorry, but you were scaring me.  I'm glad for you, really.  I thought it was something awful..."
      "STOP." Grace put her hand up and waited a beat for him to close his mouth, which he did, staring.
      Grace continued, stressing the first few words, "I've met someone who has given me some information, some very disturbing information," taking a breath, she plunged, "about the future."
      Alex was still staring, waiting for the punch line.  Finally, seeing that there wasn't one coming, he repeated, eyebrows raised, "The future?"
      Unsure how to continue, Grace was silently asking the universe for help.  She took a breath, then stopped.
      Cocking his head like a spaniel, Alex asked, "How far in the future, Mom?"
      Grimacing, Grace said, "Well, pretty far." This is not going well, I need to just say it.
      "Honey, the person I met, her name is Ellen, believes that there are going to be some big changes to the Earth in the next couple of months."
      Alex paused a moment, blinked, and then slanted his head toward the storm that was now raging outside, "You mean, like the weather?  It's been pretty weird lately, huh?"  He looked at his mother, hoping that was all she meant, but seeing that she wasn't done yet.
      Grace nodded.  "That's probably a part of it, but no, she's talking about really big changes, earthquakes, land masses moving, water rising up, that kind of thing."
      "Like Revelation in the Bible kind of shit?  Sorry, stuff?" Alex was starting to feel a prickling on the back of his neck, and was wishing this conversation would just go away.  This was not the way his Mom usually talked.
      Grace could see he was starting to get scared, and wished she could do something about it, say Gotcha, just kidding! and let him go on with his life.  I can't can I?  she asked herself.  Nope.
      "Alex, I'm so sorry, I wish I could say this isn't true, but I think it is.  San Francisco, and Marin County, and most of what we know of as home, Ellen says it is going to be covered with water very soon."
      To her surprise, Alex laughed. "What?" he said, not as a question, but as in What are you smoking?
      Grace didn't laugh back, which frightened him even more. "Do you trust me, Alex?" 
      "Yeah, Mom, but, what the hell are you talking about? Sorry, heck, but what are you saying?  Who is this woman, this Ellen?"  He said her name like it was worse than the swearing that was quickly escalating into his speech.
      "You talk to some woman who says this shit, sorry, stuff, and you believe her?"  Alex was heading into a full rant, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.  His whole life, his mother had been his anchor, and suddenly she was dragging on the sea floor.  He felt, quite literally, adrift.
      "Alex, calm down."  Grace reached forward and put her hand around his ankle, as if she might prevent him from drifting up to the ceiling.  She understood his anger, she had been feeling it all day.
      For a moment they both sat there, listening to the wind howling outside.  A branch from the bushes right under the window was tapping a rhythm on the glass, and it functioned like a metronome, coming in time with their heartbeats, slowing their breathing.
      Grace spoke softly, "Honey, I know how you feel.  I'm just about eight hours ahead of you.  I've been angry, I've cried, I've pretended I never heard it." Grace looked into her son's eyes.  She and Alex had grown up together.  His life was more precious to her than her own.
      He was calmer now, but Grace heard the distinctive tones of someone who thinks they are talking to a lunatic.  "Okay. So what did she say?  Ellen?  And who is she?"
      Grace tried to recount her day with Ellen, and the reasons she believed her.  "She knew things about me, Alex.  Things I've never told anyone.  I'm sure when you meet her, she can do the same with you.  I can't explain why, but I believe her."
      Looking at the bewildered look on her son's face, Grace repeated, "It breaks my heart, honey, but I believe her."
      Alex, outwardly calm, was holding the curtain pull and dangling it between his fingers.  He watched it make lazy circles, and said flatly, "So what does she want us to do about it?  It sounds pretty final to me." 
      When he looked up, his eyes were sadder than Grace had seen them since he was a little boy.  She felt a pain as if ice had just congealed somewhere under her heart.  He didn't believe it, but he knew his life was changing, whether he believed it or not.
      "She says we have to get somewhere safe."
      Alex started raising his voice again. "Safe?  Where's safe?"  Grace had seen all those disaster movies with him.  Great fun to watch, but probably not so entertaining to live through.
      Grace shrugged her shoulders. "Just so happens, by coincidence," under her breath she said, but I don't believe in coincidences, "Idaho will be OK."  She smiled sheepishly at Alex.  "Oceanfront property, but OK."
      Alex looked at her in desperation.  Not born, but raised in Northern California, in one of the richest, most sophisticated counties in the whole country.  Idaho was potatoes, tractors, back country hayseeds, overalls and bad teeth to a Nike-wearing, commercial-watching, status-conscious 14-year-old from Marin.
      Seeing all this flash through his eyes, Grace spoke to him what she had thought to herself just minutes before. "Can I take the chance, honey?  Believing her the way I do? Toss the dice and stay here?"
      Suddenly an idea came to her.  "Listen, when is school over?"
      Alex was eyeing her warily, "June 8th, why?"
      "That's three weeks, right?" Alex, calculating in his head, nodded, looking suspicious.
      "How would you like to spend the summer in Idaho?  There are some amazing bike trails there, and your Grandpa Ben's house always needs tons of yard work." Grace was on a roll, seeing a solution.
      "I'll pay you what you would have made here this summer.  What do you say?"  She looked at Alex hopefully, eyes wide.
      "What about the job at the golf course, Mom?  I can't just walk out on them, I'd feel bad quitting this late."
      Grace said quickly, "I'll talk with them.  I'll explain that I need you.  You won't even have to see them.  Honey, every kid in the world wants that job.  They'll find someone else."
      Alex eyed Grace narrowly.  "So, what, this is just a way to get me up there, and then you won't let me come back?"
      "No, Alex.  If we're there until the end of August, and there are no clues that what Ellen says is true, we will come back home."  Grace looked Alex in the eye.  She was speaking the absolute truth.  If nothing has happened by then, we'll take our chances.
      Alex twisted his head and looked outside, and unconsciously did the same thing Grace did, flattening his hand on the window to feel the cold of it.  Grace let him think.  She trusted his common sense, his intelligence and his fairness more than any other person on the planet, except maybe Jamie.
      When Alex turned to her, he had just the hint of a smile on his face.
      "You're just lucky I don't have a girlfriend."
      Grace stood up and moved to him, giving him a hug.  "Thank you, honey.  You can't know how much this means to me."
      Alex hugged her back, and said, grudgingly, as she moved back to her seat on the couch, "Well, I've always been curious about where you grew up, and I've actually read about the bike trails.  They've converted some train tracks into trails, the tunnels and trestles and everything.  I've heard they're pretty amazing to ride."
      Watching her son make lemonade from lemons, Grace was suddenly overwhelmed. "I love you, Alex."
      "Love you too, Mom."  He started to get up. "So was that all you had to tell me?  The flood is coming and we're moving to Idaho?"
      Grace laughed out loud, feeling relief.  She knew that he still didn't believe her, but she had purchased some time, and he had allowed her to do it. "Yeah, that was pretty much it."
      As he started back to his room, Grace said, "Oh, wait.  There is one more thing I need.  Kind of a homework assignment."  Seeing his look of disgust, and knowing that her son responded brilliantly when money was involved, she added, "I'll pay you for it."
      Now she had his interest.  He was saving for a car.  He turned back and faced her. "OK. What's the assignment?"
      "I need you to do some research on the internet.  I need a written report from you about how things were done before electricity."  Alex looked at her dubiously, but she continued. "You know, candle making, farming, woodstoves, cooking methods, um, preserving, kind of the activities of daily living."
      Alex, always the businessman, asked, "How much?"
      Grace knew that the right incentive would spur Alex on to a very thorough study, and at this point, what did it matter? "I'll give you $200 toward a vehicle."  That could be a good mountain bike, which he will need. "How does that sound?"
      Beaming back at her, Alex said, "That sounds great, Mom."  Ever her smart boy, he added, "I'm assuming you'd like a supply list attached?  And you'd like that finished before we leave for the summer?"
      Grace smiled back.  "You have a very quick mind, Alex."
      Alex's look turned serious.  He was still standing, on his way to his room.  "You really believe all this, don't you?"
      She matched his look. "Yes, I do, honey.  I know it sounds crazy, but I do."
      "So you're supposed to take seven people?" He asked.  Grace nodded, as he continued, "Me, and Uncle Jamie, and who else?"
      Grace couldn't tell if he was worried about the embarrassment of having a crazy mother running around town predicting disasters, or if he wanted a hand in the decision of who to take.
      "Teresa, Aaron, Pauley and Ron.  And Cheryl and her son, if they'll come.  I don't think I'm limited to seven, I can probably take more."  Some part of Grace was amazed that she was even having this conversation with Alex, but it was a great relief to just be talking normally about it.
      Alex raised one eyebrow and showed a wicked twinkle in his eyes.  "Well, we may need to repopulate the world, right?  Could we bring Jennifer Aniston for me?"
      Grace thought, just as she was throwing the pillow at him, He's going to be alright.  Thank God for that.



      Well, thought Grace, Ellen was right about Elizabeth.
      Grace watched as a fly did loop-de-loops just below her kitchen ceiling.  She was trying very hard to remain calm, but there was a voice in her ear that was becoming increasingly insistent.  The voice belonged to Elizabeth Preston.  Ellen may need me, Grace thought, but this one needs me for a very different reason. How the hell did I get so popular?
      Elizabeth was sounding just like a lawyer.  "Miss Delaney, this case is monumental in its importance.  It will determine rules and regulations for the environment for many years to come.  Our opponents are willing to do anything to have it go their way.  I can’t have my mother talking about the world slipping off its axis.  They would crucify me.  And believe me, they have people who would find out about it."
      With a derisive sniff, Grace said, "You're making this sound like espionage, Miss Preston.  Perhaps my phone is bugged?"
      "Don't make jokes about things you don't understand, because you really don't know what you're dealing with here."  There was a sound of menace in Elizabeth's voice that surprised Grace.  OK, Grace thought, maybe I don't.
      "Miss Preston, you are asking me to work toward having your mother sedated in a home.  If you'll pardon me, it sounds to me like you might rather have her out of the way, safely drugged until this case is over.  How long will that be?"  Grace could hear her own voice rising, and with it, her anger. "By the way, I know it's none of my business, but which side are you on in this case?  For or against the environment?"
      "Not that I need to debate this with you, Miss Delaney, but the so-called 'environmentalists' are putting so many restrictions on any kind of business that soon you won’t be able to drive your car, or buy goods at a reasonable price, or protect your freedom.  Just leave it at that.  And get me a referral to a psychiatrist." 
      Grace felt Elizabeth's voice cut through her, like a cold knife.  She is deadly serious, Grace thought.  And she remembered what Ellen had said, "She's lost her moral compass."  The woman on the other end of the line sounded like she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. 
      And right now, she wants to win this caseShe's not going to like this, but I have to say it.  "Miss Preston, in my professional opinion, there's nothing wrong with your mother.  She's absolutely lucid, she has the ability to care for herself, and she's doing no harm to anyone. There's no reason to call in a referral."
      Elizabeth's voice grew harder, and Grace didn't know how much longer this conversation would last. "She’s doing harm to me.  There is definitely something wrong with her.  A couple of months ago she was ready to end her life, she had all the classic symptoms.  Now she’s cheerfully talking about how I should be using my powers for good instead of evil – my mother has never in her life said something like that, nor would she ever."
      "What are you saying, Miss Preston?"
      Grace heard the voice on the line grew suddenly softer, as if she were actually feeling something. "Look, Grace, I can read people.  I have to. That is not my mother."
      "You know, in some circumstances, Elizabeth," Grace said, matching her softened tone, "someone might think that sounds a little crazy."
      The lawyer was back, with a vengeance.  "Miss Delaney, I called you in to do an assessment and to refer me to a psychiatrist.  Since you are unable to perform that function, you are dismissed.  I’ll find someone else to do it.  You’re no longer in my employ, Miss Delaney.  Send me your final bill."
      Grace heard the click of the line going dead.  She slowly placed the receiver on the wall, and busied herself with straightening out the cord as she thought about what to do next.
      I will find someone else to do it, she had said. She will, too. And someone will do it.  Most psychiatrists are very good people, but Ellen’s stories would send anyone to the psych ward with a whole cabinet of drugs.
      Involuntary commitment has been debated for centuries, for the most part because it involves making decisions for people who are considered incompetent.  But who decides?  Human beings are very complex, and what is "normal" for one might be quite abnormal in another.  In any case, it requires a subjective opinion from someone about someone, and that means plenty of mistakes get made.
      Ellen, if she were to expound on the universe the way she had with Grace, might be considered mentally ill, but harmless.  Add Elizabeth's testimony, however, and suddenly Ellen sounds psychotic. She's doing harm to me, she had said.
      She couldn't really blame the professionals.  Psychotics can be driven by their hallucinations and delusions to become violent and hurt others, and all Elizabeth would have to say is that her mother threatened her.  Grace knew that the woman she just spoke with was capable of lying in order to protect her precious case.
      Grace had no doubt that Elizabeth was skilled in the art of convincing juries.  Getting someone to go out and see Ellen would be a walk in the park.  Then they would see the "tree house," and Ellen would hardly get past offering them tea before they would make the call.
      At the very least, they could put her somewhere for observation.  If what Ellen said was true, they didn't have time for her to spend the next few weeks or months, or longer, in the County psychiatric system.
      After her Sunday walk with Ellen, Grace was, quite honestly, emotionally spent.  She didn't really think she could take any more in, and Ellen had sensed that, so Grace had left, gratefully, with the promise of a return visit on Wednesday morning after Alex had gone to school.
      Now what? It was Monday, and Wednesday would be too late.  If I wait until Wednesday, the house will be empty.
      Grace’s mind was racing. She was involved now. She couldn’t walk away.  What were Elizabeth’s options?  The fastest way to get Ellen locked up would be to call the psych wagon and have her picked up. "Fifty-one-fiftied," so-named for the section of California's code which allows an officer or clinician to confine someone against their will if it is determined they are a "danger to themselves or others."
      But as Grace thought it through, that would be much too public for Elizabeth's taste, which is why she went the quiet route of referral from home health to psychiatrist to sedation in a home.  Very quiet, with a long path to follow.
      Since Grace knew and was respected in the home health community, Elizabeth wasn’t likely to get another agency without her knowing about it.  So she might bypass the first step and go straight to the psychiatrist.  A long distance call would bring someone to the house, and then it was a good bet that Ellen would say something that would send the good doctor to his prescription pad.
      Could I coach Ellen?  Could I get her to say all the right things?  Probably, but for how long?  And, the truth was, she thought again sickly, the house itself would be enough to raise all the same alarms it raised in her.
      As Grace placed each step one on the other in her mind, she felt herself rushing to the inevitable conclusion.  She had to get Ellen out of that house, and soon. To someplace that Elizabeth couldn't find her, at least until she and Ellen could make some plans.
      Grace didn't have a clear idea of where that would be, but as a long time camper, she knew it was always better to be prepared than not.  She walked to the hall closet, pulled down the purple duffle that had traveled all the way across the Sierra with her, and quickly chose five days worth of comfortable, versatile clothes from her room.  Stopping quickly at the bathroom, she tucked the necessities in the bag. 
      With this duffle, she could travel across Europe, as long as soap and water was handy. I may be back in an hour, but I may also be very glad I have this.  You never know.
      As she grabbed her purse and her car keys, she thought, Elizabeth could be on the phone right now, starting with the A’s under Psychiatrists in the phone book.



      Grace looked at her watch as she raced down the freeway.  Ten twenty three.  Only 20 minutes since she had hung up the phone with Elizabeth Preston.  I'm pretty sure she couldn't move that fast, Grace thought.
      The only plan Grace could formulate was to get Ellen out of the house.  From there, they could decide what they were going to do.  Alex was in school until 3:00 pm, and Cheryl was at the house managing the business.  No new clients to interview today, so Grace had a clear schedule ahead of her.
      As Grace calmly thought all this through, the very disturbing thought of what she was in fact doing kept intruding on her serenity.  She was going directly against an order of a custodian of one of her clients. 
      Actually, it gets worse than that, Grace thought, disbelieving,  I am kidnapping a home care client so that she can't be found by her daughter or the psychiatrist her daughter is no doubt calling right now. Grace rolled down the driver's side window in the van to get some air.
      Of course, Grace thought as she breathed deeply, Elizabeth just fired me.  "So is Ellen officially my client?" she said out loud, tilting her head and trying to wriggle out from under the rules of the Home Care Gods. Grace smiled hugely at that, and said, "I think not!" 
      Feeling extremely pleased with herself, she began to plan her day with Ellen. "I am simply taking a friend out to......lunch!"
      Pause. "In San Francisco!"
      Longer pause. "With my brother!"
      As she drove through the canopied trees that surrounded Point San Pedro Road, Grace reached into her purse. She pulled out her cell phone, and, looking back and forth between it and the road, she pushed the "1" key for speed dial.  "Jamie" popped up on her screen, and she heard the buzzing ring as it dialed his phone.
      "Hey, you," Jamie's voice was warm and sweet in her ear, "I was just thinking about you.  What are you, psychic?"
      "Must be," Grace said.  "What are your plans for lunch?"
      "My plans were to be sewing about a zillion sequins on a horrible dress, but it wouldn't take much to convince me otherwise," he said.
      "Good, consider yourself convinced.  Hope your fridge is full, because I'm bringing a friend to meet you, and I'm making you lunch."
      "Hmm. A friend. Tall, dark and handsome?" Jamie asked hopefully.
      "No, tall, gray, and profound," Grace said, laughing, "And, female."
      Jamie sounded disappointed. "Damn. Profound as in boring? I may stick with the sequins."
      "Not boring, Jamie," Grace said decisively, thinking about her last conversation with Ellen. "Trust me. Definitely not boring."       
      Grace turned on her blinker as she searched again for the entrance to Ellen's gravel road. "Gotta go, honey.  We'll see you in about an hour.  Love you."
      "Love you too, Graciela."
      Seeing the mailbox that now was starting to look familiar, Grace slowed down and turned right into the driveway.  Keep it light, Gracie, she thought.  She didn't want to scare Ellen, but she was starting to feel a dread come over her, as if she were stepping on to a roller coaster that didn't look safe.
      How can I get Ellen to pack a bag without frightening her? Grace thought.  And how can I get her to do it fast? Just then, thinking of her conversation with Jamie, she remembered the cabin in Inverness.  Jamie had bought it a few years ago, an adorable two-bedroom house with log siding, surrounded by tall trees and raspberry bushes that always seemed ready to take it over.  Ellen would feel at home there, and they would have time to call and reason with Elizabeth.
      That's a good plan, thought Grace, feeling a little more in control. As she pulled up to the house, she thought of what she had said to Jamie.  A friend. She imagined again the warmth of Ellen's hands and the soft intelligence of her voice, and she thought, It isn't a lie. I'd like to be her friend. I'm looking forward to seeing her again.
      As she reached over for her purse in the front seat, something seemed different with the house.  It didn't register at first, but as she scanned the porch, she saw that what was different was the front door.  The screen no longer hung down, it had been ripped completely off and lay on the filthy boards of the porch, as if it had been crumpled like a sheet of paper and thrown aside.
      Human nature being what it is, Grace unconsciously gave herself reasons for this. The wind. Princess had pulled it down, playing. Ellen had decided it needed fixing.
      But, no, as she peered at it, she saw that the door itself was different, something was covering it at about eye-level, black, with some white, and as Grace looked closer, some red.
      As she got out of the van and started to walk around, a clamminess started on her palms, and she felt the start of sweat prickle down the small of her back, as if she were being watched.  But what she was seeing had transfixed her, and was so much worse than that, as she got closer and began the walk up the steps, she could read the scrawled red letters under the black and white on the door.
      R-E-P-E-N-T. And above them, the black and white began to arrange itself into something familiar, two small ears and a triangular nose, the mouth with its teeth bared, caught in a silent hiss, the paws outstretched and nailed to the door.
      Grace felt the bile start up in the back of her throat, and she whispered, her voice catching, "Princess, oh, God, kitty...." The periphery of her vision started to blur, and Grace realized with some alarm that she was falling.  I don't faint, she thought, I've seen everything.  She put her arm out blindly to catch herself.  But not this, I've never seen this, she thought, horrified.  Who would do this? And why? REPENT??
      Grace's hand behind her touched something soft, and the feel of it brought her back to herself like smelling salts.  She bolted upright, wheeled around, and realized what she had felt was the cold stickiness of blood on the old seat cushion.  She looked down, dumbly, and saw that her hand was now covered in blood.  I hope it's cat's blood, she thought, slowly getting her wits about her.
      Logic was starting to come back. Ellen! Is she OK? Whoever did this, are they still here? Grace's terror was mounting as her mind struggled with the possibilities. She ticked them off quickly in her mind.
      Wanting to run, Grace realized that she couldn't go without seeing if Ellen needed her.  Calling the police would set things in motion that couldn't be undone, and would definitely result in Ellen being detained for observation, if she was, in fact, inside and unaware of the grisly sight on her front door.  Getting in the van and locking the doors, although Grace's first choice, would accomplish nothing.  She could call Jamie, but it would take at least 40 minutes for him to get here from the city.  Ellen could be hurt, or dying right now. 
      Making a decision, Grace looked frantically around the porch for something that she could use as a weapon.  One of the long wooden legs of the old porch swing was leaning up in the corner.  She grabbed it and tested her grip quickly, placing it in her left hand.
      Grace moved silently toward the door and, shaking, put her blood-stained hand on the doorknob.  Just as she was about to rotate the knob, it turned in her hand.
      Jumping back with an intake of breath, Grace tried to imagine if she could run, but her legs had gone to jelly.  Holding the wooden leg like a club over her head, with eyes wide, she watched as the door opened in toward the house, Princess angling silently sideways, blood dripping from her mouth.  Everything seemed to move in slow motion, and Grace wondered frantically, Am I about to die?  Her only thought was Alex.  I want to see him one more time. She squeezed her eyes shut, terrified.
      "Am I glad it's you,"  came Ellen's soft voice.  Grace's eyes flew open, and gratitude flooded her adrenaline-shocked body.  Her club fell clattering to the porch as she reached out to Ellen.
      Ellen stepped out, avoiding the puddle of blood on the threshold.  Her face was pale, but her mouth was firmly set.  In her hand, she carried a soft tapestry bag with wooden handles.
      "I do believe someone is trying to send me a message," Ellen said as she swiftly took Grace's arm and led her down the porch steps. "I don't think I want to hear the rest of it."
      Grace pulled the keys out of her pocket as Ellen quickly got into the passenger side of the van.  Grace got in and turned the engine on, simultaneously pulling up on the window controls and pushing down on the locking button, closing them safely in the van. 
      Before pulling away, she turned and looked thoroughly through the back, ruffling jackets and bags.  The seats were down, and she exhaled heavily as she satisfied herself that it was just the two of them.
      "Too many movies," Grace said sheepishly to Ellen.  Her hands were shaking on the steering wheel, and Ellen reached across and put her strong, still hand on Grace's.
      "Remember, Grace.  It will all be OK, no matter what happens.  This is the movie.  Our real life lies somewhere else."



      Daniel knew they would run.
      The van was traveling faster now, kicking up dust and rocks that flew and skittered into the weeds on either side of the driveway.  Marla had lent him her car, for as long as he needed it, and he was hidden perfectly, facing out, ready to follow.
      Daniel was still watching and waiting, as He had told him to do, but the Devil is at hand, so something had to happen, or that woman would keep finding more like her, grow her evil army.  Daniel couldn't just sit and watch that happen.  He hadn't hurt the women, just the cat.  He knew God would understand.
      He had enjoyed skinning the cat.  Everyone knows that cats are familiars, used by witches, why not by the Devil?  Anyway, it was always sniffing around him, looking at him with those amber eyes, a color that shouldn't be in eyes.  It looked at him like it knew something, it knew how he faltered sometimes, how he had to fall to his knees and pray for guidance.
      It had been divine inspiration, really.  He hadn't meant to do it, but suddenly, as the vile thing had rubbed against him as he prayed, he was possessed with the Holy Spirit.  It crackled through his body as he reached around and in one swift move, broke the cat's neck.  Didn't even have time to make a sound.  And then the inspiration had come.
      Use the devil to give a sign to the devil.  Show it its own face. 
      And he knew they would run.  He had confounded them.  They couldn't hide in the house anymore.
      Now he would find out if the one named Grace was truly filled with Grace, or if she was only pretending.
      He hadn't disobeyed.  He knew God would understand.



      Grace was breathing somewhat normally now, and her shaking had calmed.  She still found herself glancing in the rear-view mirror, although the winding road would have made it easy for someone to follow them.  She cleared her head of that thought.  Whoever did that horrible thing is long gone, and if they had wanted to harm us, they could have done it before we got in the van.
      Ellen, as usual, seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. "I'm sure no one wants to hurt us, Grace.  It was just a message."
      Turning her head sharply, Grace took her fear out on Ellen in anger, "How do you do that?  Do you actually read my thoughts? Do you hear what I'm thinking?  Are you even human?"
      Taken aback, Ellen replied, "Grace!  I'm as human as you are.  What a thing to say!"
      Grace stared forward, ashamed, "I'm sorry, of course you are.  But you know things, you know what's going to happen, and you know all about me.  You must admit that's a little unusual."
      "The only difference between you and me, Grace, is that I remember where we came from, and you don't."  Ellen pushed the button on the door and lowered her window.  She put her hand outside, floating it like a bird. "I love the wind.  There are so many things we don't have on the other side.  All we would have to do to have them is to think it, but we don't always remember to."
      Grace softened, and turned to Ellen, smiling.  "Alex loves to do that, too.  He pretends his hand is a plane." 
      Grace suddenly said sadly, "I talked to Alex.  I'm not sure he believes me.  You're sure everything's going under water?"
      Ellen looked wistfully at the gnarled old-growth oaks they were passing, and then off to the San Francisco Bay with its three beautiful bridges spanning the water between the points of land.  "Not everything.  But all this will be."
      Suddenly the beauty around Grace intensified, took on a kind of glow.  Because I know its days are numbered.  She turned to Ellen.
      "I told Alex that if nothing had happened by August, we would come back home from Idaho.  Did that buy me enough time with him?"
      Ellen closed her eyes, frowning again, the same way she had when Grace had asked her about where they would be safe.  After a moment, she looked back at Grace, and said, "Yes, by August it will be clear what's happening."
      Grace looked at Ellen intently, and then swiftly back to the winding road.  She asked, "What you were doing just then, Ellen, it's the same thing you did yesterday.  You almost looked like you were getting information from somewhere."
      Ellen rolled her head to the left on the headrest to look at Grace.  She smiled and said, "You said no more curves for awhile, Gracie."
      Grace laughed softly, "OK, I'm giving you permission to throw me one.  Just one, though."  She looked sideways at Ellen as if in warning.
      Ellen nodded. "Have you ever heard of the 'sea of consciousness'?"
      "Can't say as I have," Grace said, warily.
      "Well," Ellen said, "I guess the best way to describe it is that it's like your Internet in a way.  Always there, and very useful as long as you have a way to access it."  She beamed a knowing smile to Grace. "It floats just above us. It contains all the information from the beginning of time.  You access it by aligning your frequency to its frequency, like tuning a radio or TV.  That, by the way, is part of the other 90% of your brain that you don't use."
      Looking skeptically at Ellen, Grace said, "It floats above us?  Like fog?  Why can't we see it?"
      "You'll be able to when you get the other 90% working," Ellen said in a whisper, chuckling.
      In spite of herself, Grace smiled back at Ellen. "OK, fine.  So you just logged on and asked it a few questions?"
      "You could say that.  But it also holds emotional energy that comes from the souls below it.  Have you noticed that the feeling is different in a city than it is out in the open country?"  Ellen asked.  "Many people in cities are dealing with issues related to work, money, shelter, stress, traffic, and other things that tend to bring you down.  People in the country are surrounded by natural beauty and have generally opted out of severe stress.  The sea of consciousness is actually a different color in the country, sort of blue-green, as opposed to orange-red in the city."
      Grace squinted at Ellen. "And you wonder why I ask if you're human?  You say some pretty amazing things, Ellen."
      "I know it all seems new to you, honey, but you already know all of this deep inside.  You've just forgotten, along with most of the rest of humanity."  Ellen shook her head.  "We've got an uphill climb convincing people, don't we, Gracie?"
      Grace smiled crookedly. "That's probably understating it."
      Sitting up straight and folding her hands, Ellen said. "Well, all we can do is our best, right?  Those that can't be convinced will just get to the other side a little faster and find out for themselves.  All we have to do is not get committed!"
      Grace gasped, "Oh, shit."
      "What?" Ellen asked.
      "Oh, I would say that right about now a psychiatrist is seeing our poor Princess on your door." Grace said. "This does not bode well for you not being committed."
      "Why? I didn't do it!" Ellen said, matter-of-factly. "Will they think I did?"
      Grace tried to imagine what she would do in the shoes of that particular psychiatrist.  Call the police.  Make sure there is no foul play in the house, no bodies.  File a missing persons report.  Call Elizabeth.  Damn.
      Elizabeth knew who she was, where she lived, her business name.  If Grace wasn't available to talk to the police, they would come looking for her, then talk to Jamie, to Teresa, to Cheryl, to Alex.  As Grace watched the snowball careening down the hill in her mind, she realized that there was only one way to forestall this whole nightmare.
      "Ellen, reach in the back for my purse, will you please?  Good, in the small pocket is my cell phone.  I saved Elizabeth's number in there.  You have to call her right now."
      "Grace, I've tried to convince her.  She's really impossible to talk to.  Why do I need to call her?"
      Grace made the turn taking them to the onramp for 101, which would take them into San Francisco.  "You need to tell her that you are alive and well and that she is not to have the police come looking for you or for me."
      "She's never listened to me.  How on earth am I going to get her to do that?"
      Grace smiled a wicked smile.  "Because if she doesn't promise to leave us alone, we will come straight to Washington, D.C. and hold a press conference about the earth slipping off its axis right in front of her office.  You'd probably get committed, but she would also lose her case, I think?"
      Ellen wrinkled her nose and nodded.  "She really doesn't want to lose that case, does she?"  Ellen picked up the phone.  "How do I work this thing?"



      The anger that moved through Elizabeth was always slightly frightening to her, and this time was no different.  It always happened when she felt powerless, when her probability for success was limited by some obstacle.
      But she knew that after the rush of blood to her head, after the heat subsided and her ears stopped pounding, clarity would come.  So she waited.
      Her mother's voice was still loud in her ear.  Her mother on a cell phone, yelling as if she had to carry all the way to Washington on her own power.  Nothing about her mother could be counted on these days, nothing was the same.  Her mother on a cell phone?  That was enough to throw Elizabeth, but the rest, the rest was simply mind-boggling.
      Elizabeth had actually picked up the phone to call the first shrink she found in the Online Yellow Pages, when the buzzer stopped her, and she picked up her mother's call.
      "Darling, it's very simple.  Just leave us alone.  Let us be, and we'll let you be."  The shouting had stopped, and in the silence that followed, Elizabeth was again left with the question, Who the hell was I just talking to?
      Facts.  Elizabeth pulled a fresh yellow legal pad from the large stack on the shelf.  There were times that she only used the top sheet of a full pad, because somehow the newness of it cleared the cobwebs from her brain.  Elizabeth loved the smooth feel of the paper, the evenness of its edges, and its pristine nature called to her to fill it with words.  Once a page had been ripped off of the pad, it was no longer useful to her, and she threw the pads in the trash.      
      Elizabeth's assistant, Tim, would surreptitiously rescue them and give them to the girls down the hall to be distributed.  He had cautiously asked Elizabeth about it once, when he first started working with her.  She had waved off-handedly at the offending pad and said, "I don't care what you do with it.  It's used," the word rolling off her tongue like a bad taste.
      Facts.  Elizabeth began to write. 
      A. My mother is not my mother.  No, not a fact.  A supposition.  A hypothesis.  Not yet a fact.  Prove.
      B. Grace Delaney is my enemy.  Fact.  She had heard it in her voice the last time they talked, there was disapproval in every word the woman had said to her. Not only had Grace ignored her firing, she'd taken it upon herself to scoop Ellen up, and most likely, had put these ideas in her addled old head. 
      C. It was GD cell phone that Ellen was using. Fact.  Elizabeth captured every number that called every phone she used, but of course, her number would always show up as "Unknown" to them.        
      As Elizabeth re-read this line, she realized that she was more comfortable writing "Ellen" than she was writing "mother."  That didn't prove A, but it did add emotional weight to the hypothesis.  Elizabeth moved her hand up and boldly underlined My mother is not my mother.
      D.  I have been threatened. Fact. What had Ellen said?  "I have some things to say, Elizabeth, and I could just as easily say them in Washington so that you could hear them too.  You and some others from the news organizations." 
      Elizabeth closed her eyes tightly and willed that vision out of her head.  Her mother, calmly describing how rap music made the Earth tilt while Bill Williams crossed Elizabeth off of his legal pad.
      "And darling, of course I would want to tell everyone how proud I am of my daughter, who is working so hard to keep the Earth from slipping even further."  The sweetness in Ellen's voice was dripping through the phone, but it was like honey on a very sharp knife.
      Next to I have been threatened,  Elizabeth circled Fact. Twice.
      E.  No police.  No shrink. Fact.  Much too public.  Anything that put Ellen and Grace into the hands of the authorities would be disastrous.  Ellen would simply conduct her news conference on the West Coast, and the results would be the same.
      Elizabeth leaned her chair back and, after firmly replacing the top on her $225 Cross fountain pen, began to tap it rhythmically on the desk.  She opened her lower file drawer, slipped off her Jimmy Choos and placed one foot on the edge of the drawer, crossing the other foot over it.  Her favorite thinking position.  As she stared at the crown molding between the ceiling and the wall, she solved any problem that came to her.  This will be no different, she thought.  Just a bump in the road.
      Could I just leave them alone?  Elizabeth shook her head at the thought.  "The Art of War" was one of her favorite books. Sun Tzu's brilliant military treatise, and required reading by lawyers. Know your enemy.  Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.  Too dangerous to have loose cannons out there.
      Picking up the legal pad, she read her list over.  All facts except for one.  Facts can't be changed, they are what they are.  But Elizabeth's eye was drawn to one item, the first one, that needed proving.
      When was the last time she had seen her mother?  Although she wasn't positive of the date when Grace had asked her, she now was sure.  It was two Thanksgivings ago.  Five hour flight, deadly dull week with her deadly dull and depressed mother soon after Elizabeth's father had died, blessed five hour flight back home to work, and life.
      She vowed then that it would be a long time before she did that again, but even Elizabeth felt that in two years, the time had kind of gotten away from her.
      Elizabeth swung her legs over, closed the drawer and eased her feet back into her shoes.  She took the cap off the pen, and drew a long arcing line from A down to the blank space at the bottom of her list.
      A1. Haven't seen since 11/05. Fact.
      A2. Severe change. Fact.
      A3. Is voice same?  Elizabeth closed her eyes and recalled the voice in her head.  Hard to tell, because Ellen's voice now had color in it, and before, it had always sounded like a monotone. Prove.
      A4. Only way to know is to see her. Go there. Not possible. Fact.
      Elizabeth paused, then ripped the top page off of the legal pad, folded it in half and pressed it into the shredder under her desk.  She tossed the legal pad into the trash, and pushed the intercom button.
      A male voice came clearly through the speaker, his Georgia accent evident with just one word.  "Ma'am?"
      "Get me the name of the private investigator we used on that California emissions case last year.  And his number."
      Tim Bradshaw was used to the absence of those little magic words, please and thank you.  He had worked for Elizabeth for four years now, and considered himself lucky to be attached to her rising star.  "Yes, Ma'am."
      What's she up to now, he thought, as he went unerringly to the file folder with the neatly typed label: Robert Hart Investigations.  He pulled the folder from the drawer and straightened his tie.  Never knowing what to expect with Elizabeth Preston, he stood for just a beat and took a deep breath at the door before knocking softly.



      Daniel was grateful they had finally gotten on the freeway.  He managed to hide among the twists and turns of Point San Pedro Road, but as they neared San Rafael, there were more straight-aways, and he found it difficult to stay out of sight. 
      Why did Marla have to choose a red station wagon? he thought irritably.  The '93 Ford Escort was a good deal, but it was too memorable, with its twin dents on right and left front fenders.
      And he had been so proud of Marla when she sent away for a bumper sticker that said: "Jesus I Trust In You."  Soon after, she added, "Jesus Fixes Broken People," then "1cross+3nails=4given."  Unfortunately, rule number one in surveillance was Don't stand out
      It was courageous of Marla to proclaim her love for Jesus to the world, but right now Daniel was wishing she'd been a little more quiet about it.  When they stopped, he would see how easy it was to remove the stickers.  Marla and Jesus would both forgive him.
      It looked like the two women were heading into the City, Daniel thought as they neared Sausalito.  Now he could hang back a couple of cars while still keeping the van in sight, and with the ever present traffic on Highway 101 it was easier for him to blend into the crowd.
      Daniel had to admit he was feeling a bit lost. Not geographically, but spiritually.  This was not the way he did things, and although he didn't want to doubt the Lord's wisdom, Daniel was weary of the "watch and wait" strategy.  He had prayed so hard and for so long in the last three days that his knees were sore, and the headaches had come back.
      It wasn't just the lack of divine direction that was difficult, it was that another voice had started in his head, one that was louder and more insistent than any he had heard before.  It was the voice that had shouted Kill It! when the amber-eyed cat had come around.
      What was terrifying to Daniel, the more he thought about it, was that he couldn't tell if the voice was the Devil tempting him, or the Lord pressing him on in  His service. 
      Last night in torment he lifted his eyes to the Heavens and shouted, "Lord, is it You?!" and the answer in his head was deep and resonant: Yesssss, yesssss, it's Me, but it didn't sound right to Daniel, so he had pressed his eyes tighter and clasped his hands to his chest, ignoring the rocks that dug sharp indentations in his knees.
      As Daniel pushed the accelerator to keep up with the van, he squinted through the pain that was beginning to resemble barbed wire in his head.  The voice was back now, Doubting Thomas, it said, You need to touch the wounds to know that He died for you?  The voice was accusing, harsh, You choose to disobey Me, and sin?  Only those with clean hands and a pure heart are able to join Me in Heaven, Daniel.
      Without warning, Daniel's eyes blurred, filling with tears, and he had to scrape the rough cloth of his canvas shirtsleeve across his face so that the road came into view again.  I only want to do what's right, he replied desolately to the voice, Please don't test me, I want so much to join You in Heaven, to be worthy in Your eyes.  Daniel's hands gripped the steering wheel whitely, so that he thought it might turn to dust under the strength of his fingers.  He begged for an answer with every cell in his body.
      Suddenly, in a rush of air through the passenger window, Daniel felt unutterable power descend on him.  He was driving onto the Golden Gate Bridge, and the vast Pacific came into sight on his right, the oceans that God made.  Instantly, the pain left his head, and in its wake there was a glow around his field of vision, a sparkling ribbon of light.
      Daniel, heart pounding, concentrated on the car in front of him, and peripherally saw the van two cars ahead in the left lane.  Follow, the voice said, softer now, gently and with love.  Follow and I will give you a sign.  Then you can cleanse them.  When I give you the sign you can send them to Me and I will show them the way to Salvation.  Wait, Daniel.  Watch..
      He was at the mid-point of the bridge, and Daniel's senses were so heightened that he felt the mild sway of the steel in the wind.  It occurred to him that the most powerful of man's structures could be shattered in a fraction of a second by the flick of God's thumb.
      Daniel wiped the last of the tears from his face, blinking his wet lashes until they dried in the strong gusts of wind from the sea.  He reached into the ashtray for the bridge toll money, watching as the van slowed and stopped at the toll booth. 
      I'll wait, my Heavenly Father.  I'll wait for the sign.


     
      "Have a nice day!" Ellen called out, leaning over to see under the door frame of the van.
      The toll worker barely looked up, grunting, "umhm," and as Grace pulled the van away from the line of toll booths, she gave Ellen a resigned glance.
      "Considering the world is coming to an end, you're certainly cheerful," she said, sounding grumpier than she meant to.
      Ellen smiled that patient, infuriating smile of hers, "Well, what's the alternative, Gracie?"  Ellen pulled gently at her seatbelt, getting more comfortable in her seat. "Anyway, I never said the world was coming to an end.  I just said it was going to shift.  That's very different."
      As she pulled into traffic on the San Francisco side of the bridge, Grace made her way down past the grassy expanse of Chrissy Field.  She had gone there with Alex three years ago in April to celebrate Earth Day, and to help Alex find a subject for a science report.  They had strolled among hundreds of booths with what seemed like thousands of people, enjoying the bright sunshine of a beautiful San Francisco spring day.
      Earth Day.  It couldn't help but take on quite a different meaning for Grace after her talks with Ellen.  Alex had written up the day for his paper, and Grace, as always, had learned right along with him as she helped him with the report.  Started in 1970 by a Senator who saw the aftermath of the oil spills in Santa Barbara the year before, Alex wrote that it was meant to "bring about awareness and inspire appreciation of the planet we live on."
      Grace wound her way onto Lombard Street, and asked Ellen, "Have you ever heard of Earth Day?" 
      Ellen smiled. "Yes, it's a lovely idea.  It's celebrated all over the world, you know,  by billions of people."
      Grace looked ruefully at Ellen.  "Does it help at all?"  She added self-consciously, "I mean does, um, does she appreciate it?"
      Closing her eyes, Ellen said, with just a touch of melancholy in her voice. "Yes, honey. But I'm afraid to say it's in the same way you might appreciate an anniversary card from a husband who beats you for the rest of the year."
      Grace made the turn from Lombard onto Divisidero, and they began the impossibly steep climb up the hill to Jamie's house.  When Grace had first moved here, she had struggled with the stick shift on her used Toyota.  Each cross street had a stop sign, which meant stopping on a hopeless angle, and then getting the car going again without sliding too far back down the hill.
      Once, on a rainy night, a cab driver had come right up on her bumper, and Grace knew there was no way she would be able to start back up the hill without sliding into him.  She pulled on the emergency brake and got out, walked back to the cabbie's window, and knocked on it, asking him to let the rain in by rolling it down.
      When he did, cursing, she had bravely stated, "If you want to buy me a new rear end, stay where you are.  Otherwise, you might want to consider moving back about 20 feet."  For some reason, she felt that defined her true entrance into San Francisco culture.  No one in St. Maries would ever say something like that to another person.
      Now she handled the hills expertly, and she pulled the van to a stop in one of the angled parking spaces set aside for residents of Jamie's building.  She turned the wheels sharply to the curb, a law in San Francisco to prevent runaway cars, and cut off the engine.
      Having a parking space in the City was like having gold.  It meant not having to rely on "parking karma."  It meant not having to drive around for 20 minutes in deep frustration, only to then walk gratefully 10 blocks to your destination.  It meant she could ignore the dire warning signs that applied to everyone but Jamie's invited guests.  Gold.
      Grace looked over at Ellen, and saw that she was leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed in what looked like deep concentration.
      "Can you feel it?" Ellen asked softly.  She opened her eyes and turned to Grace.  "Try for a moment."
      Grace knew what she meant, but, embarrassed that she might not feel it, she asked, "Feel what?"
      Ellen turned and closed her eyes again. "The sea.  The energy of the city.  It's  not as strong here as it would be downtown, but it's still here.  So crowded.  So hurried.  So confused."  Ellen's voice trailed off.  Grace resisted, but after a moment, turned and closed her eyes.
      It actually felt good to rest for a moment, although she had to fight back the picture of Ellen's door just 40 minutes ago.  She allowed herself to calm, feeling safe in the proximity to Ellen and to her beloved brother, who was just inside the building in front of them. 
      Grace knew she was very susceptible to suggestion, and that her thoughts were very powerful.  In her work, if she allowed herself to imagine germs flying between a patient's mouth and her own, she could catch a cold just like that.  On the other hand, if she imagined an invisible mask around her own mouth, she would never get sick, and hadn't, in fact, in years.
      When Grace was little, Abby had an infuriating way of discounting illness, but in the end, as with many of Abby's exasperating ways, Grace benefited tremendously from it.  Grace remembered once when she had a bad cold and had to stay home from school, Abby had said, "Well, Gracie, you must have just wanted to read a good book." 
      Grace had cried indignantly, "I didn't want to get sick!" but the thought had blossomed in her mind like a flower, and soon she was imagining the germs moving away from her instead of into her.  She didn't catch a cold for the rest of that year, although practically everyone at school did.  She caught colds after that, but only when she was really tired, and didn't feel like she had the energy to keep the germs away.
      And once, she got sick just on the day she was supposed to give a book report that she hadn't prepared, and she knew that she had opened up wide to the germs, asking them to come inside so she didn't have to go to school.
      So as she sat in the van with Ellen, listening to her soft rhythmic breathing, Grace starting feeling like she felt something above her.  She didn't know if it was a sea of consciousness, but it was a humming, like the low crackle of electric wires that are very high overhead.  She started to feel it on her skin, as if the tiny, thin hairs that covered her arms were raising up to meet the energy in that hum. 
      Grace was sure she was just imagining it, but wondered where the thought had come to even imagine the feelings she was having.  Ellen hadn't described it this way, like electricity, crackling.  But it was what Grace was feeling, now, for the first time.
      Opening her eyes, Grace turned her head to find Ellen's eyes open and staring at her.  Those unfathomably deep plum-purple-blue eyes looked at her with unspeakable understanding. 
      Behind Ellen was the Bay, so beautiful, sparkling in the California sunshine, full of sailboats and windsurfers, full of life.  Beyond the Bay were the green hills of Marin, topped by Mount Tamalpais.  Marin, teeming with people, baseball games, restaurants, families, souls.
      Grace blinked, and felt tears start in the back of her eyes. " How can I not be sad about this?  How can this be happening?" she asked, not really expecting a coherent answer.
      Ellen held her gaze for a moment, and then smiled with great gentleness. "Honey, when Alex was a little boy, did he play cops and robbers with friends, or cowboys and Indians?"
      Wondering where this would lead, Grace brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of a knuckle. "Yes, all the time."
      Ellen said, "Did you ever run to him and say,  'No! Don't do that, you'll die if you shoot each other!"
      Grace looked confused at the question. "No, they were just playing. Pretending."
      "That's what this planet is, Gracie.  This is all just pretend.  We'll take off the costumes and go home, unhurt.  We're playing, and we're learning."
      Peering at a woman in a car going by, Grace thought, She doesn't even know.  Grace looked back at Ellen. "But you said so many people will die."
      "Just as Alex and his friends did when they fell down on the ground.  They got up when the play was over, and they went home, all in one piece, right?"
      Grace stared intently into Ellen's eyes. "Yes, but there's a big difference."  She felt another tear slip out, "Alex and his friends knew they were playing.  We don't, do we?"
      Ellen paused, nodding.  Then she smiled.  "No, you don't.  But the blessing," she said softly, "is that you will, the split second the play is over."
      Reaching into her purse, Ellen pulled out a fresh Kleenex.  Dabbing at Grace's eyes, she said, "C'mon, let's go get some lunch.  I'm starved. And I'm anxious to see Jamie."
      Grace blinked again. Jamie. How do we explain all this to Jamie?
      "Ellen, how in the world am I going to get my brother to leave behind a very successful business and the city he loves so much, and go back to the place he escaped from by the skin of his teeth?"
      Pulling on the latch and opening the passenger door, Ellen said, "Well, I seem to have convinced you.  Maybe we can do it together?"         
      Grace blew her nose and smiled. "Like a tag team in wrestling?  Might work.  Or maybe chloroform.  He'll just wake up in Idaho."  Grace got out of the van and stepped carefully onto the steep pavement.  As she closed the door, she looked forlornly at the magnetic sign on the side panel of the van.
      They met on the sidewalk in front of the van, and Grace smiled. "I guess Jamie's not the only one leaving a successful business behind.  Which do you think will be more in demand in the New World, home care or sequined dresses?"
      Ellen laughed. "I'd say it's a toss-up."



      I don't like that woman, Robert Hart thought, as he hung up the phone. But, it's a job.  She had paid him $5,000 for a week's work last year, and an easy week at that.  All he'd had to do was follow a man around that Miss Preston described as a "tree hugger."  Robert was supposed to take pictures as his car spewed smoke out the back, the more smoke the better. 
      Robert usually tried to get inside the heads of his subjects, but the job had been so cut-and-dried that he didn't even talk to the man.  The job did leave him, however, with a nagging feeling that he had just helped someone on the wrong side of the fence.
      That happened in investigative work, and taking sides was a sure way to limit your income. Truth was, nobody wore white hats and black hats anymore, so it was pretty hard to tell the good guys from the bad.
      When Robert was on the Force, he was told he was a little "soft."  And, ultimately, if he really admitted it to himself, it was the reason he left SFPD.  So depressing, to see the same 1% of the people all the time, the young thugs, drunk drivers, rapists, gay bashers, thieves, and the people they preyed on, old people, trusting people, battered wives, people just minding their own business.
      Once in a while you could help a kid find his mom, or prevent a robbery, but most of the time was spent picking up the same perps, writing the same paperwork.  A lot of cops get into the game wanting to help people, but usually, by the time you get to the scene, people are already hurt, so you just stand around, hide your emotions behind the badge and try to believe you're making a difference.
      Not everybody feels that way, Robert thought, but I did.  Leave the work to those who find it interesting, because lots do.  Leave it to those who really do feel they are holding back the tide, keeping folks safe. Lots of them felt that way.  Just not me.  Good that I got out.
      To clear his head, Robert stood up and stretched.  At 38, he still had some of the muscularity from his days as a cop, but could feel the soft spots beginning to show at his waist and his belly.  No more washboard abs, he thought.  That boat has sailed.
      At 6'2", he could be imposing, although his favored dress of tweed jackets and jeans left him looking more like a college professor than a PI.  No gray yet in his dark brown hair, but there were already deep lines beginning to form at his eyes and around his mouth. 
      Marcia had called him "rumpled and sturdy," affectionately at first, and then with an edge as their marriage began to fall apart.  He never really fit her need for elegance and wealth, and his work with SFPD had put the nail in that coffin. 
      "...national weather coming up next..." Picking up the TV remote, Robert muted the commercial that started to blare from the corner of the room.  He was a self-confessed Weather Channel junkie.  It started when he was on the Force, ostensibly so that he could learn what his day would be like driving his squad car, but then he found he loved the drama of it. 
      A whole channel devoted to nothing but weather.  Tornados, heat waves, hurricanes, snowstorms.  Better than the movies.  Some people listened to police scanners.  Robert watched the weather.  He clicked the remote again.
      "...the big story as we roll into the Memorial Day Weekend is more hot weather, especially in the deserts, but also, surprisingly, some coastal areas.  Temperatures are approaching triple digits in Utah, Arizona, and Nevada, but record highs are also expected in Seattle, Portland, and possibly San Francisco.  That means, enjoy the sunshine, but remember to use sun block, drink plenty of water and be aware of the extreme fire danger..."  Robert clicked the power button and moved toward his desk.
      Sitting down, he picked up the framed 8 x10 that held the favored spot on his desk.  Gazing back at him was his own face, happy, soft with affection, and the face that was still the only reason he felt he'd been put on the planet, Cassandra, his daughter.
      The photo was taken at her middle school graduation four years ago, and Robert still marveled that at the lowest point in his life he could look so happy.  In the midst of a divorce, living in a tiny apartment practically underground on Leavenworth Street, the decision already made in his head to leave the Force, he had watched his beautiful 14-year-old girl as she accepted the certificate that graduated her from eighth grade.
      Cassie would be attending NYU in the fall, and he wanted to see her as much as he could before she left.  She was supposed to spend this weekend with him, unless he got a job.  Guess I'll have to call and cancel again.  Unless I can wrap up this case in three days.
      Robert re-read his notes from his conversation with Miss Preston.  This time, it was a couple of women he was supposed to find and follow.  Should be pretty easy, Robert thought, neither one is a professional.  Amateurs had no idea how much of their lives are an open book.
      According to Miss Preston, a woman had kidnapped her mother, Ellen Preston, and she was unable to find either of them. 
      Robert had replied quickly, "Kidnapped?  I suggest you hang up right now and call the police.  Kidnapping is nothing to fool around with, Miss Preston."
      Her voice took on a degree of urgency,  and she replied, "Mr. Hart, under no circumstances are any authorities to be called in.  This is all to be done discreetly, and quietly."  OK, so there's some kind of blackmail involved.  The plot thickens.
      "I simply want to be certain that my mother is safe.  I want you to find them, follow them and keep me posted on their whereabouts.  Should they go anywhere near a radio or television station or a newspaper, I need to be contacted immediately."  Definitely blackmail. 
      She had the kidnapper's cell phone number, but he was not to use it.  Miss Preston didn't want the two women to know they were being followed.
      "And my fee, Miss Preston?"
      "The usual, Mr. Hart.  $5,000 a week for the duration of your service.  I'll need you to set aside any other cases you're working on and devote yourself exclusively to this one until it's completed."
      Looking at his empty desk, Robert thought with a smile, Shucks, I guess I'll have to put off all these other cases.  $5,000 a week.  Open-ended. That pays a lot of college tuition for Cassie.
      Because Robert had been doing this work for a while, he knew the emotionally charged words that clients often used.  "Kidnapped" was one of them.  It could describe everything from taken at gunpoint against one's will, to being out on a date with a punk that your parents don't like.
      I get the feeling Miss Preston usually gets what she wants, Robert thought.  And she'll do just about anything to get it.  He decided to take the word "kidnapped" with a grain of salt until he found out a little more. Robert agreed to the terms, and hung up the phone.
      So what did he have to go on?
      Grace Delaney, business in Fairfax, home care agency, "Angel's Grace Home Care."
      Cute, Robert thought. She probably looks like my grandmother. Some kidnapper. Maybe I can wrap this up in three days.
      Elizabeth Preston hadn't been much help with a description of Grace Delaney, in large part because she'd never seen her, only talked with her on the phone.  The other subject was the client's mother, so she gave a pretty good physical description of her, and a faxed photo was just coming through on the machine. Ellen Preston, 53, Caucasian, widowed, 5'9", medium build, graying hair, blue eyes, no record, lives alone, probably dementia.
      Dementia.  Great. Robert had just closed what he called "the case that didn't exist."  The elderly woman who called him sounded completely normal, gave him a great description of her retired husband, who she said was "meeting ladies" and having "assignations."  No background, no research, just sitting in his car, watching.
      Robert spent five cold nights outside her house and never saw a man enter or leave it.  Every day he met her, at her request, at the Starbucks on Columbus, and he told her he had seen nothing.  She then paid him, and begged him to continue.
      Finally, Robert thought, he got a clue and investigated her.  Never married, paranoid and delusional. But, he thought, she had some great stories. Who knew a woman that old could talk that much about sex?
      When he confronted her with the truth, she offered to pay him double just to keep doing what they were doing.  She liked that he sat outside her house every night, and she really liked talking to him about sex at Starbucks every day.
      Robert put his head in his hands, remembering. Tempting, but I don't think so.
      What was that old joke?  Man asks a woman would she sleep with him for ten million dollars?  She says, "Well, yes."  Would she sleep with him for a Matthewel?  She says indignantly, "What do you think I am?"  He says, "We've already established what you are, now we're just haggling over the price." 
      I still have my integrity, Robert thought with a smile, even though that was good money. And entertaining.
      Waiting for his now ancient, five-year-old computer to boot up, Robert went to the bookshelf and pulled down a Marin County phone book.
      "Angel's Grace." Right there at the front of the Yellow Pages under "Home Care." Nice ad. Professional. But that name, a little precious.
      Robert thought a moment, gazing blankly into space.  While he thought, he curled a quarter in and out of his fingers, an old habit from his gambling days.  At least now, it's a quarter, not a hundred-dollar black chip.
      Picking up the receiver, Robert dialed the phone.
      "Angel's Grace Home Care, this is Cheryl, may I help you?"
      "Hi, Cheryl, may I speak with Grace Delaney, please?"
      "I'm sorry, she's not available, but I would be happy to help you."  Cheryl was very confident, Grace probably isn't around much.
      "Well, you were recommended to me, and the person who recommended you told me I should speak with Miss Delaney, oh, is it Miss, or Mrs. Delaney?"
      "Miss Delaney." So, not currently married, or married, and still using maiden name. This work was much easier in the old days.
      Cheryl continued, "We're always happy to hear about recommendations, Mr., um...may I ask to whom I am speaking?"
      Robert looked idly down at the phone book page and chose a last name at random. "Knight, Robert Knight.  Do you expect Miss Delaney any time soon?  I could call back." Or drive over and wait so I can see what she looks like.
      Cheryl's wasn't budging.  "I'm sorry, Miss Delaney spends a great deal of time in the field, Mr. Knight.  I do the scheduling of her appointments, perhaps I could take some information and set up a time for her to meet with you."  Maybe, but not just yet.
      Robert spoke softly, and with just a hint of emotion, "Cheryl, I really need to speak with her about my father.  I'm at my wits end.  Is there any way I could talk to her now?  I would really appreciate it."  This was it, the payoff.  Cheryl is thinking.
      No luck.  "I do apologize, Mr. Knight, but I'll need to have her call you.  She can't be disturbed while she's meeting with new clients.  You understand."  Cheryl's voice became even more gentle, "Please let me try to help you with your father, Mr. Knight.  Miss Delaney trusts me completely while she's unavailable.  I'm sure I can help."
      The voice in his ear was so sweet, so concerned, that Robert had a little pang of regret at having deceived her. 
      "No. Thank you, Cheryl.  You've been very kind. I'll try back later."  Dead end.
      Robert's computer had now sprung to life, sort of.  He entered his password, clicked Internet Explorer, then Google.
      Robert already knew Grace's address and phone number, and he had all the PI software he needed to find out if she owned her house, her car, whether she had a record, and the rest of the cold hard facts.  But he liked to start his investigations in a more unorthodox way, more by feel.  He wanted to know who she was, not what she was.
      Robert pulled down his spiral notebook, and turned to a clean page.  Working alone in his office, he had developed the solitary habit of talking to himself. 
      "OK, Grace, let's get into your head."
      What would Sam Spade have done with Google?  There was more information to be had, free, for one hour on the internet than Sam could have found in a year.
      Under Search, Robert typed "Grace Delaney."  People always joked about Googling themselves and all the crazy things that come up, but it was the one of the best initial investigative tools there were, especially with very little information to go on.
      Robert peered at the list: "1-10 of about 912,000 for Grace Delaney."
      Grace Delaney Artist, Australia. Too far away.
      Amazon.com, novel, "Yellow Roses," Grace Delaney, heroine. Fictional character.
      Grace Delaney, Girls Basketball Player of the Month, Wheaton Warrenville South.  I assume she's out of high school.
      Anglican Church of Canada, Grace Delaney, Canon. Again, too far away.
      St. Maries, Idaho, High School Alumni, Grace Delaney. Possibility.
      Robert clicked on the link, which took him to the St. Maries High School website, complete with all Alumni.  In the Class of 1991, there was a Grace Delaney.  Robert quickly did the math.  About thirty-three or thirty-four, that was old enough to own a business.  But Idaho?  There was a blue link on her name, so Robert clicked it.  Bingo.
      "Gracie now lives happily in Fairfax, California, with her fourteen-year-old son, Alex.  She owns her own business, providing home care to elderly and ill patients throughout Marin County.  Gracie says she hopes anyone in the area will stop by to see her and catch up on old times. Sorry she can't make it to the 15-year Reunion, but wishes everyone the best!"
      OK, that's a start, let's find out about brothers or sisters. Robert clicked the Back arrow and started working his way up from 1991, looking for any other Delaneys.  He got all the way up to 2005 with no luck, so he went to 1990, and worked his way back from there.
      Class of 1987, James Delaney. Click.
      "Jamie is the very successful owner of Jamie D's, a vintage clothing design company in San Francisco.  We don't hear much from Jamie, but we know it's because he's very busy!"
      Robert continued back through the classes until he satisfied himself that there were no other Delaneys. Still didn't mean anything until he got a cross-reference. Life was very complicated now with blended families, all different last names.  It was hard even to tell who the parents were most of the time.
      "So what do we have?" Robert said to his notebook..
      On the lined page, he wrote: Grace Delaney, 33-4, possibly one brother, James (Jamie) Delaney, 37-8, son Alex, at least 14.  Business (and home) in Fairfax.  Jamie in SF.
      Stopping to work it through, Robert said to the computer screen, "Let's take a look at the news."  He typed "St. Maries newspaper" into the Google Search.
      St. Maries Gazette Record.  The search button in the online paper said "Go Fetch!" Robert chuckled.  Like most of the population of San Francisco, Robert had never set foot in Idaho.  Potatoes.  That was what he knew of Idaho.  "Go Fetch!" seemed to fit his notion of Idaho to a tee.
      And if the articles and the classifieds were any indication, this was a very small town.  Note: Look up St. Maries, ID in census.
      He went to Archives, and told it to go fetch "marriage delaney."
      "June 11, 1991.  Word has reached us of the marriage of Grace Jean Delaney, 18, and Nicholas John Cramer, 22, in Winnemucca, Nevada. Grace and Matthew were married on their way up to Alaska, where Matthew plans to work for the Alyeska Company on the oil pipeline."  So why isn't she Grace Cramer?
      When he tried to fetch "divorce cramer," nothing came up. On a whim, he tried, "death cramer."
      "April 29, 1992.  We are saddened to report the death of Private First Class Anthony Michael Cramer, 25, at Fort Benning, Georgia, in an accident.  No details are available.  He is survived by his parents, John and Marjorie Cramer, and a brother, Nicholas Cramer."
      By searching "death delaney" Robert found Abby's obituary, and Ben's.  So, both parents dead.  Possible brother in San Francisco.  Let's find out about him.
      Back to the Google search, Robert typed in "Jamie D's clothing." A recent review from "Trends" was glowing.
      "The inspirational owner and guru of Jamie D's is James Delaney, who started on his rhinestone path in 1989, just after the Big One in San Francisco.  He's best known for his unique variations on 'the little black dress,' but has expanded his fabulous line to include up-to-the-minute belts, shoes, hair accessories and purses.  Who would believe this boy is from Idaho?  His fans include celebrities and CEO's, and it doesn't hurt that he's gorgeous..."
      "Enough of that, I get the idea," Robert mumbled to the screen.
      Looking down at the telephone book open in front of him, Robert saw that there was a website for "Angel's Grace Home Care."  Worth a try.
      He typed it in, and found a home page that looked much like the ad.  Robert clicked on "About Us," and found himself suddenly staring into the hazel eyes of Grace Delaney.
      Wow. She doesn't look anything like my grandmother.
      Robert had learned over the years not to take people at face value.  The kindest-looking person could slit your throat faster than they could shake your hand, and vice versa.  But, he also had learned to trust his instincts, and as he looked into those eyes, he thought, I'd bet a lot of money that's not a kidnapper.
      According to Elizabeth Preston, she had talked to her mother on Grace Delaney's cell phone about 45 minutes ago.  Despite the alleged kidnapping, from the way she recounted the conversation, it didn't sound like Ellen was in any distress.
      Elizabeth heard sounds in the background that led her to believe they were traveling in a car at the time.  Ellen Preston lived in San Rafael, just down from China Camp State Park.
      "So where were you going, Grace? Unless Cheryl is lying, you're not at work. But you have a son to think about.  How far would you go?" Robert looked quickly at his watch. Five minutes to noon.  "Are you leaving town, or just getting away from our Miss Preston?"
      Robert thought he'd start with a visit to Ellen's house. That is, after he did an eInvestigator.com search on both Grace and James Delaney.  He was sure Elizabeth Preston wouldn't mind the expense item. Address, phone, birthday, marriages, divorces, bankruptcies, tax liens, judgments, relatives, roommates, neighbors, property ownership, personal assets, all for the low price of $39.95.
      You gotta love the internet.
      Before moving on, Robert took just a minute more to burn Grace into his memory.  I do love the mystery of this work.
      "So tell me, Grace, what the hell is a nice girl from St. Maries, Idaho, doing kidnapping somebody's mother?"


      Grace put the finishing touches on the Greek salad she had thrown together from Jamie's abundant kitchen.  She had sourdough bread toasting under the broiler, and was just getting ready to open a chilled bottle of Chardonnay.
      She nervously pushed the swinging kitchen door open just an inch, and heard again the low tones of conversation in the dining room.  She wasn't worried about whether Ellen and Jamie were getting along.  That was obvious.  Her question was whether Ellen had gotten into the reason they were there, and where they were going.
      I'll find out soon enough, Grace thought, Lunch is ready.
      Grace pushed open the kitchen door with a little more noise than was necessary, and looked out to see two pair of eyes fixed on her.  Jamie was leaning back in the mahogany chair at the end of the harvest table in the dining room.  Ellen had her chair pushed close to the corner near him.  You'd think they've known each other forever.
      She raised her eyebrows in Ellen's direction.  "I could use another pair of hands for just a second."  Ellen smiled and pushed her chair back.  She laid her hand casually on Jamie's as she stood up, and he smiled up at her. 
      Grace was so curious she thought she would burst.
      When the door swung shut behind Ellen, Grace took her arm quickly and walked her over to the oven, whispering,  "So?"
      Ellen laughed a little at Grace's anxiousness.  "It's going well, I think."
      The whisper got louder. "Going well?  You're explaining the Apocalypse and it's going well?"
      "Well, we haven't quite gotten to that yet.  Did you know your brother is a very metaphysical person?  A very advanced soul, Gracie.  We're extremely lucky to have him." Ellen wrinkled her nose. "Is something burning?"
      "Shit. The bread!" Grace pushed past Ellen and grabbed a potholder.  She leaned down, waving away the smoke that was starting to inch its way over the top of the door.  Pulling the cookie sheet out, Grace laid it across the double sink and pulled the window open.
      Just as Grace was about to ask more questions, the kitchen door swung open, and Jamie walked in, coughing slightly.
      "Trying to burn the place down, Graciela?  Can we have lunch first?"  He winked at Ellen, and used his height to pull the window up a little further.  Seeing the pitiful look on his sister's face, he put his arm around her.
      "No worries, we can scrape. I'm a great bread scraper."  He reached in the drawer next to the sink and pulled out a knife,  picked up a blackened piece of sourdough, and started to scratch the surface.  When he realized that the charring went a little too deep, he said simply, "Empty calories anyway," and tossed the whole batch in the trash can with a flourish.
      Grace couldn't be pathetic anymore, and she laughed. "The salad will be really good.  So will the wine.  Oh, hell, let's eat."
      Ellen got the wine, Jamie the glasses and Grace the large wooden bowl.  They sat down and chattered about cooking and wine while they filled their plates and glasses, and then all fell silent as they devoured Grace's delicious salad.
      Finally, Grace could stand it no longer.  "So, Jamie.  What have you and Ellen been talking about while I was slaving away and burning things?"
      Jamie smiled slyly at Ellen as he answered. "Well, I don't think she's gotten to the juicy part yet.  You girls may think you're being cagy, but you're not doing a very good job of it.  This all feels very planned to me." He looked over and gave Grace a similar smile.  "I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."
      Grace and Ellen couldn't help it, they both turned and looked at each other across the table at the same time, and Jamie laughed.
      "OK, out with it.  Did you rob a bank?  Is this a Thelma and Louise kind of thing?  You both look so guilty."  Jamie was enjoying this way too much, Grace thought sadly.  Now they would have to ruin it.  Neither Ellen nor Grace spoke. Jamie looked back and forth between them, questions in his eyes.
      Grace had trouble looking at her brother. "Well, it's actually pretty serious," she said softly, rolling her wooden napkin ring quietly back and forth in front of her.
      Immediately, Jamie was subdued.  "What is it, honey?  Alex is OK?"  He looked at Grace, worried.
      Looking up, Grace said quickly, "He's fine. I'm fine. Life is good." Damn, Grace thought, as her eyes started to mist, I'm not going to get through this without crying.
      Ellen rescued her.  In a calm, clear voice, Ellen began, "Jamie, we have some things to tell you that might be a little hard for you to believe."  Seeing the confusion on his face, Ellen continued. "You and I have had a nice talk today, haven't we?" 
      Jamie nodded, cautiously, and said, "I've enjoyed it very much."
      "Do I seem at all crazy to you, Jamie?"
      Trying to lighten the mood, Jamie said, with mock seriousness, "Not until just this minute, Ellen."
      Looking at Jamie, here in his beautiful house that surveyed the expanse of the City from huge picture windows, Grace realized suddenly what they were facing.  Jamie loved San Francisco in the way one loves a life partner.  Telling him that his city had only, at most, six months to live was going to require more courage and convincing than it did for Grace. 
      Telling him that he needed to move back to Idaho would be adding insult to grievous injury.  Her heart hurt for him, and without thinking, she leaned over and took his face in her hands.
      "We have some bad news, Jamie.  I've been struggling with this for a couple of days, and I believe that it's true, although it feels surreal."  She searched his eyes for some clue about how to begin.
      Taking Grace's two hands from his face and setting them side by side on the table in front of her, Jamie spoke firmly.  "OK, you two.  Enough preparation.  Spit it out.  As the Dixie Chicks would say, let 'er rip."
      Ellen stepped up to the plate and swung.  Hard.  "Jamie, within six months, everything you can see here will be under water.  We all need to pack up what we can, help as many people as we can, and move to safe ground."
      The three of them were absolutely still.  A bird sang outside the window.  The breeze curled the rattan blinds lightly.  A fly buzzed onto the three-wick candle sitting in the center of the table.  The clock on the sideboard clicked out the seconds loudly, one, two, three, up to ten, before anyone spoke. Grace watched Jamie's face.
      The corner of his mouth started to twitch, as if it might transform into a smile, but he looked deeply into the eyes of the two women sitting at the table with him, and thought better of it.
      Instead, he turned to Ellen, using the business voice Grace had heard countless times when he negotiated prices.
      "How do you know this, Ellen? Are you connected with the government?" Jamie was a very good negotiator, as Grace knew.  She couldn't tell whether he was humoring Ellen or was ready to call the men in the white coats.
      Ellen didn't miss a beat.  Giving him her best challenging smile, she said,  "A little higher up than the government, Jamie."
      Jamie's face went blank for a moment, and then Grace saw a light dawn behind his eyes as he raised his eyebrows, leaned back in his chair, and expelled a long breath.  Then, he turned to Grace and looked at her through narrowed eyes.  The look clearly said What the hell are you thinking?
      Grace said softly, "I had the same reaction.  Give her a chance, honey."
      Grace got up to get the wine bottle, Coward that I am, she thought.  Ellen began, slowly, to explain what was going to happen.  Hearing it again as she topped off all three glasses, Grace was able to take it in more fully, absorbed by the unwavering kindness and intelligence in Ellen's voice.
      As she sat back down, Grace watched Jamie, his eyes flickering between the two women, trying to understand why his generally sane sister was acting as if this was all somehow normal conversation. And, because he trusted his sister, trying to find the grains of truth in what he was hearing.
      When Ellen paused, Grace said, "Tell him about Earth as a woman, Ellen." Grace looked tenderly at Jamie under her lashes, "He understands women."
      Listening to Jamie's intermittent questions, Grace was amazed at how alike she and her brother were.  He went through the same process, trying to apply logic, finally coming to the conclusion that what was going to happen was actually very logical, and in many ways, inevitable.
      In the end, Ellen convinced Jamie because he knew she was speaking the truth, just as Grace did.  There was no doubt, no drama, just facts, but Ellen had a way of speaking facts that also embraced compassion, and empathy, and love.    
      Grace tried not to make Jamie self-conscious by watching him too closely, but she saw him alternately pale, and flush, and then the brother she knew so well moved through disbelief, anger, confusion and sadness, and Grace knew that he believed.
      Jamie fell back into his chair, sighing. "We really fucked it up, didn't we?  What was that Joni Mitchell song? We paved Paradise and put up a parking lot?"
      Ellen smiled crookedly, "Free will.  It's the greatest gift we gave ourselves."  Brightening, she moved forward and reached her hands out to Jamie and Grace. "Look at it this way.  We get to build it all again, but this time we'll do a better job."
      The three sat for a moment in silence, lost in their own thoughts.
      Suddenly darkening, Jamie looked at both women.  "OK, so what about the cat?  What the hell was that all about?"
      Grace sighed sadly, remembering the vision of Princess on the door.  "I can't imagine who would have done that." She looked at Ellen, raising her eyebrows, "Can you?"
      When Ellen didn't answer immediately, Jamie asked, "What about your daughter?  If you'll pardon me, she sounds like one of those barracuda lawyers."  Jamie looked closely at Ellen to see if she was offended by the characterization.  Seeing no reaction, he continued. "Maybe she's trying to scare you, and hired somebody to do it."
      Grace shook her head. "No, too much drama.  Elizabeth wants this whole situation to go away, not to escalate.  That act was a little too Stephen King for her, I think."
      Ellen closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, breathing deeply. 
      Jamie and Grace watched her for a few moments, then swiveling his head to face his sister, Jamie wordlessly mouthed, What is she doing?  Grace whispered, "Logging on, I think," and to her brother's confused look, "I'll tell you later."
      Opening her eyes, Ellen exhaled.  "Well, we're definitely beginning to attract some notice."
      Frowning, Jamie said, "Notice? From whom?"
      Ellen concentrated, pursing her mouth, "There's an energy that I felt at the house, and it was getting stronger.  Someone is trying to block our way.  I thought at first that it was Elizabeth, but this is a different energy."  Ellen closed her eyes again. "A righteous energy."
      Grace stared. "Righteous? What does that mean?"
      Ellen said, "Just that someone's on a, a sort of ..." She stopped, groping for the right word. "...a mission to keep us from doing what we need to do."  Ellen opened her eyes and looked at Jamie and Grace. "That can be very powerful."
      "Ellen, you're kind of scaring me." Grace said quietly. 
      Ellen drained the last sip of wine from her glass. "OK, then. Let's look at this logically." She began to count on her outstretched fingers. "A. I've only spoken to a few people about this.  B. 'Repent' is a word with strong religious connotations." 
      She placed the wine glass gently on the table. "The only person I spoke with who was overtly religious was Marla, and that sweet little girl didn't look like she could swat a fly, much less skin a cat."
      "What if she told someone about it?" Grace asked. "Someone from her church? A boyfriend? Husband?" Grace folded her napkin on the table in front of her as she talked. "Ellen, I didn't tell you this, but I had an eerie feeling outside your house.  Before I met you, and then when we took the walk."  Looking up, she said, "I felt like I was being watched."
      Jamie reached over and took her hand in his. "Gracie, I think we should call the police.  Someone who could kill an animal and display it that way is not very well wrapped, if you ask me."
      Grace shook her head firmly. "No. No police. They're bound by rules, and they ask too many questions."  She took a deep breath and sat up straight in her chair. "Our Stephen King fan was just trying to scare us, and I'm sure he or she is long gone. We just need to get Ellen somewhere safe while we begin to figure out what we're going to do."
      Grace turned to Jamie. "Can we use the cabin?"
      Jamie didn't hesitate. "Sure. But you're not staying there alone. I'll finish up a few things here and drive out to meet you tonight.  I could use a little vacation time." Jamie started pushing back from the table.
      Grateful, Grace stood up and hugged her big brother from behind, wrapping her arms around his neck.  Knowing he couldn't see her, Grace asked, eyes twinkling. "Can we take your car?"
      Turning abruptly and breaking free of the embrace, Jamie looked suspiciously at Grace. "Which one?"
      Grace smiled sweetly at her brother. "You know which one."
      "Now why would you need my car?"  Jamie's day-to-day car was a Toyota 4-Runner, but his electric blue 1966 Mustang convertible, lovingly restored, was his pride and joy.
      "Just in case this person knows the van?  It's an outside chance that we would pass them on the way through Marin to Inverness, but better safe than sorry, right?" Grace's innocent look didn't fool Jamie for a second. She couldn't wait to feel the wind in her hair, and he knew it.
      Jamie narrowed his eyes at her. "And I get the home care van with all your dirty shoes in the back? I don't think so."
      Grace laughed. "No, you drive the 4-Runner," she said, "Let's leave the van parked outside here for a couple of days."  She turned serious again. "I don't think we were followed, but just in case, I don't want either of us driving it."
      Ellen had been watching these negotiations like someone at a tennis match.  She finally said. "Are you two finished?"
      Grace smiled. "Not quite. I need to make a couple of phone calls."  She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Teresa.
      Walking over to the picture window that looked down on the Marina below, Grace waited until her friend answered.
      "Hey, Terri, do you mind picking Alex up after school?  And can he stay with you guys for a couple of nights?" Pause. "No, I'm just going out to the cabin with Jamie. We have some work to do out there.  Tell Alex I'll call him tonight." Pause. "I really appreciate it."
      Grace looked over past the Bay toward Marin, and imagined her friend there. In that place that would no longer be there. Soon. Her light mood darkened instantly.
      "Terri? I have something I want to talk to you about.  No, I'm OK, really.  Don't worry.  It's just that Alex and I are going to spend the summer in Idaho, and I thought you'd like to bring the family up to visit us, is all."
      Grace continued staring at the water, listening to Teresa. "Well, I know it's not really your style, but you might enjoy it.  Just a chance to get away? Think about it, OK?  We'll talk when I pick Alex up, probably on Wednesday night.  Thanks, Terri." Grace added, after a pause,  "You're a good friend."
      Pushing the button to end the call, Grace knew she had sounded strained with Teresa, and knew that her friend's instincts were telling her something was wrong.  I'm not good at this, Grace thought.  Being brave.
      She turned around and saw Ellen and Jamie looking at her.  "Four more, hopefully," Grace said, shrugging.  "That's six.  With Cheryl and her son, it will be eight."
      Grace looked at Ellen, and asked, "Can I go over my seven?"  The question sounded insane to her, and she suddenly felt like she was playing God, picking and choosing who would live and who wouldn't.  She collapsed in a heap on the sofa in front of the window, and looked desolately at Jamie and Ellen.  "I don't know if I can do this.  I don't think I'm strong enough."
      Before the first tear hit her lap, she had Ellen on one side, and Jamie on the other, holding her.  Grace felt as if they were actually holding her together, and that if they weren't there she would just dissolve into thin air, molecules flying in all directions.
      "You're strong enough."  Jamie and Ellen spoke the same words at exactly the same time, and the stereo effect on Grace caused her to laugh softly, then hiccup as a sob escaped.
      The three of them sat entwined while Grace let her emotions take their course. After a few moments, she said softly, "Thank you. Both of you.  I needed that."
      Jamie smoothed a curl off of her forehead and said, "I'm sure we'll all have our turn in the middle, honey.  We can't be brave little soldiers all the time." 
      He took a deep breath and stood up suddenly.  "OK, I'm monumentally sad about all this, and part of me doesn't even believe it yet.  But if it's all going under, I need Ben & Jerry's."  He turned to Ellen. "I assume that will not be easy to find?"
      Ellen laughed.  "Only in the winter. And it will have to be homemade."
      "Well then, we have lots of work to do." Jamie said, willing himself into a brighter mood. "I need to find a recipe for Cherry Garcia that doesn't require power.  I have lots of antique shopping to do, a treadle sewing machine for starters. And someone has to learn to make fire.  They don't let gay boys in the Boy Scouts."
      Grace wiped her tears away with the corner of her sleeve as she laughed and stood up to hug her big brother.  Her cell phone was still in her hand, and she opened it, took a deep breath, and pressed the number for Cheryl.



      His head jerked with a start, and Daniel realized that he had fallen asleep.  From his corner across from the van, he could see that it was still there.  What are they doing in there?
      He opened the door and stepped out of Marla's station wagon, unfolding his long legs from the small cab of the car.
      It had taken him nearly an hour to finally get this space.  Circling the blocks, endlessly, checking each time around to be sure the van was still parked.  He had prayed, then, and his prayer was answered so quickly that he chastised himself for not doing it sooner.  He asked Jesus to open a space for him, so that he could do the Lord's work, and right then, a car had pulled out of the perfect spot.
      They had been in there for over two hours.  Daniel was fighting the urge to do something, as his mind worked in silence.  Neither of them knew who he was, he could go to the door, witnessing, as he had done many times.  He'd looked into so many houses as he stood on the doorstep, offering salvation to those within, knowing how anxious they were to shut the door on him and on God's Word, but persevering, "there is salvation in no one else but Jesus."
      Daniel stretched and gazed down the long expanse of Divisidero Street, ending with the sparkling blue water of the Bay.  From here, he could see much of the City, and in the distance, could almost make out the tiny forms of people walking, running, and bicycling in the Marina. Do they still call them Yuppies? Daniel thought. Probably some new name now, created by Nike, blasted across television and movie screens, newspapers and advertising, tempting the weak from what really matters.
      What has happened to the world?  People used to go to church, pray in schools, say grace before meals, thank God at every turn.  Now they pray to the false gods of money, Rolex, BMW, Microsoft.  It's a good thing the End Time is coming soon.  Daniel smiled to himself and leaned against the car and closed his eyes to the glare of the sun.
      Jesus will take care of it.  Pick the faithful up and carry them to Heaven, while casting the evil into eternal damnation in Hell.
      Suddenly, Daniel's eyes popped open, as a thought occurred to him.  Maybe I am part of the first wave of Revelation.  Jesus is mustering his Army, and there are countless others, just like me, beginning to purge the Earth of the pestilence of sin.  I am not alone, Daniel thought, and felt tears begin to start.  He turned to face the door they had gone into, and saw again the van parked out front. 
      Suddenly, the front door opened, and he jumped quickly down to pretend to inspect a tire.  The women he now called Grace and Ellen stepped from the front stoop onto the sidewalk.  A tall, blonde man stood casually in the doorway to the house. Grace went to the driver's side of the van and pulled a purple duffel from the back, and when Ellen started to walk back up the stairs, she was carrying a tapestry bag.
      The three stood for a time on the front stoop, looking down in the direction Daniel had just been looking.  The man pointed to something across the Bay, and all three laughed as they went back inside.
      Must be spending the night.  Daniel climbed back into the Escort, thinking he had a long night ahead of him.
      I will obey, Lord.  You're testing me.  I won't fail you.


      There it was.  Robert always loved the small chill he got when his research took form, as a person, or a house or a car that was only an idea, and then it becomes reality.  This reality was a 2002 Honda van, gold in color, parked outside the house owned by one James Stewart Delaney.
      Not only the van, but the signs, clear as day, proclaiming "Angel's Grace Home Care" in bold letters.  Now it was real. 
      She was in there, this person he knew only through statistics.  He had watched her grow up in St. Maries, Idaho, seen her married, when she bought her first car, the ticket for speeding three years ago, the purchase of her first home, which also housed her business, and the fact that her son was an honor student and a baseball player.
      He knew that Jamie owned this house, that he used to have roommates but now lived alone, that there were two cars registered in his name, a 2006 Toyota 4-Runner, black, and a very cherry 1966 Mustang convertible, electric blue. "My dream car, by the way," Robert said aloud, when he discovered that piece of information.
      Jamie was worth close to $3 million, and owned a nondescript 3 bedroom, 2 bath house in St. Maries, the house he and Grace grew up in, which he purchased jointly with Grace soon after their father died.  He also held the deed to a cabin in Inverness, just about an hour away.
      Never married, but clearly gay, Jamie had applied for domestic partnership a few years ago.  Never filled out the final paperwork.
      Robert had intended on going straight out to Ellen Preston's house in San Rafael, but once he found that Jamie owned a house in the City, he decided to take Divisidero to the Bridge.  He thought that Grace might go to Jamie when she was in trouble, but finding her van here was a piece of luck he hadn't really anticipated.
      Elizabeth Preston had forbidden him to make contact with the two women, he was just to follow them, so he started to look for a parking space.  Good luck in this neighborhood, he thought. 
      After driving around the block a few times, he'd sat for a few moments behind a beat-up red Ford wagon, because the driver was inside, and Robert thought he might be leaving.  While he waited for him to start the car, he'd amused himself by reading the bumper stickers on the back. 
      Do they really think they're going to convert people while they read those in traffic?  "What brought you to the Lord, my son?" "A bumper sticker, Father," Well, to each his own
      Rolling up even with the driver, he could see that the man, much too large for that small car, had fallen uncomfortably asleep behind the wheel. Watching the fog rise and fall on the window with his breath, Robert thought it might be a long time before that space freed up.
      Finally, he found a spot that had a view not only of the van at the front of the house, but also the alley in the back where the garages were.
      Robert was parked illegally, in front of a garage that had so many signs telling him that he was parked illegally, he would have to be blind not to know it.  But he kept his engine running, and whenever someone came into view, Robert made a show of looking at his watch and peering up the stairs, as if he were waiting for someone.
      He checked the glove compartment again, to be sure the safety was engaged on his .45, a 1911-A1 that he kept nearby just in case.  He had the holster on under his jacket, but wearing the gun was something he did only when going into a clearly life-threatening situation.
      Robert was always amazed at the misconceptions people had about private investigators.  Movies and TV shows would have you believe that they discharge their firearms every five minutes, which is far from the truth.  In all his years of professional investigation, Robert had worn gun and holster maybe 50 times, shot his gun once, and never killed anyone. 
      How many times did he have the .45 in his glove compartment?  Practically every day.  With the safety on and the glove box locked.  It never hurt to be prepared.
      Robert spent his days and nights watching people, and most of them didn't even know it until later, so they weren't likely to shoot him.  The job of dealing with hardened criminals belonged to the police.  The only thing most of Robert's targets were packing was a few extra pounds.
      Sitting in the alley, he passed two hours, finally turning his engine off for fear of running his gas too low to follow them once they did leave the house.  He was beginning to wonder if he should go looking for a more permanent spot when the electric door of the garage behind Jamie Delaney's house whirred into motion and opened.
      "Oh, man," Robert sighed, as the car backed out. "That is a beautiful goddamn sight."
      The Mustang sparkled in the sunlight, blinding him for a split second.  When his vision returned, it was slightly impaired by a black dot in the center, but he could see that the top was down and secured in the white boot just past the back seat.
      White leather interior, sport hood...
      "Are we doing surveillance on the car, or the people inside?" he berated himself.  A mass of curls was behind the wheel, and the passenger had hair streaked with gray.  Both tall, nearly to the windshield.  He could only see the backs of their heads, but he was pretty sure this was Grace Delaney and Ellen Preston in the flesh.
      When the car turned right at the end of the alley, Robert was completely sure.  Ellen reached around to the back seat to adjust a bag and he saw her clearly.  Definitely the woman in the fax that Elizabeth sent. 
      Robert started his engine.  His tan Ford Taurus station wagon was as nondescript a car as there was on the road, and the Mustang would be very easy to follow.


      Alex was dumbfounded. 
      With some time to kill before Grace was to pick him up in front of school at 3:00, he figured he'd start on his $200 report.  In the Library he sat at one of the computer stations and searched on "life without electricity," and the results staggered him.
      With everything the modern world had to offer, there were thousands upon thousands of people living all over the world, by choice, in the Dark Ages.
      These were not people in Third World countries.  Some were highly educated, some wealthy, people who had been professionals with successful careers.
      Whether to avoid crime, noise, pollution, religious persecution, negative influences on children, escalating costs, or just to live simply, families had been retreating to the hills for years.  Some lived completely without electricity, rising and sleeping with the sun.  Others made their own power using solar panels, windmills, and water wheels.
      Most acknowledged that it was a harder life, but also more satisfying.  Human bodies weren't designed to sit in front of the TV eating pizza, they said, they were designed to work in the fields, to walk from place to place, and to eat whole foods without preservatives.
      None had to belong to health clubs or worry about gaining weight.  Their children weren't seeing therapists, and without TV, the world seemed to be a gentler, kinder place.  Very few knew or cared what was going on in the political world.
      Many said that life became slower, governed by nature, more serene, less stressful, and peacefully silent, without the ever-present sounds of electricity and the machines it powers. Using oil lamps for light, cisterns for water, and woodstoves for heat and cooking, people could live "off the grid."
      Alex leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen rhythmically on his knee.  He looked around the Library and subtracted everything that required power.  What was left were books, furniture, pens, pencils and paper.  And quiet. 
      Even in the imposed silence of the Library, there was no silence.  The computer hummed, a cell phone in the pocket of someone next to him vibrated, the copier fan whirred, the lights above buzzed. 
      Moving back to the computer, Alex found online forums where homesteaders could ask any question, from how to make sugar from beets, to what to do with gray well water, to how to clean a lambskin.
      Within moments of his search, Alex had the recipes for canned meats, jellies, vegetables and fruits. He knew how to raise rabbits, goats, chickens, cows, pigs and ducks.  He could make cleaning and pest control products from vinegar, baking soda, chili powder, mineral oil, lemon juice, chalk and flour.  He had the plans for a solar cooker, an outdoor shower, a toaster, and a wringer-washer.
      And, he thought with a wry smile, the irony has not escaped me that I found all of this on the internet.
      Alex loved writing reports.  He didn't share that fact with his friends, because most of them didn't, but he truly enjoyed delving into a subject that he had never encountered before, and he knew he was blessed with the ability to write well, effortlessly. 
      He had discovered that early on, when his reports would be returned with A's, with copious notes from his teachers thanking him shamelessly for his insightful parallels, his similes and metaphors, his grammar, spelling, syntax and vocabulary.  He felt slightly guilty about this, because he hadn't consciously done any of these things, he had just written what popped into his head.
      And he had left reports until the last minute far too many times because he knew that he could fake his way through them and still do well.
      This assignment from his mother was different, though.
      This feels real, he thought.
      Remembering his talk with her last night, Alex shook off another of the creepy feelings he had been having all day.  Creepy like when a fly is walking across your arm and you don't feel it right away.  Creepy like waking up with a spider bite and knowing that the spider was under your covers at night and you didn't know it.
      Creepy like I feel that there is something going on all around me and I'm not sure what it is.
      Alex loved Grace very much of course, as children love their mothers.  Beyond that, though, he respected her.  As he got older, and saw how other kids felt about their parents, he was aware of the trust and respect she gave to him to make good decisions.  He was also becoming aware of how hard it must have been for her to raise him without a partner.
      So when he saw his mother struggling with what she had to tell him last night, he was ashamed to say that he did what most people would do.  He brushed it off and went into denial. 
      But that was just on the surface.
      Underneath, in his thoughts, he had spent the day reliving everything she had said.
      ...Going to be hard to hear...disturbing information...big changes to the Earth...water rising up...very soon...somewhere safe....It breaks my heart, honey, but I believe her...
      Alex made one more Google search and found what he was looking for.  A complete list, from A to Z, of everything he would need to stock a homestead for a couple of years until the crops came in.  Lists of tools, canned goods, dried foods, farm animals, linens, blankets, and books.  And candles.  Lots of candles.
      As he clicked the button to print, Alex wondered, with a deepening dread in his gut, how long a fully-charged IPod would last without power.
      He had agreed to go to Idaho for the summer, but in that deep place, in his heart, he knew it wasn't just for the summer.  Although in his head it sounded way too dramatic, he knew his life would never be the same.
      So, Alex thought, this wasn't just a report he was writing.
      This is a blueprint for the rest of our lives.


      "Mr. Hart?"
      "Miss Preston?"
      "Yes. What's your progress?" Elizabeth was walking to her car, and that, coupled with the sounds of the Marin freeway, made it difficult for Robert to hear her clearly. 
      "I've found them, and I'm following them."
      "Excellent work, Mr. Hart."  Robert thought he heard what might pass for excitement in her voice. Don't be jumping to any hasty conclusions, he thought dryly.
      "Where are you?" Elizabeth asked. Robert heard the beeping sound of a car alarm being disengaged, and then the seatbelt signal as she turned the ignition.
      "We're on the 101, driving North.  Just passed the Sausalito exit."
      "Do you know where they're going?" Elizabeth turned on the air in the car.  It was stiflingly hot.  Six p.m. was much earlier than she usually left the office, and the sun was still blazing on the horizon.
      "Well, my guess would be San Rafael to your mother's house, Fairfax to Ms. Delaney's house, or possibly out to Inverness," Robert said, raising his voice to combat the new sounds added to the cacophony.
      "Inverness? You mean out by Point Reyes? Why on Earth would they go there?" Elizabeth was shouting now, to be heard.
      "Because Ms. Delaney's brother owns a cabin in Inverness, and they might feel safe there."  Robert was getting weary of the simultaneous tasks of staying with the Mustang and yelling at Miss Preston.
      "Safe from what, Mr. Hart?"
      Safe from you, Miss Preston, Robert thought. "I'm not sure yet.  Listen, you're breaking up quite a bit, I think I'd better wait until I pass this hill.  Call me back in an hour if you'd like, otherwise I'll give you a report tomorrow."
      Closing his cell phone, Robert basked in the relative silence of just the freeway outside.  Christ, that woman is irritating, he thought.  He reached back to the seat and pressed the button to turn the phone off.
      This is not a good start.  I'm identifying more with the person I'm following than I am with the one who's paying me.
      Of course it wasn't the first time that had happened in his years of following people.  What was disturbing is that when he looked back at the times it had happened, his instincts were usually right.  Good guys and bad guys.  Black hats and white hats.  Why does it always come down to that with me?
      Robert had been behind Grace and Ellen for about 25 minutes now, and from what he'd seen, there was no kidnapping in progress.  Grace stopped to fill up the tank in San Francisco, and from two pumps away he watched the women talk and laugh with each other. 
      The alleged kidnapper went inside to pay while her supposed captive sat in the car, with the keys in the ignition.  Grace bought enough things to require a bag, and Ellen had a good ten minutes to move to the driver's seat, start the car, and drive off.  She didn't.
      So now, driving down the freeway, instead of doing the work he was being paid to do, analyzing the motives of the suspect, he was trying to figure out the motives of his client. 
      Why is Elizabeth so afraid of these two?
      As he contemplated that question, he looked up at the brilliant sky with just a few clouds watercolored in.  It was a beautiful day, and Robert tried to remember the last time he had taken a drive here.  The hills were mostly brown this time of year, but they rose up on his left, rolling and falling into valleys that held spectacularly green tree-lined streets of houses. 
      Looking back down at the Mustang, he saw that the turn signal was flashing.  The Sir Francis Drake exit.  So, not going to Ellen's house.  This was the road to Fairfax, and past that, to Inverness.
      He had by now grown accustomed to the ebb and flow of the blowing hair over the windshield on the Mustang.  And, although his dream car had actually been red, he was rethinking that as he watched the electric blue car move in and out of the late-afternoon traffic.
      Again, Robert was struck by the way something he had researched endlessly suddenly came to life.  The car had been his dream, but he had never actually driven one.  As he watched it hug the road, the name Mustang seemed very apt.  The car moved as if it were a very powerful horse.
      As Grace drove, she and Ellen talked, both glancing to each other for the quickest of eye contact before turning back, Grace's curls dancing wildly, Ellen's straighter hair moving up and down in graceful arcs.  These two women act like friends, Robert thought.
      Dropping a couple more cars back, Robert made the turn and started the long drive through the towns that lay between the freeway and the seashore on the Pacific Ocean.  If they turned in Fairfax, they would probably be going to Grace's house.  If they passed it, he guessed they were going to Jamie's cabin.
      It was much easier to follow now, because the traffic was basically single file.  There were a few stop lights, but mostly it was a slow crawl through old neighborhoods.  The brightly-colored Mustang nearly glowed in the line of cars ahead of him, and Robert started to relax.
      He reached over to the seat next to him and picked up his phone, turning it back on.  There was one voicemail. A quick check showed that it was an "Unknown" number.  Elizabeth Preston.  He needed a little more time before he could listen to the Dragon Lady's voice again. 
      He bypassed the voicemail and went straight to his address book.  Pressing a button, he waited for a voice he could listen to all day.
      "Pops! What's up?"
      "Hey, Cass.  Not much.  Just wanted you to know I'm on a new job, and I might not be able to see you this weekend.  I really want to, but I'm not sure where I'll be on Friday night."
      "Oh. Well. OK." He heard the disappointment in her voice, but she tried to put a good face on it, as usual. "I understand," she said, a touch more brightly. 
      Robert saw the sign for Fairfax, and watched as Grace passed right by it without slowing down.  Now the possibilities were narrowing, and it looked to be the house in Inverness.
      "I may still be able to, Cass.  This one might wrap itself up pretty fast.  I just don't want you to turn down any offers on account of your dear old dad."
      "Actually," Cassandra said, "Some friends are going up to Tahoe this weekend.  They asked if I wanted to go.  Maybe I'll say yes, but, I know this makes me sound really boring, but I'd rather spend the time with you.  New York is a long way away, and I'm going to miss you so much." 
      Robert felt his throat clench. "Oh, Cass, me too.  I still can't believe you're going."
      He didn't know whether it was the sunshine or the sound of his daughter's voice.   Suddenly the world seemed not to hold the dangers it usually did, and he decided to do something impulsive.
      "It looks like I might be headed out to Inverness to keep an eye on some people.  You remember Inverness?"
      "Yeah, we went there for Christmas that year.  Didn't you rent that house on the water and we got a tree and everything?  I loved it there.  Remember that huge bubble maker you got me? The really big circle with the handle that made bubbles as big as I was?"
      Robert chuckled, remembering. "I still have the pictures.  We should pull all my pictures out before you go, so you can take some with you.  Anyway, if I'm still out there on Friday, maybe I could find a little place and we could spend some time together.  Maybe I'll let you be my co-pilot."
      Cassie's excitement was clearly audible over the traffic noise. "You mean it? Really? I could actually help you on a case?  I can't even believe you're saying that!"
      "Well, you are 18.  And you are traveling all the way across the country to New-fricking-York by yourself, which scares the hell out of me, by the way.  And you've always wanted to see what it is that I do.  And, we'll just be following what looks like two very nice ladies around.  So, I think it would be OK, yes."
      Cassandra was all business now. "Two ladies? What did they do? Who's paying you? How old are they?"
      "Whoa, Sherlock!  Like I said, this case may be all over by Friday.  If it's not, I'll give you the particulars." Robert smiled, loving her enthusiasm. "On a need-to-know basis, of course."
      "Cool! So where do I meet you?" Cassandra had a VW Golf that she was planning to sell at the end of the summer, knowing that she wouldn't need a car in New York.
      "Cass, don't be disappointed if this doesn't pan out, OK?  I might have to follow them to Mexico by Friday.  I never know where people are going."
      "Mexico? Can I go with you?"  Cassandra heard her father sigh deeply, exasperated. "Just kidding, Pops."
      Robert laughed.  I love that girl
      His voice got serious in Cassie's ear. "OK.  One thing.  One very important thing. Very, very, very important."
      "I know.  Don't tell Mom."
      "Thanks.  She'd kill me.  I'll call you tomorrow once I see what's up.  Love you, baby."
      "Love you too, Daddy." Cassie's voice got very low. "Over and out."
      Robert said, laughing, "Over and out, Sherlock."
      Cassandra had once told him it was like having a father who was an emergency doctor.  Hard to make plans.  But she also said that she respected the work he did, and how he helped people.  At first she begged to spend the weekends with him on his jobs, doing surveillance and research. 
      She thought it was exciting, but he never brought her into his work.  If anything ever happened to her, he would never forgive himself.  And, when he was being really honest with himself, he didn't want her to see the small and sordid work he did most of the time.  She saw him saving lives, while in reality, he spent countless hours waiting for cheating husbands and wives to appear from doorways.
      Those bright eyes on that beautiful girl didn't need to be clouded with the cynicism Robert had developed about human relationships.  Granted, he was only called when there was a problem, but Jesus, there were a lot of people in the world who didn't trust each other.
      Ex-bosses had him follow people collecting disability or unemployment to see if they had other jobs.  Husbands and wives, of course, had him follow everyone everywhere.  Mothers and daughters.  Fathers and sons.  Business partners.  Life partners.  Ex-partners.  Ex-everythings.
      Robert had never told Cassandra, but he had also been out to Inverness one other time.  After that Christmas, he had tried a weekend with a woman that he liked pretty well.  Not passionately, but pretty well.
      Where he and Cass had loved the rustic feel of the place they rented, excitedly getting wood for the woodstove, laughing about the creakiness of the stairs and the quirks of the kitchen, this woman was cold, and scared, and whiny.
      They left on Saturday morning, although he had it rented for the whole weekend.  Robert had taken his date home and driven back to spend the rest of the weekend alone.  He loved it.
      From that point on, he hadn't tried to complicate his life with more than one night with any woman, and never overnight.  He was the quintessential bachelor, no commitments, no worries.  And considering what he saw in his work, he counted himself lucky to be single.
      Cassie was his best girl, and his only girl.  And she was leaving at the end of August.  Going to the biggest city in the whole country, from one coast to the other.  When he thought about it, he felt a knot in his stomach that would only relax as he talked himself through it.  She needs to find her way in the world. And that means separating from her mother and me.
      Robert understood now.  All the things he'd heard from parents about their children over the years.  How they would always be babies in some part of their memories, innocent, helpless, sweet.         
      Even mothers of criminals, prostitutes, felons, murderers, talked about them as if they were still children, "he's a good boy," "my baby girl."  Before he had Cassie, Robert saw these people as deluded and disconnected, unwilling to see the truth about their children.  Now he knew they were simply seeing them in the only way they could, as naive children, full of promise, with limitless futures.
      Robert struggled to see his daughter as a young woman, and the quickest way to do that was to remember how he felt at 18.  He had felt like an adult, and was in fact, on his own by then.  He drove away from Los Angeles in the car he had earned by working, and never really looked back.
      The blue Mustang had now passed the last real town before heading into Samuel P. Taylor State Park, 2700 acres of redwood and grasslands.  Once inside the park, Robert knew, there were places where the tall canopy of the trees blocked out the sun so completely it looked to be nearly dark.
      And they weren't the only two cars still on the road.  The Memorial Day weekend started at the end of the week, and some people were beginning their vacations early.  Campers, trailers, and boats mixed in with passenger cars in the orderly file of people heading to the ocean.
      Robert had the address to the cabin, and had done a MapQuest print out just in case, as he had done for Grace's house in Fairfax, Jamie's in the city, Ellen's in San Rafael, and even one of the house in St. Maries.  It never hurt to be prepared.  Even if I lost them at this point, I could probably find them again in that car.
      Not too far now.  Robert reached over and switched on the radio.  Wonder what the weather will be like this weekend?


      ...Boom... you know, homey I'm just triple beam, dreaming... Boom-boom....
      The sound coming from the dilapidated pickup seemed enough to shake it right into a pile of parts.  Once a shiny teal green, the 1983 truck showed creases of rust in its dull finish, and one full fender was still primer gray.  Even through the dirt and gravel road, the sound traveled, frightening animals living in the burrows and hollows around Ellen Preston's house.
      Willie stopped his truck at the entrance to the driveway with a spray of stones and a cloud of dust, and opened the driver's side door.  The sound from the speakers increased, causing birds to suddenly take flight from the overhanging trees.
      ...Boom-boom...I sold everything, I'm a hustler, I know how to grind... Boom-boom....
      Oblivious to the way he altered the peaceful environment, Willie hopped out and checked the rusty mailbox.  He pulled out a week's worth of mail, mostly junk, and slammed the creaky door, making the wood post flop back and forth in its tenuous footing.
      Throwing the mail into the grocery box in the bed of the pickup, Willie jumped back behind the wheel and pulled his door shut, blessedly diminishing the noise that echoed through the quiet of China Camp.
      This was Willie's last day of delivering groceries to Ellen Preston.  Next week, it'll be some other poor shit, he thought, 'cause I'm outta here.  Driving all the way out here, putting miles on his truck, and for what?  No tip. Nada. 
      Willie was headed for the big time, late night pizza delivery, hourly wage,  plus tips,  not to mention mileage and depreciation on his ride.  People get drunk and order pizza, and it wasn't unheard of for a loaded guy to give a $20 tip.  With that kind of money, Willie could get the new sub-woofers he'd been looking at, and maybe a new paint job.  Definitely the big time.
      The tires slid to a stop on the bricks, taking a few broken corners with them.  Willie left the music on.  The old lady never came out anyway, so why should he turn it down?  Far as he knew, there wasn't even anyone there, except that the trash was usually out.
      He looked up on the porch, and didn't see the box next to the door.  First time that's happened.  What the hell am I supposed to do about it?  Maybe the old bat died.
      Willie chuckled at his joke, and reached into the bed of the truck to pull out the grocery box.  As he walked up the steps, he checked out the mail, as he usually did.  Sometimes there were coupons for stuff, things he needed, so he just took them.  She never went out anyway, so they probably just got thrown away.
      After he set the box down next to the door, Willie leafed through the last of the envelopes, jerking his hips to the music that was still blaring from the pickup. 
      Dropping the mail into the box, his eyes were drawn to a line of ants. Big ants. Shit those are big ants, crawling in an orderly line, both ways of a tiny freeway, bumping sometimes, the ones going to the right carrying small bundles, the ones going to the left empty-handed.
      He followed the line as it wound to the left and made its way up the door.  Willie traced it with his eyes, fascinated, until he came face to face with their prize. 
      Willie yelled "Holy crap!" and promptly doubled over and threw up his three-taco lunch.
      Straightening, eyes wide with terror, Willie noticed that the front door was open, the congealed blood in a hard little pool on the rug just inside the house.  No one inside, but of course someone could be screaming at the top of their lungs and not be heard over the thunderous drumbeat of 50 Cent.
      Willie didn't wait to see what was inside.  In horror, he watched as the line of ants began to disperse, in three different directions now, ready to devour not only the box of groceries, but his secondhand tacos as well.
      Taking the stairs two at a time, Willie slammed into the seat of the truck, locking the doors and backing up simultaneously, enveloping his sweet ride in a tornado of dust.
      Definitely my last day.  Definitely.

~~~~~



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