Silent Joe

Chapter Six

On Monday the FBI launched its public manhunt for Alex Blazak. The story of Alex, the disturbed twenty-one-year-old, hit the papers that morning and TV that evening. Plenty of good photographs, accounts of his violence, many references to the fact that he was a “firearms dealer,” which he wasn’t, and a “suspected trafficker in illegal weapons,” which he was.

Over the next two days there were two hot sightings of Alex, and the Bureau’s Emergency Response Team rolled on both of them. But Marchant couldn’t get his men out fast enough either time. It was like Alex had a sixth sense. One sighting was up in the mountain resort of Big Bear. Alex had rented a spacious two-bedroom chalet on the north shore. The second was a hotel up on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood.

According to the news, the witnesses said that Savannah was with him in both places. I thought of the fresh food in Alex’s warehouse, the unopened loaf of bread, the not-quite-yellow bananas and the sell-by dates on the milk and juice. And I had to believe that somehow, Alex had done what I had failed to do that night. He’d found her in the fog and gotten her into his car. After what happened at Lind Street, she was probably glad to see him. A kidnapping brother must have been an improvement over five murderers in overcoats.

I tacked a map to my kitchen wall and drew red circles around the three sightings. Now he had her again and he was moving often and quickly, one step ahead of the snapping jaws of the Bureau. I wondered when, in all the running, he’d try to ransom her again. Why didn’t he just use his tennis-bag million to clear out, dump his sister and head to Mexico?

I called Marchant twice a day but he didn’t call back. I figured maybe he was catching his breath.

A friend of Will’s at Anaheim Medical Center gave me twice-daily updates on the condition of murder suspect Ike Cao: unchanged, extremely critical condition, unconscious in the ICU, round-the-clock security by the sheriff department.

Dr. Norman Zussman called me twice more, and ordered me to return his call as soon as possible to set up a counseling appointment for the Deputy-Involved Shooting.

Reluctantly, I did.

June Dauer of KFOC called to confirm our interview. It fell on the day of Will’s funeral, but I confirmed it anyway, because her voice was so hopeful and pleasant to listen to.

We buried Will on the first day of summer. It was Thursday, eight days after his death.

The Reverend Daniel Alter presided over a very crowded memorial service that was held in his enormous tinted-glass house of worship, the Chapel of Light. But the mourners numbered over two thousand, and when all the seats were filled the overflow crowd was herded into an auditorium with huge closed-circuit monitors on all four walls.

My brothers, true blood sons of Will and Mary Ann, sat on either side of me at the memorial service.

Will, Jr. wept. He’s ten years older than me, married with three children, a patent attorney, lives up in Seattle. Glenn, two years younger than Will, Jr., is married also, with young twins. They live in San Jose, where Glenn heads a company that runs fiber optic cable into new subdivisions. He stared straight ahead like he was seeing nothing, or maybe everything.

Mary Ann sat nearest the aisle, shrouded in black. I could hear her quiet sobs throughout the memorial service, and for most of it her eyes were focused on the floor.

The casket was mahogany and silver. It was donated by friends of Will’s who owned the cemetery where he would be buried. Mary Ann decided to leave it open for viewing after talking to us three boys and the Reverend Alter. Glenn said to leave it closed because of the pain that Will’s face would cause his loved ones. Ditto Daniel. Will, Jr. voted open, for the same reason. I voted open, too, because I wanted to see him again.

The dais was covered with white roses, thousands of them, draping from stand to floor, pouring like a liquid over the purple carpet and proscenium steps. They were donated by one of Will’s friends, who owned a chain of flower stores.

Will’s burial suit was given by a friend with his own line of Italian designed clothing. His fingers were manicured by Mary Ann’s cosmetologist, no charge, of course.

With some fanfare, the Grove Club Foundation created a memorial fund that would benefit the new Hillview Home for Children. That morning the Orange County Journal reported that close to two million dollars had been donated in just three days — with a million of it coming from Jack and Lorna Blazak.

The Reverend Alter was very moving that day. He’s one of the most emotional evangelists I’ve ever heard, but his performances are never loud or rhetorical or histrionic. They’re solid and deeply felt. Or at least they seem that way. He may be a fine actor, but when his voice caught and his throat tightened and the tears ran off his face like rain, well, it got to me.

...and God’s merciful hands have received you back, Will Trona, you, who offered helping hands to so many...

I stared at my own hands, fingers intertwined, the pulse in my right wrist steady and blue. For whatever reasons, I kept an eye on the thick yellow electrical cord trailed by the videocam dedicated to stage left. Funny how your mind will focus on the irrelevant when something important is taking place. But the yellow cord made me think of the two cars trapping us in the alley. Almost everything I saw made me think of those cars and the men inside them. I wondered if Rick Birch had requested a log of calls made to and from Will’s cell phone that night.

... so as we mourn this death let us not forget to celebrate this life...

Big jerks of Will, Jr.’s chest. He’s always been an emotional guy. Once he shot a sparrow with a BB gun, cried hard. I told him not to shoot things for fun. He took it to heart. Because of my face, people like to think I’ve got insight, moral weight. As if the uglier you are on the outside the more beautiful you are inside. Nice little formula, but not true. The only thing I had over Junior was I knew what pain felt like, and I’d figured the sparrow did, too.

I set my hand on my brother’s knee. I gave him one of the mono-grammed handkerchiefs Will taught me to always carry for the ladies. Before leaving home, I put four of them into various pockets of my black funeral jacket. I’d already given one to Mom. Two down.

...and let rapture of God’s glory be felt in the rapture of our sadness...

I turned around just once to look at the crowd, a sea of grieving faces stretching all the way back to the blue glass walls that rose in dizzying bevels into the pale June sky.

Just when I thought the service was over, the upper glass walls of the Chapel of Light receded into the lower sections and a great warm huff of air swept in. A collective murmur. Then thousands of white doves rose from behind the Reverend Alter. He spread his arms skyward and it looked like they were flying out his fingers. Their wings beat loud and they climbed in the hushed chapel and you could hear the panic beginning in them. But then they realized that the sky was all around them on four sides and they lifted away into the afternoon. They were pen-raised birds, had never flown before. White feathers dusted us as we made our way out of the chapel for the cemetery. I thought of Savannah Blazak, going over that wall and into the cool suburban night.

Maybe half the people wanted to see Will’s body one last time. It took an hour. I was the second one, right after Glenn. I had seen cadavers in the lab and accident fatalities still bleeding. I’d seen Luke Smith and Ming Nixon. But this was my first viewing. Nothing had prepared me for the shock of seeing death on the face of someone I loved. I looked at him and I realized what a great power, what a great presence, what a great life had ended. I kissed my fingertips and ran them over his hard check and walked outside.

Tears swelled from my heart, and a cold passion for revenge rose up with them. I pulled my hat down low.

What I remember about the burial was the bright green expanse of grass on the hillsides and the long black motorcade inching to a stop around the hole in the ground. The hole was covered by a black tarp, betrayed only by the mounds of orange earth around the cover.

I stood there and watched the cars arrive, and I wondered how those shooters had known where Will and I would be.

Had they followed us, or had they been told where we were going? Did the people who sent us to that address also commit the murder? Was Will sent there to save Savannah Blazak, or only to die?

I hoped those killers had been waiting for us. Because, if they’d been waiting for us, I’d simply missed them. Maybe someday I could forgive myself for being surprised. But if they’d followed us, I’d failed Will in an even more flagrant way.

Mouth shut, eyes open.

My mind wandered, but it kept coming back to those cars, those men, that night. I knew I should feel pity for the men I’d shot. And guilt for taking their lives. I tried to allow myself to feel those things but I didn’t. There’s a cold place inside me where I put the bad things. It’s like a freezer but the door is heavier. And once I put them in there, it’s hard to get them out. I told myself that they were bad men who would have murdered me next, absolutely. This justified what I’d done, and the freezer door was closed now. But I couldn’t close the door on all of the ifs: if I’d seen them earlier, if I’d thought faster, if I’d listened to my unsettled nerves, if the fog hadn’t rolled in.

I watched from a distance as the mourners filed past my family. I’d said all I could say to anyone. So I faded back under a dense elm tree, alone, eyes open and mouth shut, hat brim down for privacy and shade.

I knew most of the people there. I saw Will’s fellow supervisors; mayors and assemblypersons; judges; sheriff’s department brass; the governor of California; two Congressional Representatives. Some were friends and some were enemies, but they all came.

The developers were all there. Land is still the most valuable commodity, the biggest money-maker in Orange County. Will had had disagreements with every one of them. And in his own strange way, friendships with many of them, too. I recognized the foot soldiers — the well-spoken guys and gals who make multimillions for their companies every year— The Irvine Company, Philip Morris, Rancho Santa Margarita Company. Their bosses were there, too, the CEOs and CFOs, chairmen of boards — the kinds of guys who come and go in their own jets and helicopters.

Then the entrepreneurs, the billionaires who did it on their own: technology whizzes, young darlings of the NASDAQ, inventors, marketers of all kinds. Jack Blazak, who’d made his first fortune with yellow lawn sprinklers that wouldn’t clog, was there, of course. He looked even worse than the last time I’d seen him, as if every day his daughter was gone took another cubic foot of life out of him.

Next on the power scale were the bureaucrats. Will’s cohorts, the pit bulls of government — humble and unassuming one minute, territorial and unmoving the next. They work for Districts, Agencies, Bureaus, Offices, Administrations, Commissions, Services, Sections, Departments, Boards, Authorities. They’ve got no money compared to developers or entrepreneurs, but they have power over them. That power can be friendly and helpful and profitable for everyone at times. It can make or break. The cost is negotiable.

Will was a bureaucrat. I may be one someday, too. I have probably the best training a bureaucrat can have: my first five institutional years.

Then there were his friends and family and neighbors and acquaintances; his doctor, his barber, his tennis pro. Even our old trash collector was there, a young father of three way back when I was a kid, now a middle-aged man with gray hair, a stiff body and lines of sadness around his eyes. Will used to yak it up with him on Wednesdays at 6:30 A.M., trash day on our street, before he dropped me off at the bus stop, then went on to the sheriff’s department headquarters for work.

I watched them and wondered at how many lives a life is made up of. I felt proud and empty at the same time. I felt invaded and defeated.

I felt betrayed when Jennifer Avila, chokingly beautiful in black, spoke to my mother.

Betrayed by Will, and somehow, by Jennifer, too.

My heart pounded hard, then hardly at all. The things I looked at were a little blurred — my eyes weren’t working right. I felt a thick hot sweat on my back. How was I going to talk to a radio host in just a few short hours? I actually shuddered, hot as I was in my black suit.

Old Carl Rupaski, head of the Orange County Transportation Authority — and an admitted political enemy of my father’s — lumbered over to my tree and shook my hand. His eyes were moist. I could smell tobacco and alcohol on him. “I want to talk to you sometime, Joe. Maybe when we’re both not in shock. How about lunch next week, Monday, say?”

“Yes, sir. That would be fine.”

He clamped a heavy hand onto my arm. “This is really the shits, kid. Really the shits.”

Jaime Medina joined me in the shade after that. He looked more forlorn and wronged than usual, more stooped and hapless. We talked about Will for a while, and Jaime told me how much Will had done for the HACF, how things were going to be tough now, with their champion in government gone, and a criminal investigation pending.

“I never told those guys they could vote before they were citizens,” he said. “It’s a misunderstanding. That’s all. What’s a few dozen votes, anyway?”

I shrugged. I couldn’t get worked up about HACF problems right then.

“You want to help us?”

“How, sir?”

“I got someone I want you to talk to. It’s a big scandal. You can make some waves, become famous.”

“I don’t want to be famous.”

“You already are. This would make you the new champion of justice. Look, talk to this boy. He’s the brother of Miguel Domingo, the one the cops murdered. He’s got a story to tell. You see, Miguel Domingo had a reason for trying to get into that gated place in Newport Beach. It’s got to do with the woman.”

“What woman?”

“Luria Bias, killed outside her apartment. Interested?”

“No, thank you. I have a lot to do right now.”

“Such as what, Joe?”

“Look around you, sir.”

Jaime did. He sighed. “I’m going to call you. We’ll talk at a better time.”

A few minutes later, Rick Birch ambled up. He stood beside me, rather than in front of me, which I thought was interesting. He looked out at the crowd with me. I liked the fact that he didn’t say anything for a while. When he did talk, it wasn’t about anything I could have anticipated.

“My brother was murdered when I was ten,” he said. “He was eight years older than me — tough kid, tough neighborhood up in Oakland. Found him in a gutter behind a bar. No arrests. Made me want to become a cop, catch creeps, put them in jail.”

“That’s a good reason, sir.”

“You holding up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look, I’ve got John Gaylen coming in for a little informal talk tomorrow. I’d like you there, on the other side of the glass.”

“Absolutely.”

Later, at the wake, we three brothers found ourselves in a corner together. We were up sixteen stories in the Newport Marriott Hotel, in a restaurant provided for free by the manager, another friend of Will’s. You could see the ocean from there, a smoke-gray plate under the June sky.

Will, Jr. and Glenn were drunk. I drank a lot too, for me anyway. I usually don’t drink much, because it makes me feel less ready.

My brothers were both flying out the next day, back to their family lives and their jobs, and they felt bad about leaving Mary Ann and me.

Will, Jr. hugged me. “Anything I can do to help, Joe. All you have to do is call.”

Then Glenn: “Take care of Mom. I wish I lived closer, to help with that. And take care of yourself, too.”

Their children rushed past us, Will, Jr.’s waving cocktail swords and umbrellas, chasing the twins.

I felt abandoned by them. Why couldn’t they just stop their lives, move back to Southern California for a while, help me find out who and why?

Because it wasn’t practical. Life had to go on. What Will would have wanted, and all that.

We stood there a moment and watched the children play, and I understood one beautiful, heartbreaking truth: life was going on already.

I was the last person to leave the wake. I had a little time before my interview with June Dauer on KFOC, so I spent it with another martini and a window seat there on the sixteenth story. The restaurant workers took away the chafing dishes and the tables, rolling the circular ones, folding the rectangles. I listened to the clank of chairs and the grunts of labor but those sounds seemed to be happening a million miles away from me.

Everything did.

I was dreading the interview but I had another drink and went anyway.

I was drunk when I got there. More than I thought I was when I left the hotel. I regretted it. All I’d wanted to do was forget, and here I was, expected to remember. In front of a thousand bored listeners.

I remember sitting in a cool reception room with purple carpet and orange chairs with chrome legs. I chewed two pieces of cinnamon gum and drank black coffee. I watched the wadded-up gum foil roll around inside my hat.

Then the producer of Real Live came in, a smiling young man with long hair and a goatee. He introduced himself as Sean.

“June’s about ready,” he said. “Water, soft drink?”

“More coffee, please.”

“Here’s the green room. Have a seat and I’ll get you some coffee. How ’bout a shot of Kahlua in that, take off the edge?”

“Better not.”

I sat and looked out at the broadcast booths. Three dark, one dimly lit. In the lit one, a young woman with curly black hair was standing by one of the boom mikes, head down, apparently reading something on the table. The glass caught her reflection and reproduced her at an odd angle. I watched the reflection.

Sean came back with a foam cup and set it on the table in front of me. “Hot,” he said. “We’re on at the top of the hour. Just a few minutes. By the way, man. I’m sorry about what happened to your father.”

“Thank you.”

He hesitated, then walked out.

Five minutes later he escorted me into the lit booth. The sounds inside it were flat and the light was soft and silver. The curly haired woman came around the table and offered her hand.

“June Dauer.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Dauer.”

She smiled. Her eyes were dark and her face was very pretty. The lines of her jaw were straight and strong. Small nose, small mouth. She had on a sleeveless denim blouse tucked into wrinkled shorts, socks rolled down, blue canvas sneakers. Her legs were well shaped. She shook my hand.

“Joe, I’m so sorry this interview timed out with your father’s funeral. I would never have scheduled it this way if I’d known.”

“We didn’t make the arrangements until after, Ms. Dauer. It’s no trouble at all.”

She shook her head, looking at me with her eyes narrowed just a little. “I asked you to leave those good manners at home, now, didn’t I?”

“Sorry, I—”

“Relax, Joe. Have a seat here and put those headphones on. We’ll do a voice check and then get it on.”

I sat on the swivel chair, watched her round the table to the other side, then set my hat on the table in front of me. She sat down and rolled her chair forward. The studio was mostly dark, with a gentle overhead spotlight that set her off from the quiet shadows. I looked up and saw a light spotting me, too. My face felt hot and my collar felt tight and my heart was pounding like I was running a race. I put on the headphones and took three deep breaths and fell worse. I was about to go up to the Quiet Spot but June Dauer’s clear, light voice suddenly entered my skull.

“Count to ten, Joe, normal voice. Get your mouth about three inches from the mike. Speak off to the side just a little, not straight on.”

I did all that.

“Good, good. Had a little to drink, Joe?”

“More than usual.”

“What’s usual?”

“Hardly anything.”

“You a good drunk?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

She looked through the glass into the next room, where Sean nodded.

“And three, and two and one,” he said. “And you are on.”

There was music, and a recorded voice announcing the show. Then she did an introduction. She told a little bit about my past and used the phrase “Acid Baby,” which made my nerves bristle like it always did. When she spoke she kept her arms close to her sides and stared across the table at me like I was a zoo bear. Her voice was clear, with a little bit of a whisper in it, like she was only talking to one person. The earphones gave her head a funny shape and her curls stuck up behind the flat spot made by the band.

I’m a little hazy on how the first half of the interview went. I was nervous. I do remember that at first, my answers were just one or two words, and my voice was unusually thin and distant. I answered the same questions I’d answered a thousand times. I had stock responses all ready, from years of practice, and I gave them.

Thor. What happened. Pain. Memory. Surgery. Hillview. Other kids. Will and Mary Ann. School. Being known as “The Acid Baby.” Baseball. College. Sheriff’s Department. Working the jail.

But then June studied me from across the table and I focused on her eyes, which caught the overhead light in a way that made them very bright. And I began to feel relaxed and comfortable.

“I admire the way you’ve overcome all this, Joe. I’ve been following your story for years. You’ve made a good life out of a tragic beginning. People need to know that they can do it, too.”

“It was mainly my parents. My adoptive parents, I mean.”

She asked me what advice I could give to people with problems — especially young people. Where do you find genuine self-confidence? How do you keep away the anger and self-pity?

I gave her the stock answers I always give: believe in yourself, don’t be afraid to be different, remember that there are always people worse off than you.

Then she asked something I’d never been asked before.

“Joe — what do you think when you look at a beautiful face?”

Maybe it was the newness of the question. Maybe it was the funeral or the alcohol or the heat inside my suit. Maybe it was just because beautiful faces are one of the few subjects I feel qualified to address. I’m not sure what caused it, but I suddenly wanted to talk.

“I think that person is lucky. I love beautiful faces, Ms. Dauer. There are so many kinds. I could stare at one for hours. But you know something? It’s not that easy to do. Not many people will let you look at their face unless you know them.”

“You must know a lot of people.”

“Some. But you don’t want to just stare.”

“No. So what do you do?”

She leaned back a little and watched me closely. I saw the light hitting her hair, and the bright sparkle in her eyes again. I was aware of the dusky half-light of the sound booth, and of the muted acoustics. For a moment it seemed like June Dauer was the only other person in the whole building. Like we were alone and I was talking only to her.

“I watch movies or TV, June. Read magazines. I like romantic comedies with perfect faces in them. Sometimes I’ll go to crowded places where I can get lost and just observe. But it all happens so fast. The movies and TV shows end, the people on the beach walk on or turn away, the shoppers in the mall pass by, so there’s not enough time to really enjoy and appreciate a face.”

“I know what you mean. It’s like you’re in a different world than theirs. Cut off, separate. I feel the same way sometimes, sitting here in this studio and talking to people out in the real world.”

Suddenly I realized what a pleasure it was to be talking to June Dauer. She looked so alone in that beam of light, surrounded by the near dark. I forgot where I was and why I was there, and that I had had too much to drink. And I just talked to her.

“Exactly, June. Like they’re not real I mean, none of those faces are real, in the sense that you could touch one, especially the faces in a crowd. You definitely can’t touch those.”

“No, you don’t want to try that.”

“Not that I want touch. I do not want to touch or be touched.”

June Dauer leaned forward toward her mike. She was frowning slightly, like her earphones weren’t working right or something.

“Don’t want to touch or be touched? Do you think that’s healthy?”

“I never think about it, Ms. Dauer.”

“I’ve never heard anyone say that before. Everyone is always so hungry for contact. But you know, it seems to me that you could find plenty of beautiful faces to have a cup of coffee with you, talk, let you appreciate them.”

“I paid a model once, to sit still and let me stare. Tracy. She was young and just starting off and needed the money. She came back one time and let me stare at her again, three hours for three hundred dollars. What a face she had. Unimaginable beauty. We had coffee after the second time, then talked. I liked her very much. I thought about her every day, then every hour, then every minute. I didn’t call for a while because I wanted to get myself under control, didn’t want to seem needy and scare her off. Later, when I did call, her roommate said she’d moved to Milan. I wrote her but didn’t hear back.”

A pause then in our conversation, while June Dauer looked at me. “I think that’s sad. Well, now that we’re kind of on the subject, what about dating, Joe? Do you date?”

“To be honest, my experience with dating is limited. I’m aware of my effect on women, and it doesn’t seem right to frighten someone just so I can stare at her face.”

I realized I was doing just that — staring at June Dauer’s face. I looked away but bumped my cheek against the mike. It made a tremendous amplified thud. She laughed. She had a wonderful laugh, one of the nicest I’d heard.

“That was me, folks,” she said. “Falling off my chair because Joe Trona stared at me!”

I felt my face get hot, but I smiled. I try to smile as little as possible because it’s not something people enjoy seeing.

“Joe, I’ve noticed that you have very good manners. Why?”

“To put people at ease. And years ago, I thought women might find good manners attractive.”

“In general, we do. So...”

“But you need more than good manners. You’ve got to... it’s hard to explain. See... you don’t want to be perceived as just a big scar under a hat saying yes, please. No, thank you. Or, it’s a nice day today, isn’t it, Ms. Dauer? You don’t want to come off like a talking baboon, or an English butler morphed into Swamp Thing. You know what I mean?”

She paused just a beat, then. Like I’d caught her off guard.

“No, not really, Joe. But that’s why I wanted you on the show. How do women react to you?”

“I had one date. She acted like being with me was completely normal. She fooled me until we were alone in her apartment and she asked to touch my face. I said she could touch it because I didn’t want to disappoint her. I closed my eyes and set my jaws and waited. She took forever. I could hear her breathing. Then I felt her fingertip. I couldn’t stand it. I held still as well as I could, but I started shaking. When I opened my eyes she was crying. I got up and apologized for making her cry, then left.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Because she was crying. I don’t want to be considered pathetic, Ms. Dauer. Repellent is acceptable. Repellent is appropriate. But pathetic is something I can’t stand.”

Again, that little pause before she spoke. And the same frown she’d had before.

“Let’s change gears here. Joe Trona — what are you most proud of in your life?”

I thought about that. “That Will and Mary Ann Trona would take me.”

The second I said that I remembered what I’d been doing just a few hours earlier. And then I remembered that night on Lind Street, and all the opportunities I’d had to make things come out better. And I realized I was talking to a whole county, not just to a woman who seemed sympathetic and easy to talk to.

“Are you proud of yourself at all, for the way you’ve handled adversity and overcome some pretty heavy roadblocks?”

“No.”

“Okay, Joe — we’ve got two seconds left, so describe yourself in two words! Don’t think — two words!”

I heard the music start up.

“Come on, Joe!”

“Needs improvement,” I said.

June Dauer’s voice came over the music.

“Don’t we all! Joe Trona is Real Live. So are you and don’t forget it. This is June Dauer saying have a nice evening, and if you can’t be happy then be quiet! ’Til next time.”

She pushed away the mike, lifted off her earphones and set them down in front of her. The overhead light was still catching her eyes and she was still frowning.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I felt a warm wave of relief break over me, took a deep breath, sagged. I wondered if there was such a thing as Stockholm Syndrome for media guests, because I felt half in love with June Dauer for getting me through the show.

“Let’s walk it off,” she said. “I had a public-speaking guru in here one day, she was so nervous when it was over she went into the restroom and vomited.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Come on.”

We went back to the lobby, then outside. We walked. I get extremely self-conscious around an attractive woman, so I tried to keep half a step ahead and a good yard aside from her.

“I am not diseased,” she said.

“Sorry. I get in a hurry.”

“So slow down. You can’t outwalk your own nerves.”

I slowed down. It was almost six o’clock by then but still light. Just starting to cool. It seemed like the afternoon could last forever, like it was a record that skipped and kept playing the same phrase over and over. Walking in the sunlight, I wondered at all I’d said to her in the last half hour. It already seemed a long time ago.

The KFOC studios were on a junior college campus, so we strolled past the low buildings and the kiosks flapping with fliers. The rubber trees were deep green and shiny and the students had worn wide paths across the corners of the grass.

I took off my jacket and folded it over my arm. A cool evening breeze came through my shirt. While I pretended to arrange the jacket on my arm I watched June Dauer, who was turned slightly away, looking at the clouds. The same breeze that cooled my back lifted the curls off her forehead and showed her ears. Little red rubies in them. I imagined cupping two handfuls of those stones and gently pouring them over her head, watching them spill through her dark curls, run down her shoulders and legs, bounce and clatter around her feet — I don’t know why. Too much to drink, I guess.

Or maybe it was TUT. Will had told me a few things about love and women. He told me to look for a sinner with a sense of humor. He told me to go into love with my eyes open and into marriage with my eyes shut. The other was Look for TUT.

TUT is The Unknown Thing. Some women have it, some don’t. You might see it first in her eyes. It might be in her voice. It might be in her hands. You’ll start to see it, then you will realize it’s all over her. But you’ll never know what it is, because it’s The Unknown Thing. TUT makes you come back. And back again and again. It’s the glue, but you never know what it is. Mary Ann has gobs of it.

I kept looking at June Dauer but she looked at me so I turned away, face going warm.

It was obviously TUT. I saw it in her face, her eyes, the straight firm line of her chin. I’d seen it before but never in such blazing clarity. And so much of it.

“How were the services, Joe?”

“Very good. Reverend Daniel released a million white doves in the Chapel of Light. Then opened the ceiling and they flew out.”

“Beautiful.”

“It was the first time they’d flown.”

“How could you tell?”

“They raise them in pens.”

“Wow, first time you use your wings and you get organ music and two thousand people watching.”

We walked around in a big square and ended up outside the studio. She offered her hand and I shook it and looked at her. In the outside light she was much more beautiful. Her skin was dark and a little bit moist. Her eyes, which had looked black in the studio, were actually a rich brown.

“Thanks for opening up,” she said. “You were very generous with me. And who knows, Joe? Maybe some listener out there has had some problems, too. Maybe you inspired him to get on with his life. Her life. Whatever. I mean, you helped me fill a half hour of time — that’s my job. But maybe you did something more than that.”

“I hope so.”

I drove home, then turned around and drove back to KFOC again. It’s about a twenty-minute ride.

I felt foolish sitting in that parking lot, so I drove home for the second time in an hour. But I felt wrong there, somehow... stalled, so I drove back to the KFOC studios and parked again and took a deep breath and walked quickly to the lobby. The Unknown Thing. I took off my hat and asked the receptionist if I could possibly see Ms. Dauer.

The receptionist looked alarmed.

But June Dauer came down the studio hallway, smiling. “Come on back, Joe. We’ll do a live-on-tape for a rainy day!”

“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t stay. I just wanted to tell you that I’d appreciate having a date with you. We’ll do whatever you want.”

The receptionist smiled and looked busy.

June Dauer looked at me and laughed. “The only things I don’t like are splatter movies and restaurants where they sing happy birthday. But maybe we should just have a cup of coffee, get acquainted.”

“I’m extremely honored.”

“Let’s see what you think after.”

We agreed on a time and place to meet and I drove home. It felt like the tires of my Mustang were floating a foot over the asphalt, though the car still handled quite well.

At first I thought it was the alcohol but I was stone sober by then. My heart was beating hard and fast so I rolled down both the front windows and let the wind blast in.

I didn’t think about Will, or the men in those cars, for almost five straight minutes.