CHAPTER 48


It was nearly ten at night in Boston when I called Susan in San Francisco.

"How are you," she said. Her voice still small with pain. "Paul said you were out of town."

"I'm good," I said. "How are you?"

"I'm . . . I'm not good," she said. "I'm in therapy."

"That should help," I said. "In a while at least."

"Yes," she said. The pause seemed longer on the open phone line. "I . . . how bad has it been about my friend?" she said.

"Worst thing that ever happened to me," I said.

"How do you stand it?"

"Tough kid," I said. "Always been a tough kid."

Again the silence stretching across the darkening land.

"He's gone," Susan said.

It was like not drowning. I took a breath. Steady.

"He's gone back to his wife," she said.

"He's got a wife?"

"Yes." Susan's voice was tiny.

"Jesus Christ," I said.

And then her voice wasn't small. "I will not leave you," she said.

"In a manner of speaking."

I could hear the smile in her voice. "In a manner of speaking."

"He wanted to move in?" I said.

"He wanted to divorce his wife and marry me."

"And you wouldn't."

Again the strength. "I will not leave you," she said.

"Nor I you," I said.

"Do you suppose you could get away for a little while?" Susan said.

"In two weeks I can get away for as long as I want to."

"Would you come to San Francisco and visit me?"

"Yes."

"In two weeks?"

"Yes."

"It makes me feel less scared," Susan said.

"Me too," I said. "It makes me want to sing `I Left My Heart in San Francisco.'"

"It does?"

"Yeah," I said. "Want to hear me sing a couple choruses in perfect imitation of Tony Bennett?"

"No," Susan said, "not ever." And she laughed. And I laughed. And the two of us sat alone and far, and laughed carefully together at the verge of different oceans.

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