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.