do this.”
“You told him?” She was furious.
“I had to. Anyway, he was going to find out sooner or later.”
“How is he?”
“He’s fine. We’ve been working on it together.”
“Christ, Babe! He’s ten years old.”
“You can’t protect him. He’s too smart. He’s going to figure it out.” I could tell she was fuming in silence. “Listen, you said Richard kept an apartment in the city. You wouldn’t happen to have a key, would you?” When she said yes, I asked for the address and told her to meet us there in an hour.
We drove down 29 to Highway 12, and I pointed out the smudge pots and propellers viticulturalists use to move frigid air. Now they stood frozen in the dead heat. Buzzards soared high overhead.
Traffic wasn’t too bad heading into the city. As we crossed the Bay Bridge, I said, “How’s Grandpa Bob?”
“He’s weird,” Danny said, scrunching his face.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Sometimes he’s okay. And then . . .”
“He’s very sick, Danny. You have to help your mom. She really needs you right now.”
“I know,” he said defensively.
It was an awful lot to ask of a young boy, to understand and make space for an old man who was losing his memory. Now he’d have to console his mother as well.
As we pulled up I saw Janie parking her BMW convertible, neatly wedging it onto a slope in front of a sleek art deco-style building on the north edge of Russian Hill. I circled three times before risking a ticket in a space in front of a fireplug.
“I don’t cover parking,” Janie said as we crossed the street to her.
“I’ll take my chances.” All I cared about was getting into the apartment before the cops beat me there.
She gave Danny a big hug and kissed the top of his head. She refused to let go, forcing him to wriggle free.
“I’ve been helping Dad,” he said.
“I know; he told me. You’re a very brave boy.” She looked at me over the top of his head, just shaking her own.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Janie unlocked the outer door.
“Fourth floor,” she said.
“I thought he might have given you a key,” I said to take my mind off her ass, which rocked with metronomic precision as we made our way up the staircase.
“I insisted, in case there was a problem. They’re on the road so much.”
“They?”
“He shares the place with his assistant, Jacques Goldoni. Richard only uses it—used it—four or five times a year. But Jacques stays here at least as much. They kept it so they wouldn’t have to pay for hotels. It doubles as an office. They go all over the state.”
I felt an ache as I passed her and entered the apartment. Distract yourself , I said. Be methodical. Play detective.
“What are we looking for, Dad?” Danny asked.
“I’m not sure. See what you can find,” I said.
Janie said nothing. All that mattered was that Danny was here, with her, safe.
The kitchen was tiny but serviceable. Two cases of empty wine bottles were crammed under the sink. Another case full of samples sat on the counter.
An easy chair commanded a sweeping view of the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge to the west and Alcatraz directly before us in the distance. A stack of wine books lay at its feet. Remington Norman, Jancis Robinson, Clive Coates. Predictable stuff. What wasn’t predictable were the frogs. There were frogs everywhere: porcelain frogs, crystal frogs, carved wooden frogs with wings, even a frog chandelier.
“Why does he have all these frogs?” Danny asked.
“I think it must have been a way to express admiration for the French. Sometimes we call the French Frogs.”
“It’s not a nice word,” Janie said. “I never want to hear you use it.”
“Okay, fine, Mom,” Danny said, sounding surprisingly adult in his irritation.
Instinctively I turned to the desk. On it a computer printout of a calendar, squared neatly on a blotter, was scribbled up. Appointments at Norton, Diamond Creek, Viader, and Turley were penciled in
“You told him?” She was furious.
“I had to. Anyway, he was going to find out sooner or later.”
“How is he?”
“He’s fine. We’ve been working on it together.”
“Christ, Babe! He’s ten years old.”
“You can’t protect him. He’s too smart. He’s going to figure it out.” I could tell she was fuming in silence. “Listen, you said Richard kept an apartment in the city. You wouldn’t happen to have a key, would you?” When she said yes, I asked for the address and told her to meet us there in an hour.
We drove down 29 to Highway 12, and I pointed out the smudge pots and propellers viticulturalists use to move frigid air. Now they stood frozen in the dead heat. Buzzards soared high overhead.
Traffic wasn’t too bad heading into the city. As we crossed the Bay Bridge, I said, “How’s Grandpa Bob?”
“He’s weird,” Danny said, scrunching his face.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Sometimes he’s okay. And then . . .”
“He’s very sick, Danny. You have to help your mom. She really needs you right now.”
“I know,” he said defensively.
It was an awful lot to ask of a young boy, to understand and make space for an old man who was losing his memory. Now he’d have to console his mother as well.
As we pulled up I saw Janie parking her BMW convertible, neatly wedging it onto a slope in front of a sleek art deco-style building on the north edge of Russian Hill. I circled three times before risking a ticket in a space in front of a fireplug.
“I don’t cover parking,” Janie said as we crossed the street to her.
“I’ll take my chances.” All I cared about was getting into the apartment before the cops beat me there.
She gave Danny a big hug and kissed the top of his head. She refused to let go, forcing him to wriggle free.
“I’ve been helping Dad,” he said.
“I know; he told me. You’re a very brave boy.” She looked at me over the top of his head, just shaking her own.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Janie unlocked the outer door.
“Fourth floor,” she said.
“I thought he might have given you a key,” I said to take my mind off her ass, which rocked with metronomic precision as we made our way up the staircase.
“I insisted, in case there was a problem. They’re on the road so much.”
“They?”
“He shares the place with his assistant, Jacques Goldoni. Richard only uses it—used it—four or five times a year. But Jacques stays here at least as much. They kept it so they wouldn’t have to pay for hotels. It doubles as an office. They go all over the state.”
I felt an ache as I passed her and entered the apartment. Distract yourself , I said. Be methodical. Play detective.
“What are we looking for, Dad?” Danny asked.
“I’m not sure. See what you can find,” I said.
Janie said nothing. All that mattered was that Danny was here, with her, safe.
The kitchen was tiny but serviceable. Two cases of empty wine bottles were crammed under the sink. Another case full of samples sat on the counter.
An easy chair commanded a sweeping view of the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge to the west and Alcatraz directly before us in the distance. A stack of wine books lay at its feet. Remington Norman, Jancis Robinson, Clive Coates. Predictable stuff. What wasn’t predictable were the frogs. There were frogs everywhere: porcelain frogs, crystal frogs, carved wooden frogs with wings, even a frog chandelier.
“Why does he have all these frogs?” Danny asked.
“I think it must have been a way to express admiration for the French. Sometimes we call the French Frogs.”
“It’s not a nice word,” Janie said. “I never want to hear you use it.”
“Okay, fine, Mom,” Danny said, sounding surprisingly adult in his irritation.
Instinctively I turned to the desk. On it a computer printout of a calendar, squared neatly on a blotter, was scribbled up. Appointments at Norton, Diamond Creek, Viader, and Turley were penciled in
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