remove dead roof rats from our gutters. “The boys needed change for video games
when they were going to the pizza parlor with Lily’s family. I didn’t have much. And
your purse was on the kitchen counter, so I went looking for quarters.” I knew what
was coming. “I wondered why your diaphragm was in your purse. I didn’t even think
you had one anymore. I mean, we didn’t need it.” Michael, ever the dutiful husband,
had responsibly had a vasectomy after Zach’s birth. He shook his head. “I was going
to ask you,” he said, “but then I decided to wait.”
“Michael—” I started. He held up his hand. “I may be a tax lawyer,” he continued,
“but once upon a time, I did very well in Evidence. I’m not a fool.” He continued,
“Events came together for me. I noticed that the diaphragm seemed to show up in your
purse the night before you were going to Small Town , or you were meeting Quentin for lunch. Then it disappeared.”
He looked at me in disgust and began unloading the dishwasher. “Where’d the diaphragm
go, Maggie? Or did you and Quentin call it quits?”
I chose to answer the second question. “We called it quits. It was a stupid mistake
and we stopped. Almost a year ago. But why.…”
“Why what?”
“Why didn’t you ask me about it?”
Silence. “I think you’d know me better than that by now, Maggie,” he said. “I’m a
man who can watch and wait when I need to.”
“And that’s what you’re doing now?” I said.
“Maybe I am.”
And that was the end of the conversation. The diaphragm hadn’t disappeared; of course;
it had simply taken up residence at Quentin’s. I began to worry about retrieving it.
Josh, with his impeccably visceral sense of something amiss, had started every single
day since Quentin’s death with an upset stomach. I was beginning to think it was either
back to the specialist or simply buy stock in Pepto-Bismol. Or perhaps, I observed
to myself as we left the house for the service, Josh’s mom could simply stick to the
straight and narrow and not create tension and drama in the house. “Guilt, guilt,
guilt,” I muttered under my breath.
Alf Abbott, Claire’s uncle and Small Town ’s owner, escorted the widow to the service. As always, he had the well-oiled look
of a man who spends too much time under the hands of a masseur. From the gently glazed
look in his eye, my guess was that the inside of Uncle Alf was equally well-oiled.
The memorial service was held at the city’s grandest Unitarian church. Of course,
even grand Unitarian churches are pretty spare, which was, I felt sure, Quentin’s
exact taste in liturgical spaces. Against a backdrop of white French tulips on a gray
stone altar, a parade of luminaries took turns behind the pulpit to tell affectionate
stories about Quentin. I sat between Stuart and Michael, anchored to both. Stuart
clutched my hand, and Michael kept his arm draped along the pew in back of me.
The proprietor of Hot Licks, a south of Market jazz club, talked about how Quentin
used to drop in with his sax and sit in for a set. “He didn’t sweat, he didn’t smoke,
he didn’t even drink much. But that man could blow.”
His tailor told an elaborate story about Quentin’s proposal for smuggling Cuban cigars
out of Hong Kong and into San Francisco by sewing into the lining of double-breasted
suits. And he recounted, seemingly with admiration, Quentin’s horror of fashion, how
he’d changed neither his blazer size nor his style for twenty-five years.
Glen Fox, Small Town ’s managing editor, tight-lipped and dry-eyed, talked about Quentin’s standards at
the magazine. At the end of his witty, carefully prepared remarks, he folded his hands
on the index cards and fought back tears. “Quentin and I were boys together,” he said,
“both of us strangers in a strange land. An American at Oxford, and a country Irish
lad. We came together over
when they were going to the pizza parlor with Lily’s family. I didn’t have much. And
your purse was on the kitchen counter, so I went looking for quarters.” I knew what
was coming. “I wondered why your diaphragm was in your purse. I didn’t even think
you had one anymore. I mean, we didn’t need it.” Michael, ever the dutiful husband,
had responsibly had a vasectomy after Zach’s birth. He shook his head. “I was going
to ask you,” he said, “but then I decided to wait.”
“Michael—” I started. He held up his hand. “I may be a tax lawyer,” he continued,
“but once upon a time, I did very well in Evidence. I’m not a fool.” He continued,
“Events came together for me. I noticed that the diaphragm seemed to show up in your
purse the night before you were going to Small Town , or you were meeting Quentin for lunch. Then it disappeared.”
He looked at me in disgust and began unloading the dishwasher. “Where’d the diaphragm
go, Maggie? Or did you and Quentin call it quits?”
I chose to answer the second question. “We called it quits. It was a stupid mistake
and we stopped. Almost a year ago. But why.…”
“Why what?”
“Why didn’t you ask me about it?”
Silence. “I think you’d know me better than that by now, Maggie,” he said. “I’m a
man who can watch and wait when I need to.”
“And that’s what you’re doing now?” I said.
“Maybe I am.”
And that was the end of the conversation. The diaphragm hadn’t disappeared; of course;
it had simply taken up residence at Quentin’s. I began to worry about retrieving it.
Josh, with his impeccably visceral sense of something amiss, had started every single
day since Quentin’s death with an upset stomach. I was beginning to think it was either
back to the specialist or simply buy stock in Pepto-Bismol. Or perhaps, I observed
to myself as we left the house for the service, Josh’s mom could simply stick to the
straight and narrow and not create tension and drama in the house. “Guilt, guilt,
guilt,” I muttered under my breath.
Alf Abbott, Claire’s uncle and Small Town ’s owner, escorted the widow to the service. As always, he had the well-oiled look
of a man who spends too much time under the hands of a masseur. From the gently glazed
look in his eye, my guess was that the inside of Uncle Alf was equally well-oiled.
The memorial service was held at the city’s grandest Unitarian church. Of course,
even grand Unitarian churches are pretty spare, which was, I felt sure, Quentin’s
exact taste in liturgical spaces. Against a backdrop of white French tulips on a gray
stone altar, a parade of luminaries took turns behind the pulpit to tell affectionate
stories about Quentin. I sat between Stuart and Michael, anchored to both. Stuart
clutched my hand, and Michael kept his arm draped along the pew in back of me.
The proprietor of Hot Licks, a south of Market jazz club, talked about how Quentin
used to drop in with his sax and sit in for a set. “He didn’t sweat, he didn’t smoke,
he didn’t even drink much. But that man could blow.”
His tailor told an elaborate story about Quentin’s proposal for smuggling Cuban cigars
out of Hong Kong and into San Francisco by sewing into the lining of double-breasted
suits. And he recounted, seemingly with admiration, Quentin’s horror of fashion, how
he’d changed neither his blazer size nor his style for twenty-five years.
Glen Fox, Small Town ’s managing editor, tight-lipped and dry-eyed, talked about Quentin’s standards at
the magazine. At the end of his witty, carefully prepared remarks, he folded his hands
on the index cards and fought back tears. “Quentin and I were boys together,” he said,
“both of us strangers in a strange land. An American at Oxford, and a country Irish
lad. We came together over
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