The Days of Anna Madrigal by Armistead Maupin Page B

the glass down again. “I can’t imagine what that would be.”
    Wren smiled, then leaned forward to underscore the next question: “Did you ever get back to . . . your childhood home?”
    Anna shook her head. “But lately I’ve spent some time there.” She set her glass down with stately deliberation. “It’s something old people do . . . apparently. Dwelling on unfinished business. Old ghosts. It’s tiresome, really. No point in it whatsoever. Especially when . . . what did Gertrude Stein say? . . . ‘there is no there there.’ ”
    Like most seasoned San Franciscans, Brian recognized the quotation. “But she was talking about Oakland, right?”
    â€œYes, but . . . her home in Oakland. It had been torn down, so she had no reason to go back. She wasn’t mocking Oakland. That’s a common misconception.”
    Wren was still focused on her original question. “But how do you know it’s been torn down when . . . you haven’t been back?”
    â€œI’ve seen its absence,” Anna told her. “There’s nothing but a parking lot and an ugly casino they built in the nineties. It looks like a mall. I’ve been all around it.”
    â€œBut . . . I don’t understand.”
    Anna shrugged. “I’m spooky that way—ask him.”
    Brian was tired of paying for that remark, so he scowled at Anna like a grumpy vulture. “Google Earth, I’m guessing.”
    She gave him a sly smile. “I think that’s the name, yes.”
    â€œDid Jake show you?”
    A somber nod. Suddenly the joke was over, and a palpable melancholy had taken its place. “There is no there there,” she repeated.
    Wren wasn’t giving up. “But the town is still there, right?”
    â€œWinnemucca,” said Brian, trying to make himself useful.
    A crooked smile from Wren. “Seriously?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt was named after an old Indian,” Anna said. “Back in the last century. Or—you know—the one before that. I can’t keep up with them. He hung around town wearing only one moccasin, so they called him Wunnamocca.”
    â€œI don’t know whether to believe that or not,” Wren said jovially.
    Anna carefully arranged one of her fragile long-fingered hands over the other. “I don’t make up things, dear. The truth is hard enough to sell.”
    A long silence before Wren asked: “Would you go back?”
    â€œTo Winnemucca?”
    â€œYes. I mean . . . all things being equal?”
    Anna gave her a bittersweet smile. “All things are not equal, dear.”
    Brian already recognized the purposeful gleam in Wren’s eye. His mother (the one with the spoon collection) would have called it “a bee in her bonnet.”
    W hy not?” asked Wren. “Gimme one good reason.”
    They were winding along the coast highway in their rented Ford Focus, heading back to the RV park in Pacifica. The air was still, bordering on balmy. The moon was just a sliver above the dark sea, the tart remains of a lemon Life Saver.
    â€œShe’s old,” said Brian. “She’s had several strokes. She falls down all the time. There’s three good reasons.”
    â€œShe won’t fall down with us around. She’ll be safer than usual. We’ll make her cozy in the big chair. She can have the private bedroom.”
    â€œWhat if . . . something happens?”
    â€œWhat if something happens anywhere ? It’s just three or four days. And we’d be with her the whole time. I’m sure Jake could use a break.”
    Brian turned and looked at her. “What’s gotten into you, anyway?”
    â€œI dunno, pumpkin.” Wren smiled wistfully. “I just wanna know her better. I didn’t expect to like her this much.”
    They were silent for a while as the car ribboned along