feminist, a trailblazer, an independent soul,” he says mockingly. “She admired you for that.”
He jogs a few yards without speaking, then says, “Franny was not an exceptionally insightful woman. I think her admiration was misplaced. I think there’s another reason for your self-imposed unapproachability, something of which she was totally unaware. Tell me.”
“There is no reason. And I’m not aloof with my current boyfriend. I’m very close to him.”
“A natural response—and only temporary. You lose your sister, you turn to someone else for comfort. It won’t last.”
I feel the anger rise in my cheeks. “You know nothing about me,” I say. “Or my boyfriend.”
“Forget about him. He’s of no interest to me. I want to know why you’ve never been in love.”
I shake my head. “I’ve had lots of boyfriends,” I tell him, looking at the ground.
“But never been in love.” His voice is insistent.
“I’m in love now.”
He throws me a cold glance. “Okay,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “You’re in love now—for the first time, at thirty-five. Rather odd, don’t you think?”
“No, not odd. I just never found the right man.”
“You’re lying. There’s more to it than that.”
“I was busy with my career,” I say. “And before that, with college. 1 didn’t have time for an intense relationship, or the inclination. I didn’t want to get seriously involved with anyone.”
M. is silent for a moment. Then he looks at me. “Now tell me the real reason,” he says.
I am quiet. I know the answer to that question—I’ve had years to think about it—but he’s the last person in whom I’d confide. We jog past the Sierra Sod building, our run nearly over, and turn left onto Montgomery.
He waits for me to respond. When I don’t, he says, “Franny wanted desperately to be loved, but until I came along, she had no one. You had numerous boyfriends, but refused to allow yourself to get close to any of them. You don’t see it now, but the two of you are flip sides of the same coin. You’re more alike than you can imagine.”
This makes me smile to myself: he may have guessed correctly that I have a few hidden problems, as do all people, but there are no two women more different than Franny and me. He’s way off base, and he doesn’t even know it; he’s grappling, trying to get a hook in me and coming up short.
“Maybe I didn’t get close to any of my boyfriends because I just wanted to have fun—no serious involvement, no commitment, just fun and games.”
“Maybe,” he says, “but I doubt it. You’re holding back on me, Nora.”
A bicyclist in blue bike shorts and a white top rides by, nodding to us beneath his bike helmet. We are back where we started, on the corner of Montgomery and Rosario. M. stops, and so does Rameau. Panting, the dog’s tongue lolls on one side of his mouth.
I put my hands on my hips and face M., looking him in the eye. “You don’t need to know anything about me,” I say. Then I shrug. “There’s nothing to know.”
My sweatshirt is soaked at the neck, and drops of perspiration dribble down my forehead, which I wipe with my sleeve. M., neither sweating nor breathing heavily, looks as if he’s about to begin a jog, not end it.
I look down the road. From here, I can see the front of my house, and parked at the curb is Franny’s black fin-tailed Cadillac. It’s been there since she died, and now the battery is dead and it doesn’t run. I could never bring myself to drive it, but I couldn’t sell it, either. At first, the neighbors complained about its unsightly presence, its sheer enormity, its ugliness, but when they realized it belonged to Franny, the complaints stopped. Now we—everyone in the neighborhood—pretend it doesn’t exist. The car just sits there, day in, day out, like a bad memory that won’t go away.
“You haven’t told me anything about Franny,” I say. “She could talk to you and
He jogs a few yards without speaking, then says, “Franny was not an exceptionally insightful woman. I think her admiration was misplaced. I think there’s another reason for your self-imposed unapproachability, something of which she was totally unaware. Tell me.”
“There is no reason. And I’m not aloof with my current boyfriend. I’m very close to him.”
“A natural response—and only temporary. You lose your sister, you turn to someone else for comfort. It won’t last.”
I feel the anger rise in my cheeks. “You know nothing about me,” I say. “Or my boyfriend.”
“Forget about him. He’s of no interest to me. I want to know why you’ve never been in love.”
I shake my head. “I’ve had lots of boyfriends,” I tell him, looking at the ground.
“But never been in love.” His voice is insistent.
“I’m in love now.”
He throws me a cold glance. “Okay,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “You’re in love now—for the first time, at thirty-five. Rather odd, don’t you think?”
“No, not odd. I just never found the right man.”
“You’re lying. There’s more to it than that.”
“I was busy with my career,” I say. “And before that, with college. 1 didn’t have time for an intense relationship, or the inclination. I didn’t want to get seriously involved with anyone.”
M. is silent for a moment. Then he looks at me. “Now tell me the real reason,” he says.
I am quiet. I know the answer to that question—I’ve had years to think about it—but he’s the last person in whom I’d confide. We jog past the Sierra Sod building, our run nearly over, and turn left onto Montgomery.
He waits for me to respond. When I don’t, he says, “Franny wanted desperately to be loved, but until I came along, she had no one. You had numerous boyfriends, but refused to allow yourself to get close to any of them. You don’t see it now, but the two of you are flip sides of the same coin. You’re more alike than you can imagine.”
This makes me smile to myself: he may have guessed correctly that I have a few hidden problems, as do all people, but there are no two women more different than Franny and me. He’s way off base, and he doesn’t even know it; he’s grappling, trying to get a hook in me and coming up short.
“Maybe I didn’t get close to any of my boyfriends because I just wanted to have fun—no serious involvement, no commitment, just fun and games.”
“Maybe,” he says, “but I doubt it. You’re holding back on me, Nora.”
A bicyclist in blue bike shorts and a white top rides by, nodding to us beneath his bike helmet. We are back where we started, on the corner of Montgomery and Rosario. M. stops, and so does Rameau. Panting, the dog’s tongue lolls on one side of his mouth.
I put my hands on my hips and face M., looking him in the eye. “You don’t need to know anything about me,” I say. Then I shrug. “There’s nothing to know.”
My sweatshirt is soaked at the neck, and drops of perspiration dribble down my forehead, which I wipe with my sleeve. M., neither sweating nor breathing heavily, looks as if he’s about to begin a jog, not end it.
I look down the road. From here, I can see the front of my house, and parked at the curb is Franny’s black fin-tailed Cadillac. It’s been there since she died, and now the battery is dead and it doesn’t run. I could never bring myself to drive it, but I couldn’t sell it, either. At first, the neighbors complained about its unsightly presence, its sheer enormity, its ugliness, but when they realized it belonged to Franny, the complaints stopped. Now we—everyone in the neighborhood—pretend it doesn’t exist. The car just sits there, day in, day out, like a bad memory that won’t go away.
“You haven’t told me anything about Franny,” I say. “She could talk to you and
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