"He was preoccupied, though," he went on. "He was down there looking for something."

"You," she said.

"Yes, but-yes and no, I got the feeling."

She preferred not to look at him straight on, so she switched her gaze to his mother instead, who was studying her own bare feet. The toes were polished light pink.

"I should say, I do know why he went down there," T. said gently, after a minute. "But in the end it wasn't that. I mean yes, he was recovering. He slept a lot. A bit of binge drinking. And in his spare time he was looking for me. But also, he was-I remember thinking he was like a child."

"A child?" she asked. It surprised her.

"There was something childlike about him. Like someone who's never left home. That's what it was: someone who's lived in one place all his life. And then suddenly travels to a new country."

On the wall beside them the African plain was palely visible. She reached out her right hand to sweep her fingers over the painted fringe of tall gra.s.s that grew up from the floor.

Of course, you couldn't feel the gra.s.s.

Still the smoothness of the wall was somehow disappointing.

"But he had traveled before," she said softly. "I mean we traveled together. Mostly before the accident. We did road trips. And we went to Europe, once. He was impressed by Europe."

"I didn't really know him," said T. "As you said. That was just how he struck me."

They sat there quietly for a while in the dim light of the bedside lamp, until T. turned and looked at the wall painting, one of the big spreading trees. Possibly an acacia, Susan thought idly. They looked different over there.

"Hunting, you know, it wiped out some of them," said T., scanning the animal figures in the background. "It's not a leading cause of extinction around here anymore. But Africa, yeah. Monkeys killed for the bush meat market, for instance. Elephants for ivory, rhinos for powdered horn. You know: some Chinese people, a folk-wisdom group that isn't actually particularly educated in Chinese medicine, think it's an aphrodisiac. Globally, mostly the driver is habitat loss. But soon the leading cause is going to be climate change. Or too much carbon, anyway."

"What?" asked Susan. "You're kidding."

He shook his head.

"Is it time to go home?" asked his mother, raising her head.

"I think so," said T., and helped steady her as she got up. "Sorry," he said to Susan. "We were hopeful she would last a little longer this evening."

"Please, no," said Susan, and turned to Angela. "It's fine. I'm just glad you're all right."

They left the room, T. and Angela walking slowly into the wide hall with Susan behind them. She flicked on the line of sconces as they pa.s.sed; it was too dark for strangers, who knew what they might b.u.mp into-dim shapes of horn and hair, the lips of elk. Then she noticed the sconces still had their basins half full of light-brown moth bodies.

We're brittle and fading, she thought. Fading like moths, gray-blond mothers. With each day the population aged. Maybe not in the so-called third world, where there were plagues of babies, but here, where there were plagues of the elderly. Before long there would be scores of old ones for each of the young, their lives prolonged but rarely cherished-certainly not by the old themselves, who hung on by threads of pharmacology in stages of slow death. Not by their children either, the children moved away pursuing an idea of self, an idea of fulfillment as once, not all that long ago, nomads had followed the seasons. They lived their adult lives in distant cities now.

Soon all the young would be absent, lifted into the momentum of their speedy existences in which the past was only a minor point of information-the parents who had raised and loved them, even adored them with all their hearts, only the vaguest imprint.

Ahead of her Angela picked her way with care down the wide stairs, as though her bones were hollow. Yes, it was coming, the generations of the ancient would be left to their own end. The grandmothers would feed the great-grandmothers in their final falls, the ones in their seventies would tuck in the sleepers who were in their eighties, nineties, hundreds- Hal, she thought, had been on the cusp of a whole new life.

Regret needled her, and something like envy.

"Oh," said Angela, as they led her past the eagle. "A beautiful birdie."

In the foyer the two of them watched as T. leaned down to Casey to say good night-Angela smiling vaguely, Susan feeling a quick, guilty flush of pride in her daughter. Together they were beautiful, it couldn't be denied. Then T. took his mother's arm again and Susan followed them outside and helped Angela into the pa.s.senger seat of his car. The high-end black Mercedes was an affectation he still hadn't dropped, it turned out.

There was continuity there, at least. She felt rea.s.sured by the black Mercedes.

As she went indoors again she waved at Casey, who had moved outside and was sitting by the pool, talking to Jim and others in the dappled turquoise refractions. The lights in the library were on so she ducked in and saw piles of books all crooked on the floor, then Nancy and Addison, the quiet college girl whose name Susan forgot, and Sal. It smelled liked marijuana.

"Oh s.h.i.t," said Sal under his breath, when he saw her coming. He had the joint in his hand and seemed to be casting around for an ashtray.

"It's fine," she said. "I've actually seen pot before." There was an ashtray on a sideboard, she recalled, and headed over to pick it up.

"Thanks, man," said Sal.

"So we've been looking at these antique anatomy books," said Nancy. "Animal anatomy. Some are from the 1920s. There are diagrams of earthworms."

"Informative," said Susan, and set the ashtray on an end table.

"It says here worms are gay," said Sal. "Listen. 'Two earthworms mate by attaching at their c.l.i.tella and exchanging sperm.' They sperm on each other."

"It's not uncommon, in nature," said Nancy.

"The worms aren't gay," said the girl from UCLA, with some difficulty. It was the first time Susan had heard her speak-her voice was affected by the multiple sclerosis. "They are hermaphrodites."

"You want?" asked Sal, and held out the joint toward Susan.

"Maybe I will," she said. She drew on it and held in the smoke as she pa.s.sed it to Addison. "Thanks," she said after she let it out. "Been a while."

It would allay her nervousness, she thought. If it didn't put her to sleep instantly.

Sal took the joint back and slipped on his headphones.

"Susan?"

She turned to see Steven and Tommy at the library door just as Sal began to recite the lyrics. "All virginal maidens / Satan will ulcerate . . ."

"Oh hey! Steve, Tommy. I'm so glad you made it!"

"Whoa," said Tommy. "I'm getting a contact high."

"Susie. I had no idea," said Steve, as though he'd stepped into a bordello.

"What can I say," said Susan, cheerfully. "It's California."

"But Mother Earth, she heals them," croaked Sal, head rocking, "By sending them to h.e.l.l . . ."

She would report to Casey: the possible benefits of wheelchairs were outweighed by the costs.

"Let me get you some drinks," she persevered, and went toward the cousins, leaving Sal and the others behind.

"This place is like that Haunted House ride at Disneyland," said Tommy. "Do you have one of those elevators where the pictures on the walls stretch out?"

She realized suddenly that she must not have seen him in years. He had thick eyebrows that met in the middle and cheekbones with a spray of acne. A show of affection was clearly called for, so she held out her arms and smiled.

"Tommy," she said, and embraced him, remembering as she drew close and smelled his strong deodorant that he was the one his father was proud of. Unlike the unfortunate art student, or whatever the other kid was. "The prodigal engineer."

He let himself be embraced but barely partic.i.p.ated. She pulled back and noticed he was unsmiling.

The father, at least, could be plied with spirits.

"Would you like a c.o.c.ktail? A beer? Please, follow me."

She kept up a patter as they headed down the hallway toward the room with the bar.

"What kind of engineering program are you in? Civil?"

"Chemical," he said. "Going into cement."

"Oh," she said, nodding, but despite casting around desperately could find nothing to say about this. Doubtless there were many people qualified to speak on the cement subject, but she was not among them. "Oh, I thought you were still a student."

"Graduating in May. Early recruitment. Already got my first job lined up."

"Congratulations!"

"Focus on GGBS."

"GGBS?"

"Ground granulated blast-furnace slag."

"Right outta college," said Steven. "Six figures."

"Wow," she said.

At the end of the hall, in the darkness under a rhino head, Reg and Tony were kissing.

"Are those two guys?" asked Steven. "Making out?"

"It's two old guys," said Tommy. "Whoa."

She checked her impulse to comment and went through the dining room door ahead of them.

"So what can I get you, Tommy?"

"I need a strong one after that," he said. "Gimme a vodka. Man. You got any Absolut Citron?"

"I don't think so," she said. "We do have some mixers."

"I'll take a Bud," said the father.

From behind the bar she could see Casey and Jim and some of her former neighbors outside. She missed them.

"Let's get some fresh air, shall we?" she said, once both of them had their drinks in hand, and led them through the French doors.

"Hah-ey," said Dewanne, smiling widely as they approached. She was a thrice-divorced Southern belle and more times than that cosmetically enhanced; she'd lived two houses down. She was also an avid catalog shopper, in a constant state of indignation at the perceived abuses of mail-order apparel companies. The indignation was a hobby. When they both had teenagers in high school-she was a housewife and Susan was subst.i.tute teaching-she would come over to the house in the late afternoon, a gla.s.s of white wine with ice cubes in her hand, and call 800 numbers to harangue operators about merchandise quality.

Susan had always liked her.

"Hi, Dewanne," she said, and reached out to grab her hand.

"So who have we here? Introduce me to your cute friends, Susan."

"My cousin Steven," she said. "His son, Tommy."

"Hey, Tommy," said Casey. "Last time I saw you we hadn't even hit p.u.b.erty."

"Hey, Casey," said Tommy stiffly, but made no move in her direction.

"You were into Star Trek," said Casey.

"I don't remember that."

"Denial is common. But I remember all too well. You always tried to give me a Vulcan nerve pinch."

Tommy lifted his vodka and drank, projecting an aura of distrust.

"That was his geek period," said Steven, and elbowed his son in the ribs.

"All in the distant past now," said Casey, and grinned.

"He's got a job in Portland cement!" said Susan.

"Ground granulated blast-furnace slag," corrected Tommy.

"So, Tommy," said Casey brightly. "Let's catch up then, shall we? Come tell me all about that slag."

She inclined her head toward a nearby table, and Tommy shuffled off after her with some reluctance.

"Hey, name's Jim," said Jim, and held out his hand to Steven.

"Sorry, how rude of me," said Susan, and finished the round of introductions.

When Susan paid attention next Steven was saying to Dewanne, "So what are you, one of her teacher friends?"

"Just a neighbor," said Dewanne. "From the old neighborhood. And what do you do, honey?"

"I run my own business. In programming."

"Oh my," said Dewanne.

She would leave the two of them alone, thought Susan, and Dewanne might win him over. Dewanne graciously liked everyone, even sleazebags.