She was living on the northeast side of campus in a two-bedroom dorm suite, where the radiators were always on and the windows were always open. The floors were linoleum and elephant gray. Track marks, scuff marks, rust stains, and spills of all kinds and vintages had contributed to their texture, if not to their allure.

Mary Jane had a roommate named Alexa, who seemed to want to share nothing more than the living room and the bathroom-and those only reluctantly. Southern and square, she wore white blouses, slim kilts, and dark green cat-eye gla.s.ses. Her prized possession was a small, pale blue Samsonite train case, in which she kept her ample supply of makeup. When Henry first met Alexa, she was doing what she would do on nearly all their subsequent encounters: namely, sitting at the card table by a window, leaning into the slightly clouded mirror in the little suitcase, and daintily checking, patting, sponging, or outlining various parts of her face. Brush in hand and palette before her, she reminded Henry a bit of Fiona-in those rare moments when he had actually seen Fiona at her inking desk. But it was clear that Alexa wanted nothing at all to do with Henry-or with Mary Jane, for that matter.

On Henry's second visit to Berkeley-this one in early April-Mary Jane drove Alexa from her makeup table by relentlessly playing The Beatles vs. The Four Seasons, The Beatles vs. The Four Seasons, and when the door finally closed, Mary Jane rolled Henry his first joint. She used the crease of the double record alb.u.m as a kind of funnel, taking out seeds and impurities, creating a tiny green-brown mound of marijuana, a miniature version of the leaf piles that Henry and she had sorted as children under the ancient autumn sky. With the little pile ready, Mary Jane took out a small white booklet that had the word and when the door finally closed, Mary Jane rolled Henry his first joint. She used the crease of the double record alb.u.m as a kind of funnel, taking out seeds and impurities, creating a tiny green-brown mound of marijuana, a miniature version of the leaf piles that Henry and she had sorted as children under the ancient autumn sky. With the little pile ready, Mary Jane took out a small white booklet that had the word Zig-Zag Zig-Zag and a strange Arabian-looking man on the cover. Smiling, she opened the booklet and popped one sheet out, leaving another behind it, just like Kleenex. and a strange Arabian-looking man on the cover. Smiling, she opened the booklet and popped one sheet out, leaving another behind it, just like Kleenex.

"Zig-Zag?" Henry asked her.

"Rolling papers," she said.

Smiling, she placed the marijuana carefully on top of the rolling paper, twisted it into a tight stick, and licked the edge of the paper to seal it. Finally, ever so gently, she ran the whole joint lightly into and out of her mouth-a tiny, provocative gesture that Henry would always enjoy watching.

"Are you ready?" she asked him.

IT WAS AN INITIATION. They both knew it, and knew that it was a milestone in the making.

Henry inhaled, predictably coughed, and endured her equally predictable laughter.

"Try again," she said. "Only this time, breathe in a little less and hold it in a little longer."

He followed her instructions, allowing the woodsy, sweet-sour smoke to enter his lungs.

"You're going to love this," Mary Jane said, as if the few puffs she had taken had already endowed her with cosmic mind-reading abilities.

"Should I have another puff?" he asked her.

"Toke."

"What?"

"It's called a toke. With a cigarette you have a puff. With a joint, you have a toke."

"Toke," Henry repeated, sampling the word and then the joint. A bit of time and a few songs rolled past. "Toke," he said again, and again ill.u.s.trated the word. Suddenly, giddily, he found the word itself ineffably hilarious.

"Towwwwwke," he intoned.

"Yes, Henry," Mary Jane said, watching his progress with some satisfaction and considerable superiority.

"Towwwwwke," he said again, laughing lightly.

Her couch was a seven-foot-long thrift-shop monstrosity, covered in a salmon-red fabric that was the color and nearly the texture of heavy-grade sandpaper. Henry lay back on it and watched the smoke marble the air.

On Mary Jane's record player, the Beatles sang: Do you want to know a secret?

Do you promise not to tell?

Henry sang along, "Ooo-ah-ooh."

"Now," Mary Jane said. "That's more like it."

SUNSET HAD TINTED THE WINDOWS ORANGE, but now the sun was down, the panes showed fingerprints, dirt, and a series of white splotches in which Henry struggled to find patterns or meaning.

"What are you looking at?" Mary Jane asked him.

"Bird droppings, I think."

"Gross."

"Actually, they're kind of pretty."

"Henry. We're not that that high." high."

THROUGHOUT THE SPARKLING SPRING OF 1965, Henry spent nearly every other weekend at Berkeley with Mary Jane. Sometimes they even left her suite to wander the campus or see a movie or-especially after they'd smoked her pot-grab a bite to eat. Now clearly in her element, she had gathered a group of friends and a style of living that Henry found compelling, especially because it was so different from the still relatively b.u.t.toned-down world of Disney. Everything in Mary Jane's Berkeley crowd was long hair, long skirts, and long, intense talks.

Henry would drive up on a Friday night and arrive at the dorm bringing wine, but not the Almaden or Lancers that the rest of the undergraduates drank. He would bring something French, with a nice-looking label, and Mary Jane would light candles, then cigarettes, then joints, and they would talk half the night. One weekend-by her design but with his help-they painted her bedroom entirely black, including the school-owned bed and dresser, even including the ceiling, which inspired her to rub his shoulders and neck, though at a speed that was almost aggressively platonic.

Usually-despite the dorm's rules against such visitors-Henry slept on the couch, feeling a fraternal protectiveness as both Mary Jane and Alexa retired to their rooms and he was left to turn out the lights and make sure the hot plate had been switched off.

One night in early June, Mary Jane fell asleep on the far end of the couch, and when Henry woke in the morning, he saw that both her madras shirt and her eye patch had been thrown askew during the night. Her bra-white, clean, more rounded than pointed-was clearly visible. But he found himself staring instead at her face. He had always wondered what Mary Jane's eye looked like under the patch. Over the years he had imagined all kinds of horrors-bruised flesh, missing flesh, a hole like the kind a doll's eye would leave. Instead, her bad eye-what he could see of it, anyway-looked not that different from her good eye. Both were pale, fragile, closed in sleep. Hidden from sunlight all these years, the skin around her bad eye was fishily paler, and Henry thought the eyelashes were a little more spa.r.s.e. But otherwise, there seemed no difference, and Henry found himself slightly disappointed, as if he'd finally been told a secret, only to discover that it was something he'd known all along. Nevertheless, it was an intimacy that until now he hadn't known, and as Henry lazily watched Mary Jane sleep, he realized with satisfaction how much he knew about her. Her favorite color was still pink. She was still angry at her mother. She was still scared of heights. Nervous around babies. Dreaming of being a journalist and taking on the world.

He had never seen her naked. He had never been naked in front of her. There had been their one, long-ago-summer kiss and his even less plausible marriage proposal, and now, after the wild, precipitous terrain of adolescence, their friendship had returned to its natural path. Still, when she woke and saw him, she covered her eye before she covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

6.

Talk About Disneyland!

The New York World's Fair ran from April to October in 1964 and again in 1965. During those twelve months, four enormous Disney exhibits had drawn nearly 50 million visitors-as well as Walt's exuberant attention. Meanwhile, despite the huge success of Mary Poppins, Mary Poppins, there had been a constant and deepening depression at the studio, where the pared-down ranks of animators worked desultorily on various shorts for television's there had been a constant and deepening depression at the studio, where the pared-down ranks of animators worked desultorily on various shorts for television's Wonderful World of Color, Wonderful World of Color, made up storyboards for possible new features, and bemoaned their dwindling budgets and status. There had been some hope that when the fair ended, Walt's focus would return to the studio. But now, as the fair came to an end, and Disney looked for ways to relocate hundreds of small moving dolls and large moving cavemen, it was obvious that he was much more interested in his three-dimensional than his two-dimensional worlds. There were even rumors of something most people were calling "the Florida Project." made up storyboards for possible new features, and bemoaned their dwindling budgets and status. There had been some hope that when the fair ended, Walt's focus would return to the studio. But now, as the fair came to an end, and Disney looked for ways to relocate hundreds of small moving dolls and large moving cavemen, it was obvious that he was much more interested in his three-dimensional than his two-dimensional worlds. There were even rumors of something most people were calling "the Florida Project."

Martha phoned Henry in early November.

"I read that Mr. Disney is starting an East Coast operation," she said.

"I've heard that too," Henry said.

"Well, how far east? Could you work for that and then come back and be with me for a while?"

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Because," Henry said. "It's in Florida, which is almost as far from you as L.A."

"I'd think you'd want to see me while you still can," Martha said.

"SHE'S NEVER GOING TO LET ME GO," Henry told Annie. It was Christmas Eve, and for Annie's sake, he had gone to her church on Hollywood Way to hear her sing. Now they were walking back to her place. The air was warm and heavy. Annie didn't say anything.

"Annie?" Henry said. "You know?"

He could hear both sets of their footsteps.

"I know," she said, somewhat carelessly.

"And nothing I ever do for her is going to be enough," Henry said.

Again, there was silence.

"Annie?" he said.

"Okay, look," she said. "I just don't get it."

"What don't you get?"

"Hey, I know she lied to you when you were growing up. But now it's just that-all she wants is for you to be her son. Why is that so terrible?"

"She doesn't just want me to be her son," Henry said. "She wants me to live with her, and need her, and love her. Love her more than I love anyone else."

"She cares about you," Annie said. "Does that have to be a bad thing?"

Henry asked: "Would you want me to love her more than I love you?"

"Well," Annie answered, in barely a whisper. "That wouldn't be saying much, would it?"

They had reached the steps of her house. Someone had draped a W-shaped garland of Christmas lights on the doorframe, incongruous as the December warmth.

Henry tucked a strand of Annie's hair behind her ear.

"Aren't you going to ask me up?" he said.

"No. Not tonight."

She might suddenly have been speaking a foreign language.

"What?" Henry asked.

"Not tonight," Annie said.

"YOU SHOULD LET HER GO," Mary Jane counseled in the first week of the new year, after Henry had told her about Christmas Eve. With her ever-growing political fervor, she had spent her winter vacation organizing for the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. Now Henry was sitting beside her at a table in the Union, watching her fold flyers.

"What do you mean, let her go?" Henry asked.

"Annie. You should let her go. What's she ever done to you? Why keep her on the hook?"

"What makes you think she doesn't like the arrangement?" Henry asked.

"Come on, doofus. Who would like the arrangement?"

"What if I love her?"

"Bulls.h.i.t, Henry."

"What do you mean, bulls.h.i.t?"

"I mean bulls.h.i.t. You don't love her."

"How do you know?"

"You love you. you. And barely," she said. And barely," she said.

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN Mary Jane scolding him, or maybe just Henry's own yearning. Whatever the reason, he left his desk on the evening after he returned from Berkeley and went eagerly to the art studio. His goal was to stop by and ask Annie to come over after the cla.s.s, but once he was there, he found he wanted to stay. It delighted him how completely he now took for granted his place in a room that had once been so intimidating.

Annie was up on the platform, mid-pose-by the look of it a long one. Her right hand was on her left shoulder, and her face was turned in to her right one, like a bird seeking shelter under its own wing. Yet her body language suggested not fear or sorrow but coyness. As Henry straddled one of the smooth wooden benches and nodded h.e.l.lo to the other artists, he marveled at Annie's skill and also at her concentration, because she had to have heard the door open, had to have felt the outside air against her naked skin, maybe even wanted to turn her head to see who had just come in. It was not until Mark Harburg said "Next pose" that she looked up and met Henry's eyes. He gave her his best, most meaningful, most sincere smile. And it was was sincere. He wanted, at that moment, to be the wing above her. sincere. He wanted, at that moment, to be the wing above her.

After an hour or so, Harburg called for a break. Annie, as usual, pulled on a sweater and made the rounds of the artists' benches, looking at their work. When she reached Henry's spot, she found that he had dressed her in her current sweater, put a rose in her hand, and drawn his own dining table before her.

She smiled when she saw the drawing, but in a pale sort of way.

"How about I cook for us tonight?" he asked.

"I don't think so," she said.

"Candles. Lava lamps. Wine. Sherry."

"Henry," she said. "I'm getting married."

THE GUY'S NAME WAS JIMMY OAKES. Annie had met him at an interview for a modeling job that she didn't get. He was a photographer's a.s.sistant, and he'd been up on a ladder, clamping a backdrop to a metal frame, when she walked into the studio. The ad was for a shampoo, and though the photographer found her face utterly enchanting, he thought her hair was too flat.

Jimmy Oakes, Henry thought, must have seen in Annie's eyes the same mixture of sweetness and sadness that he had always seen; must have seen in her beauty the same promise of hope and inspiration; must have wanted, too, to be the wing protecting her.

Or maybe he'd just liked her in bed.

THE WEDDING TOOK PLACE in the Lutheran church where Henry had heard Annie sing just a month before. Her mother, who looked not much older than Annie, sat nervously in the front row. Beside her, Annie's sister awkwardly twisted a strand of her long hair around a long pale finger.

The music was the traditional wedding march. Annie entered beside her father. She wore a garland of tiny roses and a necklace of baby pearls. Her dress was short-sleeved and calf-length, the color of a blush, not quite white, not quite a wedding gown. She wore makeup, and her hair was in a hatlike pouf; she looked almost unlike herself, clearly the product of too much advice.

Henry stared at her, transfixed. She was, of all the women he'd wanted and dated since coming to California, the only one who'd ever rejected him.

He had never wanted anyone more.

"I'M SO GLAD YOU CAME," Annie said at the reception when it was Henry's turn to embrace her.

"I wouldn't have missed it," he said.

She looked around for the groom. "I want you to meet Jimmy," she said.

"I will."

"You'd like him, Henry."