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part of town. Twenty-second Street
was an old, wide, tree-lined avenue filled with families when I was
growing up. A few months ago Kevin had finally moved out, the last
of my generation to leave the street, but a lot of the same parents
still lived there. It was a middle-class neighborhood of modest
means, old-fashioned family values and a desire to keep up with the
Jones’s. People parked in the driveways or on the streets because
garages were used as workshops, craft areas or places for the
husbands to hang out and smoke cigars without incurring the wrath
of their wives. If someone in the neighborhood bought a fancy new
car and parked it inside their garage, they would be shunned for
being too big for their britches.
    I pulled up to my parents’ house a little
after two o’clock and looked around the street. I was sure Brian
was here because he would never be late, but I didn’t know what car
to look for. I spied a hulking silver Minteres M-class SUV with
vanity plates that read MM MBL. Either Mabel was tasty, or it was a
Mom Mobile, which sounded like the clever sort of thinking Brian
was famous for. Kevin’s black Harley Softail Deuce was in the
driveway, along with my mom’s silver Camry and my dad’s black Chevy
Silverado. Black and silver seemed to be the family colors. I
parked my metallic orange Element on the street, glanced in the
mirror to check my makeup and peeled myself out of the car. I was
wearing denim Bermuda shorts, a yellow tank-top style shirt with
spaghetti straps and built-in bra thingy and red flip-flops. As
close to naked as the law and respectability would allow, and still
I started to sweat as soon as I opened the door. It was one hundred
and eleven degrees already. The asphalt shimmered and I choked on
the smell of melted road tar. A layer of smog hung over the
horizon, held hostage by the inversion layer. Another perfect
summer day in central California.
    I trudged up the driveway to the back gate.
That’s what you did in Minter in the summertime. No one went to the
front door because no one would answer. Everyone was in their
backyards, swimming and barbecuing and drinking beer.
    “Well here you are,” my mother said as I
walked into the yard. Everyone was in his place. Brian’s wife
(still can’t remember her name) was supervising their spawn in the
pool, Brian and my father were engaged in a Serious Conversation at
the patio table, Kevin was drinking a beer and manning the
barbecue, which meant we were having burgers and hotdogs because if
we were having steak or ribs, only Brian would be allowed to do the
grilling, and my mom was setting out side dishes and fanning
herself.
    “Hey.”
    Everyone looked up expectantly. I walked over
to the ice chest and dug around for the rare regular Coke amongst
all of the diet sodas and beer. I popped the can, sat down with a
thud on one of the wooden patio chairs and chugged half the soda. I
looked around at my family and burped. My mother gave me a
look.
    “So what do you want to know?”
    “Are you seeing Doctor Hennessy?” my mother
asked.
    I found that question odd, since all the
rumors that had gotten back to me suggested I was screwing Jack
pretty regularly and I wondered when I’d have time to squeeze in
anybody else. Plus, Doctor Hennessy was about sixty-five, and I had
never been one of those sugar-daddy types. Gossip moves in
mysterious ways, I guess.
    “That’s just gross. Haven’t you heard about
me and Murphy in Bardini’s orchard?”
    “Alexis! Your father and I are worried sick
about your brain tumor, and you have to make tasteless remarks
about your inappropriate affair? Are you ever going to grow
up?”
    I looked at my dad, who didn’t look worried
sick to me. He was gazing longingly at his hammock and I guessed he
hadn’t put much stock in the brain tumor and kinky sex rumors, and
I was grateful somebody in my family had some sense. I realized
this was going to be one hell of a long afternoon. I took a very
deep