Ernie's Ark
““What do you want?” she asked, politely enough.
“My mother died.”
The sweet folds near her mouth softened, making her look, suddenly, her age, which was forty-five, two years older than he was. “Oh,” she sighed, letting him in. “I’m sorry, Jamie. When?”
“Last night,” he said, moving into the polished light of Karen’s bay window, from which he could just make out the artful curve of the Golden Gate Bridge. “My father called me.”
She guided him to a chair, then sat across from him, knee to knee. “Your mother was a brave woman.”
“I bought two plane tickets,” he said. “I was hoping you’d come with me.”
“Of course I’ll come,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I come?”
“Because you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, Jamie,” she said gently. “It’s just that I’m not suffering as much as we thought I would.” She lifted her head. “Did you think to call Carrie?”
He said nothing.
Karen swiped a hand through her hair—recently shorn, boyish and sexy—a gesture he recognized as irritation.
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