Clear mind, busy mind

First night of silence:

Robert Sean Leonard was the headmaster at a boarding school. His name was Finnisch. He had lost his wife. We never learned how, but she was young so it was presumably tragic. They hadn't been married long and there were no children.

It was five years after her death. He never talked about it, but people kept being left alone in his living room, where they would find the wedding album. They would take the program out of its plastic sleeve—a tripart brochure with a fuzzy picture on cheap paper, like you'd see in the waiting room at a low-budget dentist's office—and the camera would zoom in: Maureen and Finnisch, April 17, 1983. They looked happy.

"Jesus," the person who found it would say. After a few minutes, the album would close.

This happened over and over again, with soft-focus lighting. It was an HBO movie of the week from my childhood. Not a real one, but I knew that's what I was watching.

Third night of silence:

My car was in the shop, so I was traveling across Oakland by bus. It was 11 p.m. when I reached the huge central station. By the time I got to the ticket window, I'd just missed a bus home. There wasn't another for 45 minutes, so I went to the Michaels next door to kill time. There was a list in my pocket with three things on it: puffy T-shirt paint, green thread, can't remember the third. The walk across the parking lot took ages.

Michael's had a clothing section, so I stopped to buy a shirt. I put it on right away, with the tag still attached, and went to the paint section. They didn't have what I needed, so I was heading to the exit when a security guard stopped me. "You stole that shirt," she said. "That's ridiculous, I just paid for it. Here's the receipt," I told her, pulling it out of my pocket: $14.19. She cut the tag off for me.

Outside, I passed a row of café tables filled with teenagers. The guys were catcalling in a good-natured way, with big grins, like they knew I wouldn't fall for it. "Hey baby, don't take the bus. I can give you a ride." Then Stephi turned the corner. "Hey," she said, "I'm in town for that conference. I'll drive you home. My car is in the usual place." I was glad but not surprised to see her.

We walked a few blocks to the corner of 22nd and Broadway, into a tiny convenience store and deli called 22nd & Broadway. A middle-aged Korean couple was wiping down the counter and closing up. They didn't acknowledge us. Parked in the middle of the store was a silver BMW convertible, lights on and engine running. "My dad made that deal with them in the '70s," she reminded me. "It's been really convenient."

I didn't see how we'd get the car out, but I figured there had to be an easy way since Stephi's parents lived down the road in Florence, MA, about 10 minutes from downtown Oakland. It all seemed easy and sensible. I felt bad for a moment because I wasn't sure if Stephi remembered that I don't live in Oakland anymore so she'd have to drive all the way to the city, but then I knew she wouldn't mind.