Dating Is Murder

I could see what a tragedy that could be, stuck without wheels in a neighborhood with all the excitement of a golf course. “So A

“Yes, why not? Everything was very lucky for her. She drove a car just for her, not even to share with the family. She never had to ask-if she had free time, she could just drive it.”

“And then there was A

“Rico.” She cheered up instantly. “Of course she would not leave Rico Rodriguez.”

“Rodriguez?” I said. “That was his name?”

“Yes.”

“Not-Feynman?”

“Who?”

I looked at Joey. “Another man she-was friends with. Also named Richard.”

“Rico’s forename is Richard.” Britta laughed. “But he calls himself Rico, to a

“Is he a student?” I asked.

“Yes, at Pepperdine. He is very smart, but he has little time for studies, because he is popular and goes to many parties and has many interests as well.”

“Like A

“Ja, okay,” Britta said. “She has a car, you see.”

“So,” I said, “Rico has a lot of friends? Girls as well as boys?”

Britta nodded and smiled. “Everyone loves Rico. He is completely great.”

“Do you think A

Britta stopped smiling and considered this. Then she shook her head. “The university, it is strict Christian. The mans and the womans, it is not permitted that they are in the same room, for example, after midnight or perhaps one o’clock. So A

“Do you think A

She found this startling. “Oh, no. A

“Would you happen to have Rico’s telephone number?” I asked.

Britta looked at her watch, a large-dial pink plastic job, as easy to read as she was. “Ja, okay. I be right back.” She took off at a jog, the sound of footsteps receding quickly.

“Well, there’s another neighborhood heard from,” Joey said. “She doesn’t think A

“So where do you think A

“I do not know. Perhaps San Francisco. Or Disney World. Look, we made this picture only one month ago.” She handed us a snapshot of three people, arms around each other. I recognized A

She copied Rico’s number in loopy, back-slanted handwriting, and asked that we send him her love, and tell him he should call her. She also gave us the number for Hitomi, the au pair in Palos Verdes, but saw little point in us contacting her. “She is not social,” Britta said. “Also, she is Japanese.”

She did not seem especially worried about her friend and compatriot. She was, as Joey observed walking out to the car, considerably interested in the sudden availability of Rico Rodriguez.

The next day I would find out why.

8

I started Thursday the way I started most Thursdays, picking up my Uncle Theo in Glendale and driving up the coast to Rio Pescado, the state mental hospital that my brother, P.B., called home. “Breakfast with the troops,” Uncle Theo called it, referring to the fact that while we were technically visiting P.B., in fact we were joined by several more patients desperate for visitors of their own. The faces changed regularly and so did the mental disorders, which made for a lively ninety minutes. P.B., with adult-onset paranoid schizophrenia, was one of the longest-term residents because of his participation in UCLA-sponsored drug trials. The drug trials were coming to an end, though, and he was scheduled to graduate soon to an outpatient program, a halfway house in Santa Barbara his doctor had pulled strings to get him into. Even with the added expenses, I was excited by the prospect. P.B., however, was anxious.

“What about the trees?” he said, staring skyward, squinting. We were finishing breakfast at a picnic table, enjoying the su

“They have trees in Santa Barbara,” I said, nibbling on a piece of toast.

“Fifty-foot Quercus agrifolia? I’m worried about these. They’re not well.”

“Change is good, P.B.,” I said. “I know you’ll miss people here, but everyone moves on eventually. It’s a hospital; that’s the nature of it. And now it’s your turn. Do you know how much better you are? I almost never worry about you anymore.” I reached over and pulled a leaf from his hair. We had the same hair, blond and fine. I was rarely happy with my own, but for some reason I loved it on my little brother.

P.B. continued squinting skyward. “I was of no use to these trees,” he said.

Uncle Theo said, “When I’m concerned about you or Wollie, I take comfort in the Heisenberg uncertainty principle. If the act of observation changes that which is observed, then witnessing itself has value. You’ve participated in the life of these trees.”

P.B. shook his head. “Except it’s the particle interaction, not the conscious observer that matters.”

I listened to my brother and uncle discuss concepts completely foreign to me, wondering what it meant that I was the odd duck in a family like ours. A patient at a nearby table, disturbed by a squirrel she found threatening, let out a scream, stopping all conversation. By the time a psych tech led her indoors, trees were forgotten, visiting hours were up, and good-byes were said.

“It’s a longer drive to Santa Barbara,” I said to Uncle Theo, on the ride home, “but it’s beautiful. Dr. Charlie showed me photos of the halfway house, and it’s nicer than my apartment. Any of my apartments.”

“I shall miss Rio Pescado,” Uncle Theo said. He plucked something from his hand-knit cardigan, a garment he’d worn since the sixties. He unrolled the passenger side window and flapped his hand in the wind. “Good-bye, little bug. Safe home.”

This was where Rico Rodriguez found me, via cell phone, on the 101 South, approaching Oxnard. He apologized for taking so long to return my call. “Roommates,” he said. “Not great at messages. Totally lame, in fact.”

No problem, I said, and explained why I wanted to see him.

“I’m off campus today,” he said. “My campus, anyway. I’m in Santa Monica now, but if you want to do Malibu, I’ll be at Murph’s in an hour. I could give you fifteen minutes there. Otherwise, I’m booked through the weekend.”