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  “A lot of humans wouldn’t admit it,” Cravath said.

  “Yeah, well … You know what else?” Kling said. “The Furballs think we’re just as dumb and weird as we think they are. And a lot of the time, they’re right. So are we. But I’ll tell you something funny. That one Snarre’i detective, I wouldn’t mind working with her again. How’s that for peculiar?”

  “I deal with them all the time,” Cravath said. “They aren’t so bad. They’re no worse than we are.”

  “Come on—which is it?” Kling asked. Cravath didn’t see the difference. But then, he wasn’t a cop.

  LOGAN’S LAW

  This story appears here for the first time. It’s one of my occasional lunges at mainstream fiction. I first started playing with it in the 1980s, when some of the events on which it’s based were fresher in my mind. That should be obvious from the technology, and lack of technology, involved. It is fiction, though. Of course it is. It says so right here on the box.

  He sat in the sixth-floor office, glumly grading finals. It was a bright spring Berkeley Thursday outside, but fluorescent no-time in there. A file cabinet cut off most light and all the view from the window. The desk faced away from it anyhow, toward the books stacked everywhere. Good solid stuff: the Cambridge Medieval History, the Monumenta Germaniae Historiae, journals like Speculum and Viator, dictionaries and hagiographies, the tools of a medievalist’s trade.

  Why did he come up to campus? Working at his place would have been just as easy. His stuff was unpacked, into closets, onto shelves, boxes folded flat and stowed for his next move. But the apartment was a worse tomb than this, and at night the queen-sized bed felt way too big. He wasn’t used to sleeping alone, not these last eight years.

  He bent to the bluebook in front of him. Somebody walked past the door. He noticed out of the corner of his eye. A minute or two later, he caught another flick of motion: same jeans, same top somewhere between rust and maroon. Someone who wanted to know what was up with in his High Middle Ages class next quarter?

  He sighed and put down the pen. But this was part of the job, too. “Help you?” he called.

  He thought for a second she didn’t hear him. Then she cautiously stepped into the office after all.

  What was she doing here? She wasn’t one of the bright, eager, unprepared undergrads who filled his courses. Like him, she was gaining hard on the tired side of thirty. “What can I do for you?” he asked, and felt like an ass the second the words were out of his mouth.

  He got lucky—she wasn’t listening. Her eyes wandered from the map of thirteenth-century Germany half-unrolled and leaning against a bookcase to the boxes full of back numbers of Byzantinische Zeitschrift (one on a chair, the other on its side underneath) to the two shelves solid with black-spined paperbacks: Penguin Classics.

  While she checked out the office, he did the same with her. About five-four, slim, with hair as black as the Penguins, tied behind her head. Hazel eyes, very fair skin. She carried herself like a dancer.

  “What a lot of books,” she breathed, a grad student’s lust for the printed page in her voice.

  “Wish they were mine,” he agreed.

  “No?”

  “Christ, no. This is old Blaustein’s office—my chairman, I mean—but he’s teaching in Hamburg this year. I’ve got his classes, and he lets me use the office. He drops dead over there, I’m out in the hall with my brother’s pickup, you betcha.”

  “Don’t blame you. This is an incredible collection. Not my field, but incredible.”

  He glanced at her left hand: no ring. Whoa, boy, down, he told himself. He remembered what his buddy Ed Logan said a couple of years back, when Ed’s divorce was fresh and new. Ed was having a tough time connecting as a new single, and they were both pretty drunk. Ed sat on his couch—a couch he didn’t have any more—looking down into a glass of gin and ice, and solemnly declared, “Man, the good ones are all taken.”

  After a while, they made a joke of it: Logan’s Law, to go with Newton’s and Murphy’s and Sturgeon’s and the rest. Now his own marriage was egg on his face, and it wasn’t so funny any more.

  She took a couple of deep breaths, then blurted, “Does writing a dissertation make everybody hostile?”

  “I’m single because of mine.” It wasn’t the whole truth, or even half, but it wasn’t a lie, either. The months at the Mac, and before that fighting sources and lexica and secondary literature, sure hadn’t helped.

  She accepted the words without surprise. “I was talking with my friend Liz Martin—she’s in Near Eastern studies; do you know her?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “Oh. Well, anyway, I was talking with Liz and she said something totally innocuous, and I screamed in her face.”

  “It’s crazy-making,” he agreed. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

  “Oh,” she said again. A beat later: “I’m Jen.”

  “Hi.” More inanity, he thought. To cover it, he asked her what her thesis topic was.

  “Dutch administration in the East Indies—Indonesia, now—between the two World Wars.” It was no stranger than the study of Manfred Hohenstaufen’s struggle against the thirteenth-century papacy that earned him this temporary spot behind a desk. Jen went on, “I was on my way to give Teske my second chapter, but he doesn’t act like he cares when he gets something—he took three months to read chapter one. Even when he did, he hardly had anything to say about it.”

  “You don’t know when you’re well off. Blaustein fought me comma by comma all the way through.”

  “It’d be nice to find out,” she said wistfully.

  “Ha! Change this, revise that—then put it back the first way again.”

  They bitched for a while: not enough money, not enough time, probably no fulltime job at the end anyway, and a workload that made you a hermit to survive. Grad students’ gripes seemed pretty much the same in modern Southeast Asian studies as in medieval Europe.

  She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to run.”

  He hesitated, then plunged: “Could I—dammit, I don’t know how to do this any more—could I ask you for your phone number?”

  She smiled, maybe at the awkward parenthesis. “Sure.” She took a scratchpad and pen from her purse. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” He looked at the little sheet. Jen Barkman, she’d written. She crossed her sevens like a European. “Call you tonight?”

  She was already at the door. “Okay,” she said, and disappeared.

  The phone rang four times before she answered. “Hello?”

  “Jen? Hi, this is Steve.”

  “Oh, hi. How are you?”

  “All right. Um—have anything planned for tomorrow night?”

  “Translating tax records, maybe. Besides that, diddly.”

  “Well, do you like Japanese food? There’s a good place not far from my apartment. Best sushi on the East Bay, I think. And have you seen ‘Trouble All Over’ yet?”

  “No, and I want to,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “Up in Martinez.”

  “Martinez has sushi?” She sounded amazed. “I’m in the Oakland Hills. That’s a long way for you to make the round trip picking me up. How do I get to your place?”

  “Take the 80 up to Carquinez Scenic Drive. …” He finished the directions.

  “About seven?”

  “Say, six-thirty. The movie starts at twenty past eight.”

  “Sounds good. Give me your number in case something goes wrong.” When she had it, she asked, a little sheepishly, “Um, Steve—what’s your last name?”

  That startled a laugh out of him. “You didn’t read it on my door card? It’s Whortleberry.”

  She giggled, then said at once, “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Everybody does that. Actually, the name’s kind of useful now—people remember me by it. No fun at al
l when I was a kid, though.”

  “I can imagine,” Jen said, and then, “I’d better get back to it. The tax registers are calling.”

  “I’ll let you go.” He knew how a thesis could drive somebody. “See you tomorrow.”

  “’Bye.”

  He was standing naked in front of a steamy mirror, trimming his mustache, when the cell phone chirped. He grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Steve? This is Jen.”

  “Hello.” His stomach lurched as if he were on a rollercoaster, one he hadn’t known he was riding. “What’s up?” But he feared he could guess. She had to be crazy to go out with somebody freshly single. What kind of excuse would she come up with?

  “I don’t think I can get up there tonight. Clio—Clio is my dog, named for the Muse of History, you know—Clio has something wrong with one of her paws, and I don’t want to spend a whole evening away from her. I’m sorry to mess things up, but—”

  “It’s okay,” he said, biting the bullet as gracefully as he could. “Maybe another time.” Now she’d come back with Maybe in the drone that meant Not on your life.

  But she went on, “I was thinking you could have dinner down here where I’m staying. The movie’s at the Eightplex, and I wouldn’t feel so bad about going off for a couple of hours.”

  Reprieve from the governor ran through his mind. “How do I get there?” The directions were more complicated than the ones he’d given her. “Can I bring anything?” he asked. “Beer? Wine?”

  “Beer, I think,” she said. He grinned like an idiot—his ex hated the stuff.

  “When do you want me?”

  “Whenever. If dinner runs late, we can always catch the 10:45 show.”

  “See you soon, then.”

  He dressed quickly and threw on the rumpled herringbone jacket every male one-time grad student seems to own. Just on the off chance, he stuck a Trojan in his wallet. He hadn’t worried about anything like that since high school. As he locked the deadbolt, the ugly furnished apartment felt surprisingly like home.

  His old Nissan didn’t like the Oakland Hills, or any others. He managed to drive past Jen’s street and had to double back. Even when he found her address, he thought he had it wrong. Most of Oakland was tough and working-class, but this. … The house was a mansion, set well back from the street. His car coughed climbing the steep driveway, then sighed into silence when he killed the ignition.

  Jen came out on the deck and watched him unfold. “I didn’t know you were so tall,” she said.

  “I guess I was sitting down the whole time when we talked before.” His angular six-three and odd last name were usually the first two things people noticed about him. Funny she’d missed them both.

  He went around to the other side of the Nissan for the beer. “Quite a place,” he said, climbing the narrow flagstone stairway toward her.

  “Isn’t it? I’m housesitting. The owners’ last daughter just went off to college, and they bought a smaller place in Sausalito.”

  “Wow, life’s tough.”

  “Yeah. They want someone here till they sell this one. It’s a great deal—no rent, I have all the privacy I need, and a pool and sauna besides.”

  “I’m so jealous.”

  “Come on in. I’ll show you around.”

  She led him to the side door. It opened onto the kitchen, which was the size of his living room. He put the beer in the refrigerator, met Clio—a big black retriever who did limp—and walked through several rooms with cathedral ceilings and a forest’s worth of wood paneling.

  “Had enough?” Jen asked.

  “You’re staying in a place like this and you still want to be a grad student in history?”

  “Might as well enjoy it while I have the chance. Let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll put you to work.”

  “I’ll open a couple of those beers before you do.”

  “Sure.”

  They drank most of a bottle each. Then she said, “It’s chicken breasts and stir-fry vegetables—you get to cut up the veggies. Told you I’d make you work.”

  “I’m easy. Where’s the knife?”

  “In that drawer there.” She got out fresh broccoli, mushrooms, an onion. He bought the same mix, but quick-frozen in a plastic bag. She said, “Cut everything thin. They’re not supposed to be in the skillet long.”

  “Gotcha.” The knife thocked on the cutting board. Steve was functional in the kitchen—and cooking for himself was cheaper than eating out every night.

  They talked while he chopped and she fiddled with the chicken. She was twenty-nine, from Milwaukee, divorced herself: “Three years now. Yeah, I went through the wars.”

  “I thought you might have.”

  Her laugh rang sour. “Scars still show?”

  “No, no. Just—you seem to know where I’m coming from, is all.”

  “Well, sure. Divorced people are the only ones fit to talk with other divorced people. Nobody else knows what you mean.”

  He remembered his parents’ pained incomprehension when he told them he and Elaine were breaking up, his married friends’ sympathy—tinged with alarm, as if divorce were something catching, like the flu—and the barely concealed amusement of a couple of bachelor buddies. Nothing from any of them had touched the sudden aching emptiness the collapse left inside him.

  “Why don’t you bring those vegetables over here if you’re done with them?” she said.

  It was the first time he’d stood really close to her for more than a couple of seconds. Wondering if he should touch her made him as nervous as a tenth-grader. In a way, that was about what he was. Who knew how the rules had changed when he was out of circulation?

  “Penny for ’em,” she said, out of the blue.

  His cheeks heated as he told her.

  “Oh, that.” She fed strips of chicken into the pan with the vegetables. “No rush, is there?”

  Having no good answer, he let her tend the stir-fry. Some of his nerves went away.

  The chicken came out fork-tender. The vegetables were perfect, too: hot clear through but still crisp, juicy, full of flavor. Soy sauce and a touch of something he couldn’t quite name only added to them.

  “What’s that, mm, tang?”

  “Fresh-grated ginger.”

  “Uhwishush,” he said with his mouth full, then tried again. “Delicious.”

  They were nearly through when she asked the question he’d half hoped for, half dreaded: “Want to talk about what went wrong?”

  “I suppose.” But he took a long pull at his beer before he went on. “My fault as much as Elaine’s, I guess. She always wants to be out and doing stuff. A party, a play, a concert, dancing, shopping, just driving around. Me, I’d sooner curl up with a book or have a couple of friends over and talk all night. If we’d worked right, maybe we would’ve split the difference. But she got speedier and I dug in my heels. … Does that make any sense at all?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said softly. “Remember, I’ve been there.” She ate a last bite, then leaned back in her chair and stretched. “Now, do you want to wash or dry?”

  “Wash. I hate drying. Tell me where the john is first, though. The one drawback of beer.”

  “That hall there, first door on your left.”

  When he got back, he did put his arm round her shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “This is all wonderful.”

  “What, doing dishes?” Her tone was sharp, but she didn’t move away.

  “Sure. That, too.” He let her go, turned on the hot water, and got to work.

  “Amazing what enthusiasm can do,” she said a few minutes later as she put away the last fork. She folded the dish towel and hung it up. “Now what?”

  “I don’t know. Do I have better things to be enthusiastic about than dishes?” Small and slight, she felt strange in his arms as he kissed her; Ela
ine was a full-bodied five foot nine.

  “I should stand on a stool,” she said against his chest. “You’ll give me a crick in the neck.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. … I, ah, sort of like the man to take the lead at a time like this.”

  “Um, I would, if I knew where to lead you to.”

  “Well, yeah, that helps, I guess. Same way you went before, only a little farther.”

  So he led. As they passed the bathroom, she slipped free. “With you in a second.” When she came out, her cheeks were puffed up like a chipmunk’s, trying to hold in laughter that got loose anyhow. “It’s so nice to have a man around the house,” she caroled.

  “Huh?” He went red as realization hit. “I left the goddamn seat up!”

  “You sure did. Good thing I noticed—talk about cooling things.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not to worry. No harm done.” They walked down the hall. “Here we are,” she said. “Close the door after you so Clio can’t get in.”

  Afterwards, they lay together, side by side. She traced a scar on his belly with her finger. “Appendix?”

  “Uh-huh. Seven years ago.”

  “Ah.” Lazy silence for a while. Then she said, “Penny for ’em,” again. She seemed to do it for a game, to see what would come out.

  “Really want to know?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I was thinking that not very long ago I was wondering what it would be like with someone new—and whether I could at all.”

  She leaned up on an elbow and looked at him in surprise. “You mean you never—?”

  “No, never.” He didn’t know how to feel about that, proud or embarrassed or what. He’d had chances, a time or two, but it never quite happened.

  Her forehead creased. “Interesting,” was all she said, but the bitterness behind the word told of memories dragged into the light.

  He didn’t want that. He reached around her and started to rub her back. She grunted with pleasure and flopped over onto her stomach. He straddled her to do a proper job. “You give massages, too?” Jen said, her voice muffled by the pillow.