Double

The convention was in full swing. Hundreds of people milling around and chattering and fondling voice recorders and wiretaps and each other, a riot of swirling color and half-naked flesh and name tags and plastic wine cups and glistening machinery. I stood outside the elevator for a time, taking it all in and marshaling my courage. And then, like a soldier on a suicide mission, I girded my loins and gritted my teeth and plunged into the midst of it with no hope at all.

5: McCone

As I drove back to my parents’ home in the Mission Hills district of the city, a kind of low, flat mood stole over me. I had spent very little time in San Diego during the past ten years, and now that I was here for what might be an extended visit, nothing felt right.

The city had changed, of course. Where there had once been a funky auto ferry from Coronado Island to the mainland, there was now a white soaring expanse of bridge. New, tall buildings lined the downtown streets. And the town limits had spread, shopping centers and housing tracts obliterating what had once been wild canyons.

But the biggest change was really in the people. I looked at my mother and father and saw they had more wrinkles and tired easily. My sister Charlene, down from Los Angeles for the week with her four kids, was pregnant again, and her poor color and lack of appetite told me this time things weren’t going so well. John, naturally, had his troubles. Joey, my other brother, was still trying to decide what to do with his life, but his willingness to try everything and settle on nothing wasn’t as charming as it had been five years ago. Patsy, my littlest sister, wasn’t even here; she lived on a farm up near Ukiah, and Lord knew when I’d ever see her again — or if we’d have anything to say to each other when we did.

And then there were my old friends. I’d come down two days ago and, since my mother had spread the word, the phone had immediately started ringing. The calls led to a gathering the next night at my friend Donna’s house, out in an area of expensive homes near San Diego State. And that had been a disaster.

First there was Donna, who had married a guy from our high-school class. He had done well in computers. They had a four-bedroom house with a pool; two children, a boy and a girl, well behaved as far as I could tell; country club membership; boat at a Mission Bay marina; twice-yearly trips to Hawaii.

And Donna was scared to death of me.

She had perched on the edge of the couch waiting for the others to arrive and asked polite questions — how was my family, was I settled in my new house yet, was I glad to be back in San Diego? And all the time she watched me, nervously, warily, as if she expected me to do something peculiar. Then the others had arrived: Tina, a new embittered divorcee; Janey, still teaching school, still looking for Mr. Right; Connie, now a bank vice-president, married to “another professional”; Amy, wife of a professor at State, looking comfortable and sloppy as ever.

And they were all afraid of me too.

To ease the tension, we had had some wine, and then some more wine. And when the questions started to flow, I realized what was wrong. Despite the fact they were all different from one another, I was more different yet. In fact, to them I was strange. After all, I was a detective. I consorted with underworld characters, I carried a gun, I had — for God’s sake — even shot a man to death. The questions went on and on; I could see the vicarious excitement gleaming in their eyes; and when I finally couldn’t take it anymore, I had escaped early.

I didn’t like to put much stock in old adages, but now I saw the truth in the one about not being able to go home again.

The street was crowded with cars when I pulled up to my parents’ home at the end of the cul-de-sac. Getting out of the MG, I spotted their next-door neighbor, Mr. Murphy, and realized some things never change. He was sweeping his sidewalk, pushing the dead leaves and twigs down onto the walk in front of my parents’ house. And when he saw me, he leaned on the broom and glared.

“Hi, Mr. Murphy,” I called, and waved.

He glowered harder and turned his back. I smiled and went up the front walk. You’d think he’d have mellowed with the years, but no, Mr. Murphy, along with the pyramids of Egypt and a few other immutables, would go on and on. He’d never forgive the McCones for their too numerous kids and cars and parties that sometimes brought the cops. He’d never forget the night that John and Joey had toilet-papered the trees in front of his house. Mr. Murphy would go on glaring and sweeping as long as there was breath in his body.

And somehow that pleased me. It gave me the stability that had been missing during the last two days.