We head east along Fulton, staying close to the trees, then slip into Golden Gate Park at Thirty-sixth Avenue. We wade through dense fog, hurrying past Chain of Lakes Drive and deeper into the overgrown paths. I hear the sound of many voices up ahead, and it occurs to me that today is Bay to Breakers, San Francisco’s annual road race that traverses the city from the Embarcadero to the beach and features an odd mix of Ethiopian four-minute milers, families, nudists, and drunk guys in cheerleading costumes bringing up the rear.
The event must be at least half over, because when we cross Kennedy Drive, the racers are all in costume, some walking, many carrying drinks. Alice turns to me, a look of shock and relief on her face. There’s no better place to get lost than Bay to Breakers. We watch the runners go by—a dozen M&M’S costumes, a groom being chased by a bride, an all-female version of the 49ers’ offensive front line, and a throng of regular slow-moving runners, all trying to grit out the final stretch of the 7.46-mile course. A guy dressed as Duffman, pushing a cart filled with kegs of beer, hands Alice and me each a full cup.
“Cheers,” he says.
We sit on the grass and sip our warm beers. We are both silent, trying to figure out our next move. Alice points to twenty guys and girls dressed as Kim Jong-il. She almost smiles.
“When do you think we can go home?” I ask.
“Never,” she says.
She leans into me and I put my arm around her shoulders.
The sun comes out, and Alice spreads her trench coat across the damp grass and lies on top of it. “I haven’t been this hungover in years,” she moans. She closes her eyes, and within a minute or two she’s asleep. I wish I could do the same. But the crowd is beginning to thin, and we don’t have much longer.
I pull out my phone and fish around for ideas on where to go next. The blue P flashes in the corner of the screen. I quickly do a search for car rental companies, then power down the phone. I search around in the pockets of Alice’s coat for her cell, but she must have left it behind.
“Come on,” I say, shaking her awake. “We have to get moving.”
“Where?”
“There’s a Hertz rental not too far from here.”
We start the long walk toward Haight, moving against the thinning crowd.
“What if they don’t have a car?”
“They have to have a car,” I say.
With Alice’s rumpled coat and my dirty old shirt and ripped jeans, we don’t stand out among the drunken morning Bay to Breakers crowd. We trudge east through the park toward the Panhandle, finally arriving at the intersection of Stanyan and Haight. We stop at Peet’s and order a hot chocolate and a large Americano. We use both of our bank cards at an ATM to withdraw the maximum daily limit of cash. Outside Hertz, she plops down on the curb, drinking her coffee, trying to wake up.
When I pull up alongside her in an orange convertible Camaro, the only car they had available, she smiles.
We weave through the city, over the Golden Gate Bridge, and north through Marin County. We stop at an electronics store in San Rafael and buy a new SIM card. Back on the road, Alice pulls the old SIM card out of my phone and tosses it out the window. When we hit Sonoma, she tilts her seat back, closes her eyes, and soaks up the sun. I love that she hasn’t even asked where we’re going.
I turn on KNBR and listen to the Giants game as long as the signal will last. It’s 4 to 2, and Santiago Casilla is trying to close out the ninth when the reception finally fades. We drive down 116, along the Russian River, and out toward the ocean. At Jenner, where the river finally meets the Pacific, I pull the Camaro in to the Stop & Shop.
Inside the store, Alice goes to the restroom while I stock up on gas station food. In the car, she pops open a bottle of vitamin water. She downs the whole thing, then peers into the bag. “Chocodiles!” she squeals.
The road past Jenner is a narrow ribbon edging the high cliffs. It’s a scary drive but gorgeous. I haven’t driven this stretch of Highway 1 since the week before Alice and I met. So much has happened since then. Who is this man fleeing his life in an orange Camaro, with a beautiful, confusing, unshowered woman munching Chocodiles in the passenger seat?
In Gualala, I pull into a grocery store parking lot. We buy milk and bread, a few things for dinner, some hoodies and shorts for both of us. A mile down the road, I park in front of Sea Ranch Rentals. “Sea Ranch!” Alice says. “I’ve always wanted to stay here.”
The same pale-skinned girl who rented me the compound last time is sitting behind the desk, reading a paperback copy of The Crying of Lot 49. She glances up as I walk in. “You again,” she says, though I can’t imagine she actually remembers me. “Don’t love the new haircut,” she says. “Reservation?”
“No.”
She sets down the book and swivels toward the computer. “How long?”
“I don’t know. A week?”
“I have the same one you got last time,” she says. “Two Rock.” She really does remember me. “I never forget a face,” she says, as if she’s reading my mind. That’s uncanny, I think. Or is it? I shake off the thought, though I glance down quickly at her ring finger. She’s not even married.
“I don’t think I can afford it.”
“I’ll give you the returning family discount. You’re returning with your family?”
“Does my wife count?”
I hear someone moving around in the room beside us.
The girl picks up a pencil, writes $225/nt, and slides the paper across the desk for my approval. I nod and give her the thumbs-up. It’s surely several hundred dollars less than the lowest posted rate. I put a credit card on the counter. “Can you just hold on to this and run it when we check out?” I ask quietly.
“Can you leave it spotless?” she whispers.
“Like we were never there.”
She slips the credit card into an envelope, seals it, and hands me a clear plastic bag with the keys and directions. I thank her.
“If anyone asks, I was never here.”
“Ditto,” she says.
“I’m serious,” I whisper.
“Me too.”
83
When I pull down the road and into Sea Ranch, Alice leans up in her seat, gazing out at the ocean. The wood-and-glass houses get bigger and nicer as we head west toward the cliffs. When I pull into our rental compound, Alice punches me on the shoulder and says, “Holy shit!”
I unlock the door, and she runs into the living room and looks out to the ocean through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I turn on the heater. The place looks and smells the same. Sea air and eucalyptus, a hint of cedar from the sauna.
“Strip,” I say.
Without asking why, she peels off her dress. “Underwear too,” I say. She steps out of her underwear and stands there naked. I kiss her—overwhelmed with relief that we’re here together, safe—pick up her dirty clothes, and go upstairs to start a load of laundry. When I come back downstairs, Alice is sitting in a chair next to the telescope, wrapped in a blanket, staring out at the ocean.
“Maybe today is the day,” she says dreamily. I know what she’s looking for. What she’s always looking for, whenever we’re on the coast.
Later, I’m in the kitchen, preparing the rock cod and asparagus we bought in town, when a scream startles me. I race to the living room, expecting the worst, expecting to find Declan and his friend. But when I get there, Alice is looking through the telescope and pointing toward the ocean.
“Whales, Jake! Whales!”