When he was Jay’s father. No, that wasn’t right, either. He had left before Jay was born. How many of these people laced together by elaborate doodles had known of Marc Soto’s departure? It was sudden, she guessed. Had he packed, left a note, sent flowers? Through the window she watched Jay glide into view, the yellow of his kayak almost blinding in the green veil. She saw him lie back flat as he disappeared through the arch of the bridge and then reappear on her side. Peekaboo. She smiled. Seeing him was a tonic. And there was a lot to talk about, although she had already given him a blow-by-blow description of Wednesday Night Fever. He had phoned from Montreal, of all places. One thing had led to another, and he and Iris had ended up driving down to see a new band, the Bell Orchestre. A rock band with French horns. Fabulous. Brilliant. They had stayed over at a friend’s apartment. “Everything okay where you are?” he had asked.
