He had been down practically looking at all the people who had died since ten o’clock. My father was in a quiet panic, and Anita was going to clump through the door any second. “You both go back to bed,” Dad said. “You went all the way down to the police station and asked about dead bodies?” I asked, double-checking, hoping that maybe he would laugh a little and admit that was going too far. My mind works like this sometimes, circling back like a sniffing dog. “Sure.” The police headquarters in Oakland is miles away, almost to the Bay, a boxy, businesslike building. It was near a freeway, a double-decker highway that had partly collapsed in an earthquake. It was my father’s favorite sort of neighborhood, warehouses and the kind of restaurant that specializes in quick lunches. I could imagine the police being very nice to him, not telling him that he was just another overwrought parent. In a small way I was thankful that Dad had gone so far down his own mental checklist.
