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San Francisco * January 1909

WITH THE TURN of the New Year came, as always, a time of resolutions and new beginnings. No more could I afford the vaguely pleasurable limbo in which I'd lately been floating. So I took stock and began to deal with feelings of guilt I had metaphorically swept under the carpet.

Since my return to San Francisco in early December from a certain trip I didn't even like to think about, I'd allowed myself to luxuriate in feelings of safety and belonging. I was daily overwhelmed with gratitude at simply finding myself alive--especially considering a number of things that had happened while I was away that might have produced quite the opposite result. There were times when to be alive and in love with my partner Michael Kossoff was almost more happiness than I could bear. Of course there were also times when I wished I were strong enough to throw him off the roof of our house at the top of Divisadero Street, but that's another story.

If I were honest, I had to admit that underneath my happiness ran a subterranean vein of the most profound disquiet, and in this vein lay the source of my guilt: deep concerns about my father. I was worried about his health and general well-being, certain I had good reason for worry, and yet I had done next to nothing.

Oh, I had a good excuse for my inaction: two broken legs that were excruciatingly slow to heal, and some unpleasant mental and emotional aftereffects of that aforementioned trip. I would have denied having any problem other than my legs if anyone had asked, especially Michael; lacking control over one's thoughts and feelings can be most distressing. My legs were stronger now--I had recently traded my crutches for two canes--and even though I was less sure about strength in the rest of me, I could not wait any longer to do something about Father.

Ever testing limits, I tucked one cane under my left arm and, leaning only upon the other one, started across the sitting room. Three steps: drops of perspiration broke out on my forehead. This was agony--not so much physical, although there was pain. The embarrassing truth was, ever since giving up the crutches, I'd been afraid of falling.

Breathing hard against fear's chill, I thought: Why push myself too far? I needed both the canes, for balance as well as support. Even so, I forced one more step before allowing the relief that flooded me as soon as I put that second cane to the floor.

If I hadn't known better, I could've sworn this house had grown larger during the time I was away. It took a ridiculously long time to cross this room. Or any room. Finally I reached the other side, as sweat-drenched as if I'd run a race in midsummer rather than walked a few steps indoors on a gloomy, rainy San Francisco winter day.

Taking a seat at a little antique writing desk that had been a welcome-home gift from Michael, I heard the telephone ring right beneath my feet. Downstairs on my side of our double house is the office suite of J&K, the private investigation agency that Michael and I own and operate together. Not that I had lately been of any use to our operation whatsoever. I sighed, and reached for writing paper.

The telephone rang three times before it was picked up, then faintly I heard the inimitable tones of Edna Stephenson's voice. She has a large voice for such a small woman, yet I couldn't make out her exact words. Never mind, she always said the same thing anyway: "The J and K Agency. This is Mrs. Stephenson, the receptionist, speaking. May I help you?"

I smiled, then frowned, straining to hear even though I knew the chance of my being able to make out the words through the thick walls of the house was slim to none. Lately my pleasure at being safe and sound has been regularly outweighed by a strong desire to resume all my normal activities, such as snooping. As an eavesdropper I excelled, in large part due to my unusually acute hearing. But here the walls defeated me; in the world at large my physical limitations did the same. What good is a detective who cannot walk unaided? For whom a flight of stairs presents a formidable obstacle? How long, oh how long before I would be myself again?

My present routine had me going downstairs to the office twice a day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, to meet with the others and hear what cases the agency had going. These two trips up and down were all I could physically handle.

Sitting in on case discussion was not enough for me. I wanted to do more. I might have stayed downstairs to do typewriting in the mornings, I was physically capable of that--but Edna had become quite a good typewriter. She could run the office alone. She did not need me, and after a few minutes I inevitably felt like an intruder. The office was no longer my territory, I had made myself into a detective, or an investigator, and if I could not detect or investigate then I felt useless.

Downstairs the sound of Edna's voice ceased; involuntarily I winced as she banged the earpiece back on its hook, a gentle hang-up not being Edna's style. For a moment I pictured her slipping out of her chair--she is a short woman whose feet do not quite reach the floor when she sits at her desk--then tottering on tiny feet across the front office, through the conference room, and then into the kitchen. I glanced at my pendant watch--another gift from Michael, who has been showering me with entirely too many presents lately--to confirm the time. As I'd thought, it was about 4 p.m. In another hour I would make my way down the stairs to follow the same path Edna had just taken in my mind's eye, back to the kitchen where she and Michael and Wish and I would discuss what they had done today. Wish Stephenson is our other investigator, and Edna is his mother. The others would talk and I would listen; greedily, enviously I would drink in their words along with Edna's scalding coffee.