The Bridge Across Forever: A True Love Story

I didn't know what he meant, and I was afraid to ask. His face was impassive. Stan, corrupted? Not possible. I had looked up to him for years, I couldn't question his honesty. "That might be true for me" could only mean that on an expense account, one time, he might have overcharged a little, by mistake. And corrected it, of course, but felt guilty nevertheless, duty-bound to tell me. And clearly if he were telling me now, he intends no such mistakes again.

"That's OK, Stan. What matters is where we go from here."

"Right," he said.

I put the incident out of my mind. What money remained was being handled by Stan, and by people he knew and trusted, people we paid well for their services. Would people like that let all these complicated money-things drop, a bag

of springs off the roof? Of course they wouldn't, especially not now with so much going wrong. Reverses come to all, but my managers are swift of mind, I thought, and will find solutions many and soon.

fourteen

"GET ONE Five Five X-ray," I said, holding

the microphone button down, "is out of flight-level three five zero for two seven zero, requesting lower:"

I looked down over my oxygen mask seven miles to the afternoon desert of southern California, checking the sky clear below with a long slow-roll.

Technically, I was flying west to give a daylong talk at a Los Angeles university. I was glad, though, to be a few days early.

"Roger Five Five X," came back Los Angeles Center. "Cleared to two five zero, lower shortly."

Going down 400 miles per hour wasn't fast enough. I wanted to get this thing on the ground and see Leslie swifter than any airplane could fly.

"And Five Five X, you're cleared to one six thousand."

700

I acknowledged that, trimmed the nose of the airplane lower still, and faster. The altimeter needle spun downward.

"Jet Five Five X-ray is through flight-level one eight zero," I said, "and canceling Item Fox."

"Roger, Five X-ray, you are canceled at zero five. Squawk VFR, good day."

The lines from the oxygen mask were still on my face when I knocked on the door of her house at the edge of Beverly Hills. A symphony orchestra boomed on the sound-system inside; the heavy door trembled. I rang the doorbell, the music went quiet. And there she was, eyes of sea and sunshine, sparkling hello. No touch, not even a handshake, and neither of us thought it strange.

"I have a surprise for you," she said, smiling to herself at the thought of it.

"Leslie, I hate^surprises. Sorry I never told you this, but I totally and completely hate surprises, despise presents. Anything I want, I buy for myself. If I don't have it, I don't want it. So by definition," I said, tying it up neatly and finally for her, "when you give me a present you are giving me something that I do not want. It's no problem, is it, to return it?"

She walked into the kitchen, her hair splashing lights across her shoulders, down her back. Ambling to intercept came her old cat, convinced it was suppertime. "Not yet," she told it softly. "No dinner yet for the fluffalorium."

"I'm surprised you haven't bought one for yourself," she said over her shoulder, with a smile to show that I hadn't hurt her feelings. "You certainly should have one, but if you don't want it, you can throw it away. Here."

The present was not wrapped. It was a large plain bowl from a dime-store, from a cheap dime-store, and there was a painting of a hog on the inside.

"Leslie! Had I seen this I would have bought it! This is stunning! What is this nice . . . thing?"

"I knew you'd like it! It's a hoggie-bowl. And ... a hoggie-spoon!" And there was a spoon in my hand, an eighty-eight-cent steel spoon with the likeness of some anonymous pig stamped upon the handle. "And if you look in the refrigerator . . ."

I swung the thick door open and there stood a two-gallon drum of ice cream and a quart container labeled FUDGE FOR HOT, each with red ribbon and bow. Cold mist gently wafted from frost on the drum, falling silent slow-motion to the floor.

"Leslie!"

"Yes, Hoggie?"

"You ... I ... Do you think . . ."

She laughed, as much at herself for the mad caprice of what she had done as for the sounds my mind made while its wheels spun on ice.