harnessing the blind momentum of the ocean, suspended in air as though by some miracle of Newtonian dynamics. It seemed a liquid mystery, and yet he felt he should be unsurprised; it was, after all, classical dynamics. The gang from around the pump house was out in full force, riding their boards as they awaited the perfect oncoming toppling ton of water, brown bodies deft on the white boards. Gordon sweated through the remorseless routine of the Royal Canadian Air Force exercises, assuring himself that this was just as good as the obvious pleasure the surfers took in their splitting of the waves. The required situps and pushups done, he ran over the swaths of sand, puffing to himself and in a muzzy way trying to unscramble the events of the day. They refused his simple tug: the day would not break down into simple paradigm. He halted, gasping in the salt air, eyebrows dark and beaded with sweat. Penny walked forward on her board, perched in the thick air, and waved to him. Behind her the ocean cupped itself upright and caught her board in a smooth hand, tilting it forward. She teetered, wobbled, arms fanned the air: she fell. The soapy churn engulfed her. The slick white board tumbled forward, end over end, driven by momentum’s grasp. Penny’s head appeared, hair plastered like a cap to her head, blinking, teeth white and bared. She laughed.
• • •
As they dressed he said, “What’s for supper?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Artichoke salad, then pheasant, then a brandy trifle.”
“I hope you can make all that.”
“Okay, what do you want?”
“I’m going out. I’m not hungry.”
“Huh?” A dull dawning of surprise. He was hungry.
“I’m going to a meeting.”
“What for?”
“A meeting. A rally, I guess.”
“For what?” he persisted.
“For Goldwater.”
“What?”
“You may have heard of him. He’s running for President.”
“You’re kidding.” He stopped, foot in midair, halfway into his jockey shorts. Then, realizing how comical he must look, he stepped in and pulled them up. “He’s a simple-minded—”
“Babbitt?”
No, Sinclair Lewis wouldn’t have occurred to him. “Just leave it at simple-minded.”
“Ever read The Conscience of a Conservative? He has a lot of things to say in there.”
“No, I didn’t. But look, when you have Kennedy, with the test ban treaty and some really new ideas in foreign policy, the Alliance for Progress—”
“Plus the Bay of Pigs, the Berlin Wall, that pig-eyed little brother of his—”
“Oh, come on. Goldwater is just a pawn of big business.”
“He’ll stand up to the communists.”
Gordon sat down on their bed. “You don’t believe that stuff, do you?”
Penny wrinkled her nose, a gesture Gordon knew meant her mind was set. “Who sent our men into South Vietnam? What about what happened to Cliff and Bernie?”
“If Goldwater gets in there’ll be a million Cliffs and Bernies over there.”
“Goldwater will win over there, not just fool around.”
“Penny, the thing to do over there is cut our losses. Why support a dictator like Diem?”
“All I know is, friends of mine are getting killed.”
“And Big Barry will change all that.”
“Sure. I think he’s solid. He’ll stop socialism in our country.”
Gordon lay back on the bed, spouting a resigned whoosh of disbelief. “Penny, I know you think I’m some sort of New York communist, but I fail to see—”
“I’m late already. Linda invited me to this cocktail party for Goldwater, and I’m going. You want to go?”
“Good God, no.”
“Okay, I’m going.”
“You’re a literature student who’s for Goldwater? Come on.”
“I know I don’t fit your stereotypes, but that’s your problem, Gordon.”
“Jeezus.”
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” She combed back her hair and checked her pleated skirt and walked out of the bedroom, stiff and energetic. Gordon lay on the bed watching her leave, unable to tell whether she was serious or not. She slammed the front door so hard it rattled, and he decided that she was.
• • •
It was an unlikely match from the start. They had met at a wine and chips party in a beach cottage on Prospect Street, a hundred yards from the La Jolla Art Museum. (The first time Gordon went to the Museum he hadn’t noticed the sign and assumed it was simply another gallery, somewhat better than most; to call it and the Met both museums seemed a deliberate joke.) His first impression was of her assembled order: neat teeth; scrupulously clear skin; effortless hair. A contrast with the thin, conflicted women of New York he had seen, “encountered”—a favorite word, then—and finally been daunted by. Penny seemed luminous and open, capable of genuinely