Ray couldn't remember Keith's office hours, but the door was open, so he tapped twice and went in. Keith's side of the office was as neat as ever. Keith, he had often thought, was not really cut out to be a university professor, because Ray had never seen another one who kept his office so tidy, every book in its place in the bookcase, student papers in crisp manila folders, pens and pencils contained in a made-in-China "Indian" vase a student had given him once as a gag. He had never looked inside Keith's filing cabinet, but he suspected it would be every bit as orderly.
That side of the office was as shipshape as always, but Keith himself wasn't there. On the office's sloppy side – Keith and his office mate, Brandon Romero, were sometimes called the Odd Couple of WLVU – Brandon sat, engrossed in a paper, red pencil in his right hand. From the amount of red Ray could see, the paper's author would not be getting a very good grade. "If you're looking for Keith, he's not here," Brandon said without looking up.
"Well, I was, in fact," Ray said. "But how are you, Brandon?"
At that, Brandon lowered the paper and raised his head. "Ray! It's good to see you."
"You, too. Everything going okay?"
"For me, yeah. I mean, you know, students being what they are and everything." He rattled the paper in his hand. There was a pile of similar papers on his desk, along with several books, other sheets of paper, pens and pencils, a computer, a paintbrush, a rubber monkey's head in a net bag, what appeared to be six marbles, and a telephone only partially visible beneath it all. "What do you do when someone tries to argue that rural electrification was a cause of the Civil War?"
"Send them back to high school?" Ray offered. "Or junior high?"
"Would if I could."
"On the other hand, sometimes students with outlandish ideas also come up with some of the best insights."
Ray was thinking specifically of a student's essay Keith had told them both about, which had prompted a lively lunch-hour debate about whether or not the surrender of Geronimo to the United States Army had been a net positive or negative for native peoples. The student had argued that if he had remained free, Geronimo might have been able to lead a revolution that could have resulted in a separate native home land within what was now the U.S.-Mexico border region. The three professors had discounted that idea but taken different sides on the overall question. Ray had believed that since the white population wasn't going anywhere and the reservation system was already established, achieving a lasting peace was a necessary step toward some workable reconciliation. Keith had argued that Geronimo was most valuable as a symbol of freedom and that he should have tried to remain free no matter what. Brandon 's theory had been closest to that of the student: that Geronimo should have kept up his raiding, trying to achieve concessions that would have bettered the lives of the reservation Indians as long as he could. They had achieved no certain outcome, but the conversation had been loud and lively.
"That's true," Brandon said. "And it's always fun to be surprised." He put the paper down on the stack of similar ones. "Like I said, Keith's not here. You know about Ysabel, right?"
"Is there something new?"
Brandon turned the red pencil in his hands. "She's taken a turn for the worse. Keith's at home with her. He's still hoping she'll pull out, but…" He shrugged.
"I'm sorry to hear that." Ysabel Hyatt had been fighting lung cancer, and the last Ray heard, she had been doing well. He felt sorry for Keith and Ysabel, and the knowledge that his new responsibilities at the crime lab had kept him out of the loop where old friends were concerned gave him a searing ache high up in his chest.
"Is there anything I can help you with. Ray?"
Ray considered the question, but the things he needed enlightenment on were really in Keith's area of expertise, not Brandon 's. "No, that's all right.'
"I'm sure Keith and Ysabel would love to see you. They're up and about. I've already talked to Keith twice today."
"Maybe I'll drop by," Ray said.
"You should. It'd do her a world of good."
"Thanks, Brandon. I hope you don't have to flunk too many students today."
Brandon picked up the paper again, his gaze already landing where he had left off. "Someone's got to. Someone should have done it a long time ago."
Keith and Ysabel Hyatt lived in a comfortable house in a long-established neighborhood, with tall palms offering some shade against the desert sun, actual grass lawns around some of the houses – although the city was working to phase those out – and neighbors who knew one another. The house had two stories, real wood siding painted a soothing periwinkle, a pitched slate roof, and contrasting dark red shutters. It reminded Ray of an East Coast beach house. He had always liked coming there, and the Hyatts had loved entertaining, holding regular barbecues, faculty mixers, and dinner parties featuring fascinating conversation and great food.
Ray parked on the brick-paved driveway, and by the time he reached the door, Keith was there opening it for him. He greeted Ray with a broad smile and a firm hug. "Come on in, man," Keith said when he finally released Ray. "Ysabel will be so happy to see you."
"How is she, Keith?"
"She's good." Keith glanced away, and Ray thought he saw moisture glint in his old friend's eyes. "You know, not good. But considering. She's in fine spirits."
"She's a strong lady," Ray said. "Always has been."
"Stronger than me, that's for sure." Keith dabbed at his eyes. "I would have given up years ago."
"I don't know about that."
Keith opened the front door and led Ray inside. "Ysabel, we've got company!" he called. Ray understood that he was giving his wife fair warning. The life of a cancer patient was not easy, and if Brandon Romero's report had been correct, she might need a couple of minutes to steel herself for guests.
"We turned the den into a bedroom for her," Keith said. He was a silver-haired man, lean and professorial. Even here in his own home, he was wearing a blue Oxford shirt and a vest, a natty navy blue with gold and red alternating pinstripes, over khaki pants. On his feet were deck shoes, worn without socks, giving extra credence to the idea that he'd have been happier on the coast at Nantucket or Martha's Vineyard. "Easier than having to climb the stairs. Not that she can't – still does, probably a couple times a day. I guess I'm just overprotective."
"There's nothing wrong with that, my friend. She's worth protecting."
Keith took him through the dining room, where Ray had met more interesting people than he could count. A door led from there into a short hallway, then to the kitchen and then the den. As they neared it. Ray caught what he thought of as hospital smells, disinfectant and medicine. He tried to brace himself. It had been months since he had seen Ysabel.
She was sitting up in bed, weaving one of the traditional baskets for which she had become locally famous. Spread out on the bed was her traditional toolkit, with a couple of cactus-spine awls that were rolled up into a yucca carrier and tied with cord. For years, she had exhibited at Indian fairs and powwows across the West, and now her baskets were in museums in Santa Fe, Phoenix, Denver, and Las Vegas. Her once thick, lustrous hair was short and thinned out, and her complexion was sallow, but she looked delighted to see Ray. The troubling thing was that her smile did not bring to her eyes the crystal brightness it once had, and that lack shot a bolt of ineffable sadness through Ray's heart. "Come here and give me a kiss, stranger!" she demanded. "I'd hug you, but I got this basket all over my lap."