Dana wrinkled her brow, as if trying to focus all her energy into answering Matt. “She’s always been more private than Jen or me, but I assumed it was because she was an add-on, sort of. Jen and I have been roommates forever. Robin’s doing a lot, I know, so she’s stressed. She’s going to school online, and she has this intern position at a bank that doesn’t pay a lot—hardly enough for her tennis club dues—so she moonlights doing some kind of work on her home computer. Says she’s ‘consulting,’ whatever that means.”
“What about her boyfr—” Matt began, then stopped at a noise.
Clump. Clump. Clump.
It sounded like someone wearing tap shoes on his way up the front steps. We all turned to the door as a tall young woman came through, carrying a skinny bike in one hand, its frame resting on her slim shoulder. Not your mother’s bicycle, I thought, remembering the Monarch I’d had as a child, with its balloon tires, thick handlebars, and heavy metal chain guard. This bike seemed as light as the pair of titanium earrings Rose’s daughter had in her collection, all thin wires and spokes. Its largest component was a plastic water bottle buckled to its frame. A crystal pendant hung from one of the handles, reminding me of people who draped such items over the posts of rearview mirrors, distracting themselves and other drivers. At least Robin’s crystal wasn’t at her eye level.
“Robin!” Dana said. I wondered if she always greeted her roommate so enthusiastically, or only when caught talking about her in an unflattering and accusatory manner.
I had to stop myself from staring at Robin’s outfit. Brand-new? Expensive? An unobtrusive look said no, although they were serious bike-riding clothes—black spandex pants and a tight rubbery jersey, topped off by a helmet with hot green and yellow stripes. She propped her bike against the outside living room wall. Her shoes made tapping noises on the wooden floor around the area rug; evidently bikers had special shoes, like golfers and bowlers and tap dancers. Not so in my Monarch days, when thin white Keds ruled.
Dana introduced us, nicely recovering from the blush I’d seen. Robin’s smile was pleasant but lacked warmth; she made no eye contact that I could tell. She wore fingerless gloves—as a bike fashion statement? for protection?—and there was no handshaking.
“Won’t you join us for coffee, Robin?” I asked, boldly taking over hostess duty I felt entitled only because Elaine and I had brought the coffee and miniature biscotti now filling the small metal table.
“Thanks, but I need to change,” Robin said. She was about as tall as Dana, and I could see how they’d be able to share clothes. Her hair was darker brown, shorter, and thicker than Dana’s but had the same shiny quality
“Robin doesn’t like to be seen in her bike clothes,” Dana explained.
Robin shot her a look and a twisted grin. She took a key from what looked like an impossibly tiny fanny pack strapped to the back of her bike, unlocked the door to her bedroom, and disappeared.
We sat like four guilty gossipers, at a loss for conversation since our most recent target was within earshot. It didn’t seem prudent to bring up Dorman Industries, either, with Robin in the house. Everyone reached for the biscotti plate at the same time, fingertips and knuckles bumping, prompting a round of soft chuckles.
“Is Robin planning to attend Tanisha’s service?” Elaine asked in a near whisper, though the question was quite harmless.
“No, she only met her once, I think. But Tom’ll be there. You’ll have that pleasure,” Dana said. She brushed crumbs from her shirt, as if she were dismissing her unappealing sometime partner from her lap.
We shared another awkward round of eating and sipping; then Elaine suggested it was time to head to San Leandro for Tanisha’s service. A rather loud collective sigh and we were on our way, leaving Robin Kirsch and some unanswered questions behind.
On the road, with four of us in the green Saab, Elaine tried to reach Phil on her cell phone. She left a message, during which Matt, Dana, and I chattered, to give her some privacy. But sitting up front, I couldn’t block out Elaine’s voice entirely. I heard “Hutton Funeral Home; call me either way” and “even if you’re in Tokyo,” followed by a nervous giggle and a sign-off click.
The streets of San Leandro, a Bay Area suburb, were sunny and lively. We passed an elementary school in time to see children rush out like atoms escaping a container, creating high entropy conditions on the sidewalks and crosswalks. I marveled at the large number of vans with momlike drivers jockeying in and out of the school’s parking lot. Didn’t anyone walk to school anymore? And didn’t kids stay after school and help the teachers, as we loved to do?