The other thing about Van is that he never went home.  It seemed to me that for a married man he had a lot of flexible hours. Even when he did leave, he returned right away, usually before the bug killer or fertilizer or flower feeder or whatever else he sprayed in the yard had ceased to putrefy everything. 

''Don't' you wonder what this crap does to your lungs?'' I asked him.  He was standing at the front door, on the other side of the screen, holding a metal container with a spray attachment that looked like a bullhorn.  You would think that after so long he'd just walk inside, but no, he stood there and knocked.  I thought about what Ginny had said about his being like a dog waiting to be let in. I let him in.

''Nothing wrong with this,'' he said, holding up his spray can. ''It's food for shrubs.''  He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, nodding backwards. ''Someone outside for you.''

In the street just outside our door was a bright pink Cadillac with a woman behind the wheel.

''You know her?'' Van asked. ''She says she knows you.''

I was about to answer no when I realized that the woman in the car was Celia Lawson.  I recognized her funny glasses and her particular hairstyle, which made it so her hair never, ever moved.  She caught sight of me and blasted her horn.

I charged out of the house and stood by her car.  I'd forgotten to put on shoes, and even though it was only nine A.M., the hot pavement stung.  I hopped from one foot to the other, speaking to Celia through the car window.

''How did you find this place?'' I asked.

''Get in,'' she said. Beside her was a map of Los Angeles, a crude paper placemat with the name of a doughnut shop across the top; details of the city were illustrated in salmon and green.  She put her finger on the control button to raise the window.  ''I'm losing air conditioning,'' she said.

I went around to the passenger's side and settled into the white leather of the Cadillac's interior.

''I bought this thing from a rental place called Uncle Sog's.  You are never supposed to buy a car that has been used for rental, my daughter tells me.  She tells me after I've paid four grand,'' Celia says, accelerating.  ''And I don't have a license, so alert me if I do something wrong.''

We drove down Sun Dial Street, took a series of right hand turns and continued on around again, orbiting my mother's house.

Celia said. ''I've been watching a documentary called The Family In Crisis.  Did you know that the family is in crisis? I used to think it was just my family that was in crisis, but now I see that historically the family has always been in crisis.''

''How long can a crisis last?'' I asked. ''Isn't a crisis by definition a catastrophe that occurs suddenly?''

''That is a point, Sam.  But it is a small and insignificant point.''

We went round and round, past the UPS building, the all-night taco stand, the car wash.

''If you will give me driving lessons,'' Celia said, ''I'll introduce you to my daughter.''

''I'm not so sure that's such a good deal for her,'' I said. Celia had stopped at an intersection even though the light was green. ''If you're willing to make a full trade for her, I'm sure you can do better.  You might get two hundred or so camels, a dozen slaves - but only if you'd be willing to travel.''

''Do you want to know what Lucy's think tank of a husband has spent the past month doing?  Trying to sell the school district on the idea that chocolate replicas would be acquaint children with the more discreet regions of the anatomy.''

''Celia, I'd love to hang around, but I'm half dressed and there's work to be done.''

''I'm surprised he wasn't arrested.''

''Celia, I'm getting out.''

''You can't. I need an instructor.  How about we make an arrangement for a lesson this afternoon?''

''I don't know.''

''I have a test in seven days.  I'm desperate,'' she said.

''Celia, green means go.''

''I knew you'd be perfect for this job.''

---

''Nice lady,'' Van said when I returned to the house.  He offered me some coffee, which I refused.  ''How about you give me a hand with the new soil?'' he asked.

''What new soil?  God, no.  Leave me alone.''

''Suit yourself, but afterwards there'll be planting.''

He went to the kitchen for his coffee and then out he back door to the yard. I decided to wake up Ginny.  There was no way I could face Van alone so early in the day.

''Ginny,'' I said.  I tapped her bedroom door with two knuckles. I waited.  ''Okay, I'm taking a shower but then I'm coming back, ready to assault your morning lie-in.  Nobody gets to snooze until noon if I don't. I'm the sleep commando!''

I laughed gruesomely and sauntered off, heavy-footed.  But Ginny did not awaken, not when I showered, when I turned up the volume on the radio, when I stormed through my clothes looking for something to wear.

I walked by her room again and again, making a lot of noise.  I kept expecting to see her coming through the door, her hair bunched in an elastic band, her nightgown loose around her shoulders.  I had a meeting with Eli this afternoon, thanks to her. I hoped he could arrange for me to listen to a couple of the groups I'd heard on tape.  Thinking about that improved my spirits. It seemed that for the first time in a long while I was on to some music that had a chance of really making it big, and I was in a big mood.

But then Van decided to take a rest from his gardening.  He came into the living room and plopped himself in front of the television.  He watched me as I knocked on Ginny's door, shook his head and smiled. I knocked again and called her name, asking if I could come in.  I felt very stupid, knowing that Van was sitting ten feet away, listening.  He was trying to appear interested in a game show, but he kept the sound down low and I know anyway he was tuning into my efforts with Ginny's closed door. I could see something of a smirk on his face.  After a while he didn't even pretend to be watching the show.  He glanced at me in a way that made me feel very creepy.  His thick lips were pursed below his moustache and he had this smug, detestable expression.  I tried ignoring him but he turned fully toward me.  In his palm was the remote control, which he handled as though it were a very important and authoritative prop.  He said, ''She's not here.''

''What do you mean she's not here?'' I said. ''She's asleep.''

''No sir, she's not,'' Van said. He chucked in one short breath.  He pointed the remote control at the television and flipped a few channels.  He brought the volume up and down. Apparently, he thought he was hot stuff doing this.  With his remote control he seemed to make the statement I am in control here. I am the possessor of the wand of control, as you can see.

''Why are you laughing?'' I asked.

''I'm not laughing,'' he said. ''I'm telling you she's gone.  Her car isn't here, you might have noticed.''

''Where is she?''

''If you spent any time around here, you'd know,'' he said. He turned his head toward Mother, who came into the room, holding a potted plant.

''My little geranium is dying. Can you save it?''

''Of course,'' Van said. ''Give her here, Jewel.''

Mother was in a good mood again this morning. We were supposed to be sceptical about her new effulgence.  We were supposed to prepare ourselves for another turn. Advice from Wilma, the psychiatric nurse, who came by altogether too seldom but apparently was helpful even so.

But now Mother seemed like the happiest woman in the world, all good news and cheer.  She was preparing some sort of meal. Van had promised the day to her and she was celebrating.

''A few more minutes and it'll be ready,'' Mother said. ''We'll all have a nice family brunch.''

''Terrific!'' Van said and gave me a look.

''That's great,'' I said.

When she left the room I said to Van, ''You're the type of guy who makes lamps out of empty wine bottles and feels strongly about brands of motor oil.''

''What does that have to do with anything?''

''I'm just reminding myself,'' I said. I knocked on Ginny's door again.

Van looked me up and down, let go an enormous sigh and said, ''Look, maybe the girl is asleep, but she'd not here.''

''She probably took a taxi home,'' I said.

Van winced. ''Taxi,'' he repeated.

Finally I turned the knob and looked inside the room.  Van was right. No Ginny.  The bed was a confusion of sheets and blankets but it was exactly like it had been yesterday and there was no one in the room. I glanced at Van.  He was smiling the way you see men smile late at night at girls they don't' have a chance with. A voyeur's smile.

I said, ''She's asleep, you idiot. Don't disturb her.''