Tom Drury - Path Lights

One day, a bottle almost hits us. It’s a brown quart bottle that falls out of the sky. We are in the arroyo, the dogs and me, walking.

They look at the bottle; they look at me. My first guess is that somebody threw it down from the rim of the arroyo. But then it would have bounced down the slope — it wouldn’t have stopped dead like this.

I think of the pilot tossing a Coke bottle from a plane in the movie “The Gods Must Be Crazy.” But, as a detective once told me, “Most of the time, we find that the thing that probably happened? Is the thing that did happen.”

So eventually I turn around and see the San Rafael Bridge — which I just walked under, so I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s there — and then I understand what must have happened.

Because you might not know. You might drive across the bridge and toss a bottle over the rail never guessing that people walk and ride horses below. Or you might say to yourself, “This bottle could fall to the bottom of the arroyo and hit someone in the head, which is O.K. by me.”

The dogs want to get going. Either they’ve already forgotten the bottle or they’re worried that another one might be on the way. But I tell them to stay, and I pick up the bottle and hold it in the sunlight. It’s empty but still cold. Blind Street Ale is what it held.

I wonder what the dogs would have done if the bottle had knocked me out. Perhaps they would have stood by until I woke up, as Lassie would have if Jeff, or later Timmy, had been hit by a beer bottle. It’s just as likely, though, that they’d have run off into the trees. Because they have their own agendas. Tag’s a wirehaired Jack Russell whose life mission is to create an empire of the places where he has peed. Raleigh is a very small beagle with round golden eyes and enormous ears — homely, yet somehow profound. Her goal is to follow every odd scent she comes across — and there are, it seems, a lot of them — slowly and at length. Sometimes Tag will pee, and Raleigh will want to stop and smell that , and I’ll think, or even say out loud, “Well, kids, we’re not going to get anywhere at this rate.”

Now we head home, where the A.C. is cranking, the blinds are down in the bedroom, and Ingrid has the blanket pulled up to her chin. She’s an aerospace engineer in La Cañada and the spacecraft Phaethon has just landed on Mars. The reason for the mission is secret — she can’t tell anyone what it’s about, not even me.

She tends to get migraines every time some phase of her work comes to an end. I sit on the edge of the bed and put my hand on her forehead. Her hair is damp but her skin is cool.

“How was your walk?” she says, without opening her eyes.

“It was O.K.,” I say.

“This is the worst part,” she says. “I think it’ll break soon.”

“Do you want some Coke?”

“It’s all gone.”

“Coffee?”

“Gone.”

So I run hot water on a washcloth, wring it out, and carry it back to the bedroom. I lay it on her forehead and press down.

“You’re an angel,” she says.

“No, you are. Everybody else is celebrating and here you are. It’s not fair.”

“I’m not worried about that, Bobby,” she says. “I can celebrate another time.”

We have lived in California for three years and Ingrid likes the state very much. She was born on a farm in South Dakota. It’s abandoned now. Every few years, Ingrid goes back to take a look, even though all that’s left is the old bleached shell of a house, surrounded by blue grama grass and tall trees with pale bark and waxy leaves. You can’t go upstairs anymore, because the steps have crumbled, but you can still stand outside and look up at her old bedroom window.

Starbucks coffee is good for Ingrid’s headaches, so I head back out to buy her the biggest one they have. Then I drive to the liquor store on DeLacey and buy two litres of Coke.

“Just soda tonight?” Mr. King says.

He is short and round with a red face and bright eyes. We like him, and his liquor store. We always get him a scarf or something at Christmas, because even in Southern California you sometimes need a scarf.

“Do you carry Blind Street Ale?” I ask.

Mr. King nods. “We hardly sell any of it, but we do have it. It’s strong, and it’s twelve bucks a quart.”

“Anyone buy some lately?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

I tell him what happened in the arroyo.

He shakes his head and looks disappointed in humanity. “I never heard of such a thing.”

“My idea,” I say, “is to figure out who did it and talk to them. Not angry, necessarily, but just so they know.”

“Quite right,” Mr. King says. “Prevent it from happening again.”

“I figure I might be able to — find them, I mean — because it’s such an obscure brand.”

“I’ve tasted it,” he says. “It’s obscure for a reason.”

“Maybe I’ll try some.”

It’s dark by the time I get home. We live on a winding street with houses on one side, opposite a steep dense bank of ivy. All the houses have path lights in the grass. I really like them for some reason, these low modest lanterns lighting up when night comes down.

Tag and Raleigh are lying on the kitchen table looking out the window when I drive up. Tag stands and wags his tail so hard that the table shakes, and he yodels as he always does when he sees someone he knows outside. If he doesn’t know you, his reaction is much worse. Once, a dog trainer came to the house, and he said, “Tag is not aggressive; he’s just got a tremendous amount of adrenaline.”

I take the coffee in and set it on Ingrid’s night table. She’s snoring lightly, but when she wakes up she’ll be glad to see it, hot or cold.

Then I go back to the kitchen, open the bottle of Blind Street, and pour some into a heavy glass goblet sort of thing. There isn’t much foam, which I take to mean that the bottle sat on the shelf for a long time.

The ale is flowery, with a tranquillizing undercurrent. I drink it while reading the newspaper in the dining room. After two glasses, I’m sort of drunk. Gravity comes alive — I can feel it on my arms and shoulders, pulling me down.

Ingrid comes out of the bedroom now with her coffee. She sits at the table and plucks the collar of her shirt from her neck with both hands. She has straight brown hair parted in the middle and dark crescent eyes and a full lower lip that gives a strong sense of composure to her face.

“I feel better,” she says.

“Thank God,” I say.

And I mean it. I hate it when she’s sick. The house gets all dark and quiet — it’s as if time had ceased to function.

“Not dizzy anymore,” she says.

“Let’s play cards,” I suggest.

“What are you drinking?”

I explain about the bottle and the bridge.

“I don’t get it,” she says. “You pick up some bottle off the ground and now you’re drinking from it?”

“No. Hell no. I got this at Mr. King’s.”

“What’s it like?”

“I think you’d say it was complex.”

“Good old Mr. King,” Ingrid says.

We play three hands of Russian bank. She shuffles the cards one-handed. I don’t know how she can do this, but she can.

“I could’ve been killed by that bottle,” I say.

“Nothing can happen to you,” she says. “You’re the voice of Milo Hahn.”

This is a reference to my work. I read out loud in a recording studio for a living. Commercials, books on tape, a few other things. Once, I even did the voice-activated response system for a tree-service conglomerate. “Do you want one tree planted? Say yes or no. Do you want more than one tree planted? Say yes or no. Do you want one tree removed?” And so on. Tedious to record, let alone to hear on the phone, I’m sure. I have no doubt that voiceactivated response systems are making the nation a dumber place, but the money was very good.