The house was distinguished from its neighbors chiefly by a blue-and-orange paint job that at least one resident – an attorney who lived on the corner – called “indefensible.” This is what the landlady told Rachel and Graham as the three stood in the foyer they would all share.

Those are my neighbors now, said the landlady Rose. Used to be nice people here.

Rachel told the landlady, as a warning: We want to have a baby.

Thanks for telling me, said Rose. Guess you can still live here, she said.

II. Graham on the Stoop

The labor came on suddenly, swiftly. In the bedroom, bloody towels scattered across the beige carpet like soldiers on a battlefield and fifteen combat-booted paramedics and firemen stood in attendance, hands on hips, striking confident poses, barking orders to each other, joking. Graham stood to one side, absent-mindedly biting his thumbnail, a bystander, a civilian. The room was cluttered with clothes and books, and throughout the labor Graham felt embarrassed about the mess.

When it was over Graham carried the baby down the blue stoop to the ambulance, taking each step gingerly. Rose stood at the bottom, on the drive in front of her garage, peering around at the fire trucks.

She’s evil, the corner convenience store clerk had once told Graham. Indeed, Graham had discovered, his landlady was widely despised on the block. The transgressions were nefarious, allusively outlined, grudge-forming. One involved a complaint to the zoning commission, another a poorly parked car.

Though she lived downstairs, Rachel and Graham had hardly seen Rose since moving in. Graham left the rent check in the mailbox, heard plumbing groan and the TV play; one afternoon he had seen her husband Ron doddering in the shoe-box backyard, hand brushing the overgrown ferns and vines.

On the relative flatness of the sidewalk Graham untangled one hand from the swaddling blanket and gave her a little wave.

We had the baby, he said. He felt happy and confused.

Rose squinted at him – the sun was setting just over his shoulder – and said, Congratulations. She seemed to hesitate over the word. Her face and limbs were lean and brittle, her body like a glass sitting too close to the edge of the table.

The driver got into the ambulance and slammed the door. The baby startled and cried out, and Graham’s hand fluttered in a panicky way around the sallow, furrowed face.

Children, Rose said tonelessly. They’re a lot of work.

Graham smiled, uncertain of how to respond. He started to say something but then only giggled.

III. Graham on the Bus

He’s going to have a bris, Rachel announced at the hospital. She lay in the hospital bed, hugging the newborn to her chest. One tiny hand protruded from the blanket-tangle, fingers beating a soft tattoo on her chin, but she seemed to hardly notice.

Sure honey, Graham had said. For months he’d been strident on the subject, insisting their son not be cut, but after watching the labor Graham was prepared to concede anything to his wife.

That night while Rachel and the baby were still in the hospital he took the bus home, intent on picking up clothes and food. The bus stank of urine; he was too shellshocked to care. As the bus crossed Market, he looked out at the bars, the restaurants, the marquee of the Castro Theater: “Joan Crawford is Mildred Pierce.” People his age walked the streets, drunk, searching. Already it all felt like a slightly boring play that he could only watch.

At the apartment he circled through the rooms and flicked on all the lights. The phone rang; he let the machine get it. He felt reluctant to return to the hospital. He felt mysteriously horny. He thought about using the time to masturbate but the prospect of an orgasm troubled him. Were new fathers allowed to jerk off?

IV. Graham in the Shelter

On the tenth morning after the birth Graham walked to the homeless shelter where he worked. Though on leave, he needed to finish a grant proposal. It was foggy as he crested the hill, the Victorian facades looming like parti-colored cliffs overhead, the other hills of San Francisco floating around him like deserted islands. In the sunup stillness he felt time starting again, after days when it had seemed to stand still.

When he walked into the low-ceilinged, fluorescent-lit reception area of Many Tomorrows, he found a family – father, mother, daughter – sprawled in a corner, fast-food wrappers and coloring books spread around. There was no one at the front desk.

Is anyone helping you? Graham asked.

We come here for showers, the mother said, eyes wandering across the floor tiles.

Do you have a dollar we can have? the man asked. He wore many layers of clothes, his sleeves, neckline, and cuffs all frilly with variegated cloth.

Sorry brother, Graham said. But I’ll see if I can’t get someone to get you registered.

It’s for Darlonna, he said, indicating the girl. She sat cross-legged on the floor, coloring in one of the books, small eyes fixed on the page. It’s her birthday, said her father.

Graham knew this was probably a lie.

Happy birthday, he said to the little girl, too tired to not play along.

She looked up at him, and Graham saw in her face that she was far more exhausted than he was. Thanks, she said, and turned back to her coloring book.

V. Graham in the Maze

Night. Graham walked the baby from one end of the bedroom to the other, humming, hoping he’d fall back asleep. The face of Darlonna appeared periodically in Graham’s mind, but he pushed it away. He stopped and looked at a photograph of his father, thirteen years old, dressed in his Sunday best, standing on a scrubby winter lawn. The baby also stared at the picture, his gaze clear and bright, like a winter morning.

That’s your Papa, said Graham to the baby. You’ll meet him soon.

Rachel’s unpaid leave from the Jewish Community Center where she worked was going to wipe out their savings; they did not know how they would pay for childcare when she went back. An image came to his mind, of the three of them in a shelter. He thought of his son, older, wearing sneakers, as weary as that little girl. In the black-and-white movie of his imagination he couldn’t quite see his son’s face; it was smudged like chalk on a blackboard. Graham sat down in the rocker with the baby, suddenly heavy, in his arms. The baby started to squirm and mewl, and Rachel stirred in the bed.

Everything OK honey? she asked sleepily.

Everything’s fine, he said and stood again.

He left the bedroom and stumbled through the dining room, stepping carefully around the bouncy seat, the swing, the baby gym, the toy basket. The living room beyond, dominated by a picture window overlooking the city, was the cleanest room, the one least encumbered by their new life. A tide of city lights swept around the black islands of the Bay and Bernal Heights; the sky was milky with fog. In this room he paced. He heard the TV downstairs; Rose’s voice briefly swam above a laughtrack.

The baby woke and dozed in his arms, woke and dozed. Downstairs the TV went off, a door slammed. The hours passed. Floorboards creaked.

Each hour of the night was like a new room. He’d open the door hoping to find sleep, but sleeplessness drove him from that room to the next, through a never-ending maze of night. He thought about his work, each job like one of the rooms, another maze whose exit he would never find. He was not sure he wanted to find a way out, for where would that lead? He’d hoped to make the world better, he had tried, but even in his short adult life he’d seen the shelters get fuller, the people in them more desperate. He felt embarrassed, even humiliated, thinking of all those efforts, they seemed so childish. His arms throbbed and he laid the baby down in the daybed. The baby cried out; Graham scooped him back up, feeling guilty, weak. He got a bottle and fed the baby in the rocking chair, hoping Rachel was still asleep.

Finally he dozed, rocking, forearms aching, facing out the picture window that overlooked the eastern part of the city. Graham dreamed of breasts and mouths, and he was ashamed to wake, babe in arms, with an erection. The sun broke above far-away Mount Diablo.

VI. Rose on Castro

Three hours later he and Rachel took the baby out for a morning walk. As Graham lugged the stroller down the stairs he met Rose in the foyer; she was weighed down by four grocery bags full of cans and bottles.

Can I help you with that? Graham said, gesturing towards the bags.

Sure can, Rose said. Graham let Rachel take the stroller and he took all four bags from Rose.

They walked together down the hill. The fog had burned away and the leaves on the trees and the cornices of the houses all stood out vividly in the slanting light.

Awful nice of you, Rose said.

How long have you lived here? Rachel asked.

All my life, Rose said. Born here, raised here. She coughed.

On this street? Rachel asked.

In that house, Rose said, jerking her thumb back to their house.

There’s not many people like you in San Francisco, I bet, Graham said. Natives, I mean.

No there’s not, Rose said. A dying breed, she said.

What was it like when you were a kid? Rachel asked.

All Irish, Rose said. Those houses there – she gestured across the street – they weren’t here. All fields. We kids’d play in the fields.

Wow, Rachel said.

The three of them reached the parking lot of the Bell Market and walked to the stage-set recycling center near the entrance.

Hiya Rose, said the middle-aged man who minded the center. Hiya Graham, he said. His name was Vince and he had once been a client at Many Tomorrows. He took the bags from Graham and started to sort them. Graham felt momentarily satisfied seeing Vince at his job.

Well, thanks, Rose said to Graham, leaning on her cane. It came out as a whisper.

No problem.

You have a beautiful baby, she murmured.

Thank you, Rachel said.

Used to have a baby, Rose said. She’s forty-four years old and lives in Pleasanton now, in a home there. She’s retarded.

I’m sorry to hear that, Rachel said.

Don’t be, Rose said. Better to be a happy cow in the world and not know what’s going on. Danni’s one happy cow, I’ll tell you that.

VII. Rose in the Newspaper

Weeks passed. The baby slept longer and more deeply.

One afternoon ambulances and firetrucks once again lined the block. From their window in the gable, Graham and Rachel watched as paramedics brought Rose down the blue stoop in a gurney. From above, her face was rigid and empty. Graham and Rachel peered at the faces of the paramedics and firemen, trying to see if they recognized anyone from the birth.

What about that one, Graham said, pointing. The Asian guy.

No, Rachel said. No, he’s too short.

Graham watched Rose’s husband Ron wobble down the steps, dressed in an undershirt and faded polyester slacks, a paramedic at his side. The paramedic guided him by the elbow into the front cab of the ambulance. Doors slammed, engines started. One by one the emergency vehicles departed, like a circus folding its tents; the ambulance that carried Rose and Ron did not seem to be in a hurry, lights flashing but silent.

Hope she’s OK, Rachel said.

I hope he’s OK, Graham said, referring to Ron.

That evening Graham went to the convenience store to buy orange juice and pop tarts. Neither Rose nor Ron had come back from the hospital.

Do you know what happened to Rose? he asked the owner, who seemed omnipotent in his knowledge of people on the block.

Dead, the clerk said. Heard it from the doctor across the street. Good riddance, too. She was hateful.

She didn’t seem so bad, Graham said.

She’d be nice to you one minute, vicious the next.

Oh, Graham said. Guess she died before I got to see the vicious side.

You know, she was in here the night your baby got born. She said to me: that’s all we need on this block, another person. You see what I mean? Hateful.

Two days later Graham picked up the newspaper, the morning gray and cold. Ron had still not come home, as far as they could tell. Rachel and the baby were still asleep; over coffee Graham read Rose’s obituary. He would later clip it out and hang it on the refrigerator.

HILFERTY, Rosalie (nee McPhail) –

May 5, 1920 – August 19, 2004

Beloved wife of Ronald and mother of Danielle. Born and reared in San Francisco’s Noe Valley. After graduating from Sacred Heart High School, served in the Women’s Army Corp 1942-1946. Enjoyed 37 years with Bank of America as a teller, where she served as Chief Steward for her union and later Treasurer of the Service Employees International Union Local 44. Active for thirty years with many organizations, including the Congress for Racial Equality and later Women’s Strike for Peace. Arrested two times in the struggle for integration. After retirement active in a number of neighborhood associations in Noe Valley, where she tried to preserve the character of the neighborhood she loved. Friends may attend a Memorial Service on August 22 at the Most Holy Redeemer Church, 100 Diamond St., San Francisco. In lieu of flowers, you are invited to send donations in Rose’s memory to the Association for Retarded Citizens.

VIII. Rachel in Church

On Thursday morning Rachel strapped the baby into the stroller and went to Rose’s memorial service. Rachel was surprised to see how many people were there, people she’d seen, but didn’t know, in the grocery store and coffee shops. Rachel saw Ron in the front row, poker-faced, looking as if he did not understand what was happening. Next to him sat a woman, rotund and small-faced: the daughter. She looked worried and uncertain, her childish eyes twitching like a trapped cat’s.

The baby choked and started to cry, and Rachel went outside and tried to calm him on the white Church steps. For the first time she really saw his eyes focus and linger on her face, and Rachel thought she saw the ghost of a smile. Her breasts tingled. Sitting on the steps she caressed his cheek and kissed his forehead, delighting in the wisps of his bangs on her lips. The baby’s hair was the same light color as Graham’s; the baby didn’t look Jewish at all, not her family’s idea of Jewish.

Ron walked out, his face lined, calm.

Thanks for coming, he said to Rachel. Did you know Rosie?

I’m your tenant, Rachel said. We live upstairs.

Upstairs? Ron said. Rosie took care of all that. I forget things.

I forget things, too, Rachel said.

Everything’s always new to me. Rosie always said to me, Ron, you’re lucky, you never walk on the same street twice.

IX. Rachel at Night

At dinner Graham hardly spoke, staring silently at the baby gurgling in his bouncy seat. Graham’s paternity leave had ended and in the past week Rachel had seen him come home from work more and more quiet and prickly. After dinner the baby fell asleep. Rachel tried to initiate sex – she felt obligated after passing the six-week safety mark – but Graham could not get aroused. She tried anyway until the baby’s wail pulled them apart.

Later they sat cross-legged in bed talking, the baby asleep between them.

Tell me what’s wrong, she finally asked him.

Many Tomorrows might lose its state contract, Graham said. There’ll be layoffs. I’m afraid I won’t be able to take care of you and the baby.

It’ll be OK, honey, she said. We’ll take care of each other.

Graham talked about applying to graduate school, perhaps to law school. She had her elementary teaching certificate; she could get a job, she told him, in the public schools of whatever college town they ended up in. They talked for hours.

When my dad turned thirty-five we had party, he said. Just the three of us. I don’t think they had any friends.

What’d you eat?

Chocolate cake. I gave Dad a bowl that I made in pottery class. I think it might have been shaped more like a spoon than a bowl.

Sounds like fun, Rachel said. She looked at the baby, one chubby little arm thrown over her calf. She wanted him to give her a bowl; the anticipation of such a moment caused her to ache.

Not really, Graham said. It all ended in this big argument. I remember he told her, my life is half over. My mom laughed, but I didn’t understand what was funny. I didn’t understand why they were mad at each other. I still don’t.

I’m sorry honey. Things’ll be different in our family.

I’m thirty-four, Graham said. Is my life really almost half over, now that I’m thirty-four?

Sweetie, what are you talking about? Look at us. We’re just getting started.

The baby stirred. Rachel took him and nursed him in the rocking chair in the living room while Graham put away laundry and straightened the covers. When she returned to the bedroom, she found Graham asleep, his thickish lips slack, long-banged brown hair across his eyes. She was happy to see him sleeping. Rachel climbed into bed and lowered the baby down next to Graham. She pulled the covers up to her chin and she felt warm, worn out.

The bedroom swayed slightly. Glasses tinkled in the kitchen and frames rattled on the walls. Rachel rolled over and crossed her arm over the baby’s chest, her fingers touching Graham’s back. It was an earthquake, not a large one. Rachel felt an invisible wavelet of force pass through the house, and another, and another, each new one diminished in power. Graham did not wake. The house rocked and chimed, a shell on the lakeshore, pulled in and pushed out by the geologic tide. She wasn’t afraid for herself or the baby; strangely, she found the quake comforting.

Rachel hugged the baby close; she felt his moth-breath against her cheek. They had named him Amos, after Rachel’s grandfather. Rachel had only one memory of her grandfather, whom she had barely known. She was seven, and her family had flown to Miami, where her grandfather was dying. She’d been led into the hospital room, past a white curtain, and there she found a strange old man. He turned to look at her – his hair was stringy grey but his heavy eyebrows were still black – and she started to cry. Not because she was upset to see her grandfather dying, but because the situation frightened her.

Don’t worry, he had wheezed. This’ll be over soon.

The quake faded and the house, and all the houses around it, settled. Hearing a siren in the distance, Rachel drifted to sleep.