…That night ushered in another profound dream that resonated deep within me.

I rode on the back of a motorcycle, speeding along a path constructed of fresh soil that had been worked and shaped into a dirt road.

We circled in a clockwise direction up the grade toward the east, then to the south. As milliseconds passed, I began to recognize the location: the cloverleaf onramp from Page Mill onto Highway 280 northbound. But it was constructed of dirt.

I was on the back of the vehicle, holding onto…someone.

We rolled over rocks and gravel, jumping over branches and careening up embankments as I held onto some unknown form in front of me. From my perspective the motorcycle seemed huge, like it was built for a giant. In my mind’s eye we were twelve feet off the ground.

There was an urgency to get to our destination, which I didn’t fully understand. Finally, we rode up to the level of the “living.” There were houses and fences and landscaping. We had to make it back by dinner. 

After the final ascent, we meandered through the neighborhoods from this shack to that mansion. We had risen to the “human” stage where the zombies were no longer. 

I clung to his torso—I had no choice or I would fall off. And the faster he rode, the stronger I gripped. It was as if I were forced to show intimacy by squeezing him as we rode; but really it was self-preservation.

“He’s dead,” Pete said.

Shock ran through my body like an electrical current and my gut tightened as if gripped by a boa constrictor. I stood there with the phone to my ear and an empty, dumbfounded expression on my face. An evening that started as a fun gathering of friends and reminiscences of old times had come to a sudden halt.

* * *

Four hours earlier my wife, Nancee, and I were preparing to host our former neighbors from Mountain View. Steve and Martha were coming to visit, and we wanted to make a good impression.

Nancee and I had met at my high-school buddy’s wedding. I found her intoxicating: long, flowing red hair and slim, long legs that she used to prance and sway to the music of the B-52s. Early on we engaged in dinners, wine, and romance. Then, when I almost broke it off after two weeks of dating, she adamantly pointed out that we had gotten in a rut and not done anything active together that didn’t involve dining or sex. We tried a few outside activities and quickly found a connection. A few months later we had become active partners together, rollerblading, skiing, windsurfing, and running. Lust had transformed to kinship, soul mates.

Nancee and I were both busy preparing the meal and sipping wine in the process. We had planned a sleepover for Rebecca and Brandon at a friend’s house, so the preparations felt easy and unencumbered.

“Martha Stewart says the way to be relaxed while entertaining is to have the first glass before your guests arrive,” Nancee said with a giggle.

The doorbell rang. Steve and Martha had arrived. We had wine chilling in the fifty-bottle fridge and a bottle of red at room temperature to follow that. We cracked open some Chardonnay and began touring them through the house.

Steve and Martha performed the perfunctory “oohs” and “aahs.” These reactions were followed by quick glances toward each other and knowing smiles. They lived in the Bay Area, and we had moved from there. Our trappings were very lavish compared to Bay Area homes that were older and densely compact. We had a two-story home on a hill with a stone facade, a manicured lawn, and a small grove of redwood trees along the lower edge of the property. We showed them the upstairs primary bathroom with its built-in jacuzzi tub and 270-degree view of the mountains.

When we got to the kitchen Martha’s eyes got big and she let out a gasp as she covered her mouth. It was a large open room with granite counters and a granite-slab island, including an integrated gas stove and oven. Behind the stove was a retractable vent that elevated when in use. There was a large brushed-stainless fridge and a window view of the large backyard with its pool and built-in waterfall. For most couples this was something unattainable in the Bay Area.

I commented about the wine we were drinking, playing armchair sommelier. “This is from a winery we visited in Napa. It’s heavy in the malolactic fermentation category with a creamy, even buttery finish.”

I pulled the tri-tip off the barbecue and tented it with foil to let it rest. I opened a bottle of Gundlach Bundschu Zinfandel; it was the perfect wine to go with the rich flavorful marinated cut of beef. It had deep, earthy flavors of black cherry and pepper but with a smooth, rich finish.

We sat down to dinner in the formal dining room, its walls painted the color of Cabernet. We ate and talked and reminisced about old times; of kids’ birthday parties in the neighborhood, quick catch-ups over the back fence, and windsurfing.

As the phone rang, I swiftly retrieved the cordless handset from the kitchen counter, well within the view of Nancee and our guests. On the other end of the line was my brother.

“Phil, it’s Pete,” he said in a voice uncharacteristically curt and serious. An urgency tinted his voice, sending a sudden tightness to my throat.

“Something’s happened . . . he’s been in an accident and . . . well, he’s not OK.”

There was a pause as Pete collected himself. And then—

“He’s dead.”