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actually seemed to age. He and his siblings, who were respectively eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety-five, and ninety-six, came from such vigorous genetic stock that I'm inclined to believe they'll never actually "pass." Henry's handsome in the manner of a fine antique, handcrafted and well constructed, exhibiting a polish that suggests close to nine decades of loving use. Henry has always been loyal, outspoken, kind, and generous. He's protective of me in ways that feel strange but are welcome, nonetheless. I opened the door. "Hi, Henry. What are you up to? I haven't seen you for days."
    "Thank goodness you're home. I have a dental appointment in" he paused to glance at his watch" approximately sixteen and three-quarter minutes, and both my cars are out of commission. My Chevy's still in the shop after that paint can fell on it, and now I discover the station wagon's dead. Can you give me a lift? Better yet, if you lend me your car, I can save you the trip. This is going to take a while and I hate to tie you up." Henry's five-window butter-yellow 1993 Chevy coupe had suffered some minor damage when several paint cans shuddered off the garage shelf during a cluster of baby earthquakes late in March. Henry's meticulous about the car, keeping it in pristine condition. His second vehicle, the station wagon, he used whenever his Michigan-based sibs came to town.
    "I'll give you a ride. I don't mind a bit," I said. "Let me grab my keys." I left the door ajar while I snagged my handbag from the counter and fished out the keys from the outer compartment. I picked up my jacket while I was at it and then pulled the door shut behind me and locked it' We rounded the corner of the building and passed through the gate. I opened the passenger side door and moved around the front of the car. He leaned across the seat and unlocked the door on my side. I slid under the wheel, fired up the ignition, and we were under way.
    "Great. This is great. I really appreciate this," Henry said, his tone completely false.
    I glanced over at him, making note of the tension that had tightened his face. "What are you having done? "
    "A crown 'ack 'ere," he said, talking with his finger stuck at the back of his mouth.
    "At least it's not a root canal."
    "I'd have to kill myself first. I was hoping you'd be gone so I could cancel the appointment."
    "No such luck," I said.
    Henry and I share an apprehension about dentists that borders on the comical. While we're both dutiful about checkups, we agonize over any work that actually has to be done. Both of us are subject to dry mouth, squirmy stomachs, clammy hands, and lots of whining. I reached over and felt his fingers, which were icy and faintly damp.
    Henry frowned to himself. "I don't see why he has to do this. The filling's fine, really not a problem. It doesn't even hurt. It's a little sensitive to heat, and I've had to give up anything with ice "The filling's old?"
    "Well, 1984, but there's nothing wrong with it."
    "Talk about make-work."
    "My point exactly. In those days, dentists knew how to fill a tooth. Now a filling has a limited shelf life, like a carton of milk. It's planned obsolescence. You're lucky if it lasts you long enough to pay the bill." He stuck his finger in his mouth again, turning his face in my direction. "See this? Only fifteen years old and the guy's already talking about replacing it."
    "You're kidding! What a scam!"
    "Remember when they put fluoride in the city water and everybody thought it was a communist plot? Dentists spread that rumor."
    "Of course they did," I said, chiming in on cue.
    "They saw the handwriting on the wall. No more cavities, no more business." We went through the same duet every time either one of us had to have something done.
    "Now they've cooked up that surgery where they cut half your gums away. If they can't talk you into that, they claim you need braces."
    "What a crock," I said.
    "I don't know why I can't have my teeth pulled and get it over with," he