by Sue Grafton
Cheney’s smile was pained. “Sounds so crass when you put it that way.”
“What happened to your other girlfriend? I thought you’d been dating someone else for years.”
“That wasn’t going anywhere. She realized it before I did and dumped my sorry butt.”
“So what’d you do, marry on the rebound?”
“That would cover it, I guess. What about you? How’s your friend Dietz?”
“Kinsey, would you like to join us?”
I glanced up to see Priscilla Holloway approaching.
Cheney turned his head, following my gaze. His eyes flicked from the parole officer to me. “I better let you go.”
“Nice seeing you again,” I said.
“I’ll give you a call as soon as I’m free,” Priscilla said to him as he turned to go.
I glanced back, watching him as he pushed out the glass doors and turned toward the parking lot.
“How do you know Cheney?” she asked.
“Through a case I worked. Nice guy.”
“He’s good. Did the drive go okay?”
“Piece of cake, but it was hot down there.”
“And way too many bugs,” she said. “You can hardly open your mouth without swallowing one.”
Her office was small and the furniture was plain. A window overlooked the parking lot, the view cut into slices by a dusty venetian blind. There was a Polaroid camera resting on the windowsill and two instant photos of Reba lay on top of a stack of thick files. I assumed Priscilla kept current photos in the file in case Reba took off without notice. There were file cabinets on her side of the desk and two metal chairs on ours. Reba sat in the one closest to the window. Priscilla took a seat in her swivel chair and looked at me. “Reba says you’ll be squiring her around town.”
“Just for a couple of days, until she’s settled.”
Priscilla leaned forward. “I’ve been over this with her, but I think it bears repeating so you know the score. No drugs, no alcohol, no firearms, no knife with a blade longer than two inches, except knives in her residence or in her place of employment. No crossbow of any kind.” She paused to smile, directing the rest of her remarks to Reba as though for emphasis. “No consorting with known felons. Any change of residence has to be reported within seventy-two hours. No traveling more than fifty miles without authorization. You will not be out of Santa Teresa County for more than forty-eight hours and not out of California at all without my written consent. Cops pick you up and you don’t have the magic piece of paper, you’ll be back in the clink.”
“I’m cool with that,” Reba said.
“One thing I forgot to mention. If you’re seeking employment, a special condition of your parole prohibits a position of trust: no handling of payroll, taxes, no access to checks—”
“What if the employer knows about my record?”
Holloway paused. “Under those circumstances, maybe, but talk to me first.” She turned back to me. “Any questions?”
“Not me. I’m just along for the ride.”
“I’ve given Reba my number if she should need me. If I’m not available, leave a message on my machine. I check four and five times a day.”
“Right.”
“In the meantime, I have two concerns. The first is public safety. The second is her successful reentry. Let’s not screw up on either count, okay?”
“I’m with you,” I said.
Priscilla stood up and leaned across her desk to shake first Reba’s hand and then mine. “Good luck. Nice meeting you, Ms. Millhone.”
“Make it Kinsey,” I said.
“Let me know if there’s any way I can be of help.”
Once we were in the car again, I said, “I like Holloway. She seems nice.”
“Me, too. She’s says I’m the only female she handles. Every other parolee she has is a 288A or a 290.”
“Which is what?”
“Registered sex offenders. 288A signifies a child molester. A couple of ’em are considered sexually violent predators. Nice company. You’d never guess just from looking at those guys,” she said. She took out a folded pamphlet with “Department of Corrections” printed on the front. I could see her scanning the information as she turned the page. “At least I’m not classified as High Control. Those guys really have to jump through hoops. I see her once a week at first, but she says if I behave myself, she’ll move me to once a month. I’ll still have to attend AA meetings and I’ll be subjected to weekly drug tests, but that’s just peeing in a jar and it’s really not so bad.”
“What about employment? Will you be looking for a job?”
“Pop doesn’t want me to work. He thinks it stresses me out. Besides, it’s not a condition of parole and Holloway doesn’t care as long as I keep my nose clean.”
“Then let’s get you home.”
At 2:30 I dropped Reba off at her father’s estate, making sure she had both my home and office numbers. I suggested she take a couple of days to get settled, but she said she’d been cooped up, idle, and bored for the past two years and wanted to get out. I told her to call in the morning and we’d work out a time to pick her up.
“Thanks,” she said, and then opened the car door. The elderly housekeeper was already standing on the front porch, watching for her arrival. Near her sat a big long-haired orange cat. As Reba slammed the car door, the cat stepped down off the porch and strolled toward her at a dignified pace. Reba leaned down and swept the cat into her arms. She rocked him, her face buried in his fur, a display of devotion the cat seemed to accept as his due. Reba carried him to the porch. I waited until she’d hugged the housekeeper and disappeared inside, cat tucked under one arm, and then I put the car in gear and headed back to town.
I stopped by the office and put in the requisite time returning phone calls and opening the mail. At 5:00, having taken care of as much business as I intended to do, I closed up the office and retrieved my car for the short drive home. Once there, I opened my mailbox and pulled out the usual assortment of junk mail and bills. I pushed through the squeaky gate, engrossed in an ad from a Hong Kong tailor soliciting my business. I had another offer from a mortgage company suggesting ready cash with one simple call. Wasn’t I the lucky one?
Henry was in the backyard hosing down the patio with a steady stream of water as fat as a broom handle. With it, he forced leaves and grit across the flat stones and into the grass beyond. The late afternoon sun had broken through the overcast and we were finally experiencing a touch of summer. He wore a T-shirt and cutoffs, his long, elegant bare feet tucked into a pair of worn flip-flops. William, in his usual natty three-piece suit, stood just behind him, carefully avoiding any spatter from the hose. He was leaning on a black malacca walking stick with a carved ivory handle. The two were arguing but paused long enough to greet me civilly.
“William, what’d you do to your foot? I’ve never seen you with a cane.”
“The doctor thought it would help keep me steady.”
“It’s a prop,” Henry said.
William ignored him.
I said, “Sorry to interrupt. I must’ve caught you in the middle of a chat.”
William said, “Henry’s feeling indecisive about Mattie.”
“I’m not indecisive! I’m being sensible. I’m eighty-seven years old. How many good years do I have left?”
“Don’t be absurd,” William said. “Our side of the family has always lived to be at least a hundred and three. Did you hear what she said about hers? I thought she was reciting from the Merck Manual. Cancer, diabetes, and heart disease? Her mother died of meningitis. Of all things! Take my word for it, Mattie Halstead will go long before you.”
“Why worry about that? None of us are ‘going’ anytime soon,” Henry said.
“You’re being foolish. She’d be lucky to have you.”
“What in heaven’s name for?”
“She’ll need someone to see her through. No one wants to be ill and alone, especially toward the end.”
>
“There’s nothing wrong with her! She’s healthy as a horse. She’ll outlive me by a good twenty years, which is more than I can say for you.”
William turned to me. “Lewis wouldn’t be this stubborn—”
“What’s Lewis have to do with it?” Henry asked.
“He appreciates her. If you’ll remember, he was most attentive to her on the cruise.”
“That was months ago.”
“You tell him, Kinsey. Maybe you can get through to him.”
I could feel uneasiness stir. “I don’t know what to say, William. I’m the last person in the world who should give advice about love.”
“Nonsense. You were married twice.”
“But neither one worked out.”
“At least you weren’t afraid to commit. Henry’s being cowardly—”
“I am not!” Henry’s temper was climbing. I thought he was going to turn the hose on his brother, but he moved over to the faucet and wrenched the water off with a squawking sound. “The idea’s preposterous. For one thing, Mattie’s entrenched in San Francisco and my roots are down here. I’m a homebody at heart and look at the way she lives—always taking off on cruises, sailing around the world at the drop of a hat.”
“She only cruises the Caribbean so it doesn’t present a problem,” William said.
“She’s gone for weeks on end. There’s no way in the world she’s going to give that up.”
“Why should she give it up?” William said, exasperated. “Let her do anything she wants. You can live six months up there and the other six months down. We can all benefit from a change of scene—you more than most. And don’t give me that song and dance about ‘roots.’ She can keep her place and you can keep yours, and you can go back and forth.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay right here.”
“I’ll tell you your problem. You don’t want to do anything that involves risk,” William said.
“Neither do you.”
“Not so! No sir. You’re completely incorrect. By golly, I got married at the age of eighty-six and if you don’t think that’s taking a risk, then ask her,” he said, pointing to me.
“Really, it is,” I murmured dutifully, my hand in the air as though swearing an oath. “But guys? Excuse me…” They both turned to stare at me. “Don’t you think Mattie’s feelings count? Maybe she’s no more interested in him than he is in her?”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. I’m discussing the situation from her point of view.”
“She’s interested, you dolt!” William said. “Look at this. She’s coming back to town in a day. She said so herself. Didn’t you hear her say that?”
“Because it’s right in her path. She isn’t stopping off to see me.”
“Oh yes she is, or why wouldn’t she drive straight on through?”
“Because she has to buy gas and stretch her legs.”
“Which she could do without taking the time to see you.”
“William has a point. I’m with him,” I said.
Henry began to coil the hose, his hands picking up bits of grit and cut grass. “She’s a wonderful person and I value our friendship. Let’s just leave the subject. I’m tired of it.”
William turned to me. “That’s how this started. All I did was point out the obvious, that she’s a wonderful person and he’d better get a move on and snap her up.”
Henry said, “Nuts!” waving William off as he returned to the house. He opened the screen door and banged it shut.
William shook his head, leaning on his walking stick. “He’s been like this all his life. Unreasonable. Stubborn. Having temper tantrums at the slightest hint of disagreement.”
“I don’t know, William. If I were you, I’d back off and let them work it out for themselves.”
“I’m only trying to help.”
“Henry hates to be helped.”
“Because he’s mulish.”
“We’re all mulish when it comes right down to it.”
“Well, something has to be done. This may be his last chance at love. I can’t bear to see him make a hash of it.” There was a gentle pinging sound and William reached into his vest pocket and checked his watch. “Time for my snack.” He took out a small cellophane packet of cashews that he opened with his teeth. He popped two in his mouth, chewing them like pills. “You know I’m hypoglycemic. The doctor says I shouldn’t go more than two hours without eating. Otherwise I’m subject to faintness, weakness, clamminess, and palpitations. Also, tremulousness, which you’ve doubtless observed.”
“Really. I hadn’t noticed.”
“Precisely. The doctor’s encouraged me to instruct friends and family in recognizing the symptoms because it’s imperative to render immediate treatment. A glass of fruit juice, a few nuts. These can make all the difference. Of course, he wants me to undergo tests, but in the meantime, a diet high in protein, that’s the trick,” he said. “You know, with deficient glucose production, an attack can be triggered by alcohol, salicylates, or in rare cases, by ingesting the ackee nut, which produces what’s commonly known as the Jamaican vomiting sickness…”
I cupped a hand to my ear. “I think that’s my phone. I better run.”
“Certainly. I can tell you more over supper since you’re interested.”
“Great,” I said. I began to edge toward my door.
William pointed at me with his walking stick. “As for this business with Henry, isn’t it better to feel something intensely even if you’re wounded in the process?”
I pointed at him. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
6
I had a brief debate with myself about working in a three-mile jog. I’d had to skip my morning run in the interest of reaching CIW by nine. I usually run at 6:00 when I’m still half-asleep and my resistance is down. I’ve discovered that as the day wears on my sense of virtue and resolve both rapidly diminish. Most days, by the time I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is change into my running clothes and drag myself out. I’m not so fanatic about exercise that I don’t occasionally let myself off the hook; however, I’d noticed a growing inclination to seize any excuse to sit on my butt instead of working out. Before I thought too much about it, I went up the spiral stairs to change my clothes.
I kicked off my loafers, peeled out of my jeans, and pulled my T-shirt over my head, tugging on my sweats and my Sauconys. In circumstances like this, I make a little deal with myself. If I jog for ten minutes and really really hate it, I can turn around and come back. No shame, no blame. Usually by the time the first ten minutes have elapsed, I’m into the swing of it and enjoying myself. I tied my house key in the laces of one shoe, locked the door behind me, and set off at a brisk walk.
Now that the marine layer had burned off, the neighbors were out in their yards, mowing lawns, watering, and pruning deadheads from the rosebushes massed along the fences. I could smell ocean brine mingled with the scent of freshly clipped grass. My block of Albinil Street is narrow. Aside from vehicles parked on either side, there’s barely room for two cars to pass. Eucalyptus trees and stone pines provide shade for the assorted stucco and frame houses, most of them small, dating back to the early forties.
By the time I reached the jogging path, I was sufficiently warmed up to break into a trot. After that, I only had to cope with my protesting body parts, which gradually melded into the smooth rhythms of the run. I was home again forty minutes later, winded, sweating, but feeling virtuous. I let myself into the apartment, stripped off my sweats, and took a short hot shower. I was out and drying myself when the telephone rang. I took the call while turning the towel into a makeshift sarong.
“Kinsey? This is Reba. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Well, I’m standing here soaking wet, but I should be good for a minute until the chill sets in. What’s up?”
“Not much. Pop was feeling bad so he’s gone to bed. The housekeeper just left and the home-care nurse called to say
she’d be a little late. I was just wondering if you were free for dinner?”
“Sure. I could do that. What’d you have in mind?”
“Didn’t you mention a place in your neighborhood?”
“Rosie’s. That’s where I was headed. I wouldn’t call it fancy, but at least it’s close.”
“I just need to get out. I’d love to join you but only if it doesn’t interfere with your plans.”
“What plans? I don’t mind a bit. You have transportation?”
“Don’t worry about that. As soon as the nurse arrives, I’ll meet you down there. About seven?”
“That should work.”
“Good. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ll grab a good table and see you there,” I said, and then gave her the address.
After she hung up, I finished my routine, putting on fresh jeans, a clean black T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. I went downstairs and spent a few minutes tidying my already tidy kitchen. Then I flipped on the lights and sat in the living room with the local paper, catching up on the obituaries and other current events.
At 6:56, I walked the half block to Rosie’s through the lingering daylight. Two sets of neighbors were having cocktails outside, enjoying conversation from porch to porch. A cat crossed the street and eased its slim body through the palings in a picket fence. I could smell jasmine.
Rosie’s is one of six small businesses on my block, including a laundromat, an appliance-repair shop, and an automobile mechanic, who always has clunkers lined up along his drive. I’ve been having supper at Rosie’s three to four nights a week for the past seven years. The exterior is shabby, a building that might have served as the neighborhood market once upon a time. The windows are plate glass, but the light is obscured by sputtering neon beer signs, posters, announcements, and faded placards from the health department. As nearly as I can remember, Rosie’s has never been awarded a rating higher than a C.
Inside, the space is long and narrow, with a high, darkly painted ceiling that looks like it was made of pressed tin. Crudely constructed plywood booths form an L on the right. There’s a long mahogany bar on the left, with two swinging kitchen doors and a short corridor leading to the restrooms located at the rear. The remaining floor space is occupied by a number of Formica dinette tables. The accompanying chairs have chrome legs and upholstered marbleized gray plastic seats, variously split and subsequently mended with duct tape. The air always smells of spilled beer, popcorn, ancient cigarette smoke, and Pine-Sol.
