Listen to the Silence

by Marcia Muller

  Austin’s lips twisted. “Mr. Jimmy D. Bearpaw. He lives in Sage Rock, the nearest town to the lake. He’s a professional shit-disturber, meaning he goes around getting Indians—regardless of their tribe—all fired up about causes. Then he sits back and enjoys the trouble he creates. This… consortium has deep pockets, and Jimmy D’s burrowed into one of them. He’ll do anything they tell him to.”

  “Shit-disturbing—it’s a pattern of behavior with Bearpaw?”

  “Yeah, it is. Up in Oregon, over in Nevada. Six, seven ‘causes’ in the past ten years, and when it’s all over, the only person who’s benefited is Jimmy D. Gets his name and face in the papers, gets to feel important. And everybody else loses and gets stuck with enormous legal fees.” Austin grimaced. “People like him do the Indians more harm than good.”

  “And people like Saskia?”

  “More good than harm. But because she’s so well intentioned and dedicated, she can be naive about the likes of Jimmy D. I tried to tell her that last month, and she walked out on me.”

  “You saw her last month?”

  “Yes. I flew up here, invited her to dinner. She refused, but she agreed to a public meeting. Ordinarily she wouldn’t’ve spoken to one of the principals in a suit she was arguing, but I think she was curious as to what kind of man I’d become. I know I was curious about her, and came away very impressed, except for her one blind spot.”

  Wasn’t he full of surprises! “By blind spot, you mean Bearpaw?”

  He nodded. “We argued about him, and she blew up. Nobody as high-powered as Kia likes to have her judgment questioned, particularly by a former lover.”

  A former lover who had abandoned her when she was a pregnant teenager. I was surprised she’d agreed to see him at all. “Did she say anything about me?”

  “She asked if I’d ever tried to find you. She hadn’t made the effort either, but in the back of her mind she was hoping someday you’d contact her. I wish I’d known then what I know now.”

  Meaning what? Was he envisioning a happy reunion of our little family, all the hurts and abandonments of the past forgotten? If so, he was the naive one.

  “Well,” he added, “do you see any way to diffuse the police suspicion?”

  “Yes. Get the detectives over here and tell them what you just told me.”

  “Okay, I will. Then what?”

  “Go home to Monterey.”

  “What about you? Are you staying on here?”

  “Probably not. Robin’s boyfriend—he’s a dentist in Salt Lake—is due to arrive tonight. She’ll have the support she needs, and will let me know as soon as there’s any change in Saskia’s condition. I think I’ll fly back to San Francisco tomorrow and then head up to Modoc County.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m curious about the Spirit Lake property and about Jimmy D. Bearpaw. If he’s the kind of person you describe, he just may have disturbed some shit here in Boise last night.”

  Robin had said she planned to go to the hospital to sit with Saskia that evening, and suggested I meet her there. I was now officially a member of the family, vouched for by my half sister, and would finally be able to see, if not speak with, my birth mother. I felt both eager and apprehensive about doing so, a push-pull mechanism volleying my emotions from one extreme to the other, so I decided to delay for a while, on the grounds that there was something I should do first.

  In front of the hotel I took out the rental car company’s map and located the Eighth Street Marketplace, a short walk across the plaza. Milford’s Fish House occupied the northwest corner of the attractive renovated warehouse complex. I walked past its entrance and turned on Eighth as Saskia had, toward a distant line of trees that marked the river. This was an area of small businesses—linen supply, interior design, caterers, auto repair—all closed for the night; in spite of the nearby restaurants and shops, it was relatively deserted. Under a streetlight I stopped and again consulted the map. Assuming Saskia had not known any shortcuts, she probably would have taken a direct route along Eighth to River Street, and River to Tenth.

  Traffic whizzed by me on River, but once I turned in to the short block I felt very isolated. The street was little more than an alley, with a van line’s depot and a wholesale florist mart facing each other at its foot, and various other businesses interspersed with parking lots beyond them. I walked toward the far end, past deeply shadowed loading docks, broken glass crunching under my feet.

  The street dead-ended a block away at the freeway connector. There were a couple of dark houses surrounded by weedy yards and a few vacant lots littered with debris—an ideal place for a car to idle unobserved until its driver’s target appeared. I turned around, scanning my surroundings: chain-link fences barred entrance to the parking lots; one of the security spots above the door of a janitorial supply flickered on and off; the windows of an agricultural consulting firm were covered by bars.

  The evening was rapidly cooling, and a wind sprang up from the river, bringing with it the smell of stagnant water. The traffic noise on River Street was muted by the buildings, and the only sound in the alley was the hum of a generator. Last night Saskia had stood approximately where I stood now. What had she been thinking? Who had she expected? What had she thought when she heard the car’s engine rev, saw its headlights careening toward her? What had she done? How had she felt?

  I shrugged off the useless speculation, began walking back toward the river. Saskia had come here voluntarily, probably without questioning the choice of place. I took out my notebook, began copying down exact names of the businesses. The police would already have canvassed them, looking for some connection to Saskia, but perhaps Robin would know something they’d failed to turn up.

  Robin was alone at Saskia’s bedside: a wilted, weary figure slumped in a plastic chair. I hesitated in the doorway, and when she felt my presence she motioned me forward. I hung back, my emotional volleyball game at a heated pace. Once I went over to the white-sheeted form hooked up to the IV and monitor, my life would take yet another turn.

  Finally Robin got up and came to me. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I shrugged, the urge to flee strong upon me. I could feel familial obligations and demands reaching for me like greedy tentacles. The air in the room seemed thick; I could hardly breathe. Bad enough to have one wildly dysfunctional family, but now I had two—three, if you counted Austin and his father. How was I to meet the expectations of so many people?

  As if to reinforce my confusion, Robin said, “I told Darce who you are this afternoon. He’s half crazed by jealousy, but he’ll get over it.”

  “Why would he be jealous of me?”

  “No rational reason. Darce doesn’t even want to share Mom with me.”

  “He’s got a lot of problems, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but they’re self-created.”

  “You said he was the all-American kid through high school and college. What changed that, besides the influence of his crowd?”

  “Dad’s death.”

  “They were close?”

  “The opposite. They always fought, and they had a really bad argument the day Dad had his heart attack. Darce felt guilty, so he got into drugs and now—well, you’ve seen him.”

  “Is he in therapy?”

  “When he goes, which isn’t often. Anyway, enough about him. The doctor had good news for us: Mom’s started to drift in and out of the coma. Earlier she was restless, tossed around and muttered stuff that nobody could understand. She’s been quiet since I got here, but the doctor says the activity’s a very good sign.”

  Some of my edginess dissipated. “Robin, that’s great!”

  “Yeah, it is.” She nodded at the bed, obviously expecting me to go over there.

  I couldn’t do it—not in front of Robin. On the one hand, I felt like an interloper; on the other, I resented having to share such a private moment. Yet how could I ask her to leave—

  “Look, Sharon,” she said, “I need to call my boyf
riend—he’s probably at the house by now. Will you stay with Mom for a while?”

  “Of course,” I said. Thank you, I thought. My new sister had understanding and tact beyond her years.

  After she left I remained where I was, watching the regular peaks and troughs pulse across Saskia’s monitor. The room was cool and quiet; I took deep breaths, and when their calming influence spread through my body, I closed the distance between the door and bed and looked down at her.

  A jolt of recognition shot through me, as if someone had flipped a switch and illuminated my life all the way back to my conception. There was no mistaking this was my mother.

  Saskia and I resembled each other as strongly as people had said. We had the same oval facial shape, the same high cheekbones, the same tilt of nose. Her eyebrows were like mine, one set a fraction of an inch higher than the other. Her mouth was like mine, and the lines that bracketed it told me this was a woman who laughed hard and often. Looking at her, I had a glimpse of how I’d look in my late fifties, and was not displeased.

  Tentatively I reached out and touched Saskia’s hand where it lay against the sheet. It was dry and cool, the nails clipped short and unpolished. Again I felt the jolt of recognition, heard myself say her name.

  She gave no response.

  Tears stung my eyes as I watched her still face. So many years lost, and now—

  Suddenly Saskia’s lips twitched. Her fingers spasmed on mine, and she moved her head from side to side. Alarmed, I looked for the call button, but before I found it her eyes—brown like mine—were wide open and focused on me.

  I blinked and tried to disentangle my fingers from hers. She held on tight, staring fiercely at me. I couldn’t tell if she actually saw me or not. Her tongue moved over her dry lips and she said something in a whisper.

  I leaned closer. She whispered again.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.”

  Her eyebrows knitted together, and she seemed to be forcing herself to concentrate. “Find…” she said.

  “Find?”

  “… Cone…”

  Cone? McCone? Was she referring to me? “Saskia, I’m—”

  “Cone,” she said. “Sinner…”

  Yes, she had to be flashing back to the time she’d become pregnant out of wedlock and later given me up. “It wasn’t a sin—”

  She tossed her head, extremely agitated now, squeezing her eyes shut. “Find,” she muttered.

  Then she lapsed into unconsciousness, leaving me holding the frayed ends of a connection that extended back before my birth.

  “That’s all you know about this consortium of environmentalists?” Hy asked.

  I pulled the covers higher around my shoulders so they covered the hand that held the receiver. It was cold in Boise tonight, but Robin—as frugal as I—had turned down the heat before we went to bed.

  “That’s all Austin could tell me,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll make some calls, see if any of my contacts know of them. Now, what’s this about going to Modoc County?”

  “I need to check something out. Have you ever been there?”

  “Once, a long time ago. Somebody or other was trying to crap up the forestland, and I was there to protest.”

  “You get arrested?” For years following the untimely death of his wife, environmentalist Julie Spaulding, Hy had managed to get himself incarcerated for unruly behavior during protests in any number of jails across the Western states—his way of dealing with his grief.

  “Nope, not in Modoc. Folks up there are pretty mellow. They just laughed at us, called us yarn people.”

  “Yarn people?”

  “You know—sandals, natural foods, back-to-the-land. Politically correct, with no sense of humor.”

  “None of which applies to you. D’you ever miss it?”

  “Getting busted? No.”

  “I mean the environmental work.”

  “Well, I still do some fund-raising for Julie’s foundation, but as for chaining myself to a tree on a rainy morning before I’ve even had a cup of coffee? Forget it, McCone. I’m too old for those kind of antics. So when d’you want to go to Modoc?”

  “Tomorrow, if you don’t need Two-seven-Tango.”

  “I don’t, but it’s probably not a good idea to fly.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lots of airport closures up there lately, and it’s not easy to get hold of rental cars. You want to keep a low profile, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you land at one of those small fields in a flashy number like Two-seven-Tango, you’ll really be calling attention to yourself. Here’s a solution to the problem: I’ll pick you up at SFO tomorrow and we’ll fly to the ranch, borrow Pete Silvado’s truck, and drive it to Modoc. That rattletrap’s perfect protective coloration.”

  Pete Silvado was one of the Paiutes who worked Hy’s small sheep ranch; his truck was a rusted-out green Ford of uncertain vintage. “You think he’d loan it to me?”

  “To me, in exchange for the use of my Land Rover.”

  “You want to come along?”

  “Why not? I wrapped up that risk analysis for the prospective client this afternoon; now it’s up to Dan Kessell to get him to sign on the dotted line.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning at SFO.”

  LISTENING…

  “Does this consortium have a name?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What do you know about them?”

  “… From what my attorney’s investigators have been able to find out, they’re a group of wealthy philanthropists who want their good deeds to go unpublicized.”

  “And?”

  “… That’s it.”

  “This… consortium has deep pockets, and Jimmy D’s burrowed into one of them.”

  I’m getting to the point where I can read you, Austin. Those hesitations before you speak of the consortium tell me you know or suspect more about them than you’re telling. But what? And why won’t you confide in me? Instead, you sidetracked me onto Jimmy D. Bearpaw, who’s probably a minor player in the scenario.

  Didn’t work, but all the same I’ll take a look at Mr. Bearpaw. Could be that the answers to some of my questions lie in Modoc County.

  “Find…”

  “Find?”

  “… Cone…”

  “Saskia, I’m—”

  “Cone. Sinner…”

  Plenty of silence around those cryptic words. She’s referring to me, of course. Knows she’s in bad shape and wants to see the child she gave up in case she dies. Only natural for her to have been thinking of me recently. After all, she met with Austin last month for the first time in nearly forty years.

  But what’s this about a sinner?

  Saskia was raised Catholic, Robin told me that. But like me, she rebelled against the Church, left it. Of course, that doesn’t mean some vestiges of its teachings aren’t lodged in the back of her mind. Lord knows there are plenty in mine.

  The Church says it’s a sin to bear a child out of wedlock. And that child is said to be born in sin. Maybe she feels she compounded the sin by giving me up. Or…

  Dammit, neither Saskia’s nor Austin’s silences are telling me much. I don’t really know either of them, so how can I begin to understand?

  Saturday

  SEPTEMBER 16

  8:23 A.M.

  I stepped out of our tourist-court cabin near Sage Rock, blinking at the sun glare. In front of me laid a wheat-colored meadow dotted with junipers that fell away to cottonwoods and aspens bordering a stream. The aspens’ golden leaves flickered like candle flame in the light breeze, and the distant mountain peaks were jagged against a clear blue sky.

  We’d arrived so late the previous evening that I’d had no sense of our surroundings. A green neon sign—WILDERNESS LODGE, CABINS FROM $26, VACANCY—had lured us to this first motel. The cabin had its pluses and minuses, namely knotty pine and braided rugs and comfortable chairs on the upside, tepid water and a br
oken TV and a hard bed on the down. But now I’d awakened and found myself in paradise.

  Hy came outside, dressed in jeans and a wool shirt and a scowl. His hair stuck up in wet points. “Electricity’s off,” he said. “I’ll go over to the office, see what’s happening.”

  “Look at this.” I motioned at the view.

  He glanced at it briefly. “I’ll appreciate the scenery more after I can dry my hair and start that coffeemaker.”

  Grouch, I thought, and went back to contemplating nature.

  Hy quickly returned, shaking his head. “They won’t come to the door. Office is locked up tight, but I could hear somebody moving around inside. Guess there’s nothing they can do about the outage, and they don’t want to deal with irate guests.”

  I shrugged and went to take my shower without getting my hair wet.

  “Where to?” Hy asked as we got into Pete Silvado’s battered pickup.

  I eased over a protruding spring that I’d become uncomfortably intimate with on the drive up and settled onto the seat. “Town. Specifically, the Cattleman’s Cafe for breakfast.”

  “Why there?”

  “Because the background check that Mick ran for me on Jimmy D. Bearpaw shows he owns it. If he’s there, maybe we can strike up an acquaintance.”

  “What’s our cover story?”

  “I’ll know after I see Jimmy D.”

  Sage Rock consisted of one main street lined with businesses and a dozen or so unpaved side roads where trailers and prefab houses sat on small lots. I glanced down them as we drove by, saw trash dumps and defunct cars and trucks, rusted appliances and cast-off furniture. A couple of vans set up on blocks had a canvas canopy strung between them; a kettle barbecue and some folding chairs told me people lived there. The Cattleman’s Cafe was at the far end of the business section, flanked by a grocery and a barbershop. The buildings, wooden frame with iron roofs, were badly in need of paint. Before we went inside I stopped at a newspaper dispenser and bought a copy of last Thursday’s Modoc County Record.

  The café was small—six tables along the window wall and a counter with stools facing the cooking area. Sloppily hand-lettered signs were tacked helter-skelter on the walls: