Games to Keep the Dark Away

by Marcia Muller

  I had liked the town I remembered from my childhood, with its roller coaster and pinball parlors, hot dog stands and beer halls. I would have loved the rough-and-tumble fishing port of yesteryear, but I was quite certain I would not like the shiny new Port San Marco at all. Still, I resolved to get a motel on the waterfront and perhaps recapture some of the holiday feeling of that youthful summer. After all, Snelling was paying my expenses, and he could afford it.

  The freeway skirted San Jose and connected with Route 1010. To either side where apartment complexes and housing developments, new and insubstantial. These suburbs always reminded me of the sprawl of Los Angeles, and I was glad when I came to the open country side, with its rolling, oak-dotted hills.

  I slipped into a relaxed driving mood and let my mind wander back to my conversation with Liz Schaff. Much as her concern for her friend seemed genuine, I couldn’t quite believe her exaggerated fears. The thought of Abe Snelling killing anyone was ridiculous. But, then, Liz had said she didn’t know the photographer.

  But maybe she did. What kind of friend doesn’t have you to her house at least once in six months? Maybe there had been a meeting between Liz and Abe. Maybe there had been some sort of disagreement that led her to dislike and suspect him. Otherwise, why wouldn’t she just come right out and ask about Jane on the phone? Or march up to the front door and demand to know her friend’s whereabouts?

  I’d have to ask Snelling about Liz Schaff.

  The drive south was going quickly. Salinas was already behind me, and I was high on the ridge heading for Paso Robles and the Port San Marco cutoff. I debated another Hershey bar, but decided I’d be there in time to check into a motel and have a snack before everything closed down for the night.

  All right, I thought, Jane and Liz were friends in Salmon Bay. The little village sounded closed off, perhaps hostile. At the very least I’d encounter coldness there. And, if Jane’s relations with her mother were really as bad as Liz claimed, I might have difficulty getting information from her. Label Salmon Bay a possible trouble spot.

  And what about this hospice called The Tidepools? What had Liz said? Something about some unpleasantness. And then she’d refused to elaborate. Had she been fired? No, she’d said she’d had an offer from S.F. General. Maybe Jane had been fired. Maybe that was the reason she’d had such trouble finding work in San Francisco. I’d check with the personnel office at The Tidepools…

  Caught up in my plans, I almost missed the Port San Marco turnoff. The road climbed into the dark hills, then descended in a sweeping curve. Ahead of me, I spotted the black expanse of the sea. Port San Marco formed a crescent of light along the shore. I followed the main road through town to the boulevard that ran along the beachfront.

  The Mission Inn across from the wharf appealed to me. It was Spanish-style stucco, two stories, with an interior courtyard full of palm trees and bougainvillea. A turquoise swimming pool gleamed coldly in the darkness. I registered and was given an upstairs corner room with a view of the harbor. After nodding approvingly at the king-size bed and automatic coffee maker, I called All Souls and left my number, then set out for the wharf in search of food.

  Here, at least, the town hadn’t changed The wharf was still lined with charter fishing boats, souvenir shops, and restaurants. I chose the one at the very end, an unpretentious place with booths and a shell-and-fishnet motif. When the waitress brought my crab sandwich, I asked her how far it was to Salmon Bay.

  “About ten miles up the shoreline highway. I don’t know why you’d want to go there, though.”

  “Why not? What’s it like?”

  “Like nothing. A bunch of tumbledown houses. A few beer-and-bait shacks.”

  “People up there still fish for a living?”

  “If you can call it a living.”

  “What about a place called The Tidepools? Do you know anything about that?”

  She rested one hip against the table of the opposite booth, obviously welcoming a long conversation. She was in her fifties and, even in the subdued light of the restaurant, looked tired. “Yeah. It’s a pretty fancy place, like a nursing home, only they don’t let you in there unless you’re dying.”

  “Is it expensive?”

  “I guess it would be. There was an article in the paper about it once. Says they have a new way of dealing with death there.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Seems to me there’s only one way to deal with it—and that’s to go through it.”

  “I guess.”

  She shifted from one foot to the other, a thoughtful look on her face. “You know, I get the feeling they’re playing games up there.”

  “Games?”

  “You know, trying to pretend they’re really not going to die. Playing games to keep the dark away.”

  The phrase sent a shiver up my spine. “Aren’t we all?”

  “Yeah, aren’t we?” She straightened, glancing over at the cash register where a dark-haired man was counting change. “I better get back to work. You want something to drink with that? Some wine?”

  “Sure. White.”

  I ate my crab sandwich and drank my wine, and afterward I had a second glass, staring out at the water and the people who passed on the wharf. It was not the height of the season, but the tourists were in good supply. They strolled hand-in-hand or walked together, yet apart. I imagined that for some couples the vacation had brought them closer; for others, it had only reminded them of their loneliness.

  I thought about Greg and me and wondered how it would have been for us. We’d never had the chance to find out, and now we never would. Sometimes I wondered if I’d ever again be one of the ones holding hands and, for a time, banishing loneliness—playing games to keep my own dark away.

  Chapter 4

  By morning, my private demons had returned to whichever corner of my mind they usually resided in—for a long stay, I hoped. I got up, turned the coffee maker on, took a shower, and then called Jane Anthony’s mother. She was reluctant to talk to any friend of Jane’s at first, but finally agreed to meet me at eleven, after she did her marketing. I had eggs and bacon in the motel coffee shop and then set out for Salmon Bay.

  It was a warm day with only the slightest hint of fall in the air, and what fog there was promised to burn off quickly. I followed the Shoreline Highway north, past an expansive housing development with a golf course, into farmland. Pumpkin fields, colorful with their ripe fruit, stretched west toward the sea; to the east, were the sun-browned hills. After eight or nine miles, the land curved, forming a little bay where boats rode at anchor. Half a mile further a left-turn lane with a flashing ember light and a weathered sign indicated the road to Salmon Bay.

  It was actually more of a lane, rough and not recently paved. I put the car in low gear and bumped across a field covered with scrub vegetation. The pavement meandered for a while and then paralleled the shore. The first thing I came to was a boatyard surrounded by a chain link fence. Full of no-nonsense fishing craft upon hoists for repairs, it seemed deserted save for one man who was scraping paint from the bow of an old green boat. I continued on, past Johnson’s Marine Supply, Rose’s Crab Shack, and a general store. Soon unpaved lanes lined with ramshackle houses began appearing to my right. None of them had street signs.

  I hadn’t asked Mrs. Anthony for directions to her house. Who would have thought it necessary in a village the size of Salmon Bay? I kept going, passing the Shorebird Bar and a place advertising bait, and finally ended up at a dilapidated pier that looked like nobody had set foot on it in years. Two brown-and-white mongrels trotted along the side of the road, but otherwise. I saw no one. All the businesses except for the general store were closed.

  I turned the MG in front of the pier and went all the way back to the boatyard. No, there wasn’t a single street sign in town. After parking near the gap in the chain link fence, I got out of the car and went into the yard. The shack that served as an office was also closed, and the only sounds were the cries of seagulls and the steady scrapin
g of the man’s putty knife on the boat. I started toward him, glancing at the craft at anchor.

  These were not the luxurious pleasure boats of the Port San Marco marinas, but clumsy utilitarian vessels that had seen better days. A wharf with fuel pumps ran along the edge of the water, but there was no one to man them and no customers either. Had it not been for the man working on the boat, I would have felt I’d stepped into a long-abandoned stage set for a seafaring drama. My feet crunched on the gravel as I approached him, but the man did not look around.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  He glared at me, nodded curtly, and went on with his scraping. He had black hair, a full beard, and although he couldn’t have been much more than forty, a face as tanned and leathery as an old man’s.

  “I’m looking for Hydrangea Lane. Can you—”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A Mrs. Anthony. Sylvia Anthony.”

  The putty knife faltered in its regular motion. “She knows you’re coming?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  He stopped his work and wiped the putty knife on his faded jeans. “You sure?”

  I’d expected coldness, but not the third degree. “Of course I’m sure. Look—”

  “Just asking” His tone was mild, but his dark eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

  “Well, can you tell me how to get there? I didn’t see any street signs.”

  “Of course not.” His lips turned up in a mirthless smile. “There aren’t any.”

  “How does anyone find anybody else?”

  “Don’t need street signs to do that.”

  “Maybe not if you live here, but what about outsiders?”

  The smile dropped off his face. “We don’t welcome outsiders here.” There was ill-concealed menace in the words and his hand seemed to tighten on the putty knife.

  I stood my ground. “I guess you don’t. But Mrs. Anthony is expecting me, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  The man regarded me for a moment, then turned back to the boat and began scraping again. “You go along to the last lane on the right. Take it to the end, then turn left. It’s a white house with a driftwood fence and blue hydrangeas, lots of them. That’s where you’ll find her.”

  I thanked him and got out of there, vaguely oppressed by his senseless hostility. Were all the residents of the village like that? I wondered. Or had I stumbled across the one hardened case?

  The boatyard man had meant it about lots of hydrangeas. They filled Mrs. Anthony’s tiny front yard, their blue blossoms escaping through the misshapen crossbars of the driftwood fence and cascading onto the front porch. The house was freshly painted, in contrast to its neighbors, which were shabby and, in a couple of cases, surrounded by junk-filled yards. I went through the gate and along a shell-bordered walk, and knocked at the door. The shades on the windows were pulled to the sills and for a moment I wondered if Jane’s mother had returned from her marketing trip.

  In a few seconds, however, the door opened and a tall, gaunt woman looked out at me. She was the woman in Snelling’s photo grown older, with gray hair instead of black and wrinkles where Jane’s flesh was smooth. Deep lines bracketed her mouth from her prominent nose to her chin. Briefly I wondered if Jane would look like this in twenty or thirty years, or if getting out of Salmon Bay had put her beyond the reach of the bitterness that had so aged her mother.

  I introduced myself and Mrs. Anthony ushered me into a dark parlor. It was crammed with what looked like good antiques—a roll-top desk among them—and every surface was covered with china knickknacks. My first impression was of clutter, but as my eyes became accustomed to the dimness, I saw that each object was carefully placed and dust free. Jane was her mother’s girl in more than looks.

  Mrs. Anthony indicated I should sit on the couch and lowered herself slowly into a platform rocker, the way a person afflicted with arthritis will do. She snapped on a floorlamp next to her and I looked for signs of the poor health Snelling had mentioned. There weren’t any, but many illnesses are hard to spot; broaching the subject of Jane’s disappearance would still require care and tact.

  Before I could speak, Mrs. Anthony said, “You mentioned on the telephone that you’re a friend of my daughter’s. What brings you to Salmon Bay?”

  “I’m trying to locate Jane.”

  “Why?”

  ’’I need to talk to her.”

  “About what?”

  I decided to ignore the question. “Do you know where Jane is, Mrs. Anthony?”

  An odd look passed over her face. It could have been anger or perhaps fear. Whatever, it was gone before I could put a label on it. “No.”

  “Have you seen her recently?”

  She was silent a moment. “What if I have?”

  “Mrs. Anthony, I really need to locate d Jane. It would help me tremendously if—”

  ‘Why should I help you?”

  “You would also be helping your daughter. It’s very important I talk to her.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

  She hesitated. I sensed she was unsure which would be in her daughter’s best interest—protecting her privacy or putting me in touch with her. “It’s very important, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right; she was here last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “Yes, came to pay her old mother a visit.” She spoke the words with a biting sarcasm.

  “How long did she stay?”

  “An hour, maybe less. That’s about the usual length of one of her visits.”

  “Did you tell her friend Abe Snelling had been trying to get in touch with her?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “And what do you know of Abe Snelling?”

  “We’re both her friends—”

  “Seems Jane has a lot of friends all of a sudden. Funny, for a girl who never did.” She got up and went to raise one of the window shades, as if to throw light on the subject of her friendless daughter. Turning, she said, “Look, Miss McCone, I told Jane that Abe Snelling had called. She said she’d get back to him when she could. And then she left.”

  “And she didn’t say where she was going?”

  Again the odd expression crossed her face. This time I put a name to it: disgust. “No. My daughter does not confide in me.”

  I thought she was going to ask me to leave, but instead she returned to the rocker and settled in. It occurred to me that she was lonely and glad she had someone to talk to. I glanced around the room, trying to find a way to keep the conversation going, and spotted a framed photograph. It was of the old pier I’d seen before, moody and mysterious in the fog. I got up and went to look closer.

  “That’s a nice picture,” I said.

  “Jane took it.”

  “I didn’t know she was a photographer.” But as I spoke I realized Snelling had said they had a mutual interest in art.

  “She isn’t anymore. She doesn’t do anything but live off—” Abruptly she cut off her own words.

  “You mean live off Abe Snelling? He’s only helping her out until she finds a social work job.”

  Mrs. Anthony sighed. “Him too?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. A social work job, eh? I warned her about choosing work like that. You depend too much on the government, and the government isn’t to be trusted. Now she’s out of a livelihood, just like her father was when the fishing went bust.

  “Jane’s father was a fisherman?”

  “All his life. Didn’t know anything else. When the fishing went bust, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He’s dead now; been dead nearly thirty years.” Her voice had taken on a bitter singsong quality, as if this were a speech she’d repeated many times in those thirty years. “I raised my girl all by myself, working as a maid for the so-called fine folks in Port San Marco. I saw she had everything, just like the other kids. And she repaid me. How she repaid me!” She l
aughed hollowly.

  I stood very still, not wanting to break the train of her memories. “How?” I said softly.

  “I had the money saved. I was going to send her to art school in Port San Marco so she could maybe make something of her photography. She could have lived at home, helped out with a part-time job. But, no, not for her. She had to go away to college, up to San Jose. And she had to get fancy ideas about what she called social responsibility, working with those less fortunate than her. Those were her exact words—‘those less fortunate than I am.’ If she wanted to help someone less fortunate, she only had to look to her own mother.”

  She fell silent and I moved back to the sofa. “When did Jane come back from San Jose?”

  “After about a year of working with bums and drug addicts. I thought she was cured of that ‘social responsibility’ nonsense. But, no, she had to go and get a job at The Tidepools, working with more ‘unfortunates.’ Unfortunates, my hat!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You have to be rich to get in there. Rich and dying. But do they pay their help well? No, they don’t. Jane had to moonlight, working at a drug abuse clinic in her off time. And she wasn’t the only one. Her friend Liz did too—at the Safeco Pharmacy. And what did Jane spend that extra money on? Did she come home and help out? No, she moved to a fancy apartment in Port San Marco and took up with that Don. Oh, Don was all right; I know that now. She’s done far worse in her time…” Her voice ran down and she stared into space, probably cataloging all the men who had been worse than Don.