Silent Partner

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “I saw their bankbook. Sitting on top of the dresser.”

  “On the dresser? What am I going to do with those two? I've told them so many times to keep that book hidden, tried to get them to let me keep it at my place. But they think it's some kind of symbol of freedom, won't part with it. They can get really stubborn when they want to. Jasper, especially. Did you see those wax-paper windows on their shacks? After all these years, he still refuses to have glass installed. Poor Shirlee freezes in the winter. Gabe and I have to bring down piles of blankets, and by the end of the season they're mildewed beyond repair. The cold doesn't seem to bother Jasper. Poor thing needs to be told to come in from the rain.”

  She shook her head. “On top of the dresser. Not that anyone from around here would hurt them, but that's a lot of money to advertise. Especially for two defenseless innocents.”

  “Who sends it?” I asked.

  “I've never been able to find out. It arrives, like clock-work, on the first of every month, posted from the central depot in Los Angeles. Plain white envelope, a typed address, no return. Shirlee has no clear concept of time, so she can't say how long she's been receiving it, only that it's been a long time. There was a man—Ernest Halverson—used to deliver the mail until he retired in '64. He thought he remembered envelopes arriving as early as 1956 or '7, but he'd had a couple of strokes by the time I talked to him and his memory wasn't perfect. All the other old-timers are long gone.”

  “Was it always five hundred?”

  “No. Used to be three, then four. It went up to five after Sharon left for college.”

  “Thoughtful benefactor,” I said. “But how could they be expected to handle that kind of money?”

  “They couldn't. They were living like animals until we began taking care of them. Wandering into town every couple of weeks with two or three twenty-dollar bills, trying to buy groceries—they had no idea how to make change or how much things were worth. People are honest here; they never took advantage.”

  “Wasn't there curiosity about where they were getting the money?”

  “I'm sure there was, but Willow Glen folk don't pry. And no one realized how much money they were hoarding. Not until Sharon discovered it—thousands of dollars wadded up under the mattress, or just loose in a drawer. Jasper had used several of the bills for art projects—drawing mustaches on the faces, folding them into paper airplanes.”

  “How old was Sharon when she made the discovery?”

  “Almost seven. It was 1960. I remember the year because we had unusually hard winter rains. Those shacks were originally built for storage, with only a thin cement pad underneath, and I knew they'd be hit hard, so we went over—Mr. Leidecker and myself. Sure enough, it was dreadful. Their plot was half-flooded, boggy, the dirt running off like melted chocolate. Water had perforated the wax paper and was pouring in. Shirlee and Jasper were standing knee-deep in mud, scared and totally helpless. I didn't see Sharon, went looking for her, and found her in her shack, standing on top of her bed wrapped in a blanket, shivering and shouting something about green soup. I had no idea what she was talking about. I took her in my arms to warm her, but she kept shouting about soup.

  “When we got outside, Mr. Leidecker was pointing, all wide-eyed, at bits of green paper stuck in the mud and washing away in the flood. Money, lots of it. At first I thought it was play money—I'd given Sharon some board games—but it wasn't. It was real. Between Mr. Leidecker and myself, we managed to salvage most of it—we hung the wet bills over our hearth to dry them, put them in a cigar box and kept them safe. First thing after the rains stopped, I drove Shirlee and Jasper down to Yucaipa and set up the bank account. I sign for everything, take a little out for expenses, make sure they save the rest. I've managed to teach them a little elementary math, how to budget, how to make change. Once they finally learn something, they can usually retain it. But they'll never really understand what they've got—quite a tidy little nest egg. Along with Medi-Cal and Social Security, the two of them should be comfortable for the rest of their days.”

  “How old are they?”

  “I have no idea, because they don't. They have no papers, didn't even know their birthdays. The government had never heard of them, either. When we applied for Social Security and Medi-Cal, we estimated their ages, gave them birthdates.”

  Miss New Year's and Mr. Christmas.

  “You applied when Sharon left for college.”

  “Yes. I wanted to cover all bases.”

  “How did you come up with Sharon's birthdate?”

  “She and I decided on one, when she was ten.” She smiled. “July Fourth. Her declaration of independence. I put 1953. I got a really good fix on her age from the doctor I took her to—bone-age X-rays, teeth, height and weight. She was somewhere between four and five.”

  She and I had celebrated a different birthday. May 15. May 15, 1975. A rare splurge for dinner and dancing and lovemaking. Another fiction. I wondered what that date symbolized.

  “Any possibility,” I asked, “that she was their biological child?”

  “Unlikely. The doctor examined all of them and said Shirlee was almost certainly sterile. So where did she come from, right? For a while I lived with the nightmare that she was someone's kidnapped baby. I went down to San Bernardino and checked six years' worth of papers from all around the country, found a couple of cases that sounded possible, but when I followed them up, I learned that both of those children had been murdered. So her origins remain clouded. When you ask Shirlee about it, she just giggles and says Sharon was given to them.”

  “She told me it was a secret.”

  “That's just a game with her—playing secret. They're really just like children.”

  “What's the prevailing theory about how they got her?”

  “There really isn't one. Mind you, the doctor wasn't absolutely certain Shirlee couldn't conceive—‘highly unlikely' was the way he put it. So I suppose anything's possible. Though the notion of two poor souls like that producing something so exquisite is . . .” She trailed off. “No, Alex, I have no idea.”

  “Sharon must have been curious about her roots.”

  “You'd expect her to be, wouldn't you? But she never really went through any identity search. Not even during adolescence. She knew she was different from Shirlee and Jasper but she loved them, accepted things the way they were. The only conflict I ever saw was the summer before she left for college. That was really hard for her—she was excited and frightened and tremendously guilty about abandoning them. She knew she was taking a giant step, and things would never be the same.”

  She stopped, bent, picked up an oak leaf and twirled it between her fingers. The sky between the trees was darkening. Unintimidated by city lights, the stars were burning pinholes through the blackness.

  “When's the last time Sharon visited here?” I asked.

  “A long time ago,” she said, making it sound like a confession. “Once she broke away, she found it very painful to return. That may sound callous, but her situation was unique.”

  We walked on. The schoolroom windows shone through the dark: butter-colored rectangles. We hadn't gone far, had been walking in circles.

  “Her last visit,” she said, “was in 1974. She'd just graduated from college, had been accepted to graduate school, and was moving down to L.A. I threw a little party for her at my house. Mr. Leidecker and the boys wore starched white shirts and matching ties, and I bought new outfits for Shirlee and Jasper. Sharon arrived looking lovely, a real picture. She brought gifts for all of us, a handmade wooden checkers set for Shirlee and a tin of fancy colored pencils from England for Jasper. She also gave them a graduation picture—full cap and gown with an honors tassel.”

  “I didn't see that back at the shack.”

  “No, somehow they managed to lose it. Just like the money. They never knew what they had, still don't. You can understand why Sharon would have no place here. It's a miracle she survived before I found her.”

&nbs
p; “Shirlee did show me a letter. How often did she write?”

  “Not regularly—what was the point? They're only marginally literate. But she called me regularly, to see how they were doing. She really cared about them.”

  She threw away the leaf. “It was so hard for her—please understand that. She really struggled with breaking away; the guilt was nearly overwhelming. I told her she was doing the right thing. What was the alternative? Being stuck forever as a caretaker?” She stopped. “Oh. I'm so sorry. That was thoughtless.”

  For a moment I was puzzled by her embarrassment.

  “Joan,” I said.

  “I think your devotion is wonderful.”

  I shrugged. Dr. Noble. “I'm comfortable with my choice.”

  “Yes. Sharon said you were. And that's my point. She had to make her own choices. She couldn't be bound by some strange twist of fate.”

  “When did she tell you about Joan?”

  “About six months after the graduation party—her first year of grad school. She called to ask about Shirlee and Jasper, but she sounded troubled. I could tell something else was on her mind. I asked if she wanted to get together and to my surprise she said yes. We met for lunch in Redlands. She looked like a real professional woman, perfectly groomed, mature. But sad—a blue angel. I asked her why. She said she'd met the man of her dreams, spent a lot of time describing your virtues. I said, sounds like he's perfect—why the long face? Then she told me about Joan, how it would never work out because of her.”

  “Did she tell you what caused Joan's problems?”

  “The drowning? Oh, yes. How terrible, and you a little boy, watching.”

  She touched my arm in a gesture of comfort. “She understood, Alex. She wasn't bitter or angry.”

  “Is that all that was troubling her?”

  “That's all she talked about.”

  “When did you see her next?”

  She bit her lip. “Never. That was the last time. She did continue to call. But less and less frequently. Half a year later, the calls stopped. But we got cards on Christmas, Fruit-of-the-Month packages.” She managed a weak smile. “Everything but the apples.”

  Several yards later she said, “I understood. Though I'd helped her shed her old life, I was still part of it. She needed to make a complete break. Years later, when she got her Ph.D., she sent me an invitation to her commencement. She'd made it to the top, finally felt secure enough to reconnect.”

  “Did you go?”

  “No. It arrived late—the day after the ceremony. Mail mix-up, happens all the time on a rural route.”

  No mail mix-up had prevented the monthly cash payments to the Ransoms. I said nothing.

  “All those years,” she said, “I felt I understood her. Now I realize I was deluding myself. I barely knew her.”

  We walked toward yellow windows. I said, “How did you and Sharon actually meet?”

  “My old do-gooder busybody personality asserting itself. It was shortly after my marriage, right after Mr. Leidecker brought me back here, in 1957.”

  She shook her head, said, “Thirty years,” then nothing else.

  I said, “Moving from the big city to Willow Glen must have been pretty jarring for you.”

  “Oh, it was. After college I got a position teaching at a private school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan—children of the rich. Nights, I volunteered at the USO—that's where I met Mr. Leidecker. He was in the army, taking courses at City College courtesy of Uncle Sam. He came into the hall one night, looking absolutely forlorn. We struck up a conversation. He was very handsome, very sweet. So different from the fast, shallow men I'd been encountering in the city. When he talked about Willow Glen, he made it sound like paradise. He loved the land—his roots here run deep. His family came out from Pennsylvania for the Gold Rush. Got as far as Willow Glen and settled for Golden Delicious—he always used to say that. Two months later, I was married, a schoolmarm in a one-room school.”

  We reached the stone building. She looked up at the sky. “My husband was a taciturn man, but he knew how to tell a tale. He played the guitar beautifully and sang like a dream. We made a good life together.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” I said.

  “Oh, it was. I came to love this place. The people here are solid and decent; the children are almost touchingly innocent—even more so before we got cable TV. But one always makes trade-offs. Once upon a time, I fancied myself an intellectual—not that I was, but I did love to attend poetry readings in Greenwich Village, visit art galleries, listen to the band-shell concerts in Central Park. I loved the whole city scene. New York was a lovely place, back then. Cleaner, safer. Ideas seemed to burst right out of the sidewalks.”

  We were at the bottom of the schoolroom stairs. The light from above spilled over her face, lit flames in her eyes. Her hip brushed against mine. She moved away quickly and fluffed her hair.

  “Willow Glen is a cultural desert,” she said, climbing. “I belong to four book clubs, subscribe to twenty monthly periodicals, but believe me, it's no substitute. In the beginning I made Mr. Leidecker drive me to L.A. for the Philharmonic, San Diego for the Shakespeare Festival at the Old Globe. He did it without complaining, good soul that he was. But I knew he detested it—he never stayed awake through a single show—and eventually I stopped putting him through it. The only play I've seen in years is the one I write myself—the Christmas pageant that the children put on. ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' accompanied by my off-key piano thumping.”

  She laughed. “At least the children enjoy it—they're not very sophisticated around here. At home the emphasis is on making a living. Sharon was different. She had a rapacious mind, just loved to learn.”

  “Amazing,” I said, “considering her home life.”

  “Yes, truly amazing. Especially when you consider the state she was in when I first laid eyes on her. The way she blossomed was a miracle. I feel privileged to have been part of it. No matter how things turned out.”

  She choked back tears, pushed the door, and walked quickly to her desk. I watched as she tidied up.

  “How,” I repeated, “did the two of you actually meet?”

  “Right after I got here, I kept hearing my pupils talk about a family of ‘retards'—their term, not mine—living out behind the old abandoned cider press. Two grown-ups and a little girl who ran around naked and chattered like a monkey. At first I thought it was just schoolyard fantasy, the kind of thing children love to make up. But when I mentioned it to Mr. Leidecker, he said, ‘Oh, sure. That's Jasper and Shirlee Ransom. They're feebleminded but harmless.' Just shrugged it off, the old village idiot thing. ‘What about the child?' I asked. ‘Is she feebleminded too? Why hasn't she been enrolled in school? Has she been inoculated? Has anyone bothered to give her a decent checkup or seen to it that she gets proper nutrition?' That made him stop and think and he got a bothered look on his face. ‘You know, Helen,' he said, ‘I never much thought about that.' He was ashamed—that's the kind of man he was.

  “The very next afternoon after school, I drove down the road, found the press, and went looking for them. It was just as the children had described: Tobacco Road. Those pathetic shacks—and they were a lot worse before we fixed them up. No indoor plumbing, electricity, or gas heat, water from an old hand pump with God knows what kind of organisms in it. Before we supplied the trees, just a dry dirt patch. Shirlee and Jasper just standing there, smiling at me, following me around but not putting up a lick of protest when I went into their shack. Inside, I got my first surprise. I'd expected chaos, but everything was scrubbed down with lye soap, extremely well-kept—all the clothes folded neatly, beds you could bounce a dime on. And the two of them are very diligent about their hygiene, though they do neglect their teeth.”

  “Well-trained,” I said.

  “Yes. As if someone had drilled the basics into them—which supports the institution theory. Unfortunately, that training didn't extend to child care. Sharon was filthy, that gorgeous black
hair so dusty it looked tan, all matted and tangled with burrs. The first time I laid eyes on her she was up in one of the willow trees, crouched on a limb, naked as a jay, with something shiny in her hands. Staring down with those huge blue eyes. Looking, indeed, like a little monkey. I asked Shirlee to have her come down. Shirlee called up to her—”

  “Called her by her name?”

  “Yes. Sharon. That we didn't have to improvise. Shirlee kept calling, begging her to come down, but Sharon ignored her. It was clear there was no parental authority, they couldn't control her. Finally, after I pretended to ignore her, she scampered down, kept her distance and stared at me. But not afraid—on the contrary, she seemed actually happy to see a new face. Then she did something that really took me by surprise. The shiny thing she'd been holding was an open jar of mayonnaise. She stuck one hand into it, scooped out a big glob, and began eating it. Flies smelled it and began crawling all over her. I took the jar away. She squawked, but not too loudly—she craved discipline. I put my arm around her. She seemed to like that. She smelled foul, looked like one of those feral children you hear about. But despite that, she was absolutely gorgeous—that face, those eyes.

  “I sat her down on a stump, held up the mayo jar and said, ‘This is eaten with tuna or ham. Not by itself.' Shirlee was listening. She started to giggle. Sharon took her cue, laughed, and ran her greasy hands through her hair. Then she said, ‘I like it by itself.' Clear as a bell. It shocked me. I'd assumed she was retarded, too, had little or no speech. I took a close look at her and saw something—a quickness in her eyes, the way she responded to my movements. Definitely something upstairs. She was also very well coordinated: When I commented on what an excellent climber she was, she showed off for me, shinnied up the tree, did cartwheels and handstands. Shirlee and Jasper watched and clapped their hands. To them she was a toy.

  “I asked them if I could take her with me for a few hours. They agreed without hesitation, even though they'd never met me. No parent-child bond, though they were clearly delighted with her, kissed and hugged her a lot before we left.”