“How did Sharon react to being taken away?”
“She wasn't happy, but she didn't fight it. She especially didn't like it when I tried to cover her—with a blanket. Funny thing is, once she got used to clothes, she never liked to take them off—as if being naked reminded her of the way she'd been.”
I said, “I'm sure it did,” and thought of backseat love.
“She actually became quite a fashion plate—used to pore over my magazines and cut out the ones she liked. She never liked pants, only dresses.”
Fifties dresses.
I said, “What was it like the first time you brought her home?”
“She allowed me to take her by the hand, and climbed up into the car as if she'd ridden in one before. During the ride I tried to talk to her, but she just sat there, staring out the window. When we reached my house, she got out, squatted, and defecated on the driveway. When I gasped, she seemed genuinely surprised, as if doing that sort of thing was perfectly normal. It was obvious there'd been absolutely no limit-setting of any sort. I took her inside, sat her on the commode, washed her up, combed out the tangles—at that point she began screaming bloody murder. Then I dressed her in one of Mr. Leidecker's old shirts, sat her down, and fed her a proper dinner. She ate like a lumberjack. Got off the chair and started to squat again. I hauled her into the bathroom, made her mind. That was the beginning. She knew I cared.”
“But she did talk fluently?”
“It was strange, uneven. Sometimes whole phrases would pour out, then she'd be at a loss to describe something simple. She had giant holes in her knowledge of the world. When she got frustrated she'd start to grunt and point like Jasper. But not in any sort of sign language—I was trained in American Sign, and neither she nor Jasper knew it, though I've taught him a little bit since. He has his own primitive language—when he bothers to communicate at all. That's the environment she was living in before I found her.”
“From that to Ph.D.,” I said.
“I told you it was a miracle. She learned astonishingly quickly. Four months of steady drilling to get her talking properly, another three to teach her to read. She was ready for it, an empty glass waiting to be filled. The more time I spent with her, the clearer it became that not only wasn't she retarded, she was gifted. Highly gifted.”
And previously educated. By someone who'd taught her about cars, whole phrases . . . then punched holes in her knowledge of the world.
Helen had stopped talking, was holding her hand to her mouth, breathing deeply. “All for nothing.”
She looked at the clock on the wall. “I'm sorry, I have to go now. I hitched a ride with Gabe. He bought me a helmet with his own money—how could I refuse? Poor thing's probably beside himself, suspecting God knows what.”
“I'd be happy to give you a lift.”
She hesitated, then said, “All right. Give me a couple of minutes to close up.”
Chapter
30
Her house was large and peak-roofed and floodlit, trimmed generously with white gingerbread, and set back from the road behind half an acre of thriving orchard. Gabe's bike was parked near the front porch, next to an old Chevy truck and a Honda Accord. She led me around to the side door and we entered through the kitchen. Gabe sat at the table, his back to us, husking corn and listening to loud rap music on a ghetto blaster not much smaller than the Honda. Ears of corn were piled chin-high. He worked slowly but steadily, bobbing in time to the music.
She kissed the top of his head. He gave her a sympathy-begging look of misery. When he saw me, the misery turned to anger.
She turned down the volume on the blaster.
He said, “What's with him?”
“Don't be rude, Gabriel! Daddy taught you better than that.”
The mention of his father made him look like a small, lost child. He pouted, picked up an ear of corn, tore off the husk, and idly shredded the silk.
His mother said, “Dr. Delaware is a guest. You will stay for dinner, Doctor?”
I had no need of food but was hungry for facts. “Be pleased to,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
Gabe mumbled something hostile. The music was still loud enough to block out his words, but not his meaning.
“Clean up and set the table, Gabriel. Perhaps nutrition will restore your manners.”
“I ate, Mom.”
“What did you have?”
“Chicken pie, the rest of the potatoes, the snap beans, the pumpkin bread.”
“All the pumpkin bread?”
Kid's grin. “Yup.”
“And for dessert?”
“The ice cream.”
“Leave any for sweet-toothed Mom?”
The grin faded. “Sorry.”
“That's okay, sweetie,” she said, tousling his hair. “I need to cut down—you did me a favor.”
He spread his hands over the pile of corn and gave her an imploring look. “Look how much I got done. Can I quit for tonight?”
She crossed her arms, tried to look stern. “All right. You'll pick up with the rest tomorrow. What about homework?”
“Did it.”
“All of it?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Fine. You're free on bail.”
He stood, gave me a look that said, Don't let me get you alone, and made a show of cracking his knuckles.
“I've told you not to do that, Gabriel. You'll ruin your hands.”
“Sorry.”
She kissed him again. “Now, off with you.” He made it to the doorway, said, “Uh, Mom?”
“What is it?”
“Can I go into town?”
“That depends on what you're going to do there.”
“Russell and Brad called. There's a movie at the Sixplex in Redlands.”
“Which one?”
“Top Gun.”
“Who's driving?”
“Brad.”
“All right, just as long as it's not Russell in that souped-up Jeep of his—one neàr-miss is enough. Do I make myself clear, young man?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“All right. Don't betray my trust, Gabe. And be home by eleven.”
“Thanks.” He lumbered out, so happy to be free that he forgot to glare at me.
The dining room was big and dark, and the smell of lavender permeated the papered walls. The furniture was old, carved black walnut. Heavy drapes masked the windows, and faded family portraits in antique frames hung in the empty spaces—a pictorial history of the Leidecker clan at various stages of development. Helen had once been beautiful, her looks enhanced by a generous smile that might never be resuscitated. Her four older sons were shaggy-haired beanpoles who resembled her. Their father was a yellow-bearded, barrel-chested precursor to Gabe—who'd started life as a bald, pink, squinting sphere of suet. Sharon was in none of the pictures.
I helped set the table with china and silver and linen napkins, noticed a guitar case on the floor, next to the china cabinet.
“Mr. Leidecker's,” she said. “No matter how many times I told him to put it away, it always ended up there. He played so well, I really didn't mind. Now I just leave it there. Sometimes I feel it's the music I miss the most.”
She looked so low that I said, “I play.”
“Do you? Then by all means.”
I opened the case. Inside was an old Gibson L-5, vintage thirties, nestled in blue plush. Mint condition, the inlays undamaged, the wood freshly polished, the gold plating on the tailpiece and tuners gleaming as if new. It gave off that wet-cat odor that old instruments acquire. I lifted it, strummed the open strings, tuned.
She'd gone back into the kitchen and called out: “Come in here so I can listen.”
I brought the guitar in, sat down at the table, and fingered a few jazz chords while she fixed chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, beans, and fresh lemonade. The guitar had a warm, rich tone and I played “La Mer,” using Django's liquid gypsy arrangement.
“Very pretty,” she said, but I cou
ld tell that jazz—even warm jazz—wasn't her thing. I switched to finger-picking, played something melodic and countrified in C-major, and her face got young.
She brought the food to the table—huge quantities of it. I put the guitar away. She seated me at the head, positioned herself to my right, and smiled nervously.
I was taking a dead man's place, felt something was expected of me, some protocol that I could never hope to master. That and the ceremonious way she filled my plate put me in a melancholy mood.
She toyed with her food and watched me while I forced myself to eat. I got down as much as I could, paid compliments in between bites, and waited until she'd cleared the dishes and brought apple pie before saying:
“The graduation picture that the Ransoms lost. Did Sharon give one to you?”
“Oh, that,” she said. Her shoulders drooped and her eyes moistened. I felt as if I'd thrown a drowning survivor back into icy waters. Before I could say anything, she sprang up, disappeared down the hall.
She returned with an eight-by-ten photo in a maroon velvet stand-up frame, handed it to me as if passing the sacrament, and stood over me as I studied it.
Sharon, beaming, in crimson cap and gown with a gold tassel and shoulder braid, her black hair longer, flowing over her shoulders, her face radiant, without blemish. The epitome of all-American college womanhood, staring off into the distance with youthful optimism.
Envisioning a rosy future? Or just some campus photographer's idea of what proud parents liked for their mantels?
In the bottom left-hand corner of the photo was gold-leaf lettering.
EPHEGIANS, CLASS OF '74
FORSYTHE TEACHERS COLLEGE FOR WOMEN
LONG ISLAND, N.Y.
“Your alma mater?” I said.
“Yes.” She sat down, held the picture to her bosom. “She always wanted to be a teacher. I knew Forsythe was the right place for her. Rigorous and protective enough to cushion her from the shock of going out into the world—the seventies were a rough time and she'd led a sheltered life. She loved it there, got straight A's, graduated summa cum laude.”
Better than Leland Belding . . . “She was very bright,” I said.
“She was a brilliant girl, Alex. Not that some things weren't a struggle in the very beginning—toilet training, for one, and all the social things. But I just dug my heels in and stuck with it—good practice for when I had to train my boys. But anything intellectual she absorbed like a sponge.”
“How did your boys get along with her?”
“No sibling rivalry, if that's what you mean. She was tender with them, loving, like some terrific older sister. And she wasn't threatening because she went home every night—in the beginning that was hard for me. I wanted so much to adopt her, make her all mine and let her lead a normal life. But in their own way Shirlee and Jasper did love her, and she loved them too. It would have been wrong to destroy that, wrong to rob those two of the only precious thing they owned. Somehow they'd been given a jewel. My job was to polish her, keep her safe. I taught her about being a lady, brought her pretty things—a pretty canopied bed, but kept it there, with them.”
“She never spent the night with you?”
She shook her head. “I sent her home. It was best.”
Years later, with me, she'd sent herself home. I have trouble sleeping anywhere but my own bed. Early patterns . . . early trauma . . .
“She was happy just the way things were, Alex. She thrived. That's why I never called in the authorities. Some social worker from the city would have come down, taken one look at Shirlee and Jasper and stuck them in an institution for the rest of their lives, with Sharon farmed out to a foster home. Paperwork and bureaucracy—she'd have slipped between the cracks. My way was best.”
“Summa cum laude,” I said, tapping the photo. “Certainly seems so.”
“She was a pleasure to teach. I tutored her intensively until she was seven, then enrolled her in my school. She'd done so well she was actually ahead of her classmates, ready for third-grade work. But her social skills were still weak—she was shy around children her own age, accustomed to playing with Eric and Michael, who were still babies.”
“How did the other children relate to her?”
“At first as an oddity. There were lots of cruel comments, but I put an end to them right away. She never did get really sociable, wasn't what you'd call popular, but she did learn to mix when it was necessary. As they got older the boys started to notice her looks. But she wasn't into that kind of thing, was mostly concerned with getting good grades. She wanted to be a teacher, to make something of herself. And she was always at the head of the class—that wasn't just my bias, because when she went down to Yucaipa for junior high and high school, she got consistent straight A's, including honors courses, and her scores on the S.A.T. were among the highest in the school. She could have gotten in anywhere, didn't need me for acceptance to Forsythe. As it was, they gave her a full scholarship plus stipend.”
“When did she change her mind about becoming a teacher?”
“Beginning of her senior year. She'd majored in psychology. Given her background, you could see why she'd be interested in human nature—no offense. But she never said anything about actually becoming a psychologist until she went to a Careers Day at Long Island University—representatives of various professions sitting at tables, handing out literature and counseling students. She met a psychologist there, a professor who really impressed her. And apparently she impressed him as well. He told her she'd make an excellent psychologist, was quite adamant about it to the point of offering to sponsor her. He was moving to Los Angeles, guaranteed her acceptance to graduate school there if she wanted it. It was a real boost for her—to see herself as a doctor.”
“What was this professor's name?”
“She never told it to me.”
“You never asked her?”
“She was always a private person, told me what she wanted me to know. I came to learn that the worst way to get anything out of her was to ask. How about some pie?”
“I'd love to, but I'm really full.”
“Well, I'm going to have some. I crave something sweet. I just really crave that, right now.”
I learned nothing more through a half hour of photo albums and family anecdotes. Some of the snapshots featured Sharon—lithe, smiling, beautiful as a child, enchanting as a teenager, mothering the boys. When I commented on them, Helen said nothing.
By nine o'clock an awkwardness had settled between us: Like two kids who'd gone further than they should have on the first date, we were pulling back. When I thanked her for her time, she was eager to see me leave. I left Willow Glen at five after, and was back on Route 10 forty-five minutes later.
My freeway companions were semis hauling produce, flatbeds loaded with specimen trees and hay. I started to feel logy and tried listening to music. That made me even drowsier and I pulled off near Fontana, into the lot of a combo self-serve Shell station and twenty-four-hour truck stop.
Inside were scuffed gray counters, red vinyl booths mended with duct tape, rotating racks of freeway toys, and hard, heavy silence. A couple of broad-backed teamsters and one sunken-eyed drifter sat at the counter. Ignoring over-the-shoulder glances, I took a corner booth that provided the illusion of privacy. A thin waitress with a port-wine stain on her left cheek filled my cup with industrial-strength liquid caffeine, and I filled my mind with a tempest of questions.
Sharon, Queen of Deception. She'd risen, literally, from the muck, made “something of herself” in fulfillment of Helen Leidecker's Pygmalion dream.
That dream had been tinged by selfishness—Helen's desire to relive her urban intellectual fantasies through Sharon. But no less sincere for that. And she'd wrought a remarkable transformation: a wild child tamed. Chiseled and buffed into a paragon of scholarship and good breeding. Top of the class. Summa cum laude.
But Helen had never been given all the pieces to the puzzle, had no idea what had taken pl
ace during the first four years of Sharon's life. The formative years, when the mortar of identity is blended, the foundation of character set and hardened.
I thought once again of that night I'd found her with the silent partner photo. Naked. Regressed to the days before Helen had found her.
A two-year-old boy's tantrum kept coming to mind.
Early trauma. Blocking out the horror.
What horror for Sharon?
Who'd raised her for the first three years of her life, bridging the gap between Linda Lanier and Helen Leidecker?
Not the Ransoms—they were too dull to have taught her about cars. About language.
I remembered the two of them, gazing after Gabe and me as we left their dirt patch. Their sole souvenir of parenthood, a letter.
Your only little girl.
She'd used the same phrase to refer to another set of parents. Noël Coward bon vivants who'd never existed—not in Manhattan, Palm Beach, Long Island, or L.A.
Martinis in the sun-room.
Wax-paper windows.
Separating the two, a galactic abyss—the impossible leap between wishful thinking and dismal reality.
She'd tried to bridge that gap with lies and half-truths. Fabricating an identity out of the fragments of other people's lives.
Losing herself in the process?
Her pain and shame must have been terrible. For the first time since her death, I let myself feel really sorry for her.
Fragments.
A Park Avenue snippet from well-born Kruse.
A car crash orphan story lifted from Leland Belding's bio.
A ladylike demeanor and love for erudition from Helen Leidecker.
No doubt she'd sat at Helen's feet, absorbing stories about the way the “idle rich” comported themselves out in the Hamptons. Had enhanced her knowledge, as a Forsythe student, strolling past the gated entrances of sprawling beach estates. Collecting mental images like bits of broken seashell—images that enabled her to paint me a too-vivid picture of chauffeurs and clam spouts, two little girls in a pool house.
Shirlee. Joan.
Sharon Jean.
Silent Partner Page 36
