China Lake

by Meg Gardiner

  ‘‘Delaney. Evan Delaney.’’

  The cameraman swiveled to spot me in the lens of his minicam, but Wyoming jumped in. ‘‘Miss Delaney thinks I’m cruel, but Claudine Girard sent people to hell. Giving her a Christian funeral like a clean, decent woman is obscene.’’

  The reporter turned to me. ‘‘How do you feel about that?’’

  I gestured at Wyoming and his people. ‘‘I think we’re looking at the dictionary definition of ‘obscene,’ right here.’’

  ‘‘Will you listen to that?’’ Wyoming said. ‘‘She up and claims she’s an expert on obscenity. Like that’s something to be proud of.’’

  They each had a script: Snappy Fundamentalist Sound Bites and Lights, Camera, Emotion! I was irrelevant. Wearily I held up the flyer and said, ‘‘Tell your cartoonist that ‘millennium’ is spelled with two Ns.’’

  Sometimes I am too clever for my own good. The hip-shot quip can ricochet. As I walked away, Wyoming said, ‘‘Delaney, you said your name was? Tell the cartoonist yourself. You’re related to her.’’

  I couldn’t help it—I stopped dead and stared at the flyer. The grim and flashy cartoons suddenly looked familiar. It was the style, a cross between Spider-Man and Xena, Warrior Princess. I flipped to the back page, the final drawing, where she would sign it.

  Damn. In tiny letters, Tabitha Delaney. My brother’s wife.

  Blessed are the meek, for they keep their mouths shut in front of TV crews.

  At the graveside service Nikki stood as still as an icon, holding us, motionless and moved, straight through ‘‘Amen.’’ But inside I was guttering with anger. Tabitha Delaney. The name flared before me like a lighted match. I left the cemetery hastily, with few words to the other mourners.

  I headed to the Santa Barbara County Courthouse. Not because I needed a lawyer—I was a lawyer myself, though I had quit practicing to become a legal researcher and journalist, a pen for hire. I had also published a couple of novels, even had my new one, Lithium Sunset, in local bookstores. Tabitha’s actions, however, had led me to put my fiction writing into suspended animation. I headed to the courthouse because I needed to talk, and not to Nikki.

  I walked along the tiled hallway, scanning the judges’ names painted in calligraphy script on the wall outside each courtroom. The building abounds with such calculated quaintness. I half expected to see horses tied to a hitching post on the lush lawn, and Spanish dons strolling the grounds in silver-spurred boots.

  When I slipped into Judge Rodriguez’s courtroom, trial was in session. A young woman sat on the witness stand, glaring at the attorney who was cross-examining her. The court reporter’s typewriter clicked softly. At the defense table, Jesse Blackburn asked the next question.

  ‘‘You entered the premises that night without permission, didn’t you?’’

  ‘‘Nobody told me I couldn’t.’’ Beneath the high ceiling the witness appeared puny, her clothes and face beige and grim. Almost as grim as the Remnant protesters.

  I slouched in my seat, hearing the flyer rustle in my pocket. It sounded like the noise of approaching disruption. If Tabitha was drawing artwork for the Remnant, she was nearby. She was back.

  How was I going to tell my brother? How was I going to tell his little boy?

  Jesse said, ‘‘Let me rephrase. Nobody gave you permission to duplicate a key and use it to enter the bookstore after closing, did they?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ the woman admitted. ‘‘But I was taking my own initiative.’’

  ‘‘Initiative isn’t all you took, is it, Miss Gaul?’’

  Jesse leaned forward, his cannonball shoulders shifting beneath his jacket. He was the one I came to see, and he looked grave and handsome, with the afternoon light burnishing his dark hair and glinting off the earring he wore, even to court.

  ‘‘While you worked at the bookstore you took numerous items without paying for them, didn’t you?’’ he said. ‘‘I don’t mean Beowulf’s bookmarks, or sugar packets from the coffee bar. You gave yourself a five-finger discount on the New York Times Best Seller List.’’

  The plaintiff’s attorney stood up. ‘‘Objection. Assuming facts not in evidence.’’

  Judge Sophia Rodriguez peered over her half-glasses at him. ‘‘Overruled.’’

  Jesse took his time. Caution came unnaturally to him, but this was a big trial and he wanted to pitch a perfect game—no runs, no hits, no errors. And no easy feat. Priscilla Gaul’s long-term thievery had ended disastrously on the night that the owner of Beowulf’s Books decided to defend the store. Gaul had suffered what her attorney called ‘‘heinous and injurious bodily harm.’’ That was why she was suing the bookstore for damages, and that was why Jesse’s cocounsel wanted him to cross-examine her, though Jesse was a courtroom greenhorn, only twenty-seven years old. Fight hard luck with hard luck, and let him be the one to throw fastballs at her, low and inside.

  Counting items on his fingers, he said, ‘‘An espresso maker, a thousand dollars in cash, and the collected works of Jackie Collins . . . do you deny that on the night of the incident you had those items in hand?’’

  Bad choice of words. Her face bunched. ‘‘You’re doing it on purpose, talking about it like this. I know it.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I am. After all, it’s the reason you’re suing my client.’’

  He was always more canny than I expected, always a surprise, which was why he could both entrance and infuriate me. Shove the witness off balance, toss the issues into the open, armed and ticking. That was Jesse.

  Gaul said, ‘‘I had my flashlight. I took it to the bookstore that night to check that there hadn’t been another burglary. That’s all I had ‘in hand,’ nothing else.’’

  In fact, she had been holding several ounces of hamburger. Ground sirloin, according to the pathology report. But he let her assertion pass, because Gaul began rubbing her left arm to remind the jury what she meant by nothing: that she no longer had a left hand. She had been mauled by attack animals when she reached behind a counter to unplug the espresso maker. That was the reason she was suing Beowulf’s Books for nine million dollars.

  He said, ‘‘And you fled the bookstore because . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Those things were going to rip my throat out. They were wild; I thought they were a pack on the loose, prowling around town—’’

  ‘‘Drinking espresso?’’

  Up popped her attorney. His name was Skip Hinkel, and he wore a suit as blond and tightly cut as his hair. He said, ‘‘Objection,’’ but Judge Rodriguez gestured him down, telling Jesse, ‘‘Skip the commentary, Mr. Blackburn.’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘And after you fled Beowulf’s, did you contact the police?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Did you contact Animal Control?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Did you contact the owner of Beowulf’s, to inform her that animals were loose in the bookstore?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Did you do anything besides hide in your apartment, buying jewelry from QVC until the infection to your hand got out of control?’’

  ‘‘I hid because I was traumatized! I had just been mauled by ferrets!’’

  And that, in a nutshell, was Jesse’s problem— because California law restricted the possession of ferrets. Gaul’s attackers, the beloved pets of the eccentric woman who owned Beowulf’s, had been brought into the state illegally. They were contraband. And, worse for the defense, they were fugitives. To prevent their seizure the owner had spirited them into hiding. They were on the lam from the Department of Fish and Game, outlaw vigilantes of the genus Mustela.

  ‘‘I have nightmares about it.’’ Gaul said. ‘‘I see their little eyes and icky paws, scratching and flailing . . .’’ Her fingers made tiny, frenzied clawing motions.

  Jesse merely watched her. ‘‘Is that why you put Valium in the hamburger? To calm them down?’’

  ‘‘Objection!’’ Hinkel’s hands were in the air— outrage in act
ion, a drama school pose. ‘‘He’s harassing the witness.’’

  Rodriguez gave him a gaze like lemon juice. ‘‘Asking relevant questions is not harassment. Sit down.’’

  Hinkel sat, but would be up again. He had two chances to win the case—vermin and hysterics. I knew, because I had done the legal research for him, and had told him so. He had taken my derision for strategic advice and run straight to the courthouse.

  Taking an irritated breath, Rodriguez said, ‘‘It’s near the end of the day. We’ll adjourn until tomorrow morning, when I want everyone calmed down.’’ She clacked her gavel and stood up, gathering her black robe in her hands.

  The bailiff said, ‘‘All rise,’’ and everyone in the courtroom rose to their feet, except Jesse. He sat in his wheelchair as Rodriguez left the courtroom.

  Conversation clattered and echoed as the room began emptying. While I waited near the door, Gaul and Hinkel walked past. Skip nodded but didn’t greet me, knowing I wasn’t in his rooting section. Jesse remained at the defense table while his cocounsel, Bill Brandt, critiqued his performance.

  It had been two years since a hit-and-run driver smashed into Jesse’s mountain bike, leaving him near death at the roadside, his spine shattered. He considered himself lucky. His best friend, riding next to him, had been killed. It took him a year of rehab and physical therapy to regain partial use of his legs. He could walk with crutches, but much of the time used a wheelchair, a lightweight model.

  Setting his briefcase on his lap, he spun the chair and with two strokes propelled himself down the aisle. Spotting me, he told Brandt to go ahead without him. The older attorney eyed me quickly, with that knife flick of curiosity—Are he and she . . . ?—and slapped Jesse on the shoulder before pushing through the door.

  Jesse said, ‘‘Another day defending truth, justice, and militant rodents. God, I love the law.’’

  ‘‘And a grateful nation salutes you for it,’’ I said. ‘‘What did Brandt think?’’

  ‘‘He wants me to rein in my mouth. No sassing the maimed. Other than that he’s thrilled. He’s got one crip ripping up the other, so the defense inflicts all the damage and he feels none of the liberal guilt.’’

  I didn’t comment. I was used to his bluntness. ‘‘And what did you think?’’

  ‘‘Me, I’m riddled with guilt.’’

  ‘‘You were born missing the guilt gene.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, you got it instead. What are you blaming yourself for today?’’

  Leaving the courtroom, I started to smile. ‘‘Third World debt.’’

  Eyeing my black suit, he asked how the funeral was. I said, ‘‘An incitement to riot.’’ I handed him the Remnant’s flyer. He looked at it with disgust. When I pointed out the artist’s signature, he did the same double take as I had and said, ‘‘No way.’’

  ‘‘That church is local, Jesse. I’m afraid this means Tabitha’s in Santa Barbara.’’

  He pointed at one of the drawings. ‘‘It means your brother should watch out.’’

  Blatant as it was, I hadn’t noticed it. Orange tongues of fire licked the hills. Black cracks rent the earth, swallowing the Hollywood sign, the U.S. Capitol, and a naval officer in dress blues.

  ‘‘Reconciliation is definitely not on her agenda,’’ he said. ‘‘What are you going to do?’’

  ‘‘Warn Brian, then track her down and find out what’s going on. Maybe she isn’t involved with the church. Maybe she drew the comic strip on commission.’’

  ‘‘You don’t believe that. Not with her background.’’

  Right again, Blackburn. I looked away, trying not to think about her real agenda. But he touched my wrist and said, ‘‘What if she’s come back for Luke?’’

  Luke, Brian and Tabitha’s son, was six. For eight months he had been living with me—ever since Tabitha walked out and Brian was deployed overseas.

  Jesse held up the flyer. ‘‘Evan, this is nasty stuff. I don’t mean fun nasty; I mean raving, psycho nasty.’’

  ‘‘You’d say that about church bingo.’’

  ‘‘Listen. If Tabitha has started believing this garbage—’’

  ‘‘I know, Luke.’’ I sighed. ‘‘I’ll find her.’’

  The guilt gene had caused a throbbing in my chest when my brother’s marriage collapsed, a dull pain that insisted, It’s my fault, my fault. Because I had introduced Brian to Tabitha.

  Tabitha Roebuck was twenty years old when I met her, a waitress at a café I frequented. Perky and enthusiastic, she was blessed with a curvy figure, auburn curls that fell languorously from her loose hair clip, and a ringing voice that always edged on loudness. At the time, I was practicing law and looking for a way to jump the fence. At the café I would hunch over a legal pad, scribbling fiction with an aspiration akin to craving. One night Tabitha lingered at my table. Hesitantly, as if telling me something shocking, she said, ‘‘I understand how you feel about writing. Really, because I’m an artist.’’

  She sat down. She told me she liked science fiction, since that was what I wrote, but she loved fantasy— tales featuring wizards, swordsmen, and beleaguered princesses. Leaning forward, she said, ‘‘Do your stories have dragons in them? Dragons are awesome.’’

  But if her fascination seemed childlike, it was because she was test-driving her imagination. She had grown up in a home where creativity and even whimsy had been suppressed by an anxious, astringent fundamentalism. No secular music had been permitted. No secular boyfriends. And no secular literature containing pagan mythological beasts. That equated to dabbling in the occult. To Tabitha’s mother, reading Le Morte d’Arthur was one step removed from conducting Black Masses around the kitchen table.

  My story had no dragons, but the next time I came into the café Tabitha rushed toward me, eyes shiny, hands clutching illustrations she had drawn for the piece. The pictures were wild and romantic—the hero standing defiant against a heavy wind. I loved them. I was taken with her. When my older brother came to visit, I introduced them.

  Everything about Brian stunned her: the raven hair and hot-coffee eyes, the cool-under-fire voice, and the confident, offhand manner. He was a fighter pilot and looked it, even out of uniform. She didn’t hesitate, not for a second.

  A new strand of her personality uncoiled itself: the minx Tabitha. In Brian’s presence she became pert, impudent, flirtatious. She emanated a wholesome sexiness, as if her plaid Gap skirt covered a leopard-skin garter belt. Brian termed her ‘‘vivacious.’’ But she also saddened easily, and hungered for clarity, security, and purpose. He decided to play the rescuer, imagining that at his side she would grow strong—and grateful to him. Her white knight.

  They married within six months, and they doted and clung to each other with a passion that was both pure and excruciatingly cute. Then Luke came along, a child like a jewel, the proof and seal of their fusion. It was perfect.

  And it all fell apart.

  Tabitha hated life as a navy wife. She hated the transient postings—San Diego, Pensacola, Lemoore, California: too big, too hot, too isolated. She hated the mediocre housing and elaborate protocol, hated Brian’s going to sea for months at a time. She must have been painfully lonely, but to my regret I did not sympathize. I was the daughter of a navy man, had grown up living the navy life, and had been a good little soldier. Brian had, too, and he expected his wife to be one. She wasn’t.

  She was going crazy, she said. She couldn’t stand it, taking care of everything by herself, sleeping alone, being cooped up with a demanding child while he was away. Quit the navy, she said. And that, in the Delaney family, was the Wrong Thing to Say. That was asking him to cut out his own heart. After that he didn’t see her as innocent and sensitive, but as immature and needy. So when his squadron was assigned to a Pacific cruise, her whines and threats all misfired.

  It’s not fair. I’m not going to be a single parent, not again—you try it and see how you like it. Why can’t you work for United Airlines? He just looked at her as if s
he were nuts. Why in hell would he want to drive 737s? He was going to fly an F/A-18 out to the USS Constellation. He had the best damned job on planet Earth.

  A week before Brian went to sea, she walked out. He called me, in tears, asking me to take his son for him.

  Heading home from the courthouse, I stopped to see how Nikki was holding up after the funeral. Her house and mine share a property near Santa Barbara’s Old Mission. She and Carl live in the Victorian home that fronts the street, while I have the smaller guest-house at the rear of the deep garden. I arrived as the postfuneral gathering was winding down. Kids in dress-up clothes were playing basketball on the driveway, and reggae music was sauntering through the front door. Empty casserole trays sat on the dining room table. In the kitchen, cousins were washing dishes. Nikki was sitting on a black leather sofa in the living room, with her shoes off and her swollen feet propped on a coffee table. I gestured for her not to get up.

  She patted the sofa. When I sat down she rested her hand on mine and said, ‘‘Heard you went back for a second round with the Holy Rollers. Mom would have liked your spirit.’’

  I squeezed her hand, wanting to thank her but feeling vaguely embarrassed because Tabitha’s drawings had added to her grief.

  ‘‘You did the right thing,’’ she said. ‘‘I was wrong about ignoring those people. We have to stand up to groups like that, keep right in their face, or they’ll roll over us.’’

  She laid her head back against the couch. Though pregnancy had generally given her a voluptuous glow, she looked drawn, and I asked if she was okay.

  ‘‘I will be. Claudine didn’t raise me to wilt.’’

  A few minutes later I headed across the lawn to my house, an adobe cottage shaded by live oaks and surrounded with hibiscus and star jasmine. I moved Luke’s bike from where it lay on the flagstone path, and opened the French doors. A cartoon sound track rolled over me. On television, Wile E. Coyote was chasing the Road Runner across a painted desert. From the far side of the sofa a small head popped up to see who was home.

  ‘‘Hi, Aunt Evan.’’