Telling Lies

by Wendy Hornsby

  Jaime held a faded color snapshot in front of me. “You can have this.”

  The picture wasn’t very clear. I took it from him and looked at it closely. It was the core group, plus Marc.

  The group in the snapshot was casually posed, squeezed in together to fit into the frame. Marc looked sharp in a fresh Marine uniform. He was sandwiched between Emily in a wilted cotton sundress and Aleda in shorts and Madras shirt. Clustered around them were six others.

  “Where was this?” I asked.

  “Honolulu Airport. We were on our way to Hanoi. Marc had some R and R coming between tours of duty. We arranged to meet.”

  “You kept the picture?”

  “So I’m sentimental. It’s a sin I’ve paid for dearly,” he said. “I loved Marc like a brother.”

  I didn’t want to cry again; I didn’t want the tears welling in Jaime’s eyes to fall. I got up for a drink of water.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yes. These people have changed so much.”

  “You’ve kept in touch?”

  “No. I’ve seen almost all of them during the last twenty-four hours,” I said. “All except Arthur Dodds and Celeste Baldwin.”

  “Arthur Fulham Dodds,” he said, running his thumbnail under the earnest young face in the picture. “He blew himself up making bombs in a basement in New York City about a year after this was taken.”

  “Was he a bomb expert?” I asked.

  “Obviously not very expert. Art’s eternal address is the Mount Carmel Cemetery. The dumb shit.”

  “Was he?”

  “He should have studied more chemistry before he tried cooking explosives,” Jaime said, frowning. “Art went east after the acquittal, joined the Weather Underground. He always got his high from confrontation. We were just too tame for him.”

  I pointed to the skinny young boy with masses of kinky red hair framing his narrow face. I can’t believe that’s Rod Peebles,” I said.

  Jaime laughed. “Every time he comes up for re-election, he hopes everyone forgets he was there. For most of us, that isn’t too difficult, he was just a limpet. He was always around, but he never had much to contribute. Except money.”

  “Look at Lucas,” I said. “He looks so young. I always thought he was ancient.”

  “Age is relative.” Jaime smiled. “You used to think I was old, too.”

  “Yeah, I did. I thought you were gorgeous, though.”

  “Wish you had said so, somewhere along the way.”

  I stood up to pace a little, trying to force down the lump gathering in my throat again. Most of these people had been so familiar to me, a sort of extended family. I hadn’t thought about most of them for a long time.

  My parents’ house is a short uphill walk from the UC, Berkeley campus. My father teaches there. During the Peace Movement, Emily had run their two guest bedrooms like a hostel for Movement organizers. A lot of people, including everyone in Jaime’s snapshot, had found succor in those rooms at some point.

  Mornings, when I still lived at home, I never knew who I might find in the hall waiting for a turn at the bathroom. I remember on more than one occasion taking my place in line behind the Reverend Lucas Slaughter — in the snapshot he was standing behind Aleda.

  I used to wonder what Lucas slept in, because in the bath-room line he never wore anything except a towel sarong and a heavy crucifix, which lay in his thick mat of chest hair like a tiny Jesus sunning in tall grass. He taught me two verses of “Did My Savior Bleed” one morning while we waited for Daniel Berrigan to shave:

  Alas! and did my Savior bleed?

  And did my Sovereign die?

  Would he devote that sacred head

  For such a worm as I?

  Was it for crimes that I have done,

  He groaned upon the tree?

  Amazing pity! Grace unknown!

  And love beyond degree.

  I don’t know whether our hymn singing made Berrigan shave any faster, but he came out laughing.

  There was only one surviving person in the snapshot I hadn’t spoken with.

  “What do you hear from Celeste Baldwin?” I asked.

  “Nothing. You know who she married?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know as much as I do,” he said. “I told you, I didn’t keep up. You were the newsperson. You should still have the contacts to reach her.”

  “Possibly,” I said. I studied the faces in the faded photograph. “All I have now is a list. Can’t you tell me what I need to know? Were these people Emily’s friends? Her rivals? Her enemies?”

  “It was so long ago, Maggot.” He turned the picture over. “Who remembers?”

  I watched him for a moment. He was obviously uncomfortable and fighting my prodding. I didn’t want to make him hurt. I just wanted some truth.

  I stood and stretched. “You know what I remember most about that time?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “The passion,” I said. “And not only passion for the cause. Remember Marcella, my mother’s cleaning lady?”

  I think so.”

  “She hated the years of the Movement in Berkeley. You know why?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Because of the love stains she had to bleach out of the sheets when Emily’s house guests left town again. You would all come back from a rally or teach-in or march so fired up the house seemed to shake with the leftover passion. There was always a terrific racket: hot debates, loud music, enormous amounts of food, lots of grass. Then, two by two, people would peel from the group and slip up the stairs. Sleep was impossible with all the headboard banging during the night.”

  He smiled. “That was the best part.”

  “So you do remember?”

  “Passion I remember.”

  “Passion can wear many faces.”

  “So?”

  “So, it would take a lot of passion to put a gun to an old friend’s head and pull the trigger.”

  Chapter Ten

  After breakfast, Jaime drove me in his pickup into downtown Indio for a change of clothes. It was just after nine and the only place open was a western store called Trader Sam’s. I picked out some snug, button-front blue jeans, a white shirt, an Indian blanket-weave flannel jacket and a pair of natural cowhide boots, all from the marked-down shelves. When my MasterCard didn’t clear, Jaime put the clothes on his account.

  “Some TV star you are,” he said, as we walked back out to his truck. “You broke?”

  “Always,” I said. “My gigs are publicly funded.”

  “Who’s paying for the trip to Belfast?”

  “I don’t know and I won’t ask. As long as I have content control, I don’t care.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m not as politically pure as Emily.”

  Jaime laughed. “That’s okay by me. The way you look in those jeans, I’ll forgive damn near anything.”

  I think I smiled before I left him to walk to the passenger side of the truck. He didn’t mean anything by the remark, just flexing. It was sweet.

  I climbed into the truck and closed the door. In the few seconds it took for him to walk from the store, a shadow had come over Jaime. I reached across the seat and touched his arm.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked.

  He sighed. “Life is fleeting.”

  “It is.”

  “Last time you and I really talked,” he said, “you were still a bratty little kid with freckles on your nose. You were so cute and so smart and I loved you to pieces. I no more than turn around, and here you are with a half-grown child of your own. Where is that little girl I knew?”

  “Long gone, Jaime.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You are a sentimental old thing, aren’t you, Jaime?” I rolled down my window and leaned against the doorframe, letting the wind redo my hair as we drove back toward his house. “Soon as I get a check, I’ll pay you back. Thanks for everything. My own brother couldn’t have be
en more helpful.”

  “Brother, huh?” He sighed wistfully, and I appreciated that. One time I had asked Emily how Jaime kissed, and she had said, “You’ll never find that out.” Maybe it was the way she said it. In a purely academic sense, I still wondered what sort of kisser he might be. As long as Emily was where she was, I would never find out.

  “You never remarried,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Emily is a tough act for any woman to follow.”

  “Do you get lonely, living by yourself out here?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “I have friends. I’m busy. I feel useful. How about you?”

  “I have Casey. I have a job.”

  “Kids and jobs don’t warm the sheets at night.”

  I may have blushed—my face felt hot. “My sheets are warm enough.”

  “Yeah?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “I went through the post-divorce crazies for a while.”

  “Is that still called dating?”

  “You’ve been there, huh?” I laughed. “It’s just one of the four phases of divorce. You know, denial, anger, slutting, celibacy.”

  “Where are you now?” he asked.

  “Phase four,” I said, trying to remember the last time I had been to bed with someone interesting. “I have no prospects and no time to pursue any.”

  “I’m coming up to the Bay Area for a conference in the spring. Can I come see you?”

  “As a member of the family, sure, come. We need to catch up. You’re the only uncle Casey has. I’d like her to know you better.”

  There was sadness in his smile again. He pulled into his drive-way, still not saying whatever it was that weighed on his mind. We got out of the truck and stood in a patch of thin sunlight, making toe patterns in the fine white desert sand while we talked.

  “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” he asked.

  “I want to talk to Celeste Baldwin.”

  “She won’t see you.”

  “Sure she will. Celeste and Emily were very close.”

  “Were,” he said. “Past tense. Celeste wants nothing to do with any of us from the old days. She’s even worse than Rod Peebles. We carry the taint. Rod finds us politically embarrassing, Celeste finds us unclean,” he said. “She must have gotten into some bad weed. She told Emily one night that she met God. He told her He was a Republican. She asked us to stay away from her.”

  “Just the same Jaime shook his head. “She won’t see you.”

  “I have my methods.”

  “You’ll need them.”

  Lupe called from the porch, “Dr. Jaime, you have a patient waiting.”

  Jaime tucked my hand into his elbow and walked me inside. He was very pensive. He pulled me into his arms and I could feel him shaking.

  “I really miss you,” he said. “When Em and I broke up, it was too painful to see you and Casey, your mom and dad. I thought the best thing was to just sever the ties completely. I was wrong, but you do understand?”

  “I think so,” I said. I was leaning against him and he was so tall that I felt very small again. Very young. Very safe. I pulled away and looked up into his handsome face.

  “You and Emily were such a good pair,” I said. “What happened?”

  “The usual sorts of things, I suppose.” He took a deep breath. “No. That’s not true. What came between us was Marc. Dead or alive, I couldn’t compete with him.”

  “Neither could I.”

  Lupe came out of the examination room, impatient. “Didn’t I tell you, you have a patient waiting, Jaime?”

  “You told me.” He smiled and gave me a final hug. “Good luck with Celeste. Call me later.”

  “Bye, Jaime.”

  I watched him walk away. His back was very straight. The athletic way he walked reminded me of Emily, and how striking she and Jaime had been together, both of them tall, broad-shouldered, narrow in the hips.

  I ran after him and caught him by the arm.

  “Emily had a boob job,” I said.

  He was taken aback at first. Given a moment to get used to the idea, he nodded. “Good for her. She talked about doing it for long enough. I’m glad she finally did it.”

  “Why now?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe she finally passed into stage three.” Out of anger and on to slutting? I could not imagine my sister, Emily … But who can imagine a sibling in bed?

  With Lupe looking over my shoulder, I used the kitchen telephone to try the obvious approach to Celeste Baldwin Smith first. It took a few calls, but I managed to wheedle Celeste’s home phone number out of an old contact in the capitol. He seemed very nervous about giving it to me, and asked me three times not to snitch him off.

  Celeste seemed to have a mania for privacy. Or someone else very much wanted to keep her out of the public eye.

  Celeste’s banker husband, T. Rexford Smith, had long been part of the California power-brokering elite, a back room advisor. Smith had done a courtesy stint in the Reagan administration, but scuttlebutt was that he would never expose himself to the scrutiny that comes with a run for public office. It did not take much imagination, however, to picture him in a few years plugged into the ambassadorship of some plum nation, wearing knee britches and satin sashes. The pomp and circumstance would suit him.

  About Celeste’s career after she left the Movement, I knew nothing. As far as I could remember, her only foray into the public spotlight had been a plea for legislation to purge the contents of rock lyrics. Celeste had de-evolved a long way from the Free Speech Movement. Certainly a long way from the firebrand of easy virtue I remembered. There was never halfway with Celeste.

  Emily and her friends were great discoursers on the meaning of life and other trivialities. One afternoon in my parents’ back-yard, during a heated debate about the political implications of existentialism, I had accused Celeste of mistranslating Camus to fit her arguments. I spoke with all the authority of a third-year high school student, while she was working on a master’s in French lit. I was simply throwing barbs into the wind, but that one found home.

  Humiliated, Celeste flashed out angrily at me. She threw a heavy paperback in the general direction of my head. The book’s title wasn’t lost on me: The Complete Guide to Homemade Explosives.

  “I’ve read the book,” she said. “Watch yourself.”

  I believe that was our last conversation, because Marc died shortly after. I was never afraid of Celeste, or so I thought. Still, I had to take a deep breath before I could dial her number in the Holmby Hills section of Los Angeles.

  “Smith residence.” The female voice was too crisp to be domestic help, which was a shame. So often an overworked maid will let through the odd annoying call just for the hell of it.

  “This is Margot Duchamps MacGowen,” I said. “May I speak with Mrs. Smith?”

  “Mrs. Smith isn’t taking calls.”

  “It’s a matter of importance.”

  “Do you wish to leave a message?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Tell her Maggot called. Tell her I said, `Aujourd’hui, Emily est morte.’ “

  I see.” I wondered whether she had written down anything, or whether she had read Camus. She didn’t ask me to repeat the opening line from The Stranger. I will tell Mrs. Smith that you called.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I hung up and moved on to Plan B.

  Jaime was still with his patient. I left a note for him on the kitchen table and drove off in Max’s car toward Palm Springs.

  I had told Jaime that I had connections in town. But they were old connections, left over from the three years I was evening news anchor at KMIR-TV, a local Palm Springs station with a network affiliation.

  My best hope was Garth Underwood, my co-anchor then, station manager now. Garth and I had worked well together and had parted under friendly terms. We keep in touch the way old colleagues do: now and then, when favors are needed or a bottle of wine brings on a bout of nostalgia. I knew Garth would go to
the ends of the earth for me, as long as there was the prospect of a good story in it for him.

  I called the studio from the car and was told that Garth wasn’t coming in until late. I headed for his house.

  From Indio, where Jaime lived, Palm Springs is a forty-minute drive along the base of the San Jacinto mountains. Though rain clouds hovered along the crest of the peaks ahead, the sky was a clear, diluted, blue. I rolled down the car window and breathed in a mixture of the fresh-cut golf course and Mercedes exhaust that scented the air.

  Garth still lived in the same condo on the ninth hole of the Thunderbird Country Club. The same housekeeper let me in.

  I walked through the house and found Garth on the patio, brunching with an ornamental blonde: she was tall, hard-bodied, big breasted. Her looks had a sharp edge that her careful makeup couldn’t dull. She had sharp breasts, too, and they seemed to point daggerously toward the green, where Bob Hope was sinking a birdie. As soon as Hope’s foursome drove off, her chest seemed to deflate.

  Garth was watching her with open glee. He may be an incorrigible womanizer, but he’s no fool.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  My voice startled Garth. He turned, and when he got over his initial surprise, he flashed me his on-camera smile.

  “Maggie, honey, you look great.” He got up from the spread of bran muffins and sliced papaya to fold me in his arms. He seemed a whole lot happier to see me than she did.

  “It’s been too long,” he said.

  “You look good,” I said. And he did, slim in his tennis whites. He had trimmed and darkened his Afro since I had seen him last. I had liked the gray.

  “What brings you out here, baby?” he asked. “You in trouble?”

  “Worse than usual.”

  “So, you need some help from your old Garth.” I saw him signal the housekeeper, and a fresh round of Ramos fizzes appeared on the tray. “I heard about Emily—terrible tragedy. I want you to know that I’ll do anything, anything. Have you had breakfast?”

  “What I need, Garth, is access to Celeste Baldwin Smith.”

  “Whatever for? I’m nicer. I’m cuter. And you can use all the dirty words you want to when you sing in my ear.”