by Meg O'Brien
My first instinct—to call 911 and have her dragged away—subsides as I remember that she is still my sister, the one I lost and cried for when she ran off at sixteen. There is a flicker of caring left, overcoming my fear of what she might do next.
“It’s okay, Murph,” I say softly. “Come here.”
He whines low in his throat, but gets down and comes to me, taking a position beside me.
“Karen?” I say.
She doesn’t answer immediately, and I wonder if she’s heard me.
“Karen?” I repeat.
“He’s with her,” she says in a hollow voice.
“Jeffrey? With who?”
She shrugs her shoulders, which seem frail to me now, and old, like the petals of a wilted flower.
“Who is Jeffrey with?” I ask, going over to kneel in front of her.
“I don’t know. That’s what I was looking for.”
She’s losing it, I think. “Karen, I don’t understand.”
She rubs at her tears with the heel of one hand, like a child. “He wrote her address down. It was in one of his jackets, dammit, some place in Brazil! I just want to see him. I want to face him with it!”
“You mean, Jeffrey’s having an affair with someone else?”
She comes to life, then, that look of hatred back in her eyes. “Are you happy now? You said he’d do the same thing to me. Once a man strays, you said, he does it again and again.”
“I know.” I brush her hair back from her cheek. “I know I said that. But, Karen, I thought you and Jeffrey were happy together.”
She shoves me away. Jumping to her feet, she runs from the room. “You don’t know a damn thing about anything! Not anything at all!”
I hear the downstairs door slam, and after that it takes a few moments to get my legs back under me again. Finally I check to make sure my sister is truly gone. Satisfied there’s no one in the house but me, I go back upstairs and dress as well as possible with one hand, in khaki slacks and a white T-shirt, no buttons.
In the kitchen again, I lean my injured hand on the counter to steady it. Pricking a vitamin E capsule with a fingernail on my other hand, I squeeze some onto my palm and rub it gently in. Then I put a pot of water on for tea, and sit at the table, thinking.
The water is boiling before I’ve managed to work anything out. Fixing myself a soothing cup of jasmine tea, I take it back to the table and think some more.
A late-afternoon sun pours through the window, and I get up and draw the blinds halfway to diffuse it. My instinct is to cocoon, to hide out, go back to the womb. Part of me wants to call my mom in Santa Rosa and talk to her about Karen, about Jeffrey, about Marti.
The other part says I’m a grown-up, and what could she do to help things, anyway?
Reaching my good hand over to the radio on the kitchen counter, I put KRML on for some quiet jazz. Sitting there, I sip my tea. My hand hurts like hell; it has reached the throbbing stage. Murphy sits beside me on the kitchen floor, so close against my legs I can feel his heartbeat. One thing about Murph, he sure knows how to comfort a woman.
I am more disturbed by this rift with my sister than I’ve been able to admit, and I wonder how much of it is my fault. I know I haven’t always been as aware as I might be of her problems, or about what’s going on in her life. I also know that she sometimes sees this as my being snooty, or too privileged to care.
What Karen fails to realize is that there can be an appearance of privilege that isn’t always quite fact. While it’s true I live in a lovely home and don’t lack for spending money—a circumstance for which I am deeply grateful—California is a community-property state. Everything that’s mine is Jeffrey’s, and vice versa, since we had no prenup. So when Frannie advises me to sell, she does it without realizing that I haven’t the right to do so without Jeffrey’s agreeing to it. I must wait until he turns his half over to me after the election—and until then, I must keep up a good front, give the appearance that we’re happily married.
I am not entirely proud of this arrangement, but I’m still living in the past enough that I don’t want to be poor again. Despite the sacrifices my mother made to keep us going, there were times when my father’s sales were down, times without enough food, and the rent was often late. The eviction notices, of course, came right on time. The wolf wasn’t simply at the door; he moved right in.
Then, too, I have a long-standing love affair with basic amenities. I told Marti once that if God had wanted me to live in the 1400s he would have sent me there, not here. He would have said, “Here you go, little Abby soul,” and plunked me down at an outhouse in a town riven with cholera.
Instead, he gave me Carmel. Which, on a good day, is close to heaven. On a not-so-good day, it can also be close to hell.
So this is where it stands: After the election next month, I get my freedom and my house. After that, it’s anyone’s guess. Jeffrey has always been a master at hiding his assets, and I’ve got a feeling I’ll end up supporting myself.
Which is fine. I just won’t be able to do it on the few dollars my column brings in every week. So, like most divorced women, I’ll have to go to work—and like most divorced women who have been out of the job market for years, I probably won’t rake in a lot of bucks, at least at first. So I’ll end up having to sell Windhaven.
Which puts me ahead of a lot of women out there working to support themselves and their kids. The sale of Windhaven could keep me going quite a while. The thought of losing it, though, makes my home all the more dear to me now. “A woman without a house,” my mom likes to say with that great crafty wisdom of hers, “is like a cat without a mouse. No power, no game.”
Meanwhile, here I sit with my “privileged” life, and I know that inspires jealousy in my sister.
Beneath the half-drawn blinds I can see people walking by on Scenic with their dogs. I wonder again about the kid who brought Murphy home that day. Is he one of them? I would like to return his leash.
Sighing, I sip my tea. If it was important, he’d have come back.
And there are so many things, suddenly, so much more important than returning lost items: What about Karen’s plight? Has Jeffrey really found another woman? Is he cheating on her?
The teakettle ticks as it cools, keeping rhythm to my scattered thoughts.
Karen came here looking for the address of “the other woman.” It was on a piece of paper in one of Jeffrey’s jackets, she said, though she obviously didn’t find it, as she was looking through his dresser when I caught her.
I remember, suddenly, Frannie saying she takes some of Jeffrey’s things to the attic now and then, to annoy him. Karen couldn’t know that.
Is that where the address of the other woman is? In a jacket in the attic?
I could go up there, find out.
But why bother?
Maybe because Jeffrey has disappeared—conveniently missing an appointment with the Secret Service, an appointment to talk with them about the way Marti died and the way her son disappeared.
Mauro and Hillars thought it was important to find Jeffrey—so important, they issued a warrant for his arrest.
And so important, they are ready to arrest me if he doesn’t turn up.
What the hell have you been up to, Jeffrey?
And how dare you leave me here holding the bag?
Setting my teacup down, I head for the attic, to find—I hope—a clue to my wayward husband’s whereabouts.
This time I take a flashlight with me, as well as a good, high-voltage lantern. At the top of the attic steps I look around, nervously making sure I’m alone after my previous adventure here. I set the lantern down in the middle of the floor, near the stairs. The flashlight I sweep from side to side, examining every corner.
There’s no one here but me, and a lot of memories: my old journals, a box of letters Marti wrote to me over the years—
It surprises me to see them. I suppose I’ve blocked the fact that I had them, thinking it would be too painful
to read them the day she died. Picking up the small blue box, I put it by the stairs and look around for Jeffrey’s clothes.
Right away, I spot them. It’s not as if Frannie seriously tried to hide them from him—just put them here to annoy him, as she said. Jeffrey, she knows, is allergic to the dust in the attic. And our attic, largely ignored for years, is thick with the stuff.
There are a couple of his good suits hanging on a rod from the rafters, a blue blazer, three sweaters and a white silk shirt. I can’t help smiling. Jeffrey thinks he looks exceedingly handsome in that shirt, as, indeed, he does. He must be going crazy without it—especially if he’s with a new woman.
Score one for you, Frannie.
I begin with the blue blazer, the one I know he likes to wear with the white shirt. The pockets are empty, except for lint and an unused handkerchief. I start on the black suit. Again, empty pockets. Thinking I’ve struck out, I turn to the gray pinstripe. Jeffrey likes to wear the gray pinstripe for business. He wouldn’t ordinarily wear it to a rendezvous.
In the left breast pocket of the pin-stripe, however, I find what I think Karen must have been looking for: a folded piece of paper with an address on it. There is also a plane-ticket folder and stub—for a flight to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Holding the flashlight up to the paper, I see that the address is in Rio, as well—or more precisely, Sao Conrado, a nearby beach town. I remember it from a vacation Jeffrey and I once spent down there.
Jeffrey has always liked Rio. But why in the world would he have a girlfriend that far away from home?
Inside the ticket folder is an itinerary showing the date of departure to be this past August seventh. The return date was the ninth, two days later.
Puzzled, I slip the ticket stub and the address into the back pocket of my slacks and return to the stairs, picking up the lantern and the box of Marti’s letters. Taking one last look around I head down the stairs and close the attic door.
At the kitchen table, I sit with the address and ticket stub in front of me and think back to August. Jeffrey went on a business trip in August. I remember it because we were having a rare heat wave in Carmel, and the air-conditioning broke down. I couldn’t remember the name of the repairman we had a service contract with, and tried to reach Jeffrey in Washington to see if his memory was any better than mine. He hadn’t checked into his hotel, and we had an argument later about where he’d been and why.
Not that I really cared by then—I just didn’t want him to think he was getting away with anything. Since the day I’d caught him with Karen, it had come down to this: If I had to continue living with Jeffrey, I would. But I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, take the lies. There was no longer a need for them, I argued when he got home. If he was at Karen’s all that time instead of Washington, why didn’t he just say so?
Jeffrey had stomped out of the house without answering.
Now the answer seems clear: because he wasn’t with Karen. He was with someone else.
The same woman Karen believes him to be with now? Is Jeffrey lazing away the days under a hot Brazilian sun with a new lady love, while I’m here taking the heat for him? Would he really just leave me here to be arrested for allegedly aiding and abetting his disappearance?
The only answer I can come up with is, Of course he would, the bastard.
I need time to think. Going to the laundry room, I sort out clothes, then start the washer. After that, I clean up the kitchen, rinsing out my teacup and scouring the sink with Comet. Finally I go into my office and sit at the computer, zapping out a column about the out-of-control raccoon problem and whether it’s PC or not to wear T-shirts that say THE NEW WHITE MEAT—RACOON. I e-mail that to the Pinecone, then go back into the living room, figuring I’ve cleared my head enough to at least tackle Marti’s letters.
There is nothing to tackle, however. When I open the box, I find with a shock that it’s empty. Someone has taken the letters Marti wrote to me over the years—twenty years, in all.
There weren’t a lot. Thirty or so, each of them written on the thin tissue paper Marti liked, the kind often used in overseas air mail, as it doesn’t weigh more than a feather.
Those letters were all I had left of Marti.
And now they’re gone.
Anger mixes with confusion—and even a bit of fear—as I realize what this means: that someone’s been in my house.
As I’m thinking that, the phone on the table next to me rings. I’ve turned the answering machine off, and I hesitate to pick up, as it might be more reporters. On the other hand, it could conceivably be Jeffrey.
“Hi,” Tommy Lawrence says when I answer after several rings. “I left a message, but I wasn’t sure you got it.”
“Hello, Tommy. Yes, I got it. Sorry, I’ve been busy.”
“That’s okay. I just wondered if you’d like to get together, and I thought I’d call again and find out before I make other plans.”
“I don’t know, I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”
“So I hear,” he says. “Abby, I’m worried about you. There are all kinds of rumors flying around, and one of them is that the cops have a warrant out for your husband’s arrest. They also say if he’s not found soon, they might be arresting you. Abby, don’t get me wrong—I know you couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Marti’s murder. But are you okay? I can’t believe your husband would just disappear like that, leaving you to handle things with the police.”
I haven’t known till this minute what I’m going to do next. Now, hearing Tommy echo my own thoughts, I look down at the ticket to Rio and the address there and say, “Actually, Tommy, I’m fine. But I’ll be away a couple of days.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” A small pause. “I mean, I guess I am. I hope you’re going away to relax?”
“Something like that. How about if I call you when I get back?”
“Sure, that’d be fine. I’ve decided to stay here another week or so.”
“Will you be at the La Playa?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m out a lot, though. Just leave a message at the desk.”
“I’ll call when I get back, then,” I say.
“Okay. Abby? Take care.”
He rings off, and I hang up.
An odd boy, I’m remembering. And an even odder man. There is something about Tommy Lawrence I can’t put a finger on, something not quite right.
There isn’t time to think about it, however. Karen thinks Jeffrey’s with the girlfriend in Brazil, and a woman usually knows. If I do nothing else this week, I’ll at least find my erstwhile husband’s pale ass and nail it to the wall. Then I’ll drag what’s left of him onto Mauro and Hillars’ doorstep. I’ve taken enough from Jeffrey Northrup, and I don’t intend to take any more.
Briefly, I consider telling Ben where I’m going. But I need to do this alone. Bypassing my usual travel agent, I call the airline direct and book a round-trip flight from Monterey to Brazil via San Francisco, leaving late tonight and returning tomorrow at midnight, the first return flight I can get.
I prefer not to stick around down there any longer than I must. When Jeffrey and I were in Rio a few years ago, he had business meetings nonstop. I was left to amuse myself in the biggest party town in the world. When Jeffrey found me in the hotel bar, talking to another man—just talking—he was furious. The rest of my memories about Rio are not pleasant.
Next I call Frannie and ask her if she’ll take Murph for a couple of days. She’s done this before when I’ve had to go away, and readily agrees.
“Billy will love it!” she says. “They can run on the beach, and maybe that’ll get some of the energy out of him. Billy, that is. You know, I really love my kids. But I liked them a whole lot more before they got legs.”
Between the connections and the early check-ins required, it is a long and tiring trip to Rio. On the plane heading south I let my thoughts drift to Marti and Justin.
Justin at six, on his first day at school. I remember how I sat outside the school in
my car and watched Mary Ryan go in with him, holding his hand. By the time he was eight, I had the volunteer job in the school library. He would come to me at the research desk, asking me to help him find books.
It was heaven. A good student, Justin had Marti’s dark hair and large, dark eyes. At thirteen he developed a sparse beard, and his deepening voice cracked when he accepted an award as the most popular student of the year.
I was there for him, Marti. For you—and yes, for me. The son I never had. He was so beautiful, so tall. His smile was like yours, too…and he had that wonderful sense of humor. I can’t think I may never see him again, Marti. Or you.
Hillars may have been right, Marti, when he said he and Mauro were our best chance of finding your son. I don’t know anyone else who could do it better. And if they need Jeffrey—for whatever reason—so help me God, I’ll find him.
I arrive in Rio after eight in the morning, feeling light-headed and as if my legs are stumps. My small flight bag passes through Customs quickly, however, and I’m able to hail a cab just outside the International Airport doors. I give the driver the address I found in Jeffrey’s pocket, and he takes me along the Linha Vermelha, the Red Line, through the working-class neighborhoods. Traffic is heavy, but eventually we end up on the more luxurious South Side. Here, the scenery becomes stunning, the beaches lively. Wending our way through the traffic, we pass Leblon and arrive at Sao Conrado, a residential area of Hollywood-style mansions, golf courses and a sky full of colorful hang gliders.
The cabdriver pulls up to a huge white house of modern design, three stories of loops, arches and curves. It stands on a cliff overlooking the sea, and the palm trees surrounding it wave in a gentle breeze. There are no other houses around; this one holds court in glorious isolation.
God, Jeffrey. Some girlfriend you’ve got here. Must be a movie star.
Or does he provide this for her? Is this one of Jeffrey’s little assets he’s forgotten to mention?
Given community property, I can only hope.
The cab stops on the road, at the end of a long, winding drive lined with burgeoning red shrubs. I ask the cabdriver to wait a few moments while I collect myself, running over the plan I rehearsed on the plane:
