by Sue Grafton
Peter looked at Guy. “You’re not in trouble, I hope. You have to watch this man.” His smile was teasing and it was clear he had no real expectation of trouble where Guy was concerned.
Guy murmured the explanation, apparently embarrassed to be the recipient of such bad news. “My father died. Probate attorney asked her to track me down.”
Peter arid Winnie both turned their full attention on Guy, whose earlier emotions were well under control. Peter said, “Is that the truth. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” He glanced over at me. “We’ve often talked about his trying for a reconciliation. It’s been years since he had any contact with his dad.”
Guy shifted his weight, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed in front of him. He seemed to be directing his comments at me, his tone wistful. “I don’t know how many letters I wrote, but none of them got sent. Every time I tried to explain, it just came out sounding… you know, wrong, or dumb. I finally let it be till I could work out what it was I wanted to say. I kept thinking I had time. Mean, he wasn’t old, by any stretch.”
“It must have been his time. You can’t argue with that,” Peter said.
Winnie spoke up. “If you don’t feel like work today, you go ahead and take off. We can manage just fine.”
“I’m all right,” Guy responded, again with discomfort at being the center of attention.
We spent a few minutes going through an exchange of information; how I’d managed to locate Guy and what I knew of his family, which wasn’t much.
Peter was shaking his head, clearly regretful at the news I was bringing. “We think of Guy as one of our own. First time I ever saw this boy, he’s a sorry sight. His eyeballs were bright red, sort of rolling around in his head like hot marbles. Winnie and me, we’d been called to this church and we’d driven all the way out to California from Fort Scott, Kansas. We’d heard all sorts of things about hippies and potheads and acid freaks, I think they called ‘em. Kids with their eyes burned out from staring at the sun completely stoned. And there stood Guy by the side of the road with a sign that said ‘San Francisco.’ He was trying to be ‘cool,’ but he just looked pitiful to me. Winnie didn’t want me to stop. We had the two kids in the backseat and she thought sure we’d be turned into homicide statistics.”
“It’s been a lot of years since then,” Winnie said.
Pete looked over at Guy. “What are you thinking to do now, Guy, go back to Santa Teresa? This might be time to sit down with your brothers and talk about the past, maybe clean up some old business.”
“I don’t know. I suppose. If they’re willing to sit down with me,” Guy said. “I guess I’m not quite ready to make a decision about that.” He glanced at me. “I know they didn’t send you up here begging me to come back, but it seems like I might have some say in the matter. Would it be all right if I called you in a day or two?”
“No problem. In the meantime, I need to head home,” I said. “You’ve got my card. If I’m not in the office, try that second number and the call will be forwarded automatically.” I took out a second business card and jotted down Tasha Howard’s name. “This is the attorney. I don’t remember her phone number offhand. She has an office in Lompoc. You can call directory assistance and get the information from them. She’s not that far away. If nothing else, you might make an appointment to have a chat with her. You’ll need advice from an attorney of your own. I hope everything works out.”
“I do, too. I appreciate the fact you made the trip,” Guy said. “It’s a lot more personal.”
I shook hands with him, uttered polite noises in the direction of Peter and Winnie Antle, and made my getaway. I cruised down the main street of Marcella again, trying to get a feel for the place. Small and quiet. Unpretentious. I circled the block, driving along the few residential streets. The houses were small, built from identical plans, one-story stucco structures with flat rooflines. The exteriors were painted in pastel shades, pale Easter egg colors nestled in winter grass as dry as paper shreds. Most of the houses seemed shabby and dispirited. I saw only an occasional occupant.
As I swung past the general store, heading out to the main road, I spotted a sign in the window advertising fresh sandwiches. On an impulse, I parked the car and went in and ordered a tuna salad on rye from the woman at the deli counter in the rear. We chatted idly while she busied herself with the sandwich preparations, wrapping my dill pickle in a square of waxed paper so it wouldn’t make the bread all mushy, she said. Behind me, two or three other customers went about their business, guiding small grocery carts up and down the aisles. No one turned to stare at me or paid me the slightest attention.
I let her know I’d just been over at the church. She exhibited little curiosity about who I was or why I was visiting the pastor and his wife. Mention of Guy Malek produced no uneasy silences nor any unsolicited confidences about his past history or his character.
“This seems like a nice town,” I said as she passed my lunch across the counter. I handed her a ten, which she rang into the cash register.
“If you like this kind of place,” she remarked. “Too quiet for my taste, but my husband was born here and insisted we come back. I like to kick up my heels, but about the best we can manage is a rummage sale now and then. Whooee.” She fanned herself comically as if the excitement of used clothing was almost more than she could bear. “You want a receipt?” she said, counting out seven ones and change.
“I’d appreciate it.”
She tore off the register receipt and handed it to me. “You take care of yourself.”
“Thanks. You, too,” I said.
I ate while I drove, steering with one hand as I alternated bites of dill pickle and tuna sandwich. The price had included a bag of potato chips, and I munched on those, too, figuring I’d cover all the necessary food groups. I’d forgotten to ask Guy his mother’s maiden name, but the truth was, I had no doubt he was who he said he was. He reminded me of Jack, whose coloring and features were quite similar. Donovan and Bennet must have favored one parent while Guy and Jack looked more like the other. As cynical as I was, I found myself taking at face value both the reformation of Guy Malek and his current association with Jubilee Evangelical. It was always possible, I supposed, that he and the minister were singularly crafty frauds, who’d cooked up a cover story for any stranger who came calling, but for the life of me I didn’t see it and I didn’t believe anything sinister was afoot. If bucolic Marcella was the headquarters for some cult of neo-Nazis, Satanists, or motorcycle outlaws, it had sure escaped my notice.
It was not until I had passed Santa Maria, heading south on 101, that I realized Guy Malek had never asked how much his share of the estate would be. I probably should have volunteered the information. I could have at least given him a ballpark figure, but the question had never come up and I’d been too busy trying to evaluate his status for my report to Donovan. His emotional focus was on his father’s death and the loss of his opportunity to make amends. Any profit was apparently beside the point as far as he was concerned. Oh, well. I figured Tasha would be in touch with him and she could give him the particulars.
I arrived in Santa Teresa without incident at two P.M. Since I was home earlier than I’d thought, I went into the office, typed up my notes, and stuck them in the file. I left two phone messages, one for Tasha at her office and one on the Maleks’ home machine. I calculated my hours, the mileage, and miscellaneous expenses, and typed an invoice for my services to which I affixed the receipt for the tuna sandwich. Tomorrow, I’d include it with the typed report of my findings, send a copy to Tasha and one to Donovan. End of story, I thought.
I retrieved my car, unticketed, from an illegal space and drove home, feeling generally satisfied with life. Dietz fixed supper that night, a skilletful of fried onions, fried potatoes, and fried sausages with liberal doses of garlic and red pepper flakes, all served with a side of drab, grainy mustard that set your tongue aflame. Only two confirmed single people could eat a meal like that
and imagine it was somehow nutritious. I handled the cleanup process, washing plates, flatware, and glasses, scrubbing out the frying pan while Dietz read the evening paper. Is this what couples did any given night of the week? In my twice-married life, it was the drama and grief I remembered most clearly, not the day-to-day stuff. This was entirely too domestic… not unpleasant, but certainly unsettling to someone unaccustomed to company.
At eight, we walked up to Rosie’s and settled into a back booth together. Rosie’s restaurant is poorly lighted, a tacky neighborhood establishment that’s been there for twenty-five years, sandwiched between a Laundromat and an appliance repair shop. The chrome-and-Formica tables are of thriftshop vintage and the booths lining the walls are made of construction-grade plywood, stained dark, complete with crude handgouged messages and splinters. It’s an act of reckless abandon to slide across the seats unless your tetanus shots are current. Over the years, the number of California smokers has steadily diminished, so the air quality has improved while the clientele has not. Rosie’s used to be a refuge for local drinkers who liked to start early in the day and stay until closing time. Now the tavern has become popular with assorted amateur sports teams, who descend en masse after every big game, filling the air with loud talk, raucous laughter, and much stomping about. The regulars, all four bleary-eyed imbibers, have been driven to other places. I rather missed their slurred conversation, which was never intrusive.
Rosie was apparently gone for the night and the bartender was someone I’d never seen before. Dietz drank a couple of beers while I had a couple of glasses of Rosie’s best screw-top Chardonnay, a puckering rendition of a California varietal she probably bought by the keg.
I freely confess it was the alcohol that got me into trouble that night. I was feeling mellow and relaxed, somewhat less inhibited than usual, which is to say, ready to flap my mouth. Robert Dietz was beginning to look good to me, and I wasn’t really sure how I felt about that. His face was chiseled in shadow and his gaze crossed the room in restless assessment while we chatted about nothing in particular. Idly, I told him about William and Rosie’s wedding and my adventures on the road, and he filled in details about his stay in Germany. Along with the attraction, I experienced a low-grade sorrow, so like a fever that I wondered if I were coming down with the flu. At one point, I shivered and he looked over at me. “You okay?” he asked.
I stretched my hand out on the table and he covered it with his, lacing his fingers through mine. “What are we doing?” I asked.
“Good question. Why don’t we talk about that? You go first.”
I laughed, but the issue wasn’t really funny and we both knew it. “Why’d you have to come back and stir things up? I was doing fine.”
“What have I stirred up? We haven’t done anything. We eat dinner. We have drinks. I sleep down. You sleep up. My knee’s so bad, you’re in no danger of unwanted advances. I couldn’t make it up those stairs if my life depended on it.”
“Is that the good news or the bad?”
“I don’t know. You tell me,” he said.
“I don’t want to get used to you.”
“A lot of women can’t get used to me. You’re one of the few who seems remotely interested,” he said, smiling slightly.
Here’s a word to the wise: In the midst of a tender discussion with one woman, don’t mention another one ��� especially in the plural. It’s bad policy. The minute he said it, I had this sudden vision of along line of females with me standing not even close to the front of the pack. I could feel my smile fade and I retreated into silence like a turtle encountering a dog.
His look became cautious. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. What makes you think there’s anything wrong?”
“Let’s don’t talk at cross-purposes,” he said. “You obviously have something to say, so why don’t you say it.”
“I don’t want to. It doesn’t matter.”
“Kinsey.”
“What?”
“Come on. Just say it. There’s no penalty for being honest.”
“I don’t know how to say it. You’re here for four days and what am I supposed to do with that? I’m not good at being left. It’s the story of my life. Why get enmeshed when all it means is I get to have my heart ripped out?”
He lifted his eyebrows, shrugging with his face. “I don’t know what to tell you. I can’t promise to stay. I’ve never stayed in one place for more than six months max. Why can’t we live in the present? Why does everything have to have a guarantee attached?”
“I’m not talking about guarantees.”
“I think you are,” he said. “You want a lien against the future, when the fact is you don’t know any more than I do about what’s coming next.”
“Well, that’s true and I’m not arguing that. All I’m saying is I don’t want to get involved in an on-again-off-again relationship, which is what this is.”
Dietz’s expression was pained. “I won’t lie. I can’t pretend I’ll stay when I know I won’t. What good would that do?”
I could feel my frustration rise. “I don’t want you to pretend and I’m not asking you to promise. I’m just trying to be honest.”
“About what?”
“About everything. People have rejected me all my life. Sometimes it’s death or desertion. infidelity, betrayal. You name it. I’ve experienced every form of emotional treachery there is. Well, big deal. Everybody’s suffered something in life and so what? I’m not sitting around feeling sorry for myself, but I’d have to be a fool to lay myself open to that shit again.”
“I understand that. I hear you and believe me, I don’t want to be the one to cause you pain. This is not about you. It’s about me. I’m restless by nature. I hate to feel trapped. That’s how I am. Pen me in and I’ll tear the place apart trying to get out,” he said. “My people were nomads. We were always on the move. Always on the road. We lived out of suitcases. To me, being in one spot is oppressive. You want to talk about death. It’s the worst. When I was growing up, if we stayed in one town for long, my old man would get busted. He’d end up in county jail or in the hospital or the local drunk tank. Any school I attended, I was always the new kid and I’d have to fight my way across the school yard just to stay alive. The happiest day of my life was the day we hit the road again.”
“Free at last,” I interjected.
“That’s right. It’s not that I might not want to stay. It’s that I’m incapable of it.”
“Oh, right. ‘Incapable.’ Well, that explains it. You’re excused,” I said.
“Don’t be so touchy. You know what I mean. God almighty, I’m not proud of myself. I don’t relish the fact that I’m a rolling stone. I just don’t want to kid myself and I don’t want to kid you.”
“Thank you. That’s great. In the meantime, I’m sure you have ways of amusing yourself.”
He squinted. “Where did that come from?”
“This is hopeless,” I said. “I don’t know why we even bother with this. You’re addicted to wandering and I’m rooted in place. You can’t stay and I can’t leave because I love where I am. This is your biennial interlude and I’m here for the duration, which means I’m probably doomed to a lifetime of guys like you.”
” ‘Guys like me?’ That’s nice. What does that mean?”
“Just what it says. Emotionally claustrophobic. You’re a basket case. So as long as I’m attracted to guys like you, I can bypass my own ���” I stopped short, feeling like one of those cartoon dogs, skidding on a cartoon floor.
“Your own what?”
“None of your business,” I said. “Let’s drop the conversation. I should have kept my mouth shut. I end up sounding like a whiner, which is not what I intend.”
“You’re always so worried about sounding like a whiner,” he said. “Who cares if you whine? Be my guest.”
“Oh, now you say that.”
“Say what?” he said, exasperated.
I
assumed an attitude of patience that I scarcely felt. “One of the first things you ever said to me was that you wanted ��� how did you phrase it ‘obedience without whining.’ You said very few women ever mastered that.”
“I said that?”
“Yes, you did. I’ve tried very hard ever since not to whine in your presence.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “I don’t even remember, saying it, but I was probably talking about something else. Anyway, don’t change the subject. I don’t want to leave it on this note. As long as the issue’s on the table, let’s get it settled.”
“What’s to settle? We can’t settle anything. There’s no way to resolve it, so let’s drop the whole business. I’m sorry I brought it up. I’ve already got this ongoing family nonsense. Maybe I’m upset about that.”
“What nonsense? You’re related to these people, so what’s the problem?”
“I don’t want to get into it. Aside from whining, I hate to feel like I’m repeating myself.”
“How can you repeat yourself when you never told me to begin with?”
I ran a hand through my hair and stared down at the tabletop. I’d been hoping to avoid the subject, but the topic did seem safer than discussing our relationship, whatever that consisted of. I couldn’t come up with any rational defense of my reluctance to engage with this newfound family of mine. I just didn’t want to do it. Finally, I said, “I guess I don’t like to be pressured. They’re so busy trying to make up for lost time. Why can’t they just mind their own business? I’m not comfortable with all this buddy-buddy stuff. You know how stubborn I get when I’m pushed.”
