S Is for Silence

by Sue Grafton

  "Because it's painful."

  "Because it's nobody's business." He was quiet for a moment and then surprised himself by going on. "They've got her on a drip. Morphine, most likely. The doctor won't tell me anything and what he says to her, she keeps to herself. She doesn't want me to worry."

  Violet said, "Well, I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. It has nothing to do with you." He glanced off across the room. He could feel tears sting his eyes. He'd made a point of not discussing his wife's illness. Acquaintances would ask, but he tended to cut them short. He didn't like the idea of exposing the intimate details of Mary Hairl's condition. He couldn't talk particulars with her father, even if he'd known. Hairl had been a surly son of a bitch ever since his wife died. He was burdened enough as it was, knowing he was on the verge of losing his only child. Which left who? Jake certainly couldn't talk about her sickness with the kids. Both he and Mary Hairl had agreed early on to spare them. Steve, at sixteen, was aware of what was happening, but he kept himself detached. Tannie was mercifully oblivious, which left Jake on his own.

  Violet studied him. "How're you holding up? You don't look so hot yourself."

  He lifted his beer bottle. "This helps."

  "Ain't that the truth," she said, and clicked her wineglass against his bottle. "Why is it men are always trying to prove how tough they are? Situation like yours, what harm would it do to talk about it?"

  "What for? I live with it from day to day. Last thing I need is talk on top of that."

  "You sound just like me. Too proud to admit when you're hurting. I can sit here in tears and everybody thinks it's just something I do. You're the first guy ever offered to have a decent conversation."

  "I don't call this a conversation."

  "But there's hope of one," she said.

  "What about Padgett? He was talking to you."

  "He's about as popular as me. People think I'm a whore and he's a fool. Gives us something in common."

  "Is that true?"

  "What, about him or me?"

  "I couldn't care less about him. What's the deal on you?"

  She smiled. "It's like that song about the Whiffenpoofs.... What the hell's a Whiffenpoof ? You ever ask yourself that?"

  "What song?"

  "The duet Bing Crosby and Bob Hope sang in Road to Bali." She started to sing a fragment in a voice that was surprisingly sweet. '"Damned from here to eternity. Lord have mercy on such as we.'" Her smile was weary. "That's the deal on me. Damned."

  "Because of Foley?"

  "Everything wrong in my life is because of him."

  "I thought you liked tussling with him. You do it often enough."

  "Tussling? Well, I guess that's one way to put it. Foley pounds the shit out of me on a regular basis and I got the black eyes to prove it, but does anybody ask how I'm doing? He could knock me to the floor and nobody'd offer me a hand. I don't want pity, but once in a while I'd 'ike to think someone gives a shit." She stopped and then smirked. "Listen to me. I sound like a victim. Nobody likes a victim, least of all me."

  "Why do you put up with it? That's what I don't get."

  "What choice do I have? I can't leave him. He's threatened to kill me and I know he'd do it for sure. Foley's a psychopath. Besides, if I left what would become of Daisy?"

  "You could take her with you."

  "And do what? I got married at fifteen and never held a job in my life. I wouldn't even know where to begin."

  "What about that money you're always talking about."

  "I'm biding my time. I figure I've got one shot and I'm not about to blow it. Anyway, Daisy's crazy about her daddy."

  "Most girls are crazy about their daddies. I'm sure she's crazy about you, too. What's that got to do with it?"

  "Daisy's crazier than most. She thinks Foley hung the moon, so why should I get in the way? Sometimes I think they'd be better off without me. I mean, it's one thing if I leave, but take away his little girl? He'd rip my heart out, if he hadn't already done it."

  Jake shook his head. "He doesn't deserve either one of you."

  "No fooling."

  "So what'd you see in him?"

  "He was a sweet guy when the two of us hooked up. It's the alcohol does him in. Sober, he's not all that bad. Well, some bad, but not as horrible as you'd think. Of course, he says he's forced to drink to put up with the likes of me."

  "What's he have to put up with? You're a beautiful woman. I can't picture any big hardship living with you."

  "I'm a pain."

  "How's that?"

  "I got a reputation as a party girl for one thing. According to him, I don't do anything right and that sets him off. No matter what I do, he's never satisfied. After work, he walks in the door and starts in on me. Either the house is a mess or his dinner's not hot enough or I forgot to take the dirty clothes to the Laundromat again. He wants to know where I've been, wants to know who I talked to, and where I was every time he tried to call me during the day. I'm thinking, what am I, his slave?

  I'm entitled to a life. I try to keep my mouth shut, but he lays into me and I have to fight back. How else can I hang on to my self-respect?"

  "There's bound to be a way out."

  "Well, if there is I'd sure like to hear it." She put out her cigarette. "You have any change?"

  "What for?" he asked, but he was already digging in his pants pocket, coming up with a handful of coins.

  She took a nickel and slid off the stool. He watched her cross to the jukebox, where she inserted the coin and punched in a number. After a moment, he heard the opening strains of Nat King Cole singing "Pretend."

  She came back to him, holding out a hand. "Come on. Let's dance. I love this song."

  "I don't dance."

  "Yes, you do." She looked over at the bartender. "BW, tell the man he has to dance with me. It's time to lighten up the mood."

  Jake felt himself smiling as she tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the tiny bare spot between tables that served as a dance floor. She slid into his arms, ignoring the awkward back-and-forth rocking motion that was the only kind of dancing he knew. She sang against his neck, her smoky wine breath tickling his ear. He could smell violets and soap and the same kind of shampoo Mary Hairl had used before she got so sick. Over Violet's shoulder, he could see BW busy himself behind the bar, studiously ignoring what was going on. Jake had never much cared for music, but he could see now how it might have the power to make you forget. If there was one thing Jake needed, H was the blessedness of forgetting, even for a little while.

  At midnight, BW started turning off lights. "Sorry about that, folks," he said, as though the bar were filled with people. His tone was bored, but Jake could hear the underlying irritation. BW didn't want to be a party to what was going on. Jake went up to the bar and paid the tab, peeling off bills and adding a generous tip, in part to remind the man of his place.

  BW said, "You driving her home?"

  "I might, if it's any of your business."

  "I know you mean well, but you don't know what you're getting into when it comes to her. Ask Padgett. He'll tell you the same thing."

  "Thanks, BW, but I don't believe I asked for your advice."

  "I'm saying this as a friend."

  "I don't need that kind of friend. Your job is to tend bar. I can look after myself, but thanks all the same."

  "Don't ever say I didn't warn you."

  Jake helped Violet into her raincoat and held the door for her. As they emerged from the bar, the air seemed as fresh as a florist's shop. The May rain had passed, leaving a mist in the air. The blacktop was damp, looking shiny in places where shallow puddles had formed. He opened the truck door on the passenger side and handed her in. There were no lights in the parking lot, except for the reflected blue from the sign for the Blue Moon, the neon pulsing and blinking. Jake got in on his side and sat, watching the light, fascinated, not really sure what came next. It wasn't as though he hadn't strayed occasionally in the course of his marriage, but he w
as never sure what he was getting into and that lent a sick thrill to the proceedings.

  Violet said, "This is like a time-out. It doesn't count for anything. I like Mary Hairl."

  "Me, too," he said. He kept his hands on the steering wheel as though he might actually start the car and drive away.

  BW turned the neon sign off and moments later, he came out of the rear door, locked it, and walked to his car.

  Jake knew both their faces must have flashed with white as BW passed, his headlights raking across the front of Jake's truck.

  And then he was gone.

  Violet was drunk and Jake'd had too much to drink himself, but he needed a friend, someone to feel close to for just this one night. Blindly he held a hand out and she took it. They made love. The leather seat was surprisingly commodious. The night was growing cold, and through the open window he could smell the orange blossoms from the orchard nearby. The scent was so dense he could scarcely breathe. He could hear crickets and frogs, and then the night became dead quiet except for the rustling of clothes and his harsh, rasping breath. He felt as though he'd had to run for miles just to get to her.

  Chapter 13

  * * *

  Downstairs, Chet Cramer introduced me to his son-in-law and then excused himself. Winston Smith was the same heavyset salesman I'd seen earlier, and I wondered if his sales pitch had been successful. Probably not, given his energy level, which seemed low if not depressed. We sat in his cubicle, my back to the glass partition that looked out onto the floor. Winston's desk was arranged so he could keep an eye out for customers without appearing inattentive.

  At close range, the word "corpulent" was more appropriate than "heavyset" in capturing his girth. He looked as though a simple walk to his car would leave him wheezing and short of breath. There was no ashtray in sight, but I smelled the cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes and breath. Under his chin, a second chin bulged, leaving his shirt collar so taut it might choke him to death if he bent to tie his shoes. He still had most of his hair, which he wore long and curly on top, brushed back in a style I hadn't seen since the days when Elvis Presley got his start.

  I'd scarcely sat down when his telephone rang. "Excuse me," he said, and picked up. "This is Winston Smith." And then, with caution, "What's up?"

  I had no way of knowing who was on the other end of the line, but he flicked a quick look in my direction and angled his body for privacy. "Hang on a sec." He put the caller on hold. "Let me take care of this and I'll be right back."

  "Sure thing."

  He left the cubicle. I watched line one blink red until he picked up the call from a nearby phone. On the wall across from me, his sales manuals were lined up on a built-in credenza. In a prominent position, there was a color photograph of a bride and groom on what I assumed was their wedding day. I crossed and picked up the framed photo for closer scrutiny. Winston must have been in his midtwenties, slim, handsome, curly-haired, and boyish, his tuxedo contributing an air of casual elegance. At his side, a hefty Kathy Cramer was squeezed into a wedding dress so tight it must have hurt to breathe. Above the sweetheart neckline, her breasts were plumped like two homemade yeast rolls that had risen and were ready to pop in the oven. In the years since that day, the two had reversed roles. Now she was trim, an exercise addict, while he'd apparently surrendered all hope of getting into shape. What was up with that? I kept thinking about Tannie's offhand remark, that Winston knew more about Violet than he'd admitted.

  I replaced the photo and took my seat again mere moments before he returned, murmuring, "Sorry about that." He sat down again, but something in his manner had shifted. "My wife," he said, by way of explanation. "She called while I was with a customer and I had to put her off. Don't want to do that twice."

  "No problem. I had a chat with her earlier and she showed me the house. Nice place."

  "Should be for the price we paid," he said with a quick forced smile.

  "You play golf?"

  He shook his head. "She's the golfer. I keep my nose to the grindstone. If you notice me limp, it's from dragging my ball and chain." He laughed when he said it and I smiled in response, thinking, Ding, ding, ding, ding.

  I said, "I could never see the point of golf myself. Chasing a ball and then hitting it with a stick? Though now that I think about it, that describes a lot of sports. What about your daughters? Are they golfers?"

  "Amber was taking lessons before she left for Spain, but we'll see where that goes. She's easily bored so she'll doubtless move on to something else. Brittany's not athletic by any stretch. I'm sure Kathy'd tell you that she takes after me."

  "I understand Tiffany's getting married in June."

  "Ka-ching, ka-ching," he said, pretending to punch up sales on a cash register. "You know how much weddings cost these days?"

  "Not a clue."

  "Me, neither. Kathy keeps me in the dark so I can't object. I'm sure it's something close to the national debt."

  We both laughed at that, though the observation didn't seem at all funny to me. Clearly Winston and his wife weren't operating off the same page.

  He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his upper lip where a subtle sheen of moisture had appeared. He returned the handkerchief to his back pocket. "Anyway, she tells me you have questions about Violet Sullivan."

  "If you don't mind," I said, expecting the standard assurance that the subject was really no big deal.

  "Doesn't matter if I do or not, I'm under orders," he said, again with that quick, easy laugh to show what a wag he was.

  Mentally I squinted, listening to the second set of comments embedded in the first. I'm not a fan of doublespeak. His asides were the sort offered by married couples who banter in public, airing their grievances with an eye to soliciting outside support. If Kathy had been with us, she'd have countered with a few ha-has of her own, thus guaranteeing a laugh at his expense. He would have joined in the merriment, which is what seemed pitiful to me. The man was in pain.

  "What orders?"

  "What?"

  "What orders did she give?"

  "Skip it. Long story."

  "I love long stories."

  "You don't have other people you have to talk to?"

  "I'm supposed to meet Daisy, but if you let me borrow your phone, I can change that. You want to go somewhere and grab a cigarette?"

  * * *

  I called Daisy at work and had a quick conversation with her, telling her something had come up and I wasn't going to make it for lunch. I suggested that if Tannie was driving up I could hang out in Santa Maria and the three of us could have dinner at the Blue Moon instead. She seemed to like that idea, so I said I'd call her again later in the afternoon and we could finalize our plans.

  I'd expected Winston to step out into the vestibule to grab a smoke, but he took out his car keys and walked me to the side lot where he'd parked his car. He handed me into the passenger side of a metallic blue 1987 Chevrolet Caravan station wagon. When he got in on his side, he said, "This is only mine until the '88s come in. Then they swap it out."

  "Slick."

  "You think so until you look at the underlying attitude. No matter how fond you are of what you have, there's always something hotter coming down the pike. It's a recipe for discontent."

  "If you buy into it," I said.

  "That's my job — promoting the concept. Coaxing the gullible into taking the bait."

  "So why don't you quit and do something else? No one has a gun to your head."

  "I'm fifty-four years old, a little long in the tooth for any big career change. Can I buy you lunch?"

  "In matters of food, you can always count me in."

  I pictured McDonald's, but then I was always picturing McDonald's. I'd take a Quarter Pounder with Cheese over just about any other foodstuff on earth.

  He drove us across town and pulled into a supermarket parking lot where a fellow and his wife had set up a portable barbeque that was attached to a camper shell. The rolling metal rig was black,
about the size of a double-wide utility sink, with a pulley and chain that allowed for the raising and lowering of a rack. Chunks of meat had been laid on the grill over hot coals, and the smoky smell of charred beef filled the air. To one side, buttered rolls had been cut in half and placed on the grill.

  A steady stream of cars was turning into the lot, taking advantage of the numerous empty parking spaces. On a card table, I could see piles of paper napkins, paper plates, plastic cutlery, and numerous plastic tubs of salsa and beans. Nearby three portable picnic tables were set up with aluminum lawn chairs. An ice chest contained cold cans of soda for a quarter apiece.

  We parked as close as we could and eased into a line that was easily twenty-five people long. The wait was worth it, and I made no attempt to tidy up my manners as we ate.

  "Geez, how do they do this? It's great!" I said with my mouth half-full.

  "Santa Maria barbecue. That's tri-tip," he said. "You rub it with salt, pepper, and garlic salt, and cook it over red oak."

  "Fabulous."

  Both of us licked our fingers before opening the moist towelettes packets provided with the meal. When my hands were clean, I said, "Thanks. What a treat."

  "You're welcome."

  We walked back to his car, freeing up our lawn chairs for the people waiting to sit down. We lingered outside his car while he lit his after-meal cigarette. His thin candy-coating of mirth had dropped away and something darker had emerged. This was not a happy man. There was a heaviness about him that seemed to taint the very air. Apropos of nothing, he held up his cigarette. "Know why I'm doing this?"

  "She won't let you smoke inside."

  He flicked a look at me. "How'd you know?"

  "I was in the house. No ashtrays."

  "She runs a tight ship."

  "A lot of people feel that way about smoking," I said mildly, not mentioning that I was one.

  "Hey, don't I know it. Anyway, I don't want to talk about that."

  I didn't ask what "that" he was referring to. Instead I said, "Fine. We can talk about Violet, then."

  He was quiet for a long moment. "She was a tramp."