"University of Montana," she said, nodding. "Summa Cum Laude."
"You've been reading up on me."
"Surprised?"
"Not really."
"I just never figured out why you went to Montana for school. Me, I pretty much had to struggle just to get into a state school, but it sounds like you could have gone anywhere on a full ride."
He shrugged. "I grew up in Montana."
"Yeah, but Harvard, Yale, Princeton—"
"Do I seem like an Ivy League sort of guy?"
"I'm just saying I find it interesting you chose Montana, that's all. So after college, the FBI, and your dad passing, then what?"
"I traveled," he said. "Europe. Central America. Did that for three years, living on almost nothing. When I came back to the States, I stopped and saw an uncle in New York. He had an agency. Three guys, and he said he could use some spot help if I wanted to try it out. No promises, but if he thought I was a good fit, and I liked the work, there might be a full-time gig in it. It was mostly insurance fraud, but I didn't mind. And it turned out I was okay at it."
"Probably better than okay."
"Yeah, well, I worked there for two years. Then my uncle and I had a bit of a falling out, so I decided to hang my own shingle. This was back in eighties, when New York was a cesspool, so there was plenty of work."
"Was your uncle pissed, you competing with him?"
"Sure, but New York's a big town. There was enough work for hundreds of private investigators."
Gage felt drained. He hadn't talked so much about himself since his early days dating Janet. The waiter returned. Carmen went with the calzone, he had a 12-ounce sirloin and baby red potatoes. She castigated him for not ordering Italian food, and he said that he wasn't in the mood for Italian food, which is why he didn't want to come there in the first place.
When that business was finished, he said, "Now your turn."
"My turn for what?"
He took a sip from the Corona he'd ordered, the beer cold and smooth. He felt it working its magic on him, and he knew he'd have to go easy or he'd be asleep before the meal was finished. That was the bitch about being in his forties. "Your turn," he said, "to give me the condensed version of the Carmen Hornbridge life story."
"Ah," she said, nodding.
"Or the full version. I'm game for either."
There was already a dimming of the eyes. A retreating into the shell. She took her time replying, and when she did, she recited the facts as if she was reading them out of an encyclopedia. "Born and raised in Michigan. Went to school at MSU. Got involved with the student paper, which got me hooked on journalism. Landed a job with The Detroit Free Press out of college. Did pretty well for a while, seven or eight years, but saw the writing on the wall. The big newspapers are going under eventually, so I freelanced. Made a comfortable living writing puff pieces for magazines, but I got bored. A colleague told me about the opportunity with The Bugle and I jumped at it." She offered up a smile that seemed carved with a knife. "And here we are."
"You make it sound so exciting," he said.
She shrugged. "I never said it was."
"Why do I get the sense that you're leaving something out?"
"I don't know, why do you?"
"Were there any men in the mix?"
There it was. A flash of anger that swept across her face like lightning. He would have missed it if he hadn't been looking at her.
"None that mattered," she said.
"Really?"
She looked at her water glass. "Yes, really. I was very focused on my work. Not everybody can be lucky in love, you know." She must have remembered who she was talking to because she suddenly looked up. "I'm sorry, that was stupid."
"No, it's true. Not everybody's lucky."
"It was a careless thing to say."
He reached for his beer. "It's all right. I specialize in saying careless things myself."
"It's just . . . There's stuff I don't talk about, you know? It's not a big deal. I just don't talk about it."
"Believe me, I know exactly."
"Maybe you could avoid that one topic. I know I asked about your past, so I don't blame you, but relationships . . . it's just not something I want to get into. I'll talk about other stuff. My childhood. My favorite color. Why I find men with canes sexy."
"You find men with canes sexy?"
"Most definitely. There must be something phallic about it, I guess."
They both laughed and the tension was gone. He drank his beer too fast and got light-headed. They talked about other things. She talked about growing up in Harrisville, a little town on Lake Huron, the standard happy life with the insurance salesman dad, the kindergarten teacher mom, and two older sisters who'd both found standard, happy lives of their own. He talked about his recent addiction to crossword puzzles. She complained about how much work the classified section of the paper was, but how she couldn't get rid of it without creating a small town riot.
Now that they were on comfortable ground, conversation was easy—or at least easier. With most people, conversation was a strain. Gage had a hard time hiding his disdain for small talk, and when a conversation moved to topics that actually interested him, he often said things to deliberately rile people. There was that side of him, the need to poke the nest of snakes with a stick. It was ugly, and he hated that about himself, so usually he said nothing. But with Carmen, talking wasn't work. It was just talking. It still wasn't something he enjoyed all that much, but it wasn't so bad, either. There were only a couple of people with whom he'd felt that way. Alex. Janet, of course.
Even the silences were comfortable. On the way back to his place, with their stomachs full and their minds wrapped in the gauzy afterglow of beer and wine, they rode next to each other without saying a word. But it wasn't awkward. A light rain pebbled the windshield. She pulled up his drive, past Mattie's dark house, and parked in front of his door.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
She turned away. Her face looked wan and yellow in the porch light. The shadows from the droplets of water on the windshield dotted her skin like pennies at the bottom of a pond. "For not pushing things back at the restaurant. For not prodding me in a place that was sore."
"Hey, the feeling's mutual."
"I'd just like to focus on the future."
"Sounds like a plan."
"I know it's probably hypocritical. Here I am asking you all these questions, nosing around in your business, and then I clam up on you. It's not intentional. I just . . ." She trailed off.
"Really, Carmen," he said, "you don't have to explain. I understand."
She looked at him. Shadows painted half her face black, but her eyes were wide and bright. He was suddenly aware of this lovely creature across from him, all jagged edges and shards on the inside and curves and gentle slopes on the outside.
"Carmen—" he began.
He didn't get a chance to finish. She kissed him. Her tender lips pressed up against his own, and she cupped the side of his face with her right hand. It had been a long time since he'd kissed anyone, and it wasn't a long kiss, not more than a few seconds, but it still sent a bolt through his body. He tasted tomato sauce and garlic and red wine. He thought of the cold metal bench in Central Park, that spring night so long ago when he'd first kissed Janet.
Then it was over. And she was pulling away, wearing a hint of a smile, eyes lowered demurely.
"You should probably go," she said.
"Yeah," he said. His throat tightened, his voice husky. He cleared his throat. "Listen, I really—"
"Don't ruin it."
Now she did look at him. There was wanton desire and fear and lots of other things all mixed together. His heart pounded so hard he felt the pulsing behind his eyes. He wanted to ask her inside. He wanted to tell her to go away and never bother him again. He wanted to tell her all the things about the world that were wrong and why it was so. Instead, he opened the door and stepped out of the c
ar. His leg buckled—for the first time in years he'd forgotten all about his bum knee—and he hopped forward a step, catching himself before going down.
"Well that was graceful," he muttered.
"Forget something?" she said.
He turned and saw her holding out his cane. He took it from her, too embarrassed to even say thanks.
"Talk soon?" she said.
"You bet."
He started to close the door, then remembered the list of names in his jacket pocket. "Oh wait, I've got something for you." He took it out and handed it to her, figuring he could get them again from Alex. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing, but he figured it couldn't hurt at this point. "I think there's a good chance the girl is one of the people on this list."
"Hmm," she said, looking the list over. "A bunch of 'Abbys,' huh? I don't want you to think I kissed you just to get this."
"I don't."
"Though if I would have known," she added with a mischievous smile, "I certainly might have."
* * *
It had been the longest day he'd had in years, and Gage slept like it. He didn't wake during the night once—a rarity—and didn't crack open his eyes on Sunday until nearly noon. The last time he'd slept that late had been two years earlier, when he'd had walking pneumonia. That had been a pretty crappy day. Last night had been nothing like that.
The warm glow lasted until he was in the shower, and then it was down the drain and gone as fast as the day's sweat. He couldn't even remember the feeling, it disappeared so fast. He felt cold and alone. He turned up the heat. Kept turning it up. It was scalding now, he knew it was because his skin was turning red, and still he felt cold.
He didn't know how long he was in the shower. It must have been a while because it was only when the water turned cold that he snapped out of his stupor. Wiping the fog off the mirror, he saw that his back and shoulders glowed like a radioactive tomato. Without drying himself, he slipped on his robe, grabbed his cane, and wandered to the kitchen, leaving wet footprints on the linoleum.
He started a pot of coffee. He settled himself into his easy chair. Fog blurred the bushes and rooflines of the houses outside his windows. At first, he wasn't sure if the fog was real or in his mind, and he kept blinking to clear his vision, but the fog remained.
He drank coffee and did crosswords for several hours. Finally, he began to feel better, though he still felt sluggish. Digging through the boxes in the big closet in the spare bedroom, he dug out his old spiral notebooks and found the names and numbers of some of his old contacts in the Southwest, fellow private investigators and various law enforcement types he'd had contact with over the years. Maybe he'd wander down to the gas station and make some calls.
On the other hand, maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd drink more coffee and do more crosswords.
The thing that finally roused him to action was Mattie. He sat there on the floor in his robe, surrounded by dusty notebooks, and he wondered about Mattie.
With excruciating slowness, he got out of the chair. With slightly less slowness, he slipped on his clothes, some jeans and an old Coney Island sweatshirt. Momentum bred momentum. Inertia could be overcome. By the time he donned his jacket and fedora and walked through the thick fog to Mattie's, only the lingering remnants of his trance remained—a dull ache in the chest, a melancholy that was like the aftertaste of cheap wine. He welcomed the thick, wet air against his face, and savored the silence of the fog-swaddled world around him.
Using his cane, he rapped on her door. Nobody answered. He rapped again. He was preparing to rap a third time when the door opened and Zoe stepped outside, eyes hidden behind dark shades. She wore an acid-washed jean jacket with the gray cotton hood up, black leather pants, and ratty sneakers. The facial adornments were gone—no makeup, no nose ring, just pink pale skin that looked like it had been rubbed raw.
"You can watch her for a while," she said.
She pushed past him, heading down the driveway. He watched her and wondered if he should say something, but then Mattie called to him.
"Gage?" she said. "That you?"
Her voice was coming to him from down the hall. He closed the door and headed to her room. The house smelled like chicken noodle soup. The orange tabby darted out of Zoe's room, nearly tripping him. Mattie's door was open, and he found her sitting in bed with an avalanche of pillows behind her, Wheel of Fortune on the television, an empty soup bowl on the end table. It might have been wishful thinking, but he thought he saw more color in her cheeks, a touch of rosiness.
The right side of her hair was braided, the left side loose. Hands resting on the bedspread, she clutched the remote in one hand and a hairbrush in the other.
"Well, you look like crap," she said.
"I always appreciate your honesty," Gage said. "What's up with Zoe?"
"What do you think is up with her?"
"Ah. You told her, then?"
"Bingo."
Her voice sounded off, like a piano slightly out of tune. Gage settled himself on the edge of the bed. Mattie raised the remote and muted the television.
"Stubborn kid," she said, still looking at the television. The wheel was spinning. "I think she pretty much hates my guts right now."
"I very much doubt it."
She sighed. "She was in here doing my hair. It was peaceful. Figured it was as good a time as any. Probably should have turned off the set, 'cause I know Pat Sajak can be annoying. And Vanna. That woman should sue Mattel—they used her image to make Barbie and she should get her millions."
"There's lots of boys who probably had their first sexual experience with her in mind."
She wrinkled her nose. "That's disgusting. You might as well make it with a mannequin. Pamela Anderson would be better. At least she doesn't pretend to be respectable. She knows what she is and puts it front and center."
"Both of them, in fact."
She looked at him. "I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to make me laugh."
"Is it working?"
"No."
"Okay. I guess I have to try harder."
"I guess you do. You thought any more about what I want?"
Gage hesitated. "Honestly?"
"Why would I want something other than honesty?"
"Good point. Then no, I haven't."
"Hmm. I think I would have preferred a lie."
"Too late now."
Mattie looked away. He wondered if he'd gone too far.
"I will think about it, Mattie. Promise."
"Well, that's good."
"It's just . . . my life is complicated."
She nodded. "Whose isn't?"
"Look, no matter what happens, I won't let her end up out in the cold, okay? I'm just not sure about the legal part of it. It's just not a mental picture I've ever been able to form, you know? I just never thought the universe would throw that particular curveball my way. I'm just trying to wrap my head around it, that's all."
"Well, I'm trying to wrap my head around dying, Gage."
"Mattie—"
"No, no, I'm sorry." She exhaled slowly, as if she was counting out the breath. "You don't need that crap. I promised I wouldn't do that sort of thing, the self-pity thing, and I'm not about to break that promise now. I understand where you're coming from. It's okay. Really."
They sat in silence for a while, and as the silence deepened, so did Gage's disgust with himself.
"Maybe I should go talk to her," he said.
"Can't make things worse, I guess."
"Oh, I'm sure I can. Where do you think she went?"
"Who knows. Probably the beach. She's like you that way—goes there to think."
"No, I go there looking for seashells."
Mattie nodded. He patted her hand, but still she wouldn't look at him. Her disappointment hung over them like a dark cloud. He left the room and headed to the beach, holding his fedora as he crossed the highway. The cars were nothing but headlights until they were almost upon him, pale yellow
orbs passing through the fog. Down on the beach, he could only see a narrow strip of colorless sand, the ocean hidden behind a gray wall. He saw the dark shape of a person directly ahead, and it made him think of an actor on a stage in front of a curtain.
It was a strange thing, hearing the ocean but not seeing it. A few feet away, he could finally tell that it was Zoe. She had her back to him, arms crossed, her neck glistening from the moisture in the air. He stepped up next to her. She continued staring straight ahead, as if there was something to see rather than just a tapestry of gray.
"Quite a view," he said.
She didn't laugh. It was all right. He wouldn't have laughed either.
"Look, Zoe, this wasn't my idea."
"Oh, great," she said, "that makes me feel so much better."
"I'm just saying that Mattie's worried about you, that's all. She wants to make sure somebody's looking out after you when she's gone."
"I don't need anyone to look out after me."
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's true."
"I told her what I wanted. She didn't listen."
She still wasn't looking at Gage, but her voice broke a little. Gage didn't know what to do. He was in uncharted waters. Should he pat her on the shoulder? Give her hug? Offer some sort of homespun wisdom? He hated feeling so uncertain.
"Oh, I think she listened," he said. "She knows what you want. And I think she's pretty sure you could take care of yourself if you had to. She just doesn't want you to have to, you know what I'm saying?"
"Not really."
"You're sixteen years old, Zoe. You shouldn't have to be thinking about where to find a good apartment. You should be thinking about . . . prom dresses and college applications."
She looked at him then, eyes cold. "You've got to be joking."
"It's not about me. It's about Mattie."
The Gray and Guilty Sea Page 10
