by Sue Grafton
I said, “Hey! Slow down. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m mad is what’s the matter. You never seen a temper tantrum? Because this is what they look like where I come from.”
“What’s made you so mad?”
“Not a what. It’s a who.”
“Who are you so mad at?”
“Henry, who else? And I’m not just mad, I’m furious!”
“Why?”
“Because I messed up. I wisht he’d never encouraged me to bake because I can’t get it right. I don’t know why I even bothered to try.”
“I don’t get what happened.”
“I’ll tell you what happened. I put together this cake and baked it exactly like the recipe said. The whole middle sunk, and when I cut into it? Nothing but goo.”
“Aren’t you supposed to touch the center of the cake and see if it springs back before you take it out of the oven?”
“So now you want to criticize?”
“Sorry. What did Henry say?”
“He said his oven temperature was off, but he was bullshitting so I wouldn’t be upset. Said he’d have the gas company come out, but he was just being polite.”
“Henry wouldn’t do that. If the oven temp is off, the same thing would happen to him, so of course he’ll have it looked at. Even if you made a mistake, so what? Don’t you ever fail at anything?”
“No, I do not. And you want to know why? Because I hate feeling like this. Feeling like this is the story of my life and it stinks. I remember in grade school when I couldn’t do arithmetic standing at the board and I couldn’t spell for shit. Eight years old and I never been so humiliated in my life. I told my mama how bad I felt and you want to know what she said? She said, ‘Now, Pearl. That is the wrong way to look at things. You’re not all that smart, so you ought not to expect so much of yourself. You do the best you can with what God give you and in your case it’s not enough to worry about.’”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Would you listen to yourself? Your mother was a moron. There’s nothing wrong with you. You don’t like doing a bad job and neither do I. Who wants to feel stupid, incompetent, or inadequate?”
“But you can do all kind of things.”
“No, I can’t. I can do a few things well enough. Everything else, I try to avoid. Once in a while I learn something new in spite of myself, but that’s about it in the way of my accomplishments.”
“Name one new thing you learned.”
“I learned to pump my own gas.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous. You didn’t know how to pump your own gas?”
“So now you’re criticizing me?”
“Well,” she said, grudgingly. And then she couldn’t seem to think of anything else to say. “Anyways, I’m off to Rosie’s. She said I could help in the kitchen, peeling taters for which I’ll get paid. Miminum wage, but I can’t complain.”
“You mean minimum wage?”
“That’s what I said. Miminum wage.”
“Well, there you go then. Gainfully employed.”
• • •
Henry’s back door was open and Killer was asleep on his mat, forcing me to step over him to tap at the screen. By now, I knew Killer was nothing but a big old baby, but you don’t want to startle an animal that size when it’s deep in the throes of a doggie dream. The other rule is you don’t want to get between a dog and what it wants to eat. That can make them cranky. Henry was in his rocking chair with his Black Jack over ice and the newspaper open in front of him. When he heard the knock, he called out, “Unlocked,” which I took as permission to enter.
He seemed both surprised and pleased to see me, setting his paper aside so he could get up and give me a dignified hug, which didn’t involve a lot of body contact. He’s eighty-nine to my thirty-nine, but we both know what it means to be circumspect.
He said, “Anna stopped by earlier and confessed that she’s the one in a family way, so I owe you an apology.”
“No, you don’t, but I accept anyway. What a scene. I was never so astonished in my life.”
“I can just imagine. That Robb woman’s behavior was so unseemly. And now all of them are embroiled in an impossible mess,” he said. His cheeks were tinted with embarrassment. “Pardon my bad manners. I should have offered you a glass of Chardonnay.”
“Thanks. I’d love one. Also a couple of ibuprofen if you have any on hand. I’m fresh out. I just finished a self-defense class and I’m hoping to head off a full-body lockdown.”
Henry returned to his rocking chair and folded the paper away. I was soon supplied with good white wine and over-the-counter pain meds, which generated a lengthy conversation about Ned Lowe and my dismay at learning he’d been living in the office crawl space under my feet. This reminded him to show me the new alarm panels, duplicates of those I’d had installed at the office.
“What’s Lucky up to?” I asked. “I didn’t see him as I was passing through the yard.”
“He’s gone off to Harbor House to sign up for a bed. He lost his when he was thrown out for drunkenness, which means he got sent to the end of the line. I don’t know how long it takes to work your way back up the waiting list, but he’s doing what he can,” he said. “I don’t suppose you ran into Pearl as you were coming in the gate.”
“Actually, I did. I gather she had a massive cake failure that threw her into a snit.”
“The woman has quite a temper. I tried to explain, but she said I was patronizing, so I gave it up,” he said. “At any rate, my present concern is your cousin Anna. What will she do?”
“I was just about to ask if she’d said anything to you.”
“She asked what I’d do in her place, but I refused to be drawn in. That’s not a decision she should make in haste, but from what she says, she’s running out of time. You’ve met her siblings up in Bakersfield?”
I nodded. “Ethan and Ellen. Both are married with three kids each and Anna looks on their lives with horror.”
“Is that your opinion as well?”
“Not at all. I saw Ethan with his kids and thought he was a good dad—just the proper mix of freedom and supervision. The problem is he’s a talented musician who’s missed out on the career he wants. There’s just no way for him to balance family life and the requirements of the road. I’m sure a lot of people manage, but he isn’t one. Ellen, I don’t know about. The point is, Anna views parenthood as a fatal trap.”
“Well, it’s too bad she doesn’t have a friend who could serve as a good example. A positive role model might make all the difference.”
Henry made supper for us: a green salad and cheese omelets with fresh herbs. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed him until I found myself back in the thick of conversation with him, catching up on life in general. I was home by nine. Before I did anything else, I got out my gun cleaning kit and sat at the kitchen counter. Once I was satisfied that it was immaculate and in good working order, I wrapped it in a clean cloth and locked it in the trunk at the foot of my bed. Then I crawled between the covers with every muscle in my body aching, but my heart at peace.
28
THE BLOWUP
June 1979
The drive up the pass took twenty minutes, not long at all when you felt like you were a million miles from town. As the road wound up the mountain, Santa Teresa was visible below, diminished to a distant crescent with the Pacific Ocean cradled in its curve. A marine layer hovered on the beaches, looking smoky and insubstantial. Just shy of the summit, Troy made the left turn onto Horizon Road, which threaded along a mountainous terrain that felt isolated and remote. The few houses they passed were set well back from the road on heavily wooded lots with little open space to spare. In places, vehicles were lined up nose-to-tail along the berm, attesting to the popularity of the area despite the fire hazard.
Sloan kept an eye on th
e house numbers, pointing out Austin’s when she spotted it on a metal mailbox posted near the road. Troy pulled his pickup into an empty spot, wheels tilted slightly against the hill. A few yards down the road, she could see Bayard’s car parked in much the same way, left front and rear tires hugging the slope. In front of Bayard’s car, she saw Poppy’s Thunderbird, and beyond that, Stringer’s van. Troy and Sloan trudged up the steep gravel driveway. Toward the top, much of the timber had been cleared, leaving generous expanses of open space under a bright sunny sky. Austin’s mother’s station wagon sat on a parking pad out front.
The Browns’ cabin was constructed with an exterior of half-logs, as if built by pioneers, though the house was probably fewer than twenty-five years old. She caught sight of the shake roof, which was doubtless fire resistant. Two stone chimneys flanked the main structure and a wide front porch was furnished with rustic bentwood chairs. The front door stood open and music was audible, emanating from the rear.
As she and Troy passed through the living room to the kitchen, they could see through the oversize sliding glass door that the parcel was flat and large enough to accommodate a swimming pool with stunning views down the mountain to the coast. The pool decking was Saltillo tile and sported a large stone barbecue at one end. An oversize Weber grill sat next to it. Kids were milling around the pool. Half the chaises longues were taken and the air smelled of Coppertone, pool chemicals, and an occasional whiff of dope.
Sloan watched Fritz cannonball off the diving board, raising a tsunami of splashes that had the girls shrieking and ducking to protect their hair. A boom box blasted the Beatles album Help! Patti Gibson and Steve Ringer, better known as Stringer, were dancing barefoot on the concrete apron at the deep end of the pool. Sloan recognized two sophomores, Blake Edelston and Roland Berg, neither of whom she knew well. Bayard was smoking a joint. He smiled at Sloan and then chugged down his drink from the same cup he always carried, his perpetual bourbon and Coke.
On the far side of the pool, Austin sat on a green metal glider in his bathing suit, already a gorgeous red-brown under his suntan oil. His old girlfriend Michelle, in a hot pink T-shirt and a snug pair of navy blue OP shorts, sat on a stray cushion at his feet, looking every bit the acolyte. She had an enormous tangle of dark curly hair that fell across her shoulders. She put a proprietary hand on Austin’s thigh, giving Sloan a wide-eyed look. Apparently, the two were back together, which might have been what had put him in a charitable mood. As he rolled a joint, he glanced up at Sloan with a smile that seemed friendly enough to make her think he was sincere about the truce. Maybe she’d bury her suspicion regarding his authorship of the anonymous note. Better to let their antagonism dissipate without adding further fuel.
The beer keg sat in the shade against the back of the cabin. An oversize plastic punch bowl sat on a nearby harvest table, the virulent pink contents surrounding an island of solid ice. There was also a bucket full of ice cubes and a stack of clear plastic cups. Iris was manning the punch bowl in a black bikini, her skin already darkly tanned. Sloan was guessing she lay out in her backyard most weekends, soaking up the sun. Fritz tossed back punch with the same abandon as everyone else; anything to feel like one of the gang.
Iris ladled a cup of punch for Sloan and offered a second to Troy. “Joy juice,” she said, “unless you’d rather have beer.”
“This is fine,” Sloan replied.
“I’m a beer kinda guy myself,” Troy said and grabbed an empty plastic cup.
Iris polished off the punch she’d poured for Troy and then paused to light a cigarette, probably thinking she looked sophisticated for a fourteen-year-old. All Sloan could think about was Iris splayed out on the pool table while a wobbly handheld video recorder made a pitiless visual record of her disgrace.
Sloan took a sip of her punch. The alcohol content was almost overpowering, with a faint suggestion of fruit. She made a face. “What’s in this? Yuck.”
“All natural ingredients except for the red food coloring. Vodka, pink lemonade, and sloe gin, whatever that is. The strawberries are organic. Very wholesome.”
“I don’t see strawberries.”
Iris peered into the bowl. “Oops. Guess I forgot. Oh well. I leave it to your imagination.”
“Not my business, but are you going to be okay up here? Poppy told me you were supposed to be spending the night with her.”
Iris made a dismissive gesture. “My parents are at a day-long retreat. Tantra yoga. Unfolding their spiritual natures by screwing their brains out. They won’t be home until after dinner.”
“Just be careful.”
“Totally.”
Sloan crossed the patio to a spot near Austin and stood watching him roll another joint, which he stacked with its mates in a vintage cigarette case.
“I see you got here all right,” he remarked.
“This place is great. When you said ‘cabin,’ I was picturing Abraham Lincoln.”
“Nothing so crude. Have a look around if you want.”
“Thanks.”
She took her punch and went into the kitchen. She was unaccustomed to drinking, but she didn’t want to appear uptight. She was also ever so slightly tense in Austin’s company and the punch was helping her relax. Groceries had been unloaded and the counters were covered with packaged hamburger buns, potato chips, onions, condiments, paper plates, and plastic ware. The sink was packed with ice, soft drinks and bottled water nestled in the depths. The six-burner propane stove looked like it had never been used. In the background, she could hear the Beatles singing “Yesterday.”
The living room had been furnished with two big upholstered couches and assorted comfy-looking side chairs. The coffee table was plank, in keeping with the fantasy of frontier life. Sloan took in the high-gloss cherry paneling, the rag rugs, and louvered shutters painted a soft blue. A wood-burning fireplace was central to the side wall, with ample firewood stacked up on the stone hearth. The interior of the house smelled of wood smoke and the inevitable touch of mold.
Off the wide hallway, she saw bunk beds in one guest room and a full-sized bed in each of the other two. The second wood-burning fireplace was located in the master suite, which was more luxurious than many she’d seen in Horton Ravine. As she passed the master bedroom, Poppy emerged from the bathroom in a red halter-top bathing suit, shoes in hand, her street clothes folded neatly over one arm. Her skin had the creamy texture of silk with a tracery of blue veins showing through. In strong sunlight, she’d burn in half an hour and be left peeling for a week.
“Hello again,” Poppy said.
“Hey, when I asked for a ride, I wasn’t thinking about the fact that Iris rode up with you. How’s she getting home?”
“Bayard’s taking her, last I heard.”
“Great.” Sloan cast about for something more to say, but she and Poppy had lost the capacity for small talk. “Anyway, I’ll see you out by the pool.”
She closed herself in the bathroom, where she changed into her bikini, already wishing she were somewhere else. One curious side effect of the shunning was that it had left her feeling detached. She understood now how easily loyalty could be dispatched and how little most relationships meant. She left her clothes on a chair in the master bedroom and tugged at the bottom of her bathing suit. The bikini, while flattering, left more of her exposed than she was comfortable with. She crossed the hall and moved through the living room and kitchen to the patio.
Fritz stood in the shallow end of the pool, water up to his waist. “Hey, Troy! Catch this!”
He used his clenched hands to squirt a stream of water at Troy, who stood on the diving board poised to go in.
The water caught Troy in the face. Fritz’s hyper braying cut through the cheers as Troy dove in, his body slicing the water with scarcely a splash. Austin watched Fritz with a barely concealed contempt. Fritz was a sophomore, one year behind them at Climp, and his showin
g off was typical of his immaturity. Bayard had once suggested Fritz had a crush on Austin. At the time, she hadn’t given much credence to the claim, but she was aware of how often Fritz stole quick looks at Austin, like a kid hoping for his mother’s approval.
Sloan watched Austin fire up a joint, sucking in the smoke, which he held for a count of ten. When Austin got stoned, he turned nasty and she hoped she wasn’t going to be the target of his caustic remarks. As sweet as Austin had been during their brief romance, withering judgments came more naturally to him.
She put her drink down on the edge of the pool near the deep end and sat down, dangling her feet in the water as she watched Patti and Stringer making out.
From behind her, Poppy appeared. “Can I have some of that?” she asked, pointing at her punch.
“Sure, have it all. It’s too strong for me.”
Poppy took the cup, downed half the remaining pink punch, and made a face much as Sloan had.
Sloan edged off the side of the pool into the water. She turned her body and held on to the side briefly before she sank. She drifted toward the bottom, loving the silence, the isolation, and the escape. The water was chilly and she pushed off the concrete bottom and crossed the pool under the surface, doing the breaststroke. She’d have to find another ride home. No doubt about it. She couldn’t sit in a car with Poppy for even twenty minutes if Poppy was going to wheedle for information the way she did at the house. For now, she seemed to have dropped the subject, but who knew how long that would last?
None of this was worth all the bad feelings. Sloan decided that as soon as she got home, she’d destroy the tape. Since it had surfaced, all the demons in hell had been freed. Now it was time to force them back into the box. If Austin reneged on the agreement, she’d find a way to deal with it. In the meantime, she couldn’t imagine Troy or Iris owning up to their behavior, but if one of them had an attack of conscience and confessed all, she could still claim she hadn’t seen that part of the tape. Who was going to contradict her?
