Blame: A Novel (33 page)

She’d liked that shed, built of redwood grown black over the years. She’d kept a half-gallon bottle of bourbon there, and a sticky, thick-walled glass.

If she hadn’t gone to prison, would she, as Cal believed, have drunk her way to some other tragedy? Who’s to say she wouldn’t have gotten sober anyway? She always said that she’d joined AA in prison because she needed some proof of remorse to offer Mark Parnham. But history demonstrates that events transpire and narratives are built around them. She may have thought she was getting sober for Mark, or because it was one of the few ways she could feel better about herself, but maybe she really was done with drinking and would’ve been done anyway, on or around the same date, in or out of prison.

One afternoon she took Ava along on her ride. March favored the boy, and the three-year-old girl, who had her mother’s dense curly hair in toffee brown, was growing bossy and insistent. Squirmy at first, Ava fell asleep against Patsy’s front as they plodded uphill in the mild spring air.

Patsy kissed Ava’s sun-warmed head and wondered lightly if she
might have had children after all. Fearing a miasma of regret, she felt her way carefully around the topic. Without the guilt, she might have been more inclined toward kids. Most people reproduced. Even Brice had donated to a sperm bank several times. And Ian, of all people, had three boys. She’d seen him over the years at Sarah’s parties. They’d been friendly, but had little to say to each other. He’d married one of his students. In fact, he’d been dating his future wife at the same time he was seeing Patsy—Sarah revealed this recently, thinking Patsy long past caring. But an old anger pinched.

They came to a stream, and Diotima picked her way carefully across. The change in rhythm woke Ava, who grabbed onto the mare’s black mane and glanced all around. Make her gallop, she said.

•

Classes started Tuesday, but Monday saw the usual start-of-term meetings at Hallen, departmental in the morning and interdisciplinary that afternoon. In between, Patsy had salty soup with Sarah in the vast, noisy student union. I had something happen over break, Patsy said, and told.

Sarah’s pale blue eyes filled with tears. Unbelievable, she said. You must feel so . . .
unburdened
. But, god . . . her voice lowered. That was such an ordeal, what you went through. It changed you so much, Patsy. You were such a free spirit, and so funny before. And so damn much fun. And I know we all lose a certain amount of that anyway, just getting older, getting married, having kids . . . But you used to have this, this
effervescence
that never really came back.

That was the beer, said Patsy. Hi, Georges.

You two! Georges grabbed the back of Patsy’s chair. No thanks to you, Patsy, I did get a hold of your friend Lewis and had him send in a letter. We’re interviewing next week. He’s by far the most qualified applicant we have, though the dean’s insisting on diversity. Still, we can keep our fingers crossed.

Georges raised his crossed fingers like a benediction and went off toward the food.

Of course Lewis had applied for the job, Patsy thought. He’d always wanted a tenure-track job in Southern California and had applied to every comp lit position that came open. So far, without exception, the jobs had been awarded to women and/or minorities.

Sarah burst out laughing. Patsy, she said, you’re white as a ghost!

•

Dad wants to see you, said March.

Patsy found Cal in the library. His chair had been moved as far back from its usual spot as it could go. He was in it watching a
Gunsmoke
rerun, with Beckett in his arms. What are you doing way back there? she called.

Cal lowered the volume some. March says that I have to sit at least fifteen feet from the screen so this little bugger doesn’t get irradiated.

Ahh. Patsy dragged an ottoman over and waggled a finger at Beckett. The baby had March’s troubled eyebrows. On-screen, James Arness was walking his horse and searching the ground along a stream. He reached down and picked up a lady’s brooch. Music swelled as he gazed up the trail. A commercial came on, and Cal muted.

So we’ve had some good news, said Cal. The kids’ house was open yesterday and there were five bids. Pick of the litter.

They better get home and pack up.

All that’s been arranged, said Cal.

Well then, they better start house hunting.

Forrest has to find a job first. Or sell his latest idea.

They just sold a million-dollar home. They could live at the Ritz.

They had no equity, hon. They’ve been living on a line of credit. They barely broke even.

Which meant, Patsy knew, that they hadn’t. She said, You didn’t go ahead and tell them they could stay here, did you?

The kids have always come home.

Not as a family of four, with a boat, said Patsy. Why not put them in one of the Glendale units? There are vacancies.

I don’t think so. Cal stood Beckett up so he and the baby were face-to-face. We can’t have you in one of those rattraps, now can we, little man?

Well then, they have to go into the possum trot. I want my new kitchen back. March has already—

I’m not having the four of them stuffed into that shoebox while you and I rattle around this monstrosity. What’s wrong with that picture?

Nothing, Cal. This is our house. And now is a really tough time for me.

Cal reached over and quickly ran his fingers over Patsy’s knuckles. I
know, my love. I know. But they’re in dire straits. I can’t just put them out. Can’t we give it a try? As a favor to me?

Patsy stood and glanced around the room, its beautiful cedar shelves, the heavy rust velvet drapes and deep reading chairs. Although unmoved by March’s plight, she didn’t want to seem selfish. I suppose, she said.

Cal nosed his grandson’s fuzzy head. You’re in, my friend. The missus here says you can stay.

•

If only all my cases were this easy, Ricky Barrett said by way of greeting when she picked up the phone.

You can make that call to Parnham now, he went on. The Hilton had a registration book on-site. Your guy signed in May second for three nights. I’m still waiting for computer records. But I saw his signature. The airlines all have records off-site, but it only took a few days to retrieve data from Continental. There he was, a noon flight into LAX, a 6:40 a.m. flight home to O’Hare.

You’re good, said Patsy.

Well, that was kid stuff. That just proved he was here, it didn’t establish him as the driver, which was trickier. So then I talked to the merry widow. She assumed I was coming after money. She doesn’t have any, and Mr. Hogue didn’t leave her any either. I had to tell her that the statute of limitations had run out for any lawsuits. I have no idea if that’s true, but it got her talking. She knew the story a little differently. You with me?

Right here, Patsy said, tucking the old rag over her knees.

Well, hang on to your hat. Because it’s not only time to call Parnham, but maybe the D.A. too. Because what our Mrs. Simms heard was more of a deathbed confession. Hogue told her flat out that he’d killed a couple people in California—and possibly his passenger too. He told her it was an accident, that he wasn’t drunk, he just didn’t see anyone. It was getting dark, you and he were yukking it up, and going into your driveway, he gunned it.

A roar in her head as from some distant stadium. A sense of strength fleeing her limbs. So he knew all along, she said.

He knew. And he walked. And you took the rap.

•

She went to her car and in the bright day drove east into Altadena. Her first thought was to update Joey Hawthorne, as she had broken the story and had first rights.

On a cul-de-sac at the very base of the mountains, Joey’s small gray Japanese-style house had a flat roof and a grid of square windows. Peering into that grid, Patsy saw bare studs and crumpled canvas tarps in the living room. Nobody answered her knock. Of course, Joey was at work. She’d gotten the job she’d interviewed for, on a feature film with a famous director, at almost twice her usual rate. She was in preproduction now and would go on location—in rural Mississippi, of all places—late in the summer.

Patsy’s old Pomelo Street home was only half a mile west. Brice had said that it had sold again for more than a quarter of a million dollars. Altadena, with its big lots, mature trees, and mountains, had become desirable.

The sycamores had been artfully pruned, the house painted a dark olive green with red doors and trim. The buckled concrete driveway was gone, replaced by gravel in slow curves. The whole place looked set-dressed, perfected, and Patsy missed its former white raffishness.

She’d been inside only once since prison; she’d stopped by the open house when she sold it in ’92. Otherwise, Cal had an agency that handled the sale, including the cleaning and repairs and the Realtor.

She parked and walked up the new driveway. The oleanders still formed a hedge and were beginning to blossom; they’d been flat-topped and squared and were now so dense, Bill Hogue would never be able to climb through them.

She wondered if guilt had helped kill Bill Hogue. Imagine a tumor in a soft organ and guilt’s acid wash absorbed again and again.

From the top of the driveway she surveyed the rangy iceberg roses and tall grasses planted in the new lazy curves. Could she have stayed here all along? Or would the dead still have visited too often, rushing up like pesky neighbors as she left the house, and then loitering on the lawn until she returned.

May I help you?

A young woman in a painted Mexican skirt stood on the porch.

I used to live here. The place looks great.

Oh, thank you. We love it.

She was barefoot, shiny brown hair in a ponytail. A wide silver bracelet.

The driveway is marvelous, Patsy said. I’ve never seen gravel on an incline like this. Aren’t you afraid it’ll all wash into the street?

A little will. But it sits on a bed of this absorbent recycled asphalt that holds it in place. Would you like to see inside?

The porch, expanded, was now teak. The entry walls were lichen green, and in the kitchen sat the vast O’Keefe & Merritt range.

Is that my old stove? Oh my god.

We found it in the shed and had it reconditioned. Did you grow up here?

I bought the house when I first moved to town.

Was that before or after the murder?

Patsy turned, mute with shock.

You didn’t know? It was part of the full disclosure when we bought the place. A woman and kid were murdered in the yard. Some people won’t buy a home if anyone died in it, let alone was murdered. There were six bids, and only three stayed in after full disclosure. We’re not superstitious.

Patsy ran her hand on the cool green counter. I like this tile, she said.

I did it myself. I went to Home Depot and took their tiling class, then bought a tile saw. It took a million hours, though.

Gravel crunched underfoot as Patsy walked to her car.

In Old Town, Patsy bought a coffee at the counter of an Italian bakery and took it outside to the cobbled patio. It was Thursday, almost three o’clock. She sat at an iron table, the same table where she’d finished the Hull House book. March had been at the Pondo then too; loveless at twenty-seven, she’d been prone to extravagant emotional states. Who could’ve foreseen in that volatile sad sack today’s efficient mother with the copious milk supply and pliable husband?

Patsy?

She looked up into Mark Parnham’s gentle eyes. The skin under his chin was looser, his hair a paler brown. He cut a more striking figure in his dark gray suit, this one more Italian, less Rotarian than usual. She stood for a brief hug.

It’s good to see you.

And you. Terrific suit. Very dapper.

He looked down at it as if surprised. I’ll tell Liz you approve.

His new wife.

How is married life? Patsy asked.

We’re just having a darn good time.

Patsy had attended the wedding last year and, at Mark’s request, stayed long enough to shake hands with the bride, a plump brunette (another plump brunette) with a formidable bosom, porcelain nails, a ready laugh.

Ricky’ll be right here, she said. Why don’t you get some coffee?

She pulled her tote bag closer. In its thickets was Lucia Robinson’s four-page statement. Patsy had told Mark that new facts had surfaced in their case. Now, seeing him—as ever, he seemed smaller and more fragile than she remembered him—she was worried about his response. She
didn’t want him to feel bad, and she certainly didn’t want any money back. He’d never asked her for a cent and in fact had to be convinced to accept anything. Martin had gone through college and would finish law school without incurring debt. She was still proud of that.

Like his father, Martin Parnham was soft-spoken, unassuming, and, as surprisingly, a talented chorister. When invited, Patsy had attended his school and church recitals, her status there, among grandparents and admiring aunts, that of a distant relation with a blot. She was rigorously ignored, and usually she left with the final chord. On those occasions that Mark intercepted her at the door and brought them together, Martin was cordial.
You remember Patsy? Of course, hi, how are you? Thanks for the card and all.
And at his Pepperdine graduation:
Thanks for sitting through all those speeches!
Which was as close to irony as she’d heard from any Parnham lips.

If Martin had ever despised her or been repulsed or objected to her in any strenuous way, she never knew. Still, for all the times he’d addressed her in writing (
Dear Patsy, Thank you for the check
. . . ), he’d never once—and over the years, she’d come to watch for this—greeted her by name. Never said
Patsy
aloud in her presence. Perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to, but she tended to think he was holding his own in a way that his father never spotted. She didn’t blame Martin, and almost admired how for twenty years now he’d stuck to his guns. She saw it as a secret line he’d drawn, an alliance with the two he’d lost.

Mark returned with his coffee, smiling his serious smile, a lift of his doleful mustache. She’d last seen him a week after his wedding; they’d sat on a blue sofa under klieg lights in some cable television studio in North Hollywood and gazed at each other’s faces with fondness (as directed, but not difficult) while the cameras rolled and a commentator talked about the New Healing.