Blame: A Novel (34 page)

She still wouldn’t say they were friends. They were too gentle and polite with each other and had never spent enough time together for ceremony to flag.

Mark pulled out a chair, and Ricky Barrett, big-shouldered and grinning, came out of the café with his coffee. Hands were shaken. Long time, long time, Ricky said to Mark.

A middle-aged woman reading at the next table looked them over frankly before returning to her book.

You start, Patsy, said Ricky. Tell as much as you like, and I’ll take over.

She spoke hesitantly, carefully. I have a friend named Joey Hawthorne who works in the movies . . .

Patsy had dreaded describing the accident, was afraid she’d reopen the wound, but now found as she spoke that she need only to allude to it.

So this guy took my keys, and he was driving when we got to my place . . .

Mark listened, his eyes full of movement. Patsy expressed none of her jubilance and was surprised at how quickly she said what she’d come to say.

After talking to the first wife, I asked Ricky to check things out. And I also have this—she reached into her tote bag for Lucia’s statement.

Mark scanned the document. He looked up at Patsy. Did you always suspect that you weren’t driving? he asked.

Never. Not for a second.

Ricky produced Xeroxes of hotel and plane records, then recounted his conversation with the widow. I talked to her again yesterday, he said. She’s agreed to be interviewed under oath.

Mark passed a hand over his eyes, rubbed his forehead. To think you went to prison, Patsy, he said. In that man’s place.

He might not have gone, said Patsy. The main reason I did had to do with my priors, and driving without a license.

If we caught him on the run, he’d have done some time, said Ricky. For leaving the scene, criminal negligence.

But the poor fool. He takes my keys to be responsible, and this happens.

I don’t feel sorry for him, said Ricky.

The first time I saw you in Malibu, Patsy, Mark said, you told me I had to be angry. I’ll say the same thing to you now.

Oh, it’s in there. Like I swallowed a crocodile. But mostly, I’m relieved. I finally understand those people who are exonerated after ten or fifteen years in prison. At first when they get out, they’re so amazed.

And to think of all you’ve given us based on false assumptions. We’ll really have to come up with some way to—

What’s done is done, said Patsy. Besides, Martin is the best investment I’ve ever made. And Mr. Hogue probably couldn’t have done much for you.

Yes, but there was no reason for you—

Actually, there are lots of reasons. I never should have had my car out. I wasn’t supposed to be driving at all.

That’s a traffic ticket, said Ricky. A fine, court-ordered AA. With priors, ten days in county, of which you’d serve two hours. Not two years in the pen.

I still want to own my part in it, said Patsy. It was my old, unpredictable car, my driveway. And I did pick up that creep.

How do you know he didn’t pick
you
up? said Ricky. Everything else he said was a soft soap of the truth—till he was meeting his maker.

And Patsy, what he did’s a whole nother order of magnitude, Mark said with enough sharpness to give her a small shock. He left my wife and child to die, and you to take the blame. How Martin and I’ll ever square with you—

We’re square now, Patsy said. And she didn’t regret the money. Giving it away had cost her some degree of self-sufficiency, but that was fair and adequate compensation for her actual role in the debacle, whereas before, when she thought she’d been driving, no amount of prison time or cash would have been sufficient. I mean it, Mark, she said. I don’t begrudge a penny.

And then, like that, she wanted to be done. Transfer the blame and close the door.

Ricky offered to get more coffee. No, thanks; no, both Mark and Patsy said, and then they stood, and hugged. Mark, in his new stylishness, walked off into the cool afternoon. Patsy noticed stillness in her chest, a solidity, as if indeed a door had shut. Possibly, and without regret, she would never have to see or talk to Mark Parnham again.

Ricky lifted his coffee cup, swirled the dregs, and drank. He took that well, he said.

He’s always taken it well.

How are you taking it?

Up and down, she said. It’s hard to know what it means.

It means you had a real bad rap for a long time and now you’re out from under it. Ricky hitched his pants and looked up and down the alley. I’ll talk to the prosecutor, see what we can do about the conviction. Find out what kind of hoops we got to jump through. I think we’ve got a good shot at it, though.

One more thing, he said. Don’t let that crocodile you swallowed eat
you alive. They tell ’em in anger management depression’s just anger kept inside.

Just. She smiled to hear Ricky Barrett attempt psychology. I’ll keep an eye on it, she said.

•

March routinely cooked dinner, but now, at four-forty, the kitchen was empty and mum. Patsy, her stomach sour from the black coffee, took out bread, peanut butter, jam. Then a commotion of doors, a baby’s cry, and in came March with husband, children, and many shopping bags from Whole Foods.

So much traffic on the 2, March said. It took forever, and I have to get these children fed before they completely freak out.

Let me make them a sandwich, Patsy said, lifting the peanut butter so March could see the label. Organic!

Okay, a half one, split in two, March ordered. Just to tide them over.

Patsy started to smile at her imperiousness when March said, Thanks, Patsy. That would help a lot.

The sandwich half, halved, was taken by Forrest, along with the children, into the garden room. March began emptying the bags. Dad gave me his credit card, she said.

Oh, good, said Patsy, who had already guessed as much.

Here, said March. You want a banana with that?

Sure, thank you. Patsy added banana slices to her sandwich, put it on a plate, then helped March put away groceries.

So you’ve started teaching, Patsy? Or are you still on break?

Tuesday was my first class, Patsy said.

But you’re also doing research. Going to libraries and such?

She’s asking, Patsy thought, why I’m never home.

Mostly I’ve been reading for my next class. And today I met with a couple of guys about some old, old business. Patsy straightened boxed cereals in an overhead cupboard. I don’t know if your dad said anything yet, but I’ve had some unusual news.

Nobody’s told me anything, said March. Just a sec, she added, turning. Does anyone want some blood orange juice? she yelled to the garden room.

After a chorus of noes, she slung the jug into the fridge. Sorry, go on.

It turns out that I’m actually not guilty of the crime I went to prison for. You know, I was in a blackout, so I never knew what actually happened, but it’s come out that I wasn’t driving the car when those two people were killed.

Ava ran up and clasped her mother’s legs.

March glanced down at her daughter and held up a finger—Time-out!—to Patsy. Ava, honey, did you eat anything? she said.

Daddy ate my sandwich.

Forrest, called March. Why did you eat her sandwich?

I’ll make her another real quick, said Patsy.

No, it’s okay. Here. March tore open a bag of rice cakes. Take one to Daddy too. Patsy?

No thanks.

So what will you do now? March said. Are you going to sue?

Patsy flattened a bag, then folded it. No, I won’t sue.

But this is a big deal. Your whole reputation was ruined, said March. If I were you, I’d definitely sue.

•

Cal was watching the news in the dark, alone. Patsy slid into the chair next to his and waited for him to press the mute button. In the blue glow, the broad planes of his face made her think of granite escarpments.

Is everything okay? he said.

Yes, but I thought I’d bring you up to date. I was just talking to March, and I didn’t want you to feel out of the loop.

So loop me in, he said, and leaned toward her as she told him about the meeting with Ricky and Mark.

I could tell you were chewing on something, he said. And of course I had some idea.

Ricky thinks we have enough to get the conviction overturned.

Good, Cal said. I’m glad you followed up on that. His eyes, ink-blue as ever, gazed at her a moment longer. Then he picked up the remote.

I’m sorry, she said. Were you involved in the news?

No, not really.

Are you annoyed because I didn’t tell you about this earlier?

I’m not annoyed. If you can get the conviction overturned, I’m glad for you.

But that’s not the point, at least not as far as I’m concerned, she said. I don’t really care about the conviction.

Okay, said Cal.

God, she said. What’s wrong with you Sharps? March just asked if I was going to sue someone. What about everything I went through? Prison, twenty years of guilt and remorse! Doesn’t that merit sympathy? How ’bout a little outrage? And aren’t you a little bit relieved to find out I didn’t kill anyone?

I suppose.

You suppose? You suppose what?

I suppose the fact that you weren’t driving mitigates some responsibility.

A sickening fear hit. Cal, do you think I’m still guilty of killing them?

It was your car, he said gently. Your house. Your lower companion. You took that first drink and set the whole thing in motion. As a participant, you have some responsibility for how things played out.

Oh! she said, suddenly seeing things his way. All could be traced to that first drink, that willful abdication of control. She’d known full well that if she drank, all bets were off and anything might ensue: hilarity, oblivion, tragedy. Yet she drank willingly, even knowing she’d be powerless over whatever madness she’d begun. And madness had ensued. So whoever was or wasn’t driving at the moment of impact was somewhat immaterial. After all, everyone in the car is guilty in a drive-by shooting. In a bank robbery. In the Weathermen’s planting of a bomb. Sharondel at fire camp said she’d no sooner climbed into a car with a john than he stopped for a bottle and held up a 7-Eleven. And she got twice the time he did. For sitting in the car.

A hot tide of guilt, familiar but with a fresh new froth of shame—shame that she’d thought she was free of wrongdoing—spread through her. She imagined standing alongside Bill Hogue before the judge and being sentenced as a team, two hapless drunks whose shenanigans turned fatal.

She’d posited this very idea to Ricky and Mark, but they’d resisted her. Ricky had a soft spot for her, and Mark had forgiven her from the get-go for his own peace of mind. The moral truth, which Cal insisted on, was not so easily sidestepped. She covered her face with her hands as
sobs—deep, painful coughs of despair—burst out of her. Cal drew his hand down her back again and again.

I thought I could be free of it, she said, once she could speak. I felt so relieved.

I know, he said. I could see that you did. Come here. He pulled her gently. Come here, my love. My sweetheart.

In standing to enter his embrace, she bumped the table and sent a stack of magazines to the floor. Sorry, sorry, she said, crouching to pick them up.

On her haunches there on the carpet, gathering
New Yorkers
and Stanford alumni magazines as Cal daintily held his knees to one side, another thought arrived, this one in a man’s voice, a cowboy’s voice: Now just a gol durn minute.

She hadn’t been driving. She’d given over her keys when asked—and by all accounts, without a struggle. Bill Hogue was driving because he’d asked to. But he hadn’t been familiar with her old, heavy car or the steepness of her driveway. Nor had he anticipated pedestrians in his path—who could have? In many ways, the accident was just that. An accident.

Patsy? said Cal. You okay down there?

Of course she never should have taken the first drink. By the same token, what were the mother and daughter doing out at dusk, the hard-to-see time, the witching hour? What were they doing on private property where they were uninvited, unexpected, unwanted?

She gave the magazines a few sharp bounces to neaten the stack, and stood. Cal reached for her hip. Come on, sweetie, he murmured. Come here.

Cal, she said, no.

He looked up at her, perplexed. Some of his white eyebrows were so long that they looked like tendrils seeking a trellis. My love? he said.

I’m going out, she said.

•

She drove over to the Rose Bowl, where her cell phone had decent reception, and parked alongside the golf course. It was a beautiful, cold evening. White and gray cloud masses slid over each other, tore apart, light breaking through. The wind came in gusts. People were walking
and running and skating around the old stadium and greens. She looked like one of them, on the phone before or after a jog.

Burt was home alone, he told her, practicing the banjo.

Cal still thinks I’m guilty, she said.

Oh, he’s just afraid that you’re going to kick up your heels and run off.

If he’s not careful, that could be a self-fulfilling prophecy, said Patsy. I can’t stay guilty for his sake.

You’ve been too haunted for too long as it is. You took the whole thing so damn hard. I always wished you could forgive yourself more than you did.

I know, said Patsy. It’s temperament. Some of us take stuff too hard.

And some of us don’t take stuff hard enough, Burt said. Which was always Bonnie’s complaint about me.

The banjo sounded a twangy flourish.

It amounts to the same thing, said Patsy. Inappropriate response—Freud’s definition of neurosis. My last shrink would say it’s the result of all that madness in our house growing up. How we dealt with it.

Probably, said Burt. But don’t you find as you get older, you say to hell with that psychology and self-help crap and just start doing what you want?

I have no idea what I want, said Patsy.

You will. Especially now. Don’t you feel all freed up?

It’s only been a couple weeks, Burt. I don’t know how to feel freed up.