"S" is for Silence (8 page)

“That's what divorce is for,” I said, blandly.

“I know, but I loved her. I didn't want to live without her. I thought I might knock a little sense into her. That's all I was trying to do. I know I was wrong. Sometimes I can't believe I ever thought that way, but I did. She was stubborn…willful…and she never changed her ways. I was as good to her as I knew how and she left us anyway. About broke my heart.”

“And you've never remarried?”

“How could I? I have nothing to offer. I can't say I'm divorced, can't say I'm a widower. Not that any woman's asked. Once Daisy left home, I took this job. Pastor gave me a place to live and I've been here ever since.” He was silent for a moment, emotion churning under the surface.

“Tell me about the car.”

“I can tell you exactly. Her and me had a fight. I forget now over what. I tore down a panel of her lace curtains and she went berserk, tore down the rest and threw them in the trash. She went over to the Moon and I followed her. We started drinking and she calmed down some. I thought everything was okay, but that's when she up and told me she was leaving me. She said it was over and she'd be gone the next day. I didn't believe a word. Violet said things like that every other week. This time she was crying so hard it tore me up. I was sorry for what I'd done. I knew those lace curtains meant something to her. I wanted to make up for that and everything else.

“She'd seen the car a couple days before and that's all she talked about, so I went down to the dealership and bought it. I drove it home that same day and parked it out in front, then went in and told her to look outside. When she saw the car, she was like a little kid. It's the happiest I'd ever seen her.”

“When was that? What date?”

“July third. Day before she left.”

“Did she talk about going somewhere, a road trip?”

“Not a word. She was nicer than she'd been in a long, long time, so I thought things were fine. We spent Saturday morning together, the three of us—her, me, and Daisy. I had a job at work to take care of in the early afternoon, but after that I came back and we did some stuff around the house. At five, she fixed Daisy's supper—bacon and scrambled eggs, which was Daisy's favorite. Violet had a babysitter coming at six. She was going to put Daisy in the bath and get her ready for bed. She wanted to change clothes and she said we'd meet at the park in time for the fireworks.

“I stopped by the Blue Moon on the way. I'll admit I had a couple of beers…more than a couple, if you want to know the truth. By the time I got to the park, it was almost dark and the fireworks display was about to begin. I looked everywhere for her and finally took a seat and enjoyed the show by myself.”

“People saw you there?”

“Yes, indeed. That's one thing people had to give me. Livia Cramer was sitting right there talking to me, big as life. When I got to the house, I could see the car wasn't in the drive. I went in and realized Violet was gone as well.”

“But the babysitter was there, yes?”

“That's what she says. My thinking wasn't all that clear.”

“Why was that?”

“I had a couple more beers at the park and then stopped off at the Moon on my way home. That's why I wasn't too steady on my feet. I went in the bedroom and laid across the bed. I didn't look in Daisy's room because it didn't occur to me. I thought she was out with Violet, riding in the car. I figured Violet changed her mind and decided Daisy should see the fireworks. Next thing I know it's morning and Daisy's tugging on my hand.”

“And then what?”

“Then I went through the roughest two days of my life. Sunday morning, I called the sheriff's department to see if they knew anything. I thought she might have been arrested, or in a car wreck. Deputy said no, but if I hadn't heard from her by Tuesday, I could come in and file a missing-persons report, which is what I did when she hadn't come back. I gave up drinking that day and I haven't touched a drop of alcohol since.”

“And she never got in touch?”

“Not a call. Not a postcard. No word of any kind from that day to this.”

“Why'd you keep making payments on the car?”

“To show I loved her. To show I was sincere about changing my ways. I believed she'd come back, and on the day she did, if she ever did, I wanted her to know that I'd never lost faith.”

“It didn't make you angry to have to pay for the car she went off in?”

“It made me sad, but in a way…if she had to go…I was happy she had that. Like a parting gift.”

“By then, everybody thought you'd done something to her.”

“That's been my burden to bear and I hope I've done it like a man. I might sound bitter, but it's not about her. It's about the fact that I've been judged and condemned.” He reached for the bowl of peanuts and took one, then changed his mind and put it back. The dark sunken eyes came up to mine. “Do you believe me?”

“I don't have an opinion. I've been on this one day. You're only the second person I've talked to so I'm not in a position to believe or disbelieve. I'm gathering information.”

“And I'm telling you what I know.”

“What about the fifty thousand dollars she was said to have?”

“That was after Daisy's birth. I don't know the details except the labor went on for hours. Her water broke at nine o'clock on a Friday night, but nothing much went on. She was having contractions now and then, but she wasn't in much pain. She thought it might not be as bad as she'd heard. I don't know why but the minute any woman finds out she's pregnant, other women haul out some terrible tale about how hard it was, how somebody's cousin ended up hemorrhaging to death, about babies born deformed. She was scared to death and she wanted to hold off going to the hospital as long as she could. We stayed up all night playing cards—gin rummy—and she played me for a penny a point. I think she took something like fifteen dollars off me. After a while, the pains started coming harder and she got so she couldn't concentrate. I told her we ought to go and she finally gave in. We got to the hospital and they took her off to the labor room. That was at six
A.M.
The nurse came out and said she was only four centimeters dilated, so they took me in the back and let me sit with her. She was suffering something awful, but the doctor didn't want give her anything for pain for fear it'd slow her down. Noon, I went out to get something to eat. I got back to the waiting room as the doctor arrived. The nurse had called him because she didn't think Violet's labor was progressing like it ought. I don't know the particulars about what happened next. I know something went wrong and Dr. Rawlings was at fault. Daisy was okay. She was finally born around seven that night by forceps. There were female complications and the upshot was that he removed Violet's womb. There she was, sixteen years old, and she could never have another child. I don't think she gave a hoot about that, but she saw the opportunity to get some cash. I think she sued him for half a million dollars and got considerably less. She was tight-lipped about that and never would tell me the amount. She said the money was hers and it was none of my affair. Said she earned it the hard way and she wanted to make sure I never got my hands on it. She wouldn't put it in a regular savings account because she was afraid of community property laws. She got a safe-deposit box and kept the cash in there. I told her it was foolish. I said she ought to invest, but she was adamant. I think the money made her feel powerful.”

We sat and stared at each other while I digested the information. Finally, I said, “I appreciate your candor. At the moment, I can't think what other ground we need to cover. I may have questions for you later on.”

“I understand,” he said. “All I ask is you'll keep an open mind.”

“I'll do that,” I said. “And if further questions come up, I hope I can talk to you again.”

“Of course.”

After I left the church parking lot, I found a quiet side street and pulled over to the curb. I shut off the engine and took out a handful of index cards, jotting down what I remembered about the conversation. During interviews early in my career, I tried using a tape recorder, but the process was awkward. It made some people self-conscious, and both of us tended to watch the tape reel going around and around, assuring each other the device was working. Sometimes a reel came to an end and clicked off while the interviewee was in the middle of a sentence. I'd have to turn the tape over and then backtrack, which was off-putting to say the least. Transcribing a tape afterward was a pain in the rear because the sound quality was often poor and the ambient noise made some of it impossible to hear. Taking notes in longhand was just as distracting. I finally gave up and started winging it, quieting the chatter in my brain so I could hear what was being said. My memory has improved to the point where I can remember the bulk of an interview, but I still find it helpful to nail down the details while they're fresh in my mind. Over time, a portion of any recollection fades, and while I might remember the gist, it's the minutia that sometimes makes all the difference.

Cynic that I am, I did wonder if Foley had quit drinking because he was afraid alcohol would one day loosen his tongue, tricking him into saying something he shouldn't. For the same reason, I questioned his reasons for the lack of an intimate relationship since Violet had disappeared. Guilt produces a loneliness of its own. The temptation to confide has to be overwhelming at times. His suffering had been intense, but he'd never sought solace, or so he claimed.

I looked at the map again, noting the distance between the service station where Violet had filled her tank, the park in Silas, and the Sullivans' house. Must have been fifteen or twenty miles from point to point. It was possible, I supposed, that Violet had bought gas and then driven home, in which case she might well have been there when Foley returned. If that were the case, surely the babysitter would have said so. I put a rubber band around my fat stack of cards, then fired up the engine, put the car in gear, and headed for home.

 

As I was unlocking my front door, Henry emerged from his kitchen and locked the door behind him. He was looking very spiffy for a guy who favors shorts and flip-flops. He waved and I waited while he crossed the patio. It was close to cocktail hour and I figured he was on his way to Rosie's. “Actually, I'm driving down to Olvidado to take Charlotte to the movies. We'll catch the five-o'clock show and have dinner afterwards.” Charlotte was a real estate agent he'd dated twice. I was happy to see him take an interest after his recently failed romance.

“Sounds like fun. What are you seeing?”

“
No Way Out
with that actor, Kevin Costner. You think this is okay?” He held his arms out, asking me to make a judgment about his slacks and collared T-shirt.

“You look fine.”

“Thanks. What are you up to?”

“I'm on a job up in the Santa Maria area. I'll be driving back and forth, but I don't want you to worry if you don't see me for a couple of days. You better get a move on. Traffic's tricky at this hour.”

I watched him cross to his two-car garage, pausing long enough to see which car he took. His pride and joy is a 1932 Chevrolet, the five-window coupe, painted bright yellow. His other car is a workaday station wagon, which is serviceable but no great shakes. He backed down the drive in the vintage Chevy, waving at me as he disappeared from sight.

Once in my apartment, I dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool and went through my usual ritual of phone messages and mail. Cheney had called to say hi and he'd catch me later. Mail was boring. When I peered into the refrigerator, the sight that greeted me was no big surprise. The contents consisted of condiments—mustard, pickles, olives, and a jar of jalapeños—a stick of butter, a head of browning lettuce, and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi. I hadn't been to the grocery store for days, which meant I'd either have to make a supermarket run or eat out again. While I debated, I returned Cheney's call. I knew he'd be gone, but I left a lengthy message, telling him what I was up to. I wasn't sure what my schedule would look like after tomorrow, but I said I'd be in touch. Already this was feeling like the same sort of absentee relationship I'd had with Robert Dietz. How do I get myself into these situations with men?

I was halfway to Rosie's, less than thrilled with the prospect, when I thought about Sneaky Pete's. I knew Tannie would be working, and it occurred to me that we could chat about Daisy and Violet while I indulged in another spicy salami concoction on a kaiser roll. I trotted back to my car and drove into town.

 

Sneaky Pete's is a neighborhood hangout, serving a loyal clientele in much the way Rosie's does. Tannie spotted me when I walked in. I took a stool at the bar, waiting while she finished drawing two beers for a couple near the window. It was not quite six and quiet for a Wednesday night. Even the volume on the jukebox had been turned down to a tolerable level.

She returned to the bar and took out a wineglass and a bottle of Edna Valley, saying, “You drink Chardonnay, right?”

“Good memory.”

“That's my job. Daisy says the three of us are having lunch tomorrow.”

“That's the plan. I told her I'd call her as soon as I'm free. What time are you driving up?”

“I'm not sure yet, but early. I'll find out where you're going and I'll meet you there.” She poured my wine and then picked up her cigarette and took one last drag before she stubbed it out. “One of these days I'll quit. Working here, you have to smoke in self-defense. So how goes the battle? Daisy says you're already hard at work.”

“Well, I'm doing what I can. She drove me around the area so I could get the lay of the land. Serena Station's depressing.”

“Isn't it,” she said. “You meet Foley?”

“I spoke to that retired sheriff's department sergeant first and then to him.”

“That must have been intense.”

“Very,” I said. I took a sip of my wine. “You didn't tell me you had a house up there. Daisy took me by yesterday afternoon so I could see. Too bad about the fire.”

“We're lucky they caught it when they did or the house would be gone. We've got a deputy patrolling now to keep the riffraff out. My brother hates the place.”

“Daisy says you hope to buy him out.”

“If I can get him to agree. He's being his usual bullheaded self, but I think he'll knuckle under in the end. His wife's on my team. She's got no interest in being saddled with a house like that. I love it, but talk about a white elephant.”

“The land must be worth a fortune.”

“You ought to see our tax bill. The tricky thing is there's a move afoot to rezone. The rumor around town is that the old packing plant has been sold and the buildings will be demolished. That property butts right up against ours, so I've had developers wooing me all year, trying to get the jump on it before word leaks out. I'd love to hang on, but we'd net ourselves a bundle if we sell out to them.” She reached under the bar and pulled out a roll of paper, secured with a rubber band. “You want to see what they have in mind?”

I took off the rubber band and opened the large furl of heavyweight paper. What I was looking at was a watercolor mockup, showing the grand entrance to a walled community called the Tanner Estates. There were two big stone pillars leading into the development, with lush lawns on both sides of a winding drive. A few rooftops were visible in the distance, the houses widely spaced and nestled among mature trees. To the left, Tannie's house was beautifully rendered, restored to its original state, thanks to the artist's skill. “Geez, what I saw this afternoon didn't look anything like this. Where are all the big nasty oil tanks and barbed-wire fences?”

“I guess if you have bucks enough, you can make it look any way you please. I can't believe the county will approve the plans, but Steve says that's all the more reason to sell while we can.”

“That makes no sense. If the rezoning's approved, the value of the land would go up, which is reason to hang on.”

“Try telling that to him. He wants out from under.”

I released the edges of the paper and it rolled itself up of its own accord. “Was that where you grew up?”

Tannie shook her head. “It belonged to my grandparents, Hairl and Mary Clare. Mom and Steve and I lived there while Pop was away at war. When he joined the army in 1942, my mother moved back into the house. She didn't have job skills to speak of and Pop couldn't support us on his military pay.”

“Did you say your grandfather's name was ‘Hairl'?”

She smiled. “His name should have been Harold, but my great-grandmother couldn't spell so that's what she wrote on his birth certificate. My mother was named for both her parents—Hairl and Mary Clare—so she became ‘Mary Hairl.' Thank god the linking names stopped there or no telling what I would have been called.”

“Where'd ‘Tannie' come from?”

“It's actually ‘Tanner'—my mother's maiden name.”

“I like it. It suits you.”

“Thanks. I'm fond of it myself. Anyway, Hairl and Mary Clare lived in the house from 1912, when it was built, until 1948, when she had a stroke and went into a nursing home. Granddaddy bought a duplex in Santa Maria to be close to her.”

“You guys stayed in the house?”

“My mother couldn't manage on her own so we moved into the other side of his duplex. That way, she could make sure he was taking care of himself. He ate all his meals with us.”

“Big change for you.”

“And a tough one, too. I missed living in the country. I didn't have any friends, but I was free to roam. We had dogs and barn cats. It was idyllic from my perspective, but as she pointed out, the new place was closer to town, which meant I could walk or ride my bike to school. I finally got used to the idea. Once Pop came out of the army, he went through a series of jobs, the last of them at Union Sugar. He'd always loved farming—not that he ever made a dime—but after the war his heart wasn't in it and he couldn't handle the work. Mom would have pitched in if we'd had the chance to move back. Even after my grandmother died, I held on to that hope, though I can see now the chances were getting dimmer with every passing year. Granddaddy would have left the house to my mother, but she died before he did.”

“How old was she?”

“Thirty-seven. She was diagnosed with uterine cancer in 1951 and died two years later, when Steve was sixteen and I was nine.”

“Must have been hard on all of you.”

“My dad in particular. He was a mess. We moved from Granddaddy's duplex to a little house in Cromwell. I went to various schools in north county, which is how I knew Daisy. She and I were a couple of sad sacks in those days. We'd both lost our mothers and our lives had been turned upside down.”

“You were coping with a lot.”

“I was and I could have used some continuity. Steve and I saw Granddaddy every chance we got, but he was a sour old man by then and very bitter about life. There was a time when he'd ruled over his very own magic kingdom. Then suddenly, his wife was gone and his only child was dead. It was like he held Pop responsible for everything that went wrong.”

“Your father? How so?”

“Who knows? Maybe by association. Seeing Pop must have been too painful a reminder of the past. Granddaddy was probably happiest those three years when my father was gone and he ruled the roost. He died a month after my mom.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Hang on.” She broke away and picked up a food order from the kitchen window, delivering it to the guy at the end of the bar. I could see him tuck into the kaiser roll, fried egg dripping onto his plate, and I could taste the hot salami and cheese. When Tannie caught sight of my face, she placed an order for me without my even having to ask. I must have looked as mournful as a dog begging for table scraps. “Tell you who you ought to talk to is Winston Smith. Is he on your list? He's the guy who sold Violet the car.”

“Name doesn't sound familiar, but I can check. What's the story on him?”

“Nothing in particular. It's just this feeling I have. I always thought he knew more than he let on.”

“What's your opinion of Foley? I don't believe you've said. I'm talking about him as a person, not what he may or may not have done.”

I saw her attention shift. Another customer had come in and she moved halfway down the bar, as he was claiming a stool. He told her what he wanted, and I watched her make his drink, though it was not one I recognized from the liquors she poured. She obviously knew the guy and chatted with him while pulling bottles from the shelf, doing pours with a carelessness that comes from long experience. Having served him, she took advantage of the interruption to make a round of the tables, where she picked up three drink orders and tended to them before she came back to me. She paused to light a cigarette, answering the question as though she'd never been gone: “He was always a creep. I don't buy into that pious act of his. I've heard he's given up booze, but that doesn't cut any ice with me. A guy like that—scratch the surface, he's the same as he's always been. Only now he hides it better.”

“Did you have much contact with him?”

“Enough. Daisy and I were friends, but my dad never let me spend the night at her house. For one thing, the place they moved into was a nasty little dump, and for another, he saw Foley as the kind of guy young girls shouldn't be left alone with. Daisy was welcome to come to our house. When Foley dropped her off, he'd try to chat me up. I'm only ten years old and I can already tell that he's a world-class jerk.”

“You thought that at ten?”