Rundown (11 page)

“No, he expects me to bone this creature the size of a hog, because he thinks food runs in the family.” The word
family
seemed to trigger associations. “Why is it,” she asked, “neither you nor I can sing?”

It isn't very dark in my bedroom at night. Headlights stroke the blank ceiling, and when you sense someone downstairs you can lie awake thinking it's almost dawn, when it's just one
A.M.
I wondered how much more of this I could stand, waiting for everyone to discover the truth.

For a quiet house, this place makes a good deal of noise, gentle, rustling, whispering sounds, Dad home, Dad hungry. I was aching for sleep, thirsty for it. I lay there wide awake, thinking, Where would I go once they knew.

I got up way before dawn and sweated six miles on the machine in the cellar. The last half mile I upped the speed so fast that I was nearly thrown off the machine backward, the belt whining. Dad had tacked an alpine scene on the wall. You ran toward a snowy slope, a meadow bursting with green, flowers like yellow stars.

I bumped into Dad as he stood waiting his turn. He looked baggy eyed and worn. There was definite pudge around his middle inside his gray T-shirt. He says he puts on weight just holding his breath.

He started the machine but didn't get on it, the black belt humming along unoccupied. The machine burst into action at the speed I had previously set, and he looked at me with mock horror, leaning into the button until the machine was ticking along sedately, three miles an hour, nothing.

“Your mother and I had a chance to talk last night,” he said, not getting on the machine yet. “She has a good idea.”

“Mom is full of ideas.”

“But this is one you'll like,” he said, starting to run.

Chapter 19

“I think it's just awful the police won't leave you alone,” called Mrs. Emmit over the hum of the van. “They should leave you in peace.”

Marta's dad swore at a truck that changed lanes too quickly. He cocked his head to yell into the back of the van, where Marta and I were swaying with the motion of the stop-and-go traffic. “You have to be a certain type of person to be a cop.”

I felt a little defensive about my own two detectives, and offered, “They just try to do their job.”

“No, they don't,” said Mr. Emmit, ready to launch into a story about an officer he had seen bullying a homeless person, or maybe a meter maid with a snippy attitude. Mrs. Emmit said something, a sharp whisper, and Mr. Emmit put his shoulders up, like a turtle. “You're right, Jenny,” he sang out. “They do their best.”

This had been Mom's plan: a couple days out of town, and maybe the cops wouldn't need me after all.

The back of the van was a jumble of blue diving fins and Aqua Lung cylinders, heavy tanks of air. The diving masks were night-glow yellow, the Scubapro buoyancy compensator vests and wet suits perfect black. It looked like a squad of sea monsters had run afoul of the Emmits and paid a terrible price.

All the way down Highway 101 the Emmits were especially sensitive, asking me if I needed the window up, or maybe down a little more, and did I mind the radio on, KCBS jabbering the news. They finally turned the radio to some easy listening station at Mrs. Emmit's whispered prompting, the music you hear in the dentist's office, jazz musicians without any blood in their bodies.

During this drive it was never, “Is anyone hungry?” or “Anyone have to use the ladies'?” meaning did we need to pee. It was always, “How do you feel, Jennifer?” “Jennifer, need a soda?” They usually traveled along in a happy uproar, caught up in one of Mr. Emmit's anecdotes, actresses with laryngitis, actors with elevator shoes. Mrs. Emmit usually tossed the lunch into the farthest corner of the van and then had the passengers pass food forward all the way to Monterey, two or three hours, depending on traffic.

Today they were like hospital workers taking a celebrity madwoman out to see the scenery. I had never seen them so considerate, asking me if I was hungry, offering me a pillow for my head, as though I could not hold myself upright.

The drive to Monterey goes in three distinct stages as you head south from San Francisco Bay. First, there is urban damage, freeway construction and stucco houses, Fremont, San Jose.

Then, hills. They were dry now, in the middle of July, cows looking up-slope or downhill over yellow pasture-land. The Emmit family always grew calm as they left this landscape behind, because they were finally reaching the point of it all, the gentle descent into a new countryside, rolling past the sand dunes toward the curve of Monterey Bay.

Their weekend house is in Pacific Grove, right at the Monterey city limit. It overlooks the heavy seaweed and sluggish surf of the Pacific, down a short, sandstone bluff blanketed with ice plants.

Because they visit only every few weeks, the front gravel always needs to be raked, and the back yard needs to be mowed. The Emmits immediately tore into every challenge the place offered, a cute wood-frame house, green with white trim. They aired out the garage, unlocked the basement, laid gardening tools in the driveway, a hoe and shears on a long handle.

Mrs. Emmit was a round, pretty woman, with red hair cut short. Mr. Emmit used to be an active stick-figure, all hurry, cursing with every step. Now he was mostly peaceful, on the latest nerve medication. He wanted to see me happy, turning the living room light off and on and off again as I unwound the vacuum sweeper cord. “Or leave it on,” he asked me, hand on the switch.

“I'm all right,” I said.

I never could get impatient with the Emmits. Besides, today I came to think that they saw something in me, a pallor in my skin, a weakness in my gaze, that I was only half aware of.

Marta asked, “Do you want to dive this afternoon, or wait?” She phrased it a couple of different ways, “We could suit up and head down there now. We could do it in the morning.”

“Let's wait,” I said.

“Sure,” said Marta, as though I had guessed the winning answer.

Her family unpacked, saying I could have the back bedroom all to myself, the one with the brand-new mattress and a digital clock I could unplug if it made me nervous. “I hate waking at night and seeing the little dot blinking off and on,” said Mr. Emmit, as though I would take comfort in hearing that other people had troubles, too.

Coverlets had to be shaken out, windows opened all the way, the bungalow reawakened for the weekend. While Marta and I swept dust mice out the back porch, I told her about Desert Flower.

I had wondered how I would bring up the subject, and now that I had started I told her about Quinn, too. Not in detail, reserving everything but the bare facts, folding up a multicolored quilt as I spoke, Marta giving me her full attention, holding her head sideways, like a dog eager for every sound.

Marta enjoys other people's good news. What kind of horse was it? she wanted to know. Who had trained her? Had I seen her medical papers, and did I know anything about Flower's diet? What kind of tack did I have—saddle and bridle—and who was going to take care of the mare when I wasn't around?

It was easy to brush off Marta's questions, but I felt embarrassed for not knowing the answers, not having learned more. The horse was even now standing in the shadow of a stable, needing someone's company.

Marta was thrilled, so much to ask. When was Quinn's dad moving back to Oakland? Would they buy or rent an apartment? What had gone wrong in Reno? Was Quinn still going to go to a California college, or did he try for one of the Nevada schools? Did he still play basketball?

All I knew was because of my lie Quinn was a part of my life again.

Marta stopped asking, suddenly. She probably felt bad for talking so much, pestering a victim.

Lynn Emmit, Marta's mom, was a student set designer in the days when my mom was studying opera, and Mrs. Emmit still created sets for various theater groups up and down the West Coast. She drew pictures in idle moments, beautiful doodles, ballerinas and deer.

“Now I know this is ordinary macaroni,” said Mrs. Emmit, scooping out noodles baked with cheese. Nothing like what you're used to, she implied.

“We eat pasta all the time,” I said.

“What I do is freeze stuff before we head down, meat-loaf, chili, pack it into the Coleman cooler, and stick it in the microwave.”

I knew her culinary methods, we all did. But the litany of how the Emmit family cooked their suppers in advance, and the admiration of the food as we ate, was a part of the comforting ritual of a visit to the bungalow. No, it didn't need any more salt. Yes, we would each have a second helping.

The surf was in the distance, huffing and puffing.

Chapter 20

I had slept the night through, no dreams, and I wondered how long I could stay where I was.

My body made the decision to sit up, feet on the floor, standing, walking on autopilot. I parted the curtain, and cloudy morning brightness made me blink. House finches fluttered from branch to branch.

A hummingbird feeder hung from the tree. The feeder was always empty when the Emmits arrived, ignored by the aggressive, iridescent hummers. But they came back, loyal to their memory, even after weeks of nothing. The hourglass jar was full of ruby sugar water, two quick male hummingbirds sword-fighting in mid air.

I heard the Emmits in the kitchen, whispering.

Marta and I agreed that a lean breakfast was best before a dive. We each ate half a piece of dry toast. “Feeding the fish” was scuba lingo for throwing up underwater. It was an experience we both wanted to avoid.

I washed the few cups and dishes, while Mrs. Emmit used a worn dishtowel patterned with Shakespeare's face and the words
THE PLAY'S THE THING.
The dish soap smelled like lemon candy. The view out the kitchen window was a pine tree, syrupy sap beading the crook of a branch, a fishing boat chugging out to sea. The window was dirty with salt spray, and the view was hazy.

As we watched, Mr. Emmit's face appeared. He was squirting Windex and clearing the panes with a fistful of paper towels.

It was a little unusual, this two-person kitchen routine. My family either loads the washer or lets the dishes dry bare.

“I hear Cass finally picked a photographer,” said Mrs. Emmit.

“She chose one months ago,” I said. “But the man she wanted is on long-term assignment for
National Geographic.”
It figured that Cass had wanted a wildlife photographer to snap her wedding.

“Oh my,” said Mrs. Emmit, ready to console. Marta marched by with the shears on a pole, the tool for reshaping the branches of tall trees.

“The consultant recommended one,” I said. Cass had said she wouldn't let ninety-nine percent of the photographers she reviewed take pictures of her autopsy. “Cass says he understands her vision.”

“You have to learn,” said Mrs. Emmit. Mrs. Emmit remembered our birthdays and gave us each a present for Christmas, but sometimes I didn't understand her.

“To listen,” she added. “So you can give people what they want. Sometimes I'm sitting there with my colored pencils and my sketch pad, all ready to create a set design for a play, and the director doesn't have a clue!”

“Cass has a good idea she wants a garden wedding, with a string quartet and the sun shining.” Somewhere outside the shears snipped.

“At least you don't have to read Cass's mind,” said Mrs. Emmit.

I fished for the old-fashioned plug, a rubber stopper with a ring. I pulled the plug ring, and the sink gave a pleasant gurgle. I like to take a moment and rinse out the skein of suds clinging to the sink, splashing everything away.

“A friend of mine wants to write an article about you,” said Mrs. Emmit, hesitation in her voice. “Ruthie Deerborn writes for one of those weekly newspapers everybody reads. Full of stories about interesting people.” Her voice rose upward, like a question, but not.

My expression must have encouraged her.

“She's excited about the way you defended yourself,” she said. “When you hear about something like that, we all want to stand up and cheer.”

It would have been easy for someone to look at me and think, She's embarrassed, but pleased.

“That would be all right, wouldn't it?” said Mrs. Emmit. “Sharing what happened with the public?” She put her damp hand on mine. “We wouldn't have to use your name, Jennifer. Only your friends would know.”

I stretched my wet suit on the front yard gravel and examined the connectors, early morning low cloud burning off. Most divers don't like to expose their suits and masks to any more full sun than they have to—it dries out vinyl.

Marta joined me, two mad scientists with humanoid body parts. “Soon they walk the earth,” said Marta, sounding just like the German biology teacher at our school.

I worked the purge button, to make sure the action was clear, and did what Mr. Emmit always recommended—blew through all connectors, just to make sure a spider or a moth hadn't tucked himself in. It had been too long since I had been down, and I kept tightening and loosening my mask strap, making sure it fit.

Chapter 21

I always feel ridiculous just before I enter the water in that Halloween diving getup. Everything made a science-fiction noise, my feet squelching sand with each step.

Marta made it look natural in her black-and-yellow gear, her eyes alert behind the lens of her mask. She waded into the sea, slipped her fins on, then ducked her head under the surface, taking that first, wonderful look below. Then she treaded water, took the mouthpiece from between her teeth, and said, “Take your time.”

I wet the inside of my mask with a little water, cooling the inside of the lens so it wouldn't mist up. I rubbed some spit inside the lens, too. I made a point of going slow, feeling nervous. This was unusual. I had always loved diving. But they talk about the premonition you have hours before a moray eel takes a chunk out of your shin.