Read Mary Ann in Autumn Page 19


  He had planned on going back to the studio to finish an end table for a client in Seattle, but early-afternoon hookups worked well for him, since Michael raised a fuss when Ben’s play cut into their evening time. On the other hand, Michael expected full disclosure after the event, and this was not the day for that: they’d be waiting for the results of Mary Ann’s surgery, and there would be other things to talk about before dinner. “Sorry,” he told the guy. “I’ll give you a call, though.”

  The guy nodded but looked rejected, so Ben showed his sincerity by fishing a business card from his wallet. “That’s my cell,” he said. “Or you can call me at my studio. I’m usually there during the day.”

  The guy studied the card. “Master craftsman, huh?”

  “I work wood.”

  “Oh, yeah? Sure hope so.” The guy winked and squeezed Ben’s arm as if no one had ever made that joke before, then sauntered back to his own locker.

  Too bad, thought Ben, as he watched him round the corner out of sight.

  Then, as he tugged his T-shirt over his head, someone came up behind him and asked: “How was Pinyon City?” He pulled the T-shirt into place and turned to find a face so jarringly out of context that it took him a while to identify it.

  Cliff from the dog park. Cliff of Blossom and Cliff. The old man was shirtless and wearing baggy brown trousers that were shiny-thin with age.

  “Oh . . . hey, Cliff . . . it was fun.” Ben had mentioned their upcoming trip to Pinyon City on his last visit to the dog park. In fact, he’d probably bored the old man on the subject, since Ben tended to babble around Cliff just to keep the conversation afloat. For someone who seemed to crave company, Cliff wasn’t especially gregarious.

  “And your friend from the East?”

  “Oh . . . Mary Ann? Yeah, she went with us.”

  “She liked it?”

  “Yeah. She loved it. It snowed while we were there.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Yeah . . . it was.”

  Long, awkward silence.

  “I didn’t realize you were a member here,” Ben said, filling the void. “I mean, I’ve never seen you.”

  “I come on a day pass sometimes.”

  “Right.”

  “I like the pool.”

  “Yeah, me too. Especially when it’s nasty outside.”

  “Yep. Nice today, though. The weather.”

  “How’s Blossom?”

  “She’s good.”

  “That’s great. Cool name, by the way. Perfect for a little dog.”

  The old man nodded, then sighed with unexpected intensity. “The wife named her. After Blossom Dearie. The jazz singer. She was one of our favorites.”

  The wife, thought Ben. Such a straight-guy thing to say. But Ben liked knowing that this melancholy codger had company at home. Assuming he wasn’t a widower.

  “Is she . . . still with us?” he asked.

  “Think so. Don’t know if she’s still singing, but—”

  “I meant your wife.”

  “Oh . . . yeah . . . she’s alive.” Cliff looked flustered. “But she’s not . . . with me anymore.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “She had problems. I tried to make it better, but . . .” His voice trailed off as his eyes filled with weariness and despair. “I have to get home . . . speaking of Blossom.”

  “Nice seeing you,” said Ben. “Say hi to her for me.”

  “Will do.” Cliff stood there a moment longer, avoiding intimacy by keeping his eyes fixed on the tile floor. “Thanks for being so nice to me.”

  It was heartbreaking to hear him lay out his loneliness in such a blatant way. “Oh . . . hey . . . it’s easy, Cliff. You’re good company.”

  “No, I’m not. You don’t have to say that.”

  Ben would have protested, but the old man turned and walked away.

  “Catch you at the dog park,” Ben called, trying to end this on an upbeat note.

  Cliff lifted his hand in mute reply and just kept walking. It was then that Ben noticed the scar on his back: an ugly puckered line, smoothed somewhat by the passage of years, running all the way from his shoulder blade to his waist.

  Surgery? For a tumor or something? It seemed too irregular for that.

  A war wound, then? Ben remembered Cliff’s story about the mascot dog that had to be shot when he was serving in Vietnam.

  Whatever its cause, the scar only deepened the sense that Cliff’s gloom was the product of a lifetime of troubles. There were layers to that resident darkness, Ben thought, and no one outside of the old man himself would ever know what they were.

  Chapter 26

  A Grace Period

  Tandy Street was a bitch to find. It wasn’t on the hill behind the Mint, as Otto had remembered, but closer to the Lower Haight, and its only street sign had been all but obscured by graffiti and antiwar stickers. What’s more, the address they were looking for—437—was not displayed on any of the houses. They located 429 and 445, so they had to assume it was the house between them, a Victorian cottage made Spanish in the twenties by a flat stucco facade. The Band-Aid–colored plaster was falling away like so many scabs, exposing the laths beneath. The window’s colorless curtains were drawn.

  “Alexandra’s love nest,” Otto said sardonically.

  “Well,” said Shawna, “it could have been heaven on earth, considering her shitty childhood. Maybe it was nice when she lived here. Maybe there’s a garden in back.”

  “Maybe Jeffrey Dahmer has a workshop in the basement.”

  It irritated her that Otto was trying to fuck up Alexandra’s happy ending—or, at least, her happy middle. Who was Otto to point fingers? His own little alley studio was way depressing, but it could still be incredibly sweet on a rainy evening when they were snuggling after sex. She needed to know that such pleasures had come to Alexandra, however briefly, that somewhere between the child rape and that flesh-eating disease someone had made her feel safe and loved and at home. Shawna was beginning to think she couldn’t scatter Alexandra’s ashes anywhere without some reassurance of that. There would be nothing to celebrate but her death.

  “It looks deserted,” said Otto.

  “Why? Because it’s run-down?”

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  “So let’s ring the bell and see.”

  “Why not just look through the curtains?”

  She rolled her eyes impatiently. “Like that’s any less invasive than ringing the bell?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just think it might be advisable, under the circumstances. Wouldn’t you like to see how they live before we see who comes to the door?”

  This did make a certain sense, so she looked both ways down the sidewalk to make sure they were alone before sidling over to the window, a featureless rectangle of aged aluminum, speckled with corrosion. She peered through the foot-wide opening in the curtains to what she could see of the living room, then reported back to Otto.

  “It’s not the tidiest place, but it’s not Grey Gardens either. It’s kind of homey, actually. They’ve got a Snuggie.”

  “A what?”

  “You know. Those ridiculous blanket things with sleeves. As seen on TV?” She grinned at him. “That soul-sucking corporate appliance you want no part of?”

  He gave it right back to her. “It’s a good thing you’ve got one, then, or I never would’ve known what a Snuggie is.”

  “I’m gonna ring the bell.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “If somebody’s here, we can show them the picture. If not, we can go home and fuck.”

  Otto held up crossed fingers, smiling.

  She pressed the dark Bakelite nipple of the doorbell. It made no sound at all, so she pressed it again. “Do you think they can hear it inside?”

  He shook his head. “It’s dead.”

  She rapped on the door, and, almost immediately, a dog began to bark.

  “Hey there, little buddy,” Otto crooned, when the apoplectic
dog appeared in the window to confront the intruders. It was tiny, though, and its tail was wagging.

  “I guess he’s the doorbell,” said Shawna.

  They waited for someone to show up. No one did.

  “C’mon,” said Otto.

  “Just a little longer.”

  “The neighbors are noticing, Shawna.”

  Across the street an old woman with garish red hair was eyeing them as she poured water from a saucepan onto a potted plant on her doorstep.

  Shawna strode over to talk to her, with Otto close behind. “We’re looking for the people who live here.”

  The woman regarded her dubiously. “Are you here for the environment?”

  “No, no.” Shawna grinned. “Not at all. I mean . . . we’re totally for the environment, but . . . we’ve just got something we’d like to show them.”

  “Them?”

  “Well . . . whoever lives there.” Realizing how shady this was sounding, Shawna got specific. “We have some information about someone who used to live there back in the nineties. Alexandra Lemke?” She pulled one of the photos from her shoulder bag (the gorgeous grown-up shot taken at the fabric store) and showed it to the neighbor. “This is probably ten or fifteen years old, but . . . maybe you recognize her?”

  The woman said nothing.

  “That may have been before you lived here, of course.”

  Shawna’s effort at a smile was not returned. “You social workers, then?”

  “No. Just . . . private citizens.”

  Seeing how badly she was bungling this, Otto stepped forward and tried to establish their credentials. “She was a friend of Alexandra’s. We both were.”

  “Are,” said Shawna, correcting him. She didn’t want to relay news of Alexandra’s death until she was able to do so in a respectful fashion, explaining things in her own words. For all she knew, this woman would call her neighbor as soon as they left.

  “Can’t help you,” the woman said, returning the photo. “You’ll have to come back when he’s home.”

  He, thought Shawna. It’s a man, and he lives there alone.

  “Would that be Mr. Lemke?” she asked. “Is that who we’re looking for?”

  “Come along,” said Otto, slipping his arm around Shawna as if she were a benign lunatic who had strayed too far from the asylum. He was lighthearted about this, but she still found it annoying. She kept her eyes fixed on the neighbor lady. “But you recognize her, right? She used to live here? They were married, weren’t they?”

  The woman went back into her house and closed the door.

  Otto was smirking. “Nice work, Sherlock.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I believe that was the plan, yes.”

  She began walking across the street. “You can forget that shit.”

  “Aw . . . dude.”

  “You saw her expression, didn’t you? She recognized Alexandra.”

  “Yeah. The fucked-up junkie who used to live across the street. Wonder why she wasn’t more helpful?”

  “How do you know Alexandra was already fucked up? She could’ve had a grace period. She and her husband could’ve still been . . . you know . . .”

  “Honeymooning.”

  “Yeah . . . in a manner of speaking.” She studied his face for a moment, wondering where he planned to go with that.

  “You’re funny,” he said.

  “Am I?”

  “Yeah. For a ‘grrrl on the loose’ who doesn’t believe in marriage.”

  She gaped at him. “By which you mean . . . ?”

  “Just that you seem determined for her to have been married. You’ve got one letter . . . a nice letter, granted . . . and now you’ve got this whole chick-flick message-in-a-bottle thing going on, and I find it a little strange that you’re doing that, that’s all.”

  “Strange,” she repeated in the most neutral tone she could muster.

  “Not strange. Just . . . it doesn’t seem like you at all. Is it for your blog or what?”

  She didn’t defend herself, since she had just figured out what he meant: Why can’t you be that way about us? If you can make all this fuss over a dead woman’s romance, why not ours? His big, wounded, monkey-loving heart was fully exposed.

  She picked her words with care. “I want her to have been happy. It’s not about marriage. Yes, it’s partially for the blog . . . but it’s also about . . . I dunno. Wouldn’t you like to know that someone had at least been kind to her before the drugs took over?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be considering the perils of pursuing this discussion. “Fine. Sure. Why not leave a note, then?”

  “Funny you should say that.” Perhaps a little too jocular now, she reached into her shoulder bag and removed the note she’d composed that morning.

  He asked her what it said.

  “Just that I’m a friend of Alexandra Lemke . . . who used to live here . . . and that she died this week at SF General . . . and to call me if they knew her and want to talk.”

  “That should do it,” he said.

  She slipped the note under the door.

  “It’s certainly worth a shot,” she said.

  “It always is,” he said vaguely.

  She was pretty sure he was talking about them.

  Chapter 27

  Waiting for Word

  The worst thing about trimming dead fronds from tree ferns was the itchy brown dust that clung to Jake’s skin every time he tackled the job. If the ferns were tall, like the ones in this particular garden, the nasty shit would fall into his eyes whenever he looked up, or creep down his collar onto his neck, like the needling remnants of a haircut. As pleased as he was about his newly forested forearms, all that hair was a magnet for fern dust, and he would find himself—as he did now—scratching like an addict in withdrawal.

  “You okay?” Michael was stacking the fronds for removal to the truck. “I could spell you for a while.”

  “Nah. I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jake was trying hard to make an extra effort, since he planned, any minute now, to ask a favor of Michael that probably couldn’t come at a worse time. Business was lousy, and Michael’s shoulder was giving him more trouble than usual. If that weren’t enough, Michael seemed weirdly distracted and distant today. Jake was even starting to wonder if Michael had guessed what was coming and wasn’t happy about it.

  Still, there was no way to do this but to do it.

  “Feel like some coffee?” Jake asked.

  Michael didn’t answer right away, as if this were a really difficult question. “Sure,” he said, finally. “That would be good.”

  The garden they were tending was only a block from the Marina Green, so they hosed off their faces and arms and took their thermoses down to a bench by the bay. The sky was clear; there were more sailboats than usual for a late-autumn day.

  Jake pulled a Clif Bar from his shirt pocket and offered it to Michael.

  “No, thanks.”

  “You sure? I got two.”

  “Yeah . . . thanks.”

  Jake hesitated, then took the leap: “Is something goin’ on, boss?” Technically, of course, Michael was his business partner, not his boss, but Jake was still using the b-word and wasn’t sure if he would ever stop. It was a term of respect, more than anything.

  Michael gave him a hangdog look. “How could you tell?”

  Jake shrugged. “Well . . . for one thing, you’re not humming.”

  “Humming?”

  “You know . . . while you work.”

  “I thought that annoyed you.”

  “It does, but . . . I figure it would take something pretty big to make you stop.” Jake tore open the Clif Bar and bit off a chunk. “You wanna talk about it?”

  Michael gazed morosely at the water. “Mary Ann is in the hospital. She has cancer. I’m waiting for word right now.”

  This relief that Jake felt, if only briefly, turned into shame as
soon as he saw the tears on Michael’s cheeks. At least he thought that’s what they were. Michael’s eyes were always leaky, especially in the open air, so it was hard to say for sure.

  “Why didn’t you say something before?” he asked.

  “She asked us not to. She didn’t want a lot of drama around it. Please don’t mention it to Anna. Or Shawna, for that matter. Not for a while, anyway. We’ll know a lot more by this afternoon.”

  “What are they doing, exactly?”

  “She has cancer. She’s having a hysterectomy.”

  Jake just stared at him silently. At first he thought Michael was making a twisted joke, until he remembered that people didn’t joke about that.

  “I know,” said Michael. “I know.”

  It took Jake a while to say anything. “You coulda told me. I woulda kept quiet about it. I coulda been really helpful. I’ve been reading up on it.”

  “I know. I just thought . . . I dunno.”

  “You just thought what?”

  “That it might somehow . . . rain on your parade.”

  Jake nodded slowly, absorbing that. “My hysterectomy parade.”

  Michael smiled sheepishly. “You know what I mean. It’s a whole different thing for you. Yours will be cause for celebration. Hers . . . not so much.”

  “It will be if they get the cancer out.”

  “You’re right. Of course.” He laid his hand on Jake’s knee and shook it, as if he were shaking off that terrible word. “So . . . it’s all you want for Christmas, huh?”

  Jake felt his face go hot. Anna must have spilled the beans already.

  “If it’s the wrong time, boss . . .”

  “It might be exactly the right time. Ben and I have been talking about going to Maui for Christmas.”

  “Really? But . . . then we’d both be off work.”

  Michael shrugged. “And neither one of us would have to feel guilty.”

  This was something of a revelation to Jake. “You feel guilty about that?”

  “Of course. Every time you’re working and I’m not. We’re in this together, buddy.”

  Now there were tears in Jake’s eyes, but they had nothing to do with the bite of wind off the bay. He had simply realized that he’d just cleared the last obstacle to his dream.