Day One (15 page)

She yanked open the door of the Tahoe, felt in her coat pocket for her keys. Stuart stood gazing at her from the apartment doorway. Grim-faced, his shoulders still hunched. He lifted one hand, a faltering half-wave. She slammed the Tahoe door, circled around to the pickup. He could keep the damned Tahoe. But that was all. It was too late for anything else. No words, no promises, could ever make up for her child dead in the toilet.

Yet she already knew how it would play out. Stuart would start talking to people, telling folks of his change of heart. About how he’d seen the error of his ways, how he now yearned to be a good husband. And people would work on her. Hiram Spaneker and his batty wife, Rose. The women at church. “Give him a chance. He’s a Spaneker, for pity’s sake.” Maybe even her father, though he’d never shown any fondness for Stuart. The cage would tighten around her, choking off her resolve. Luellen might serve as a lone voice of dissent, if only she hadn’t left Ellie alone, and without explanation. Ellie didn’t have Luellen’s options.

At the Granger house, Luellen’s mother said she’d gone away the week before, leaving a note on the kitchen counter and a stack of boxes in the basement.
Mom and Dad, I need to get away from here. Please store my things. I’ll be in touch when I can.
No one knew where she’d gone. No one knew why. Mrs. Granger hoped Ellie might have some news. But she already knew more than Ellie; she, at least, had gotten a note.

Ellie returned to the farm, loose and adrift. When Stuart came in that evening he washed up without having to be asked, then waited for her to notice him. She served his supper, salad and a bowl of chili, then sat with him while he ate. She nibbled cornbread, ate a flavorless slice of under-ripe tomato. He tried to keep a smile on his face, made small talk. Her father’s shoats were looking strong, almost fifteen hundred this year. The forecast called for a warm front to push through the following week. The creek was starting
to bulge with snowmelt. Ellie listened without comment. He didn’t press her. But he also didn’t give up. Over the days that followed he made overtures, shared soft-spoken promises. Helped her organize Brett’s memorial service. He stood solemnly beside her in his black suit at the service, then helped her father across the thawing bog of the cemetery to the Tahoe. And when they got back home, he offered her a gentle embrace where in the past she’d known only his rough clench. She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t respond at all.

Every couple of days she’d call Mrs. Granger. They shared idle conversation about nothing. Two people hoping for news that never came, each seeking a thin comfort in their shared sorrow. The day after Mrs. Granger told Ellie to stop being so formal, to call her Natalie, she and her husband died in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. They were returning from Klamath Falls where they’d met with a private investigator. Ellie asked Stuart to come to the funeral, but he made an excuse and she went alone. She had no idea if Luellen even knew what had happened.

Two months after Luellen’s disappearance, a letter arrived, an envelope with a Portland postmark but no return address. The note inside was typed, laser-printed on plain white paper. Unsigned.

Dear Ellie,

I hope you can forgive me. I know I should have talked to you first, but there was no time. I had to get away.

But I want you to know I’m okay. Sometimes you just have to drop everything and go, just leave it all behind. It’s such a mess. I can’t explain it all right now. I’m sorry.

Please don’t tell anyone about this note. I’ll be in touch again when it’s safe.

November 14

EUGENE, OR: Local police seek a suspect in an attempted assault of a University of Oregon student late Wednesday night. The suspect is described as about 5 feet, 6 inches tall, 160 pounds, wearing a dark-colored jacket, a scarf or bandana on his head, and medium blue pants. He may have a bite injury to a finger.

In a news release, police indicated the victim is female in her early twenties. She was riding her bike home at about 12:15 a.m., she told police. A man jumped out from behind bushes near the intersection of East 21st Avenue and Agate Street. She lost control of the bike and fell. In the ensuing struggle, the woman bit her assailant’s hand, at which point he fled into nearby Washburn Park.

The victim was taken to Sacred Heart Medical Center, where she was treated for a sprained wrist and contusions, then released.

November 19 — 11:32 am

T
he fish are nervous.

Before Ruby Jane leased the space for Uncommon Cup II, the building housed a commercial aquarium supply business with a built-in showpiece fish tank in the waiting area. She liked the tank so much that when she remodeled, Ruby Jane worked it into the interior design. The aquarium takes up most of the wall across from the counter; on work days I often find myself transfixed by the glittering motion during slow spells. This morning I sit at a table next to the tank, hoping to be soothed by the complex, graceful dance of gouramis and angelfish. But the fish seem to have picked up on my mood.

I last saw Ruby Jane four days ago for our old friend Andy Suszko’s funeral. After the burial, Ruby Jane and I went to the reception, an event Andy wouldn’t have tolerated were he alive to object. He was never much for sentimentality, and a raft of neighborhood biddies bemoaning his demise over Waldorf salad and Swedish meatballs would have driven him off the rails. We stayed only long enough to shake a few hands and each drink a plastic wine glass overfilled with astringent merlot. Ruby Jane drove me back to my place and, before I could say anything, invited herself in. I assumed she didn’t
want me to spend the evening alone, brooding in the dark. More likely I’d have brooded with the lights and television on, but in any case I was grateful for her company.

She’d dropped her coat on the floor next to the front door and kicked off her shoes. Roamed the perimeter of the front room. My place is a fairly typical Old Portland bungalow, living room to the left, dining area to the right. The original built-ins anchor either end of the wide space. She inspected the place like she was seeing it for the first time, despite the fact she’d been here a hundred times. The old mirror over the fireplace seemed to occupy her attention for a long time, but I couldn’t tell if she was gazing at her own shadowy reflection in the degraded silver, or at mine. I moved to the couch, flicked on the lamp on the end table. Specks of dusts floated in the stale air. Ruby Jane turned.

“What do you got to drink?”

“Not much. Water from the tap, grape juice in the fridge.”

“Dude, you’re living on the edge.”

I blinked. “Did you just call me ‘dude’?”

“Of course not.” Her lips curled into a half-smile. “I think I was in shock over the grape juice.”

“Alton Brown says it’s good for my heart. It’s got polyphenols.”

“I was thinking of something more in the solvent category.”

“Solvent.”

“Some kind of grain distillate perhaps.”

Ruby Jane was never much of a drinker, aside from a beer here and there. She noted my surprise with a shrug.

“I know, I know. Funerals just make me feel so—” She wandered over to the couch, but didn’t sit down. “I don’t know. Loose. Unmoored. Like I’m going to blow away afterward.”

“When you put it that way, I can see why you’d want to get all liquored up.”

“Skin ...
dude
... you got any booze or not?” She tried to fix me with an impatient glare, but her dimples spoiled the effect.

I went into the kitchen and rooted through the cupboards, looking for the bottle of twelve-year-old Macallan Ed Riggins gave me as a retirement gift. “You might think I’m a cheap bastard, Skin, not springing for at least the eighteen for such an auspicious occasion, but the twelve is better. Trust me.” I’d never opened it. I wasn’t supposed to drink during my cancer treatment, and by the time my doc declared the cancer in remission, I’d all but forgotten Ed’s gift. I found the bottle on the shelf beside a canister of flour that had been there since the Clinton administration.

I cracked the seal and poured a couple of fingers each in a pair of juice glasses. Back in the living room, Ruby Jane accepted hers with a grin and tossed it back like an accomplished drunk, then held out the glass for more. Good thing I’d brought the bottle from the kitchen. She sipped her second round, settled back with her hair pulled up off her neck and draped over the couch back.

“I don’t like whisky.”

I took a sip my own and joined her on the couch. The warm, heavy atmosphere around her seemed to stir a nest of bees behind my belly button. “So why are you drinking it?”

“This is good.” She raised the glass and peered into the fluid. “It’s the color of hay. Or shellac.”

“That was fast.”

“What?”

I tilted my head.

“I’m not drunk.” She continued to stare at her glass, her eyes at half-mast. A faint smile danced on her lips. “Did you know shellac is made from bugs?”

“I must have missed the Discovery Channel that day.”

“I want ice for my next one.”

I wasn’t sure she needed a next one. Her mood was weird. Talk about feeling unmoored. She’d cooked in my kitchen, watched birds on my back deck. Hogged the remote on my couch. This was the first time I’d ever felt uncomfortable around her.

“RJ, what’s going on?”

She rolled her head my way. “Nothing. Want some ice?”

“I drink my whisky neat.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She sprang off the couch and vanished through the door into the kitchen. I heard her banging around in the freezer, then a moment later she was back, her glass full of ice. She dropped a couple of cubes into my glass and topped me off before sitting down again. I looked at her, but she didn’t return my gaze. Her eyes went back to the glass in her hand. I could hear the ice cracking in my glass.

“Ruby Jane, you’re freaking me out.”

She continued to smile her hazy smile. “Sorry.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Feeling bad about Andy, I guess. How old was he?”

“Eighty-one.”

“That’s right. You joked about him traveling the Oregon Trail in a covered wagon.
‘You have died of dysentery.’
”

“Yeah, I was hilarious.”

“He laughed about it.” She sipped her whisky, her blue eyes remote. “The funeral didn’t do him justice.”

I have my own feelings about funerals, but I didn’t want to unload them on Ruby Jane. I’d known Andy Suszko all my life, and no ceremony arranged by the little old ladies who lived on his street and spent their days trying to mother him could ever do him justice. But I knew the funeral wasn’t for him, and it wasn’t for people like me and Ruby Jane either. I was okay with that. Ruby Jane seemed to feel differently.

She knocked off her whisky, reached for the bottle. I put my hand on her arm and she stopped, turned her eyes to me. They were deep and unfocused, or maybe they were fixed on the space behind my own eyes. “Skin ...”

I kissed her.

I didn’t plan it, didn’t quite realize what was happening until the moment was upon me. For the briefest of instants, I felt her lean into me, felt the softness of her lips, tasted the woody smoke of the Macallan.

Then, abruptly, she pulled away and jumped to her feet. I looked up, couldn’t read her expression. She raised a finger to her lower lip, and for a second I thought she was going to wipe her mouth. Instead she offered me a quick, embarrassed smile and looked away. “You know what? I’m opening the Hollywood shop tomorrow. Five o’clock comes early.”

“Ruby Jane—”

“It’s no big deal. It’s not.” She scooted around the coffee table, bumped it and almost knocked over the bottle. I got up to follow, but before I knew it she had her coat on, the door open.

“Do you think it’s a good idea—”

“I think I could use a little walk. Don’t worry. I’ll call a cab or something.”

Her car was still there when I stumbled to bed, hours later, the Macallan dangerously depleted. The car was gone by morning.

I’ve managed to avoid her for days, managed to avoid this awkward encounter beside the fish tank. I’m glad Marcy is behind the counter, working just a few feet away, that other customers sip drinks around the shop. College students, people tapping away on their laptops. Free WiFi helps keep the place middling full all day long. A couple of guys seem to run their businesses from RJ’s deep couches. Dark, edgy music plays in the background, a playlist from Marcy’s iPod. Ruby Jane offers me an uncertain smile from behind the counter. I don’t know what’s going to happen.