Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (29 page)

"Yes."

"I followed you Saturday night, from the ranch to the windmill in Golden Gate Park, where you abandoned the Ranchero. I never really saw you, so I just assumed you were Frank. How did you get back to Hollister?"

"Bus. Caught a streetcar on Judah and took it to the Greyhound station. Studied the city map beforehand so I knew how to go."

"You'd already shot Frank."

A long silence. "Yes. Thought if I left the car in the park they'd think he was killed there. Should have left him there, too, but was afraid to drive all that way with him… couldn't bear it. Was all I could do to take him to the reservoir, leave him there in the cold."

"When did you do that?"

"Sometime after dark. Kids were at my friend's for the night."

They'd given her something for the pain, and she was getting groggy. Hurriedly I asked her about the fact I'd planned to confirm with Bob Choteau: that he'd called Frank at home—where Jane could overhear—to set the appointment at the windmill.

She nodded. "I answered the phone," she said. "Stranger's voice. I was suspicious. Your visit—it made me think about Frank… going places. Remembered the times last year. Right after Irene's divorce papers came from down south. Remembered the accidents he had down there. Other little things…"

"So you listened in on the call, and then confronted Frank about Irene."

"Was a good time to have it out. Kids were gone. Even the baby. Friend took them so we'd have a chance to have a romantic dinner alone." Her mouth twisted. "Thought if I could keep him from going off…"A tear formed in the corner of each eye; she squeezed her lids shut, and the drops spilled over.

I glanced at the medic. He was watching but made no move to interfere.

After a moment Jane said, "Frank told me… about the baby. Said he didn't care about Irene anymore. But he wanted the baby. Wanted to bring it home so I could raise his… mistake. I'd been angry for a long time… being left alone like I was. That… did it."

Her eyes were still closed. She took a deep breath and went on. "Never even wanted all the kids I've got. Love them, but every time I'd wish… But Frank had this need… something to do with proving himself, I guess. Never cared that I had needs too. Something for myself. Sick of giving. Getting nothing in return. After Frank had her, he didn't want me anymore. Never came near me. So I didn't even have that. And then he wanted me to give some more… to his bastard."

"So you fought. And you shot him."

She opened her eyes—possibly, I thought, to avoid seeing the scene replayed against her lids. "Damn gun. Was in the cabinet, not even locked. Always told him, 'Lock it, one of the kids might…' but he said they should be better trained."

She began to cry. I squeezed her shoulder harder. The ambulance was speeding along on a level surface now, close to San Francisco General.

I said, "Did Vicky Cushman call you and tell you where Irene was living?"

"Sunday morning. Was asleep. Pretending it never happened. Maybe if she hadn't called I would have turned myself in to the police. But it made me think about Irene. How she took everything I ever cared about. Frank… all our good times. She and her brat were the reason I shot him. I knew what I had to do."

"What was that?"

Silence.

"Why did you go to the Cushmans' tonight?"

She still didn't speak.

I thought back to when the police had arrived, remembered her purse lying on the ground where she'd fallen. One of the cops had picked it up and gone through it; I'd watched him; it hadn't contained a gun.

I said softly, "You don't need to talk anymore. You're better off not saying anything to anybody, not even me, until you've seen your lawyer."

For a moment she studied me curiously. Finally she said, "You understand."

"Yes."

"All I wanted was something of my own. Everybody's got to have something. Is it wrong to want that?"

"No, it's not," I answered automatically. Then I thought of Irene… Vicky… Gerry. Of Anne-Marie… Hank… Rae. And of myself.

"No," I said firmly, "it's not wrong at all."

It was Sunday again—one of those clear fall afternoons that make you think winter is never going to come. I sat on my deck in the sunshine, thinking about planting the bulbs and brussels sprout plants that I'd bought on that other Sunday, which now seemed so long ago. From my kitchen came the sound of the Forty-niner game on the radio, but I wasn't really listening to it; the team was too good and won too easily this season for me to conjure up any real excitement about football. I was content just to sit there in my heavy red sweater and jeans, taking my time about getting to the gardening.

Today was the first time since the early hours of Wednesday that I'd felt reasonably perky. The events at Stillman Street and later at The Castles had left me with a low-grade depression that had taken longer than usual to shake. Hal Johnstone had been picked up near Hollister on Wednesday; he'd denied everything, hired a hotshot lawyer, and stood altogether too good a chance of going free unless Irene's and my testimony was damned convincing to a jury. And with the exception of him, I felt sorry for everyone connected with the case.

For Vicky, who was currently under treatment at the Langley Porter Psychiatric Institute—an irony in itself because the clinic was part of her archenemy, the UC Medical Center. For Gerry, who was determined to stand by his wife at least until she was well, and was playing the role of single parent to his girls at The Castles. For Irene, who had been stunned by his decision and had returned to the Orange County women's shelter, where she'd received therapy during her first crisis. For Susan and Betsy and Lindy, the innocent victims of it all.

And then there was Jane; about her I felt worst. She'd been released from SF General and turned over to the San Benito County authorities. Her arrest, on top of that of his son, had snapped Harlan Johnstone out of his drunken wallowing, and he'd arranged for a good lawyer to represent her. On Friday I'd driven down to see her at the county jail.

Jane was a very changed woman from the one I'd first seen playing drill sergeant to the young troops the week before. She sat across from me in the visitors' room, face drawn and melancholy, chain-smoking the cigarettes I'd brought her. The kids, she said, were still with her friend from the PTA. Everyone was being very kind: Harlan Johnstone was paying all her attorney's fees; Walt Griscom had taken up a collection from his customers and delivered a load of groceries to her friend to help feed the kids; some of the wives of the ranch hands had visited and offered to help in any way they could. Her lawyer thought she could get off with a light sentence or probation—some sort of diminished-capacity plea, Jane thought. The kids didn't really seem to understand what had happened yet.

"I dread the day they do," she said. "I'm afraid they'll turn against me."

"They might, at first," I said, "but eventually they'll forgive you."

"Maybe." But she didn't look heartened. After a moment she added, "You know something about the other night? Until the cops questioned me in the hospital the next day, I thought it was Irene who shot me, not Mrs. Cushman. I would have felt better if it had been; that way I could have gone on hating her. Now I don't know. Maybe if I'd been in her place, I'd have done what she did, too."

I had no reply for that. Jane didn't seem to expect one. She merely lit another cigarette and stared into space. Then she said, "I keep thinking of how it might have been different. I keep wishing we'd never left Texas and come to this sad place."

I wished they hadn't, either.

We didn't talk long after that. When I left, I said I'd come back if she wanted me to. She said she'd have her friend call and let me know when, but I doubted she ever would.

Now I shook off the gloomy thoughts and looked at the flat of brussels sprouts. The bag of bulbs sat next to it. I would have to clear a plot to plant them—the backyard was that overgrown with weeds and wild blackberry vines. I had most of the afternoon to do it, though, at least until three, so I decided to have a glass of wine first.

When I went into the kitchen the score was twenty-eight to seven, Forty-niners over the Packers at the half. I switched off the radio and went back outside. As it was, I could still hear the game from most of the TVs and radios within a four-block radius. I sat on the steps of the deck, leaning against the newel post and thinking about other people, closer to home than Jane.

Hank was still spending a lot of time at the Remedy; he and Jack had taken to staging pinball tournaments on the bar's decrepit machine. Anne-Marie still hadn't talked to me about their problem; her answering machine was still cutting people off before the beep. And then there was Rae…

On Tuesday night I'd ignored her urgent message and promptly forgot about it. On Thursday morning she'd confronted me in my office, red-eyed and defiant.

"All right," she said, unwinding her dreadful blue-and-gold scarf and tossing it on the floor like a gauntlet. "All right—you wanted me to live my own dream and the hell with Doug and his, so here I am!"

I swiveled in my chair, staring at her as if she'd gone mad.

"So here I am," she repeated. "But couldn't you at least have helped?"

"I don't understand."

"Didn't Hank tell you? Or Ted?"

"Tell me what?"

She began to pace the room, picking up objects, examining them, and replacing them exactly the way she'd found them. When she looked over my gorilla mask—a gift from a client who knows I've always wanted to dress up in a gorilla suit and have lunch at Trader Vic's on Halloween—she wrinkled her nose, and I was absurdly afraid that all this had to do with my having bad taste.

Finally she said, "I called you Tuesday night. I needed to talk, but you never called back."

"Well, I guess you heard what happened. Surely you can understand—"

"I could have helped you, you know. You didn't have to go through that alone."

"It never occurred to me."

"Oh sure, it wouldn't! Do it all yourself. That's your way, isn't it?"

Her words took me aback. But it
was
my way. And there wasn't anything I could do to change that.

"Well," Rae went on, "
I
had to do things all by myself, too. So I went to Hank and made the arrangements and here I am."

It was all I could do not to tear at my hair and scream. With forced patience I said, "What do you mean—'Here I am'?"

"I'm leaving Doug and moving here to All Souls."

"What?"

"We started therapy Tuesday afternoon. Couples therapy, they call it. And do you know what that bastard admitted? He admitted that he faked the suicide attempt so I would quit my job here and go back to being a security guard and pay more attention to him. He said he knew the amount of pills he took wouldn't kill him, and all he wanted was for things to be like they used to be with us."

She began to pace again, snatched up the gorilla mask, and began tugging at its fur.

"Dammit, Sharon, he victimized me! He risked his life and did something that he knew would hurt me, and all because of his own selfishness. He wanted me to give up my dream for his, and that's totally unfair. I've got a right to a dream, too!"

Relief flooded through me. Rae wasn't going to go the way of the Jane Wilkonsons of the world.

I phrased my response carefully. "I think it's best you get out of there, then. But I wouldn't give up on the therapy. Or file for divorce yet."

"Oh, don't worry—I won't. But Doug's got to learn he can't manipulate me like that. And he's got to learn to stand on his own. If he works at the therapy, if it does him some good, then I'll consider a reconciliation. But right now I'm not counting on anything—or anyone but myself."

Then she looked down at the gorilla mask. It had a bald spot now, right in the middle of its chin. "Oh my God, I'm sorry!" she said.

"That's okay—he looks better like that. More character. When are you moving in?"

"Sunday. It's the first time I could get hold of a friend's van. Do you think you could help?"

"Sure. But what room are you moving into? They're all taken."

"My office."

"Rae, that's not much bigger than a closet!"

"Doesn't matter—I'll make do. Hank said I could store some stuff in the attic."

I thought of the spare room I'd have in my house after the new bedroom was finished. Given the prospect of rent money from Rae, I could probably justify borrowing to get the work done…

Then I thought, Wait a minute, McCone. You're a loner, not a landlady. Let her sleep in her office while you think this one through.

I said, "What time should I be at your place on Sunday?"

"Three. Doug has a creative writing group that always meets then, so he'll be gone and won't freak."

Now I looked at my watch. Twenty to three. The brussels sprout plants and bulbs would have to wait. Better yet, I'd give them to the Curleys next door. They were avid gardeners, and the gift would partially make up for all the times I'd asked them to feed the cat.

Thinking of him, I tried to whistle up Watney. As usual, he didn't come. I went inside, freshened my makeup, tied my hair back, and found my car keys.

On the way out I detoured into the living room and grabbed the baboon flower. It would make a good housewarming— well, closetwarming—present.

For Sara Ann Freed

Sunday morning dawned gray and misty outside the steam-clouded windows of the coffee shop on Lombard Street. Beyond the plate glass lay San Francisco's travelers' row: a fourteen-block stretch of motels and gas stations and restaurants that daily plays host to hundreds of visitors to the city and motorists who are just passing through. Its establishments do not boast the luxurious accommodations found further downtown; Lombard Street is for families, young people on budgets, retirees taking brief respites from their cramped RVs. And for the individual who, for whatever reason, seeks anonymity.