Listen to the Silence

by Marcia Muller

  The Indian advocate who would be arguing the case countered that the 1860 treaty had been negotiated in good faith on the part of the Modocs; the tribe should not be penalized because they believed in the federal agent’s authority to do so. Various precedents were cited, and the brief petitioned for the return of Spirit Lake and the surrounding acreage to the Modocs.

  The Indian advocate was Saskia Blackhawk.

  No wonder DeCarlo had hesitated when I asked if he was currently in touch with her. No wonder he’d concealed the reason he’d kept track of her. My natural father seemed as capable of deceit as my adoptive parents.

  What to do? The logical course of action would be to confront Austin DeCarlo with my knowledge. Or talk with Saskia Blackhawk. Clarify the situation.

  But the logical course of action doesn’t always fit with the dictates of one’s emotions. Instead, I got up, threw the few things I’d unpacked back into my travel bag, and drove straight for Hy’s ranch in Mono County.

  8:27 A.M.

  Hy was asleep when I looked into the master bedroom of the ranch house, but at my first step he came fully awake and primed for action, as he always did when startled—a consequence of too much dangerous living in a long-ago incarnation. When he saw me, he relaxed, grinned, and swept away the covers.

  “Nice surprise, McCone. Take off your clothes and hop on in here.”

  Although the sight of his long, lean body enticed me, I shook my head. “Not now. I need to talk with you.”

  “If you’re turning me down, it must be serious. Give me a minute. Coffeemaker’s loaded; all you have to do is start it.”

  I went to the kitchen, flipped the switch on the machine, and sat at the table. The room was pretty much as I imagined it had been when he was growing up here: black-and-white linoleum, white enameled cabinets with scalloped underpanels, yellow Formica countertops, vintage range and fridge. The table matched the counters, the chairs were tubular chrome with red plastic seats. Retro all the way, and a collectibles dealer would probably kill for the contents of the drawers and cupboards. I was glad Hy had left the house virtually unchanged, because it conveyed a sense of permanence and continuity. The world might be veering out of control, but this was a refuge that connected us to a saner past.

  The coffeemaker started puffing steam. As I fetched cups, Hy came into the room wearing his bathrobe, hair wet and curly from a quick shower. He brought the carafe to me and poured, kissed me on the forehead. “Okay,” he said, “what’s this talk that can’t wait?”

  “I found my birth father.”

  He paused in the process of setting the carafe on the warmer, then came over and sat down. “Tell me about him.”

  As I recounted what had happened since we’d last spoken, I watched his reactions. Long ago we’d discovered we were each other’s touchstones—a metallurgist’s term after which we’d named our coast property. A touchstone is a black siliceous rock used to test the purity of silver or gold; similarly, we used each other to test the validity of our responses to people and situations. Neither of us had ever failed the other, and I could tell from his expression that he was now validating my reactions to Austin and the current problem—save one.

  “You can’t run away,” he told me.

  “I know, but I’m on such overload.”

  “You’re on overload because you still don’t know everything. You need to get the whole story.”

  “You mean talk with my… mother.”

  He nodded.

  “And then?”

  “Take it where it leads you.”

  6:37 P.M.

  Hy had suggested I fly the Cessna from Tufa Lake to Boise; he had a meeting in San Francisco the next day, and could drive down in my car. I agreed to taking the plane, but I wanted to put in some time at the office and pick up clean clothes, so after catching a few hours’ sleep, I flew to Oakland and drove into the city in the old car Hy kept garaged near North Field.

  When I got to Pier 24½, Ted was still at his desk, looking very much the capable administrator in spite of his wild Hawaiian shirt—a new fashion statement for a man who, as long as I’d known him, had favored elegant vests or jackets with his jeans. Today he seemed tired, but it was a good weariness, reflecting a day of challenges well met; he thrived on being in charge.

  “Maybe it’s time I promoted you,” I said from the door of his office.

  He started and looked up. “Shar, you’re back! Promoted me to what?”

  I went inside, removed a stack of books from a bar stool that had inexplicably appeared there a few weeks ago, and sat down. This was as good a time as any to discuss some upcoming changes at the pier.

  “I don’t have a title in mind,” I said. “Grand Pooh-Bah? How does that sound?”

  “I like it. But what does a Grand Pooh-Bah do?”

  “Runs the place when I’m not around. I’m getting stale; I need to be out in the field more.”

  “Fine by me, but won’t that be stepping on Rae’s toes? You’ve always put her in charge.”

  “She’s quitting to work on her novel.”

  “Ah, the infamous manuscript that she won’t even discuss with Ricky. Well, I wish her luck. But what about my work for Altman and Zahn? D’you think I can handle both jobs?” Ted also managed Anne-Marie and Hank’s law office next door.

  “That’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you: they’re expanding and need more space, so they’re looking to move across the Embarcadero to Hills Plaza.”

  Ted’s face went still, as it always did when he was absorbing unwelcome news.

  I added, “They haven’t told anybody but me, because the lease hasn’t been negotiated yet. But even if that deal falls through, it’s only a matter of time.”

  “And they didn’t express any interest in taking me along,” he said flatly.

  “On the contrary, we fought over you and I won.”

  “Don’t I have any say in the matter?”

  “Of course you do, but I already knew what you’d decide. In spite of their being good friends and your work history in the legal area, I’m aware you’re not crazy about the law.”

  “… True. But I’ll miss them.” Briefly he looked pensive, then asked, “So how’d you lay claim to me?”

  “Let’s just say that you may be the only Grand Pooh-Bah in the city who was won in a poker game.”

  “Good Lord. Well, I accept your offer, title and all.”

  “Comes with a raise, too. And I plan to hire you an assistant, as well as take on a couple of new operatives.”

  “Where’ll we put them? Our space is full.”

  “We’re taking over Altman and Zahn’s suite.”

  “Business is that good? Well, of course it is. I should know; I’m the one who sends out the invoices.” He frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, I was just flashing on the old days. You lived in that dreadful studio on Guerrero and the rest of us were crammed into the Victorian in Bernal Heights. Most people would’ve called it a wretched existence, but all we cared about was saving the world.”

  “Well, one small legal cooperative wasn’t going to accomplish that. Besides, what’s wrong with being able to pay our bills and live like grownups?”

  “Nothing, but in some weird way I think that you and I are still out to save the world.”

  “Not the world, but some of its people anyway. We thought too big back then. Thinking small is more realistic.”

  “Yeah, but right now I’m more interested in thinking big. Just how much of a raise are we talking about?”

  Ted had left a stack of message slips in my office, all of them from clients, except one from Austin DeCarlo, asking that I call him. I lined it up with the edge of my desk and tapped my fingers against it as I considered what to do. Finally I picked up the phone and dialed. DeCarlo answered immediately.

  “What happened to you?” he asked. “You said you’d call in the morning. I’d hoped to spend the day getting to know
you.”

  “… Something came up with an important client, and I had to get back here. I was going to call you later.” An outright lie. He and I had certainly gotten off on a fine footing!

  “I could fly up there tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m going out of town.”

  “Oh, where?”

  I couldn’t pile one falsehood upon another. “Boise. I need to see my… mother.”

  Silence. “Well, I’m sure you do. But I’d like to see you first.”

  Of course he would; he wanted to explain about the Spirit Lake project in a way that wouldn’t turn me against him. “Austin… It is okay if I call you that? At this late date I can’t see me calling you Daddy.”

  He laughed. “I can’t imagine being called Daddy. Austin’s fine. What were you about to say?”

  “I know about Spirit Lake and the lawsuit.”

  More silence.

  “I also suspect that you and Saskia are still angry at each other, even after all these years, and being on opposite sides of this suit hasn’t helped any. So I’m keeping an open mind, and I’ll continue to do so no matter what she tells me.”

  “You’re a wise woman.”

  “Hardly. But I’ve seen enough misery in my work to know what kinds of traps people’s emotions can set. I don’t intend to get snared by any—Saskia’s or yours.”

  “Well, have a safe trip, then. I suppose it’s not politic to send my regards to your mother, but extend them if you think otherwise. And call me when you get back; I’ll fly up and spend some time with you.”

  As I replaced the receiver I reflected that only the experience of growing up in the dysfunctional McCone household could have prepared me for navigating the emotional potholes and pitfalls of this new familial territory.

  Wednesday

  SEPTEMBER 13

  2:40 P.M.

  Boise looked pretty from the air. It was surrounded by desert, where irrigation channels cut furrows in the land and cultivated fields stood out in checkerboard relief against the brown. A river, flanked by greenbelt, snaked along the edge of the city center; tall buildings and the dome of the state capitol gleamed in the afternoon sun. Beyond them, housing tracts had begun their insidious creep toward the mountains to the north and east.

  I’d learned from an article in the airline magazine that Boise, and Idaho as a whole, were among the fastest-growing areas in the country. State and federal government and a broad-based economy provided jobs of all sorts, and a low cost of living had lured skilled people from many other areas, including my own. The man seated next to me—the talkative type I generally try to avoid, but whose chatter I welcomed on this emotionally tense flight—commuted twice a week between his home in Santa Clara and his job at Micron Technology’s Boise offices, and he hoped to move his family to Idaho as soon as their Silicon Valley house sold.

  Even the airport strengthened Boise’s appeal: although I had only a carry-on bag, as I walked by the carousel I noticed that the luggage from my flight was already coming up. There were no long lines at the rental-car counters, and the vehicles, for most companies at least, were only steps away. A friendly clerk highlighted on the map an uncomplicated route to Eighth Street in the north end of town, where Blackhawk & Blackhawk was located.

  The law firm occupied an older house in a block of tree-shaded residences, many of which had been converted to commercial use. It was a frame, two stories, with a deep, pillared front porch and a steeply peaked roof above a round attic window. Satiny red-and-green trim stood out against light gray paint, and the lawn and hedges were well barbered; obviously my birth mother liked things well maintained, and her law practice was profitable.

  I parked the car in the shade of an old Dutch elm whose leaves were beginning to turn and sat there for a while. The afternoon was warmish, the street quiet, but I felt chilled and my thoughts were anything but tranquil. A gray squirrel scampered across the pavement, and I watched it with rapt concentration. I was experiencing the same ambivalence as I had outside the restaurant in Monterey, before I confronted Austin DeCarlo. But this time the emotion was stronger and more complex, as feelings often are in a woman’s relationship to her mother; DeCarlo had hardly been a player in the drama surrounding my birth, but Saskia Hunter had been its leading lady.

  On Monday night I could have turned and walked away without ever coming face to face with DeCarlo. I wasn’t in that deep, and merely knowing who my birth parents were might have been enough. But instead I’d taken that irrevocable step, and now that I’d heard his story, I needed to hear Saskia’s as well. So I began playing a mental game of devil’s advocate to make myself get out of the car.

  You don’t have to do this. You can drive away and never look back.

  But I’d regret it my whole life.

  The woman gave you up at birth. She’s probably a lousy person. And friends and clients notwithstanding, you’re not wild about lawyers.

  She gave me up so I wouldn’t fall into Joseph DeCarlo’s clutches. And she isn’t a typical lawyer; she works for the good of her people.

  She won’t be happy to see you, though. She has two children of her own. She’s probably known where you were your whole life and didn’t care.

  Maybe she had those children partly to make up for what she lost. Maybe Fenella didn’t tell her who adopted me.

  Do you really believe that?

  I want to, and I’m going in there.

  Handwoven rugs in brilliant colors lay against the hardwood floor of the house’s entry. A steep staircase with a mahogany handrail rose to the second story. An arrow on a sign that said RECEPTION pointed to the right. I stepped through an archway, saw a young woman whose black hair was caught up in a ponytail and tied with a red scarf staring at a computer monitor. A woman who, in profile, looked very much as I had in my twenties. A plaque on the desk said ROBIN BLACKHAWK.

  My half sister. I wanted to back out of the room and run like hell.

  “Be with you in a minute,” she said without looking away from the screen. “This is a new machine, and I think it’s possessed by demons.” She moved the mouse, clicked, and exclaimed, “Dammit! D’you know anything about iMacs?”

  “I have one myself. What’s the problem?”

  “A friend loaned me this software, and apparently he didn’t register the game with the manufacturer. A warning popped up and now I can’t get it off there.”

  I stepped around the desk so I could see the monitor. A poker game was displayed against a dark-green background, a window with a notice superimposed on it.

  “What am I gonna do?” Robin Blackhawk muttered. “When I click on the window and try to go to something else, it just pops up again. My mother’ll kill me for playing on the job.”

  “Just turn off the machine. And when you restart, don’t call up the game again.”

  “You’re a genius!”

  “Hardly. But I’ve had the same problem myself, when I didn’t realize some software I borrowed from my nephew wasn’t registered.”

  She shut the machine off, then swiveled toward me, and I got my first straight-on view of her face. Her lips were fuller, her nose more prominent, her forehead higher, but we resembled each other strongly. She saw it too, and her eyes widened.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “No, but we’re related.” I gave her one of my cards. When she glanced at it, I saw the name meant nothing to her. “I’d like to see your mother.”

  “Mom’s in court all day, but I can make an appointment for you. How about eight o’clock this evening?”

  “Eight’s fine. Does she usually take evening appointments?”

  “Evening, midnight, six in the morning—you name it. Mom’s a workaholic, and it doesn’t help that we live upstairs.” She eyed me curiously. “You’re related on her side of the family, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never met any of the Hunters.”

  “How come?”

  “She hasn’t been
on speaking terms with them since her teens. I don’t know why. She doesn’t like to talk about it. What’s your connection to us?”

  “It’s kind of complicated. Maybe I’ll understand it better after I talk with her.”

  8:03 P.M.

  Lights glowed both upstairs and down in the Blackhawk house when I returned that evening. I didn’t have to talk myself out of the car this time, but my tension level went over the top as I approached. When I stepped inside I saw Robin, still seated at her desk.

  “You getting along any better with that thing?” I asked, motioning at the iMac.

  “Yeah. It’s an easy machine.” She shut it off and got up. “Mom’s not home yet. She had a dinner meeting with a client, and I expected her by now, but I guess it ran over. Would you like to wait in the parlor?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” I followed her across the hall to a high-ceilinged room furnished with plain sofas and chairs upholstered in beige and brown. The walls were bare, except for an irregularly shaped piece of hide painted with buffalo, horses, and warriors that hung over the redbrick fireplace.

  Robin saw me looking at it. “It’s elk hide, the only thing of her family’s that Mom has. Her favorite uncle gave it to her when she was a child.”

  “Your father,” I said, sitting down on a sofa. “Was he Shoshone?”

  “No, Sioux.” She sat down across from me, looked intently at my face. “You really resemble Mom and me. Darcy, too, except for the purple hair.”

  “Darcy?”

  “My younger brother. All through high school and college he’s the all-American kid. Then he hooks up with this weird crowd, and all of a sudden he’s got purple hair, a nose stud, earrings, and a nipple ring. Probably some other hardware that he hasn’t treated me to the sight of, thank God. If you ask me, twenty-four is too old to get into that kind of stuff.”

  Great. I had a bemetaled half brother with purple hair. And I thought Joey was strange.…

  “Where does Darcy work?”

  “KIVI, local TV station. Channel Six. Behind the scenes, of course. He’s a video editor. Boise just isn’t ready for somebody with purple hair coanchoring the evening news.”