Where to Choose

by Penny Mickelbury

  She bristled at his tone and his attitude until she got a whiff of herself, and recalled the source of her aroma. She told him what happened and instantly regretted it, as she hung on to his arm, pre­venting him from rushing to Luisa’s.

  “Stupid little bastard! I’ll break his fuckin’ arm!”

  “I already did, Fish! Will you settle down? Please?”

  “Why is it little punks like him are always punching out women? Why don’t they ever take a swing at a dude?” Tommy clinched and unclenched his fists and gradually calmed himself. Then he wrinkled his face again. “You do stink, C.A. Go change your clothes.”

  He followed her home, but not into the house. He sat on the front steps while she went in, stripping as soon as the door closed behind her.

  “What is that odor?” asked Grayce, wrinkling her face a la Tommy, even as she was reaching for the tee shirt and bra Carole Ann already had removed. Grayce waited for the jeans and panties and hurried through the kitchen to the laundry room, holding the bun­dle as far away as her arms permitted.

  When Carole Ann stepped out of the shower, she heard Tommy’s voice downstairs and knew he’d have told Grayce how she wound up smelling like a brewery. She sighed heavily, dried herself, quickly dressed, and prepared herself for her mother’s admonitions. She received, instead, another surprise.

  “What’s that?” Grayce asked, pointing toward the black bag she’d left beside the sofa.

  Carole Ann hesitated only briefly. “Angie gave it to me. It was Dottie’s,” she said quietly. And waited, watching.

  Something deep within Grayce stilled. Her eyes closed and the breath caught in her throat. She sat unmoving. Then she opened her eyes and the tears spilled out. Carole Ann was beyond amazed. She’d expected tears from Angie, not from her own mother. She’d expected stunned shock from Angie at the mention of the mur­dered Dottie, not from her mother. And yet it was Grayce, folded into her favorite armchair, rubbing her hands together as if for warmth, tears streaming down the face that still bore the marks of the beating she’d sustained.

  “Dottie.” She whispered the word and managed a smile. “She was my best friend. We grew up together. Went to elementary school and high school together, began college together, but Dottie had to drop out. Her parents couldn’t afford the tuition and it became too much for her, working full time at night and keeping up with her classes—” Grayce choked on a sob and Carole Ann rushed to hold her. Tommy went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of wa­ter and a box of tissues.

  They hovered over Grayce, watching her anxiously. They both knew that Grayce’s recovery had been slower than anticipated, pri­marily because she’d not managed the emotional trauma as effi­ciently as she, and they, had assumed she would. Consequently, everyone around her had made every effort to shield her from upset of any kind. She and Tommy exchanged glances over Grayce’s head, Tommy’s accusing and Carole Ann’s defensive: How was she to know that a woman she’d never heard of had been her mother’s best friend?

  “I introduced them,” Grayce was saying, smiling through the abated tears. “Shocked the hell out of both of them. They couldn’t believe that I knew. After all, we didn’t discuss that kind of thing back then.”

  “You knew Angie before you lived here?” Carole Ann could not contain her surprise.

  “Not as well as I knew Dottie, of course,” Grayce replied matter- of-factly, as if she’d not just revealed another secret as old as Carole Ann herself. “A friend of Mitch’s was sweet on her and we’d double ­dated with them a couple of times. I can’t recall that fella’s name now, but he was crazy about Angie and couldn’t see that she was barely tolerating him.” Grayce’s eyes closed as she looked back into her memory, and she smiled slightly. “She was so polite to all of us whenever we were together, but I could tell she was bored to tears. Anyway, I convinced her to meet me for lunch one Saturday. I was kind of pushy back then.”

  Both Carole Ann and Tommy snorted and Grayce subdued each of them with “the look,” the one Carole Ann had inherited.

  “Anyway. As I was saying, I bullied Angie into meeting me for lunch at the Santa Monica pier. And, of course I’d arranged for Dottie to be there. And after we’d talked for a while, I left them there. They didn’t even pretend to be sorry when I said I had to leave.” Grayce chuckled softly to herself as the tears began again.

  Carole Ann touched her mother’s shoulder. “Arthur Jennings said he asked you and Daddy if you minded living next door to Dottie and Angie.”

  “So you’ve talked to Arthur,” Grayce said, wiping away tears. “Such a kind man. Yes, he asked, not knowing that we already knew.”

  Tommy cleared his throat more loudly than was necessary. “Ah, if it’s not too much trouble, could one of you tell me who Dottie is?” he asked.

  “Angie’s lover and Jacaranda Estates’ first murder victim,” Car­ole Ann said, and instantly regretted the words as Grayce sobbed. She and Tommy again exchanged accusatory stares as they worked to calm and comfort Grayce. They prepared a light supper for her of carrot soup, yogurt, and toast, brewed a pot of tea, and arranged her before the VCR with her favorite film, Glory, ready to be viewed for the dozenth time.

  Outside, strolling through the grass, Carole Ann told Tommy everything she’d learned from Arthur Jennings, and asked if he wanted to help her sort through Dottie’s briefcase. He whistled at the thought.

  “Forty years of untouched memories. Yeah, I’d love to, C.A. But I can’t. I’m meeting a friend of Addie’s at the gym. Ex-LAPD guy. Got tossed out on his ass for violating procedure, kinda like me. He does some off-the-books private stuff for Addie while he’s waiting on his PI license.”

  Carole Ann frowned. “Why is she just making this guy available? We’ve been sweating bullets for over a month now, and she’s all of a sudden got a cop contact?”

  “Oh, come on, C.A. You know you don’t give up an inside source to every Joe who comes along,” he chided.

  “Every Joe?” She bristled. He laughed at her and she was working herself up to some real annoyance when suddenly she remembered something this ex-cop could do. “Ask him if he can run a tag for me, Tommy,” she said, recalling the number of the license plate on the badly restored El Dorado she’d noticed parked in the alley behind Robbie’s studio the last two times she’d been there. She hadn’t liked the looks of the car or of the four homeboys inside it.

  “You want me to ask the dude for a favor the first time I meet him?”

  “Damn straight,” she snapped, her thoughts already on Dottie’s black bag and what secrets it might hold. For Carole Ann was cer­tain that there would be more secrets.

  She spent the entire night tossed and buffeted by images of the past. Not dreams, but real images, memories, long forgotten but which surged into her consciousness with a shattering clarity. First there was Hector Nunez at ten or eleven years old.

  A group of perhaps two dozen people, adults and children of all ages, dot the landscape of Grayce and Angie’s yard, back, side, and front. Several barbecue grills are going at once. There are two long tables for eating, and half a dozen card tables for games. Brightly colored blankets and towels gleam in the sun in exquisite contrast with the deep green of the grass. It is a Fourth of July celebration! Carole Ann is certain of it. She can hear the music—someone has placed the stereo speakers in the windows—and several of the kids are dancing. The adults will dance later, on the concrete carport under the soft glow of colored lanterns, when the younger children are sleeping and the older ones have drifted away from the adults to pretend their own maturity.

  But while it is still bright and hot, the children compete with one another for food, for toys, for attention. And, of course, tempers flare. A child cries. Then another. Then a voice is raised in hateful anger:“You stupid nigger! Leave me alone! I hate you! I hate all niggers! Why don’t you go back where you came from!” So quickly does silence envelop the festivities that the blare of the music is deafening when previously it
was barely audible. It is Mar­vin Gaye. But nobody notices. All eyes and ears and hearts are resounding with I hate all niggers! Who said it? Hector. Hector Nunez. And he was speaking to Grayce, who has turned to Luisa for help. Luisa, this is yours to handle, says the look on Grayce’s face. But Luisa does nothing. Does not move, does not speak, does not acknowledge the transgression. No one moves or speaks. Marvin continues to ask, “What’s going on?” Then young Mitch Gibson rushes Hector, knocks him down, falls on him, and begins pounding. Grayce grabs her son and Luisa, finally in motion, grabs her son. And hugs him to her breast, weeping and praying. “He’s only a baby,” she says, rocking him.

  Then the images shift and though it is the same place, it is a different time. Carole Ann is a college freshman and proud of her adulthood. She lives on campus, even though her campus is across town instead of across the na­tion. Her roommate, a pre-med major from San Francisco, immediately is a friend and confidante. The first two secrets are that she’s unbelievably home­sick and that she’s a lesbian. No problem for Carole Ann, who has a mother with enough space in her heart—and in her kitchen—for another daughter, and with an intolerance for intolerance. The image is so clear: “Mommy, Marge is a lesbian,” she whispers. After all, Marge is upstairs, in the bath­room. “I know, dear.” She is shocked. How could she know? Did Marge tell her already? “Set the table, please. Do you think Marge would prefer biscuits or cornbread?” They have a wonderful weekend and when it ends, Grayce en­velops her new daughter in a hug and whispers, “You must tell your mother! You must! She will love you no matter what!”

  Carole Ann arose at six-thirty, just when she thought that finally she could sleep. But it was too late to go to sleep. She showered and dressed and marveled at the memories that had kept her awake, at the subtle machinations of the mind. Would she ever have remem­bered Hector’s outburst had his son not called her a nigger that day? Or was it Luisa’s reaction that triggered the recall? He’s only a baby. Would she have recalled her mother’s ready recognition and acceptance of Marge without the knowledge of Grayce’s long-term friendship with Dottie?

  Dottie. She sat on the edge of the bed and caressed the briefcase. It hadn’t taken very long to sort through the contents, but the ef­fects would live forever in her heart and mind, most especially the unopened letter from Enrique Jamilla. She easily could imagine Angie opening the mailbox two or three days after Dottie’s murder, finding a letter addressed to her, being too distraught to open it, even to care what it contained. And tossing it into the briefcase. And forgetting about it.

  The letter was dated March 12, 1964. The ink was faded and the creases in the paper tore when Carol Ann opened the pages. The writing was careful, almost childlike, the language simple—the lan­guage of one for whom corresponding in English was an unper­fected habit. It read:

  Dear Miss Miller. I am sorry for not trusting you. I do not trust many, and no one with this secret. How could I think such help to come my way? Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I will warn my brother and his family. I know you can not destroy their records, and I do not ask it. It is funny, you know, that I do not think I am illegal here. After so many years and so much hard work I feel American. Like California is my home. Why does the immigration care after so much time? No matter. Please take the job. We want you to work for J and J. Not as a payback. I so sorry I say that to you. You do a good thing for me and I thank the Virgin for you. Please. Let me do good things for you. No more working for the immigration. OK. You work­ing now for J and J as bus. manager. You don’t worry what to say to Hector and his family. I tell them and make all the plans. They go home to Mexico and soon come back with legal pa­pers. The house we take care for them until they come back home. Thank you my friend. Your friend E. Jamilla.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jake didn’t call her a shit magnet again, but he did opine that Jacaranda Estates could enter “the worst mess in the history of homicide investigations” record book and be a real contender for an award-winning position. “I’m gonna quit worrying when I don’t hear from you for a couple of days because every time I do hear from you, I find myself knee deep in another pile of shit! I’m running out of shovels!”

  Carole Ann found herself in uncomfortable agreement, though she wasn’t pleased at Jake’s description of Jacaranda Estates as a “shit hole” and its residents as “New Age assholes.” This, after all, was her home, and the people her friends and neighbors. Her family. Yet, she could not escape the reality that with each new revelation, the place seemed more sinister than idyllic; the people more layered and complex than the simple, working-class, family-oriented heroes and heroines of her memory. Memory was selective; that fact was proven to her last night.

  Jake readily concurred with her belief that Dorothy Miller had been raped to obscure her murder, and not the other way around, and that Hector Nunez murdered her to prevent her from reporting him and his family to immigration. That was the easy part for Car­ole Ann to digest. Much more difficult to manage was the knowl­edge that Luisa and Hector were illegal residents; that Enrique Jamilla was willing to sacrifice his brother, Hector Nunez, in order to maintain his own position of prominence; that Luisa must have known at least some of these facts.

  And, she wondered, had Arthur Jennings told her the entire truth? Had he really not known that Jamilla was an illegal? And what of Dottie Miller’s belief that she was to go to work for

  J and J Contracting? Was that Jamilla’s idea and he just hadn’t gotten around to discussing it with his partner, or had Jennings chosen not to mention it? Carole Ann was feeling the need for a shovel herself. And a long, hot shower. She also was feeling restless and agitated and tired of sitting in one place.

  She gazed across the room to the clock on top of the bookcase. One twenty-five. She was still waiting for her noon meeting with Addie to prepare for her upcoming arraignment; “prepare,” in this case, being a euphemism for “praying for a mira­cle.” She had much to tell Addie, none of it particularly useful in structuring a defense. Carole Ann had uncovered no proof to sup­port her theory that Jacaranda Estates’ past was responsible for its present troubles, only threads of information that wove a lovely cloth of supposition.

  She stood up and began to pace, then plopped back down on the couch. Addie’s office was a mess. There was no room for pacing. Every few steps or so there was a pile of folders, a stack of books, a box. Carole Ann had to admit that the piles were neat, each of them was labeled, and several were numbered. Upon reflection, it actu­ally was quite impressive for a solo practitioner, which is what Addie Allen was.

  Warren had mentioned that Addie once had been a rising star in a major L.A. firm, but had seen burnout all around her and opted to save herself before she ignited in a pyre of self-incineration. She now worked alone, accepting only those cases that interested her. She was good enough that clients with deep pockets sought her tal­ents, and she accepted enough of those clients, like Carole Ann via Jake, to support her efforts on behalf of the non-wealthy.

  Carole Ann stood again and contemplated the room. Perhaps, she mused, if Addie arranged her piles along the walls, there would be sufficient space in the middle for pacing. The door opened to ad­mit one of Addie’s two secretaries, the one who Carole Ann thought appeared barely old enough to be out of high school. Her face wore the look that signaled to Carole Ann that she’d just wasted an hour and a half waiting for someone who wasn’t coming.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Gibson. Miss Allen just called again. She’s been detained. She asked if you’d be kind enough to call her at home tonight. Late.” The young woman paused on the word “late” and took a breath. “After midnight,” she said with a wry smile, one that indicated that this was not an uncommon message.

  Carole Ann smiled and nodded. “As long as I don’t get in trouble with the judge.”

  The young woman’s smile faded and her hackles rose. “Your ar­raignment has been re-calendared, Miss Gibson. Miss Allen will give you all
the details. She’s very busy, but she never neglects a client’s needs.”

  Put properly and impressively in her place, Carole Ann recovered those pieces of her dignity not in tatters and left Addie’s office, a suite on the top floor of a low-rise building on the low-rent end of Olympic Boulevard. She wondered, and knew the answer immedi­ately, whether Addie had deliberately maintained an address on the same street as her former office in a high-rise on the other end of Olympic Boulevard in Century City, where the rents were as high as the buildings.

  The heat was bordering on oppressive, the glare of the sun so in­tense she had to turn her back and allow her eyes to adjust, even with the protection of sunglasses. By the time she reached her car, in a parking lot two blocks away, her blouse was sticking to her back and her throat was parched. She turned on the engine and the air-conditioning and, while waiting for cool to happen, she called her mother. If she rushed, she could get home in time to take Grayce to the dentist’s appointment she’d been dreading.

  “Tommy and Bert and Angie are taking me,” Grayce said, and Carole Ann knew she was more than dreading the experience; she was terrified.

  “I’ll meet you there, Ma—”

  “You can’t, C.A.,” Grayce said, cutting her off. “You’re to call Rob­bie right away. Something important, he said.”

  “When did Robbie call?” Carole Ann frowned at the clock on the console of the Benz. Robbie taught four karate or tai chi classes be­tween seven-thirty and one every day, at two different locations. If he had taken the time to call her, there certainly must be urgency involved.

  “Not five minutes ago. I gave him Addie’s number. Where are you, anyway, C.A.?”

  Carole Ann explained her situation, wrote down the address of Grayce’s dentist, just in case, and made an appointment to have dinner with her mother. Silly as it felt, if they didn’t schedule spe­cific time to be together, their encounters often were brief, and rarely, unless very late at night or early in the morning, private. “And, Ma? Everything’s going to be just fine. You’re going to be just fine.”