by Joe Ide
Grace Monarova
He was fibrillating with excitement. He’d been thinking about her a lot, trying to remember every detail and fighting the urge to show up at the Edgemont with a bouquet of flowers. He wondered what she’d found out about him and hoped she’d read the articles in Vibe and The Scene and the Long Beach Press-Telegram. How smart and resourceful he was. How he helped people and didn’t want the limelight. He felt a little smug too, the girl brushing him off like a pest and now asking for his help. He thought about how to answer her. Serious and businesslike, of course, and no eagerness, like her request was routine, one of dozens he got every day. He thought maybe he should wait until the weekend was over before he responded so he wouldn’t seem like a lonely guy with nothing to do at ten-thirty on a Saturday night except walk his dog and read emails. He held out for a good seven minutes before he emailed her back. He wanted to meet her right now, tonight, but he didn’t want to seem too needy. Tomorrow he had meetings with clients for most of the day. He wanted to cancel them but decided he couldn’t. Anyway, if she had to wait, it would make him seem all the more like a Very Important Person.
Earliest time I have available is 7:30 pm tomorrow. Starbucks on Willow.
He chose Starbucks because he thought it was fancier than the Coffee Cup. When he didn’t hear back immediately, he almost wrote her again to give her more options but thankfully she replied.
Thank you. See you there.
He took Ruffin for a walk. He was always alert and observant but he was so distracted he bumped into a mailbox. He wondered what it would be like talking to her. What would she say? What would she be like? He usually had a mental image of a new client, pieced together from instinct and observations, but Grace was so withholding, nothing was coming together. He was suddenly anxious, realizing the meeting wasn’t so much about her as it was about him. What was he like? What would he say? Unless he was in detective mode, his self-confidence was woeful. A good thing he could slip on that persona. The other ones were embarrassing.
His client meetings seemed to go on forever. He almost told Henrietta Williams to hurry the fuck up. He worried Grace would change her mind or have something better to do. Afterward, he hurried home to change. He felt ridiculous deciding what to wear. His good clothes weren’t in style when he bought them. He settled on what he always wore when he went out. Diesels, Timberlands, a light blue, short-sleeve shirt, and a Harvard cap.
He got to the Starbucks early, thinking he’d get a look at her first, see if he could catch her mood, something to give him an edge, but her white ’09 GTI was already in the lot. He could see her in the driver’s seat, gathering her things. Why was she here so early? Probably for the same reasons he was. She got out and came toward him, tentative, taking deep breaths like she was about to get a root canal. He got out of his car.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she said.
He tried not to stare. It was as if someone started with a very pretty face and then moved everything the tiniest fraction so the overall effect was more compelling than beautiful. She was wearing jeans, scuffed black ankle boots, the same chambray shirt over a different gray T-shirt. She looked neither hip nor unhip. More like she didn’t care about clothes but didn’t want to be a slob either.
“Thank you for meeting me.” She glanced past him at the Audi. She’s looking for the dog, he thought.
“Glad to do it.” He extended his hand. She hesitated a moment and shook it with her fingertips. She was wound up tight, wary as a deer edging out of the forest. She didn’t meet his gaze and moved past him toward the coffee shop. She walked fast, he had to hurry to keep up, her boot heels clicking too loudly on the asphalt. He wondered if she didn’t want to be seen with him. He almost said something until he realized she didn’t want to be next to him. She was keeping her distance.
Once inside, they made their orders, espresso for him, black coffee for her. Before he could get his wallet out, she paid. They sat down at a table. He struggled to find a starting point. So, how are you? seemed too stupid to say.
“I want you to find somebody,” she said. “My mother. I haven’t seen her in ten years.” He was surprised by her directness, she’d been so reticent before. “She’s somewhere in LA. I’ve Googled her and all that but there’s no trace.”
“Has she tried to contact you?”
She seemed embarrassed, looking at her hands, folded on the table. “No, she hasn’t.”
“Why try to find her now?”
“I saw her. She was in a car parked across the street from my apartment. She didn’t see me because it was raining and I had an umbrella. I couldn’t believe it. There was traffic and by the time I crossed the street she’d driven off.”
“It’s been a long time. Are you sure—”
“Of course I’m sure,” she said, her voice rising. She got out her phone and showed him some photos. “Just to give you an idea. Her name is Sarah.” The first picture was taken in a kitchen that might have been in the neighborhood. Linoleum countertop, mismatched canisters, an electrical plug mounted crookedly on the drywall. Like Grace, Sarah was thin and fair, same green eyes but tentative, like she was unsure of her place in the world. She was in her twenties, housewifey; a flowered apron over a dress, hair and makeup in place. She was standing at an aging stove frying something. Grace was in the picture. She was maybe seven or eight years old. She was holding a baby possum and trying to touch noses with it. Most people would have said It was a pet or I was crazy about animals but she didn’t.
“Where was this?” he asked.
“We lived in Bakersfield,” she said, looking like she was really glad to be out of there.
There were other shots of Sarah serving food on holidays, playing with Grace on a swing, sewing on a sewing machine. Then a family shot. Grace’s father in uniform; all angles like a paper airplane, standing at attention, reporting for duty. Sarah was next to him, expressionless, her arms folded, their shoulders not touching. She wore jeans with narrow ankles and an oversize sweatshirt, less makeup, her hair was tied messily in a ponytail. She looked like a mom going back to school. Then a family photo: Sarah and her husband standing next to each other; Grace in front of them, smiling with no front teeth, happy to be with her parents. But mom and dad’s shoulders weren’t touching, six inches of air space between them. Something wrong there, Isaiah thought.
“What was your father’s name?” he asked.
“Charles,” she said. “Everybody called him Chuck.”
Isaiah looked at the pictures. Grace seemed excessively nervous, like there were secrets in them. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Another shot of Sarah. She was in her mid-thirties, outdoors, shading her eyes from the sun. Her hair was lighter than Grace’s and towel-dried. She wore an oversize black-and-white-checked shirt and faded black jeans. Little makeup. A small heart on a chain around her neck. There was confidence in her gaze and a wry smile like she was finally in on the joke.
“That’s what she looked like when she left,” Grace said.
“When was that?”
“April seventh, 2004.”
“So what happened? Why did she leave?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does.”
She stiffened like she wasn’t going to get pushed around. “Why? I just want her found, that’s all.”
He was a little surprised. “Why? Well, if I know why she left, it’ll give me a better idea of where she’s gone.”
“We already know where she’s gone. She’s here.”
“I need context.”
She looked away. “It’s about something private.”
She was a loner like him, he thought. Not used to being contradicted because there was no one to contradict her. She leaned back as if to say deal with it, but Isaiah was in his element now and he had a rule. Never let the client control the case.
“You called me because you thought I could help,” he said. “So let me. Assume I know what I�
��m doing.” They grappled with their eyes. She took a deep breath, the kind where you need a moment to make something up.
“Mom and Dad were fighting a lot. She’d had enough of him and took off.” A bad liar, Isaiah thought.
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
The barista called her name. She immediately got up, went to the counter, and brought back their orders. “Before we go on, I want to talk about payment. How much do you charge?” Again, he was surprised by her directness. He thought about taking something off the price but thought it was condescending. He told her his per diem and she shook her head. “I can’t afford that.”
“We’ll work something out,” he said like it wasn’t an issue, but she stood firm.
“No, I don’t want to owe you.” He sensed a struggle going on inside her. Her need versus a concession pushing and shoving each other like sumo wrestlers. The need won. “Do you mind coming over to my place?”
The Edgemont’s elevator stank of piss, cigarettes, and fortified wine, creaking as it ascended. Isaiah wondered why it was always awkward riding with someone in an elevator; like whatever you said would be inappropriate and recorded by a hidden camera and you’d be a creep on YouTube for all eternity. The hallway was gloomy, the carpet runner worn and blotched with stains. It was quiet but Isaiah could hear the drunken rages, weeping women, and crying kids from behind the scarred apartment doors.
The room was surprisingly large. Somebody had removed the bedroom wall with a sledgehammer and a crowbar; chicken wire extruding from the smashed stucco. “I needed more work space,” she said, not embarrassed, just explaining.
“You don’t think the landlord will mind?”
“The building’s been sold, they’re going to tear it down.”
The room looked like an artist’s studio, not that he’d ever seen one. Cans of gesso, putty knives, sponges, brushes blooming from glass jars, and dozens of rolled-up paint tubes scattered on a workbench. Strewn around the room were beveled stretcher bars, corner bars, rolls of canvas, two easels with half-finished paintings, and numerous completed ones hanging on the walls and stored in crudely made stalls, a living space carved out in a corner. Futon, dresser, nightstand, laundry, shoes on the floor. If she was self-conscious about the mess there was no sign of it.
“Have a seat,” she said. There weren’t a lot of options. He took a stool at the Formica peninsula, a tiny kitchen behind it. “I don’t have espresso. Is instant all right?” They’d just come from Starbucks. She needed something to do, settle herself down.
“Sure. That’s fine,” he said.
The windows were closed and the apartment retained the day’s heat. It was stifling and drowsy with the smell of turpentine. Grace was still nervous, maybe more so now that they weren’t in public. She put water in an electric kettle and clanked it against the faucet. She found the instant coffee and dropped the lid. She got mismatched mugs out of the dish rack and banged them together. While they waited for the water to boil, he glanced around at her paintings. They were abstract; amorphous shapes, dark colors, overdrawn with slashes, stark lines, and thick smears of paint. Just the kind of stuff he didn’t understand. She gave him a mug.
“Thanks.” He took a sip. The coffee wasn’t tasty or choice. It tasted brown.
She sat down on the other side of the counter. “So I guess it’s obvious I’m not exactly rich.” She’s setting me up for something, he thought. Another deep breath, this one preparatory. Her lips were pinched together, her chin up; that look you get when you’re going to say something embarrassing and want to keep your dignity. “But I have to pay my way.” He didn’t want to assume anything, but it was clear she wasn’t talking about bitcoins or postdated checks.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” he said.
She was insistent. “No, I have to do this.”
He was getting a little alarmed. “No, you don’t, really.”
“I want to pay you with my art,” she said. Isaiah was relieved and a little disappointed as well. “I don’t want to insult you,” she went on.
“You’re not insulting me.”
“Don’t feel like you have to. I mean, if you think it’s stupid—”
“It’s not stupid, I just—” He ran out of words. She shrugged, her face coloring.
“It’s okay. It was just an idea, that’s all.” She was already moving for the door. “Thanks for coming.” Isaiah heard Dodson’s voice: Everybody pays real money, but it faded quickly in the cloud of Grace’s disappointment.
“Wait,” he said. “There’s a lot to see.” He got up, went to the center of the room, and surveyed the paintings. He had more pressing needs than starting an art collection but there was no going back now. He wanted to know her. He looked from one to the other, trying to find something recognizable; a likeness, a hidden image, a suggestive shape. His nervousness turned everything into a muddy wash. He was taking too long. He could feel her anxiety, her hope. He knew he should say something but didn’t know what. New sweat was making his scalp tingle. The heat and turpentine smell were making him sick. Why doesn’t she open a window? Seconds went by like a roller coaster chugging its way to the summit, a calamitous drop on the other side. Say something, you idiot!
“Take your time,” she said, mistaking his inaction for focus. She drifted out of his view. Reprieved, he took a breath. Okay, settle down. This is her work, her passion. Be respectful. Give the paintings their due. He looked at them again one by one. To his uncultivated eye, they were artful, not paint thrown on a canvas. Composed and haphazard at the same time, balanced but not symmetrical, the colors discordant and yet they somehow blended. No amateur could have done them. The problem was, they didn’t look like anything. What is that? A skyline? The ocean? A screaming child? It felt like a game show, a million bucks on the line, the clock tick tick ticking, a breathless audience waiting for the answer. Settle down. Settle down. Think!
Nothing.
Then it struck him. They’re abstract, dummy, meant to communicate on some other level than concrete things. So what else was there? Feelings. Not exactly his strong suit. He tried to clear his mind and not let his brain assemble the elements into anything tangible. It was like looking at a sunset. You don’t try to see something in it. You let it evoke—love, sadness, wonder, hope, endings and beginnings, or something undefined and wordless at your core. He looked at the paintings again, his mind blank and absorbent, the colors and shapes affecting him osmotically. There was nothing remotely pleasant about them. Most were unsettling and brooding. There was one that stood out from the others. It was large, four feet by three, the only one with a frame. There were stormy grays, graveyard browns, and hard edges, a disastrous fracture splitting the canvas like a rip, mysterious tendrils spreading ominously from a stump of black, reaching across the fracture, darkening a patch of sky blue like an infection. It felt unbearably tense. A struggle. He’d had no idea art could affect him this way. He wondered what kind of person could create such powerful images. He turned and saw her sitting on the futon with her arms around her knees. She’d been watching him. “They’re amazing,” he breathed. He met her gaze and in that moment he felt it. Contact.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, a smile in her eyes. “Is there something you especially like?” He knew right away. He nodded at the one with the frame.
“That one.”
“Oh God.” She put her hand over her mouth, an edge of panic in her voice. “Could you pick something else? I’m kind of attached to that one.”
Isaiah thought about the work he would put into the case. The time. How he’d be sacrificing real money and have to fight with Dodson. No, if he was going to do this she should sacrifice too. “I want that one or nothing,” he said. Surprised, she jerked her head back as if a bee had flown by. She waited, expecting him to soften, but he kept his face neutral. He could see an argument gathering inside her, but as the moment drew longer, her face flattened into resentful acceptance.
“Did your mom have friends?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Some but they changed. At first, they were housewives like her. They didn’t work, they played tennis and did a lot of shopping. When she decided to make art, she dropped them and started hanging with other artists, writers, actors. They were way more interesting.”
“Are you in touch with any of them?”
“No. They’re long gone.”
“Did you get along with your mom?”
She made a face like it was a stupid question. “Why does that matter?” She moved her coffee mug in front of her and held it in two hands. He waited. She shrugged. “We got along okay. We had the usual mother-daughter bullshit. Who didn’t?”
“What did your dad do?” Isaiah said. Grace shifted her position, half in profile now. Again, she hesitated as if she needed time to assemble the words.
“The army,” she said.
“Was he in Iraq?”
She folded her arms. “Yeah.” He waited for her to elaborate but she didn’t. He wondered if he would have to prompt her every time.
“Is he around?” he said.
“He died.” She hesitated again. “Heart attack. And I still don’t see why this stuff is important.”
He ignored that and continued. “Who took care of you?”
“After my mom left, I stayed with my grandmother. She couldn’t handle it so I went to a foster home. I ran away when I was sixteen.” Her phone buzzed. “Sorry, I have to take this. It’s about an art show.” She moved away.
Isaiah believed in tells, body language that indicated deception, but they weren’t always reliable. If a person scratches his nose, maybe it’s because his nose itches. If he’s sweating, maybe it’s because he’s wearing a sweater on a warm day. But the degree of reliability rose dramatically if you established a baseline or what the person was like when they were truthful. Isaiah had established a baseline by asking Grace basic questions. When did this happen. What was her father’s name. How old was she at the time. Grace was forthright, looked at him directly, held the coffee mug in one hand, not all the pauses and sighs and impatience and turning into profile so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact and holding the mug between them like an obstacle and folding her arms protectively. As soon as the conversation touched the past, the tells started flashing like the red and white lights on an ambulance. He wondered why she knew the exact date her mother left but hesitated before saying her father died of a heart attack. A funny thing to forget. And why the reluctance to say he was in the military? What was wrong with that, or being in Iraq? And why would Sarah abandon her daughter just because she was fighting with her husband? Why didn’t she move to another neighborhood or get a divorce? Sometimes clients cherry-picked the truth because they wanted to put themselves in the best possible light or others in the worst. Sometimes they simply forgot or didn’t think something was important, but more often than not, they were hiding something, and if Sarah abandoned her teenage daughter and dropped out of sight for ten years, she wasn’t taking a sabbatical. She was on the run.