“Yes. I just did today. And I guess they do look something alike, now that you mention it.” It really hadn’t occurred to him before. “The thing is, everything else about them seems to be so different. I didn’t even notice about the appearance thing.”
“I see,” Charlotte said.
CHAPTER 10
I’M AWFULLY SORRY about yesterday, Jamesy.” Diane took hold of his hand and squeezed it hard. He squeezed back and pulled her to a stop. They had been walking across the patio towards the Jarretts’ kitchen door, and now when James bent to kiss her, she rolled her eyes towards the house. The top half of the Dutch door was open, and from inside the sound of women’s voices drifted out into the patio.
“It’s my mother and aunt,” she whispered, “having their daily gossip session. You know—who’s not invited to whose party, who’s hitting on whose wife, who ought to join Weight Watchers—that sort of thing.”
“Let’s not go in,” James said.
“Oh, come on. I’m thirsty. Then we can go on down to the trophy room and be—” she rolled her eyes “—alone.”
In the kitchen, Jill Jarrett and another woman were sitting at the breakfast bar drinking coffee. Angela Jarrett was smaller and darker than her sister-in-law, but there seemed to be a similarity about them. It wasn’t so much in their actual features, as in their clothing and mannerisms and the sound of their voices. They both said hello with an exceptional amount of warmth and enthusiasm, and then immediately turned their backs and went on with their conversation. Diane was busy rummaging around in the refrigerator.
“It’s not the little boy that worries me,” Angela was saying. “It’s that older child—Griffin, they call her. Laurel seems to absolutely idolize her. She’d spend every waking hour with the two of them if I’d let her. I’ve been trying to discourage it, and Dunc agrees with me, for once. He thinks there’s something very strange about both of them.”
“With good reason,” Jill Jarrett said. “Coming from that background.”
“Well, as far as family background goes, you couldn’t do much better than the Griffiths, or the Westmorelands for that matter. But I know what you mean. The Alexandra thing.”
“Ethel says they both drink like fishes, and that the children are allowed to run wild. Apparently they do have them in very good schools during the year, but here at The Camp they just allow them to run wild in the woods day after day.”
“Considering what goes on at some of those marathon parties, the woods might be the safest place for them. You know the Arthurs were asked once, and afterwards Caroline told me…” Angela glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice.
“Would you like Pepsi or apple cider?” Diane stuck a couple of cold bottles in James’ hands and led the way out of the room. He followed, but the kitchen conversation, and some questions it brought up, were still on his mind. All the way down the stairs and across the dozen or so yards of trophy room to the leather couch by the coffee table, he mulled over possible answers and implications.
“About the Westmorelands,” he said when they were settled on the couch.
Tipping her head back against his shoulder, Diane took a long drink from her Pepsi before she answered. Leaving her head where it was, she said, “What about the Westmorelands?”
“About what your mother and aunt were saying in the kitchen…”
“Were they talking about the Westmorelands? I didn’t notice. I get tired of their stories. Usually it’s stuff I heard weeks ago. What were they saying about the saggy swingers.”
“The saggy swingers?”
“The Westmorelands and all their swinging friends. That’s what Lance and Gary call them, because most of them are really old, like way over thirty. And they’re always having these wild parties. Some of them are just blasts, with booze and dope, but they go in for all the latest head trips, too. All kinds of touchy-feely encounter things like body awareness and—” she looked up at him and wiggled her eyebrows “—and group massage.”
“Do your parents go to their parties?” he asked.
She laughed. “My parents? No. My mother says nothing could make her go to one of those parties, but I’ll bet she’d go if she got a chance. Out of curiosity, for one thing. She’s dying to find out about them. But the Westmorelands don’t have much to do with most of the people here at The Camp. They never go to the Major’s social things; and whenever they’re here, they usually bring a lot of their jet-setty friends along with them.”
“How’d you find out about the parties then?”
“Oh, everybody talks about them. They hire New Moon people to work at the parties sometimes. Ethel’s cooked for them a couple of times; and Bertha, who cleans for us, works for them sometimes, too. My mom always pumps them about the Westmorelands. And everybody tries to pump Laurel, too—that’s my little brat of a cousin—because she plays with the Westmoreland kids a lot.
“Do you know Griffin?”
“Is that the girl? Yes, I’ve met her. Laurel brought her here once. That was really a scene. She had a kind of fit and called my dad a murderer.”
“A murderer?” James said. But his surprise only lasted a moment because then he got the picture. “Oh, you mean because of this room—the trophies?”
“Yes. It was really a scene. She’s as nutty as they come.”
He found himself feeling a little defensive about Griffin, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, since he’d often thought of her as a bit dippy himself. “It was probably just because she’s so crazy about animals,” he said. “She really has a thing about them. She probably just got upset about your father killing so many of them.”
Diane shrugged. “Well, she’s crazy. Because my dad probably likes animals just as much as she does. He really respects all the animals he hunts. He says hunting is kind of a game the hunter plays with the animals. A kind of matching wits thing.” Diane was sitting up straight now, and her eyes looked angry. James decided not to ask whether the animals might prefer to play a game with slightly lower stakes. But he must have smiled a little because her eyes got angrier. “Besides,” she said, “my dad says he’s really doing them a favor when he shoots them, particularly the deer, because there are too many of them now because of all the predators being killed off, and if hunters didn’t kill a lot of them every year, they’d just starve to death. And starving to death is a lot worse than being killed by a bullet.” She was obviously getting pretty worked up, and when he reached for her hand she jerked it away.
“That makes sense,” he said. “It really does. I hadn’t thought about that before.” He smiled a soothing smile and reached again for her hand. This time she allowed him to take it, but her lower lip, her beautiful moist lower lip, was still protruding a little bit more than usual. He was still thinking about the lip when she suddenly stood up.
“I’m getting extremely tired of this whole conversation,” she said. “I think I’d like to go for a walk. Would you like to go for a walk with me, or would you rather go up and talk about your friend, Griffin, with my aunt and mother?”
James said he’d take the walk.
On the bottom deck, Jacky was bouncing up and down on a spring-mounted rocking horse. He had a particularly blank expression on his face, apparently lulled into an unnaturally peaceful state by the rhythmic rocking. He certainly seemed to have no aggressive thoughts on his mind and nothing in his hands except the horse’s handlebars, but to be on the safe side, James did a quick check for bulging pockets before turning his back to go down the stairs. As he circled the horse, Jacky stopped bouncing and followed his progress, swiveling his head one way and then the other. “Hi there, Jacky,” James said in a carefully unchallenging tone of voice. “What do you know?”
“Relax,” Diane said. “There it is, under the window.” She was pointing to where the golf ball was lying against the wall. “Besides, you don’t have to worry any more. Dad made a deal with him. He’s going to get a whole lot of toys and things if he doesn’t throw the
ball at people any more. Dad says Jacky is just like him. He’s a tough customer, but when he makes a deal he sticks to it. Don’t laugh. It’s the truth. There’ve been lots of people around lately, and he hasn’t thrown his ball at anyone. Have you, Jacky Whacky?”
She bent over Jacky and nuzzled his neck, but he only pushed her away and went on staring at James. Looking back, straight into the round brown eyes, James had a peculiar feeling that he was reading Jacky’s mind. And if the message was what he thought it was, Diane’s optimism might be a little premature. They went on down the stairs, and they were halfway down the driveway before Jacky stopped staring and went back to bouncing.
When they reached the end of the drive, James suggested they take their favorite trail into the nearest secluded grove of trees, but Diane said she was tired of always going to the same old place. She knew of another very private place to hike, she said, at the end of Bunker Hill.
“The end of Bunker Hill?” James said. “That’s a long way.” As far as he knew, the only way to get from Gettysburg to Bunker Hill was to go clear down to the Parade Grounds and then all the way up Bunker Hill. But Diane said she knew of a short cut, so they started off down Gettysburg.
Diane didn’t seem to be in a very talkative mood. Remembering what she’d said about liking to be listened to, he made an effort to get her started talking. He tried several topics: books, movies, classes she liked best in school—or, all right then, hated least—and got very little response. But when he mentioned clothes, he got better results, particularly when he brought up the subject of tee shirt slogans. The one she was wearing said Do Not Fold Staple or Mutilate. When he said he liked it, she said it was a crummy old one. She had a new one she really liked but she hadn’t finished fighting with her mother about it yet. About whether she was going to be allowed to wear it. It had a picture of Mt. Lassen on one side and Mt. Shasta on the other and underneath it said, California’s Most Perfect Peaks. She was still telling who said what in the Perfect Peaks argument when they came to the shortcut to Bunker Hill.
The shortcut involved crossing a deep gully with a creek at the bottom. A very steep trail zigzagged through loose silty soil down to the bottom of the gully and the bed of the creek. The gully was private enough, but the steep dusty trail discouraged romantic pursuits, and the footing wasn’t much better on the rocky creek bed. But when he attempted to rise above such handicaps, Diane only twisted away from him, giggling, and started across the creek, jumping from stone to stone. But then, in midstream, she apparently changed her mind and held out her arms invitingly. He was beside her in one leap—and then began to slip backward. Diane squealed and ducked away from his clutching hands; and a moment later he was standing in knee-deep water, and she was climbing up the other side of the gully, laughing her head off.
The trail up the other side crossed what had obviously been a mudslide during the last rainy season and was now a deep drift of loose powdery silt. By the time James reached the top, his shoes and several inches of his denims were encased in a thick crust of mud and he was not in a very good frame of mind. His feet felt terrible and looked worse, and Diane wasn’t helping matters by starting to giggle every time she looked at him. When they came out of the woods onto Bunker Hill, he stopped.
“I don’t think I want to go any farther in this condition,” he said. “I’ll just head for home.”
She stopped giggling immediately. “Don’t go home,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “Please don’t leave now. Just hike up to the end of Bunker Hill with me. Your shoes will dry and—” She glanced at his legs and her mouth twitched, but she kept it under control, “—and most of the mud will fall off when it gets drier. Please, go with me.” James went.
Near the end of Bunker Hill they passed a cabin built along the lines of and roughly the same size as an airplane hangar. The doors of the triple garage were open and one of the cars inside was a silver Porsche.
“Wow! Who lives there?” James asked.
“Where?” Diane said, although there wasn’t any other cabin in the vicinity. “Oh, there? That’s the Richardsons’ place.”
For a moment it did occur to James to wonder if Diane’s insistence on hiking up Bunker Hill was in any way related to the Richardsons, but as they walked past she didn’t show any particular interest. In fact, just at that moment she began to show more interest in James than she had at any time since the hike started. Putting her arm around his waist, she leaned her head on his shoulder and began to talk about how tall he was and how much she liked tall men. He’d almost forgotten about the Richardsons when she suddenly said. “There’s Mr. Richardson. Hi, Mr. Richardson! Hi, Stubby!”
A muscular-looking middle-aged man had appeared around the corner of the house, followed by a Doberman with a similar physique and a less friendly expression. Noticing James and Diane, the Doberman ran toward them barking, and the man ran after him calling his name. James had never had much confidence in Dobermans, and this one looked particularly untrustworthy. He was circling them with the hair bristling along the ridge of his back when Mr. Richardson caught up with him and grabbed him by the choke collar.
Diane introduced James and then asked Mr. Richardson how he was and how Mrs. Richardson was, and Lance and Gary. When Mr. Richardson had finished reporting on the health of the whole family, she asked how Stubby was, which seemed a bit unnecessary since there was obviously nothing wrong with his health, except that he was strangling himself in his eagerness to get at James.
Stubby’s ominous interest in the calves of his legs had, at least, managed to take James’ mind off his ridiculous-looking feet, until he noticed Richardson looking at them and grinning. “Looks like you’ve been covering some pretty rugged territory,” he said.
Diane giggled. “He fell in the creek. Would it be all right if we used your hose to wash him off?”
Richardson told her to help herself, but James said, “Thanks a lot, but I don’t think I’ll bother. We’ll have to go through all that loose dirt again on the way home, and they’ll just get muddy again.”
But Diane insisted. “Come on,” she said. “We’re going clear to the end of Bunker Hill first and they’ll have plenty of time to dry. Grabbing James’ hand she pulled him across the Richardsons’ front yard. Mr. Richardson followed, and after he put Stubby in the house, he attached a hose to a faucet and Diane had just begun to spray James’ feet when there was the sound of footsteps overhead. Someone was coming down the stairs from the front deck. “Hi, Lance,” Diane called.
He looked to be about twenty or maybe even older, although Diane said later that he was eighteen. From the neck up he looked like an ad for the dry look, and from the neck down like something out of a show window on Rodeo Avenue in Beverly Hills—gold chains, designer jeans and high-heeled disco cowboy boots. Strolling towards them and then lounging against the wall of the house, he gave the impression that he couldn’t get any more relaxed and stay conscious. When Diane introduced James, he turned his eyes, but not his whole head, in James’ general direction and said, “Hey,” and then to his father, “I’m taking the Targa into Tahoe. Okay?”
Mr. Richardson started asking questions and giving orders about not speeding and getting back before midnight, all of which obviously came close to boring his son into a complete coma. Yawning, he muttered, “Sure, sure,” a couple of times, nodded at James and Diane and sauntered back around the corner. A few moments later the silver Porsche flowed down the driveway and disappeared down Bunker Hill.
When they’d said good-by and James had sloshed down the drive in his saturated shoes, Diane suddenly decided she didn’t want to go to the end of Bunker Hill after all.
CHAPTER 11
WHEN HE CALLED Diane from the snack bar phone booth the day after the Bunker Hill hike, she said no, she couldn’t come down and meet him. And when he asked if he could come up, she began to talk about how much she had to do and how she probably wouldn’t have much time to talk to him even if he did.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m beginning to get the picture. If you don’t want to see me, why don’t you just say so instead of throwing around a lot of unconvincing excuses.”
“All right,” she said. “I don’t want to see you. At least not if you’re going to talk to me like that. I don’t like it when you scold me. If I want someone to scold me, I can always talk to my mother.”
So then James said he hadn’t realized his conversation was so unpleasant, and if she felt that way about it, perhaps he’d just better hang up. He waited for her to tell him not to, but she didn’t, so he did. A minute later he was sorry, but it was too late.
That night he lay awake for hours thinking about how it was all over and how he must have blown it somehow and wondering just what it was that he’d done wrong, and if Max would have been able to tell him, if he’d been there and seen it all.
It went on like that for three days and three nights. During the nights he stared into the darkness and thought about Diane, and during the days he sat at his desk and thought about her and tried to work on the da Vinci. Even though he was making a special effort to act normal around his parents, he must not have been entirely successful because he noticed Charlotte watching him closely, and once she even asked him if he wasn’t feeling well.
James resented her curiosity. He wished she’d just leave him alone. It had nothing to do with her, and he didn’t want anyone prying into his personal affairs and feeling sorry for him. Of course, William hadn’t noticed anything. He wouldn’t. His only son could have had delirium tremens, rabies and two broken legs and he probably wouldn’t have noticed a thing. James resented his indifference.
On the morning of the fourth day he decided to go to the tennis courts. He didn’t know why. He certainly didn’t feel like playing tennis or anything else; and if Diane showed up and ignored him, it would only make things a million times worse. But somehow, once he’d thought of going, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He put on his favorite shirt, the bulky terry cloth one that tended to give his chest and upper arms a more muscular appearance, combed his hair very carefully and headed for The Camp.
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