Silent Partner

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She pretended to be bored, but studied the papers. “Okay. So what? Even if you're who you say you are, what's your business here?”

  “An old friend of mine, another psychologist named Sharon Ransom, died recently. She left no next of kin. There's some indication she's related to Shirlee and Jasper Ransom. I found their address, thought they might want to talk.”

  “How'd this Sharon die?”

  “Suicide.”

  That drained the color from her face. “How old was she?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  She looked away, busied herself with cutlery.

  “Sharon Ransom,” I said. “Heard of her?”

  “Never. Never heard of Jasper and Shirlee having kids, period. You're mistaken, mister.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Thanks for lunch.”

  She called after me: “All of Willow Glen is Rural Route Four. Go past the schoolhouse about a mile. There's an old abandoned press. Turn right and keep going. But you're wasting your time.”

  I exited the village, endured fifty yards of potholes before the dirt smoothed and the RURAL ROUTE 4 sign appeared. I drove past more orchards and several homesteads graced by sprawling wood houses and fenced with low split rails, then a flag on a pole marking a two-story stone schoolhouse shaped like a milk carton and set in the middle of an oak-shaded, leaf-carpeted playground. The playground bled into forest, the forest into mountain. Name-tagged mailboxes lined the road: RILEY'S U-PICK AND PUMPKINS (CLOSED.) LEIDECKER. BROWARD. SUTCLIFFE . . .

  I drove past the abandoned apple press before realizing it, backed up, and pulled to the side of the road. From that distance it looked like scrap: corrugated steel sides ulcered with rust and caving inward, mere fringes of tarpaper roof remaining, exposing age-blackened rafters, neck-high weeds scrambling for the light. Surrounding the building was sunken land littered with spare parts, dead-wood, and weeds that had reached the sun, been baked to summer straw.

  Turn right and keep going. I saw no road, no entry, remembered Wendy's distrust and wondered if she'd led me wrong.

  I kept the engine running and got out. Four o'clock, but sun was still pouring it on and within moments I was sweating. The road was silent. My nose picked up a skunk scent. I shaded my eyes with my hand, looked around, and finally saw a bald spot in the weeds—the barest outline of a pathway running alongside the press. A shiny depression in the straw where rubber tires had finally vanquished the tangle.

  I thought of walking, didn't know how far in I had to go. Returning to the car, I backed up until I found a dip in the shoulder and nosed down into the sunken field.

  The Seville didn't take well to rural travel; it skidded and slid on the slick straw. Finally I got some traction and was able to negotiate my way onto the path. I nudged the car forward, past the press, into an ocean of weeds. The depression turned into a dirt path and I picked up speed, crossed a broad field. At the far end was a copse of weeping willows. Between the lacy leaves of the trees, hints of metal—more corrugated buildings.

  Shirlee and Jasper Ransom didn't seem like hospitable sorts.

  Wendy had thought it unlikely they'd ever been parents, had stopped herself before explaining why.

  Not wanting to be “uncharitable.”

  Or had she been afraid?

  Perhaps Sharon had escaped them—escaped this place—for good reason, constructing fantasies of a pure and perfect childhood in order to block out a reality too terrible to confront.

  I wondered what I was getting myself into. Let a Jasper/Shirlee fantasy of my own float by: mammoth rural mutants, toothless and walleyed in filthy overalls, surrounded by a pack of slavering, fanged mutts, and greeting my arrival with buckshot.

  I stopped, listened for dogs. Silence. Telling myself to keep the old imagination in check, I gave the Seville gas.

  When I reached the willows, there was no place for the car to enter. I turned off the ignition, stepped out, walked under the drooping boughs and through the copse. Heard the trickle of water. A voice humming tunelessly. Then came to the habitat of Jasper and Shirlee Ransom.

  Two shacks on a small plot of dirt. A pair of tiny, primitive buildings sided with irregularly cut wood and roofed with tin. In place of windows, sheets of wax paper. Between the shacks was a wooden outhouse, complete with a crescent hole in the door. A rope clothesline was strung between the outhouse and one of the shacks. Faded garments were pinned to the hemp. Beyond the outhouse was a water tank on metal braces; next to it, a small electric generator.

  Half the property was planted with apple trees—a dozen or so infant seedlings, staked and tagged. A woman stood watering them with a garden hose connected to the water tank. Water dribbled out from between her fingers, making it appear as if she were leaking, feeding the trees with her own body fluid. The water spattered on the ground, settled in muddy swirls, turned to dirt soup.

  She hadn't heard me. Sixties, squat and very short—four foot eight or nine—gray hair cut in a pageboy, and flat; doughy features. She squinted, mouth open, accentuating an underslung jaw. A thatch of whiskers sprouted from her chin. She wore a one-piece smock of blue print material that resembled bed sheeting. The bottom hem was uneven. Her legs were pale and thick, pudding-soft and unshaven. She grasped the hose with both hands as if it were a live snake and concentrated on the water dribble.

  I said, “Hello.”

  She turned, squinted several times, raising the hose in the process. The water squirted against the trunk of one of the saplings.

  A smile. Guileless.

  She waved her hand, tentatively, like a child meeting a stranger.

  “Hello,” I repeated.

  “Hullo.” Her enunciation was poor.

  I came closer. “Mrs. Ransom?”

  That perplexed her.

  “Shirlee?”

  Several rapid nods. “Tha's me. Shirlee.” In her excitement, she dropped the hose and it began to twirl and spit. She tried to grab it, couldn't, caught a jet of water full in the face, cried out, and threw up her hands. I retrieved the muddy rubber coil, bent it and washed it off, and gave it back to her.

  “Thanku.” She rubbed her face on the shoulder of her smock, trying to dry it. I took out a clean handkerchief and dabbed at her face.

  “Thanku. Sir.”

  “Shirlee, my name is Alex. I'm a friend of Sharon's.”

  I steeled myself for an outpouring of grief, got another smile. Brighter. “Pretty Sharon.”

  My heart ached. I forced the words out, nearly choked on the present tense. “Yes, she is pretty.”

  “My Sharon . . . letter . . . want to see it?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She looked down at the hose, appeared lost in thought. “Wait.” Slowly, deliberately, she backed away from the saplings and made her way to the water tank. It took a long time for her to turn off the spigot, even longer to coil the tubing neatly on the ground. When she was through, she looked at me with pride.

  “Great,” I said. “Nice trees.”

  “Pretty. Apple. Mizz Leiderk gave them me and Jasper. Baby tree.”

  “Did you plant them, yourselves?”

  Giggle. “No. Gabe-eel.”

  “Gabriel?”

  Nod. “We take real good care.”

  “I'm sure you do, Shirlee.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see that letter from Sharon?”

  “Yes.”

  I followed her flatfooted shuffle into one of the shacks. The walls were unpainted drywall streaked with waterstains; the floor, plywood; the ceiling, bare beams. A particle-board partition had been used to bisect the space. One half was a utility area—small refrigerator, electric hot plate, ancient washer with rollers. Boxes of soap powder and insecticide sat next to the fridge.

  On the other side was a low-ceilinged room, floored with a sheet of orange indoor-outdoor carpeting. A white-painted cast-iron bed draped with an army-surplus blanket nearly filled the space. The blanket was tucked tight, with military corners. Ag
ainst one wall was an electric heater. The sun streamed in, golden and gentle, through wax-paper windows. A broom was propped in one corner. It had seen good use: The place was spotless.

  The only other furniture was a small raw pine dresser. A box of crayons sat on top, along with several pencils worn down to nubs and pads of pulp paper neatly stacked and weighed down with a rock. The top sheet was a drawing. Apples. Primitive. Childish.

  “Did you draw this, Shirlee?”

  “Jasp. He a good drawer.”

  “Yes, he is. Where is he now?”

  She left the cabin, pointed toward the outhouse. “Making.”

  “I see.”

  “Draw real good.”

  I nodded agreement. “The letter, Shirlee?”

  “Oh.” She smiled wider, cuffed the side of her head with one fist. “I forget.”

  We returned to the bedroom. She opened one of the dresser drawers. Inside were precisely ordered piles of garments—more of the same bleached-out stuff I'd seen on the clothesline. She slid one hand under the clothes, retrieved an envelope, and handed it to me.

  Smudged with fingerprints, handled to tissue-fineness. The postmark, Long Island, New York, 1971. The address written in large block letters:

  MR. AND MRS. JASPER RANSOM

  RURAL ROUTE 4

  WILLOW GLEN, CALIFORNIA

  Inside was a single sheet of white stationery. The letterhead said:

  FORSYTHE TEACHERS COLLEGE FOR WOMEN

  WOODBURN MANOR

  LONG ISLAND, N.Y. 11946

  The same block lettering had been used for the text:

  DEAR MOM AND DAD:

  I'M HERE AT SCHOOL. THE PLANE RIDE WAS GOOD. EVERYONE IS BEING NICE TO ME. I LIKE IT, BUT I MISS YOU VERY MUCH.

  PLEASE REMEMBER TO FIX THE WINDOWS BEFORE THE RAINS COME. THEY MAY COME EARLY, SO PLEASE BE CAREFUL. REMEMBER HOW WET YOU GOT LAST YEAR. IF YOU NEED HELP MRS. LEIDECKER WILL HELP. SHE SAID SHE WILL CHECK TO SEE IF YOU ARE O.K.

  DAD, THANKS FOR THE BEAUTIFUL DRAWINGS. I LOOKED AT THEM WHEN I WAS ON THE PLANE. OTHER PEOPLE SAW THEM AND SAID THEY WERE BEAUTIFUL. GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT. KEEP DRAWING AND SEND ME MORE. MRS. LEIDECKER WILL HELP YOU SEND THEM TO ME.

  I DO MISS YOU. IT WAS HARD TO LEAVE. BUT I DO WANT TO BE A TEACHER AND I KNOW YOU WANT THAT TOO. THIS IS A GOOD SCHOOL. WHEN I AM A TEACHER I WILL COME BACK AND TEACH IN WILLOW GLEN. I PROMISE TO WRITE. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES.

  LOVE,

  SHARON

  (YOUR ONLY LITTLE GIRL)

  I slipped the letter back into the envelope. Shirlee Ransom was looking at me, smiling. It took several seconds before I could speak.

  “It's a nice letter, Shirlee. A beautiful letter.”

  “Yes.”

  I handed it back to her. “Do you have more?”

  She shook her head. “We had. Lots. Big rains came in, and whoosh.” She waved her arms. “Everything wash away,” she said. “Dollies. Toys. Papers.” She pointed to the wax-paper windows. “Rain comes in.”

  “Why don't you put in glass windows?”

  She laughed. “Mizz Leiderk says glass, Shirlee. Glass is good. Strong. Try. Jasp say no, no. Jasp likes the air.”

  “Mrs. Leidecker sounds like a good friend.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was . . . is she Sharon's friend too?”

  “Teacher.” She tapped her forehead. “Real smart.”

  “Sharon wanted to be a teacher too,” I said. “She went to school in New York to become a teacher.”

  Nod. “Four-set college.”

  “Forsythe College?”

  Nod. “Far away.”

  “After she became a teacher, did she come back here to Willow Glen?”

  “No. Too smart. Calfurna.”

  “California?”

  “Yes. Far away.”

  “Did she write you from California?”

  Troubled look. I regretted the question.

  “Yes.”

  “When's the last time you heard from her?”

  She bit her finger, twisted her mouth. “Crismus.”

  “Last Christmas?”

  “Yes.” Without conviction.

  She'd talked about a sixteen-year-old letter as if it had arrived today. Thought California was some distant place. I wondered if she could read, asked her:

  “Christmas a long time ago?”

  “Yes.”

  Something else atop the dresser caught my eye: a corner of blue leatherette under the apple drawings. I pulled it out. A savings passbook from a bank in Yucaipa. She didn't seem to mind my intrusion. Feeling like a burglar anyway, I opened the book.

  Several years' worth of transactions in an unwavering pattern: $500 cash deposits on the first of each month. Occasional withdrawals. A carry-over balance of $78,000 and some change. The account was in trusteeship for Jasper Ransom and Shirlee Ransom, co-tenants. The trustee, Helen A. Leidecker.

  “Money,” said Shirlee. Proud smile.

  I put the book back where I'd found it.

  “Shirlee, where was Sharon born?”

  Look of bafflement.

  “Did you give birth to her? Did she come out of your tummy?”

  Giggles.

  I heard footsteps and turned.

  A man came in. He saw me, hitched up his pants, raised his eyebrows, and shuffled over to his wife's side.

  He wasn't much bigger than she—barely over five feet—and about her age. Balding, with virtually no chin and very large, very soft-looking blue eyes. A fleshy nose tunneled between the eyes, shadowing a protruding upper lip. His mouth hung slightly open. He had only a few, yellowed teeth. An Andy Gump face, coated with fine white hair that resembled soap film. His shoulders so narrow that his short arms seemed to grow out of his neck. His hands dangled at his sides and ended in pudgy hands with splayed fingers. He wore a white T-shirt several sizes too large for him, gray work pants tied with a string around the waist, and high-top sneakers. The pants were pressed. His fly was open.

  “Ooh, Jasp,” said Shirlee, hiding her mouth with her hand and pointing.

  He looked puzzled. She giggled and pulled up his zipper, patted him playfully on the cheek. He blushed, looked down.

  “Hi,” I said, holding out my hand. “My name is Alex.”

  He ignored me. Seemed preoccupied with his sneakers.

  “Mr. Ransom . . . Jasper—”

  Shirlee broke in. “Don' hear. Nuthin'. Don' talk.”

  I managed to catch his eye and mouthed the word hello.

  Blank stare.

  I offered my hand again.

  He threw rabbity glances around the room.

  I turned to Shirlee. “Could you tell him I'm a friend of Sharon's?”

  She scratched her chin, contemplated, then screamed at him:

  “He know Sharon! Sha-ron! Sha-ron!”

  The little man's eyes grew wide, darted away from mine.

  “Please tell him I like his drawings, Shirlee.”

  “Drawings!” shouted Shirlee. She did a crude pantomime of a moving pencil. “He like draw-wings! Draw-wings!”

  Jasper screwed up his face.

  “Draw-wings! Silly Jasp!” More pencil movements. She took him by the hand and pointed to the stack of papers on the dresser, then rotated him and pointed to me.

  “Drawings!”

  I smiled, said, “They're beautiful.”

  “Uhh.” The sound was low-pitched, guttural, straining. I remembered where I'd heard something like it. Resthaven.

  “Draw-wings!” Shirlee was still shouting.

  “It's all right,” I said. “Thank you, Shirlee.”

  But by now she was performing from her own script. “Drawings! Go! Go!” She gave his flat buttocks a shove. He trotted out of the shack.

  “Jasp' gofer drawing,” said Shirlee.

  “Great. Shirlee, we were talking about where Sharon was born. I asked you if she came out of your tummy.”

  “Silly!” She looked down and stretched the fabric of her dress tight over her a
bdomen. Stroked the soft protrusion. “No baby.”

  “Then how did she get to be your little girl?”

  The doughy face lit up, eyes brightening with guile.

  “A present.”

  “Sharon was a present?”

  “Yes.”

  “From who?”

  She shook her head.

  “Who gave her to you as a present?”

  The headshake grew stronger.

  “Why can't you tell me?”

  “Can't!”

  “Why not, Shirlee?”

  “Can't! Secret!”

  “Who told you to keep it secret?”

  “Can't! Secret. Seek-rut!”

  She was frothing at the mouth, looked ready to cry.

  “Okay,” I said. “It's good to keep a secret if that's what you promised.”

  “Secret.”

  “I understand, Shirlee.”

  She sniffled, smiled, said, “Uh-oh, water time,” and walked out.

  I followed her to the yard. Jasper had just come out of the other shack and was walking toward us clutching several sheets of paper. He saw me and waved them in the air. I walked over and he shoved them at me. More apples.

  “Great, Jasper. Beautiful.”

  Shirlee said, “Water time,” and glanced at the hose.

  Jasper had left the door of the other shack open and I walked in.

  A single unpartitioned space. Red carpeting. A bed sat in the center, canopied and covered with lace-edged quilting. The fabric was speckled with green-black mold and rotted through. I touched a piece of lace. It turned to dust between my fingers. The headboard and canopy frame were muddy with oxidation and gave off a bitter odor. Above the bed, hanging from a nail driven crookedly into the drywall, was a framed Beatles poster—a blowup of the “Rubber Soul” album. The glass was streaked and cracked and flyspecked. Against the opposite wall was a chest of drawers covered with more decayed lace, perfume bottles, and glass figurines. I tried to pick up a bottle but it stuck to the lace. A trail of ants streamed over the chest top. Several dead silverfish lay strewn among the bottles.