Dix said, “I didn't know you were selling your house.”
“Trying to. Not much interest so far.”
“How long have you had it on the market?”
“Six weeks. If the Democrats don't turn the economy around, I may never sell the damn place. It's not a financial decision, in case you're wondering. I'm just tired of living in a frigging tract. I never did like it here, you know. It was Grace's idea to buy in Brookside Park. Hell, I should have realized then that the marriage was doomed.”
“Where will you go when it does sell?”
Elliot shrugged. “Out in the country someplace. Not too far away; I hate commuting. A farm, if I can find one that's affordable. I always did want to own a farm. Grow my own fruit and vegetables.” He laughed his seal-bark laugh. “Chop the heads off my own chickens for recreation.”
Dix finished his drink. Elliot did the same and got immediately to his feet. “We can both use another one,” he said, and took the glasses away before Dix could protest.
When he came back with the refills, he asked, “Feel like talking about it?”
“About what?”
“What it is that's got you all worked up.”
“I'm not … it's just the heat, that's all.”
“Bullshit,” Elliot said. “It's more than that. More than what happened to Katy. Looks to me like you've had a shock of some kind.”
“No … all right, yes.”
“I'm a good listener,” Elliot said.
“I know you are.”
“But? Tell me it's none of my business and I'll drop it.”
Dix hesitated. He didn't want to talk about it. Talking about it seemed disloyal, to give the doubts weight, the accusations merit. And yet the need to unburden himself was strong. He said at length, without making a conscious decision, “I've been getting … phone calls.”
“Oh?”
“The anonymous kind. Half a dozen since just after the funeral. Heavy breathing, crank stuff—somebody who read about the accident in the newspaper. They didn't bother me much until today.”
“What happened today?”
Dix told him about the call earlier. But not the details, and he didn't voice his doubts. “‘Lies,” he said, “evil lies.”
Elliot was shaking his head. “Any idea who he is?”
“No.”
“Well, it's likely he's someone you know.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The altered voice, for one thing. Why bother to disguise his voice unless he's afraid you might recognize it.”
“Christ,” Dix said. He hadn't thought of that before.
“Another thing. If he's a stranger, he'd have to be one hell of a diligent researcher. And that's not the pattern in these crank-call cases.”
“So many private details, you mean.”
“More than he could've gotten out of the paper.”
“It's hard to imagine anyone I know personally doing a thing like this.”
“Doesn't have to be a friend or acquaintance. Man who works in a store you trade in, for instance—knows who you are, knows people who know you and can provide the details.”
“That's possible. But why me?”
“Random selection. Or he was triggered by news of the accident. He might even be a former student of yours.”
Dix hadn't thought of that, either. He nodded slowly.
Elliot said, “Failing course grade, low grade on a term paper or thesis, some other slight real or imagined … things like that prey on young minds. Hell, you've been a teacher as long as I have. You know how much hostility some of the little shits can generate.”
“All too well.”
“Even with the voice filter, could you tell his age?”
“No.”
“But you're sure he's a man?”
“Positive. Women don't play sick games like that.”
“Not usually. But it has been known to happen.”
Dix finished his second gin and tonic. Even though Elliot had made the drinks light, he could feel the effects of the alcohol. When Elliot asked him if he wanted a third, he said, “No, I'd better not. The last thing I need is a DUI arrest on the way home.”
Elliot rummaged on the table beside his chair, came up with a package of Pall Malls. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked perfunctorily, and when Dix shook his head, he said, “I've got to quit one of these days,” and lighted up. He didn't mean it about quitting; he said the same thing every other time he had a cigarette, had been saying it as long as Dix had known him. He had cut back to a pack a day in the past year, but the faculty betting was that he would never go all the way.
“I wish I could offer you some sage advice on handling this guy,” he said, “but I can't. I don't know what I'd do if I were in your shoes. Change my telephone number, I suppose, and hope for the best.”
“That's what I intend to do,” Dix said.
“In any case, he'll go away eventually. They always do. Meanwhile … it's his shit and you don't have to wallow in it. Right?”
“Right.”
“So. On to a more pleasant topic. I spoke to Lawrence Hampton after you called this morning. Under the circumstances, he's willing to let you take his four-five-three for this semester.”
“He is? That's good of him.”
History 453 was the Age of Jackson, 1815–1850. Expansion and sectional change, economic sectionalism and national politics, the rise of Jacksonian democracy, and social and political reform in the U.S. from the Peace of Ghent to the Compromise of 1850. It was supposed to be a department course, with rotating instructors, but Hampton's specialty was pre—Civil War U.S. history and he'd taught 453 for the past several years by tacit agreement.
“Three classes, six hours a week,” Elliot said. “Not much, really, but there'll be refamiliarization and preparation to keep you busy over the next few weeks.”
“It'll help. Anything in the extension program?”
“One Saturday class, ten A.M. to noon. Twentieth-Century California History. Starts mid-September.”
“That's one of yours,” Dix said.
“It is, and I'll be glad to get shut of it. Open up my Saturdays for a change.”
“If you're sure you don't mind …”
“Absolutely,” Elliot said. “But there is a contingency: You have to take it for three semesters, not just one. Give me a full year of free Saturdays. Fair enough?”
“More than fair. Thanks, Elliot.”
“Least I can do. You'll need to get together with Lawrence before classes start next week; he has some material for you. I told him you'd call.”
“As soon as I get home.”
He was aware of the emptiness of the house the instant he walked in. The heavy silence seemed to gather around him, to take on a weight he could feel. Could he go on living here alone? It was a question he'd asked himself before and he still wasn't certain of the answer. On the one hand, it was the only place other than his parents' home that he'd ever felt comfortable living in. Too large for one person, one man alone—but so was Elliot's house, so were a lot of other people's. Money wasn't a consideration, at least not right now; and the prospect of putting the house up for sale, dealing with potential buyers trooping through and pawing possessions he'd shared with Katy, and then having to pack up and move and reacclimate elsewhere filled him with distaste. On the other hand, he saw and felt Katy in every room, every stick of furniture, as if some part of her lived on here. Maybe that ghostly quality would fade in time and he would grow used to the emptiness and the silence. And maybe not. You couldn't tell after only three weeks. How could you make any kind of long-range decision after only three weeks?
The message light on the answering machine was blinking: two blinks, two messages. No, he thought, not tonight. He went into his study and looked up Lawrence Hampton's number in his Rolodex. Four rings, and Lawrence's machine answered. He left a message, thinking: What did we do in the days before all these technological gadgets? How did we ever
manage to communicate with one another?
He built himself a gin and tonic, stronger than the ones Elliot had given him, and took the drink out to the balcony off the living room. Almost dusk. He watched the last of the sunset colors fade and the sky turn a smoky lavender. Going to be hot again tomorrow. Streetlights and house lights came on, on the Ridge and across the valley and in scattered wink-points up on the eastern hills. In the new dark, crickets set up a throbbing racket. Somewhere a dog barked. In the east side rail yards a locomotive whistle sounded, thin and haunting, like a chord in a sad, lost melody.
And all at once the loneliness struck him, a sudden stabbing sensation so sharp that his flesh seemed to curl inward around it, as if it were a blade.
Katy, he thought. I'm so sorry, Katy.
Sorry she was gone, sorry for doubting her fidelity, sorry for thinking she might have taken her own life. Sorry for himself, his loss, his pain. Sorry that he had to keep on trying to find out if the accusations were true.
Sorry that he was the kind of man who always had to know.
FOUR
Six o'clock. And Amy still wasn't home yet.
Cecca was in the kitchen with Owen Gregory, making a fruit salad for supper, trying not to worry. It wasn't that late, still broad daylight—but her eyes kept straying to the wall clock. Do you know where Amy is, Francesca? Do you have any idea what's happening to that little bitch of yours this very minute? Subtle torture, without any foundation whatsoever. That was what these telephone freaks counted on, wasn't it? The victim torturing herself?
Amy said she'd be home around four. Why isn't she here yet?
Owen's presence should have helped keep her calm, but it was having the opposite effect. He'd stopped by at five-thirty, unannounced, to bring her the photos of the Andersen farm in Hamlin Valley, her newest listing. He did most of the brochure photography for Better Lands, and he'd done his usual expert job of making a property look better than it really was, focusing on the Andersen place's hilly backdrop and that impressive line of old eucalyptus that flanked the access drive. The color shots were crystal-clear, yet you couldn't tell that the house and barn were in poor repair. But he could have dropped the prints off at the office or waited to give them to her on Monday. They were an excuse, of course. To see her. To sit and make small talk and gaze at her with his big, sad, worshipful eyes.
Those eyes were what had led her to sleep with him that night last summer. It was flattering to be the object of someone's passion, even if it wasn't reciprocated; and she'd been tight and Amy had been staying at a friend's house, and it had been so long since she'd had sex, and when she looked into those worshipful eyes … bad judgment, a foolish mistake. It had given Owen false hope that it could happen again, that there could be something serious between them. The morning after, she'd told him the truth in the gentlest possible terms: She cared for him but she didn't love him, they could go on being friends but nothing more. He'd said he understood, but it didn't keep him from pursuing her in his low-key way. She liked him, she really did. He was kind, gentle, attractive. But she felt more sorry for him than anything else. And he got on her nerves sometimes, like right now—
“Cecca.”
She turned her head. He was sitting at the table, his long legs stretched out, rolling the bottle of Coors she'd given him between his hands. His dark hair was its usual mop, damp and lank now from the heat, a long wisp plastered over one eyebrow. The tail of his shirt was untucked. There was a grass stain on the knee of his cords. Thirty-seven going on twelve, she thought. It was a wonder he'd never married. God knew, he'd had opportunities; maternal women loved him to pieces. But he didn't want a mother figure. He wanted the ex-wife of Chet Bracco, and had even when she was married. Poor Owen, because the ex-wife of Chet Bracco wanted a man, not a little boy.
“What's the matter?” he asked her. “You keep looking at the clock.”
“Just wondering where Amy is. She should be home by now.”
“Where'd she go after work?”
“I'm not sure. Some errands, she said.”
“Kids. I wouldn't want to be a teenager these days.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, you know, all the problems and pressures.”
“What does that have to do with her being late?”
“Nothing. I was making an observation—”
“My daughter's a good girl, Owen.”
“I know that. Lord, Cecca, I didn't mean to imply—”
“Damn!” The potato peeler she'd been using to core strawberries had slipped and nicked her finger. She sucked at the drop of blood that appeared.
Owen was on his feet, petting her arm. “Hurt yourself?”
“It's nothing,” she said. “I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm feeling a little prickly today.”
“It's the heat.”
“Yes. The heat. Owen … I'd ask you stay for supper, but—”
“No, that's all right. Date tonight?”
“No. I just don't feel up to company.”
“I understand.”
No, you don't, she thought. “All I want to do is eat and take a long, cool bath and zone out in front of the TV.”
“Sounds good. I'll probably do the same.”
She finished the strawberries, started to cut up a peach. Owen stood watching her, making no move to leave. Like an adoring puppy. Can't you take a hint, Owen? Go home!
Lights slid across the kitchen window as a car swung into the driveway. Amy's Honda—that little engine had a whiny rumble that was unmistakable.
“There she is,” Owen said.
Cecca felt a greater relief than the situation called for. That damned telephone freak … if he knew how deep under her skin he'd gotten, he'd be thrilled. He'd probably come all over himself.
The back door banged and Amy slouched in carrying three bulging shopping bags. She looked wilted but pleased with herself. “Whew,” she said, “what a day. Oh, hi, Owen.”
“Hi yourself,” Owen said, smiling.
Amy dumped the bags on the kitchen table, dragged open the refrigerator. “Iced tea, good.” She took the pitcher out.
Cecca said, “Where have you been?” The words came out sharper than she'd intended.
“Oh God,” Amy said, “you're pissed.”
“I'm not. I expected you hours ago, that's all.”
“Well, it was crowded at the malls.”
“Is that where you've been?”
“Shopping. Me and Kimberley.”
“Kimberley and I,” Cecca said automatically.
“I know that.” Impish grin. “I'm a journalism major, remember?”
“Just the two of you? Shopping?”
“Isn't that what I just said?”
“Amy …”
“School's about to start. Foxy new outfits this fall.”
Cecca tried to lighten her voice as she said, “Looks like you bought every one in stock,” but the words sounded forced even to her.
“Dad gave me a hundred dollars to match the hundred you said I could spend. I paid for the rest with my own money, don't worry.”
“When did your dad give you a hundred dollars?”
“When I saw him last week.”
“You didn't ask him for it?”
“No, I didn't ask him. He gave it to me.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't think it was exactly cosmic news,” Amy said. “Why're you making such a big deal out of nothing?”
“I'm not making …” Cecca let the rest of the sentence die. She was making a big deal out of nothing. And Owen, standing there with his big ears flapping, was not helping matters. She said, “Owen, if you don't mind?”
“Sure,” he said, “I'm out of here.” He came over and kissed her cheek. Then he said to Amy, “See you later, foxy.”
She wrinkled her nose at him.
The silence following Owen's departure had a strained quality. Amy poured a glass of iced tea, drank half of it. “F
ruit salad,” she said then. “Is that all we're having?”
“Too hot to cook.”
“I guess. I'm going up and take a shower, if that's okay with you.”
“Amy, don't be angry. It's been a long day.…”
“For me too. What time are we eating?”
“I don't know, seven or seven-thirty.”
“I'm picking Kim up at seven-thirty.”
“Going out again tonight?”
“It's Saturday night, Mom. Just because you don't go out doesn't mean I have to stay home, too.”
“That's a cheap shot. I stay home by choice.”
“And I go out by choice, okay?”
“You have a date?”
“I told you, I'm picking Kim up. We're going to a movie.”
“Just the two of you?”
“What is it with you, Mom? You know I'm not seeing anybody right now. Not since Davey and I broke up.”
“You've had plenty of dates since then—”
“Dates, sure, big deal.”
“There's nobody you're interested in?”
“No. Who would I be interested in?”
“I don't know. That's why I asked.”
“Well, there's nobody.”
“There must be dozens of boys who are interested in you.”
“Boys,” Amy said, “my God. I'm tired of boys.'”
“Now, what does that mean?”
“It means I'm tired of boys, that's what it means.”
“You're not seeing somebody older—?”
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