Where Echoes Live
Page 30
Even after I woke somewhere over Livermore, Hy and I didn’t speak. The intimacy between us had vanished, it seemed. It was as if the danger we’d faced together had allowed it to flower; in the less fertile soil of safety, it had withered and died.
When we taxied into a visitor’s space at Oakland, I saw Hank leaning on the chain-link fence near the General Aviation terminal. His sleepy face and wind-ruffled steel-wool hair spoke of the familiar comforts of home. Wordlessly, Hy got out and helped me from the plane. Then he turned away to hook the wings to the chains on the tarmac.
I waited. He moved around the Citabria. “Better go now,” he said. “Your boyfriend’s waiting.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my boss, Anne-Marie’s husband.”
“Whoever.”
Stung, I turned and started toward Hank.
“McCone.”
I kept walking, then glanced over my shoulder. Hy stood next to the plane—double-luck two eight niner—left hand resting on its high wing. “Yes?” I asked.
He gave me a long, solemn look and leveled his right index finger at me, as he had on the day I’d met him. “Glad you didn’t say good-bye,” he told me, “because it hasn’t even begun with us yet.”
Afterword
The yellow roses continued to arrive at my office—one every Tuesday morning, with never so much as a card. They brought visions of gnarled tufa towers and ice blue water, of alkali dust devils and fractured stone. And on those occasions when I couldn’t block the memory, I also saw a flaming mountaintop and ashes settling over a town where—now—everybody’s dreams had died.
Our winter was a wet one for a change. Soggy gray days naturally depress me, but this year my moods sank deeper and lasted longer. The story of what had happened in Stone Valley remained in the news for weeks; as I’d expected, Lionel Ong set out to gain maximum mileage from his self-proclaimed heroism. The Coalition put a stop to that, however, by holding a press conference and baring the details of Transpacific’s dealings in Mono County. With the cessation of the media coverage, my life regained a semblance of normalcy. George and I put off the talk we’d promised each other.
After my return from Mono County a haze of questions that he’d rather not have asked and I’d rather not have answered filtered between us; even our good times were blunted by excessive politeness and caution. We drifted, unsure of our destination, as Hy and I had drifted in the boat on Tufa Lake.
For Thanksgiving we threw a big dinner party at George’s place; unlike in the days before I’d gone to the high desert, we felt more comfortable in a crowd. Three of his colleagues, most of the folks from All Souls, and several other friends attended. The cleanup took an entire day.
In early December Ned Sanderman pleaded guilty to and was sentenced for improper disposal of a body and failure to report a homicide, thus relieving me of the need to return to Mono County for a trial. My feelings about that were strangely mixed—and briefly I wondered why.
Around the same time Anne-Marie returned to San Francisco and announced that in the future she’d be working with the Coalition from her home. An elated Hank organized a chili cook-off in her honor, at which we charitably allowed him to claim third prize.
Before the holidays I got Lily Nickles’s address in Reno and sent her a new Pendleton shirt to replace the one I’d ruined. In her thank-you note she said she’d gotten scared by the AIDS epidemic and opted for a straight job. If I ever needed my sensibilities ruffled, however, I was to look her up; she still behaved “pretty damn shocking.”
And George and I continued to drift. He asked me to go to the Bahamas for the holidays, but—in light of the recent upheaval—I felt obligated to visit my family. George didn’t act terribly disappointed and decided to go alone.
After the usual festivities in the city, I flew to San Diego on Christmas Eve and, with initial reluctance, spent it with Ma and That Man at their new home in the retirement community at Rancho Bernardo. Melvin Hunt proved to be charming, and seeing Ma so happy laid most of my reservations to rest. However, when I coyly asked her if I should shop for a dress to wear to a wedding, she told me I was crazy if I thought she would remarry at her age. On Christmas Day, I met my brother John, his kids, Charlene and Ricky and their brood, plus half the Savage backup musicians at the old family home, where we fixed dinner for Pa. He was in fine fettle and didn’t venture near the garage all day, so the last of my reservations joined the others.
In January Rae received her private investigator’s license from the state of California. We all celebrated at the Remedy Lounge, and as she and I touched glasses after one of the toasts, I realized that the distance between us had begun to narrow.
In February George again asked me to move in with him, but I sensed the proposal was a halfhearted gesture at best. By now we’d drifted so long that neither of us really believed we had any destination. When I said no, he seemed relieved. At the end of the month we finally had the long-delayed talk; its upshot was a promise to remain friends—one we’ve thus far kept.
In early March Hy Ripinsky was arrested for disorderly conduct at an anti-logging demonstration in Siskiyou County. Charges were later dropped.
And a single yellow rose continued to arrive every Tuesday morning.
On one of those mornings, when the weather page of the paper told of the spring thaw, I threw a bag into the MG and drove southeast and over newly opened Tioga Pass to Tufa Lake—going back after all. It was time to find out how good Hy and I would be together.
THE END
We hope you’ve enjoyed this McCone mystery. Now check out the rest of Marcia Muller’s SHARON MCCONE series – all available as ebooks and audiobooks from AudioGO!
1 Edwin of the Iron Shoes
2 Ask the Cards a Question
3 The Cheshire Cat’s Eye
4 Games to Keep the Dark Away
5 Leave a Message for Willie
6 There’s Nothing to Be Afraid Of
7 Eye of the Storm
8 There’s Something in a Sunday
9 The Shape of Dread
10 Trophies and Dead Things
11 Where Echoes Live
12 Pennies on a Dead Woman’s Eyes
Plus two short story collections: McCone and Friends, and The McCone Files.