Blame: A Novel

by Huneven, Michelle

  Maybe he does, said Joey. I bet he has a needle somewhere.

  Patsy gave her a long, compassionate look. Well, let’s just see.

  In Brice’s bedroom, Patsy rummaged in his dresser drawers, taking out several brown bottles whose labels she read intently. Is this what I think it is? she said, looking at a small gray packet. Eureka! she cried. A sewing kit!

  •

  Back in the kitchen, Patsy pulled an Olympia from the refrigerator. There’s no Coke, she said, but here. She poured beer into a tumbler. This will help you relax.

  Will it hurt a lot? Joey asked.

  Just for a second, like getting a shot. Maybe a little worse. Patsy shook half a dozen triangular orange pills from one bottle onto the white enamel tabletop, then a whole rain of tiny yellow pills from the second bottle. Oh, aren’t these so teeny and sweet? she said, and, putting her finger on a yellow pill, dragged it from the pile. Using a paring knife, she cut it into two crumblike pieces. Here, she said, giving Joey the smaller piece. This’ll take the edge off any pain.

  Patsy swept all the pills into her hand and dumped them into a side pocket of her purse, then took the bottles away and returned with rubbing alcohol, cotton, and a bar of soap. Just pretend it’s a tetanus shot, she said.

  I don’t mind shots, Joey said.

  Patsy wrapped two ice cubes in a dish towel for Joey to numb her ear. Turning on a gas burner, Patsy held a needle in its flame until the needle glowed red-orange. She swabbed first the needle, then Joey’s ear with alcohol. My roommates and I did this in college, she said, and snuggled the bar of Ivory behind Joey’s earlobe. Ready?

  Pasty jabbed the needle through the lobe and into the soap. Joey heard a sound like rustling paper, followed by a sudden rushing in her head. Patsy pulled the soap away, and Joey’s eyes flooded with tears. Her body temperature shot up. Her entire skin was suddenly stretched tight. And then came the pain. Her ear stung as if a bee with a thick stinger was stinging it without end.

  Now come on, I gotta get this in, Patsy said. The earring post was thicker than the needle, a thicker stinger yet. Joey tried to pull away, she couldn’t help herself, but Patsy held her by the ear. Just give me a minute here, said Patsy.

  Ow ow OW, Joey said. Patsy wiggled the earring, her warm, sour breath coming in short, ragged bursts, her eyes wild and, to Joey, terrifying.

  Stay still, Jesus Christ, she said sharply, yanking Joey by the ear.

  Joey whimpered, and Patsy let go. Okay, okay, she said, try the ice cubes.

  They looked at each other, both panting. Joey applied the ice. Cold water ran down her arm.

  I’ll be fast, Patsy said, and again, terrible stinging and wiggling until Patsy suddenly withdrew. One down, one to go, she said. Let’s take a break.

  They moved into the living room. Joey was suddenly, deliciously relaxed. She curled up on a cushion and drifted in a glow the same dull yellow as the half pill she’d swallowed. Patsy went to the kitchen and brought back two Olympias. Better shore up for side two, she said, handing Joey a full bottle, then settling down on a cushion beside her. Now you do something for me, okay? she said, stroking Joey’s arm. Tell me about Brice’s other girlfriends.

  Joey tried to think. He used to go with Joan Vashon, she said.

  That was before, Patsy said. I mean now.

  I thought you were his girlfriend.

  Oh, I am. Patsy laughed. Such as it goes. I was just wondering about my compatriots in the cause.

  I don’t know any of the others, Joey said.

  But there are others.

  You just said . . .

  Oh, I don’t know that for sure, said Patsy.

  Well, I don’t know any others, Joey said.

  It could be he likes boys, said Patsy.

  Oh, that Brice, Joey said, sounding on purpose like her father. He likes everybody!

  Patsy’s face froze; then she laughed loudly. That he does, she said. A true omnivore. Preys on everything equally. Okay, sweetness. Patsy tugged on her own ear. Ready for side two? She drained her beer and struggled to her feet. Oops! Gotta pee.

  While Patsy was in the bathroom, Joey went to the kitchen table and dug into the side pocket of Patsy’s purse until she found another tiny yellow pill. She glanced around for the knife to cut it in two, heard the toilet flush, then stuck the whole thing in her mouth and washed it down with beer.

  This time, Patsy said, she’d push the post in right behind the needle, and the second earring did go through with only one long rush of burning pain.

  Joey ran to the bathroom mirror. One earring was noticeably higher in the lobe. Behind her, Patsy said, Not bad. Just cock your head to one side, nobody will ever notice.

  •

  Brice had to wake them up. Patsy, holding her hands over her eyes, demanded that he take them to the Bellwood for dinner. Brice said it was the Trestle in La Canada or nothing. Move it, he said.

  Joey stumbled down the stairs after them, her feet as heavy and unmanageable as bricks. In the truck, she fell back asleep between them, surfacing when Brice shook her. They were in the steak-house parking lot. Did you get her drunk, Pats? he said. Jesus.

  They sat in a red leather booth. Brice ordered, and large, squat tumblers of amber whiskey arrived, along with a clear pink Shirley Temple for Joey.

  Patsy opened the oversized red menu. I myself am partial to a big ole piece of meat, she said. Aren’t I, Brice?

  Are you? said Brice.

  I like to take a nice wobbly filet and put the whole thing in my mouth . . .

  Patsy, Brice said sternly. Cut it out.

  She turned to Joey. Uh-oh, she said. We better watch out. Can’t make him mad. Or, god knows, he’ll go make one of his phone calls.

  Joey gazed down at her hands in her lap. Patsy leaned in closer. You ever notice he’s never in any phone booth? she said. Ever wonder where he goes when he makes one of his calls? Hard to believe men’s rooms are so entertaining.

  Keep it up, Patsy, said Brice, and I will leave.

  But he winked at Joey, indicating that he and she would hightail it out together. Joey was willing to leave right then and there, and hoped that Brice was calling the waiter over to ask for the check. Another round, my friend, he said.

  In the long silence, Joey dozed again. Waking briefly, she spotted a beet slice leaking its pink ink onto white salad dressing; she couldn’t get anywhere near such a thing, so sank back into sleep. Next an oval steel platter appeared, with a slab of charred meat, a foil-wrapped potato, and adorable fluted paper cups of chives and sour cream. Joey ate some potato, but chewing was an effort. Neither Brice nor Patsy was eating either. They sat, closer now, drinking.

  Patsy saw Joey looking at her. Hi, gorgeous, she said thickly. You are jus’ so gorgeous. She snuggled against Brice. I need another drink, baby.

  Even Joey knew another drink was not what was called for—and didn’t Brice see that in addition to the glasses they held, there were already whole new drinks on the table? But Brice raised a hand for the waiter, and another round arrived. Joey now had three undrunk Shirley Temples. She fished out the cherries, ate them, and—although she knew better, knew her mother would never have tolerated such a thing—lay down on the booth and slept.

  •

  When Joey woke up next, Patsy was grabbing onto her arm so hard it hurt. Ow! Joey cried. Quit it.

  Let go of her, Pats, said Brice, who was outside and trying to pull Patsy out as well through the driver’s side door. Patsy held on to the steering wheel with her other hand, the one that wasn’t gouging Joey’s upper arm. No, no, no. Patsy was sobbing. No, Brice. I don’t want to go home.

  Joey saw then that they were parked in the driveway of Patsy’s little white bungalow up in Altadena. Joey had been there once before, with her parents, for Brice’s last birthday.

  C’mon, Pats, Brice said, softer now. He reached in and, one by one, uncurled Patsy’s fingers from the steering wheel. Just when he got all five fingers free, she reclasped it. T
his happened two, three, more times, until Brice finally managed to give a good yank at the exact moment all of Patsy’s fingers were free. Patsy grabbed onto Joey and pulled her out of the truck as well, and Joey’s back hit the running board as she slid down to the ground.

  Brice shoved Patsy toward the dark bushes behind them, then grabbed Joey by her torso as if she were a baby, lifted her up, and swung her back into the truck. Joey knew he didn’t mean to hurt her, though his fingers dug into her, and she knocked her funny bone against the steering wheel. Ow, ow, Joey cried, and slithered across the bench seat away from him just as Brice slammed the door. Rubbing her elbow, which hurt like crazy, she sat up and watched Brice catch Patsy and hold her in his arms until she stopped trying to get away. He lifted one hand off her back and made a motion to Joey that she understood: lock the truck’s door. The button going down sounded like a gunshot.

  Brice managed to get Patsy around the front of the truck and up into the house. Lights came on. Joey could see into the living-room window, the white bookshelves, and the big brown wing of an open grand piano. The house was set far back from the street, the front yard was a dark lawn with tall shade trees that seemed like a beautiful park. Joey herself lived with her family six miles out of town on five acres of scrubby chaparral and crumbling granite boulders in a huge, mostly glass house designed by an architect named Halsop, whose neck Joey’s father perpetually yearned to wring. Joey yearned to live in a plain wooden home with a bow window, just like Patsy’s, in a neighborhood with big trees and straight streets you could roller-skate on, and next-door neighbor kids to play with.

  Waiting for Brice to come out, Joey was suddenly, acutely thirsty. She’d get out and go look for a spigot, but if he caught her, Brice might get angry again. So she stretched out on the seat and when she woke up next, the truck was moving, with Brice at the wheel.

  Where are we? she asked.

  Well, look who’s awake.

  She saw then that they were driving down Lake Avenue, the city lights shimmering below.

  What pills was she on? said Brice. Do you have any idea?

  No, Joey said.

  You doing okay?

  Yes.

  You know what? Brice looked down at her. You’re a real good girl.

  She assumed that he’d cut west soon to take her home, but he drove through downtown Pasadena to the Bellwood instead. I have to talk to Cal Sharp. Then I’ll call someone, he said, and find out what in the hell I’m supposed to do with you.

  •

  The Bellwood lobby was deserted except for the new night concierge with the snotty English accent. While Brice went to look for Cal, Joey drank out of the drinking fountain by the ladies’ room until her temples throbbed. Using the repeating pinecone pattern on the carpet, she played listless, makeshift hopscotch down a side hall until she came to an unattended housekeeping cart by the service elevators. She helped herself to a foil-wrapped chocolate and one small shampoo. A key sat in the service elevator controls, and just to see what would happen, Joey turned it. The doors opened, so she got in and rode all the way up to the roof. The elevator let her off behind the wet bar by the pool house.

  On the other side of the roof, the penthouse was dark. In between, the large rectangular pool glowed, lit by one lamp in the deep end as by a single suffusing intelligence. Chaise lounges, in neat double rows, were covered with sheeting. Joey walked over to the edge of the roof, a tar-papered hump planted with a wrought iron fence. The three-quarter moon looked like a partially dissolved butter mint. The mountains were black. Directly below was the Bellwood’s parking lot, where Brice’s pickup and the hotel’s airport van were parked side by side. As Joey watched, another van, white with a dark orange stripe, turned into the lot and stopped with no regard for the parking lines. Two men hopped out and threw open the back doors. An ambulance.

  The attendants pulled out a gurney and raised it up like an ironing board to full height. Strapped on the gurney was Joey’s mother, her face alone visible. How could Joey be so sure? The chestnut hair. The pale, broad forehead. The familiar quickening of fear.

  A man—unmistakably Cal Sharp—walked out from the shadow of the hotel and stood by the gurney as the attendants unloaded tall chrome stands the height of saplings, and squat green tanks of oxygen.

  As Joey watched, Cal Sharp touched her mother’s face. He leaned down and kissed her on the lips, and put his cheek beside hers, and cupped her face with his hand. He kissed her again and stroked her brow, and kissed her again and again, all over her face. He stopped, turned his head as if to hear a whispered secret. Then he stepped back, the attendants moved in, and—Joey really couldn’t see this because of the foyer roof—everyone must have gone into the hotel.

  The service elevator’s door had closed, so she ran across the roof, past the pool and the draped chaises, to the customer elevator by the penthouse. She pressed the button. Waiting, she half expected the doors to open and her mother to appear with full entourage. But wouldn’t lights be on in the penthouse suite, the door unlocked, the rooms aired and air-conditioned, with fresh flowers and the usual cellophane-wrapped fresh fruit basket awaiting her mother’s arrival?

  The elevator took a long time to come, and was empty. On its descent, it stopped at four of the six floors, although nobody waited at any of them. In the lobby Joey ran to the desk. The British concierge was writing something in a ledger. Hey, she said. What room is my mom in?

  The man looked up slowly. I’m sorry? he said.

  My mother’s here! I saw her with Mr. Sharp.

  He began writing again. Mr. Sharp has gone home for the night. Your uncle is in the Mojave bar.

  But, she said.

  The man would not look up.

  Brice was at the end of the bar. Mother’s here, she said. I saw her come.

  Brice raised his dull, bloodshot eyes to hers. Your mother’s not here, honey, he said. She’s in the hospital. She’s very sick, you know. Very sick. This time, sweetheart, she’s not going to make it. Tears spilled down his cheeks.

  No, Brice. Joey tugged his arm. Really, I saw her arrive.

  He pulled her to him. His body felt taut and hard and made her think of the canvas cots at summer camp. His chest shook against her. Embarrassed, she waited for him to stop.

  Uncle Brice, she said. Mom arrived in an ambulance, and Mr. Sharp met her at the back door. They came into the hotel. I saw.

  He touched her cheek. Come on, kitten, he said. I’m taking you to Mother’s.

  •

  Grandmother Court was out on the porch when they arrived, her hair as white as the roses flanking the door. She grasped Joey’s shoulders and searched her face. Go on in, dear, she said kindly. There’s a cookie for you in the kitchen.

  Joey walked into the quiet carpeted hall, then through the dining room to the kitchen, where the light was bright and two store-bought oatmeal cookies sat on a plate on the table. The clock said eleven-forty. Joey could hear the adults talking in muffled tones. The white cat with black spots arched her back against the sliding glass door. Joey opened the door, and the cat swept past her knees. Joey stepped out onto the back deck, where the voices were fainter. The lawn rolled down the slope into a dark ring of trees. She pulled on the necklace around her neck. She pulled until the fine chain cut into the skin, and kept pulling until it broke free. She hurled it out into the yard. Lit by the yellow bug light, it flew through the air, a kinked golden arabesque.

  •

  Joey did not attend the last seven days of typing class. She never did learn to type her numbers. She stayed at her grandmother’s house through the weekend. Her mother died early Monday morning. The funeral would be Friday, at 2:00 p.m. at St. Thomas’s Episcopal Church. Her aunt from New York flew in, followed by her aunt from San Francisco. Her brothers were called home from camp, and the whole family was in constant movement between the Hawthornes’ glass house in the hills and the Bellwood Hotel.

  Thursday night, Joey went up to the Bellwood pool with
March Sharp. With their bare feet in the water, she told March that she had seen her mother come to the Bellwood in an ambulance. Your dad was there, and he kissed her all over her face, Joey said.

  March kicked her legs slowly; her shins rose to the surface of the water, then submerged. My father is buying me a new horse, she said. An Arabian.

  At the memorial service, Joey sat with her brothers and father in the front row. She stood when the minister said please stand and sat when he said please be seated. She read aloud the unison readings and the necessary responses. She rode to the gravesite and stood by as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Her grandmother had given her a linen handkerchief edged in delphinium blue tatting, but Joey did not use it. She did not cry at the funeral or at any time afterward, as she knew for a fact that Millicent Hawthorne was not really dead, but alive and free from them all in some as-yet-undisclosed suite in the Bellwood Hotel.

  PART TWO

  1

  May 1981

  Patsy MacLemoore came to on a concrete shelf in a cell in the basement of the Altadena sheriff’s department. Her hair had woken her up. It stank. She sat up, pushed it over her shoulder, and closed her eyes until the nausea subsided.

  She had said she would rather die than come back here. She’d said that both times she’d been here before.

  The little jail had no windows. Fluorescent tubes quivered night and day. A fan clattered, off-kilter. The cinder-block walls were a high-gloss beige, the enamel so thick prisoners wrote in it with their finger-nails, the obscenities inked in by grime. Each of the three connected cells contained a seatless stainless-steel toilet and a tiny, one-faucet sink.

  Her head seemed to be in a clamp, and she was desperately thirsty. Lurching to the undersized sink, she drank from it sideways, cheek anchored against the greasy spout. The dribble was tepid and tasted of mold. In the next cell over, June’s haughty face loomed. Did she fuckin’ live here? Every time Patsy’d been in, she was too. June’s top lip was like two paisleys touching—pandering lips, if ever there were any. What’d you do this time, Professor? said the lips.