Blame: A Novel

by Huneven, Michelle

  Cal rode a buckskin quarter horse gelding named Pliny. My sons call him Plywood, he said. They’d started on a private bridle path that wended past the estates in Cal’s Flintridge neighborhood—his sprawling brick Tudor-style home on two acres was comparatively modest—then on up by the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, where they turned onto a public trail that led into the Arroyo Seco. Cal’s long-eared speckled spaniels boiled around the horses’s hooves. The day was hot, but the narrow canyon was shady, with the coolness of damp stone.

  A year ago, when the wild buckwheat was drying to a dark iron red and the toyons were beading with green berries, she’d been digging fire lines on hills like these.

  Cal took the lead in his fine-weave Panama hat and chambray shirt. He sat tall yet relaxed. Patsy had had enough riding instruction to know that such poise came from years of conscious practice, and she recalled Miss Becky’s bored barks: Heels down, tummy in, shoulders back! The muscles she’d built in fire camp did not serve her now. Within minutes her efforts at fine horsemanship exhausted her.

  As Cal predicted, a dragonfly, its wings a coppery blur, provoked Cinder to a sickening sudden sideways veer. Ho now, Patsy said, and yanked the mare’s black mane. You cut that out. But a shadow set her off next, then a breeze, the wing flap of a blue jay. She always veered left, so Patsy knee-gripped and shifted right and got the hang of it soon enough.

  Well done, said Cal when he saw.

  She understood why men in the morning meeting flocked to Cal, why he sponsored so many of them, why they trailed him to Barkers and sat in attendance. He was so elegant, and easy in his own skin.

  They came to a wide access road, and Cal waited for her to come alongside. You’re deep in thought, he said.

  I was thinking about how you sponsor so many men.

  Too many.

  Really?

  Some days, absolutely.

  Really? But I’d like to do that someday—help people the way you do.

  What’s stopping you now?

  Oh, right, she said, thinking of her scant two years of prison sobriety, her parole.

  Cal held Pliny close. You have a lot to offer, Patsy, he said. Especially to other intelligent, educated alcoholics. They’re some of the toughest cases. The mechanism for recovery is so simple, it eludes them. You could do a lot of good.

  Someday, maybe.

  No time like the present, said Cal. Get yourself a passel of sponsees and you’ll forget you ever had any problems of your own.

  I’m not as evolved as you are, she said. Not so good-natured. Or patient.

  All a great deception, said Cal.

  You can’t fake how you are, she said. I really admire you.

  And I really admire you, he said.

  She gave a little snort. Right.

  Think about it, Patsy, Cal said, and steered the buckskin closer yet. You spent two years in terrible circumstances, really the worst, but here you are, working, sharing your experience, strength, and hope at meetings. It’s an inspiration to all of us, but especially to Gilles, who was having a terrible time before you came along.

  Brice made the difference, she said.

  Brice made some, said Cal. But now that Gilles is bringing you to the morning meetings, his own attendance is more consistent. And he’s happier for it. But my real point, Patsy, is that nobody would’ve thought twice if you’d transitioned through a halfway house or holed up with your family. Instead, you took a job, found your meetings, and jumped right back into life.

  Cal’s generosity was like an open, sunlit field, and for a moment she saw herself as he did, as someone on a sure path.

  Pliny’s proximity to Cinder was forcing the little bay into an erratic, nervous prance. Patsy pulled back on her reins. She needed Cal to move on.

  They rode up the access road along a trickle of a stream, through a beech glade. Cinder stumbled at a passing goldfinch, the friendly bark of an Airedale. They came to a small waterfall and wide, shallow pool. Dismounting, they tied the horses to a shrubby oak and sat on flat gray granite boulders while the dogs stood up to their bellies in the water and scratched at submerged rocks.

  You know who’s a superb rider? she said. Binx.

  Is she one of the lady athletes?

  The high jumper. She’d love it up here.

  A Valkyrie, said Cal.

  That’s a little gruesome, said Patsy. Valkyries haul the dead off battlefields.

  Both those gals look like they could do some serious hauling.

  I think Binx is beautiful, she said.

  She’s the one with curly hair?

  No.

  On the ride back, Cal said he was going to grill steaks.

  I can’t stay, said Patsy, who was going to a movie later with Ian.

  They unsaddled at the barn. Patsy went up to the house to use the bathroom off the service porch. Coming out, she saw movement in the kitchen. Thinking Cal had come inside, she went to join him, and found Brice’s niece, Joey Hawthorne, pouring herself a glass of pink punch.

  Hey you, said Patsy.

  Patsy! Oh my god! What are you doing here?

  I went riding with Cal.

  Joey put down the jug and embraced her. Oh, it’s so good to see you. You went riding? she said. Cal didn’t put you on Cinder, did he? God, she’s a goon.

  Not too bad, said Patsy. I liked her, actually. So what are you doing here?

  I’m here for the summer, she said. Escaping the evil stepmother.

  Brice told me your dad remarried.

  Yeah, the hideous housekeeper. But oh! Joey cried. What about Brice! It’s just like you said, Patsy—he really does like boys.

  Is that what I said?

  Yeah, that time you pierced my ears. I never forgot. It could be that he likes boys, you said.

  I guess I said that a lot, Patsy said. Have you met Gilles?

  Like when I was born. His mom and mine were friends.

  Through the kitchen window, Patsy saw Cal lugging a saddle to the tack room. I better go help him, she said.

  What’s going on with you two, anyway? said Joey.

  Cal? We went for a ride up the arroyo.

  Anything else? Joey grew still and intent.

  What? Oh, come on, Joey. And besides, I have a boyfriend, Patsy added, fully aware that Ian would never accept the designation.

  Okay, then, said Joey.

  Patsy was amused by Joey’s sternness. What do you care?

  March doesn’t want a new person around. Riding her mom’s horse and stuff.

  I know, said Patsy. My dad’s already seeing someone—this woman who crashed my mom’s funeral.

  God, doesn’t that make you want to claw her face off? said Joey.

  Oh, if she hadn’t snagged him, someone else probably would’ve. He was so lost. Didn’t know where the sheets were kept, or the toilet paper. But mostly, Patsy added, I’m grateful I don’t have to take care of him.

  Yeah, but he should take care of you. He’s your dad.

  I can take care of myself, said Patsy. Through the window she saw Cal brush his jeans, look up at the house.

  I should go finish up down there, she said.

  Yeah, and tell Cal he should put Cinder down. Chicken her out. Before she puts someone in the hospital. Joey tossed her head, and something glinted.

  Hey, said Patsy. Stepping forward, she pushed back a dark blond hank of hair. There, in Joey’s earlobe, a small gold hoop.

  I had them done again. Joey showed off both ears. Even-steven this time.

  •

  You did what? said Binx. Riding with Cal? When?

  I told him to ask you next. I said you were a great rider.

  I’ve been on a horse twice in my life.

  Anyway, I put in a good word for you.

  Did he ask you out again?

  It was nothing like that, said Patsy. His dead wife’s horse needs exercise.

  But he asked you. He singled you out.

  Yeah, like he singles out all newcomers—to b
e of service.

  You’re hardly a newcomer, said Binx, with two-plus years of sobriety.

  Yeah, but I am fresh from the pokey.

  16

  Patsy, with Gilles behind her, pushed through the turnstile in Prebles’ Market and spotted in the checkout line the long face, high forehead, and soft chin that could only be Mark Parnham. Beside him stood a miniature, darker version of himself. Before Mark saw her, Patsy dashed deep into the store, pulling Gilles with her. That’s him, the father and husband of the people—the people I, you know, hit, Patsy whispered. His son too. They look regular. So normal. They didn’t look so unhappy. Do you think they looked unhappy?

  I didn’t see them, said Gilles. Let me go back and look.

  No! she said, seizing his arm again.

  She had told Mark Parnham that she would get in touch with him when she got out of prison, but so far, she’d only sent a change-of-address card. To bump into him like this was embarrassing—and, given the boy, even harmful.

  You should’ve said hi, said Gilles. Now you have to call him.

  I do? said Patsy.

  As soon as we get home, he said.

  Why? she said.

  You can’t be hiding from people in grocery stores.

  I can’t?

  Back at the Lyster, Gilles got out of the elevator on her floor. Let’s get it over with, he said.

  Mark Parnham was kind. Of course you could’ve come up and talked to us. I’d like you to meet Martin. I’ve been wondering how you’re doing. How are you?

  Okay, said Patsy. I’m glad to be out.

  We’re doing well over here too, Mark said, and thanked her for calling. Next time, say hi.

  There, Gilles said. That took care of that.

  At the morning meeting, she talked about Mark Parnham, how willing he’d been to forgive her yet how hard it was to see him, when mostly, she just wanted to forget what had thrown them together. Afterward, a woman came up, a regular at the meeting who was a reporter for the Times. She wanted to interview Patsy and Mark together. I see it as a feature on forgiveness, she said, with sidebars on the legal and mental health issues. It could inspire a lot of people.

  Patsy said, Let me call him first and see what he says.

  The article ran two weeks later. Patsy was afraid she came across as wordy and overintellectual. Gilles said no, smart.

  . . . The two are calm and respectful with each other. When asked if they are friends, they both start to answer at the same time; then each gestures for the other to go first.

  “The term friends makes it sound as if we chat on the phone and have lunch,” says MacLemoore. “And we don’t. We’re something else—if you want to be technical, we’re forgiver and forgiven. Which is its own powerful bond.”

  Parnham nods as she speaks, and then it’s his turn to answer the question. Does he consider them friends?

  “Yes,” he says. “I think we are.”

  For days, people who saw the article phoned, wrote notes, and came up to Patsy at meetings. She was asked to speak at six other AA meetings. Cal Sharp said, It’s a beautiful story, Patsy. Of her ESL students, only Nadia, the Italian-speaking Eritrean woman, mentioned it. I am so impress with your candor, she said.

  •

  Mother has asked to meet you, said Gilles.

  He drove Patsy to the house on a Saturday evening. Father died of a headache, he said. Brain aneurysm. I was eight. Mother’s been through a lot. But she’s a lovely bird.

  Audrey Sanger was tall and impeccable in white slacks and a crisp ironed blue shirt. Glossy brown hair in a smooth chin-length bob. Pearls at home.

  At last, she said, an East Coast flatness to her speech. I’ve heard about you, read about you—for weeks it’s been nothing but Patsy this, Patsy that. Stepping closer yet, Audrey kissed her cheek.

  Like Gilles, Patsy thought: loving.

  Audrey led them to a garden room off the kitchen. She and Patsy sat on a small sofa while Gilles paced in front of them. Beyond the French doors grew a ficus tree with a trunk so wide a person could live in it.

  I hear you’ve been riding with my brother. He says you know your way around a horse.

  A couple times, and only trail riding. Not dressage or anything.

  He’s a dirty old man, Gilles put in. He’s got his hairy eyeball on Pats.

  Don’t even say that, Gilles, Patsy said. You’re trying to embarrass me.

  Yes, go away, Gilles. Make a beverage and let us talk. Audrey batted at him, her fingers freighted with gold rings, one large ruby. Tea or coffee, Patsy?

  She likes tea, Mother.

  Gilles went into the kitchen, and Audrey leaned in. I’m so glad he’s found Brice. What I’ve gone through, chasing that child all over the globe. I hear you used to go with him?

  Patsy didn’t follow her at first. Oh, Brice, she said. I tried.

  Yes, well, haven’t we all tried that sort of thing at one time or another. There’s something off, you can’t put your finger on it, it’s . . .

  Mother, don’t whisper, Gilles called from the kitchen. And let Patsy say something once in a while.

  Audrey kept her voice low. I never had to wonder about Gilles, though. He arrived as is. When every other boy at his nursery school was mad about trains, Gilles was organizing my lipsticks by shade.

  Gilles coughed in the kitchen.

  Audrey sat back and raised her voice. But god. When he ran away from Hotchkiss—oh! Then—Paris! That took years off my life.

  I couldn’t tell you where I was. Gilles appeared with a tray holding teacups and spoons, sugar, milk. Mother had to come around, he said to Patsy. She wasn’t always so open-minded.

  I came around, yes. But you should’ve seen him when I got to Paris. He was supposed to meet me at Roissy, but I had to take a cab to his apartment.

  I was nervous, said Gilles.

  Nervous! He was so drunk, he was like one of those characters stuck in glue, couldn’t pull himself up off the ground. And the apartment’s all Louis Quatorze, gilt this, gilt that, boiserie for miles, John and Messieurs Hangers-On sprawled on petit point sofas like lizards, all of them smoking, drinking champagne. I wanted to arrest the whole crew.

  Now, Mother, Patsy’s heard my story, you needn’t give it warmed over and slanted. Nobody was pouring wine down my throat. John hardly drank. I was thoroughly, genetically alcoholic.

  True, true, said Audrey. All the men in this family! My father—and you know my big brother, Cal. He was the worst. He’d come into this house—he and my husband were great friends, you know, that’s how Fred and I met, through Cal, they were in law school together at Boalt Hall. Anyway, Cal would come in and—see those big ice tea tumblers over there?—he’d take one and fill it with gin. No ice, no soda. It looked like tap water, only heavy and clear. Ten, twelve ounces. I would say, Cal dear, at least let me get you a little juice.

  A little juice! cried Gilles, delighted. Like that would help!

  Of course we all drank like fish back then. We didn’t know alcoholic from tipsy. Even so, Cal distinguished himself. It was the heyday of the Mojave, dances every Saturday, and you’d see him curled up in the lobby, right on the carpet, snoring away. Or sleeping at the bar. Marjorie—his first wife—got to where she couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t blame her.

  Audrey paused because Gilles was having a coughing fit.

  I don’t like the sound of that, she said when he stopped.

  I know. I cannot shake this stupid cold, he said. It’s not even like I’m congested—it’s a reflex, a dry tickle, so annoying.

  Go call Edie Rose right now, said Audrey.

  The pediatrician?

  Yes, but she’ll give you a prescription over the phone.

  Gilles went into the kitchen.

  Her number’s right there in my phone book, Audrey called, and turned back to Patsy. Where was I?

  Patsy said, I didn’t know Cal was married before.

  Oh yes, first to Marjorie. She was a Gillette, you
know, razors. Very beautiful, smart, a wonderful mother. They had two kids, Andrew and Roberta, and she had two more with her second marriage. Nobody blamed her for leaving Cal. But it shocked the hell out of him. Shocked him sober. But too late. She’d already found someone else.

  I had no idea, said Patsy. I thought the one who passed away . . .

  Peggy? That’s a whole nother story. Cal met her downtown. She was demonstrating for civil rights on the steps of the courthouse, and the police were trying to arrest her. She was also very beautiful, blond, and so smart, like you, but I’d have to say plump. This was the early sixties, when people were marching, having rallies. Here she was, failing to disperse, and here comes Cal, fresh from court. He looked like Gilles back then, just a superbly handsome man. He sees what’s going on and starts in on the cop. Don’t you dare talk to her like that! Don’t you dare lay a finger on her!

  And then he followed them to the police station, bailed her out! He was smitten, gone, like he’d fallen into a hole. Her father ran a print shop in San Pedro. She didn’t even know enough to be dazzled by Cal and what kind of life he was offering her. She refused to marry him till he was a registered Democrat.

  She sounds kind of great, said Patsy.

  Peggy? I loved her. Everybody did. You couldn’t not. But Cal must have had some kind of unconscious radar, because she was more like him than you’d think. Just a terrible alcoholic. Here he’d given up drinking, and who does he go and find for himself? He got her into AA, but it never took, and the rest of her life she was in and out of treatment; she had hepatitis and chronic liver problems, and still she couldn’t stop. She got cirrhosis at forty-four, liver cancer at fifty, was dead at fifty-one.

  Gilles carried in the teapot in a cozy. Now, Mother, he said. You must give Patsy a chance to talk.

  •

  Cal asked Patsy to ride on another Saturday, but she was throwing an end-of-term barbecue—already!—for her students and had to get ready. The party was to be in the small backyard area behind the Lyster where Brice had put in new sod, nursed an old rose garden into blooming, and set two salvaged picnic tables on the grass.