Blame: A Novel

by Huneven, Michelle

  Yes, said Patsy. But I’m deep in grading hell. If it can wait till tomorrow, you can see March and the kids too.

  That’s okay, said Joey. And I don’t think it can wait. Seriously.

  Only then did Patsy recall some vague ill will between the two younger women. The last couple of times March was down, Joey hadn’t come around.

  Okay, then, said Patsy. Come right now and I’ll make us a little lunch.

  You don’t have to do that.

  I need to eat, so it’s no trouble.

  Okay, then, said Joey. I’m leaving right now.

  Patsy finished picking lettuce. She had some idea what Joey wanted to talk to her about. Until a year ago, Joey had been living alone in the little house in Altadena her father had left to her, and trying to write a screenplay. Then she rented out the house and moved to New York—for a job or a man, perhaps both, Patsy wasn’t sure. But she was back within months, this time settling in West Los Angeles. Brice was in touch with her, and he kept Patsy updated.

  At thirty-two, Joey was a Hollywood freelancer—a producer, whatever that meant. She worked long hours when jobs came her way, and Brice said she was good at what she did. But nothing more ever came of it, no studio job, no leg up, no movie that made her reputation. Waiting for the next paying gig, Joey got by on catering jobs and, recently, the rental income from her Altadena house.

  Only days ago, Brice told Patsy that Joey’s house had been trashed by its tenants and, coincidentally, was about to be seized for back taxes. The entire ten or twelve years she’d owned it, Brice said, Joey never paid the county a cent.

  Washing the lettuce in the kitchen sink, Patsy picked out a thin, active worm and tossed it outside into the rose bed.

  Joey probably needed money or a place to live, or both.

  These young women from wealthy families, Patsy thought, who wobbled on the edge, never quite functioning fully . . . Look at March, with Forrest chronically unemployed, a staggering mortgage, two kids in diapers.

  Patsy washed and spun the lettuce dry, and tried to recall what had passed between Joey and March: not an out-and-out rift, but hurt feelings. Joey hadn’t come to a baby shower, or hadn’t sent a gift or paid due homage to March’s reproductive achievements.

  Cal wandered in and opened the refrigerator, his way of signaling hunger. Patsy made him a tuna sandwich. You may want to eat it somewhere else, she said. Joey Hawthorne’s coming for a tête-à-tête.

  Haven’t seen hide nor tail of her in ages. How is she?

  We’ll see. You want some salad with that?

  No, gracias, said Cal. She still trying to make movies?

  She just made one.

  Tell her to poke her head in, say hi before she leaves.

  Patsy took out some cold salmon and roasted beets—another dud meal in March’s opinion—and arranged them on a plate. Outside again, she dried off and set the patio table. On her return to the kitchen she found Joey Hawthorne in the doorway. Cal or Bob must have let her in.

  Joey had lost weight and was lashed into a cropped wraparound brown blouse, and cargo pants, with glimpses of enviably smooth midriff in between.

  You look like a movie star! Patsy hugged Joey, felt how thin she was.

  You’re beautiful as ever, Joey said, lifting a hank of Patsy’s long hair.

  Together they carried out the food and sun tea. A baguette.

  Oh, Brice told me about this patio set, Joey said.

  The rusty wrought iron table and chairs were French and old. Brice had found them for her at a yard sale. One strand of Patsy’s ongoing friendship with him involved Brice finding ingenious ways to spend her money, since he so rarely had any of his own.

  Cal thinks they’re ramshackle! Patsy said. Here, sit.

  Joey frowned at the loud scraping her chair made. She wore her fine hair in a stringy, streaked blunt cut; her glasses were odd trapezoids of a bright, grassy green, kooky and severe at the same time.

  Thanks for going to all this trouble, Joey said, rocking her silverware with her hands and bouncing a little as she sat. But Patsy, I have something to tell you, and you’d kill me if I didn’t say it right away.

  Let’s just get started here, Patsy said. Settle in a bit, and then I’m all ears.

  Patsy was hungry, with only coffee since waking. If Joey was going to ask for money or a room, surely it could suffer the loading of plates, the tearing of bread. Patsy poured the iced tea. Before anything else, she said, tell me a little bit about how you are, what you’re up to.

  I’ve been in Toronto, working on a film, Joey said. That’s always fun.

  I’ve heard films are the most fun. Patsy spooned beets onto Joey’s plate, a tumble of red, orange, and pink cubes. At least try these, she said. I grew ’em.

  I love beets now. Thanks. But Patsy . . . Joey said.

  Patsy’s mouth was full. Joey did look about to burst. Patsy nodded, waved her fork—Go ahead.

  It’s just that I heard something in Toronto, said Joey. About you. And I have to warn you, it’s big. Not bad—but brace yourself, because it’ll be a shock.

  Joey’s bossiness amused Patsy, who swiftly considered what Joey might find shocking. Some voluble old college boyfriend claiming to still love her? Or maybe Joey ran into Lewis. More likely, somebody told Joey a salacious tale from her drinking days, some outrageousness she wouldn’t even remember.

  Ready? said Joey.

  Let’s have it.

  The thing is, Patsy—Joey rubbed a drop of water on the rusty table edge and looked up. Her eyes were a beautiful olive green and full of excitement.

  You know those people you hit with your car? she said. Those Jehovah’s Witnesses? Well, I found out that you didn’t kill them. It wasn’t you. You weren’t driving. I’m not kidding. Someone else was driving your car. And I found out who. A woman I met in Toronto knew all about it.

  Toronto? said Patsy.

  A man was driving, a guy you’d been drinking with. His name was Bill Hogue. Does that ring a bell? Bill Hogue?

  No. Patsy had begun to tremble. Although she had spoken openly about the accident over the years, nobody had ever brought it up to her so bluntly, in such a peremptory way—not even Cal, her sponsor, or therapists. Lewis had been interested, but tactful. Only Gilles was so direct, so long ago. Those people you hit. Those people you killed.

  You met him at the Hilton, said Joey. In the bar.

  What was the name again? Patsy asked. And just how did this come up?

  That’s the amazing thing, said Joey. In Toronto our company has this liaison to the city, a woman named Lucia Robinson, who gets all our permits and police. She’s completely friendly and professional, so great to work with. At the wrap party—god, to think that was just two nights ago—we finally got to talking about something other than work. I mentioned that I had a house in Altadena, California, and she said she’d heard of Altadena, that her ex-husband had been there, and actually, she had a strange question to ask. Her question was, Had I ever heard of a hit-and-run accident involving Jehovah’s Witnesses there? I said, No, not exactly, but I did have a friend who’d killed a couple—

  Joey! Patsy cried out.

  Sorry. Joey cringed in her seat. I don’t mean to sound like a jerk.

  It’s just . . . Patsy sighed, gave up. Go on.

  I told her the accident that I knew about was a long time ago, back when I was a girl, and it wasn’t exactly a hit-and-run, and that my friend—you—went to jail because of it. And Lucia immediately was like, Oh my god, how long ago, can you tell me her name? Was it Patsy?

  She said that?

  Even before I told her! And when I said, Yes, Patsy, Patsy Sharp, I thought she was going to keel over. It was like someone hit her in the face.

  Joey leaned forward and lowered her voice. I guess her husband—her ex-husband—only ever knew your first name. You guys met at the Hilton bar—do you remember any of this?

  No, nothing. I was in a two-day blackout.

  Anyway,
it seems as though you were too drunk to drive, so her ex drove, and he ran over those people. He killed them. And he walked! He left the scene of the accident before the cops came. He told this to Lucia the night before they got married, in this big truth-telling session. That was his big confession, that he’d left the scene of an accident. Though he had no idea anyone died. And he said he hit a woman and a boy. I thought it was a girl, right?

  Right, Patsy said, and thought, Okay, boy, not the same, wow, false alarm.

  But the boy’s the only discrepancy, Joey said with authority. And Hogue didn’t stick around to get a close look. Maybe the girl was in jeans or something.

  Yeah, Patsy said. She was, I think. Her father told me she was. I thought she was wearing a skirt and had long hair, but I was making it up, trying to fill in the blanks. The father said she was wearing jeans and had a pixie cut. So she probably did look like a boy.

  Well, see? So this guy Hogue swore he never meant to leave, but—Joey stopped and squinted at Patsy. Were there some bushes along your driveway?

  Oleander. A hedge of them.

  Well, he’d veered off into that, and then he had to squeeze out of the car and fight his way through branches, and I guess it wasn’t so easy. When he finally got through, he came out in this alley—would that be right?

  Yes, Patsy whispered. Exactly right.

  So he found himself in this alley and started walking. He got to a main drag, which had to be either Fair Oaks or Lake, and took a bus back downtown. Nobody came after him, so in the morning he flew out as planned.

  Where to? said Patsy.

  Toronto, I guess. I didn’t ask. But you can ask Lucia. She wants you to call.

  I’d like to talk to him, Patsy said.

  Yeah, Joey said, except he’s dead. He died like six years ago. They were already divorced. He got some rare cancer. So thank god he confessed everything to Lucia, or we never would’ve learned the truth. We both wanted to call you right away. Lucia couldn’t believe you went to prison. She says she’ll go to court, do whatever you need to clear your name. Then we thought I should break the news in person because you and I are old friends—

  Yes. Patsy scanned Joey’s flushed, animated face. That was right.

  So here’s her card.

  God, Joey, Patsy said, and took the ivory card imprinted with LUCIA ROBINSON, MEDIA CONTRACTOR, CITY OF TORONTO, and the city’s tiny round seal. Lucia herself presumably had handwritten a home number and call anytime! in pen.

  Patsy set the card half under the rim of her plate. She was thinking of a long beige room with low mauve couches, tall mauve drapes, and, at one end, a mirrored bar lit so that the bottles gleamed with a clear white light, as if heaven itself shone through them. Bartenders wore crisp white shirts.

  I did use to go to the Hilton, she said. It was a good place to drink alone, because so many hotel guests were by themselves and it didn’t seem so pathetic.

  See? said Joey. So will you call her? I talked to her on the way over. She’s expecting to hear from you.

  I’ll call. In a bit. I need to get a grip first, said Patsy. Look.

  Her hand trembled in a frenetic little wave.

  Joey took Patsy’s hand between her two cool palms. It’s so exciting, she said. God, after all this time, the case gets solved. And you’re innocent! Innocent!

  We’ll see. It’s a little strange she asked you out of the blue like that.

  I know, said Joey. But that was her association to the place. Altadena, Pasadena—she always connected them to her ex-husband’s story. She’s asked a lot of other people over the years, anyone from Pasadena, Burbank, but nobody’d ever heard of a hit-and-run with Jehovah’s Witnesses before.

  Patsy stood and walked across the courtyard toward a border of sage and lavender. All the bushes seemed looser, airier, with more space between each leaf. She stifled a sudden hysterical impulse to laugh, then an urge to speak sternly: This better be for real, Joey Hawthorne. Because what if Joey had it wrong?

  She pulled off a sprig of gray-green lavender, rolled the leaves between her fingers, sniffed. The sharp, soapy astringency momentarily cleared her head.

  Joey’s story did seem fantastic. Out of nowhere.

  I need to be careful here, Patsy thought, taking another sniff of the soft crushed leaves. And yet exultation gathered in her chest. What if?

  Something was already leaving, she almost glimpsed it, half birthed, a snarl of black feathers.

  She turned to Joey, who was at a pitch. Flushed, eyes bright and brimming, watching her every move. Of course—to be the bearer of such news!

  Their plates were barely disturbed. Lunch was a bad idea, said Patsy. You tried to tell me. But you should eat.

  I’m way too excited. But I’ll clean up.

  No, no. Patsy sat back down. I’m sorry I’m not more—I’m a little dazed.

  Of course you are. It’s a big deal.

  Maybe, Patsy said. Actually, I’d really like to hear the whole thing again.

  Joey started with the wedding eve confession, the Hilton, the drinking, the oleander hedge. Bill Hogue sold medical equipment, he’d been at a convention: that was the one fact Joey hadn’t mentioned the first time around.

  I wonder how he knew they were Jehovah’s Witnesses, Patsy said.

  That’s a good question for Lucia.

  If I didn’t really do it, Patsy thought, then what a relief. But if Joey’s story is bogus . . . But why would anybody make it up? Careful, careful.

  How ’bout this, Joey said, getting to her feet. I’ll help you clean up here, then go and let you process. Make your call. Unless you want me to stay.

  Patsy looked up sharply. Joey was smiling, even merry.

  No, that’s all right. I’m okay.

  I’ll be in the ’hood. I’m picking up Brice—he’s coming to look at my poor wrecked house to see what needs to be done. I’ll have my cell.

  You didn’t tell Brice about this, did you?

  No. I thought you should be first.

  Yes, perfect. Thanks. Patsy stood and put her arms around Joey, hugged her hard, and kissed her head. Letting go, she smoothed back Joey’s fine, streaked hair. In four new piercings, from the top of the ear to the lobe, diamonds flashed orange and ice blue.

  •

  Alone, Patsy wandered across the property to a stone bench beside the stream, whose juicy roar matched something in her chest. I DIDN’T DO IT! But before she gave way to jubilation, she thought, she should call Lucia Robinson and make sure Joey hadn’t glossed over a major contradiction. Although so many details lined up, all but the boy, who was probably the pixie-cut girl. Probably. A fluffy cloud moved off the sun. Rain had scrubbed the rocky hillside; even gravel flashed with specks of light. A dazzling day. She stood and started back to the house.

  They were home. She heard Beckett screeching, doors shutting, March calling for Cal. Patsy was too undone, too burst open, to face any of them, so she nonchalantly veered north, to the corral, where Diotima and Mamie the pony stood in mud. Diotima sauntered over and nuzzled Patsy’s neck, her black whiskers stiff as wire. Hold on, said Patsy, let me get the bridle.

  They took the trail that climbed the mountain in switchbacks, east, then west through sage and buckwheat, all of it lush with tender green new growth and heavy with rainwater. Patsy’s jeans soon were soaked through. Diotima’s hooves made sucking noises in the muddy low spots.

  She never once had imagined another driver or even dreamed of one.

  The trail branched, and Patsy considered going up the arroyo behind the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, the first trail she’d taken with Cal. Then she drew Diotima east, away from the deepening privacy of the canyon. She wanted room, and perspective. She thought, This is the last time I’ll ride before others know. When the news is still contained.

  Clouds were piling up against the mountains, forming a shelf overhead. She could see out from under it, all the way, in fact, to the Palos Verdes hills, the valley between still brillian
t with sunlight.

  Assuming the news was true. As a historian, she was well acquainted with the vagaries of oral history and stories that changed, teller by teller, like the game of telephone. In her excitement, Joey could have blurred the details, and in fact, Bill Hogue might have hit someone in Alhambra in 1989.

  She’d talk to Lucia soon enough. Until then, she’d at least have this lovely aimless ride in innocence. If Joey’s tale checked out, a slow saunter up a mountainside would only steady her for the great turn to come.

  Too bad the news hadn’t arrived before her father’s mind left.

  Too bad, too, she couldn’t tell Lewis.

  Nobody was better with surprise. He’d stare, dead still; his eyes would slowly brighten, as if with tears. Moments would pass. Then a fast gulp of air and the gratifying, profane shout. No fucking way!

  But she’d kept her word and left him alone for the last two years. And he hadn’t called her either.

  Patsy nudged Diotima left onto a spur leading to a promontory. Below , the Ponderosa’s blue slate shingles overlapped like feathers on a bird. Haydee was beating a rug with a broom behind the breezeway. Given the size and pale madder hue, it could only be the old Bokhara from Cal’s office, which probably shouldn’t be thwacked so violently, lest its dry wool weft crumble to bits.

  A drop plopped on her head. Diotima’s pointed ears flickered. They headed back down to the barn.

  •

  Of course she’d put off calling too long. It was already 7:00 p.m. in Toronto, a Friday night, and Lucia Robinson was not home.

  Which left the ragged stack of term papers, untouched since before noon, more than half still unmarked.

  She worked for an hour, then went into the kitchen and made herself a plate with the now-well-marinated salad she and Joey hadn’t eaten—a few beets, a clump of cold salmon. She put the baguette in the oven, and while it heated, she found Bob and Cal watching the evening news in the dark library. I’m just going to eat something now and keep grading, she said.

  You okay? Cal asked. You didn’t catch cold out there on Diotima, did you?