Blame: A Novel

by Huneven, Michelle

  I’m just deep in grading hell, she said.

  She wouldn’t tell Cal her news till she’d spoken to the wife. The lawyer in him shared her mistrust of single sources and thirdhand anecdotes. No sense inviting his cross-examination before she’d had her own questions answered.

  Cal came to check on her before he and Bob left for their meeting. Don’t stay up all night, he said.

  She kept the door to the deck cracked, to hear the rain. After each paper, she looked up and squinted. What if I didn’t do it? And excitement would surge, a sensation that, in childhood, she’d assumed was happiness.

  She worked on the sofa in her office, wrapped in the old rag. Her comments on the papers tended toward glowing. Checking back through the stack, she saw she’d given A’s to nine of the last ten papers. Lovely, she’d written by one title. Lovely?

  26

  This is Lucia, a woman said. Cool, crisp.

  It was Saturday morning, seven o’clock. Ten in Toronto. It’s Patsy Sharp, she said. I hope I’m not calling too early.

  I was hoping it was you, said Lucia, her voice softening. I’ve been up for hours. So Joey told you everything.

  Yes, and I’m a little stunned, as you might imagine.

  I’ll bet, Lucia said. I’m in a state over this too, and I’m fairly removed.

  I really appreciate your taking it so much to heart.

  I always had a feeling there was more to Bill’s story, the way he kept bringing it up. Anyhow—A certain crispness returned. How do we do this? Shall I just tell you what I know?

  If this is a good time for you, Patsy said, pulling over a yellow legal pad on which she’d jotted questions: Exact dates? Make of car? Died when?

  Perfect time. I have a couple hours before my daughter’s basketball game. She’s twelve. Bill’s daughter, Debbie.

  I see, said Patsy, and wrote down, Daughter, 12.

  •

  Bill Hogue and Lucia Robinson met in the fall in Chicago in 1987 and were married a year later. The night before the wedding, Bill sat Lucia down. There were things she should know about him beforehand, he said, so they would never surprise her, so no ex-girlfriend could burst into their lives with stories that Lucia hadn’t heard from him first. So Lucia would know what bad came with the good.

  He spoke of women he’d been unkind to, or slept with when he shouldn’t have, and other sexual missteps. He felt badly too about an accident he’d been in years before, a hit-and-run. He still thought of it every day.

  He’d gone to a sales convention in Pasadena. On his last day there, after the convention ended, he met a tall, funny blonde in the hotel bar, a wild schoolteacher named Patsy. They had a drink at the hotel, then Patsy wanted to move. She was bossy in an amusing way and his plane didn’t leave until the next morning, so he went along with her to a bar she knew, a dark, old-timer’s dive on the main drag, and after a round or two there, she suggested her house. She was weaving as she walked, so he asked for the keys to her big old Mercedes. She directed him north, toward the mountains, into the town of Altadena. It was getting dark. She told him where to turn. Her driveway, he said, was unexpectedly steep. He pushed down on the gas, and at first nothing happened, so he pumped the pedal, and the heavy sedan sprang. He saw the woman and boy the same instant he hit them, and there was an explosion too, of what looked like white birds.

  Pamphlets and papers went everywhere. One person—he couldn’t see which, as the windshield was mostly papered—rolled over the hood and pressed against the glass before sliding off. He never understood what happened next, maybe he hit the gas instead of the brake, but the car leaped again, and he may have hit one or both another time before the car swerved into the bushes.

  Patsy was yelling and screaming. Outside, the woman crouched by the boy. Both were moving, and he saw no blood. He intended to help them, but he could barely open his door. He’d run the car into a thick hedge and had to squeeze out, and could do that only by climbing up into the hedge itself.

  This is the part that I never understood, Lucia said. Bill said he climbed through the hedge, then found himself in an alley. Does that make sense to you?

  Yes, whispered Patsy. There was an oleander hedge along that driveway. On the other side of it was an old trolley line that used to run up to Mount Lowe. The tracks were removed in the thirties, but the old easement still cuts through several blocks.

  •

  Bill Hogue, Lucia went on, must have been in shock, because his judgment was clearly impaired. He wasn’t one to abandon injured people to save his own skin. He’d always regretted leaving the scene; he said it was the worst thing he’d ever done.

  He walked down the alley, then took regular streets in plain view. Sirens looped nearer, a helicopter stuttered overhead, its beam focused behind him. He didn’t try to hide. If the police pulled up, he planned to open the back door and get into the squad car without a word. But no black-and-white materialized, and soon he came to a wide, busy street and a bus stop. Sitting on the bench, he saw that he clutched a pamphlet. The Watchtower.

  That’s how out of it he was. He’d carried the pamphlet the whole time without noticing.

  All night long, he waited for the police to knock on his hotel-room door.

  In the morning he caught his flight and was home in Chicago by 10:00 a.m.

  I’m sure they were all okay, he told Lucia the night before their wedding. A broken bone or two, at worst. Everyone was moving. He hadn’t been going fast. It really was an accident. He’d had a couple of drinks, he wasn’t drunk. Certainly nowhere near as drunk as the nutty blonde whose car it was.

  •

  But Patsy, said Lucia, if nobody was hurt, why did he feel so guilty? I bet I heard the story a dozen times. To this day, when I see Jehovah’s Witnesses with their briefcases, I think of Bill and his guilt. Working with TV and film crews, I’ve met a lot of people from the Pasadena area—location scouts, art directors, production assistants like Joey. I always ask if they’ve ever heard of a hit-and-run with two Jehovah’s Witnesses. I’ve probably asked twenty people over the years, and nothing. Then Joey not only knew about it, she knew you.

  •

  Our marriage only lasted from 1988 to 1991. I moved up here. He saw Debbie on holidays and for weeks during the summer. Then he lost his job and went through a bad patch and couldn’t pay child support. We lost track of him, but a couple of years later, he wrote to say that he’d remarried, and sent some money. He was planning a visit to Debbie when all of a sudden he was diagnosed with a fast-growing cancer in his spleen, and just a couple of weeks later he was dead.

  •

  You know, said Patsy, I’m still in touch with the husband and father of the victims—Mark Parnham. We’ve been interviewed in newspapers, on radio and TV about forgiveness, mediated justice, restorative justice. I’ve watched his son Martin grow up; I’ve helped with his education. He’s in law school as we speak.

  Jesus, Lucia said. There’s a lot to this, isn’t there?

  Yes, said Patsy, and wrote on her pad, A lot to this.

  •

  Patsy, said Lucia. If you need something legal, a deposition or some kind of sworn affidavit—

  Nothing so formal, at least not yet. But I’m a historian, I like records and documents. If you’d write a short statement . . .

  I’ll do that. And maybe you should talk to his widow. I have her number. She’s since remarried; her new name is Simms. I don’t know what Bill told her, if anything. But I bet she got an earful, and more than once. Here, do you have a pencil?

  •

  Now, Lucia—what if other people want to talk to you? The husband or the son? May I give them your number?

  I’ll talk to anybody. It’s the least I can do.

  •

  Patsy opened the sliding glass doors to the little deck shaded by oak branches and stepped outside. A body rolling on the hood, the explosion of pamphlets, a mother crouched by her child. A coward’s flight. She shivered, hugging herself.<
br />
  Lucia had been accurate about that heavy old Mercedes; there was always a pause after hitting the gas pedal. The car surged just the way Bill Hogue had described it to his wife. Decades had passed, and that detail had remained indelible in a stranger’s mind.

  Patsy stood on her deck, facing the stream. Not a murderer. Never killed anybody. Innocent. After twenty years, the truth, like a splinter, had worked its way out. And now she could walk in the light.

  She thought something exuberant and silly then: This is the best news of my life. A restoration of at least some buried part of her. Some imp of self.

  She had an urge to get on the phone, start dialing, call everyone. Sarah, Margaret, Gloria. She’d really like to call Silver. Silver! Listen to this! Isn’t it amazing? Do you think it’s true?

  She could already hear Silver’s low, calm voice. What about you, Patsy? Do you think it’s true?

  Do you believe in your own innocence?

  If not, what will it take to convince you?

  Back at her desk, she looked over her notes. The other wife was Ginevra Simms. Area code 773. But what to say? Did your husband ever hit and run?

  Patsy dialed. The phone rang and rang before voice mail picked up. A robotic male voice said, Nobody is available right now. Patsy hung up.

  Closing her eyes, she pressed the lids with her fingertips, a comfort.

  •

  Cal’s office was in the east wing, next to the library, across from the rooms his daughter and her family occupied. He still spent hours here daily. He read company reports, he corresponded; Patsy mailed stacks of ivory envelopes every week. He called his children. He listened to music on headphones, his beloved Boston Pops.

  When she tapped on the open door, he was on the phone. He beckoned her inside, looking at her face. Here’s Patsy, he said. And, Audrey, I’d better call you back.

  Did something happen, Pats? he said, hanging up. Is everything okay?

  She stepped inside. Everything’s okay. But when Joey came to lunch yesterday, she had something to tell me.

  Bad news?

  Not bad, said Patsy. But big.

  She sat on the edge of his daybed, and he swiveled around to face her.

  Now, Cal, you know the accident, the one I went to prison for?

  Of course.

  And you remember that I was blacked out when it happened?

  Yes, yes.

  It turns out that somebody else was in the car, she went on. A man named Bill Hogue. And, Cal, he was driving, not me. I was a passenger. I wasn’t driving.

  Cal’s eyes narrowed. How did this come out?

  That’s the amazing part, Patsy said, and slowly, careful to describe what a wrap party was and what Lucia Robinson’s job entailed, she told him about Joey’s visit and the conversation with Lucia. Cal, don’t you see? Patsy said. I didn’t kill anyone after all.

  Cal looked at her with a sad smile. Oh, Patsy, he said quietly. What I’d like to know is why this woman waited so long to come forward. Why now?

  She didn’t know my last name. Also, Bill Hogue had no idea anybody died. He thought he hadn’t stuck around to talk to the cops. He thought his big crime was leaving the scene.

  And you believe this?

  Why not?

  Cal swiveled around to face the window. His office looked out onto the stunning old oak whose great branches were supported by guy wires. Well, it’s hearsay at best, he said over his shoulder. It’ll never stand up in court. It’s unlikely to overturn your conviction.

  I haven’t even thought about all that, said Patsy. Besides, I pled guilty. It’s not like anyone convicted me.

  Pleading guilty convicts you, said Cal. Being guilty by your own admission constitutes a conviction. You don’t need a verdict.

  Well, never mind then. She gave a wild little laugh. Though I suppose they could get me for perjury. Wouldn’t that be funny—if they sent me back to prison for lying about my own guilt.

  She was a little hysterical now. If only he would relent, revel for a moment in the possibility of her innocence.

  Instead, he studied her. So what, exactly, do you know about this woman, this wife? What’s her name again? Does she work for the city or the movies?

  The city, Cal. Besides, what difference does that make?

  I’d be very careful. I don’t want you taken for a ride.

  Why would someone take me for a ride, Cal?

  Maybe Joey wants to get into your good graces.

  She was never not in my good graces.

  He shrugged, as if to say that Patsy could be right or wrong about this. Joey might’ve cooked this up to please you, he said. And got an actress friend to go along with her.

  Jesus, Cal, that’s downright paranoid.

  You only have their word for it.

  I know, I know. But it’s me, Cal, Miss Historical Method. I’ll follow up. Amass evidence. Look up records. The man had a second wife who might know something. Though I don’t think anyone could make this up.

  You might be surprised.

  Lucia will be sending a written statement. She offered to do a deposition.

  Make sure that she does.

  Here’s an idea, Patsy said, standing. How ’bout we don’t talk about it anymore and just let it sink in. We don’t know what, if anything, this will mean.

  Cal stood and caught Patsy with his fingers, pulled her close. What could it mean? he said. After all these many years?

  She waited, still as a tree, for him to let go.

  •

  What did she expect? Cal was always so careful. And so infuriating.

  She’d left the east wing by the breezeway door and was walking around the front of the house to avoid running into anyone.

  Faced with new and uncomfortable information, Cal often asked unanswerable questions. How often had she advised his children not to take his reflexive doubting personally? Cal has to absorb information at his own speed, she’d say. Audrey moving to Paris. Stan divorcing Katharine. March marrying Forrest. All had been met with the same dry shrug and maddening skepticism.

  He resisted change. He had to get used to new ideas. But he was right about one thing. She did need proof from multiple sources.

  The Ponderosa was a long, lazy boomerang of a house, its two wings arching off a central living space at a wide angle. Patsy walked along the driveway, past the front door, where a massive stroller—it made her think of a surrey—was parked on the porch alongside a red tricycle. Where the turnaround began curving away from the house, she took broad stepping-stones through a cactus and succulent garden to her deck, where she sat on the steps to watch the fat, foaming little stream crash through the canyon.

  So much was accurate. The Hilton, the hedge, the leaping car. The old-timer’s bar had to be the SNAFU, her long-gone haunt over by PCC—gone, in fact, by the time she got out of prison.

  SNAFU. Situation Normal All Fucked Up.

  Did hotel and airline records go back to 1981? The Convention Center must have some kind of log. She should check out Lucia, make sure she existed and held the putative job. Then get up her nerve and try the widow again.

  •

  You just found this out? yelled Burt. Jesus Christ! You went to prison for this criminal? I’d like to have a little man-to-man chat with the weasel.

  Yeah! Patsy said. I wish you could. But he croaked!

  Damn! Well, let’s hope the miserable sonofabitch had an excruciating, drawn-out death.

  Burt! She’d been waiting all day to laugh.

  Jesus, said Burt. Man! What a kick in the head! Are you in orbit? Have you told Parnham and son?

  Oh god, no. Just you and Cal so far.

  Is Cal stoked?

  Actually, he asked a lot of questions and isn’t convinced. He thinks it may be some kind of story Joey concocted to cozy up to me.

  Burt knew Joey Hawthorne; he flirted with and possibly seduced her during his tenure at the Pondo. Patsy never knew, or wanted to know, for sure.

 
; That’s a little far-fetched, he said. What’s in it for her? Excuse me for saying so, but Joey is hardly a scammer.

  I know. Still, it would be nice to find some corroborating evidence, said Patsy. Do you know if airlines keep records? Or hotels?

  I assume so, said Burt. But I don’t really know.

  I should make calls. And talk to the widow. Or hire a detective. Do you know any detectives?

  How about that homicide detective who helped get your early release?

  Ricky Barrett?

  It was his case, said Burt. I bet he’d check things out for free.

  •

  She wasn’t sure where Ricky Barrett was working, but she called his old station in Monterey Park. I’m trying to get a hold of Detective Barrett, she told the dispatcher, who, without another word, connected her to his voice mail.

  It’s Patsy Sharp, she said. Or Patsy MacLemoore to you. Remember me? I’m calling because there may be a new wrinkle in my case—the accident with the Parnham family. A major wrinkle, actually, that I’d like to talk to you about.

  It would be Monday, she thought, before he got back to her. He had the seniority to be a nine-to-fiver now, with weekends off.

  Two days to wait, and time already at a standstill. Thank god for student papers, she thought, or she’d be crawling out of her skin. She went back over the last few she’d graded and tempered some superlatives. Almost Perfect.

  •

  Brice called in the early afternoon. I’m meeting Joey at Grounds of Being. Come, and I’ll buy you a latte to celebrate.

  A small slap of shock. Joey told you? she asked.

  Yeah! Unbelievable. To think, after all you went through too. How are you taking it?

  I’m still spinning.

  So come meet us.

  She drove to Pasadena with less of a mind to celebrate than to get out of the house and check Joey’s impulse to broadcast the news. What if wife number two told a substantially different tale? What if the whole thing fell apart under scrutiny? Best not trumpet any newfound innocence until the facts were checked.

  Grounds of Being was the coffeehouse affiliated with the Pasadena School of Theology. Brice frequented the place for its oversized cookies and student prices. He and Joey had snagged the one cozy corner with armchairs. Around them, seminarians peered, faces glowing, into laptops.