Q is for QUARRY

by Sue Grafton

  She got out of the car, reached into the rear seat, and pulled out a shopping bag, saying, “I was beginning to think I’d missed you.” I waited while she locked the car door and headed in my direction. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember how I knew her. I placed her in her early sixties, trim, attractive, nicely dressed in a lightweight red wool suit. Her hair was medium length, tinted a deep auburn shade and brushed loosely off her face.

  I hesitated on the threshold, still scrambling through my bag of memories, trying to connect a name to the face. Who was this? A neighbor? A former client? “Are you waiting for me?”

  She smiled, showing a row of square even teeth. Before she managed to say another word, I felt a silvery note of fear pluck at the base of my spine, like a sand crab picking its way erratically across guitar strings. She held out her hand. “I’m your Aunt Susanna.”

  I shook hands with her, trying to compute the term “aunt.” I knew the meaning but couldn’t for the life of me figure out what to do with it.

  “Tasha’s mother,” she added. “I hope I didn’t catch you at bad time. She did tell you I’d stop by, didn’t she? How embarrassing for me if she forgot.”

  “Sure. Of course. Sorry I drew a blank, but I was thinking of something else. Come on in and have a seat. You want coffee? I was just about to put a pot on for myself.”

  She followed me through the front door and into the inner office. “Thank you. I’d like that.” She set down her shopping bag and took a seat in the client chair across the desk. Her eyes were hazel like mine. The air around her was scented with cologne. The fragrance suggested citrus – grapefruit, perhaps – very fresh and light.

  “How do you take it?”

  “I’m not fussy. Black’s fine.”

  “It’ll take me a minute.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” she said.

  I excused myself and went through the outer office and into the kitchen, where I leaned against the counter and tried to catch my breath. I’d been faking composure since the moment she’d announced herself. This was my aunt, my mother’s sister. I was acquainted with Tasha and Liza, the oldest and youngest of Susanna’s three daughters. The third girl, Pam, I’d heard about but never met. My introduction to the family had been thoroughly disconcerting as I’d known nothing of their existence. A fluke in an investigation three years previously had I turned them up like a nest of spiders in the pocket of an old overcoat.

  In the absence of my parents and Aunt Gin, Susanna had to be one of my closest living relatives.

  I patted myself on the chest. This was so bizarre. I don’t remember my mother and I’ve never had a concrete image of her. Even so, I sensed the kinship. All the Kinsey women bore a strong resemblance to one another, at least from what I’d heard. I certainly looked like Tasha, and she’d told me that she and her sister Pam looked enough alike to be mistaken for twins. I looked much less like Liza, but even there, no one could deny the similarities.

  I picked up the coffeepot and filled it with water, which I poured into the reservoir of the machine. Filter paper, coffee can. I couldn’t see my hands shake, but the counter near the coffeemaker became gritty with grounds. I grabbed a sponge, dampened it, and wiped the surface clean. I set the pot in the machine and flipped the button to ON. I didn’t trust myself to talk to her, but I couldn’t hang out here until the coffee was done. I took a couple of mugs from the cabinet and set them on the counter. If I’d had brandy on the premises, I’d have downed a slug right then.

  I walked back to my office, trying to remember what “normal” felt like so I could imitate the state. “It’ll be ready in a minute. Hope you didn’t have to wait for me long. I was tied up on business.”

  She smiled, watching me take my seat across the desk from her. “Don’t worry about that. I’m always capable of amusing myself.” She was pretty; a straight nose, only the slightest touch of makeup to smooth out the palette of her complexion. I could see sun damage or faded freckles and a series of fine lines etched around her eyes and mouth. The red suit was becoming, the jacket set off by the white shell underneath. I could understand where Tasha had developed her taste in clothes.

  She held up a finger. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I brought you something.” She leaned down and reached into her shopping bag, coming up with a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame. She held it out and I took it, turning it over so I could see what it was. “That’s me with your mother the day of her coming-out party, July 5, 1935. I was nine.”

  “Ah.” I glanced down, but only long enough to take in a flash of the eighteen-year-old Rita Cynthia Kinsey in a long white dress. She was leaning forward, laughing, her arms around her youngest sister. My mother looked unbelievably young, with dark curly hair falling across her shoulders. She must have worn dark red lipstick because the black-and-white photo made her mouth look black. Susanna was done up in a long frothy dress that looked like a miniature version of Rita’s.

  I felt my face get hot, but I kept it averted until the rush of feeling passed. The pain was sharp, like the lid of a box being slammed on my fingertips. I wanted to howl with surprise. By sheer dint of will, I put myself in emotional lockdown. I smiled at Susanna, but my face felt tense. “I appreciate this. I’ve never had a photograph of her.”

  “That’s my favorite. I had a copy made so that one’s yours to keep.”

  “Thanks. Are there any pictures of my father?”

  “I’m sure there are. If I’d thought of it, I could have brought the family album. We have everyone in there. Maybe next time,” she said. “You know, you look like your mother, but then so do I.”

  I said, “Really,” but I was thinking, This is all too weird. In my dealings with Tasha, it was easy to keep her safely at arm’s length. We used words to hack at each other, establishing a comfortable distance between us. This woman was lovely. For ten cents, I’d have scampered around the desk and crawled up in her lap. I said, “From what I hear, all the Kinsey women look alike.”

  “It’s not the Kinseys so much as the LeGrands. Virginia had some of Daddy’s features, but she was the rare exception. Grand’s features dominate. No surprise there since she dominates everywhere else.”

  “Why do you call her Grand?” She laughed. “I don’t know. We’ve called her that ever since I can, remember. She didn’t want to be ‘Mummy’ or ‘Mommy’ or any of those terms. She preferred the nickname she’d always had and that’s how we were raised. Once we got to school, I became aware that other kids called their mothers ‘Mama’ or ‘Mom,’ but by then it would have seemed odd to refer to her that way. Maybe, on her part, it was a form of denial-ambivalence about motherhood. I’m not really sure.”

  The smell of coffee began to permeate the air. I didn’t want to leave the room, but I got up and circled the desk. “I’ll be right back.”

  “You want help?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Just yell if you need me.”

  “Thanks.”

  Back in the kitchen, I was businesslike, though I noticed, pouring coffee, I was forced to use both hands. How was I going to pass her the mug without spilling coffee in her lap? I took a deep breath and mentally slapped myself around. I was being ridiculous. This was a virtual stranger, a middle-aged woman on a mission of goodwill. I could do this. I could handle it. I’d simply deal with her now and suffer the consequences later when I was by myself again. Okay. I picked up the two mugs, my gaze fixed on the coffee as I walked. I really didn’t spill that much and the rug was so gross it wouldn’t show, anyway.

  Once in my office, I placed both mugs on the desk and let her claim hers for herself. I took my seat again and reached for my mug, sliding it toward me across the desk. I wondered briefly if I could just lean down and slurp instead of lifting it to my lips. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course you can, sweetie. What do you want to know?” Sweetie.

  Oh dear. Here came the tears, but I blinked them back. Susanna didn’t seem to notice. I c
leared my throat and said, “Liza mentioned nephews the first time we met, but that’s the last I’ve heard of them. Arne told me Grand had three sons, all stillborn, but wasn’t there a boy who died in infancy? I thought Liza made reference to that.”

  She made that dismissive gesture so familiar to me. I’d used it myself and so had my cousin Liza on the day we met. “She never gets that right. Really, family history isn’t her strong suit. Technically, it’s true. Mother had three boys before Rita was born. The first two were still-births. The third lived five hours. All the other boys in the family – nine nephews – are part of the outer circle. Maura’s husband, Walter, has two sisters, and they both have boys. And my husband, John, has three brothers, with seven boys among them. I know it’s confusing, but since most of those peripheral family members also live in Lompoc, they’re included in all the Kinsey gatherings. Grand doesn’t like to share us with our husbands’ families, so at Thanksgiving and Christmas she makes sure her doors are open and the celebrations are so lavish no one can resist. What else do you want to know? Ask me anything you like. That’s why I’m here.”

  I thought for a moment, wondering how far I dared go. “I’ve been told you and Aunt Maura disapproved of my mother.” The topic made me feel mean, but that was easier than feeling frail.

  “That was Maura and Sarah, both of whom were older than me. Maura was twelve and Sarah fifteen when the ‘war broke out,’ for lack of a better term. Both sided with Grand. I was the baby in the family so I could get away with anything. I just pretended I didn’t know what was going on. I always adored your mother. She was so stylish and exotic. I think I mentioned I was nine when she made her debut. I was always more concerned about my Mary Janes than the larger family issues. I like to think I’m independent, but I’m not the maverick your mother was. She took Grand head on. She never shied away from confrontation. I use diversionary tactics myself – charm, misdirection. For me, it’s more effective to conform on the surface and do as I please when I’m outside Grand’s presence. It might be cowardice on my part, but it makes life easier on everyone, or that’s what I tell myself.”

  “But why did Sarah and Maura object to my mother’s marriage? What business was it of theirs?”

  “Well, none. It really wasn’t the marriage so much as what that did to the family. Once the battle lines were drawn, Grand was unyielding, and neither your mother nor Virginia would give in.”

  “But what was that about? I still don’t get it. It’s not as if my father was a bum.”

  “I don’t think Grand had any personal objections to your father. She saw the age difference as a problem. He was what, thirty-five years old to your mother’s eighteen?”

  “Thirty-three,” I said.

  Susanna shrugged. “Fifteen years. That really doesn’t seem like much. I think Grand’s problem was Rita’s marrying on impulse. Grand did that, too – married Daddy on a whim the day she turned seventeen. He was twice her age, and I think they’d known each other less than a month. I suspect she may have regretted her haste, but divorce wasn’t an option in those days, at least for her. She never likes having to admit she’s wrong so she stuck it out. They were devoted to each other, but I’m not sure how long her infatuation survived. I know it’s an old story, but I suspect Grand was hoping to express an unlived part of her life through Rita.”

  “I can understand that. What you’re saying makes sense.”

  “What is it that bothers you? That’s part of what I’d like to address.”

  “I’m thirty-six years old… thirty-seven in three weeks. I’ve lived all my life without a clue about this stuff. From my perspective, it sure seems like somebody could have let me know. I’ve said this before to Tasha and I don’t mean to harp, but why didn’t anyone ever get in touch? Aunt Gin’s been dead now for fifteen years. Grand didn’t even come down for the funeral, so what’s that about?”

  “I’m not here to argue. What you’re saying is true and you’re entirely correct. Grand should have come down here. She should have sent word, but I think she was afraid to face you. She didn’t know what you’d been told. She assumed Virginia turned you against her, against the whole family. At heart, Grand’s a good person, but she’s proud and she’s stubborn – well, face it, she can be impossible sometimes – but Rita was stubborn, too. The two of them were so much alike it would have been comical if it hadn’t been so destructive. Their quarrel tore the family to shreds. None of us have ever been the same since then.”

  “But Grand was her mother. She was supposed to be the grownup.”

  Susanna smiled. “Just because we’re old doesn’t mean we’re mature. Actually, Grand did reach out. I can remember half a dozen times when she made a gesture toward your parents only to be ignored or refused. From what I understand, your father stayed out of it as nearly as he could. The fight was Rita’s, and while he was certainly on her side, she was the one who kept the game alive. Virginia was even worse. She seemed to relish the split, and I’m really not sure why. She must have had issues of her own. In my experience, any time someone makes such a big deal about autonomy, it’s probably a cover for something else. So, Grand tried to include them, especially after you were born, but they’d have nothing to do with her. If she and Daddy were out of town, the three of them would come to visit and, of course, they’d bring you, but there was always a stealthy feel to it. I remember thinking they enjoyed it, sneaking around behind her back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it forced the rest of us to declare ourselves. Every time we welcomed them-which we did on numerous occasions-it put us squarely in their camp. Maura and Sarah felt guilty about deceiving Grand. She’d come home from a trip and none of us would say a word. Sometimes I have to wonder what she knew. She has her network of spies, even to this day, so someone must have told her. She never let on, but maybe that was her way of making sure there was contact even if she couldn’t enjoy it herself.”

  I thought about it for a moment, turning her comments over in my mind. “I’d like to believe you, and I guess I do in some ways. I know there are two sides to every story. Obviously, Aunt Gin took it seriously enough to maintain silence on the subject until the day she died. I never knew any of this until three years ago.”

  “It must be difficult to cope with.”

  “Well, yes. In part because it’s been presented to me as finished business, a done deal. To you, it must be old news, but to me it’s not. I still have to figure out what to do with my piece of it. The breech had a huge impact on how I turned out.”

  “Well. You could have done worse than having Virginia Kinsey for a role model. She might have been an odd duck, but she was ahead of her time.”

  “That about covers it.”

  Susanna looked at her watch. “I really should go. I don’t know about you, but I find conversations like this exhausting. You can only take in so much and then you have to stop and digest. Will you call me sometime?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. That would make me happy.”

  Once she was gone, I locked the office door and sat down at my desk. I picked up the photo of my mother and studied it at length. The picture had been taken at the ranch. The background was out of focus, but she and her sister were standing on a wooden porch with railings like the ones I’d seen at the Manse. By squinting, I could make out a group of people standing to one side, all holding champagne flutes. The young men wore tuxedos and the girls were decked out in long white dresses similar to the one Rita Cynthia wore. In many ways, hair and clothing styles hadn’t changed that much. Given any formal occasion, you could lift these people out of their decade and set them down in ours without dramatic differences. The only vintage note was the white shoes my mother wore with their open toes and faintly clunky heels.

  My mother was slim, and her bare shoulders and arms were flawless. Her face was heart-shaped, her complexion smooth and clear. Her hair might have been naturally curly – It was hard to tell – but it had been do
ne up for the occasion, tumbling across her shoulders. She wore a white flower behind one ear, as did Susanna, who was loosely encircled by my mother’s arms. It looked like my mother was whispering some secret that both of them enjoyed. Susanna’s face was turned up to hers with a look of unexpected delight. I could almost feel the hug that must have followed once the picture was snapped.

  I placed the frame on my desk, sitting back in my swivel chair with my feet propped up. Several things occurred to me that I hadn’t thought of before. I was now twice my mother’s age the day the photograph was taken. Within four months of that date, my parents would be married, and by the time she was my age, she’d have a daughter three years old. By then my parents would have had only another two years to live. It occurred to me that if my mother had survived, she’d be seventy. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a mother in my life-the phone calls, the visits and shopping trips, holiday rituals so alien to me. I’d been resistant to the Kinseys, feeling not only adamant but hostile to the idea of continued contact. Now I wondered why the offer of simple comfort felt like such a threat. Wasn’t it possible that I could establish a connection with my mother through her two surviving sisters? Surely, Maura and Susanna shared many of her traits – gestures and phrases, values and attitudes ingrained in them since birth. While my mother was gone, couldn’t I experience some small fragment of her love through my cousins and aunts? It didn’t seem too much to ask, although I still wasn’t clear what price I might be expected to pay.

  I locked the office early, leaving the photo of my mother in the center of my desk. Driving home, I couldn’t resist touching on the issue, much in the same way the tongue seeks the socket from which a tooth has just been pulled. The compulsion resulted in the same shudder-producing blend of satisfaction and repugnance. I needed to talk to Henry. He’d offered counsel and advice (which I’d largely ignored) since the Kinseys had first surfaced. I knew he’d be quick to see my conflict: the comfort of isolation versus cloying suffocation; independence versus bondage; safety versus betrayal. It was not in my makeup to imagine emotional states in between. I saw it as all or nothing, which is what made it difficult to risk the status quo. My life wasn’t perfect, but I knew its limitations. I remembered Susanna’s comment I about a passion for autonomy serving as a cover for something else.