It was like watching a movie on fast forward.
First, there was the splash. Then, somebody, I think it was Rosario, yelling, “The little boy! The little boy! He’s fallen in!” Then someone was jumping in after him. It was Annie.
Before I had even allowed that to register, Vincent was there, at the edge of the pool. And then he was diving in. When he came up for air, he was smiling. He had them both in his arms.
“Vincent!” Roxana yelled. “What on earth are you doing? You know Alexander’s been able to swim since he was three months old! Give me my son,” she said, reaching out for the little boy. “So much fuss. Ah, don’t cry, love,” she murmured into his ear.
“Alexander can swim, but Annie can’t,” Vincent replied. “She needed me. And I need her. I need you,” he said, looking into her eyes.
“I need you, too,” she said, crying.
They struggled out of the water, their arms wrapped tightly around each other.
“What on earth is going on?” I asked Roxana. “Aren’t the two of you back together?”
“Me and Vincent?” she asked, laughing. “No way. He’s a nice guy, but please. It’s always been Annie for him. And I’m engaged,” she said, waving a stupendous diamond in my face.
“Watch it!” I said. “That thing’s dangerous.”
“Sorry. Anyway, my fiancé’s in Canada until November, cutting an album. Christian rock. He’s gonna be huge.”
You never can tell. Well, maybe certain people can, if they aren’t running around like certain other people, jumping to conclusions. I looked over to where Annie and Vincent were standing. Annie was my hero. She was sopping wet and shivering. I wanted to go to her, to tell her how much I loved her. But her husband was taking care of her, and everything was going to be fine.
Gambino came over and put his arm around me.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
“One stop first, okay?” I batted my baby blues.
Gambino didn’t stay long. He said he didn’t want to rush things, the way we had last time. I knew he was right, but that didn’t keep me from missing him the moment he turned to go.
I watched him pull out. And watched a beat-up blue Camaro pull in. Right into my driveway, like he owned the place. The guy stepped out of his car and started up the walk toward me, cocky as hell.
“Don’t take another step,” I said, brandishing Mimi as a weapon.
“Hey, I’m harmless.”
“I’ve heard that before.” He did look a lot skinnier than I’d remembered. And younger.
“I’ll pay anything.”
“How dare you?”
“I’ll do anything.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“That Testament shirt you were wearing the other morning. I have to know. Is it from the show’s first season? It is, isn’t it? Oh, man, I have to have it. I’m a Govian, a total Commander Gow freak.”
Never assume.
After the kid left with the T-shirt and an autographed script I’d found lying around, I put a pot of coffee on and sat down at the kitchen table. There was a stack of mail to open, most of it bills, but that didn’t seem very enticing. There was always shopping. Luckily, it was too late. Only the malls were still open and I had standards, thank you very much. With a dramatic flourish I swept the mail into a drawer and headed out to the garden. Time to euthanize my vegetables. They’d lived a good life. What more can any of us ask for?
I pulled on a pair of dirt-encrusted gloves and went to work. Big hunks of earth went flying. Buster was sitting ringside, hoping to find a snail to torture. There were plenty of those to choose from. Up went the remains of my once glorious eggplants, polished to an inky sheen, as beautiful to behold as to savor in a cheesy moussaka. Up went the garlic chives, which had begun to confound me midway through the season. Up went the parsley, which I’d had the misfortune to plant a day before a heat wave. Up went the carcasses of my four tomato plants, which had served me so long and so well. That latter operation took the better part of an hour.
Darkness fell, and I was done. Covered in sweat, I dropped my loppers and my pruning shears and peeled off my gloves. I have to say I found the whole experience, scrapes and all, even more satisfying than planting the seedlings in the first place. Maybe it was because the slate had been wiped clean. Next spring, I’d have another shot at it.
The tomatoes would be red and unblemished, every one of them. The cilantro would thrive for more than two weeks. I’d conquer those fleshy green hornworms, those squash bugs, and those Mexican bean beetles who attack the underside of leaves, devouring all but the stringy veins. I wouldn’t neglect my oak leaf lettuce such that its tender, thick midribs grew skyward while the outer leaves crumbled into dust. My novelty cucumber plant would yield more than a single deformed specimen. I’d do everything right next time. Why not?
When I was a little kid, my mother told me I’d learn how hot the fire was only by burning my finger. I remember thinking that she wanted me to burn my finger. Perhaps my ambivalence toward her dated back that far. But she’d been right, of course, and I’d tried to impress the same thing on Annie. There is no substitute for experience. It is possible to get smarter, to do better, to figure out a thing or two. I’d learned something valuable by walking a couple of weeks in Perry Mason’s shoes. I’d learned that guilt is not the issue. Everyone’s guilty of something, for god’s sake. What matters is that someone is innocent. And that that person not suffer more than he is supposed to, by which I mean we all suffer, to one degree or another. That’s just the way it is.
I still didn’t know exactly what had happened all those years ago in that bungalow in Ventura. But as of a couple of hours ago, I had a good idea. What I did know for sure was that Joe had suffered enough. And that I would be able to help him. I didn’t have proof, not exactly, but I had enough to shed doubt on his guilt.
Of course, it wasn’t over yet. Only Monday would tell, and there was still Sunday and Burnett’s party to get through before that.