Eight

When my Aunt Bea died, she left twenty-two stout cardboard boxes tied with twine in the crawl space off the attic. “Mementos,” she called them. I’ve never opened them; I try not to think about them.

I’m not big on keepsakes, nor am I much of a collector. Searching crime scenes as a cop cured me of that. I used to find myself feeling doubly sorry for victims; not only had they been raped, robbed, or killed—now they had a troop of strangers snooping through their stained underwear.

After my first scene-of-the-crime search I’d raced home and tossed out bagfuls of potential embarrassments, from mail-order creams guaranteed to increase your breast size in thirty-days-or-your-money-back to gushy poetry written by my ninth-grade sweetheart.

I stared uneasily at the bedside table, at the deep bottom drawer on the right-hand side of the bed, farthest from the doorway, repository of, among other odds and ends, my wedding photos.

I don’t own a camera. Roz, my inadequate house-cleaner, resident post-punk artist, and sometime assistant, handles my work-related photographic needs for a fee. I dislike taking photos, but people tend to give them to you, and it somehow seems wrong to discard those beaming frozen faces. I stick them in my junk drawer.

Paolina’s school photos are the exception. She’s my little sister from the Big Sisters Organization, and I keep her current photo in a silver frame on the living room mantel.

Paolina and I are temporarily estranged. Her mother won’t let me see her, thanks to complications left over from a case of mine. I admit that I may have screwed up—and Paolina’s life was endangered. But what frosts me is that it’s not the danger that’s got Paolina’s mother in a snit. It’s the fact that Paolina learned a few new items about herself, things Mama had been trying to hide.

I’ve got a social worker trying to reunite us, and I write to Paolina three times a week. I just hope that Marta, her mother, passes along the letters. She won’t even let me talk to Paolina on the phone, and the damned social worker keeps saying to give it time, give it time.

I sat cross-legged on the floor, yanked open the drawer, and coughed at the lingering smell of old dusting powder—something cheap I’d thought sexy one summer in my teens. Emerald something. It conjured up a greasy-haired boy named Doug I’d dated twice in high school. A forbidden midnight boat ride.

It’s been years since I was a cop, and I guess my fear of scene-of-the-crime searches is starting to fade. Amazing, the idiotic items I’ve stuck in that drawer. Free samples—everything from face cream to breakfast cereal. Shoulder pads ripped out of jackets that made me look like a defensive lineman. Half-empty cans of birth-control foam. A collection of very personal birthday cards from Sam Gianelli.

Just the stuff I’d love to have cops rooting through. I went downstairs and got an empty grocery sack. I tossed the breakfast cereal samples first, wondering why I hadn’t kept them in the kitchen, hoping they hadn’t attracted cockroaches. Underneath a tiny box of Raisin Nut Bran, I discovered an even tinier pair of hot-pink bikini panties. Why on earth? Oh, yeah, the elastic had stretched when I’d ignored the wash-by-hand warning. Had I really meant to replace the elastic? I tossed them in the sack. I’m as good a seamstress as Roz is a housecleaner.

I found the wedding photos lodged under a three-year-old issue of Mother Jones. They’re collected in a slim white album. The bride in the pictures smiled, but I really couldn’t connect her blurred face with mine. I made myself search carefully, but the photographer, my mother’s half-wit cousin Lou from Kansas City, trying out his third profession in as many months, had blown every possibly useful close-up of the wedding party.

Davey had been a last-minute addition to that select group, pressed into duty as best man in lieu of Cal’s no-show alcoholic father.

Since I’d been married in my hometown, Detroit, not many of my Boston friends had attended. I flipped another page. In one surprisingly clear group shot, a sweep of the entire room, Davey Dunrobie was a flyspeck in a corner, nothing you could show around.

All the same, I put the photograph aside. Maybe Roz would know some magical way to enlarge it.

Lorraine’s photo must have been stuck in the back of the album. It fluttered to the ground and I stared at it, transfixed by her innocent smile.

“After the first death there is no other,” Dylan Thomas says in one of the few lines of verse I remember without trying. Lorraine was my first. A friend who killed herself at twenty-two.

I picked the print up carefully, held it so the light didn’t glare. She hadn’t been pretty, although she might have grown handsome with the years she hadn’t used. What she looked mainly, I thought, was young. Unformed, unlined, unshaped.

It must have been snapped at a picnic. I could see a card table off to one side, paper tablecloth anchored with baskets of potato chips, bottles of Coke and beer. Someone’s blue-jeaned behind was visible off to the left. I couldn’t tell if it belonged to a man or a woman.

There was a time when I believed I’d mourn Lorraine every day of my life. But in fact I hadn’t thought about her for months, years. Maybe a brief moment on the anniversary of her death, near Halloween with the chill of fall.

I asked myself the old question, why? At the memorial service, Lorraine’s mother had confided that her daughter had been seeing a shrink—hardly the commonplace occurrence of today. By the time I saw Lorraine’s apartment, her parents had stripped it bare. All her notebooks, all her papers, had been crated and shipped to Norfolk, Virginia. Her mother had given me a Jesse Colin Young album and Lorraine’s mandolin as keepsakes. A line from a song on the album came unbidden to my mind.

“Four in the mornin’ and the water is pourin’ down.”

I must have played that cut a hundred times. Then I stuck the record somewhere up in the attic, along with the mandolin and Aunt Bea’s untouched boxes.

The first question, why?, was automatically followed by the next, how could I not have known? How could I have partied and sung and joked with Lorraine, and never sensed her sadness and despair? How could I drink a routine cup of coffee with a friend on Friday and learn of her suicide Saturday night?

Oh, Lorraine. I felt a flash of anger, followed by immediate guilt. I put her picture on my bed, then hurriedly stuck it back in the album. I knew I could stare at it forever and provoke nothing more than a bad case of the three A.M. what-ifs.

I stuck my hand way in the back of the drawer, searching for my stack of little black books.

I’ve never been tempted to keep a diary, but I do maintain a date book, a business thing, mileage and parking fees, where I’ve been when. Lunch dates and birthday reminders. I hang on to them more for tax purposes than sentiment.

Had I kept my black books back then? They had to date from my first charge card, an account at the Harvard Coop that made me feel very adult and full of myself at the time. The Coop, pronounced as in “chicken coop” even though it’s a contraction of co-operative, sends out an academic year calendar to all members, a tiny thing, less than three by five, black with thinly ruled pages. A new one arrives like clockwork in July, and I toss the old one in the drawer.

I thumbed through the pile to find the right year. 1977–78 would be best.

I found the black books for ’82–’83, ’78–’79, ’81–’82, stacked them in chronological order. Seventy-eight was as far back as they seemed to run. The first pages of each book had tables of weights and measures, lists of holidays. Then there were a few blank pages for phone numbers and addresses. I checked to see if I had entered either for Dunrobie.

I found Dee’s name heavily crossed out at 555-8765, a Cambridge number, probably the Mass. Ave. apartment. I checked through the rest of the phone numbers, most of them hurriedly scrawled, with only a first name to tag them. Gary at a 734 exchange. Had I known a Gary? A Ken? Alice? That must have been Alice Jackson. Hadn’t she married, and what the hell had she changed her name to? She might remember Dunrobie.

I tried the number written next to Alice. The man who answered was querulous, elderly, and quite certain no Alice was in any way connected with his phone number. He’d had it the past five years, ever since he moved up from Memphis, Tennessee, and nobody ever called much, and certainly not for any Alice. His first wife was named Mary Alice, and he sure would have remembered.

I went doggedly through the book and came up with another possibility: Angela, a blonde with pale lashes, a long nose. I punched the number and got a male voice on an answering machine. I have an answering machine myself, but I hate talking to them. I hung up.

I had phone numbers for a Jeff and a Susan, as if the people I’d met in my teens and twenties had only first names. As if I’d thought I’d always remember who they were. Asking about people’s backgrounds seemed so intrusive then. If somebody had a distinctive accent, you might ask where they were from, but that was it. Maybe I shied away from that kind of talk because I never wanted to admit my father was a cop. But the other kids were the same. No last names required.

Nobody at Jeff’s number answered.

I found two phone numbers scrawled on the last page. I figured one of them had to be Cal’s. With no names attached, they had to be numbers I called often, or numbers I never planned to call again. I shrugged and tried the first. Three beeps from NYNEX, and a recorded “This number has been disconnected. Please check your listing and dial again.”

The second number picked up after six rings with a recorded message in a male voice. “Hi. You’ve reached 555-4647. Tell me what you think I ought to know.”

It was a fine deep voice, relaxed and easy. If I’d heard it before I would have remembered it.

I hung up, then redialed the two recorded-message phones, leaving the bare minimum: my name, phone number, and a request to call as soon as possible on an urgent matter. Curiosity wins out more often than not.

I checked through the rest of the books and got nothing but wrong numbers and dead ends.

Reluctantly, I phoned Dee at the hotel.

I could tell there were visitors in her room by the cautious way she spoke and the voices in the background.

“You do it?” she asked.

“I can tell you where he isn’t,” I said. “Sorry.”

“I need to see you,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “We’re at the Performance Center tonight, rehearsal, maybe lay down a few tracks for the album. Start at seven and work right through. Drop by?”

I hesitated.

“Come on,” she urged. “Maybe I’ll let you play Miss Gibson.”

Any blues picker worth a bottleneck slide would crawl to the corner of Mass. Ave. and Boylston Street for a chance to play the Reverend Gary Davis’s old guitar.