Y is for Yesterday

There was no indication the party would ever break up. I waited a decent interval and then eased out the door without saying my good-byes. Henry was gone by then. I’d been trying to catch his eye, but he was studiously avoiding me. Rosie, usually abrupt, judgmental, and quick to censure, sent me any number of sympathetic looks. I raised an index finger and signaled in the negative, wagging it back and forth like a metronome, hoping she’d pick up the message about the misunderstanding. Her response was to pat her own heart to show how moved she was. There was too much noise for conversation and the one time she was close enough to talk, she’d taken my hand and held it between her own, shaping it like a biscuit.

William looked mournful at the sight of me, probably calculating the odds of my dying of childbed fever. As far as these people were concerned—absent my standing on a tabletop, calling for tampons—I was “with child.” It was all too tedious for words. Eventually, I’d get it straightened out, but good news doesn’t travel fast. That’s because good news is usually too boring to repeat. The cold hard truth will fall on stony ground, whereas your all-around trashy rumor will flourish like a weed.

I walked the half block home, let myself through the squeaky gate, and rounded the side of the studio. Henry’s house was entirely dark. I knew he was there, but the only evidence of life was Ed, whose pale shape seemed to glow in the darkened kitchen window. He looked out at me with his small, hopeful face. How could he break my heart without making a sound? Pearl and Lucky had stayed on at the party, where they’d drink free booze until they both toppled sideways. Killer was nowhere in sight and I imagined him still zipped in the tent and having a fine snooze, his dolly between his paws.

I let myself into my studio and locked the door behind me. Camilla’s harangue had left me exhausted. I wasn’t accustomed to verbal abuse in my personal life. In my professional life, okay, fine. My sideline, process serving, brings out the worst in human nature. An eviction notice, a summons, an order to appear—these are life’s little ways of informing you that you’ve blundered badly and payment is now due. Camilla’s hostility was another matter altogether and I’d done a piss-poor job of protecting myself.

There was a tap on the door. I closed my eyes briefly and prayed it was Henry. I pictured him too worried to sleep, finally braving the darkness to assure himself that I was doing okay. I was desperate to clear up the confusion about my nonexistent pregnancy so I could be redeemed in his eyes. I crossed to the porthole and flipped on the outside light. Anna was standing on the porch, her hands shoved in the pockets of her navy pea coat. She was clearly in a black mood. I slid back the chain and opened the door.

As I ushered her in, she pointed a finger at my face. “Not one word of blame or criticism.”

“Far be it from me,” I said. “My only question is how you managed to screw up so badly.”

“Shit, who would?” I said. I closed the door and indicated one of my kitchen stools. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

She peeled off her pea coat and took a quick look around, uncertain where to put it. I took it and draped it over a captain’s chair. Even with the stress of her condition, she was beautiful, blue-eyed, dark-haired, skin like cream. She and Jonah shared the same striking coloring. I felt a seismic shift in my attitude. Whatever her failings, she’d managed to bring Camilla Robb to her knees. Score one for the home team. We were, after all, blood kin.

She perched on a kitchen stool, leaned forward, stretched her arms across the counter, and placed her cheek against the cool surface. “Can I talk you into pouring me a glass of wine?”

“Decaffeinated, if you have it. I’m trying to be good about this until I decide what to do.”

“Hey, wait a minute. Didn’t I see you nursing a gin and tonic Tuesday night?”

I took my teakettle from the stovetop and filled it with tap water, then set it on a burner that I turned to high. I took out the box of tea bags and the sugar bowl, along with two mugs. My carton of milk was only two weeks old and it still smelled okay. “What’s Jonah’s attitude?” I asked.

“I haven’t talked to him. He’s off driving the family home. Well, not her. She brought her own car.”

I couldn’t see the relevance of the transportation arrangements, but in moments of crisis, we tend to focus on the mundane or the irrelevant.

She lifted her head and propped her chin in her palm. “I hope I can count on you to keep the news to yourself.”

“What difference does it make? You’re pregnant regardless. That’s the issue you have to address.”

I put a tea bag in each mug. “What went wrong? You’re too smart to get caught out like this.”

“It’s not my fault. Remember over the summer when we were all sick as dogs? I had that bout of bronchitis I couldn’t shake. I went through two different courses of antibiotics, which nobody mentioned could offset the effectiveness of birth control pills.”

“Turns out it’s not true. I asked the doctor and she says it’s nothing but an old wives’ tale.”

“So this was just your dumb luck? You’re on the pill and get pregnant anyway?”

She made a face. “Uh, not quite. I was taking Saint-John’s-wort. It’s an herbal remedy that’s sold as a supplement.”

“Well, she acted like she knew what she was talking about. I told her I was anxious and tired and had no appetite. I wasn’t sleeping well, either. Maybe two or three hours a night. She said it sounded like depression and I should pick up a bottle of Saint-John’s-wort. Now I find out if you’re taking it, you’re supposed to use backup birth control . . . you know, like a condom or something, just to be safe.”

“Kinsey, it’s organic. It’s not like a drug company manufactures it. The plant grows in meadows and on roadsides. It’s completely natural.”

I poured the sputtering hot water into each mug. We dunked our tea bags up and down.

“How do I know? There are choices you make in theory, based on principle, but when it comes right down to it, who knows what any of us would do? I’ll tell you one thing: whatever decision you make, you’re going to have to live with it every day for the rest of your life.”

Having exhausted the topic, we finished our tea and then I walked her the three houses down to Moza’s and bid her good-night. I returned to my studio, enacted my nightly ritual of security measures, and went to bed shortly thereafter. I didn’t expect to sleep. There was too much emotional turmoil in the air.

I was wakened by the telephone ringing. My first reaction was irritation, thinking I’d just that moment dozed off. I glanced at the clock, which read 7:22. I realized it was Saturday morning and the call was cutting short my opportunity to hibernate until noon.

I picked up the handset and managed a croaky hello while trying to sound like I was wide awake. I don’t know why we’re all in denial about being hauled abruptly out of a sound sleep when it’s the other person’s fault.

I really wasn’t all that happy to hear from her and if I’d known what was coming, I’d have felt even worse.

“We got a call last night from Troy Rademaker,” she said, as though our lives were peopled with countless other Troys. “He says you showed up at his door yesterday accusing him—along with Bayard and Fritz, I might add—of lying when they claimed the sex tape was just a hoax.”

“I don’t think so, dear,” she said in a withering tone. “Pretty much the case is you’re fired.”

I hung up and put a pillow over my face, though I knew there wasn’t any point. I was awake and I might as well get up and shower so I could get on with my day. So what if it was a weekend and I was unemployed? Worse things had happened. Not that I could think of one offhand.

By the time I brushed my teeth, showered, shaved my legs, shampooed my hair, dressed, descended the spiral staircase, and consumed my bowl of Cheerios, I could see the bright side of what might have seemed insulting at first blush. Lauren McCabe had turned out to be a pain in the ass. I was glad to be shed of her, and Hollis as well. Fritz was a first-class jerk and whatever became of him henceforth was no concern of mine.

I washed my bowl and spoon and left them in the rack. Then I snagged my car keys and my shoulder bag and drove to the office, coolheaded enough to exercise all the proper security precautions, making sure Ned Lowe wasn’t lurking in the bushes when I unlocked my door and disarmed the system. The whole rigmarole felt silly, but I resisted the urge to relax my vigilance. I locked the door again, armed the perimeter, crossed to my desk, and pulled out my portable Smith Corona. I removed the hard cover and set it aside. I found a sheet of letterhead stationery, a carbon, and a second sheet and made a neat paper sandwich that I rolled into my machine. By way of formalizing the change in our relationship, I typed the following:

Attention: Mr. and Mrs. Hollis McCabe

As per our telephone conversation this morning, I am writing to confirm that our professional relationship has been severed. Enclosed is a check in the amount of twenty-five hundred dollars, which represents your advance payment to me for services, which you have deemed unsatisfactory. As of this date, September 23, 1989, the business arrangement between us has been terminated.

Respectfully submitted,

I signed my name with a flourish, folded the letter, and found an envelope on which I typed the names and the address. I pulled out my checkbook and wrote a check for the twenty-five hundred dollars. I slid the letter and the check into the envelope and licked the flap. I affixed a stamp and hopped in my car and drove to the main post office, a few blocks away. When the doors opened at ten, I was the first one in line. I sent the letter by certified mail, signature required and return receipt requested.

That done, I went home and did a massive fall cleaning. I must have been more upset about being fired than I thought, because my Cinderella complex had been kicked into high gear. I moved furniture away from the walls and dusted baseboards. I vacuumed. I scrubbed tubs, sinks, and toilets, mopped floors. I dusted the shutters. I took a toothbrush and cleaned the grout between tiles. When the studio was properly spit-shined, I changed into my sweats, jogged for three miles, and then went to the gym, where I lifted weights for an hour. After that, I took a nap, which had all the benefits of a coma without my being close to death.

At 3:45, I crawled out of bed, brushed my teeth, and took another shower, then put on the same tights, skirt, and turtleneck I’d worn the night before. Between the wardrobe shortcut and the absence of makeup, my so-called beauty regimen took thirteen minutes. Coming out of the studio, I spotted Pearl in her wheelchair, her feet propped up on one of the Adirondack chairs. She was sunning herself, eyes closed, but she turned her face idly in my general direction when she heard me shut and lock the door.

“You know him. Henry’s been out walking the neighborhood, calling him, but so far, no luck.”

The drive to Perdido, which should have taken twenty-five minutes, took fifty. Late-day traffic on the 101 is sluggish even on the weekends and I knew enough to allow way more time than I’d ordinarily need. With the ocean to my right and the autumn sun beginning to fade, I felt myself relax for the first time that day. The drought had turned the chaparral a ghostly gray, patches of vegetation so dry that they formed a silvery haze that hovered over the hillside as it undulated along the coast. The rugged hills that rise straight up from the highway are considered young, a geological casserole of sandstone and shale, with occasional outcroppings of limestone appearing in the western portion of the range. Five million years ago these mountains were lifted along the San Andreas Fault, which tracks like the ragged spine of some prehistoric beast some eight hundred miles through California. The Santa Teresa coastal plain is so riddled with cracks that it’s a wonder we don’t have daily temblors sufficient to rattle our china off the tabletops.

I had checked my Thomas Guide for the address Phyllis had given me and I took the Sea Side Boulevard off-ramp and followed the road toward the harbor, where a small community of restaurants and beach shops was flourishing. Her condominium development, the Haven, was located two blocks from the water, a complex of twenty-two buildings that more nearly resembled the architecture of New England than the usual California style. These structures were symmetrical, with double-hung sash windows, balustrades, and dormers. The frame siding was painted gray with white trim. The rooflines were just irregular enough to be interesting. The buildings were three stories high and stood shoulder to shoulder, with the outdoor living spaces cleverly arranged so that they were not directly visible from one to the next. Privacy was probably an illusion, as I was guessing the construction allowed sound to carry, sometimes amplified, from one condominium to the next.

I’d been told the community was gated and when I pulled up, I waited while the security guard checked to make sure my name was on the list. He gave me directions that I followed carefully, counting my left and right turns since the structures were identical. I found the correct street and the number address she’d given me. What struck me as odd, even on the most superficial observation, was that the electronic gates seemed to be window dressing. The grounds weren’t fenced, and while automobiles were only admitted after proper scrutiny, anyone could walk in from neighboring streets. I caught sight of an unmanned rear gate that was activated by cars leaving the property, but the lag time on the closing mechanism was sufficient to allow an incoming vehicle to drive through unimpeded and unchecked.

While the apartments appeared to be connected, much in the way of row houses, the three-story units were actually linked by twos, with garages at street level and two slots each for guest parking. A covered walkway led from the parking area to an enclosed garden entry, with a door that opened into a vestibule, which in turn opened into a small lobby. The interior walls were mirrored to suggest more space than had been allotted. There were fake plants and a few pieces of faux-Colonial furniture. There were two built-in mailboxes with spaces below where packages could be left. The elevator doors stood open. Inside the car, a panel had two call buttons, one for each owner. An intercom made it possible for the visitor and the resident to communicate before access was granted.

P. Joplin was listed on the left and an E. Price on the right. There was an Up button, but when I pressed it, nothing happened. I was guessing the residents operated the elevator with a key. If company arrived or if a repairman needed to be admitted, the resident sent the car from the second floor down. The doors were otherwise left in the open position, with the Up button inoperable. As was true of the exterior measures, interior security was more of an illusion than a reality. I saw no evidence of a camera in the lobby or the elevator car, which meant that the occupants of the two units above had voice contact when someone called up, but no visual verification process. The company that owned the complex had gone to great lengths to create a sense of safety while neglecting to build in true safeguards. It made me uneasy to think Phyllis was unaware of the shortcomings in the system, since for her the idea of a gated community was what had made her feel secure.

I rang her call button and waited. When there was no response, I checked my watch. It was 5:10. I rang a second time with still no answer. I pushed out the door into the garden courtyard and looked up to my left. There were lights visible on the second and third floors of her apartment. I wasn’t certain how the rooms were laid out, but it made sense to imagine public spaces—living room, dining room, kitchen, and balcony—on the second floor, with the third floor reserved for the master suite, guest bedrooms, and perhaps an office or study. A quick visual survey of neighboring units showed exterior balconies on both the second and third floors, which supported my supposition.

I returned to the elevator and pressed her call button again. It was possible she’d forgotten our date or perhaps something had come up and she’d tried telephoning after I’d already left my studio for the drive down. Or she could be picking up last-minute items at the grocery store. Or she could be “away from her desk,” which is to say, in the bathroom. Or what? There must have been half a dozen other reasons she might not be picking up the call. Even so, I didn’t like it.

“Hi. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I was supposed to meet Phyllis here for drinks at five, but she doesn’t seem to be answering.”

“Oh. Well, that’s odd because I ran into her as she was getting back from the grocery store and she told me she was expecting company.”

“My mistake. I assumed Kinsey was a man’s name so when you, or I should say, when a guy rang a while ago, I thought her guest was early so I buzzed him on up.”

“Because I talked to him. I asked what he wanted and he said something about her call bell being on the fritz, which is why I sent the elevator.”

I could feel the cold, like Freon, seep from the core of me through my rib cage. “What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. I was in the middle of a phone call so I just left the handset on the kitchen counter while I sent the car down. I knew Phyllis was home so I figured she’d answer her door when the guy got up here.”

“Well, Erroll, I think you should activate the elevator and let me up there. Either that or go knock on Phyllis’s door yourself and see if she’s okay.”