It took a moment for Aragon to regain his balance and somewhat longer for his eyes to adjust after the brilliance of the morning sun. The curtains were closed and the cabin seemed relatively gloomy. Donny Whitfield sat at a rolltop desk with a gun in his hand, and standing near him was a short, wiry-looking Mexican wearing a blue-and-white diagonally striped shirt and a light-blue peaked cap. Aragon assumed this was Manny Ocho who had answered the phone.
He started to address Ocho in Spanish but was immediately interrupted.
“Only English spoken here,” Donny said. “Well, nice of you to drop in, pal. Now suppose you drop out.”
“Is the girl here?”
“What girl?”
“You know what girl.”
“Oh, her. Yeah, sure. She’s around someplace trying to find the bridegroom. You walked into a wedding. How’s that for luck?”
“The wedding had better be postponed,” Aragon said. “I intend to take Cleo back to her family.”
“You’re going to poop the party, right?”
“Right.”
“Uh uh. Wrong . . . Manny, you have your orders. Obey them.”
“Please, you wait,” Ocho said. “Donny, you listen a minute.”
“Hurry up.”
Ocho turned to leave, shaking his head. As he passed Aragon he muttered a warning about a gun.
“You can be best man,” Donny told Aragon. “Or Cleo might even want to change bridegrooms. You’re not bad-looking and at least you aren’t related. What’s your name?”
“Tom Aragon.”
“Cleo Aragon. Hmmmm, sort of a nice ring to it. Not that Cleo’s particular. She’d marry any guy that’s still breathing. Weird thing is, I never knew she was like that when we were at school together. Maybe it’s the sea air.” Donny laughed. “How’s the sea air affecting you, Aragon?”
“Who’s the bridegroom?”
“She calls him Ted.”
“You’ve got to stop this crazy thing, Donny. She’s his aunt.”
“If that doesn’t bother Cleo, why should it bother me?”
“Who’s going to perform the ceremony? Did they have the necessary blood tests? Did they take out a license?”
“Details. Screw details.”
“And did you know that you’re violating the terms of your probation by having a gun?”
“Screw probation,” Donny said. “Probation is for landlubbers. At sea it’s only a word.”
“What kind of stuff are you on, Donny? What did you take?”
“Nothing. I smoked a little pot last night and had a few drinks, but since then, nothing.
Nothing from outside anyway. It’s the inside stuff that I’m on. It’s all coming from inside. There’s some pretty strong stuff in there, man, stronger than anything you can buy on the street.”
Aragon believed him. Whatever Donny’s body was manufacturing, it seemed as powerful and unpredictable as the animal tranquilizer the kids called angel dust.
He said, “Show me where Cleo is and I’ll take her home.”
“Home? Where the hell’s home for people like Cleo and me? A lousy detention school? Juvenile Hall or the slammer? Where the hell is home?”
“Drop the self-pity kick for a minute and pay attention. I want you and Cleo to come with me, and we’ll try to straighten out this whole business. I’ll even forget about the gun. I didn’t see it.”
“You saw it and you better not forget it. That’s my best friend. Him and me, we can go anywhere we want to, do anything we want to—”
“Cut the crazy talk, Donny.”
“Okay, suppose I buy that crap about you trying to straighten things out for me and Cleo. What then? We get sent back to Holbrook Hall or worse, so the rest of you can live happily ever after.”
“I can’t perform miracles, Donny.”
“No? Well, I won’t settle for less.”
“Is that your final word?”
“You got it. Come on, we’ll go up on deck. There might be someone you want to wave bye-bye to.” Donny laughed again. “Or didn’t you know we’ve left the dock?”
“No.”
“That’s the trouble with you brainy guys—you start concentrating on something so hard you’re not aware of an earthquake until a brick hits you on the head. We’re under way, man. We’re off and running.”
“There are a lot of serious charges against you already, Donny. Don’t add kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping? Nobody forced you to come along. Nobody even invited you. You jumped on board. You know what that makes you? A stowaway. I could file a few charges of my own.”
“The punishment for kidnapping can be life imprisonment.”
“So? With any luck I’ll get the death penalty. Meanwhile you and I are going for a little sail. Come on, we don’t want to keep Cleo and the bridegroom waiting.”
They went up on deck.
Manny Ocho was at the helm. He had the Spindrift going several times faster than the harbor speed limit of five miles an hour, and Aragon knew from the glance Ocho gave him that he was doing it in the hope of attracting the attention of the harbor patrol boat. But there was no sign of Sprague or the boat. The only protest came from a small sloop the Spindrift passed in the channel.
“Slow down,” a man yelled through a megaphone. “You damn near hit me.”
Ocho made an obscene gesture and yelled back, “Report me. Call Sprague.”
But the sloop merely rolled and pitched in the Spindrift’s wake, and the harbor patrol boat remained at its mooring in front of the office and the Coast Guard cutter was still tied up at the Navy pier.
Traffic was light. The fishing fleet had departed hours ago and the pleasure boaters seldom went out before the afternoon winds began. Even when the Spindrift reached the open sea there wasn’t enough wind to take over the job of moving the boat. Donny ordered the sails raised anyway.
Working silently and swiftly, Velasco and Gomez raised the sails and Donny pronounced the boat now ready for the wedding ceremony. It was a picturesque setting, but the bride and groom were missing.
“Cleo,” Donny shouted. “Where the hell are you? Time to get married.”
Cleo appeared on the starboard deck wearing a white chiffon nightgown she’d found in one of the cabin drawers. The gown was too long and she had to hold it up with her left hand while she carried the .22 in her right. Her hair was combed but she’d forgotten to wash her face and her cheeks were still tear-stained.
“I don’t feel like a bride,” she told Donny.
“You don’t look like one either,” Donny said. “Where’s Ted?”
“I couldn’t get his hands untied. You made the knots too tight.”
“Oh for chrissake, can’t you do anything right? You don’t have to untie them. Cut them with a knife.”
“I don’t want to cut them. They’re my shoelaces. They’re practically brand-new.”
“All right, all right, you hold the gun on our guest here and I’ll go and get Ted.”
“Hello, Cleo,” Aragon said. “Do you remember me?”
She stared at him, frowning. “No.”
“You came to my office not too long ago.”
“Why?”
“To ask me about your rights—how to register to vote, for instance. You told me about your brother and his wife and about your counselor, Roger Lennard.”
“Poor Roger is dead.”
“Yes.”
“I mustn’t think about that now. I’m supposed to be happy. It’s my wedding day.”
“No, it isn’t, Cleo. There’s no one on board qualified to perform the ceremony and you don’t have the necessary blood tests or license. And even if you had all these things, the marriage wouldn’t be legal anyway because you and Ted are related.”
“I won’t listen to you,” she said. “I think you’re a nasty man.”
Donny came back with Ted. Ted’s hands were free and he was rubbing his wrists where the nylon laces had bitten into his skin. He looked angry and confused and he’d wet his pants.
“What’s happening around here? I wake up and my hands are tied. My hands are tied, for chrissake. What for? I thought we were having a party.”
“That party’s over,” Donny said. “We’re about to start another one. Cleo has decided she wants to get married, and since she’s a little short of bridegrooms since Roger died,
she picked you.”
“Me? For chrissake, why would she pick me?”
“Because she says you’re the father of her baby.”
“That’s impossible. There isn’t any baby.”
“Oh, Ted, there is so,” Cleo said reproachfully. “It’s still very tiny, maybe like sort of a grain of sugar or a grape seed.”
“There isn’t any baby, dammit. We had only started to make love when my father barged in. I didn’t even penetrate. You’re still a virgin.”
“Ted, you know that’s not true. We were doing it exactly like in the movies, no clothes and everything. So now we have to get married.”
Ted appealed to Aragon. “Whoever you are, they’re both crazy. We have to get out
of here.”
“Stay cool, and play along,” Aragon said quietly. “That’s our only chance.”
“Why should I marry some half-wit because she thinks she’s pregnant? Whatever
happened—and God knows it wasn’t much—happened just a few days ago. I tell you, she’s still a virgin. And even if she weren’t she’d have no way of knowing so soon that she was pregnant.”
Cleo was crying again. She cried as easily as a plastic doll with a water-filled syringe in her head. “He doesn’t want to marry me, Donny. What should I do now?”
“Ask him again, real sweet and polite.”
“Nobody wants to marry me.”
“Maybe he’ll change his mind.” Donny pointed the Luger directly at Ted’s chest. “Go on, ask him again, Cleo.”
“Ted, will you marry me?”
“No. Get it through your thick head, we didn’t have complete intercourse. You are not pregnant. You’re still a virgin.”
“But we had all our clothes off and everything exactly like the movies.”
“You’re crazy,” Ted screamed. “The whole damn bunch of you are crazy.”
The first bullet from the Luger grazed his right shoulder. He turned and ran toward the railing. As he jumped overboard a second bullet struck him on the left arm.
Two more struck the water at the same time that Ted did. Cleo began screaming with excitement and jumping up and down until she tripped on the hem of the white nightgown that was her bridal costume. The .22 fell out of her hand and slid across the deck in Aragon’s direction.
“Don’t move,” Donny told Aragon. “It’s a bad year for heroes.” And to Ocho, who was turning the boat around and heading back toward Ted, “Keep on course. Let the bastard drown.”
“Throw him a life jacket,” Aragon said.
“Why? A dip in the ocean will cool him off. Maybe he’ll have a change of heart and decide Cleo isn’t so bad after all.”
“He might be seriously injured. And if there are any sharks in the area, the blood will attract them.”
“I bet those sharks would be pleasantly surprised to find two guys instead of one,” Donny said. “Suppose you go in after him, amigo.”
“We’re at least a mile from shore. I can’t swim very well.”
“Learn by experience. That’s what they’re always telling us at school—learn by experience.”
“Give us a sporting chance,” Aragon said. “We need two life jackets.”
Donny took two life jackets from a forward hatch and threw them at Aragon. After removing his shoes and pants Aragon put one of the life jackets on over his shirt. Then, holding the other jacket in his hand, he jumped into the water.
Ted was some hundred yards from the boat, not yelling for help or trying to swim. His eyes were closed and Aragon thought he was unconscious until he saw that Ted’s legs were moving slightly to keep him from rolling over on his stomach.
The water temperature at this distance from shore and beyond the thick kelp beds that paralleled the coast was still well below sixty degrees. This might be low enough to slow the bleeding of Ted’s arm and help numb his pain. But it might also be low enough to cause both men to suffer from exposure unless they were picked up within an hour or so. Even without the complication of Ted’s wounds, hypothermia could be fatal without quick treatment.
The Spindrift was turning away, its engine accelerating as it headed southwest. Watching it pull away, Aragon had a moment of panic. He knew he would be unable to drag Ted over the kelp beds and in to shore, and their only hope was to be spotted by a passing boat or one of the low-flying helicopters that serviced the oil platforms.
Both were possible. The sea was calm, with a long smooth swell and no whitecaps to hide any floating object.
This was Aragon’s first attempt to swim while wearing a life jacket and he found it difficult to move his arms. He rolled over on his back and used his legs as propellants.
He shouted, “Ted, can you hear me?”
Ted opened his eyes. He looked dazed and terrified. “Shot me—arm—”
“I want you to help me get this life jacket on you.”
Ted kept saying, “Shot me—shot me—” as if he was more overcome by surprise than by a sense of danger or by pain.
“Put your injured arm through here first. Then I’ll pull the jacket around your back and get the other arm through. It may hurt but it has to be done.”
“Shot me—shot me—”
“Stop that. You have to cooperate. Understand?”
It took several minutes for the life jacket to be put on and fastened. Ted was gradually becoming more rational and more aware of the danger they were in. He asked about the Spindrift.
“It’s gone,” Aragon said. “Move your right arm and your legs as much as possible to keep your blood circulating.”
“Didn’t know—had any left.”
“You have lots left.” He wasn’t sure whether this was true or even whether he’d given the correct advice to Ted to keep moving. He only knew that the water was incredibly cold. His original estimate of being able to survive an hour or two without much damage now seemed ridiculous. He was already numb below the ankles and suffering from what was called in his boyhood an ice-cream headache. He’d never taken a lifesaving course or even one in first aid, and he wished now he had paid more attention to some of his wife’s lectures on practical medicine.
Ted said, “You shot?”
“No.”
“‘What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to cool off.”
“You got it.”
A great blue heron flew overhead, his neck folded, his long legs stretched out stiffly behind him like a defeathered tail.
Ted had closed his eyes again and the wind was picking up. These were both bad omens. The rougher the sea, the more difficult it would be for anyone to spot them, and the greater the chances of Ted choking on salt water.
“Ted, keep moving.”
“Can’t—tired.”
“A boat will come along any minute.”
“Tired. Leave me alone.”
Ted’s youth was a plus factor. But there were too many minuses. Before he was shot he’d spoken of a party on board, and it was obvious then that he was suffering a hangover from alcohol or drugs or both. Also, he probably hadn’t eaten in many hours and his resistance was lowered.
“A boat will come along any minute,” Aragon repeated. “We’ll be rescued. Do you hear me, Ted?”
If Ted heard, he didn’t believe it or didn’t care enough to open his eyes.
“Are you listening, Ted? By this time Whitfield will have gone back to the harbor and found his boat missing. He’ll send the Coast Guard out after it right away. They should be passing us any minute. Hear that, Ted? Any minute. Hang on. Don’t give up, Ted. Move. Try harder. Move.”
He kept saying the same things over and over like a coach pep-talking one of his players during a game.
The wind was still rising, and now and then his voice was choked off as a wave slapped his face. The increase in wind velocity would have the effect of luring the Lasers and Mercuries and Lidos and Victories, the Hobie Cats and Alpha Cats and Nacras. But these smaller craft usually stayed inside the kelp line. The larger craft, like the fishing fleet, had departed much earlier in the day, going out under power, some as far as the Island twenty-five miles offshore, to return in the afternoon under sail.
Aragon continued talking, using both his hands to hold Ted’s head as far out of the water as possible. The numbness had spread through his whole body and he was feeling hardly any discomfort. He remembered reading that people who froze to death didn’t suffer pain the way people did who burned to death.
He heard his own voice coaxing, ordering, questioning, demanding, and he wondered if it was all being wasted on a dead man.
“Cut it out, Ted. Now open your eyes. You’ve got to cooperate. Get in there and pitch. Keep kicking your legs. We’re going to be rescued. Any minute. Any minute. You hear? Open your eyes, dammit, open your eyes.”
But his voice was getting weaker and the numbness seemed to have reached his brain like a dose of Pentothal. When he finally heard the engine he was only mildly interested, and the men yelling at him seemed to be making a fuss over nothing. One of them had orange hair and looked a little like some woman, someone he’d known a long time ago. A long long time ago . . .
The orange hair emerged from the fog like a sunrise. It had a face in the middle, not a young face or a pretty one, but familiar and reassuring.
“You really blew it this time, junior,” Charity Nelson said. “I brought you some carnations. That’s how I know you’re awake. I put one under your nose and your nostrils twitched.”
He struggled to speak. His voice sounded as if it were coming from under water. “How—Ted?”
“Hush. The doctor told me not to let you talk when you woke up. How’s Ted Jasper? Still alive in the Intensive Care Unit and his mother’s with him. That’s all I know.”
He turned his head to one side and saw the cot beside the window, looking as if it had been slept in.
“Your doctor’s been with you all night,” Charity said. “I sent her out to get some breakfast. How are you feeling?”
“All right.”
“Smedler gave me the whole day off to help look after you. I was a nurse once. I don’t remember much about it but I can still plump pillows, give a bath and hold your hand. Want me to hold your hand?”
“More than I want you to give me a bath.”
“I’ll overlook that remark, junior. Are you hungry? Of course you are. How about something revolting like poached eggs and mashed potatoes? You’re supposed to be on a soft diet.”
“Why?”
“Beats me. If I were in charge of your case I’d give you steak and french fries. There’s nothing like a long cold swim to sharpen the appetite.” Charity leaned over and peered into his face. “Everything considered, you don’t look so bad. Maybe your doctor will let you have steak and french fries after all. She’s very sympathetic. Cute, too. In fact, a real knockout, with blue eyes and black hair and dimples. Dimples yet. I’ve always wanted dimples. When I was in high school I sent away for something advertised in True
Romances guaranteed to make dimples. For one buck I received a little piece of metal I was supposed to stick in my cheek with adhesive plaster every night. I used it and in the morning I’d have a dimple for fifteen minutes. That’s the story of my life—none of my dimples lasted more than fifteen minutes.”
“Laurie,” he said. “You were describing my wife, Laurie.”
“Of course I was. I called her yesterday afternoon as soon as I heard what had happened. Smedler himself went to pick her up at the airport. How’s that for a first?”
“Laurie.” He put his arm over his forehead so Charity wouldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes.
She saw them anyway. “Now don’t get sloppy and sentimental. Here’s some Kleenex. Or maybe you’ll need a towel if you’re going to pull out all the stops. Incidentally she seems crazy about you, too. She doesn’t see as much of you as I do—that may explain why.”
He wiped his eyes with the piece of Kleenex she handed him. “Who rescued—?”
“Don’t ask questions and I’ll tell you what I know. The harbormaster became suspicious when you didn’t come back from the Spindrift. He tried to contact the boat by phone and couldn’t. Then he saw it speeding out of the harbor and he notified the Coast Guard. They sent the cutter after you. Ted Jasper was in bad shape by that time, suffering from loss of blood and shock and hypothermia. You had some degree of hypothermia but they warmed you up and stuck a few needles into you and here you are.”
“What about Cleo and Donny?”
“They’ve both been arrested. That’s all I was able to find out.”
Donny Whitfield. He thought of the fat, morose boy he’d first seen outside Holbrook Hall. If it wasn’t for one small mistake, Donny might still be there, sitting under the oak tree eating corn chips and chocolates. It’s my fault. I made the mistake. I left the keys in the ignition. My fault—
“My fault,” he said and began shaking his head back and forth as if to shake off his guilt.
“Stop that,” Charity said, readjusting the oxygen mask none too gently. “Any more acting up and I’ll call the nurse to jab you with another needle.”
“Car key—”
“What do you want your car keys for? You’re not going anyplace. Now shut up or I’ll resign from your case. This Florence Nightingale bit is a drag. Where do you want me to put the flowers I brought you?”
He told her.
“Junior, that’s not nice. But since irritability is one of the first signs of convalescence, I’ll overlook it this time. I may, however, bring it up in the future when you’re asking for a favor at the office. By the way, congratulations.”
“What for?”
“You were hired to find Cleo. You found her.”
There was a knock on the door. Charity said, “Come in . . . Oh, he’s doing fine. Weepy, hungry, crabby. Can’t ask for better signs.”
“Thank you, Miss Nelson.”
The voice was pleasant and cool; the hand that touched his forehead was soft, the fingers on his pulse gentle.
“I’m Dr. MacGregar,” she said. “I’m in charge of your case and I don’t believe you need that oxygen mask on anymore. Mind if I remove it?”
“Laurie. Laurie. It’s really you.”
“Please don’t get emotional—Tom, you might have died. You might have died.”
They held each other close for a long time, unaware that Charity was watching from the doorway. She would be expected to describe the scene later to all the girls in the office and she wanted to make sure she didn’t miss any details.
Rachel Holbrook knew what was coming but she was not sure when or what form it would take: perhaps an invitation to appear at the next board of directors meeting in two or three weeks, or a formal letter from the executive committee, or a long-winded legal document full of whereases and therefores. What she didn’t expect was a phone call from Smedler, her only longtime friend among the directors.
Smedler didn’t waste time on amenities. “Have you seen today’s papers, Rachel?”
“No.”
“The reporters and photographers are having a field day with this. The L.A. Times has it featured as their leading story, and in the local paper there’s a whole page of pictures, a rundown on everyone involved and even a history of the school. There’ll undoubtedly be an editorial within the next few days crying for blood. Some of it is bound to be yours, Rachel.”
“That’s understandable.”
“For sure they’ll demand an investigation of the school and its policies. There’ll be suggestions ranging from your resignation to the complete closure of the school, all from outraged citizens, many of whom have wanted to close the place for years.”
“What do you propose that I do?”
“Anticipate. Get your licks in first and fast. Write a letter requesting an indefinite leave of absence until the matter has been fully investigated and steps are taken to prevent further incidents.”
“Indefinite,” she said. “That could mean a long time.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t be held responsible for what happened.”
“Whether you can be or can’t be, you will be. Harsh criticism is inevitable, perhaps a drop in enrollment and some defections among the faculty. There may also be a decrease in donations and bequests. You’re in for a lot of flak, Rachel. The only way you can avoid it is by leaving town for a while.”
“Perhaps I should change my name and assume a disguise.”
“Don’t be bitter, Rachel. This thing has affected a great number of people. Some of them will want your hide. So put it out of reach. Take a holiday.”
“Is that your legal advice?”
“It’s my advice as a friend. I hope it will be accepted in the same spirit.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Pack first, think later,” Smedler said. “There’s only one hitch to the plan. Should the police ask you to stick around, you’ll have to stick. You may be subpoenaed if and when the Whitfield boy comes to trial and there’s some kind of hearing concerning Cleo. But if I were you, right now I’d sit down and write a letter requesting an indefinite leave of absence. Bring it to my office and I’ll have copies made and hand-delivered to all the members of the board. Your request will be immediately accepted.”
“Thanks for your advice.”
“Honestly, Rachel, you don’t know how much I hate to do this to you.”
“Not as much as I hate to have it done.”
She hung up and reached for a sheet of the school’s best stationery.
I hereby request an indefinite leave of absence from my duties as principal of Holbrook Hall.
She signed her name, put the sheet of paper in an envelope and addressed the envelope to the president of the board of directors. Then she went outside by the back door.
Nothing seemed to have changed. There were the usual sounds: screams and laughter from the pool area, the whinnying of a horse, the excited barking of dogs.
Gretchen was polishing the leaves of a camellia planted in a redwood tub. Only such sturdy leaves as a camellia’s could have withstood her loving attack.
“Good morning, Gretchen. I see you’re working hard.”
“I always do,” Gretchen said brusquely, as if she’d been accused of laziness. “Somebody has to.”
The fig tree was dropping its fruit like small brown eggs onto the grass. As they fell, two boys wearing cowboy boots were squashing the eggs into little yellow omelets.
The round-eyed girl, Sandy, was shelling peanuts to feed to the scrub jay watching
impatiently from the edge of the roof. Sandy would place a peanut on her head and the bird would swoop down, grab it with his beak and fly off to hide it. There were pounds and pounds of nuts scattered throughout the grounds, buried in the grass or the vegetable garden, stuffed in the crevices between flagstones and the hollows of trees and underneath the shingles of the roof, dropped into chimneys and even into the goldfish pond. The bird always tired of the game before the girl did and flew off to seek more challenging pastimes.
In the playground the quiet boy, Michael, sat in the middle of the teeter-totter, using his feet to pump it up and down. Bang thump. Bang thump. He wore a knitted headband which had fallen or been pulled down over his eyes.
“Michael, I’m going away. I wanted to say goodbye to you. I probably won’t be seeing you for a long time.”
Bang thump. Bang thump.
“I hate you.”
“I know you do. I thought you might say goodbye to me anyway.”
“Goodbye,” Michael said. “Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.”
“Thank you, Michael. That’s enough.”
“Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.”
She walked away as fast as possible. But she couldn’t get out of earshot. The others had taken up Michael’s chant. Sandy and the two boys under the fig tree and Gretchen were all chanting in unison with Michael.
“Good . . . bye . . . good . . . bye . . . good . . .”
When she reached the corner of the building Rachel Holbrook turned and waved. They waved back, Gretchen and the two boys and Sandy and even Michael. It was an encouraging sign that Michael had responded at all. Perhaps as he grew older, under the guidance of a new principal . . . No, I really mustn’t think about any of them. I must go away and forget them for a long time . . .
“Goodbye,” she said firmly.
The room was small and bare except for three steel chairs and a table, all bolted to the floor. The door had a barred window through which a uniformed policeman glanced every few minutes.
A previous occupant had damaged the thermostat and the air-conditioning couldn’t be regulated. Cold air kept blasting in from a vent high in the wall, making the room as cold as a walk-in refrigerator. Donny sat on the table dangling his legs.
“How about that,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “My own personal guard. Man oh man, they must think I’m public enemy numero uno. Did you bring me any money?”
Whitfield shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me hand you any, so I tried to deposit some in an account at the commissary. But they don’t have that system at Juvenile Hall, just at the adult—ah, facility.”
“So what system are us poor jerks in here stuck with?”
“You have to earn points.”
“How?”
“Good behavior, doing work, et cetera. You earn so many points by doing such and such a job and then you can spend the points like money. If you work and behave yourself you’ll be able to get candy bars and cigarettes, things like that. The idea is to treat rich and poor alike.”
“Jee-sus.”
“Well, goddammit, son, this isn’t a hotel. And I didn’t put you here.”
“You sent the cops after your precious boat.”
“I didn’t,” Whitfield said. “I swear I didn’t. I would have let you take a little cruise, knowing you’d come back.”
“So you think I’d come back. Don’t kid yourself. I was heading for the moon, man, straight for the moon.”
Whitfield focused his eyes on a spot on the bare grey wall. This was his son, his only child, and he couldn’t bear to look at him, to touch him, even to be in the same room with him. “I didn’t put you here, Donny.”
“But I bet you don’t mind if they keep me here. It’s cheaper than Holbrook Hall.”
“Listen, son. I’ve hired a lawyer from L.A., the best money can buy. But he can’t get you out on bail. There’s no bail for juveniles, especially ones with a record like yours. And the charges against you are pretty bad.”
“Like how bad?”
“I don’t even know if I can remember them all. Kidnapping—that’s the worst. Then there’s grand theft, assault with a deadly weapon, assault with intent to do great bodily harm, assault with intent to commit murder—”
“Okay, okay.”
“Although you were brought here to Juvenile Hall because you’re not yet eighteen, the chances are ninety-nine to a hundred that you’ll be tried as an adult. That makes things even worse.” The room was so cold that Whitfield’s voice was trembling. “Donny, if you could only show remorse, if you could convey to the authorities that you’re sorry for what you’ve done, that you didn’t mean to—”
“I meant to,” Donny said. “And I’m not sorry.”
“Son, please.”
“Screw the son bit. It makes me puke . . . You got any chocolate bars on you?”
“I brought you two pounds of See’s candies but they wouldn’t let me bring them in.”
“Those stinking cops are probably gobbling them up right now.” Donny slid off the table. He looked impassive except for a tic in his left eyelid which he concealed by averting his face. “Well, I guess that’s all. You might as well leave. You’ll be late getting to Ensenada.”
Whitfield once more studied an invisible spot on the wall. “I was going to cancel the trip to make sure I’d be here for your trial. But the lawyer told me not to bother. He said there’d probably be one delay after another, so your case might not come up for as long as a year, and it would be a waste of time for me to wait around and . . .” His voice faded as if suddenly he knew he’d hit the wrong note but there was no right one. “I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can, everything I possibly can.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Donny. Donny, couldn’t you at least pretend to be remorseful?”
“I’m remorseful all right when I think of those damn cops gobbling up all my candies. What kind were they? Any marshmints? Chocolate cherries? Peanut butter crackle?”
“For God’s sake, Donny, haven’t you anything else to say to me?”
“Marshmints are my favorites,” Donny said.
Cleo was still wearing the stained jeans and T-shirt and sneakers without laces when Hilton went to the county jail to take her home.
Bail had been set high, at twenty-five thousand dollars, because she would be charged as a principal in the case, which one of the lawyers said was the new term used for accessory to a crime. Hilton tried to explain this to her on the way home.
“You will be accused of helping Donny do some of the things he’s charged with. Do you understand?”
“All I did was hold the gun.”
“Did he force you to? Were you acting under duress?”
“It was hardly even a gun. It was only an itty-bitty thing.”
“Guns kill. That’s what they’re made for. Did you obey Donny because you were afraid for your life?”
“Heavens, no. Who could be afraid of Donny? He’s so silly.”
She sat beside him in the front seat, her legs drawn up and her chin resting on her knees. Her face was almost hidden by a beige curtain of hair.
“Where are your shoelaces?” he said.
She told him about Donny tying Ted’s hands behind his back as he lay on the bunk. Hilton listened, feeling the blood flow out of him as if each word she spoke was a puncture wound in his heart.
He ached with fatigue. He had been up all night, contacting lawyers, the judge who set bail, a medical doctor and a psychiatrist recommended by a bail bondsman. Every half hour he phoned the hospital for a report on Ted’s condition. He knew that whether Ted lived or died, Frieda would hold him responsible. His marriage had ended and his son was listed in very critical condition, yet he still knew almost nothing of what had happened since Cleo had walked away from the house with the basset hound on a leash. The psychiatrist had urged him not to question Cleo too closely. What good would it do anyway? A gun was an itty-bitty thing and Donny was merely silly.
“There was a nasty old doctor at the jail,” Cleo said. “He told me I’m not going to have a baby. How does he know anyway? He can’t see it if it’s no bigger than a grain of sugar.”
“It’s his job to know. He’s a gynecologist.”
“Long words don’t mean anything. Curriculum. Curriculum—what is that anyway? Donny had one at the school . . . Will I be going back there, to Holbrook Hall?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, well, I don’t care. It wasn’t all that much fun.” She hesitated. “Will I be staying at home all the time like I used to?”
“That depends.”
“What on?”
“The judge will have to decide to what extent you were responsible for your actions.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Hilton. I just held that little wee gun.”
“Stop it. I prefer not to hear any more about it.”
“Oh, Hilton, you’re mad at me.” She peeked at him around the curtain of hair, wet-eyed and wistful. “Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“I’m glad. I didn’t really do anything much.”
His hands gripped the steering wheel as if they were trying to squeeze the life out of it. Nothing much. Roger Lennard was dead and Ted on the point of death. Rachel
Holbrook’s life work was in ruins and Donny Whitfield would almost certainly be sent to the penitentiary. Nothing much.
“Everything can be the same as it was before,” Cleo said. “Frieda will read to me, and we’ll go shopping and to the movies, and maybe Frieda will teach me how to drive. Roger said that was one of my rights, to learn to drive.”
“Frieda won’t be living with us anymore.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t want to.”
The simple explanation satisfied her because she understood it. If you wanted to do something, you did it. If you didn’t, you didn’t.
“You can hire somebody to take her place, can’t you?” Cleo said. “Somebody like her, only nicer and more understanding.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t find such a person.”
“That means there’ll just be the two of us, you and me? It doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“No, I don’t suppose it will be.”
“Valencia hardly speaks any English and Cook always chases me out of the kitchen because I interfere with the T. V. game shows. I won’t have anyone to talk to unless you stay home.”
“I can’t, Cleo. I have a job.”
“We have lots of money already, don’t we?”
“Quite a bit, yes.”
“Why do you want more?”
“To provide for your future. You’re only twenty-two. You may live another fifty or sixty years. You’ll require a great deal of money.”
“No, I won’t, Hilton. I’ll have a husband to take care of me. Won’t I?”
He didn’t answer.
“Won’t I, Hilton? Won’t I have a husband?”
“I don’t know.”
“I bet you don’t want me to. I bet you’re jealous. Look what you did to Roger.”
“You mustn’t talk like that, Cleo. There’s nothing in this world I’d like better than to see you married to a decent young man who will love you for your—your good qualities.”
“I don’t believe it. You told me I was never to let another man touch me. Don’t you remember, it was the night Ted and I—”
“I spoke during an emotional reaction. I didn’t mean it. After you’re married you will have an intimate relationship with your husband like any other girl.”
“But I’m not like any other girl, am I?”
“No.”
“I wonder why not.”
He turned into the long, winding driveway that led to the house. About halfway up, Trocadero was putting the finishing touches on a juniper sculpture, cutting the tiny needles as precisely as a barber. The basset hound Zia sat at his feet but came bounding out to bark at the car. Troc whistled him back and pretended not to see Cleo.
“Zia doesn’t like me anymore,” Cleo said. “I can tell. He wasn’t even wagging his tail.”
“We’ll buy you a dog of your own, any kind you like.”
“No thanks.”
“Don’t you want one?”
“I’d rather have a husband and babies.”
“Of course you would. But in the meantime—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. It would be a long meantime, impossible to fill with dogs and movies and shopping.
He stopped the car in front of the house. “You’d better go up to your room and take a shower and put on some clean clothes.”
“I don’t want to. I like these ones.”
“They’re dirty. Valencia will wash and dry them for you while we’re having lunch. Please don’t argue with me, Cleo. I’m terribly tired.”
“I’m just as tired as you are. The jail was so noisy I couldn’t sleep.”
“Then we’ll both take a long nap after lunch. Right now I have to call the hospital again.”
She went up to her room and showered and shampooed her hair. Then she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, letting the water drip down her body, tickling her skin. She liked the way she looked, a mermaid escaped from the sea.
Valencia came in without knocking to pick up Cleo’s clothes and take the wet towels away.
Valencia said, “Hija mala.”
“You’re mean to say things I can’t understand.”
“Wicked girl. You done wicked.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Troc say you wicked. Cook say you loco.”
“What do they know? They’re only servants.”
She put on one of the bathrobes Frieda had given her and went downstairs to have lunch with Hilton. But he was lying on the couch in his den, his face to the wall. She wondered if he was dead, so she touched him on the shoulder. It was like switching on one of the mixing machines Cook kept in the kitchen. Hilton began to shake all over as if he were being ground up inside, his liver and heart and stomach and appendix, all ground up into hamburger. It took away her appetite.
She went into the kitchen to see if Cook would let her watch television with her. But Cook shooed her away like a chicken, flapping her apron at her and making chicken sounds. So she sat at the long dining room table by herself, thinking about Hilton’s insides being all ground up. She left most of the food on her plate untouched and ate only a muffin. Then she went back into the den.
“Hilton?”
“Go away.”
“I have nowhere to go.”
He was still shaking but not nearly so much, and his voice had no tremor at all. He just sounded very tired.
“Ted died,” he said. “The bullet taken out of him was a twenty-two. It came from your gun.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re trying to scare me.”
“You shot him. You shot my son, Ted.”
“Honestly I didn’t. I only held the gun. I only held that teeny little gun. You can’t blame me.”
“I don’t blame you. I blame myself.”
“That’s silly. You weren’t even there.”
“Go away,” Hilton said. “Go away.”
She returned to her room, thinking that Hilton’s brain, not merely his liver and stomach and heart, had been ground up in the mixer because he was imagining that Ted had
died and that he himself was to blame. It was too bad. Hilton used to be awfully smart.
She brushed her hair, still wet, and put on the freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt, and wondered where mermaids went when they came up from the sea. There didn’t seem to be a place for them.
She asked Valencia, who didn’t understand the word, and Cook, who said, “Never you mind about mermaid. March back in there and finish your vegetables.”
Then she walked down to where Troc was barbering the juniper and she asked him about mermaids.
Troc gave her a peculiar look. “Are you having one of them foggy moments of yours?”
“All I did was ask you a question.”
“I’ll go fetch the boss. You wait here, girl. You wait right here.”
She waited only long enough for him to disappear around the bend. Then she ran down the rest of the driveway to the street. She felt very light and airy, moving with the wind like a silk sail. And suddenly, magically, she knew what mermaids did when they came up from the sea. They went down to it again.
She could see the harbor in the distance and she kept running toward it. Everyone on the Spindrift would be very surprised to see her and they would all have a party to celebrate, Manny Ocho and the crew, and Donny and Ted and the young man who told her about voting and some of her other rights.
None of that seemed important anymore. She was going to a party.