Blame: A Novel (31 page)

•

Now, Lucia—what if other people want to talk to you? The husband or the son? May I give them your number?

I’ll talk to anybody. It’s the least I can do.

•

Patsy opened the sliding glass doors to the little deck shaded by oak branches and stepped outside. A body rolling on the hood, the explosion of pamphlets, a mother crouched by her child. A coward’s flight. She shivered, hugging herself.

Lucia had been accurate about that heavy old Mercedes; there was always a pause after hitting the gas pedal. The car surged just the way Bill Hogue had described it to his wife. Decades had passed, and that detail had remained indelible in a stranger’s mind.

Patsy stood on her deck, facing the stream. Not a murderer. Never
killed anybody. Innocent. After twenty years, the truth, like a splinter, had worked its way out. And now she could walk in the light.

She thought something exuberant and silly then: This is the best news of my life. A restoration of at least some buried part of her. Some imp of self.

She had an urge to get on the phone, start dialing, call everyone. Sarah, Margaret, Gloria. She’d really like to call Silver. Silver! Listen to this! Isn’t it amazing? Do you think it’s true?

She could already hear Silver’s low, calm voice. What about you, Patsy? Do you think it’s true?

Do you believe in your own innocence?

If not, what will it take to convince you?

Back at her desk, she looked over her notes. The other wife was Ginevra Simms. Area code 773. But what to say? Did your husband ever hit and run?

Patsy dialed. The phone rang and rang before voice mail picked up. A robotic male voice said, Nobody is available right now. Patsy hung up.

Closing her eyes, she pressed the lids with her fingertips, a comfort.

•

Cal’s office was in the east wing, next to the library, across from the rooms his daughter and her family occupied. He still spent hours here daily. He read company reports, he corresponded; Patsy mailed stacks of ivory envelopes every week. He called his children. He listened to music on headphones, his beloved Boston Pops.

When she tapped on the open door, he was on the phone. He beckoned her inside, looking at her face. Here’s Patsy, he said. And, Audrey, I’d better call you back.

Did something happen, Pats? he said, hanging up. Is everything okay?

She stepped inside. Everything’s okay. But when Joey came to lunch yesterday, she had something to tell me.

Bad news?

Not bad, said Patsy. But big.

She sat on the edge of his daybed, and he swiveled around to face her.

Now, Cal, you know the accident, the one I went to prison for?

Of course.

And you remember that I was blacked out when it happened?

Yes, yes.

It turns out that somebody else was in the car, she went on. A man named Bill Hogue. And, Cal, he was driving, not me. I was a passenger. I wasn’t driving.

Cal’s eyes narrowed. How did this come out?

That’s the amazing part, Patsy said, and slowly, careful to describe what a wrap party was and what Lucia Robinson’s job entailed, she told him about Joey’s visit and the conversation with Lucia. Cal, don’t you see? Patsy said. I didn’t kill anyone after all.

Cal looked at her with a sad smile. Oh, Patsy, he said quietly. What I’d like to know is why this woman waited so long to come forward. Why now?

She didn’t know my last name. Also, Bill Hogue had no idea anybody died. He thought he hadn’t stuck around to talk to the cops. He thought his big crime was leaving the scene.

And you believe this?

Why not?

Cal swiveled around to face the window. His office looked out onto the stunning old oak whose great branches were supported by guy wires. Well, it’s hearsay at best, he said over his shoulder. It’ll never stand up in court. It’s unlikely to overturn your conviction.

I haven’t even thought about all that, said Patsy. Besides, I pled guilty. It’s not like anyone
convicted
me.

Pleading guilty convicts you, said Cal. Being guilty by your own admission constitutes a conviction. You don’t need a verdict.

Well, never mind then. She gave a wild little laugh. Though I suppose they could get me for perjury. Wouldn’t that be funny—if they sent me back to prison for lying about my own guilt.

She was a little hysterical now. If only he would relent, revel for a moment in the possibility of her innocence.

Instead, he studied her. So what, exactly, do you know about this woman, this wife? What’s her name again? Does she work for the city or the movies?

The city, Cal. Besides, what difference does that make?

I’d be very careful. I don’t want you taken for a ride.

Why would someone take me for a ride, Cal?

Maybe Joey wants to get into your good graces.

She was never
not
in my good graces.

He shrugged, as if to say that Patsy could be right or wrong about this. Joey might’ve cooked this up to please you, he said. And got an actress friend to go along with her.

Jesus, Cal, that’s downright paranoid.

You only have their word for it.

I know, I know. But it’s me, Cal, Miss Historical Method. I’ll follow up. Amass evidence. Look up records. The man had a second wife who might know something. Though I don’t think anyone could make this up.

You might be surprised.

Lucia will be sending a written statement. She offered to do a deposition.

Make sure that she does.

Here’s an idea, Patsy said, standing. How ’bout we don’t talk about it anymore and just let it sink in. We don’t know what, if anything, this will mean.

Cal stood and caught Patsy with his fingers, pulled her close. What could it mean? he said. After all these many years?

She waited, still as a tree, for him to let go.

•

What did she expect? Cal was always so careful. And so infuriating.

She’d left the east wing by the breezeway door and was walking around the front of the house to avoid running into anyone.

Faced with new and uncomfortable information, Cal often asked unanswerable questions. How often had she advised his children not to take his reflexive doubting personally? Cal has to absorb information at his own speed, she’d say. Audrey moving to Paris. Stan divorcing Katharine. March marrying Forrest. All had been met with the same dry shrug and maddening skepticism.

He resisted change. He had to get used to new ideas. But he was right about one thing. She did need proof from multiple sources.

The Ponderosa was a long, lazy boomerang of a house, its two wings arching off a central living space at a wide angle. Patsy walked along the driveway, past the front door, where a massive stroller—it made her think of a surrey—was parked on the porch alongside a red tricycle. Where
the turnaround began curving away from the house, she took broad stepping-stones through a cactus and succulent garden to her deck, where she sat on the steps to watch the fat, foaming little stream crash through the canyon.

So much was accurate. The Hilton, the hedge, the leaping car. The old-timer’s bar had to be the
SNAFU
, her long-gone haunt over by
PCC
—gone, in fact, by the time she got out of prison.

SNAFU
. Situation Normal All Fucked Up.

Did hotel and airline records go back to 1981? The Convention Center must have some kind of log. She should check out Lucia, make sure she existed and held the putative job. Then get up her nerve and try the widow again.

•

You just found this out? yelled Burt. Jesus Christ! You went to prison for this criminal? I’d like to have a little man-to-man chat with the weasel.

Yeah! Patsy said. I wish you could. But he croaked!

Damn! Well, let’s hope the miserable sonofabitch had an excruciating, drawn-out death.

Burt! She’d been waiting all day to laugh.

Jesus, said Burt. Man! What a kick in the head! Are you in orbit? Have you told Parnham and son?

Oh god, no. Just you and Cal so far.

Is Cal stoked?

Actually, he asked a lot of questions and isn’t convinced. He thinks it may be some kind of story Joey concocted to cozy up to me.

Burt knew Joey Hawthorne; he flirted with and possibly seduced her during his tenure at the Pondo. Patsy never knew, or wanted to know, for sure.

That’s a little far-fetched, he said. What’s in it for her? Excuse me for saying so, but Joey is hardly a scammer.

I know. Still, it would be nice to find some corroborating evidence, said Patsy. Do you know if airlines keep records? Or hotels?

I assume so, said Burt. But I don’t really know.

I should make calls. And talk to the widow. Or hire a detective. Do you know any detectives?

How about that homicide detective who helped get your early release?

Ricky Barrett?

It was his case, said Burt. I bet he’d check things out for free.

•

She wasn’t sure where Ricky Barrett was working, but she called his old station in Monterey Park. I’m trying to get a hold of Detective Barrett, she told the dispatcher, who, without another word, connected her to his voice mail.

It’s Patsy Sharp, she said. Or Patsy MacLemoore to you. Remember me? I’m calling because there may be a new wrinkle in my case—the accident with the Parnham family. A major wrinkle, actually, that I’d like to talk to you about.

It would be Monday, she thought, before he got back to her. He had the seniority to be a nine-to-fiver now, with weekends off.

Two days to wait, and time already at a standstill. Thank god for student papers, she thought, or she’d be crawling out of her skin. She went back over the last few she’d graded and tempered some superlatives.
Almost
Perfect.

•

Brice called in the early afternoon. I’m meeting Joey at Grounds of Being. Come, and I’ll buy you a latte to celebrate.

A small slap of shock. Joey told you? she asked.

Yeah! Unbelievable. To think, after all you went through too. How are you taking it?

I’m still spinning.

So come meet us.

She drove to Pasadena with less of a mind to celebrate than to get out of the house and check Joey’s impulse to broadcast the news. What if wife number two told a substantially different tale? What if the whole thing fell apart under scrutiny? Best not trumpet any newfound innocence until the facts were checked.

Grounds of Being was the coffeehouse affiliated with the Pasadena School of Theology. Brice frequented the place for its oversized cookies and student prices. He and Joey had snagged the one cozy corner with
armchairs. Around them, seminarians peered, faces glowing, into laptops.

Brice stood to hug her. At almost fifty, he was thicker, redder in face, as if his grouse-hunting, golf-mad, Scotch-swilling ancestors now insisted on their share of his appearance. His hair was dark bronze, with a faint green tint from all his swimming. Some news, he said.

I know, she said. And Joey, Lucia was wonderful . . .

Joey’s green eyes brightened. She took such clear joy in being the messenger, it seemed heartless to temper her.

I’m glad Brice knows—a lie, but Patsy didn’t want to scold—but I was wondering if you wouldn’t tell anyone else until I’ve had a chance to tell my family. And get used to the idea.

A flicker of shame crossed Joey’s face. Which meant she’d already told who knows how many people.

I’d like to keep it close, Patsy said, till I get a grip.

She wouldn’t mention the detective.

It does kind of set you up for a major life review, said Brice. What kind of difference will it make? Any idea?

Oh god, who knows? said Patsy. I feel like a creaky old computer processing an enormous problem. With luck, most of it’ll be done unconsciously.

Brice went to the counter to order. Patsy gave Joey’s thin forearm a fond squeeze. I’m still a little dazed, she said. I can’t wrap my mind around the whole thing. But I’ll never forget what you did, Joey.

I didn’t do anything, said Joey.

You came to me as soon as you could, and you were so excited. So happy for me. That’s what I’ll never forget.

They watched Brice at the coffee counter, lounging and supervising, making the young male barista smile, blush, and laugh.

Can’t help himself, said Joey.

Never could, Patsy said.

Brice could still charm strangers, but he had worn out family and friends. He’d blown or discarded the jobs they’d found for him, he’d stored his things in their garages and attics for decades. In fact, Cal and Patsy had moved some of Brice’s boxes and furniture from the Tudor to the Ponderosa. He’d also borrowed money, of course, a lot of it, large sums and small, repaid very little, and had become famous for his sulks
and furies at the slightest hint of censure. Neither Cal nor Audrey would lend him another cent; Patsy slipped him a hundred or two when his life got grim, which it did cyclically. But then, she’d signed on for life.

Now, tell me, Patsy said, giving Joey’s thin arm another friendly shake. What’s with your little house?

The tenants threw some wild party after the eviction, plugged the sinks and tub and let the taps run. Tons of water damage.

What are you going to do?

At first I was just going to sell, but now I’m thinking I’ll get a loan, fix it up, and move back. I miss Altadena. And he—Joey stuck a thumb at Brice, now approaching with coffees—has ideas.

I’m sure he does, Patsy said, and hoped Joey could afford them. Brice had insisted she spend forty thousand dollars on antique oak flooring for her kitchen; when she refused, he didn’t speak to her for months.

Patsy said, You might have to reel him in at times. Or you’ll end up with a fantastic top-of-the-line refrigerator and no walls.

I won’t have much money, anyway. It’ll be a total scrounge project.

Brice came up then, handing lattes around.

Last Christmas he’d been arrested for vagrancy. He’d been sleeping in his Volvo station wagon and using the facilities at Lacey Park in San Marino for so long, neighbors claimed that he was living there. He charmed his court-assigned social worker into recommending him for a little-known county grant intended for depressed writers—never mind that Brice’s first foray into prose was the application essay. He received food stamps, a small housing allowance, and two hundred dollars cash a month. The social worker suggested a room in the Estelle, the single-room occupancy hotel across from the Lyster. But Brice found a tiny rustic cabin in Millard Canyon, on federal land, the very place that Einstein allegedly rented for thinking time.