Blame: A Novel (37 page)

She sat on the edge of his daybed, the flyer in hand. I’ve been thinking, Cal, about how we live and how we can keep going, you and I.

A wave of amusement passed through his eyes. And what have you come up with, Patsy?

I used to think we could stay here and just scale back. But as long as we have all this square footage, the house will keep filling up. And it’s so much upkeep and expense, so much more than we need. Neither one of us rides much to speak of. Nobody swims. Aren’t you ready for a change?

I haven’t given it any thought, said Cal.

I have. And I think we should move to a smaller place. A condo, even. We could sell this place and buy two smaller ones. One for us, one for the kids to use whenever they need to.

Oh, Patsy. Even the idea of moving makes me want to take a nap.

I know, Cal, she said. But the Ponderosa is too much for me. I need more privacy and control in my own home.

With large, quavering hands, Cal shut his laptop.

You know, Patsy, I don’t mind old age half as much as I thought I would, he said. I used to be afraid of it when I was younger, but I’m not now, because here it is, I’m old. The only bad part is I get fatigued so easily. Walking to the mailbox fatigues me, people arguing on television . . .

Yes, but Cal, I’m—

He held up a hand. That said, I don’t want to be reinvigorated. I don’t want a whole new life or a smaller one—and certainly not a lonelier one. I like life going on around me. I’m happy with a grandkid on my lap and a heap of brown rice on my plate. Things don’t taste as good as they used to, anyway. As for your energy, that beautiful drive of yours
to go here and move there, Patsy, it’s wasted on me. I want to sit in the sun on our patio and hear the baby chirp in the kitchen. I don’t want to hole up in some condo and wait for the end. And I don’t want to straggle all over the world for the sake of straggling all over the world. I’ve seen the sun in Kensington Gardens, and the sun here is just as good.

You’re not that old, Cal. A lot of people travel at your age. And move. Everyone at some point starts to scale back and simplify.

Because they need to. But we don’t need to. We can afford to stay here. And there’s plenty of privacy right on this property. Cal leaned forward and covered Patsy’s hands with his. Nobody bothers you in your office. But if you want your own refuge, why not redo the pool house or the possum trot, or build that little studio down by the stream you used to talk about.

I don’t want to hide on my own property, Cal. I want a life with my husband. Meals with him. Trips with him. Him alone.

I love you, Patsy, and admire you, but you’ve got to stop thinking I can keep up with you. Especially not with this newfound energy of yours. I hear Audrey wants you in Paris. Go! And go to Cambridge for as long as you like. Send me postcards. Send me e-mails with attachments. I know how to open them now, thanks to Forrest. I want to stay here and growl at my grandkids and eat that sour yogurt goop March makes with prunes.

I think you’re saying something, said Patsy, but I’m not completely sure what. Something to let me off the hook.

There is no hook.

Meaning what?

It’s caught up with us, Pats. You’re a great girl, and you gave me the best years of your life, but you’re too damn young to grow old with.

Tears fell from her eyes, landing in fat drops on her jeans.

You hum, Patsy, he said. It makes me nervous. I can’t keep up with you, and I don’t want to. I have no desire to hop the pond to live someplace cold and strange that’s thousands of miles from my kids. I like it right here.

I know that, Cal. I’m not talking about Cambridge. I’m talking about our life together here and in the future. Now and when I come back.

We can talk about that, Patsy. But not if you’re going to hound me
about watching television at night or falling asleep too early. That’s what I do. I’m old. And the kids will come and go as they need to. This is still their home. That doesn’t change.

Patsy sobbed, and caught herself. It was so nice when we had the house to ourselves. Didn’t you like it with just you and me, and Bob?

I like it better now, said Cal.

She wiped furiously at her face with the heel of her hand. I don’t see why March and Forrest can’t live someplace else, she said. Someplace they can afford. Look. I found this in Altadena. Pool, big trees. For a song, Cal. She tried handing him the flyer.

He shook his head. No, he said. I won’t have them in Altadena.

There’s nothing wrong with it, Cal. That’s how young families live when they’re just starting out. I’m sure they’d rather have their own home, and this is a really good one.

His jaw was resolute, his lips turned down. He looked like a turtle with an alert, shiny eye.

She balled up and tossed the flyer into the wastepaper basket. Do you want a divorce, Cal? she asked. Is that what you’re saying here?

His face darkened. He gave a small, regretful shake of his head. Let’s just have one conversation at a time, Patsy, he said. Can we do that? Because this one’s already worn me out.

•

She made her way out of the house and was surprised it was still light outside, as if she’d been in a movie or dark church for hours. In fact, it was only midafternoon, three or a little after. She went to her car and, for a moment, sat behind the steering wheel trying to catch her breath. Her hands shook as she put the keys into the ignition.

She had no destination and drove down to Foothill Boulevard, then into Hahamongna Park, bumping over potholes until pulling into one of the more remote picnic spaces in a large oak grove.

She wept somewhat noisily and self-consciously, but only for a minute, then stared dully out at the white boulders bordering the site and a thick wooden picnic table on which blue jays hopped, pecking at crumbs. Through the trees, the water glinted in Devils Gate Reservoir.

He hadn’t said, What the hell are you talking about?
Divorce?

He hadn’t said, No, Patsy, I don’t want a divorce.

A terrible noise came out of her mouth, and the jays flew off in a blue flash.

Hopelessness washed through her, flooding her with an icy heat, hollowing her out, making the beautiful world—the backlit little oak leaves, the rain-scrubbed granite boulders, the water glinting through leaves—look as false as a small painted backdrop fluttering over the void.

She’d been pushing him, forcing his hand, but she never imagined this, that he would prefer for her to leave. And March to stay.

She blamed Audrey and Sarah for egging her on, when she knew Cal better than they did.

Although she could stay, he’d said so. She’d just have to stop complaining. Accept March. And let Cal be old, as old as he liked.

That was better than being turned out on her own.

She couldn’t even remember what bothered her so much about March and Forrest, what was so irritating. As for Cambridge—at this point she’d be perfectly happy not to go.

One jay returned to the picnic table. The pain in her chest eased.

God knows, little Ava could use a champion.

Patsy whimpered and wept in a brief spasm.

The sun had warmed the car, and she let the heat build up. Exhausted, cried out, almost dozing, she was afraid to move lest the terrible prospect of banishment return.

Her cell phone rang, a deep gurgle in her purse. She dug it out.

It’s me, said Brice. I was on my way home from the store and I saw an open house on Concha Street, up by the park. You’ll see the sign. If you hurry, I’ll wait.

Oh, Brice, she said. March doesn’t—

This isn’t for her, he said. It’s got your name all over it. Patsy MacLemoore! Patsy MacLemoore!

At the sound of her name, she sat up, rolled down her window, un-plastered a fat strand of hair glued to her cheek. Cool air flowed into the car. Where are you, again? she said. Where is Concha Street?

The days turned foggy and cold again in the mornings. June gloom in late May. The marine layer turned yellowish by afternoon; those who didn’t understand the distinction called it smog.

Students again clogged the hall outside her office, this time waiting to talk about their term papers. Georges waded through them to stick his head in. After stringing us along for weeks, he said, our Mr. Molina has decided to take the job at Santa Cruz. And now we can’t get a hold of Fletcher. Is he already in Paris? Do you have his number there?

I don’t know where he is, said Patsy. And I don’t have his number. But if you really need it, I can dig it up for you.

That’s okay, Georges said. I probably have it somewhere.

•

Benny left a message saying that a courier had dropped off something of interest to her and he’d be in all afternoon if she wanted to stop by. He hadn’t sounded pleased. Then again, he hadn’t sounded dire. She’d either been exonerated or not. They couldn’t haul her back to prison for filing a declaration.

In Benny’s waiting room, she went right for the candy bowl, so no matter what happened, she’d have a mouthful of that salty butterscotch.

Benny ushered her down the inner hallway and handed her a manila envelope. She undid a short string, pulled out a typed document.

No wordsmith, our judge, Benny said.

She barely glanced at the headings and went directly to the text itself:

Defendant’s unopposed motion to vacate her 1981 conviction for vehicular manslaughter is before the court . . . Mr. William
Hogue, rather than defendant, was driving . . . Hogue effectively and repeatedly confessed to driving the car at the time of the accident . . .

Defendant . . . did not remember that she was not driving her car . . . In the absence of opposition . . . the court hereby vacates Defendant’s conviction and sentence.

Benny refused a check. It’s the least I can do, he said.

On her way out, she helped herself to a big handful of those marigold-yellow candies and crammed them into her purse. They were really, she thought, exceptionally delicious. She’d slip one to Ava.

At the Ponderosa, she set out to find Cal, to show him the court document. Partway into the east wing, she turned around. She already knew what he would say. You took that first drink. It was your car. Your lower companion.

In the two months since they’d had that conversation, he had never asked if she’d sought out an attorney or pursued exoneration. Nor had he mentioned the accident or her involvement in it.

A bedroom door opened, and Ava in a pink Cinderella costume grabbed onto her waist and stepped onto her feet. To the barn, she said. Big steps.

•

A woman named Charlotte Ebberts phoned later that evening, when Patsy was about to shower. Remember me? I wrote a story about you and Mark Parnham for the
Times
back in 1983. I was going through this week’s court filings and found your exoneration. Of course I’ve got to write about it! What a story! Are you too busy celebrating? Or do you have time for a few questions?

Patsy could already see the columns of words, the fuzzy photo. The prospect of public vindication was as sharp and pleasing as the snap of a flag.

But then came Silver’s low, reasonable voice. When are
you
going to vindicate yourself? When does Patsy vindicate Patsy?

And if the story ran, there would be the calls and comments—and the piece itself. God knows, she’d read enough articles about her crime and punishment over the years. To a one they’d been awkwardly written,
with niggling inaccuracies: she was not born in Altadena; Mark Parnham’s son had been younger, not older, than his deceased sister; Ricky Barrett’s last name had two
t
’s.

Before, for newspaper stories, radio interviews, cable TV, and countless AA pitches, she’d overridden shyness, qualms, and embarrassment. She did so because Gloria said that sharing her experience transformed the tragedy into a redemptive, cautionary tale, and because Gilles, in his high-handed twenty-year-old superior manner, told her she should keep no secrets, and because Cal too insisted that her story helped others.

She hoped she had helped. That would be some recompense. To provide a false tale that helped others was not such a bad thing. Look at literature. Or for that matter, religion.

Patsy? You still there?

I am. But Charlotte, I don’t have time to answer your questions. I’m on my way out the door.

Speaking of lies.

What if I called you later? Or tomorrow morning? The woman’s voice rose with enthusiasm. Would that work for you?

I’ll be blunt, Patsy said. I appreciate your interest, but this time, Charlotte, I’m not going public.

•

On the way home from her last class, with a small sheaf of term papers—only twelve of them—Patsy drove into Pasadena to return a pair of khakis she’d bought for Cal in the wrong size. Before getting on the freeway for home, she stopped for gas at a Shell station, and while her tank filled, she went around back to the restroom.

Turning on the light also activated a noisy little fan. The concrete floor by the sink was littered with wadded brown towels overflowing from the trash, but the place wasn’t otherwise filthy, just hard-used and basic—like jail. She used the toilet, then flushed. Unlike jail, the toilet flushed easily. She rinsed her hands, balanced her own wadded towel atop the pile, and grasped the doorknob to leave. The little center button popped out, but the knob spun freely.

Around and around it went. Nothing engaged. The little metal tongue or stub—what was the thing called that went into the doorjamb?—did
not retract. She twisted and depressed the lock button and turned the knob. The button popped back out, but the stub-tongue thing did not retract.

Jesus Christ, she said, shaking it.

The door was steel, painted blue, and battered, the bangs and scratches rusted. She pounded it so hard the heavy door rattled in its jamb. But the restroom was around the back of the station, and two-thirty in the afternoon was a slow time. Though sooner or later somebody would come. Or the cashier would wonder why her car was sitting in the self-service bay, hose in, driver gone.

She leaned against the sink, facing the door. She tried the knob again. Banged. Waited. Banged again.