Edited to Death (21 page)

He patted my shoulder and grinned down at me. “A capital idea. Perhaps later.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, “I didn’t kiss you goodbye this morning.”

“We’d come kiss you, Mom,” said Josh, “but we’re busy.”

“That’s okay,” I said, “I’ll come kiss you—I love coming home to a house full of cooks.
Where’s Anya?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Upstairs, brooding. I believe there’s romantic trouble again.
I came home early and I coaxed her to come with me to take the boys out for a bike
ride around Lake Merritt, but her heart wasn’t in it.”

Anya fell in and out of love with considerable regularity. Since summertime, we’d
been treated to high melodrama over a fellow art student, a young associate in Michael’s
office, the gutter repair guy we summoned after the first fall rain, and one or two
others. Personally, I was pulling for Harrison, the young man from Grateful Gutters.
I figured we might get a discount. But he, like all others, ran afoul of Anya’s cinema-inspired
standards.

I sighed. “I guess we’ll hear about it at dinner.”

At least, I thought, once we’d gathered around the table, affairs of the heart didn’t
inhibit Anya’s appetite. Between sniffles, she complimented Michael and the boys on
their stir-fry, and polished off three servings, rice, and salad. The boys, on the
other hand, picked at dinner. It emerged that the entire household—minus me, of course—had
gone on a post-bike riding outing for ice cream. I was winding up for a lecture on
ruining the boys’ dinner, but Anya was still completing her tale of romantic woe.

“You know, Maggie,” she concluded, “it was just like the end of
Casablanca
.”

“How, Anya? You said goodbye out on the tarmac?”

“No, no,” she said dreamily. “He was giving me up for a higher cause. He’s been offered
a job in Dayton, Ohio, working on a very important project at the Air Force Museum
there.”

I had a hard time picturing Humphrey Bogart, trenchcoat and all, disappearing into
the mist to go to Dayton and catalog antique propellers in a museum, but it seemed
best to leave Anya with her tragic ending intact.

“Well, buck up, Anya,” said Michael. “You know, ‘Men have died from time to time and
worms have eaten them, but not for love.’”

“Yuck,” exclaimed Josh. Zach, I could see, was about to wind up for a rendition of
a classic he’d been forbidden to sing at the table, featuring the lyrics, “the worms
crawl in/the worms crawl out/the worms play pinochle on your snout.”

Anya simply looked puzzled. “Shakespeare,” I explained. “Rosalind offers Orlando that
comforting thought in
As You Like It.”

“Another tender-hearted, compassionate woman,” observed Michael.

“Well, she’s just trying to be realistic.” I was warming to the topic, glad to have
a little Shakespeare at the dinner table. Improving young minds and all that.

Michael sighed, “Here we go.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Try and do the plot summary
in under a half hour,
cara
.”

I reached for my wineglass and stopped, frozen. “Michael, that’s it.”

“What?” he said, distracted. “Joshie, send me down just a little more of that delectable
rice we steamed up. Ask Mom why hers is never this fluffy, why don’t you?”

“Excuse me a moment,” I said, dashing for the stairs. “Where’s my Shakespeare?”

I found it in the den. Three volumes, A.L. Rowse, trying to retain its dignity sandwiched
between the
Sunset Western Garden Book
and a dozen tattered Tintin comics.

“Yes! Yes!” I shouted. There it was, staring me in the face. Michael, napkin in hand,
stuck his head in. “Are you nuts?”

“Look at this! It’s been right in front of me the entire time.” I turned the book
so he could see, open to the dramatis personae of
As You Like It
.

“Okay, I’ll bite. I don’t see.”

“See? Oliver, Jaques and Orlando—they’re all sons of Sir Rowland de Boys. I always
thought of them as Sir Rowland and the boys, which is why Zach and Josh reminded me
of his name.”

“And?”

“And if you were named Jack Rowland and you wanted to change your name, why not John
Orlando?”

“Who is?”

“This weird guy you met at the memorial for Quentin. He’s the one I had a fight with
Glen about. He’s an illustrator, and he owns the restaurant Quentin wanted me to do
the story on—the Cock of the Walk.”

“So why’d he change his name?”

“Exactly. Why? And another thing: why did Glen lie to me about knowing him? According
to Douglas Thurston—I’ll explain who he is later—Glen, Quent, and Rowland were all
at Oxford together. But when I asked Glen if he’d seen or heard from Rowland, he said
no, not for years.” I banged the book shut and stood up. “But all the time, he was
right here! With a different name, working for Quentin.” I grabbed Michael’s arm.
“I’m on to something. God! This is what it’s like being a detective.”

Michael’s face darkened. He took hold of my shoulders and turned me to him. “Maggie,
this is exactly what I asked you not to do. You’re not a detective. And if you’re
not careful, someone’s going to get hurt. Try to remember that phone call about Josh
for a few minutes, would you? How effective do you think our little jerry-rigged check-in
system is going to be if someone really wanted to threaten the kids?”

His face swam before me. I tried to concentrate and breathe easily, regularly. “Okay,
okay. You’re right. I’ll call Moon, right after dinner.”

“Promise?”

“Honest. I swear.”

And I did. But I called Glen, too. Which may have been a mistake.

18

Okay by Me in America

Glen and Corinne’s Mission District Victorian wasn’t exactly on the way to Hot Licks,
but both were south of Market, and in a city only seven miles across, how far out
of the way could anything be?

The Mission is the oldest, most diverse (in the new, politically correct parlance
for integrated), and one of the most happening areas in San Francisco. Spreading out
from the historic Mission Dolores, it’s an eclectic mix of family neighborhoods, parks,
taquerias, yuppified coffee bars, alternative theatre, and art spaces. It’s home to
churches, feminist bookstores, a proper soda fountain (the St. Francis Fountain and
Candy Store), and Good Vibrations, a disarmingly wholesome purveyor of erotic goodies.
Glen and Corinne lived on Liberty, a sunny, leafy street that showcased a fine collection
of San Francisco’s “painted ladies,” Victorian buildings so beautiful that their residents
almost forget that the high ceilings gobble heat and the plumbing has to be coaxed
to work.

I whipped the Volvo into their driveway, grabbed the folder of invoices, and trotted
up the front steps. The sign on the glossy green front door said, “Bell is unreliable.
Please give the door a thump.” I did. No answer. I thumped again and heard Glen’s
voice. “Coming, coming.”

The door opened. Glen was in jeans and a denim shirt, eyes bloodshot, unshaven.

“Ah, Maggie. How are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Oh, well,” he rubbed his cheek. “A little worn round the edges. Some flu thing the
kids probably brought home.”

The wind was brisk on the front porch. I thrust the folder at Glen.

“What’s this, love?” he asked.

I explained about the invoices and asked him to call his okays in to Gertie. He said
fine and looked expectant, clearly waiting for me to be on my way.

“Glen, can’t I come in for a minute? I want to ask you about something else. That’s
why I called you last night.”

“Ah, Mags,” he said, “where are my manners? Sure, sure. Come in and have a drop to
warm yourself.”

In Glen’s white tiled kitchen, I sat down at a round, golden oak table stacked with
children’s drawings, supermarket coupons, and what looked like the disassembled body
parts of many Power Rangers. I’m sure there are families with kids without cluttered
kitchens, but if I ever found one, I’d be hostile beyond belief.

While he filled the teakettle, he called over his shoulder, “Shove that trash to the
side, Maggie, and make room for a cuppa.”

When we were settled in front of two mugs of fragrant black tea, I felt brave enough
to broach the subject.

“Glen, here’s what I’m wondering. You’ve told me a whole string of lies about—well,
about who you know and who you don’t. And I guess I’m wondering why?”

Glen’s face got stony. He sipped his tea.

“Lies? For example?”

“For example. You did know Douglas Thurston, because you’re the one who told him about
Quent’s death.”

“Who told you that?”

“He did. Douglas. I talked to him on the telephone. And another thing, you did know
that Jack Rowland and John Orlando are the same person—and you didn’t tell me that
either.” I leaned back, relieved I’d gotten it all out. “Okay, so tell me what’s going
on?”

Glen sipped his tea again. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why should I tell you?”

I felt flustered. “Because… because, for heaven’s sake, Glen, we’re all in this together.”
I was warming to my subject now. “Quentin was our friend; he’s been killed. Don’t
you want to know what happened, and why? And why would you lie to me? Aren’t we friends?”

Glen smiled thinly.

“You know, Maggie. Here’s what you’re like. You’re like the girl who’s always encouraging
people to try things, to play a game of charades, or try ice-skating or something.
And you know why you do it? Because you believe that everyone in the world is just
like you. And you know that if you’re coaxed to do something, you’ll do it. And you’ll
probably be okay at it. And there will be another sweet Jesus happy ending.”

“Glen,” I started to protest.

“No, Maggie. Now, it’s time to listen to me.” He got up and began pacing the kitchen,
strides from refrigerator to table and back.

“You’ve got a problem. I’m not one of those American husbands who’s been sensitized
into thinking that communication is a grand thing. For an inky wretch, for a words
man, I’m not much of a talker. What’s private is private.” He stopped and fixed me.
“And I might add, for all your communication all the day long, you’re not above keeping
some private business to yourself, too.”

I felt my face burn. “Agreed.”

“Yes, well, this isn’t a debatin’ society, now. This is me telling you what’s what.
So the real story is that I didn’t own up to knowing Douglas and Jack Rowland because
I had my reasons. And they’re mine, not yours. I had a whole life before I came here,
Maggie. And, I have answered every single question the police have put to me, so I
believe I’ve done my good citizen duty.”

“Glen,” I began.

“No, let me finish. I’m going to tell you my version of this story. And it’s going
to be what I’m willing to tell you. And the rest, you’ll pardon my bad manners, is
my business.” Glen stopped pacing and sat down across from me again. I felt as if
I’d come in the middle of a Byzantine foreign movie. I’d only left for a few minutes,
just to get popcorn or something, and the plot had galloped ahead of me. Where were
the subtitles? Why was Glen so angry?

He took a gulp of his tea and folded his hands. “Once upon a time—isn’t that how all
stories begin?”

I nodded.

“Well then, once upon a time, there were a number of very bright, very confused, little
adventurous boys who had gone up to Oxford. Quentin. Jack. Douglas. And me.” He tapped
his chest.

“So there we were, all of us young, all of us trying to prove we were something more
than the lives we’d left behind. It was, in many ways, a grand time. We read everything.
We argued. We drank. We ran around with the locals. We listened to music.”

He stopped, looked around the kitchen, as if puzzled by how that intense and fun-loving
young man had been transported, as if by magic, into a city flat, crammed with the
artifacts of husband-and-daddy-dom.

“We got in trouble from time to time. I think you probably know about the scrape Jack
Rowland got in. Douglas told you?”

I nodded. “He had a relationship with a minister’s son.”

Glen sighed. “Yes, not the best judgment, that. But it was more. He’d been pissing
away his study time, and so when the troubles came about, his tutor was too annoyed
to stand up for him. Plus, it wasn’t so much the sex. The rumor was that all of us
had been steadily leading a group of local boys astray. Lots of Algerian weed, and
harder stuff, too.”

“All of you?”

“Well, none of us was blameless. Except Douglas; he was a little bit of a goody-goody.
And I was rather intensely into my heir-of-Thomas-Merton period, thinking I had a
religious vocation. Quentin and Jack offered to take the fall—Jack, after all, had
been the one who’d led the rosy-cheeked boy down love’s forbidden path. And Quentin,
well, everyone assumed he’d sleep with anyone or anything.”

“Comforting thought,” I said.

“Yes, well, we all have lapses, my girl. That’s why the confessional can be such a
busy, busy place.” He smiled, looking amused for the first time since we’d sat down.