Time and Trouble (17 page)

Diana shook her head. Her hair was short and straight. Brown.

Sincere hair, Billie thought, like the rest of her. Then she wondered at the flash of resentment she felt. Or was it envy? Was this woman, so totally immersed in what she considered important
—
the world and her boys
—
was she the woman Billie had intended to be?

“
Once or twice, in summertime when it was still light out, she rode her bike. And Joe
—
my husband
—
drove her home a few times. I don
’
t think I ever did. Why?
”

“
Nothing. I meant
…
Well, nothing, I suppose.
”
Diana would have noticed the yellow hearse
—
she would have raged against its fossil-fuel consumption. In a way, it was a comfort to know such women had outlasted the sixties. But Penny Redmond wasn
’
t on her list of concerns.

Neither had Penny been high on the list of the woman who
’
d preceded Diana, a vivacious creature in tights, a long sweatshirt, and frosted hair. Her children were at school, her house was being cleaned by a tiny smiling woman and she seemed eager to talk. Unfortunately, she had nothing to talk about. Unlike Diana Golden, that woman, Char, had indeed noticed and formed opinions about Penny, but only about her hair, which had possibilities but was too long, causing it to lose body, and in need of a good, layered cut, and about Penny
’
s underutilization of cosmetics.
“
That dreadful natural look they
’
re using,
”
she said.
“
I mean, they
’
re all peaches-and-cream and they can get away with it at their age, but that girl has potential. She
’
d be striking if she
’
d pay a little attention to herself, put on some color.
”

By the time Billie left, she had no information about the boy with the yellow hearse, but she had a strong and shameful desire to have Char make her over or at least tell her whether or not she had
“
potential,
”
and if so, what to do with it. By the time she left Diana Golden
’
s, she was thoroughly ashamed of having had such petty, self-obsessed, superficial desires.

In any case, it was time to switch gears. The school day was about to end, so she
’
d troll for friends, not employers.

She drove down San Pedro, overaware of the odd configuration of the roadbed
—
the hillside homes, upscale markets, and school on her left; the Bay, like a poking finger, appearing erratically on her right. And each time it pushed in toward the road, business
—
yacht berths, boat repair shops, or upscale bayside housing developments
—
took advantage of it.

In front of San Rafael High, she decided that the third try would be the charm. She should have felt kinship with the mothers in need of sitters and company, but instead she felt a rush at the sight of the nondescript tan building, the comfort of familiarity, although she
’
d never visited it and had barely noticed it. It wasn
’
t her alma mater, nor did it look like any school she
’
d attended, but all high schools were kin in primitive, compelling ways. Inside, they
’
d have the smell of gym lockers, lunch-room economies, and teen hormones. Hallways would sound the same no matter the words, the air filled with eyes, laughs, and exaggerated motions.

It wasn
’
t as if she was unaware of the decade-plus since high school, or that each piece of her hard-won and not-always-welcome postgraduate learning, in and out of academia, had altered her perspective. But it hadn
’
t altered her, except to fill in the blanks, make her more so. And the sight of the school triggered buried adolescent longings for a sheltering place of her own.

The bell rang and Billie felt the end-of-the-day panic that had once been a constant. Back then, she
’
d flood with apprehension about whether she had enough activities stacked up to delay going home as long as possible. Maybe that
’
s where and how she
’
d learned to organize her time and plan ahead. To act, be duplicitous. Pretend. Her mother had inadvertently given her great skills.

Sophia Redmond had known the last names of Penny
’
s baby-sitting clients, even if she hadn
’
t known where they lived. It was easy enough searching the phone book and making calls. But of all Penny
’
s friends, only one, Rebecca Dobbin, was given a full name.
“
Penny
’
s best friend,
”
Sophia had said. She hadn
’
t had the number.

The rest of the girls she mentioned were on a first-name-only basis, and the task of determining which Heather or Chelsea was the right one felt daunting.

Even if Emma would have been willing to spend a moment demonstrating how to find juveniles who didn
’
t yet appear in the computer files, she was up in Sacramento on a background check. Billie was on her own with next-to-nothing to go on.
“
Penny didn
’
t keep a diary,
”
Sophia said.
“
Penny took her address book with her.
”
After much prodding, Sophia remembered that Rebecca lived in Peacock Gap. Either Mrs. Redmond
’
s real-estate sense, or her basic knowledge of her daughter
’
s life, was out of kilter. Assuming the Dobbins listed their phone number, which was a shaky assumption in Marin, there were few Dobbins in San Rafael, none down near San Pablo Bay, and none that said
Rebecca
or
R.
or
Dobbins children.
So, with the help of a detailed street map, Billie went through all the listings and called the one closest to the neighborhood, wondering what she
’
d do with it or the address if she knew it. Lurk outside waiting? She was reluctant to leave a message and give the teen time to consult with Penny, alert others, or construct a new story. Face-to-face would be better, but how?

And if she couldn
’
t find Rebecca this way, how would she? Surely not through the school. If they
’
d blithely point out a student to a complete stranger who asked for that information, Billie would have to make a citizen
’
s arrest on the basis of child endangerment. Besides, how could she identify herself, produce credentials? She worked for Emma, was only in training, a novice, and wouldn
’
t have certification for six thousand hours
—
five thousand eight hundred and fifty-some now
—
if she survived. Maybe Billie didn
’
t have enough basic imagination to investigate anything.

The voice that answered the phone was too resonant and sure of itself to be a teen. The mother, Billie assumed.
“
May I speak to Rebecca? This is Billie August.
”

“
Can
’
t talk to her here, Billie honey. Not just now,
”
the other end of the receiver said, as if they were buddies.
“
School
’
s in session for an hour more. And shouldn
’
t you be there, too?
”

“
I graduated last year. I haven
’
t seen her in a while.
”
Billie stood in the phone kiosk and crossed her fingers against any major changes in group psychology and high-school sociology since she
’
d graduated. Let there still be enormous status gaps between juniors and seniors, so that Mama wouldn
’
t be overly familiar with the last crop of grads.

“
So you
’
re in college now?
”
Mama asked.

“
U.C.,
”
Billie murmured, to ensure her credentials as a diligent, smart, and possibly inspirational old pal of her daughter
’
s.

“
Good for you!
”
Rebecca
’
s mother sounded truly delighted by Billie
’
s academic fortunes.
“
But as for Becca
…”
She sighed.
“
Lord knows where she
’
ll be after school, what with all she does. I surely never know.
”
Pride, not irritation filled her voice. Amazing. The woman liked her daughter. It could be that way, then, even during the teens.
“
I use the beeper to reach her, and thank the Lord for it. You want the number? It won
’
t beep in class, so don
’
t worry. Against school rules. All the kids keep them on vibrate. Bec tries to return all calls on her cellular between classes.
”

Billie entertained herself until the return call by envisioning a roomful of vibrating beepers, wondering where Rebecca wore hers and whether such implements were a new and additional reason for teenage girls to be addicted to phone calls.

“
This is Rebecca Dobbin, returning your call.
”

“
My name is Billie August and I
’
m helping investigate the whereabouts of Penelope Redmond
—”

“
Shit!
”
It was whispered, but powerful and straight from her center.
“
Oh, damn. Sorry. I thought
…
I didn
’
t recognize the number, and I thought maybe my mom was out somewhere and had heard
—”

“
I
’
m sorry to disappoint you,
”
Billie said.

The girl laughed.
“
No matter. Waiting to hear about schools is making me crazy. I really am sorry. Let
’
s start over. Who
’
d you say you were?
”

Billie explained again, asked if they could meet for a few minutes after school. She didn
’
t want to say any more on the phone. She wanted the easy flow of a conversation and she wanted to see Rebecca. Her years of drama classes and performances might be of practical use in interpreting body language, deciding what role the girl was or wasn
’
t playing in her friend
’
s disappearance.

“
Penny,
”
Rebecca said with one-millionth the emotion she
’
d demonstrated about school.
“
Okay. And I
’
ll tell you what
—
I
’
ll bring a few other girls who knew her, too.
Know
her! Didn
’
t mean to sound like she
’
s dead!
”
Her laugh sounded nervous.
“
Maybe somebody else was closer to her, knows more than I do.
”

Which did not sound like a
“
best friend
”
speaking. How far removed from the reality of her daughter
’
s life was Sophia Redmond?

So now Billie waited outside the school, enjoying the afternoon sunshine, and then the chorus of teenaged voices as the doors opened and school let out. She played a game of whether she could identify a
“
Rebecca
”
before the girl herself spoke up.
“
I
’
ll be in the parking lot and I drive a white Honda Civic,
”
Billie had said, and that had seemed enough for the high-school girl.

She saw now that it would be hard distinguishing which Honda was hers. Half the student body drove them, although blue was a much-favored color. She surveyed the cars, and approved of their middle-aged American makes and models. This wasn
’
t a flaunting kind of parking lot. Wasn
’
t overly Marin, where B.M.W. was said to stand for Basic Marin Wheels. Even the one Mercedes was acceptable, as it was twenty -five years old and in desperate need of wax.

An undersized boy with an open backpack walked toward Billie, waving, then abruptly stopped.
“
Sorry!
”
he said.
“
Jeez. I thought you were my
…
ride. Sorry.
”
He shuffled off, head down, puzzling her by the visible and excessive humiliation this mistaken identity seemed to have caused him. Adolescence was a bitch, but maybe she
’
d forgotten just how much of one it was.

Then she saw him raise his arm again.
“
Smoking?
But you
said,
Mom! You promised.
”
Billie watched a woman stub out a cigarette, wave away the smoke she exhaled then frown as her son continued to chastise her.

Mom,
he
’
d said. Mom. He
’
d mistaken Billie for his mother. She, who
’
d been blissfully identifying with the students, sure she hadn
’
t changed in any significant way. She looked around and noticed other women looking bored at the doors of their cars. Their children didn
’
t drive yet. They looked a lot like her.

The patina of shared youth she thought she
’
d been wearing like makeup cracked and she saw herself as the oafish wanna-be she was. Time might indeed have filled in the empty spots
—
but in so doing, had coated the rest of her, like a pristine building dulled with soot. She needed to be sandblasted.