24
ROBIN SAID, “First the daughter, now the mother?”
We were on the big couch in the living room. She was sitting at the far end, just out of reach, still wearing her work overalls and her red T-shirt. I’d come home determined to put everything aside, had ended up talking about all of it: Lauren’s aborted therapy, Phil Harnsberger’s party, Mi-chelle, Shawna, Jane Abbot, Mel Abbot’s senescent terror.
Death kills confidentiality.
“You’re making it sound like a confession,” she said.
“Whose?”
“Yours. The whole sordid tale. As if you’ve done something wrong. As if you’re a main player in all of it and not just an extra.” She looked away. “It’s almost as if she’s seduced you—Lauren. Not sexually—you know what I mean. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Seduction’s how she made a living.”
“I don’t see that at all.”
She got up, went into the kitchen, returned with two bottles of water, and handed me one. Sitting just as far.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“You saw this girl, what—twice, ten years ago?—yet you’ve convinced yourself that you’re obligated to clarify every detail of her life. People like that don’t lend themselves to solutions. For them it’s always problems.”
“People like that.”
“Outcasts, troubled souls—patients, call them what you will. Didn’t you tell me one thing you had to learn so as not to become a toxic sponge was how to let go?”
“It’s not a matter of letting go—”
“What, then, Alex?” Her voice was low, but there was no mistaking the edge.
“Is there anything else that’s bothering you?” I said.
“That,” she said, “was very shrinky.”
“Sorry—”
“Your mind’s a fine piece of machinery, Alex. I’ve never encountered anything like it. You’re like a precisely tuned watch, always ticking— relentless. But sometimes I think you use what God gave you to dig ditches. Lowering yourself. . . these people …”
I reached for her, and she allowed me to touch her fingertips. But she exerted no stretch that would have allowed me to hold her.
“The thing is,” she said, “you get yourself on a track and you just keep running. People around this girl tend to die, Alex, and you haven’t even considered the possibility that you might be in danger.”
“The people who’ve died knew her well—”
She sighed and got up. “Listen, I’ve got work to catch up on—catch you later.”
“What about dinner?”
“Not hungry.”
“You are wot happy with me.”
“On the contrary,” she said. “I’m very happy with you. With us. That’s why I’d like us both to keep breathing for a while.”
“There’s no danger. I wouldn’t do that to you again.”
“To me? Why don’t you start thinking of yourself? Check out your own boundaries—what you’ll allow in and what you won’t.”
She bent and kissed my forehead. “I don’t mean to be cruel, baby, but I’m weary of all this surmising and ugliness. You did what you could. Keep telling yourself that.”
I spent the night alone, listening to music but ingesting no harmony, trying to read—anything but psychology—waiting for Robin to come back in the house. By eleven she hadn’t, and I went to bed—early for me—and woke at 4:30 A.M., fighting the urge to bolt, exhausted yetcharged, using every relaxation trick in my repertoire to fall back asleep. I endured the tension for two more hours until Robin’s eyes opened and I pretended to be ready to greet the day.
She smiled at me, tousled my hair, showered alone but made coffee for both of us, and sat down with the first section of the paper. If Jane Abbot’s murder had made the edition, she didn’t say. I took the Metro pages. Nothing there.
By eight she’d headed back to the studio and I was running up in the hills, harder than usual, punishing my joints, trying to sweat off adrenaline. I’d promised myself to avoid the paper, but when I got back I thumbed quickly and found the summary of Jane Abbot’s death on page 25. Worded nearly exactly as I’d predicted: senile husband, shocked neighbors, domestic tragedy, investigation pending.
I finished up some court reports—a couple of personal injury cases where kids had experienced psychological sequelae and a custody battle with wealthy protagonists that might never end unless the principals died. Printing, signing, sealing, and addressing my findings to various judges, I reviewed my ledger books and tried to figure out if I’d owe taxes in April. By eleven I still hadn’t figured it out. By eleven-thirty Robin bopped in, Spike in tow, and informed me she had to deliver two repaired D’Angelico archtops to the Los Feliz home of a movie star who was considering playing Elvis in an upcoming flick.