.. put-together. That’s a compliment, believe me.” She patted my knee.
Frowned. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. And be sure to take good care of yourself. Something happens to you, your mother’s going to die, over and over. You’ll be gone but she’ll be left dying every day–understand?”
The hand on my knee clawed.
I nodded.
“Something happens to you, your mother’s going to lie in bed and think about you, over and over and over. Wondering how much you suffered.
Wondering what you were thinking when it happened to you–why it happened to her kid and not someone else’s. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I do.”
“So be careful.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I said. “To protect myself.”
She whipped off the sunglasses. Her eyes were so raw the whites looked brown.
“Gritz–no, she never said a word about anyone named that. Or Silk or Merino.”
“Did she ever talk about Hewitt?”
“No, not really.” She seemed to be deliberating. I didn’t move or speak.
The raw eyes moistened. “She mentioned him once–maybe a week or two before.
Said she was treating this really crazy person and thought she was helping him. She said it respectfully–this poor, sick fellow that she really wanted to help. Schizophrenic, whatever–hearing voices. No one else had been able to help him, but she thought she could. He was starting to trust her.”
She spat on the ground.
“She mentioned him by name?”
“No. She made a point of not talking about any of them by name. Big point of following the rules.”
Remembering Becky’s sketchy notes and lack of followthrough with Jean, I said, “A real stickler, huh?”
“That was Becky. Back when she was in grade school, her teachers always said they wished they had a classroom full of Beckys. Even with her loser boyfriends, she always stayed on the straight and narrow, not using drugs, nothing. That’s why they wouldn’t. ..”
She shook her head. Put her glasses back on and showed me the back of her head. Between thin strands of dyed hair, her neck was liver-spotted and loose-skinned.
I said, “Why they wouldn’t what?”
No answer for a moment.
Then: “They wouldn’t stick with hen-they always left her. Can you beat that?
The ones who were going to get divorced, always went back to their wives. The ones who were on the wagon, always fell off. And left her.
She was ten times the human being any of them were, but they always walked out on her, can you beat that?”
“They were the unstable ones,” I said.
“Exactly. Dead-end losers. What she needed was someone with high standards, but she wasn’t attracted to that–only the broken ones.”
“Was she in a relationship at the time she died?”
“I don’t know–probably. The last time I saw hen-couple of days before she stopped by to give me some laundry–I asked her how her social life was and she refused to talk about it. What that usually meant was she was involved with someone she knew I’d nag her about. I got upset with hen-we didn’t talk much. How was I supposed to know it was the last time and I should have enjoyed every minute I had with her?”
Her shoulders bowed and quivered.
I touched one of them and she sat up suddenly.
“Enough of this–I hate this moping around. That’s why I quit that survivor’s group your friend Sturgis recommended. Too much self-pity.
Meanwhile, I haven’t done a damn thing for you.”
My head was full of assumptions and guesses. Learning of Becky’s attraction to losers had firmed up the suspicions left by her notes. I smiled and said, “It’s been good talking to you.”
“Good talking to you, too. Do I get a bill?”
“No, the first hour’s free.”
“Well, look at that. Handsome, a Caddy, and a sense of humor to boot–you do pretty well, don’t you? Financially.”
“I do okay.”
“Modesty–bet you do better than okay. That’s what I wanted for Becky.
Security. I told her, what are you wasting your time for, doing dirty work for the county? Finish up your degree, get some kind of license, open up an office in Beverly Hills and treat fat people or those women who starve themselves.