Authors: Sue Ann Jaffarian
He shook his head. "Nope. We just chatted a bit about stuff. It was a very short call."
"Well," I said, "I'm sure Sophie had lots of friends. It's probably just a coincidence."
I tried to appear nonchalant and wondered if Robbie would buy the idea it was just a fluke. I sure as hell didn't, but then I'm rather skeptical about a lot of things, including long-lost friends with good intentions.
"All I know," I continued, "is that I'm a friend of hers from a long time ago. I was in the area and thought it might be nice to see how you've grown, and to say hello to your father, of course." I lied like a rug to this nice kid and told myself I'd worry about shame tomorrow.
"Cool," he said, obviously delighted by this unexpected visit. Suddenly aware of his manners, he pointed to a chair. "Please sit down, Mrs. Grey. Dad should be back any time now."
"Ms. Grey, not Mrs.," I corrected him. "But please, call me Odelia."
I sat in a vinyl-and-metal office chair across from him and placed my tote bag on the floor beside me. Inside the bag was the box of Robbie memorabilia.
"You look like your mother," I told him with a genuine smile.
"Yeah, that's what my dad says." He blushed as he said it. "I have a few old photos of her, but it's hard to see it from them."
"Trust me, Robbie, you're the spitting image."
Once more he slightly reddened. It was easy to like this boy, just as it had been easy to like his mother. It was plain to see he was well brought up. Whomever had taken over for Sophie had done a very good job.
"How old were you when Sophie died?"
"I was three. But honestly, I don't even remember her. I wish I did, though." He swung slightly side to side in the chair. "Don't get me wrong. Mom, or Marcia, my step-mom, is great...the very best. But I wish I knew more about my real mother. Dad never talks about her." He leaned forward eagerly, reminding me of a hungry wolf cub. "What was she like, Odelia?"
I was about to introduce a boy to his mother and wondered if I could do her the justice she deserved.
"She was wonderful. Outgoing and lively. Very beautiful. Very intelligent. She lived to help others."
Before I could tell him more, the door opened and in walked the man from the memorial service. The man who had confronted Hollowell.
"Hi, Dad," Robbie greeted him. "This is Odelia, an old friend of..."
"I know who she is, Robbie," Olsen said, cutting him off. His face was stern and anger flashed in his eyes, but his voice was even.
Not sure where this scene was heading, I decided to take control. Standing up, I held out my hand. "Yes, remember me...Odelia Grey? It's nice to see you again after all these years."
Picking up on my cue, Olsen took my offered hand and shook it briefly. I felt him relax and saw the fire in his eyes cool a few notches.
"Yes, it's nice to see you again, too. What brings you to Santa Paula?"
"A little business, a little pleasure. Thought it'd be fun to stop in and see you and Robbie. See how he's turned out. You've done a wonderful job. Sophie would be so proud of both of you. He looks just like her."
I was babbling like a mountain brook, hoping someone would rescue me before I did major damage. Fortunately, Olsen did.
"It's too bad Robbie's about to take off for school," he said, looking directly into my eyes. His were green, like my own. "He has afternoon classes at the university. But if you'd permit me, Odelia, I'd love to take you to lunch. It'll be fun catching up on old times."
The two words old and times were bolded, italicized, and underlined by his tone.
Chapter Twelve
THE RESTAURANT WAS one of those standard chain restaurants that dot Southern California, providing good but not great food, at good but not entirely cheap prices. The waitress directed us to a table near the middle of the dining room, but Olsen quietly suggested the large, semi-circular booth that stood empty in the back. And that's where we sat.
He looked pretty much the same as the first time I saw him, except today he looked stronger, both physically and emotionally. Maybe it was the way the Olsen Machinery knit shirt clung to his slim but well developed frame, or the fact that here he was in control, while at the chapel he was losing it. I was on his turf, invading his space uninvited, and he was quietly letting me know just that.
Peter Olsen had the kind of face one earns. Deep creases marked the outside of his eyes like parenthesis, and lines formed furrows like plowed rows across his forehead. His nose looked like it had once been broken, though not badly. While not particularly handsome, his overall appearance spoke of character and stability.
On the way to the restaurant in his truck, he never said a word to me. I had offered to take my own car, but he had insisted on driving us both. More than once I wondered if I had made a wise decision. At the restaurant, he didn't speak beyond courteous chit chat until after our iced teas were served. Then he didn't fool around.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, getting straight to the point without fanfare.
I quickly took a drink, swallowing it hard. It felt like lumpy oatmeal going down my tight throat. His voice was stern, but not angry. That gave me a glimmer of hope I'd see Newport Beach again.
"I wanted to bring some things of Sophie's to you. I, I..." I stammered. Inwardly, I told myself to get my shit together. "I didn't know you were the man from the memorial service." It was only a partial lie. True, I didn't know Olsen was the grief stricken man from the service. And I was bringing a few of Sophie's things to him, even though they were merely a ruse to get close to her ex-husband and learn something about her past.
"We don't want anything of hers. She's dead to us. Has been for years."
I didn't like the cold way he spoke about Sophie. It didn't match the sorrow I had seen displayed less than a week ago. Deciding I had nothing to lose by prodding him, I kept on, hoping to strike an honest nerve.
"Then why did you drive all the way to Orange County?" My tone was a tad sarcastic, letting him know I wasn't buying the tough words. "Making sure she was really dead?"
Across the table, I saw his body clench like a fist.
"That remark was uncalled for," he said in an angry but controlled voice. "Downright mean, in fact."
"Perhaps, Mr. Olsen, but I have a dead friend and a lot of unanswered questions. You see, I don't believe Sophie killed herself. And some of her other friends don't believe it, either."
Our food arrived. I crunched crackers into the bowl of vegetable soup that came with my turkey sandwich. The activity was more to hide my nervousness than out of a love for saltines. I raised my soup spoon to my mouth, watching him carefully while I took my first bite.
His eyes were closed, his head bowed slightly in front of his barbecued chicken salad. I thought he was saying grace, but when he lifted up his face, I could see his eyes were solemn, his mouth turned downward.
"Odelia," he said quietly, "you were obviously a very close friend of Sophie's."
"I loved her very much, like a sister."
"Then let it be, I beg of you." He locked eyes with me. "What's done is done, and nothing will bring her back."
I put down my spoon and fiddled with the sandwich, picking at the crust. "Let me ask you this then. Why did you accuse Hollowell of having a hand in her death? It didn't look like you were letting it be."
He sighed and started poking at lettuce with his fork. "I meant he probably drove her to suicide, that's all. It never crossed my mind that it might be murder. How can it be, when she pulled the trigger?"
"Did you see it?"
"Heaven's, no!" His pale face mottled as he spat out the words.
"Did you know about the web site?"
This time I denoted a hair's breadth of hesitation before he answered. "No, not until I heard about it on the news. But it didn't surprise me. Hollowell could talk her into anything. It was probably his idea."
He finally started eating, chewing his salad with determined chomps. I had obviously hit a few sore spots. I wanted to learn more, but wasn't sure how long Olsen would allow me to emotionally poke and prod at him. But what would be the worse case scenario if I continued? I gave it a quick calculation.
He could storm out and leave me with the check. No big deal, I could afford a turkey sandwich and a chicken salad. He could abandon me here in The Citrus Capital Of The World. The restaurant wasn't that far from his office. I was sure I could find my way back to Olsen's Machinery and retrieve my car if I had to. Those thoughts aside, I forged ahead with fresh determination.
"Was Hollowell the reason you and Sophie broke up all those years ago?"
Olsen slightly leaned his head back. "John Hollowell," he began, still looking up at the ceiling, "was the reason Sophie and I got married, the reason we split, and the reason I raised Robbie alone." He lowered his head back down. "Do you believe in time travel, Odelia?" he asked, locking his eyes onto mine again.
I shrugged with non-commitment, not betraying that the idea of traveling back and forth between the past, present, and future was a favorite fantasy of mine.
"If you could go back in time," he asked, "what one event would you change, if you could?"
It was a good question. One I would have loved to speculate about under different circumstances. One event in all of history—there were so many possibilities. I shrugged again, knowing he didn't really need or want my answer. The question was merely a bridge to something important he wanted to tell me.
"If I could go back in time," he began in a relaxed, storytelling tone, "I'd go back to the summer of 1971. Sophie had just turned fifteen. I was sixteen, and already in love with her. We were at a pool party given by a kid at school. One of the boys was clowning around. He slipped on the diving board and hit his head on the end as he fell into the water. People were screaming. Everyone panicked. You know how it can be. I jumped in and pulled him out. He was unconscious. I saved his life."
He took a long, slow drink of his iced tea.
"If I could turn back time, knowing what I do now, I'd let the kid drown."
"Hollowell?" I guessed.
"Hollowell," Olsen answered, nodding solemnly. "It was at that party Sophie first caught his eye. Soon after, he began shamelessly pursuing her." He paused, then looked me square in the eye. "I have no doubt that, had John Hollowell drowned that day years ago, the world would be a better place."
We ate in silence for a short while. I was dying to ask him for more details, especially about Hollowell, but something told me now was a good time to keep still and be patient. I finished my sandwich, then waited while he polished off his salad. The waitress came by to clear our plates and refill our drinks. It was the height of the lunch hour and the place was almost filled.
The check came and he automatically picked it up. With a wave of workworn hands, he silenced my protests.
"I can see you mean no intentional harm to Robbie. And I could tell from the service that you cared about Sophie very much. But I worry you might cause my son considerable harm, purely by accident."
I started to say something, but he cut me off with another slight wave of his hand.
"I'd like to show you something." He got up, put some money on the table. "Do you have a little time to take a ride with me?"
"Sure," I answered.
After a short drive through a modest residential section of town, he turned up a small road bordered on the right by a eucalyptus grove. It led to the local cemetery. It was an older cemetery, small but well maintained, old monuments mixed with new stones. The grounds were scattered with palm trees and a few thick shade trees.
Olsen proceeded up one of the narrow streets and pulled up halfway, parking next to the curb. He got out and headed in the direction of one of the large trees. I followed, stopping when he did. In front of us was a grouping of headstones with OLSEN carved prominently on the largest.
"Those are my parents," he told me, pointing to two flat stones placed slightly to the right front of the family stone. One said Martha, the other Leonard. The dates on the stones told me that Leonard lived long after his wife died. "All of these," he said, sweeping the general area with an open hand, "are Olsens—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. We've been in these parts a long time. But now only Robbie and I remain to carry on the family."
I couldn't see what this had to do with Sophie until he pointed to another flat stone. I swallowed hard. It was positioned just off to the side of his parents and read:
SOPHIA L. OLSEN
BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER
Born 6-7-56...Died 8-14-86
Olsen sat down under the nearby tree and leaned up against it. I joined him, tucking my denim dress around my legs.
"From the time he first noticed her that day at the party," Olsen began, "Hollowell played with Sophie's emotions. She was a big girl, even then, and because of it not very popular with the boys." He smiled. "Except me. We'd known each other since grade school and were pals even then. She was very insecure about her weight and, of course, the kids always teased her."
Been there, done that, have the scars
, I thought to myself.
Suddenly, his voice took on a bite. "Hollowell was one of the most popular boys in school. He was good looking, lettered in all the major sports, drove a sports car, and had girls draped over him most of the time. He was as smooth as ice and just as treacherous. Nothing he did wrong ever caught up with him. He used her, of course. Sleeping with her, debasing her, dangling promises of eventual marriage. He would be seen everywhere with the most beautiful and popular girls, but he kept Sophie on the side, behind the scenes."
Olsen looked at me, his face serious and determined. "Forgive me for saying this, Odelia, but Sophie became Hollowell's private whore. And, as far as I know, was until the day she died." He looked down at the ground and picked at some of the scraggly grass. "I tried to tell her he was no good, but she just said I was jealous.
"When he graduated, Hollowell left for college and promised he'd be back for her. Every summer he'd return, crook his little finger, and she'd fly to his bed. Everyone but Sophie knew that nothing would come of the relationship. He was from a well-to-do family. She had nothing. He played around on her, made fun of her, dumped her each fall. The summer between his junior and senior year he didn't come back to Santa Paula at all.
"Sophie graduated the year after Hollowell and I did. A year later her mother died. She had no one else. Sophie moved in with my father and me. I was still in love with her, but the arrangement was strictly on the up and up. She took classes at the local junior college. Spent the rest of her time cooking and cleaning for us, and caring for my father, who was ill. He adored her." Olsen smiled faintly. "I wanted to marry her, but she was in love with that bastard and determined to wait for him."
It was hot, even under the tree. I shifted a bit and fanned myself gently with my hand. Olsen got up and went to his truck, coming back with a small compact cooler. He opened it, revealing a few small bottles of water and a couple of sodas.
"You have to be prepared out here with this heat," he said kindly, offering me a choice.
I took a can of Coke, said thanks, and eagerly popped the top. It felt good going down. Olsen took the other soda and followed suit. I studied him while he drank. He seemed a nice man, a very good man, one used to hard work and self-reliance. As with Greg Stevens, I wanted to believe he had nothing to do with Sophie's death.
The more I heard about Hollowell, the easier it was becoming to pin the tail on that donkey.
"The following year Hollowell graduated from college," Olsen said, continuing. "He came back that summer, but didn't contact her. We'd see him around town squiring a young woman he'd met in college. I think she was visiting him and his family for a few weeks. Sophie tried to call him, but he just ignored her. She was heartbroken. A month later, I convinced her to marry me."
Olsen's narrative disturbed me personally. It was difficult for me to reconcile the confident and bold Sophie I knew with this doormat caricature he was painting. Yet, I also knew, as a fellow fattie, how intoxicating acceptance could be. Especially amorous attention from a handsome and charming man.
Most teenage girls are insecure; overweight ones more so. We are all eager and hungry to believe that somewhere out there is a Prince Charming blind to extra pounds, a good-looking, successful chubby chaser toting a glass slipper in a wide size.
In school, I was always asked out by the outsiders and nerds. Had a popular and handsome Hollowell type tapped me on the shoulder, I'm not so sure I wouldn't have followed him like a panting puppy myself.
"But why the empty grave?" I asked.
"I'm getting to that," he answered. "I want you to know the whole story, unless you'd rather not."
"Please, go on." Wild horses couldn't drag me away at this point. I adjusted my legs, smoothed the folds in my dress, and took another gulp of my Coke.
"The first few years we were happy enough. I knew she didn't feel the same type of love I felt for her, but we managed. I was building my business. She finished her schooling. Then Hollowell came back. We'd heard that he'd been living down in Orange County and working for some development company. One weekend we ran into him at a local fair. Next thing I knew, Sophie was gone. She packed a few of her things, told me she was sorry, and left. I remember it clearly."
His voice was beginning to choke. I kept my eyes downward, focused on the grass. He got up from the ground and paced as he spoke.
"She was wearing a pretty green dress with tiny white polka dots. She cried as she told me she loved me, but that he needed her more. There was no telling her different. He was poison to her, like alcohol to a drunk. She couldn't seem to help herself. She moved down south and went to work for him. A year later, the owner of the company died and Hollowell married his widow. Sophie returned to me."