Where Echoes Live (19 page)

“What does Pa think about all this?”

“Naturally he's not too thrilled about the idea. But you can't expect a man who's hidden out in the garage for fifteen years to be terribly upset.”

She had a point there, although surely she exaggerated how long it had been going on. In recent years Pa had seemed more absent than present. Often he slept all night in his workshop on a cot that he claimed was only for naps. I thought of what my mother's days must be like now that her children were scattered along the West Coast from San Diego to Portland: she had less to do, but few outside interests because she'd never had time to develop any. What friends she had came in couples, but my father had grown less and less inclined to socialize, so she went through the motions— cleaning and shopping and washing, making largely unappreciated meals and caring for the occasional grandchild.

But didn't that happen to other women of her age? What did they do? They took up hobbies, went to classes, joined clubs. Instead of leaving my father, why for God's sake couldn't my mother take up quilting?

And then I realized that there was more to this than she was telling.

“Ma,” I said, “is there … ?”

She watched me, expression unreadable in the firelight.

“I mean, do you … ?”

She smiled. Dammit, she was
enjoying
watching me struggle to ask if she had a lover!

Finally she relented. “There is a gentleman, yes. He takes me places and talks to me and treats me like a lady. He gives me champagne and cooks me dinner like your friend George does for you. And of course we also enjoy other things—”

I held up my hand in an “I don't want to know about those things” gesture. “Ma,” I said, “who is this man? Where did you meet him?”

“His name is Melvin Hunt. He's fifty-seven.” She grinned wickedly. “A younger man, and quite well off. I met him at the Laundromat where I have been going every week for three years because your father can't be bothered to fix my washer and won't pay for a repairman.”

“He can't be that well off if he hangs out at the Laundromat.”

Ma gave me a withering look. “Melvin
owns
the entire chain.”

“Oh. Well, do you plan to marry this man?”

“No, I don't. But as soon as I get back to San Diego, I'm moving in with him.”

Now I understood her tolerance of me moving in will George; it
had
been a ploy, to get me to accept her live-in relationship with … what's-his-name. And I also under- stood the other things that had puzzled me during the evening. Her rewriting of family history was an attempt to reassure herself that she had done well by her children and now deserved to enjoy a new life. Her sudden approval of money and tolerance of divorce were mental adjustments made to justify her future plans.

“Ma,” I said, “how long have you been seeing this man?'

“He has a name, Sharon. And I've been seeing Melvin for a year now.”

An entire year. Through all those phone calls and last Thanksgiving dinner and my brief visit in May she'd been hiding the existence of this … person from me. From all of us. Stunned, I stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom. If you like, help yourself to some more brandy.” She would, too. She'd developed some pretty fancy tastes since being with … him.

I hurried down the hall and through my informal living room and kitchen to the bathroom. Shut the door and leaned against it.

This can't be happening, I thought. Mothers aren't sup- posed to up and run off with men they meet in Laundromats. Not even if the man owns the whole goddamn chain.

How could she do this to me?

Tears flooded my eyes. I tried to blink them back, but they came anyway.

Now look what she'd made me do!

This whole thing was ludicrous, unseemly. Having an affair with this man. She just wasn't acting her age!

Damned if I was going to let her make me cry, though.

I switched on the light, put my hands on either side of the washbasin, and leaned in toward the mirror. It was a trick Ma had taught each of us at an early age: seeing how ridiculous you look when crying always makes you stop.

The face that looked back at me could have been that of a squally little baby. Except its hair had a long gray streak that had been there since its teens. And there were laugh lines around its eyes. And there was a wrinkle that I'd never noticed till now….

How could she do this to me?

Now look what she'd made me do!

She just wasn't acting her age!

She
wasn't acting her age?

My pout vanished as laughter bubbled up. The heretofore unnoticed wrinkle on my brow smoothed. The tears stopped.

I chuckled. Put my head back and howled with laughter.

The door opened. Ma said, “I thought I'd find you in front of the mirror. It works every time, doesn't it?”

I was at my desk by eight-thirty the next morning. At home in my guest room my mother slept the sleep of the righteous—something I wasn't at all certain she was entitled to. My first act was to try to reach my father in San Diego; the phone rang a dozen times before I realized he was probably out in the garage, where there wasn't an extension. Next I called my brother John's number in Chula Vista, but got only the machine for the housepainting company he runs out of his apartment. No one was home at Charlene's, either, and Ma had forbidden me to speak with my other siblings.

This is ridiculous, I thought. In the midst of the biggest family crisis ever, there isn't a McCone available to discuss the problem.

Still glowering, I sipped coffee and paged through my desk calendar. I had nothing on tap until one, when I was to meet with an assistant D.A. to go over my testimony for an upcoming murder trial. As I scanned my file on the case, my somber mood deepened; it was the one I'd been working when I met George, and the facts seemed as sordid and depressing today as they had many months before. I needed no real preparation for the conference, so I quickly turned my attention to more pressing business and dialed the number of the Coalition's trailer in Vernon. There was no answer, so I called the one next door that housed the Friends of Tufa Lake.

Ripinsky answered. He sounded sluggish and grouchy—he was clearly not a morning person—but brightened when I identified myself. “Hope you're calling to report something positive.”

“Actually, only to ask a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“The first night I was there you mentioned you'd taken a public relations tour of the mine site and spoken with Transpacific's supervising geologist. Was he on their staff or a consultant?”

“Consultant. I've got his card here someplace. Hold on.” There was a clunk as he set the receiver down. He came back on the line about half a minute later. “Got it. His name's Alvin K. Knight. Address on Los Palmos Drive there in San Francisco.” He read it and the phone number off.

“Is there a company name?”

“No, the card just says ‘mining geologist.' Probably a one-man operation.”

“Odd—I'd have thought Transpacific would use a large firm for a project of this size.”

“Maybe the guy's good, McCone.”

“Maybe.” I hesitated. “Hy, is everything okay there?”

“Except for the fact that Ned's still in Sacramento and Anne-Marie is mightily pissed at him, yes.”

“No more break-ins or ...anything?”

“Everything's copacetic. In fact, I've got so little to do that I'm thinking of closing the office and taking the day off.”

“Where's Anne-Marie? I tried the Coalition's trailer, but there wasn't any answer.”

“At her cabin, working on the project that was interrupted when she came down here.”

“So what you're both doing is waiting for me.”

“That's about it.”

“Well, I'll try to come up with something soon.”

“Do that. And keep in touch.”

I hung up, then dialed the number of Alvin K. Knight, mining geologist. Another machine answered and took my message; sometimes I hate the cheerful efficiency of answering machines.

There were routine tasks that had to be done—the record keeping and correspondence that are the downside of a private investigator's job. By eleven-thirty I'd fielded five phone calls and waded through most of the paperwork. Since the calls had all been vaguely annoying, I glanced irritably at the flashing light when the sixth came through, and hit the intercom button rather than just picking up.

“What?” I demanded.

“And top o' the morning to you,” Ted said.

“Sorry. I wasn't here for the usual Monday hassles, and Tuesday went all right, so I guess Wednesday's out to get me.”

“Apology accepted. It's George—that should perk you up.”

“Thanks.” I punched the flashing button. “Hi. Have you recovered from Ma's visit yet?”

“What's to recover from? She was charming. In fact, she just called and suggested we have lunch so we can get to know each other better.”

“What?
Are you going?”

“Sure. I don't teach today, and I was at loose ends.”

“Well, good. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. You know what she sprang on me last night after we got home?” I went on to tell him in considerable detail about Ma's plans.

When I finished he was silent for a moment. “Well, I can see where that comes as a shock.”

“A shock? It rivaled the big quake! She's making an awful mistake.”

“Are you sure? From what you've told me about your parents, they haven't had much of a marriage for some time now. And if she's been seeing this Melvin for a year, it's not a snap decision.”

“That's not the point, George.”

“What is, then?”

“… I don't know. It's just … Oh, hell, I don't want to discuss it now. Where are you taking her?”

“She hinted that she's never been to Top of the Mark.”

“God! I never should have told her you've got money.”

“I've got nothing better to do with it than spend it.”

Was that his way of telling me he had no child to leave his considerable fortune to? Or was I merely being paranoid? Quickly I said, “Well, I'll let you go now so you won't be late for your big date.”

“Wish me luck.”

“I think you'll need it.”

I hung up and swiveled around to stare out the bay window behind me. In spite of the sunlight and the fall color on the trees, the triangular park in front of All Souls looked drab and uninviting. Across it, the facing houses looked shabbier than usual and abandoned. Sometimes when I contemplated the view from my office window I had the eerie feeling that I was the only person left on Bernal Heights, everyone else having fled some imminent danger whose warning signs I'd failed to notice.

Although I knew the delusion was only the product of a momentary mood, it wasn't an isolated instance, and it seemed to come more frequently of late. Was I still suffering from posttraumatic shock induced by the events of last summer? Or by the big earthquake? Neither seemed likely, but if one or the other wasn't the cause, I didn't want to speculate….

I turned back to the desk and buzzed Rae to remind her I was buying lunch today. Her reaction to my mother's bombshell was certain to be more satisfying than George's, and perhaps my family crisis would further help us to bridge the chasm between us, just as laughter had the day before.

Much of San Francisco is laid out in a grid pattern—the Avenues in the western part of the city are a good example of this—but when one ascends to the hills, all semblance of orderliness vanishes. Here the prime objective is to gain as much of a view as possible; the streets meander precipitously close to sheer drop-offs, and the precarious positioning of the houses is testimony to the marvels of modern engineering, or to man's foolishness. It's easy to get lost in the tangles of lanes and cul-de-sacs that crown our hills—which is exactly what I did when I went looking for Lionel Ong's home late that afternoon.

When I reached the street that borders Sutro Forest, an urban wilderness at the base of the rust-red futuristic communications tower, I realized I'd gone wrong, so I retraced my route and found I'd overshot Saint Germain Avenue a block below. It was narrow and short, ending in a brick retaining wall beyond which tall conifers and cypresses framed a panoramic view. The houses to the right were built high on the slope so their windows could look out over the roofs of their neighbors; those on the left—Ong's side—were low and sprawled down the hillside.

The Ong house was light gray, surrounded by a high wall that was actually an extension of the three-car garage. Above it I could see the spiky leaves of yucca trees and part of the house itself: a series of angular protrusions containing skylights and small windows that glinted in the late-afternoon sun. The gate was of heavy crosshatched timbers; an intercom was set into the wall next to it.

I pressed the buzzer and identified myself to the male voice that answered. Within a few seconds the gate swung open, and I stepped into a stylized courtyard full of yucca and citrus trees; the entrance to the house was directly across it. As I approached, a man appeared, stood framed in the doorway.

He was of medium height and slender, with thick black hair and cool appraising eyes. They sized me up as I moved toward him, then became properly welcoming and polite, as if some internal switch had kicked on, storing whatever information he'd gleaned from observing me and shifting him into a more sociable demeanor.

“Ms. McCone.” He came forward, hand extended. “I'm Lionel Ong.”

I shook the offered hand and followed him into a stark black marble-floored foyer. Its walls were winter white and devoid of ornamentation; the rays that fell from the central skylight did nothing to warm them. Wide sliding doors bisected the wall directly ahead of us, but they were shut.