Джеффри Дивер: The Best American Mystery Stories 2006

It was three weeks before she saw Evelyn again, at the palisades overlooking the Santa Monica beach. Evelyn walked toward Ginger with a curious lightness in her step. She covered her mouth when she laughed. She flicked her wrist at the end of a sentence, as though trying to toss away her words.

“He loves my hair,” Evelyn said. “He loves my laugh. Listen.”

The sound made Ginger cold. It was difficult to stand straight; the ground was rising like slow, heavy waves.

“You look well. I have to go,” said Evelyn. She backed up, as though fearful that Ginger would grab onto her. Then she stopped and pulled a small red purse from her pocket. “Here,” said Evelyn. She thrust out a purse. “It has two hundred dollars.”

“No,” said Ginger, stepping back.

She felt her sister shove the purse into her hands and press her fingers around it. ‘Just take it. Here.”

Evelyn quickly ran toward the bus stop. Ginger understood that this would be the last time she saw her. It would be Ginger’s own decision to move and not tell her sister where she was going. She sat down for a long time after the bus had pulled off, eyes closed, imagining that the wide blue sky, the gray elephantine palms would be gone when she opened them. When she looked again, the world was still there; Ginger left the purse on the bench and started walking.

The next morning, when she woke up, she did not remember how the crowd had buffeted her like an ocean, how she had finally found a man in a maroon uniform who helped her find her room, but her legs were weak, as though she’d walked a great distance, and her mouth was dry from calling out Darlene’s name.

She was trembling, as though she were extremely hungry. She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to buy a present for Darlene. She wanted to do this simple action: go into a store, select a gift for her, and buy it. That was all. Ginger stood up, wearing the same dress she had the night before, faint with the scent of smoke and alcohol, and walked slowly to the gift shop.

There she stood, surrounded by the store’s offerings: the butterfly-sequined blouses, the china statues of noble wildlife, the authentic replica Eskimo fur hats, the jars of glacier-blue rock candy.

“May I help you?” the girl at the counter asked.

Ginger selected a large opal brooch set in a gold snowflake. It was three hundred dollars.

“Beautiful taste,” the salesgirl said.

“Hey,” said a voice. It was Darlene. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

The girl stood before her. Ginger put down the brooch.

“Are you all right?” asked Darlene. “Who’s that for?” she said, glancing at the brooch.

Ginger looked at her. “You,” she said.

“That will be three hundred and fifteen dollars and seventy-three cents,” said the salesgirl.

Ginger put her hand into her red velvet purse. There was nothing in it but the silk lining. She shook out her purse. Now she had one dollar and thirty-seven cents.

“I have no money,” she said, softly.

“Is it in your room?” the salesgirl asked.

“This is all I have,” Ginger said.

She pushed her hand deep into the purse, feeling its emptiness. Her coins fell onto the floor. “You don’t have to buy me anything,” said Darlene.

The lights were too bright, as though someone had turned them all on at once.

“I want to buy it,” said Ginger. “Don’t you understand? I want to.”

She stood, swaying a little, aggravated that Darlene did not recognize her goodness. Darlene squinted at her, as though Ginger had begun to disappear.

“What are you looking at?” she asked Darlene. She lurched toward her. “What?”

“Hold on,” said Darlene, looking at the salesgirl. “I’ll be right back.” She backed up and began to hurry down the hallway.

“Where is she going?” asked Ginger. She stepped toward the door. Then Ginger went into the hallway and began to follow her.

An elderly couple floated toward her. The woman wore a white brimmed sunhat and the man wore a camera around his neck. “Thief,” Ginger whispered. She passed the maid clutching armfuls of crumpled sheets. “Thief,” she said. The maid turned around. Ginger began to walk onto the deck, the sunlight brilliant and cold on her arms. She staggered through the crowd in their pale sweat suits. “Thief!” she yelled. She believed one side of her was becoming heavy. Her heart banged in her throat. Her voice was flat and loud. She heard the jingle of ice cubes in people’s drinks. “My money!” she yelled. Her voice was guttural, unrecognizable to her. “Give me my money! “

The girl was running up to her.

“Thief,” she yelled.

The girl blinked. “What?” she asked.

“Thief,” said Ginger. She wanted to say the word over and over. Ginger’s face was warm; she was exhilarated by the act of accusation. She had forgotten the girl’s name. It had simply disappeared from her. “I know who you are.” Her knees buckled. The girl grabbed her arm.

“Call a doctor!” the girl yelled. “Quick.”

The ocean was moving by very quickly, and Ginger stared, unblinking, at the bright water until she was unsure whether she was on the deck looking at the water or in the water looking up at the light.

The girl’s firm grip made her feel calmer. Ginger did not remember her name, did not know who this friend was, did not know who had loved her and whom she had loved. She leaned toward the glaring blue world, the water and ice and sky and she felt as though she were part of it.

“You’re not what you say,” murmured the girl. “I don’t believe you. You’re not a swindler. You’re a nice old lady. It was all a joke, wasn’t it—”

Ginger breathed more slowly and clutched the girl’s arm. She saw everything in that moment: saw the trees on the shore giving up their leaves to the aqua sky, the ocean shimmering into white cloud, and the passengers’ breath becoming rain. She felt the vibrations of the ship’s motor in her throat. She stood, with the other passengers, looking. Through the clear, chill water, the ship moved north.

From Meeting Across the River

It was cold in Yellowstone Park in early June, and dirty tongues of snow glowed light blue in the timber from the moonlight. The tires of the van hissed by on the road.

“Look,” Vladdy said to Eddie, gesturing out the window at the ghostly forms emerging in the meadow, “elks.”

“I see ‘em every night,” the driver said. “They like to eat the willows. And you don’t say ‘elks.’ You say ‘elk.’ Like in ‘a herd of elk.’”

“My pardon,” Vladdy said, self-conscious.

The driver of the van was going from Mammoth Hot Springs in the northern part of the park to Cody, Wyoming, out the east entrance. He had told them he had to pick up some people at the Cody airport early in the morning and deliver them to a dude ranch. The driver was one of those middle-aged Americans who dressed and acted like it was 1968, Vladdy thought.

The driver thought he was cool, giving a ride to Vladdy and Eddie, who obviously looked cold and out of place and carried a thick metal briefcase and nothing else. The driver had long curly hair on the side of his head with a huge mustache that was turning gray. He had agreed to give them a ride after they waved him down on the side of the road. The driver lit up a marijuana cigarette and offered it to them as he drove. Eddie accepted. Vladdy declined. He wanted to keep his head clear for what was going to happen when they crossed the huge park and came out through the tunnels and crossed the river. Vladdy had not done business in America yet, and he knew that Americans could be tough and ruthless in business. It was one of the qualities that had attracted Vladdy in the first place.