Wendy Hornsby - Telling Lies

For the rest of the afternoon, we had sat silent vigil. There was nothing safe to say. Sometime during the evening a detachment of officers arrived from the Presidio across the Bay, bearing the official message. They had filed in and stood in our living room, ramrod straight, all starched and pressed and spit-polished, as my parents crumbled. It had been brutal.

And now it was my turn to deliver the message. There was no way, in the end, to soften the truth except to tell them in person. But I could not leave Emily.

I thought that the best thing would be to call on my father’s brother, Max, impose on him as I had so often before, persuade him to prepare the ground.

Everyone in the room was watching me, half a dozen pairs of tear-filled eyes. Their sadness made me feel better for Emily, knowing there were so many people who cared about her. Em, always on a crusade, didn’t always spend enough time nurturing friendships. Or little sisters.

Father Hermilio finished his prayers, anointed Emily, blessed her, blessed the rest of us, then knelt quietly at the bedside. Michael Flint touched my elbow and I moved with him toward the door.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m upright.”

“Can I ask some questions?”

I shrugged. “Can I stop you?”

He smiled. “Not likely.”

“Go ahead.”

“The name Aleda Weston mean anything to you?”

“Of course.”

“She made some deal with the FBI in New Hampshire. She’s coming to L.A. to surrender.”

I looked up at Detective Flint, but his face gave away nothing. “You know about Emily and Aleda Weston?”

“I told you, Emily and I go back a long way. When I was a rookie, she was one of the first famous people I arrested.”

“A feather in your cap,” I said.

“Where are you staying in town?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Emily’s apartment key is in that bag Bronk brought in. You’d be close by if she needed you. She wouldn’t mind.”

“You know this for a fact?” I said.

He smiled, a full, tooth-showing smile. “I know this for a fact.”

Flint picked up the white plastic bag. “This is the personal property Emily had with her when she was brought to the hospital. We’ve finished with it, so you can have it, if you want it. I’m warning you, it isn’t real pretty.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the bag. It felt heavy, and I could see moisture beading inside. I could also see a khaki field jacket and a pair of white Reeboks. The rest looked like more clothes.

Dr. Song tucked his stethoscope into his pocket. “It’s settled? You’ll be at Emily’s?”

“I think I should stay here.”

He shook his head. “Emily’s okay for now. You get some rest while you can. You’re in for a long haul.”

I didn’t want to leave Emily. But there was no way to avoid it. I’ll never forget how hurtful it was to learn about Marc, and to grieve for him, under the public gaze. I wanted to buy my parents as much time and privacy as I could. From Emily’s apartment I could speak with them alone. I planned to be away from Emily for no more than an hour.

I went over to Emily and kissed her cool cheek. I turned to Dr. Song. “Do you have the number at Emily’s apartment?” A chorus of four responded, in unison, “Yes.”

“You have a car outside?” Bronk asked.

“She walked,” Flint said. He took the bag from me and reached for the door. “I’ll take you home.”

He was pushy, and I don’t like to be pushed. But it was still raining outside and my feet were still cold. So I went with him. Why not? If Flint felt better carrying Em’s bag and holding doors for me, let him.

Father Hermilio walked out with us into the crush of people hovering outside Em’s room. The two men fended off queries from the crowd and I walked quietly, as if in a cocoon, between them, noting faces, attitudes, separating the morbidly curious from those genuinely grieving. I figured the two categories were about evenly represented.

Father Hermilio talked to me as we walked, but I hadn’t been listening.

“So you will come?” he said.

“Where?” I asked.

“Midnight mass at La Placita. The community will offer prayers for your brother. Emily arranged it. Now, of course, we will pray for her, too. It would be nice for you to speak for the family.”

“I’ll come,” I said. “But I can’t speak. I could never get through that.”

“I understand,” he said. “But you will come?”

“Yes.” I was trapped again by my upbringing. And puzzled. “She set up this service for my brother, Marc?”

“Si,” he said. “Por toda la familia.”

For the whole family, he said. More likely, for Emily. The years my brother was in Vietnam were tough on all of us, but especially tough for Emily. It was embarrassing for her, one of the nation’s leading antiwar rabble-rousers, to have her twin in the Marines. She gave him incredible grief for dropping out of Stanford and enlisting. When he signed up for his second tour of duty, one would think, listening to Emily, that he had done something criminal.

Marc and Emily were close, as twins are. But they always fought. They couldn’t help it; they both had exceedingly strong personalities-that is, egos. Their battles were more wars of domination, one over the other, than expressions of independence. They could never successfully separate from each other. Even when Marc died.

As we entered the lobby, the crowd rose for us. That’s when it hit me, the purpose of the flowers and candles, the neighborhood people crowded in the hospital. It was all for Emily. I had been so preoccupied with looking for Emily that I hadn’t put it all together before. Word about Emily had gotten out through the community grapevine very quickly. Again, I thought it was nice so many cared for her. At the same time, I began to feel very uneasy.

Sometime after Em had been found in that alley, she seemed to have undergone a transition from Emily, doer of good things, into Saint Emily. Mythic, heroic, martyred Saint Emily. I didn’t like it very much. Emily would hate it. For her, I would not enable the myth makers. I would not become the keeper of Emily’s flame, as she had been the keeper of Marc’s.

The crowd pulled at me with their sad faces, as if by their concern they could will from me better news than I had to give them.

Father Hermilio leaned his head close to mine. “Will you stay for a moment and share their prayers?”

“Please, I can’t do it now,” I said. I walked the narrow path that opened for me through the crowd, acknowledging their murmured blessings, touching the hot hands that reached out for mine. There was a general sighing, low like wind in your ears when you’re running very fast.

“I will see you at mass tonight, my child,” Father Hermilio said. He made the sign of the cross over me, and I bolted.

It was a short run for freedom. When I saw what was waiting for me outside, I stopped so abruptly that Flint nearly collided with me.

Poised among the flowers and candles in the covered entry, a three-person TV news crew lay in waiting: a reporter, a cameraman and a soundman-gofer.

I didn’t know the reporter’s name, but I recognized the hairdo. When she caught sight of me, I saw her check her reflection in the end of the camera lens and plump the lacquered hair.

I didn’t want to go through this new ordeal. I might have backed out, except that I was on foreign turf, and I might need a few favors on account. I plumped my own hair, or tried, and took a handful of Flint’s gabardine-upholstered elbow.

“Call your mother,” I said to him. “Tell her you’ll be on the eleven o’clock news.”

He chuckled and pushed open the door.

The camera was already rolling on us.