Bill Pronzini: Bones

“No,” she said. “No.”

“You don't know why?”

“I won't talk about that. Not about that.”

“It's important, Mrs. Crane. If you could just give me some idea…”

“No,” she said. Then she said, “Oh, wait, I was wrong. It wasn't ‘Never Argue with a Woman’ that I liked so much. Of course it wasn't. It was ‘the Almost Perfect Vacation.’ How silly of me to have got the two mixed up.”

She smiled at me again, but it was a different kind of smile this time; her eyes seemed to be saying, “Please don't talk about this anymore, please don't hurt me.” I felt her pain-that had always been one of my problems, too much empathy-and it made me feel like one of the sleazy types that prowled Telegraph Avenue.

But I didn't quit probing at her, not just yet. I might not like myself sometimes, but that had never stopped me from doing my job. If it had I would have gone out of business years ago.

I said, “I'm sorry, Mrs. Crane. I won't bring that up again. Is it all right if I ask you some different questions?”

“Well…”

“Do you still see any old friends of your husband's?”

She bit her lip. “We didn't have many friends,” she said. “We had each other, but… it wasn't…” The words trailed off into silence.

“There's no one you're still in touch with?”

“Only Stephen. He still comes to see me sometimes.”

“Stephen?”

“Stephen Porter.”

“Would he be any relation to Adam Porter?”

“Why, yes-Adam's brother. Did you know Adam?”

“No, ma'am. He was mentioned to me as a friend of your husband's.”

“More my friend than Harmon's, I must say.”

“Adam, you mean?”

“Yes. He was my art teacher. He was a painter, you know.”

“No, I didn't know.”

“A very good painter. Oils. I was much better with watercolors. Still life, mostly. Fruit and such.”

“Do you still paint?”

“Oh no, not in years and years.”

“Is Stephen Porter also a painter?”

“No, he's a sculptor. He teaches, too; it's very difficult for sculptors to make a living these days unless they also teach. I imagine that's the case with most artists, don't you?”

“Yes, ma'am. Does he have a studio?”

“Oh, of course.”

“In what city?”

“In San Francisco.”

“Could you tell me the address?”

“Are you going to see Stephen?”

“I'd like to, yes.”

“Well, you tell him it's been quite a while since he came to visit. Months, now. Will you tell him that?”

“I will.”

“North Beach,” she said.

“Ma'am?”

“Stephen's studio. It's in North Beach.” She smiled reminiscently. “Harmon and I used to live in North Beach-a lovely old house near Coit Tower, with trees all around. He so loved his privacy.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“It's gone now. Torn down long ago.”

“Can you tell me the address of Stephen's studio?”

“I don't believe I remember it,” she said. “But I'm sure it's in the telephone directory.”

Inside the house, the vacuum cleaner stopped its screeching; there was a hushed quality to the silence that followed. I broke it by saying, “I understand Thomas Yankowski was also a friend of your husband's.”

“Well, he was Harmon's attorney.”

“Did your husband have any special reason to need a lawyer?”

“Well, a woman tried to sue him once, for plagiarism. It was a silly thing, one of those… what do you call them?”

“Nuisance suits?”

“Yes. A nuisance suit. He met Thomas somewhere, while he was doing legal research for one of his books, I think it was, and Thomas handled the matter for him.”

“Were they also friends?”

“I suppose they were. Although we seldom saw Thomas socially.”

“Does he ever come to visit you now?”

“Thomas? No, not since I refused him.”

“How do you mean, ‘refused him?’”

“When he asked me to marry him.”

“When was this?”

“Not long after… well, a long time ago.”

“And you turned him down?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Harmon was the only man I ever loved. I've never remarried; I never could.”

“You and Mr. Crane had no children, is that right?”

She said demurely, “We weren't blessed that way, no.”

“But your husband did have a son by a previous marriage.”

“Michael,” she said, and nodded. “I was quite surprised when he came to see me. I never knew Harmon had a son. Michael never knew it either. Michael… I can't seem to recall his last name…”

“Kiskadon.”

“Yes. An odd name. I wish he'd come back for another visit; he was only here that one time. Such a nice boy. Harmon would have been proud of him, I'm sure.”

“Did you know Michael's mother?”

“No. Harmon was already divorced from her when I met him.”

“Did you know his first wife?”

“First wife?”

“Ellen Corneal.”

“No, you're mistaken,” she said. “Harmon was never married to a woman named Ellen.”

“But he was. While they were attending UC…”

“No,” she said positively. “He was only married once before we took our vows. To Michael's mother, Susan. Only once.”

“Is that what he told you?”

She didn't have the chance to answer my question. The front door opened just then and a woman came out-a dumpy woman in her forties, with dyed black hair bound up with a bandanna and a face like Petunia Pig. She said, “I thought I heard voices out here,” and gave me a suspicious look. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“We've been talking about Harmon,” Mrs. Crane said.

“Yes,” I said, “we have,” and let it go at that.

“God, another one of those,” the dumpy woman said. “You haven't been upsetting her, have you? You fan types always upset her.”

“I don't think so, no.”

She turned to Mrs. Crane. “Auntie? Has he been upsetting you?”

“No, Marilyn. Do I look upset, dear?”

“Well, I think you'd better come inside now.”

“I don't want to come inside, dear.”

“We'll have some tea. Earl Grey's.”

“Well, tea would be nice. Perhaps the gentleman…”

“The gentleman can come back some other time,” Petunia Pig said. She was looking at me as she spoke and her expression said: I'm lying for her benefit. Go away and don't come back.

“But he might want to ask me some more questions…”

“No more questions. Not today.”

Mrs. Crane smiled up at me. “It has been very nice talking to you,” she said.

“Same here. I appreciate your time, Mrs. Crane.”

“Not at all. I enjoy talking about Harmon.”

“Of course you do, Auntie,” Petunia Pig said, “but you know it isn't good for you when it goes on too long. Come along, now. Upsy-daisy.”

She helped Mrs. Crane up off the swing, putting an arm protectively around her shoulders, and Mrs. Crane smiled at her and then smiled at me and said, “Marilyn takes such good care of me,” and all of a sudden I realized, with a profound sense of shock, that her air of serenity did not come from inner peace at all; it and her smile both were the product of a mental illness.

The niece, Marilyn, glared at me over her shoulder as she walked Mrs. Crane to the door. I moved quickly to the stairs, went down them, and when I looked back they were gone inside. The door banged shut behind them.

I sat in the car for a couple of minutes, a little shaken, staring up at the house and remembering Mrs. Crane's smile and the pain that had come into her eyes when I pressed her about her husband's suicide. That must have been what did it to her, what unsettled her mind and made her unable to care for herself. And that meant she had been like this for thirty-five years. Thirty-five years!