Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

“You’d have been marked for life like me,” I said.

“What are you talking about, ‘marked for life’? You were raised by your mother’s sister, Virginia. Wasn’t that the case?”

“A mixed blessing if there ever was one.”

“A blessing that counts nonetheless,” she said. She paused to glance at her watch. “I better skedaddle before Cornelia realizes I’m gone. Shall I tell Tasha we can expect you on the twenty-eighth?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

When we’d finished our tea I placed the album in a brown paper bag and walked Bettina to her car, where she gave my cheek a pat, saying, “Thank you for this. I was worried I’d fail and there’d be hell to pay.”

“Happy to be of help.”

She put a hand to her cheek. “I didn’t think to ask, but you may have photographs of your own you’d like to see included in the display.”

“Actually, I don’t. My aunt left a box of photos, but none of them are of family members. It’s possible she had some in her possession and destroyed them before she died. I wasn’t even aware I had family until four years ago.”

“Oh, you poor thing. Well, if you’d like some of these, we could have duplicates made. I’m sure Cornelia wouldn’t object to the expense.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve lived this long without keepsakes. I’m sure I’ll manage to muddle through.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

We voiced polite farewells and I watched her return to her car. Off she went, down the street, around the corner, and then she was gone. I turned and walked back to the studio with a mounting sense of dismay. What I was sure of, in retrospect, was my ass had been frosted and handed to me on a plate. Grand took in orphans? I was pissed off again.

I cleared the kitchen counter, tossing spoons, cups, and saucers into the sink. I ran hot water, squirted in a stream of liquid detergent, and watched the bubbles pile up. I turned the water off, washed the dishes, and put them in the rack. When I opened the kitchen cupboard, another little moth fluttered out.

“Shit!”

I began removing items from the shelves, inspecting them gingerly. The flap on a half-empty box of cornmeal bore a tiny slip of something in a web, like a wee insect hammock. I looked in and saw grubs crawling in the cornmeal like kids playing in the sand.

I got out a brown grocery bag and dropped in the box of cornmeal, followed by a bag of flour I didn’t even bother to check. I couldn’t remember now why I’d bought flour and cornmeal in the first place, but the two had been in my possession long enough to spawn vermin. In the interest of sanitation, I tossed out crackers, two stray packets of cereal, a package of dried pasta, and a round cardboard oatmeal container the lid of which I didn’t dare lift. Impatient with the process, I put the bag on the counter and emptied the cupboard entirely. At the end of my rampage, there was nothing left, which meant I could scrub the shelves. Good. How perfect. I would start life afresh.

When the phone rang I left the kitchenette and crossed to the desk. I took a deep breath before I picked up the handset, lest I snap at the poor sucker on the other end of the line. “Hello?”

“Kinsey?”

“Yes.”

“P. F. Sanchez down in Puerto. I came up with the vet’s name and thought I’d pass it on to you.”

“You did? Well, how cool! I didn’t expect to hear from you.” I pulled a scratch pad closer and opened the top drawer, looking for a pencil or a pen.

“I thought it might surprise you. I was pretty sure I knew where the file was, but I had to reorganize everything else while I was looking. That’s the downside of hoarding. Things are always getting out of hand. You have a pen and paper?”

“I do. Fire away,” I said.

“Guy’s name was Walter McNally. He had on office on Dave Levine. McNally Pet Hospital. I’ve got the address and the phone number that were in service at the time.”

He rattled them off and I made a note of the information.

“Did you say ‘Walter’ or ‘Walker’?”

“Walter, with a t.”

“Weird. I think I went to high school with his son,” I said. “What about the date when Ulf was put down?”

“July 13, 1967.”

“Thanks. You’re a doll.”

“You’re welcome. Glad to be of help. If you learn anything of interest, will you call me back and let me know?”

“I’ll do that.”

After I hung up, I hauled out the telephone book and turned to the yellow pages, looking under the listing for veterinarians. There was no entry for Walter McNally or McNally Pet Hospital. I flipped to the white pages, but the only McNallys listed were Walker and Carolyn in Horton Ravine. I made a note of their address and phone number. I picked up the handset and paused.

While I knew Walker to speak to, our relationship was otherwise nonexistent. During my senior year Walker McNally and I had been in the same American history class. At the time, I was in my rebellious phase (which lasted all through high school), so I’d been more interested in cutting classes than attending. As a result, I hadn’t done well. Then again, I didn’t do that well when I wasn’t truant, so no harm accrued as a result of my bad behavior. The only history class I remembered was the day we discussed the differences between the English and the American social structures. The teacher wanted us to appreciate the reasons the colonists had established this brave new land of ours and why they’d eventually broken away from the tyranny of the Crown. By his account, the Brits were rigidly class-conscious, while in America we were not. You can imagine my surprise. There followed a lively exchange of opinions, most of them voiced by the kids from Horton Ravine, whose families were well-off and therefore deeply committed to the notion that life was equitable. Of course, everyone in America was afforded equal opportunities! It was just that the Horton Ravine kids got more of them than the rest of us.

I remembered Walker as elegant, with a certain preppy nonchalance that I admired and feared from afar. He was a good-looking guy, aloof and self-aware. He and his entire social set took privilege for granted, and why would they not? Trips to Europe, Ivy League schools? Ho-hum for them. What piqued my interest was his wild side. He was into excess-fast cars and fast girls. The fast girls had money-nothing cheap about them-but they were reckless. I remembered two in particular-Cassie Weiss and Rebecca Ragsdale, with their perfect skin, perfect teeth, and trim athletic bodies. Both were friendly in the way of girls who know they’re better than you. Walker had dated Rebecca and then he’d broken up with her when Cassie made a play for him.

In those days the hot spot for making out was a hilltop pocket park dubbed Passion Peak. On Friday and Saturday nights the parking lot midway up the hill would be packed with cars, windows fogged over and much thrashing about in the front and rear seats. Those seeking greater comfort and privacy would climb to the top, where the city had installed picnic tables and benches and an oversized gazebo that served as a bandstand for summer concerts. The park had been closed to the public for the past two years because a group of teenagers had taken to building bonfires up there, one of which had set the autumn-dry grass ablaze and burned the gazebo to a charred shell.

By the end of the school year Cassie was pregnant and attended graduation in a robe that suggested she was hiding a basketball she’d stolen from the gym. Rebecca died that October in a fall from the third floor of a fraternity house back east. According to the gossip, the accident occurred while she and a Delta Upsilon pledge were having sex on the balcony, but surely he hadn’t propped her up on the rail. It was more likely she took a tumble while barfing over the side.