Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

It was the word “amazing” that somehow stuck in Jon’s craw. Mona was the enemy, but he could see how futile it was to battle her head-on. After that, Jon referred to her as the Amazing Mona, though never in his father’s company and never to her face. The newlyweds’ first Christmas together, the Amazing Mona had inveigled Lionel to play Santa for a Climping Academy fund-raiser, and every year thereafter, he donned his white wig, white beard, and white mustache, and then climbed into a red velvet fat suit, trimmed in white fur. Even his boots were fake. In Jon’s mind, the photograph that exactly captured their relationship was the one in a silver frame Mona displayed on the baby grand piano in the newly decorated living room. In it she was decked out in a low-cut Yves Saint Laurent evening gown, perched seductively on Santa’s lap. While she glowed for the camera, Lionel’s identity was obliterated. She did manage to raise over a hundred thousand dollars for the school, and for this she was widely praised.

Jon unburdened himself bitterly to his brother by phone. “She is such a total bitch. She’s a tyrant. I’m telling you. She’s a fucking na rcissist.”

Grant said, “Oh, come on. You’ll be out of the house in a year or two, so what’s it to you?”

“She thinks she can run my life and Dad lets her get away with it. Talk about being pussy-whipped.”

“So what? That’s his business, not yours.”

“Shit, that’s easy for you to say. I’d like to see you try living under the same roof with her.”

Bored with the topic, Grant said, “Just tough it out. Once you finish high school you can come live with me.”

“I’m not moving away from all my friends!”

“That’s the best I can offer. Stiff upper lip, old chum.”

Jon discovered a new way to occupy his time. He began breaking into various Horton Ravine homes he knew were unoccupied. While he caddied at the club, he picked up all manner of information about members’ travel plans. Guys chatted among themselves about upcoming cruises and European tours, jaunts to San Francisco, Chicago, and New York. It was a form of bragging, though it was couched in queries about exchange rates, good deals on charter flights, and luxury hotels. Lionel and Mona socialized with most of them, so all Jon had to do was look up their addresses in Mona’s Rolodex. He’d wait until the family was gone and find his way in. If there was talk of an alarm system or a house sitter, he knew to avoid the place. People were careless about locking up. Jon found windows unlatched, basement doors unsecured. Failing that, he scouted out the house keys hidden under flowerpots and fake garden rocks.

Once inside, he cruised the premises, poking through closets and dresser drawers. Home offices were a rich source of information. He was curious about women’s underwear, about the fragrances they used, their personal hygiene. He didn’t steal anything. That wasn’t the point. Breaking and entering gave him temporary relief from anxiety. The heightened fear level washed away the stress he carried and his equilibrium was restored.

Midway through his junior year, he started cutting classes at Climp, first occasionally, then more often. Not surprisingly, his grades tumbled. He was secretly amused at all the murmuring that went on behind his back. There were conferences at school and conferences at home. Notes went back and forth. Phone calls were exchanged. Lionel didn’t want to be the bad guy, so Mona was the one who finally lowered the boom.

She was stern and reproving, and Jon made every effort to keep a straight face while she read him the riot act. “Your father and I have discussed this at length. You have great potential, Jon, but you’re not putting forth your best effort. Since you’re doing so poorly, we think it’s a waste of our money to pay private-school tuition. If you’re unwilling to apply yourself at Climp, we think you should transfer to Santa Teresa High.”

Jon knew what she was up to. She thought the threat of public school would give her leverage. He shrugged. “That’s cool. Santa Teresa High School. Let’s do it.”

Mona frowned, unable to believe he wasn’t going to protest her ruling and promise to improve. “I’m sure you’ll want to graduate with your classmates at Climp, so we’d be willing to discuss it after the first semester at Santa Teresa High, assuming you do better. If you show us you can bring your grades up, we’ll see that you’re transferred back. The decision is yours.”

“I already decided. I’ll take the public high school.”

The fall of 1966, at the end of Jon’s first day at Santa Teresa High, he was standing at his locker when a kid at the locker next to his looked over and smiled. “You’re new. I saw you this morning. We’re in the same homeroom.”

“Right. I remember. I’m Jon Corso.”

The kid extended his hand. “Walker McNally.”

The two shook hands and then Walker said, “Where you from?”

“I was at Climp last year. I flunked out.”

Walker laughed. “Good job. I like it. Welcome to Santa Teresa High.” He opened his locker and dumped his books, then took out a windbreaker and shrugged himself into it. “Speaking of high, this seems like an occasion worth celebrating. You have a car?”

“In the parking lot.”

Walker reached into his jacket pocket and removed a joint. “Shall we adjourn, good sir?”

The first time Jon smoked dope was the first time he’d laughed in years. The laughter was hard-edged and uncontrollable. Later he couldn’t even remember what he found so funny, but in the moment it had felt like happiness, however empty and artificially induced.

Wednesday morning I came up against a stumbling block. As usual, I’d rolled out of bed, pulled on my sweats and running shoes, brushed my teeth, and headed out the door. I used the walk from my studio to Cabana Boulevard to warm up, setting a brisk pace to prime my pumping heart and soften the long muscles that kept my legs moving. By the time I reached the wharf at the foot of State Street, I’d break into a trot, picking up the tempo as I proceeded. Sometimes I jogged on the bike path and sometimes on the sidewalk, depending on the number of runners, walkers, and bicyclists out on any given morning.

Ahead of me a group of seniors had taken up a big chunk of the bike path, walking four people across and eight to ten people deep, in two separate clusters. I opted for the sidewalk to avoid the stragglers. On my left I passed a row of coin-operated newspaper stands and I gave them a cursory glance. A name popped out at me and I paused to read the headlines, most of which were dated the day before. The latest edition of the L.A. Times, the Perdido County Record, and the San Francisco Chronicle would replace the old issues as soon as the delivery truck made its morning rounds. What caught my attention was an article in the Santa Teresa Dispatch, on the left-hand side of the front page, just above the fold. The heading read:

UCST COED KILLED IN DRUNK DRIVER MISHAP

In the next line down, I saw Walker McNally’s name.

I tried to peer past the frame, but the balance of the story was blocked from my view. I don’t carry money when I run so I was forced to circumvent the tiny issue of the lock. I gave the window flap a quick couple of jerks and up it popped. I removed a copy of the Dispatch and let the window snap back into the locked position. I turned to the first section and read the article while I walked. When I reached the bus stop, I sank onto a bench and read the whole of it again.

On Monday afternoon, a UCST sophomore named Julie Riordan had been killed in a two-car collision on Highway 154 while returning home from San Francisco. Walker McNally had been at the wheel of the other car. According to witnesses, he’d lost control of his Mercedes, crossed into oncoming traffic, and slammed into her head-on. He’d then crawled out of the wreckage and taken off on foot. By the time the cops caught up with him, he’d collapsed on the side of the road. He’d been admitted to St. Terry’s with a blood-alcohol level well over the legal limit. His injuries were non-life-threatening and his condition was listed as stable. Julie Riordan, age nineteen, was pronounced dead at the scene.