Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“Christmas a long time ago?”

“Yes.”

Something else atop the dresser caught my eye: a corner of blue leatherette under the apple drawings. I pulled it out. A savings passbook from a bank in Yucaipa. She didn’t seem to mind my intrusion. Feeling like a burglar anyway, I opened the book.

Several years’ worth of transactions in an unwavering pattern: $500 cash deposits on the first of each month. Occasional withdrawals. A carry-over balance of $78,000 and some change. The account was in trusteeship for Jasper Ransom and Shirlee Ransom, co-tenants. The trustee, Helen A. Leidecker.

“Money,” said Shirlee. Proud smile.

I put the book back where I’d found it.

“Shirlee, where was Sharon born?”

Look of bafflement.

“Did you give birth to her? Did she come out of your tummy?”

Giggles.

I heard footsteps and turned.

A man came in. He saw me, hitched up his pants, raised his eyebrows, and shuffled over to his wife’s side.

He wasn’t much bigger than she- barely over five feet- and about her age. Balding, with virtually no chin and very large, very soft-looking blue eyes. A fleshy nose tunneled between the eyes, shadowing a protruding upper lip. His mouth hung slightly open. He had only a few, yellowed teeth. An Andy Gump face, coated with fine white hair that resembled soap film. His shoulders so narrow that his short arms seemed to grow out of his neck. His hands dangled at his sides and ended in pudgy hands with splayed fingers. He wore a white T-shirt several sizes too large for him, gray work pants tied with a string around the waist, and high-top sneakers. The pants were pressed. His fly was open.

“Ooh, Jasp,” said Shirlee, hiding her mouth with her hand and pointing.

He looked puzzled. She giggled and pulled up his zipper, patted him playfully on the cheek. He blushed, looked down.

“Hi,” I said, holding out my hand. “My name is Alex.”

He ignored me. Seemed preoccupied with his sneakers.

“Mr. Ransom… Jasper-”

Shirlee broke in. “Don’ hear. Nuthin’. Don’ talk.”

I managed to catch his eye and mouthed the word hello .

Blank stare.

I offered my hand again.

He threw rabbity glances around the room.

I turned to Shirlee. “Could you tell him I’m a friend of Sharon’s?”

She scratched her chin, contemplated, then screamed at him:

“He know Sharon! Sha-ron! Sha-ron!”

The little man’s eyes grew wide, darted away from mine.

“Please tell him I like his drawings, Shirlee.”

“ Drawings! ” shouted Shirlee. She did a crude pantomime of a moving pencil. “ He like draw-wings! Draw-wings! ”

Jasper screwed up his face.

“ Draw-wings! Silly Jasp! ” More pencil movements. She took him by the hand and pointed to the stack of papers on the dresser, then rotated him and pointed to me.

“Drawings!”

I smiled, said, “They’re beautiful.”

“Uhh.” The sound was low-pitched, guttural, straining. I remembered where I’d heard something like it. Resthaven.

“ Draw-wings! ” Shirlee was still shouting.

“It’s all right,” I said. “Thank you, Shirlee.”

But by now she was performing from her own script. “ Drawings! Go! Go! ” She gave his flat buttocks a shove. He trotted out of the shack.

“Jasp’ gofer drawing,” said Shirlee.

“Great. Shirlee, we were talking about where Sharon was born. I asked you if she came out of your tummy.”

“Silly!” She looked down and stretched the fabric of her dress tight over her abdomen. Stroked the soft protrusion. “No baby.”

“Then how did she get to be your little girl?”

The doughy face lit up, eyes brightening with guile.

“A present.”

“Sharon was a present?”

“Yes.”

“From who?”

She shook her head.

“Who gave her to you as a present?”

The headshake grew stronger.

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“Can’t!”

“Why not, Shirlee?”

“Can’t! Secret!”

“Who told you to keep it secret?”

“ Can’t ! Secret. Seek-rut! ”

She was frothing at the mouth, looked ready to cry.

“Okay,” I said. “It’s good to keep a secret if that’s what you promised.”

“Secret.”

“I understand, Shirlee.”

She sniffled, smiled, said, “Uh-oh, water time,” and walked out.

I followed her to the yard. Jasper had just come out of the other shack and was walking toward us clutching several sheets of paper. He saw me and waved them in the air. I walked over and he shoved them at me. More apples.

“Great, Jasper. Beautiful.”

Shirlee said, “Water time,” and glanced at the hose.

Jasper had left the door of the other shack open and I walked in.

A single unpartitioned space. Red carpeting. A bed sat in the center, canopied and covered with lace-edged quilting. The fabric was speckled with green-black mold and rotted through. I touched a piece of lace. It turned to dust between my fingers. The headboard and canopy frame were muddy with oxidation and gave off a bitter odor. Above the bed, hanging from a nail driven crookedly into the drywall, was a framed Beatles poster- a blowup of the “Rubber Soul” album. The glass was streaked and cracked and flyspecked. Against the opposite wall was a chest of drawers covered with more decayed lace, perfume bottles, and glass figurines. I tried to pick up a bottle but it stuck to the lace. A trail of ants streamed over the chest top. Several dead silverfish lay strewn among the bottles.

The drawers were warped and hard to open. The top one was empty, except for more bugs. Same with all the others.

A sound came from the doorway. Shirlee and Jasper were standing there, holding each other, like scared children weathering a storm.

“Her room,” I said. “Just the way she left it.”

Shirlee nodded. Jasper looked at her, imitated her.

I tried to picture Sharon living with them. Being raised by them. Martinis in the sun-room …

I smiled to cover my sadness. They smiled back, also covering- a servile anxiety. Waiting for my next command. There was so much I wanted to ask them, but I knew I’d gotten as many answers as I ever would. I saw the fear in their eyes, searched for the right words.

Before I found them the doorway filled with flesh.

He wasn’t much more than a kid- seventeen or eighteen, still peach-fuzzed and baby-faced. But enormous. Six-five, two ninety, perhaps thirty of it baby fat, with pink skin and a short neck broader than his moon face. His hair was cut in a blond crewcut and he was trying, without much success, to grow a mustache. His mouth was tiny and petulant, his eyes half-obscured by rosy cheeks as large and round as softballs. He wore faded jeans and an extra-extra-large black cowboy shirt with white piping and pearl buttons. The sleeves were rolled as far as they could go- midway up pink forearms as thick as my thighs. He stood behind the Ransoms, sweating, giving off heat and a locker-room odor.

“Who’re you?” His voice was nasal, hadn’t totally crossed over to manliness.

“My name’s Alex Delaware. I’m a friend of Sharon Ransom.”

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“I know that. I drove up from-”

“He bothering you?” he demanded of Shirlee.

She winced. “Hullo, Gabe-eel.”

The kid softened his tone, repeated his question as if used to doing so.

Shirlee said, “He like Jasp drawings.”

“Gabriel,” I said, “I’m not out to cause any-”

“I don’t care what you’re out to do. These people are… special. They need to be treated special.”