Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“I didn’t see that back at the shack.”

“No, somehow they managed to lose it. Just like the money. They never knew what they had, still don’t. You can understand why Sharon would have no place here. It’s a miracle she survived before I found her.”

“Shirlee did show me a letter. How often did she write?”

“Not regularly- what was the point? They’re only marginally literate. But she called me regularly, to see how they were doing. She really cared about them.”

She threw away the leaf. “It was so hard for her- please understand that. She really struggled with breaking away; the guilt was nearly overwhelming. I told her she was doing the right thing. What was the alternative? Being stuck forever as a caretaker?” She stopped. “Oh. I’m so sorry. That was thoughtless.”

For a moment I was puzzled by her embarrassment.

“Joan,” I said.

“I think your devotion is wonderful.”

I shrugged. Dr. Noble. “I’m comfortable with my choice.”

“Yes. Sharon said you were. And that’s my point. She had to make her own choices. She couldn’t be bound by some strange twist of fate.”

“When did she tell you about Joan?”

“About six months after the graduation party- her first year of grad school. She called to ask about Shirlee and Jasper, but she sounded troubled. I could tell something else was on her mind. I asked if she wanted to get together and to my surprise she said yes. We met for lunch in Redlands. She looked like a real professional woman, perfectly groomed, mature. But sad- a blue angel. I asked her why. She said she’d met the man of her dreams, spent a lot of time describing your virtues. I said, sounds like he’s perfect- why the long face? Then she told me about Joan, how it would never work out because of her.”

“Did she tell you what caused Joan’s problems?”

“The drowning? Oh, yes. How terrible, and you a little boy, watching.”

She touched my arm in a gesture of comfort. “She understood, Alex. She wasn’t bitter or angry.”

“Is that all that was troubling her?”

“That’s all she talked about.”

“When did you see her next?”

She bit her lip. “Never. That was the last time. She did continue to call. But less and less frequently. Half a year later, the calls stopped. But we got cards on Christmas, Fruit-of-the-Month packages.” She managed a weak smile. “Everything but the apples.”

Several yards later she said, “I understood. Though I’d helped her shed her old life, I was still part of it. She needed to make a complete break. Years later, when she got her Ph.D., she sent me an invitation to her commencement. She’d made it to the top, finally felt secure enough to reconnect.”

“Did you go?”

“No. It arrived late- the day after the ceremony. Mail mix-up, happens all the time on a rural route.”

No mail mix-up had prevented the monthly cash payments to the Ransoms. I said nothing.

“All those years,” she said, “I felt I understood her. Now I realize I was deluding myself. I barely knew her.”

We walked toward yellow windows. I said, “How did you and Sharon actually meet?”

“My old do-gooder busybody personality asserting itself. It was shortly after my marriage, right after Mr. Leidecker brought me back here, in 1957.”

She shook her head, said, “Thirty years,” then nothing else.

I said, “Moving from the big city to Willow Glen must have been pretty jarring for you.”

“Oh, it was. After college I got a position teaching at a private school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan- children of the rich. Nights, I volunteered at the USO- that’s where I met Mr. Leidecker. He was in the army, taking courses at City College courtesy of Uncle Sam. He came into the hall one night, looking absolutely forlorn. We struck up a conversation. He was very handsome, very sweet. So different from the fast, shallow men I’d been encountering in the city. When he talked about Willow Glen, he made it sound like paradise. He loved the land- his roots here run deep. His family came out from Pennsylvania for the Gold Rush. Got as far as Willow Glen and settled for Golden Delicious- he always used to say that. Two months later, I was married, a schoolmarm in a one-room school.”

We reached the stone building. She looked up at the sky. “My husband was a taciturn man, but he knew how to tell a tale. He played the guitar beautifully and sang like a dream. We made a good life together.”

“Sounds wonderful,” I said.

“Oh, it was. I came to love this place. The people here are solid and decent; the children are almost touchingly innocent- even more so before we got cable TV. But one always makes trade-offs. Once upon a time, I fancied myself an intellectual- not that I was, but I did love to attend poetry readings in Greenwich Village, visit art galleries, listen to the band-shell concerts in Central Park. I loved the whole city scene. New York was a lovely place, back then. Cleaner, safer. Ideas seemed to burst right out of the sidewalks.”

We were at the bottom of the schoolroom stairs. The light from above spilled over her face, lit flames in her eyes. Her hip brushed against mine. She moved away quickly and fluffed her hair.

“Willow Glen is a cultural desert,” she said, climbing. “I belong to four book clubs, subscribe to twenty monthly periodicals, but believe me, it’s no substitute. In the beginning I made Mr. Leidecker drive me to L.A. for the Philharmonic, San Diego for the Shakespeare Festival at the Old Globe. He did it without complaining, good soul that he was. But I knew he detested it- he never stayed awake through a single show- and eventually I stopped putting him through it. The only play I’ve seen in years is the one I write myself- the Christmas pageant that the children put on. ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ accompanied by my off-key piano thumping.”

She laughed. “At least the children enjoy it- they’re not very sophisticated around here. At home the emphasis is on making a living. Sharon was different. She had a rapacious mind, just loved to learn.”

“Amazing,” I said, “considering her home life.”

“Yes, truly amazing. Especially when you consider the state she was in when I first laid eyes on her. The way she blossomed was a miracle. I feel privileged to have been part of it. No matter how things turned out.”

She choked back tears, pushed the door, and walked quickly to her desk. I watched as she tidied up.

“How,” I repeated, “did the two of you actually meet?”

“Right after I got here, I kept hearing my pupils talk about a family of ‘retards’- their term, not mine- living out behind the old abandoned cider press. Two grown-ups and a little girl who ran around naked and chattered like a monkey. At first I thought it was just schoolyard fantasy, the kind of thing children love to make up. But when I mentioned it to Mr. Leidecker, he said, ‘Oh, sure. That’s Jasper and Shirlee Ransom. They’re feebleminded but harmless.’ Just shrugged it off, the old village idiot thing. ‘What about the child?’ I asked. ‘Is she feebleminded too? Why hasn’t she been enrolled in school? Has she been inoculated? Has anyone bothered to give her a decent checkup or seen to it that she gets proper nutrition?’ That made him stop and think and he got a bothered look on his face. ‘You know, Helen,’ he said, ‘I never much thought about that.’ He was ashamed- that’s the kind of man he was.

“The very next afternoon after school, I drove down the road, found the press, and went looking for them. It was just as the children had described: Tobacco Road. Those pathetic shacks- and they were a lot worse before we fixed them up. No indoor plumbing, electricity, or gas heat, water from an old hand pump with God knows what kind of organisms in it. Before we supplied the trees, just a dry dirt patch. Shirlee and Jasper just standing there, smiling at me, following me around but not putting up a lick of protest when I went into their shack. Inside, I got my first surprise. I’d expected chaos, but everything was scrubbed down with lye soap, extremely well-kept- all the clothes folded neatly, beds you could bounce a dime on. And the two of them are very diligent about their hygiene, though they do neglect their teeth.”