Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“I’ve told you not to do that, Gabriel. You’ll ruin your hands.”

“Sorry.”

She kissed him again. “Now, off with you.” He made it to the doorway, said, “Uh, Mom?”

“What is it?”

“Can I go into town?”

“That depends on what you’re going to do there.”

“Russell and Brad called. There’s a movie at the Sixplex in Redlands.”

“Which one?”

“Top Gun.”

“Who’s driving?”

“Brad.”

“All right, just as long as it’s not Russell in that souped-up Jeep of his- one neàr-miss is enough. Do I make myself clear, young man?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right. Don’t betray my trust, Gabe. And be home by eleven.”

“Thanks.” He lumbered out, so happy to be free that he forgot to glare at me.

The dining room was big and dark, and the smell of lavender permeated the papered walls. The furniture was old, carved black walnut. Heavy drapes masked the windows, and faded family portraits in antique frames hung in the empty spaces- a pictorial history of the Leidecker clan at various stages of development. Helen had once been beautiful, her looks enhanced by a generous smile that might never be resuscitated. Her four older sons were shaggy-haired beanpoles who resembled her. Their father was a yellow-bearded, barrel-chested precursor to Gabe- who’d started life as a bald, pink, squinting sphere of suet. Sharon was in none of the pictures.

I helped set the table with china and silver and linen napkins, noticed a guitar case on the floor, next to the china cabinet.

“Mr. Leidecker’s,” she said. “No matter how many times I told him to put it away, it always ended up there. He played so well, I really didn’t mind. Now I just leave it there. Sometimes I feel it’s the music I miss the most.”

She looked so low that I said, “I play.”

“Do you? Then by all means.”

I opened the case. Inside was an old Gibson L-5, vintage thirties, nestled in blue plush. Mint condition, the inlays undamaged, the wood freshly polished, the gold plating on the tailpiece and tuners gleaming as if new. It gave off that wet-cat odor that old instruments acquire. I lifted it, strummed the open strings, tuned.

She’d gone back into the kitchen and called out: “Come in here so I can listen.”

I brought the guitar in, sat down at the table, and fingered a few jazz chords while she fixed chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, beans, and fresh lemonade. The guitar had a warm, rich tone and I played “ La Mer,” using Django’s liquid gypsy arrangement.

“Very pretty,” she said, but I could tell that jazz- even warm jazz- wasn’t her thing. I switched to finger-picking, played something melodic and countrified in C-major, and her face got young.

She brought the food to the table- huge quantities of it. I put the guitar away. She seated me at the head, positioned herself to my right, and smiled nervously.

I was taking a dead man’s place, felt something was expected of me, some protocol that I could never hope to master. That and the ceremonious way she filled my plate put me in a melancholy mood.

She toyed with her food and watched me while I forced myself to eat. I got down as much as I could, paid compliments in between bites, and waited until she’d cleared the dishes and brought apple pie before saying:

“The graduation picture that the Ransoms lost. Did Sharon give one to you?”

“Oh, that,” she said. Her shoulders drooped and her eyes moistened. I felt as if I’d thrown a drowning survivor back into icy waters. Before I could say anything, she sprang up, disappeared down the hall.

She returned with an eight-by-ten photo in a maroon velvet stand-up frame, handed it to me as if passing the sacrament, and stood over me as I studied it.

Sharon, beaming, in crimson cap and gown with a gold tassel and shoulder braid, her black hair longer, flowing over her shoulders, her face radiant, without blemish. The epitome of all-American college womanhood, staring off into the distance with youthful optimism.

Envisioning a rosy future? Or just some campus photographer’s idea of what proud parents liked for their mantels?

In the bottom left-hand corner of the photo was gold-leaf lettering.

EPHEGIANS, CLASS OF ’74

FORSYTHE TEACHERS COLLEGE FOR WOMEN

LONG ISLAND, N.Y.

“Your alma mater?” I said.

“Yes.” She sat down, held the picture to her bosom. “She always wanted to be a teacher. I knew Forsythe was the right place for her. Rigorous and protective enough to cushion her from the shock of going out into the world- the seventies were a rough time and she’d led a sheltered life. She loved it there, got straight A’s, graduated summa cum laude .”

Better than Leland Belding… “She was very bright,” I said.

“She was a brilliant girl, Alex. Not that some things weren’t a struggle in the very beginning- toilet training, for one, and all the social things. But I just dug my heels in and stuck with it- good practice for when I had to train my boys. But anything intellectual she absorbed like a sponge.”

“How did your boys get along with her?”

“No sibling rivalry, if that’s what you mean. She was tender with them, loving, like some terrific older sister. And she wasn’t threatening because she went home every night- in the beginning that was hard for me. I wanted so much to adopt her, make her all mine and let her lead a normal life. But in their own way Shirlee and Jasper did love her, and she loved them too. It would have been wrong to destroy that, wrong to rob those two of the only precious thing they owned. Somehow they’d been given a jewel. My job was to polish her, keep her safe. I taught her about being a lady, brought her pretty things- a pretty canopied bed, but kept it there, with them.”

“She never spent the night with you?”

She shook her head. “I sent her home. It was best.”

Years later, with me, she’d sent herself home. I have trouble sleeping anywhere but my own bed . Early patterns… early trauma…

“She was happy just the way things were, Alex. She thrived . That’s why I never called in the authorities. Some social worker from the city would have come down, taken one look at Shirlee and Jasper and stuck them in an institution for the rest of their lives, with Sharon farmed out to a foster home. Paperwork and bureaucracy- she’d have slipped between the cracks. My way was best.”

“ Summa cum laude, ” I said, tapping the photo. “Certainly seems so.”

“She was a pleasure to teach. I tutored her intensively until she was seven, then enrolled her in my school. She’d done so well she was actually ahead of her classmates, ready for third-grade work. But her social skills were still weak- she was shy around children her own age, accustomed to playing with Eric and Michael, who were still babies.”

“How did the other children relate to her?”

“At first as an oddity. There were lots of cruel comments, but I put an end to them right away. She never did get really sociable, wasn’t what you’d call popular, but she did learn to mix when it was necessary. As they got older the boys started to notice her looks. But she wasn’t into that kind of thing, was mostly concerned with getting good grades. She wanted to be a teacher, to make something of herself. And she was always at the head of the class- that wasn’t just my bias, because when she went down to Yucaipa for junior high and high school, she got consistent straight A’s, including honors courses, and her scores on the S.A.T. were among the highest in the school. She could have gotten in anywhere, didn’t need me for acceptance to Forsythe. As it was, they gave her a full scholarship plus stipend.”