Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“Planning to grow potatoes?”

He chuckled. “Planning to raise anything I could, other than hell. Only problem was, Rick brought in this landscape designer last year, redid the whole yard with all this southwestern shit- cactus, succulents, low-moisture ground cover. So we could cut our water usage, be ecologically sound. So much for Farmer Spud. So okay, scratch that, I figured I’d tinker around the house- fix everything that needed fixing. I used to be handy- when I worked construction in college I learned all the trades. And when I lived by myself I used to do all of it: plumbing, wiring, whatever. The landlord loved me. Only problem with that plan is, there’s nothing to fix. I hadn’t been around the house long enough to realize it, but after nagging me for a year or so, Rick finally took care of everything. Seems he found this handyman- fellow from Fiji, former patient. Cut himself with a power saw, nearly lost a couple of fingers. Rick sewed him up in the E.R., saved the fingers, and purchased eternal gratitude: The guy works for us basically for free, on call twenty-four hours a day. So unless he slips with the saw again, my expertise is not in demand. Scratch Mr. Fixit. What does that leave? Shopping? Cooking? Between the E.R. and the Free Clinic, Rick’s never home to eat, so I grab whatever and stuff my face. Once in a while I go out to a civilian range in Culver City and shoot. I’ve been through my record collection twice and read more bad books than I ever want to think about.”

“What about volunteer work?”

He clapped his hands over his ears and grimaced. When he removed them, I said, “What?”

“Heard it before. Every day, from the altruistic Dr. Silverman. The Free Clinic AIDS group, homeless kids, Skid Row Mission, whatever. Find a cause, Milo, and stick with it. Only problem is, I feel too goddam mean. Coiled. Like someone better not say the wrong thing to me or they’re gonna end up sucking the sidewalk. This… hot feeling in my gut- sometimes I wake up with it; sometimes it just comes on. And don’t tell me it’s post-traumatic stress syndrome, ’cause giving it a name doesn’t do squat. I’ve been there before- after the war- and I know nothing but time is gonna bleed it out of me. Meantime, I don’t want to be around too many people- especially people with heavy-duty misery. I’ve got no sympathy to give. I’d end up telling them to shape up and get their goddam lives in order.”

“Time heals,” I said, “but time can be sped along.”

He gave me an incredulous look. “What? Counseling? ”

“There are worse things.”

He slapped his chest with both hands. “Okay, here I am. Counsel me.”

I was silent.

“Right,” he said, and looked at the wall clock. “Anyway, I’m gone. Gonna hit little white balls and pretend they’re something else.”

He began barreling out of the kitchen. I held out an arm and he stopped.

“How about dinner,” I said. “Tonight. I should be free by seven or so.”

He said, “Charity meals are for soup kitchens.”

“You’re a charmer,” I said, and lowered my arm.

“What, no date tonight?”

“No date.”

“What about Linda?”

“Linda’s still in Texas.”

“Oh. Thought she was due back last week.”

“She was. The stay’s been extended. Her father.”

“The heart?”

I nodded. “He’s gotten worse. Bad enough to keep her there indefinitely.”

“Sorry to hear it. When you talk to her, give her my best. Tell her I hope he mends.” His anger had given way to sympathy. I wasn’t sure that was an improvement.

“Will do,” I said. “Have fun at Rancho.”

He took a step, stopped. “Okay, so this hasn’t been party-time for you either. Sorry.”

“I’m doing fine, Milo. And the offer wasn’t charity. God knows why, but I thought dinner would be nice. Two guys shooting the bull, all that buddy stuff, like in the beer commercials.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Dinner. Okay, I can always eat.” He patted his gut. “And if you’re still struggling with your term paper by tonight, bring a draft along. Uncle Milo will render sage editorial input.”

“Fine,” I said, “but in the meantime why don’t you think about getting yourself a real hobby?”

After he left I sat down to write. For no apparent reason it went more smoothly than ever before, and noon arrived quickly, heralded by the second doorbell ring of the day.

This time I squinted through the peephole. What looked back at me was the face of a stranger, but not foreign: remnants of the child I’d once known merging with a photo from a twenty-year-old newspaper clipping. I realized that at the time of the attack her mother hadn’t been that much older than Melissa was now.

I opened the door and said, “Hello, Melissa.”

She seemed startled, then smiled. “Dr. Delaware! You haven’t changed at all!”

We shook hands.

“Come on in.”

She entered the house and stood with her hands folded in front of her.

The transition from girl to woman appeared nearly complete, and the evidence pointed to a graceful process. She had fashion-model cheekbones that asserted themselves through flawless lightly tanned skin. Her hair had darkened to a sun-streaked light brown and it hung, poker-straight and gleaming, to her waist. The straight-edge bangs had given way to a side part and flip. Below naturally arched brows her gray-green eyes were huge and wide-set. A young Grace Kelly.

A miniature Grace Kelly. She was barely five feet tall, with a cinch-waist and tiny bones. Big gold hoop earrings dangled from each shell-like ear. She carried a small lambskin handbag, wore a blue pinpoint button-down shirt, a denim skirt that ended an inch above her knees, and maroon penny loafers without socks. Maybe Preppy still ruled in San Labrador.

I showed her to a chair in the living room. She sat, crossed her legs at the ankles, hugged her knees, and looked around. “You have a very nice home, Dr. Delaware.”

I wondered what my eighteen-hundred square feet of redwood and glass really looked like to her. The castle she’d grown up in probably had rooms bigger. Thanking her, I took a seat and said, “It’s good to see you, Melissa.”

“Good to see you, too, Dr. Delaware. And thanks so much for doing it on short notice.”

“My pleasure. Any trouble finding the address?”

“No. I used my Thomas Guide- I just learned about Thomas Guides. They’re terrific.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Amazing how so much information can go in one book, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

“I’ve never really been up to these canyons. It’s quite pretty.”

Smile. Shy, but poised. Proper. A proper young lady. Was it for my benefit? Did she metamorphose into something giggly and ill-mannered when she and her friends hit the mall?

Did she go to the mall?

Did she have friends?

The ignorance born of nine years struck home.

Starting from scratch.

I smiled back and, trying not to be obviously analytic, studied her.

Posture straight, maybe a little stiff. Understandable, considering the circumstances. But no obvious signs of anxiety. Her hands remained motionless around her knees. No kneading, no evidence of chafing.

I said, “Well. It’s been a long time.”

“Nine years,” she said. “Pretty unbelievable, huh?”

“Sure is. I don’t expect you to sum up all nine of them. But I am kind of curious about what you’ve been up to.”

“Just the usual,” she said, shrugging. “School, mostly.”

She bent forward, straightened her arms, and hugged her knees tighter. A sheet of hair fell across one eye. She brushed it aside and checked out the room again.