Jonathan Kellerman - Bad Love

"Just in the paper."

"That wasn't a flattering one." She opened the big purse, searched for a while, and took out a medium-sized envelope. Withdrawing three color photographs, she handed them to me.

Professional portraits, passable quality. Rebecca Basille sitting in a white wicker chair, posed three different ways in front of a mountain-stream backdrop, wearing a powder-blue dress and pearls. Big smile. Terrific teeth. Very pretty; soft, curvy build, soft arms, a trifle heavy. The dress was low-cut and showed some cleavage. Her brown hair was shiny and long and iron-curled at the ends, her eyes full of humor and just a bit of apprehension, as if she'd been sitting for a long time and had doubts about the outcome.

"Very lovely," I said.

"She was beautiful," said Rolanda. "Inside and out."

She held out her hand and I returned the photos. After she'd replaced them in the purse, she said, "I just wanted you to see the person she was, though even these don't do it. She didn't like having her picture taken- used to be chubby when she was little. Her face was always gorgeous."

I nodded.

She said, "There was a wounded bird within five miles, Becky'd find it and bring it home. Shoeboxes and cotton balls and eyedroppers. She tried to save anything - bugs- those little gray curly things?"

"Potato bugs?"

"Those. Moths, ladybugs, whatever, she'd save 'em. When she was real little she went through this stage of not wanting anyone to cut the lawn because she thought it hurt the grass."

She tried to smile, but her lips got away from her and began trembling. She covered them with one hand.

"You see what I'm saying?" she said, finally.

"I do."

"She never changed. In school, she went straight for the outcasts- anyone who was different, or hurting- the retarded kids, harelips, you name it. Sometimes I think she was attracted to hurt."

Another forage in the purse. She found red-framed sunglasses and put them on. Given the ambient shade, they must have blacked out the world.

I said, "I can see why she went into social work."

"Exactly. I always figured she would do something like that, always told her nursing or social work would be perfect for her. But of course when you tell them, they do something else. So it took her a while to know what she wanted. She didn't want to go to college, did some waitressing, some file clerking, secretarial. My other kids were different. Real driven. Got a boy practicing orthopedic medicine in Reno, and my older girl works in a bank in St. Louis- assistant vice president."

"Was Becky the youngest?"

She nodded. "Nine years between her and Kathy, eleven between her and Carl. She was- I was forty-one when I had her, and her father was five years older than me. He walked out on us right after she was born. Left me high and dry with three kids. Sugar diabetic, and he refused to stop drinking. He started losing feeling in his feet, then the eyes started going. Finally, they began cutting pieces off of him and he decided with no toes and one arm it was time to be a swinging bachelor- crazy, huh?"

She shook her head.

"He moved to Tahoe, didn't last long after that," she said. "Becky was two when he died. We hadn't heard from him all that time, suddenly the government started sending me his veteran's benefits… You think that's what made her so vulnerable? No- what do you people call it?- father role model?"

"How was Becky vulnerable?" I said.

"Too trusting." She touched her collar, smoothed out an invisible wrinkle. "She went straight for the losers. Believed every cock-and-bull story."

"What kind of losers?"

"More wounded birds. Guys she thought she could fix. She wanted to fix the world."

Her hands began to shake and she shoved them under her purse. The Stepne sisters were singing louder. She said: "Shut up."

"Did the losers mistreat her?"

"Losers," she said, as if she hadn't heard. "The great poet with no poems to show for it, living off welfare. Bunch of musicians, so-called. Not men. Little boys. I nagged her all the time, all the dead-ends she was choosing. In the end, none of that mattered a whit, did it?"

She lifted her sunglasses and wiped an eye with one finger. Putting the shades back, she said, "You don't need to hear this, you've got your own problems."

I saw faint reflections of myself in her black lenses, distorted and tense.

"You seem like a nice young fellow, listening to me go on like this. Ever save any bugs yourself?"

"Maybe a couple of times."

She smiled. "Bet it was more than a couple. Bet you punched those holes in the top of the jars so the bugs could breathe, right? Bet your mother loved that, too, all those creepy things in the house."

I laughed.

"I'm right, aren't I? I should be a psychologist."

"It does bring back certain memories," I said.

"Sure," she said. "Out to save the world, all of you. You married?"

"No."

"A fellow like you, same attitude as my Becky, you would have been okay for her. You could have saved the world together. But to be honest, she probably wouldn't have gone for you- no offense, you're just too… put-together. That's a compliment, believe me." She patted my knee. Frowned. "I'm sorry for what you're going through. And be sure to take good care of yourself. Something happens to you, your mother's going to die, over and over. You'll be gone but she'll be left dying every day- understand?"

The hand on my knee clawed.

I nodded.

"Something happens to you, your mother's going to lie in bed and think about you, over and over and over. Wondering how much you suffered. Wondering what you were thinking when it happened to you - why it happened to her kid and not someone else's. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I do."

"So be careful."

"That's why I'm here," I said. "To protect myself."

She whipped off the sunglasses. Her eyes were so raw the whites looked brown. "Gritz- no, she never said a word about anyone named that. Or Silk or Merino."

"Did she ever talk about Hewitt?"

"No, not really." She seemed to be deliberating. I didn't move or speak.

The raw eyes moistened. "She mentioned him once- maybe a week or two before. Said she was treating this really crazy person and thought she was helping him. She said it respectfully- this poor, sick fellow that she really wanted to help. Schizophrenic, whatever- hearing voices. No one else had been able to help him, but she thought she could. He was starting to trust her."

She spat on the ground.

"She mentioned him by name?"

"No. She made a point of not talking about any of them by name. Big point of following the rules."

Remembering Becky's sketchy notes and lack of follow-through with Jean, I said, "A real stickler, huh?"

"That was Becky. Back when she was in grade school, her teachers always said they wished they had a classroom full of Beckys. Even with her loser boyfriends, she always stayed on the straight and narrow, not using drugs, nothing. That's why they wouldn't…"

She shook her head. Put her glasses back on and showed me the back of her head. Between thin strands of dyed hair, her neck was liver-spotted and loose-skinned.

I said, "Why they wouldn't what?"

No answer for a moment.

Then: "They wouldn't stick with her - they always left her. Can you beat that? The ones who were going to get divorced, always went back to their wives. The ones who were on the wagon, always fell off. And left her. She was ten times the human being any of them were, but they always walked out on her, can you beat that?"

"They were the unstable ones," I said.

"Exactly. Dead-end losers. What she needed was someone with high standards, but she wasn't attracted to that- only the broken ones."