Jan Burke: Remember Me, Irene

“I know you. You could help me.”

Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes. “I don’t even have fare money,” I said, holding up the transfer that would take me back to the parking lot at the paper. And my beloved Karmann Ghia. My nice, safe, private transportation. I looked up the street, and to my delight, one of Las Piernas’s diesel-belching buses was in sight.

“No, no,” he insisted, standing up. “I don’t want your money.”

Yeah, right, I thought, moving to put the bench between us. “That’s good. Well, nice talking to you. Here’s my bus.”

He glanced toward the bus, which was trundling slowly up to the stop. It passed us and stopped just beyond where we stood. I moved toward the forward door.

“No, don’t go! You’re good at math.”

I paused at the open door, staring back at him. Two passengers alighted from the rear door, ignoring us.

“You’re good at math!” the man called again, as if it were a password between us, one that would cause me to embrace him as a compatriot.

“You gettin’ on this bus, lady?” the driver asked.

I nodded and started to step aboard.

“No!” the man cried, stumbling toward me. I rushed up the steps, shoving my transfer at the driver, dismayed to find the bus so full that I could not retreat back into it. The man drew closer.

“Not today, Professor,” the driver said, snapping the door shut in his face.

But the “Professor” wasn’t giving up so easily. He pounded his fists on the glass, staring at me. “You’re good at math!” he shouted. “You’re good at math!”

The driver pulled away.

For a moment, my fear of the man turned into fear for him. But peering into the side mirror, I saw him stare after the bus, then turn away in defeat.

“The Prof didn’t scare you, did he?” the driver asked. When I didn’t reply, he said, “I haven’t ever seen him like that. Usually he’s real easygoing, even when he’s drunk. I’ve never known the Professor to hurt anybody.”

“Why do you call him that? Was he a professor?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. But he gives little informal tours to the passengers when he gets on the bus. If he cleans up a little, people enjoy it. Don’t let it out to my supervisor, but I sort of let the Prof ride around with me, you know, stay warm when it gets chilly out. Naw, he’s no professor. Just a bum. But he knows all about this area. Grew up in the neighborhood, back when it was one. You ask him about any building on this street, and he’ll tell you when it was built, what it was used for, how many people lived in it, all kinds of stuff like that. I think it’s the only part of his brain that still works. Remembers old buildings.”

Remembers old faces, I thought. By then, the Professor seemed vaguely familiar to me. Why? I couldn’t have told you then.

But he was right: I’m good at math.

I just hadn’t yet put two and two together.

ABOOB JOB, I tell you.”

“Alicia,” I said, wishing for the one-millionth time that any other member of SOS-Save Our Shelter-would come along and distract her away from my side, “I really do not give an otter’s bottom what Helen Ferguson has done to her breasts.”

“Not just her breasts, Irene.” She smiled wickedly over the brim of her glass of chardonnay. I blinked, once again blinded by a reflection off her rings. Alicia Penderson-Duggin’s fingers carry jewelry on them the way the walls of a hunter’s den display animal heads. “And speaking of bottoms,” she went on, “I’d bet hers has been lifted.”

“I don’t care if it’s lifted! I don’t care if she’s got the ceiling from the Sistine Chapel tattooed on her buns!”

“Tattooed? You think so?”

Just as I was regretting making any remark that could become part of Alicia’s ongoing gossip marathon about Helen, the (possibly somewhat altered) woman who had been the subject of the discussion began to make her way toward us. A half-dozen or so other women followed in her wake. While I didn’t know all of the people who were at this fund-raiser for the local battered women’s shelter, I recognized every face in the group Helen brought with her-most of them had been part of SOS from its inception.

“Irene!” Helen said, embracing me but ignoring Alicia, “I’m so happy for you!”

“Thanks,” I said. Before I could say more, several of the other women greeted me in much the same way, adding “Great news!” or “It’s about time!”

“About time for what?” Alicia asked.

Seemingly oblivious to Alicia’s extended lower lip, Helen lifted her glass toward me and said, “I’d like to propose a toast. Irene, as most of you know, was recently married to Las Piernas Homicide Detective Frank Harriman. And even though she was rude enough to exclude us from the wedding, we wish them long life and happiness together.”

The others gave a small cheer and laughed as they touched their glasses together. Alicia was staring at me, slackjawed.

“First molar on the left,” I said to her in a low voice, causing her to snap her mouth shut. “If you want me to know about any other hidden gold, please just tell me about it.”

“Irene Kelly-Irene Harriman-I will never speak to you again!”

Oh, if only it were true. No chance. She didn’t even last two seconds.

“I can’t believe you didn’t invite me to your wedding!”

I could have told her that no one other than the witnesses (Pete Baird, who is Frank’s partner, and Pete’s own new bride, Rachel Giocopazzi) were invited. But I’ve never liked Alicia, so I didn’t make the clarification. We’ve known each other since Catholic school, and the relationship has not improved with age.

Luckily, the others stayed to talk to me, even the ones who had previously ducked away when they saw Alicia standing near. Ivy Vines, who works at the college radio station, asked, “Are you going by Harriman or Kelly?”

“Either one.”

“Either?” Alicia said. “That makes no sense at all! You might as well go off and make up a name, like Ivy did.”

“I didn’t make it up,” Ivy protested.

Alicia made a sniffing sound. “You were Ingrid Vines when we were students.”

“That was made up,” Ivy countered.

“I’m using Kelly professionally,” I said, trying to turn my back to Alicia. “I’ve got over a dozen years of contact with my sources using that name. But I’ll answer to either Harriman or Kelly elsewhere.”

“Sensible,” Ivy said.

“Ridiculous,” Alicia declared from behind me.

“Congrats, Irene!” a voice called. I turned to see Marcy Selman.

“Hi, Marcy. Thanks. How’s your daughter?”

“Lisa’s great,” the woman next to Marcy answered-Becky Freedman, an emergency physician at Las Piernas General. She grinned. “Lisa met me for lunch today. Does that mean I got to see her before you did?”

“Lisa’s in town?” I asked Marcy.

“Yes, in fact she’ll be here later. And she’ll probably hit you up for money, just like she did Becky.”

“I didn’t mind at all,” Becky said. “Mark my words, Lisa’s going to be California’s first woman governor.”

“Lisa’s running for governor? ”

“State Assembly,” Marcy answered, finally getting a word in.

“For now. She’ll be governor someday,” Becky maintained. “I’ve never met anyone with more determination than Lisa Selman.”

The possibility of Governor Selman didn’t seem farfetched. Lisa was only twenty-nine, but she had always achieved her goals faster than most of the rest of us. She had graduated from high school at fifteen, earned a master’s degree from San Diego State University before her twentieth birthday. Currently the top aide to State Senator Barton Sawyer, she was already experienced in the world of politics.