Hills.”
Detective Arthur read back his notes to himself. Then he said, “I guess that’s
going to be all for the time being. Sergeant Skrolnik may want to come around
and ask you a few more questions, so I’d appreciate it if you stayed around.”
“I wasn’t
planning on going anyplace,” said Jerry.
Jerry escorted
Detective Arthur to the door. They walked down the driveway together to the
sidewalk and stood for a moment by the gate. Most of the police cars had left
now, and the crowd had dwindled down to a few teenagers sitting on the curb
drinking Coke and a couple of elderly women with nothing better to do.
It was
grillingly hot.
Detective
Arthur said, “Well, thanks for your help,” and walked off.
Jerry stayed
where he was for a while, feeling emotionally empty and upset. The men in
sunglasses were still in Sherry Cantor’s garden, searching the flowering
bushes, and occasionally calling out to one another when they thought that
might have come across something interesting.
On the low stone
wall that Jerry’s house shared with Sherry’s bungalow, a lizard basked between
the two numerals that made up the number 11.
After a few
minutes, Jerry climbed back up his driveway and into the house. He went into
the living room and fixed himself another whiskey and he stood by the liquor
cabinet drinking it and thinking. The air conditioning whirred and gurgled, and
he thought, without much conviction, that he ought to have it serviced.
He remembered
the day that Rhoda had died, of cancer. It had been as hot as this. He had
taken a walk in Hancock Park, and then sat on a bench in the shade of a tree
and wondered how everything could be so damned normal, how traffic could come
and go, how people could laugh and talk as if nothing had happened. Today, at eight
o’clock, Sherry Cantor had died, and yet the sun was still shining, and the
supermarkets were still open, and you could still take a drive to the ocean and
paddle your toes.
Even Our Family
Jones would go on without her. The scriptwriters would simply think of some
reasonable excuse for writing Lindsay Jones out. They were probably thinking
about it right now. She had already vanished, as if she had never been.
Jerry checked
his watch. It was almost time to go fetch David. Quite honestly, he would be glad
of the company. He sometimes thought that he was spending too much time alone
these days.
He wondered if
David would like to take a drive out to Griffith Park this afternoon, and
practice his pitching.
Doctor Grunwald
had told him this morning, just as he’d told him dozens of times before, that he ought to stop feeling so guilty about what
had happened. It hadn’t been his fault, after all. But when the sun was shining
like this, and when a pretty girl had died, the same way all those others had
died, for no apparent reason– well, it was difficult
not to feel responsible. Even now, all these years later.
‘‘You didn’t
know what they were going to do,’’ Doctor Grunwald had insisted. “You didn’t
know.”
“No,” Jerry had
told him. “But I didn’t question it, either. My sin was that I didn’t even
question it.”
He went into
the kitchen. It was narrow, tiled in blue, and it bore all the hallmarks of a
man living alone. The catsup bottles were still on the table after this
morning’s breakfast, the counter beneath the toaster was strewn with crumbs,
and the pans that hung underneath the wall cupboards had only been scoured in
the middle, where it was essential. He opened the huge refrigerator and took
out a pack of bologna sausage. He didn’t really feel hungry after hearing about
Sherry Cantor, but he knew that he would need the energy if he was going to
take David out this afternoon.
He started to
build himself a sandwich, with bologna and sliced pickle. He tried not to think
about that hot day, thirty-four years ago, when he had first realized the
enormity of what he had done. A radio was playing “You Don’t Bring Me
Detective Arthur read back his notes to himself. Then he said, “I guess that’s
going to be all for the time being. Sergeant Skrolnik may want to come around
and ask you a few more questions, so I’d appreciate it if you stayed around.”
“I wasn’t
planning on going anyplace,” said Jerry.
Jerry escorted
Detective Arthur to the door. They walked down the driveway together to the
sidewalk and stood for a moment by the gate. Most of the police cars had left
now, and the crowd had dwindled down to a few teenagers sitting on the curb
drinking Coke and a couple of elderly women with nothing better to do.
It was
grillingly hot.
Detective
Arthur said, “Well, thanks for your help,” and walked off.
Jerry stayed
where he was for a while, feeling emotionally empty and upset. The men in
sunglasses were still in Sherry Cantor’s garden, searching the flowering
bushes, and occasionally calling out to one another when they thought that
might have come across something interesting.
On the low stone
wall that Jerry’s house shared with Sherry’s bungalow, a lizard basked between
the two numerals that made up the number 11.
After a few
minutes, Jerry climbed back up his driveway and into the house. He went into
the living room and fixed himself another whiskey and he stood by the liquor
cabinet drinking it and thinking. The air conditioning whirred and gurgled, and
he thought, without much conviction, that he ought to have it serviced.
He remembered
the day that Rhoda had died, of cancer. It had been as hot as this. He had
taken a walk in Hancock Park, and then sat on a bench in the shade of a tree
and wondered how everything could be so damned normal, how traffic could come
and go, how people could laugh and talk as if nothing had happened. Today, at eight
o’clock, Sherry Cantor had died, and yet the sun was still shining, and the
supermarkets were still open, and you could still take a drive to the ocean and
paddle your toes.
Even Our Family
Jones would go on without her. The scriptwriters would simply think of some
reasonable excuse for writing Lindsay Jones out. They were probably thinking
about it right now. She had already vanished, as if she had never been.
Jerry checked
his watch. It was almost time to go fetch David. Quite honestly, he would be glad
of the company. He sometimes thought that he was spending too much time alone
these days.
He wondered if
David would like to take a drive out to Griffith Park this afternoon, and
practice his pitching.
Doctor Grunwald
had told him this morning, just as he’d told him dozens of times before, that he ought to stop feeling so guilty about what
had happened. It hadn’t been his fault, after all. But when the sun was shining
like this, and when a pretty girl had died, the same way all those others had
died, for no apparent reason– well, it was difficult
not to feel responsible. Even now, all these years later.
‘‘You didn’t
know what they were going to do,’’ Doctor Grunwald had insisted. “You didn’t
know.”
“No,” Jerry had
told him. “But I didn’t question it, either. My sin was that I didn’t even
question it.”
He went into
the kitchen. It was narrow, tiled in blue, and it bore all the hallmarks of a
man living alone. The catsup bottles were still on the table after this
morning’s breakfast, the counter beneath the toaster was strewn with crumbs,
and the pans that hung underneath the wall cupboards had only been scoured in
the middle, where it was essential. He opened the huge refrigerator and took
out a pack of bologna sausage. He didn’t really feel hungry after hearing about
Sherry Cantor, but he knew that he would need the energy if he was going to
take David out this afternoon.
He started to
build himself a sandwich, with bologna and sliced pickle. He tried not to think
about that hot day, thirty-four years ago, when he had first realized the
enormity of what he had done. A radio was playing “You Don’t Bring Me
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