The Vanishing Point by Judith Van Gieson Page B

of the journal.”
    â€œAda would prefer that no one else saw it.”
    â€œAda Vail has no power over me,” Jennie said.
    The cat came into the room, jumped onto the sofa, and curled up in her lap. Its color was a perfect complement to Jennie’s dress and to the sofa, giving Claire the sensation that Butterscotch was also a part of her costume.
    Jennie stroked the cat and said, “Tell me, what did you think of the writing in the journal?”
    â€œI didn’t think it was as polished or elegant as A Blue-Eyed Boy, but, then, it wasn’t written for publication. Who knows what Jonathan would have done with it if…”
    â€œIf,” repeated Jennie, resting her hand on the cat’s back. “And what does Ada think?”
    â€œShe was more concerned with content than style.”
    â€œShe’ll want to take out the things she objects to. Money is a loaded gun. Rich people aim their weapon at you and make you dance.” Jennie leaned forward suddenly, and the startled cat tumbled out of her lap, hissing and extending its claws as it reached for the floor. “Don’t let Ada Vail edit the journal. She’ll cut the heart out of it.”
    â€œIf she holds the rights, we may not have any choice.”
    â€œWhat does Otto think?”
    â€œThere’s no way of knowing. He doesn’t speak since he had the stroke.”
    â€œBut the eyes react, don’t they?”
    â€œYou’ve seen him?”
    â€œYes, but I haven’t been back for a few years. He never was as rigid as Ada. He might like having Jonathan’s journal published as is, but I suppose there’s no way for him to tell us that. Curt told me that Tim Sansevera found a duffel bag?” Her husky voice dropped to a whisper, as if she wanted Claire to lean forward to hear better.
    Claire, suspecting she was being manipulated, leaned back. “Yes,” she said.
    â€œI don’t remember there being any duffel bag,” Jennie said. “Or a briefcase—Curt said the journal was found in a briefcase. I don’t remember that either. We carried everything in backpacks. I could carry a full pack back then, but not anymore. Well, I hope your trip to Slickrock Canyon is productive. As for me, I’ll be happy if I never see that place again.”
    The meeting was over. Jennie stood up and walked Claire to the door.
    ******
    Continuing north on Route 14, Claire listened to sixties music, thinking it might help her understand Jennie Dell better. She had two tapes that her brother had put together from records he’d found in thrift shops. One tape reflected his taste for the apocalyptic—The Doors, The Rolling Stones, the Beatles’ White Album. The other was the gentler music that Claire preferred—early Beatles, Cat Stevens, Van Morrison. She played the second tape, and when she heard Fleetwood Mac, she thought about the resemblance Jennie had to the mature Stevie Nicks: the husky voice, the thick blond hair, the skill at manipulating her dress—or was “costume” a better word? She suspected there had also been a resemblance to the young Stevie Nicks, who was known for her wildness and had once made the statement that fast cars, drugs, and money can ruin your life. She put millions of dollars of cocaine up her nose, but still had one of the best voices in rock. Whatever Jennie had done in the sixties, she seemed to have found a comfortable life now. Unlike Jonathan, Jennie had survived. When she reached I-25, Claire headed south, turning northwest on Route 44. By the time she got to the red rocks south of Cuba, the tape had played out, and Claire didn’t restart it. The beauty here demanded her full attention. It was too overpowering to think or listen to music, so she continued driving in silence. Clouds were gathering when she reached Bloomfield and fires from the oil refineries blazed and flickered like pilot lights against the darkening sky.