U Is for Undertow

  She laughed. “I’ve got the metabolism of a bird.”

  “That’s what the skinny actresses say to cover up their eating disorders.”

  “Not me. In my teens I had migraines and I barfed enough for a lifetime. I admit I was pretty good at it, but eating’s too much fun.”

  “Can I ask you about your father’s business? Deborah says you took over after he died.”

  “I did. He was actually my grandfather, as I’m sure you know, but I called him Daddy because that’s what he was to me. He owned a plant in downtown L.A., manufacturing sports uniforms. Later, he created a line of foul-weather gear—raincoats, rain hats, anoraks, rain jackets, slickers, umbrellas . . .”

  I stared at her. “Are you talking about Rain Checks?”

  “That’s him.”

  “You’re kidding. You’re the ‘Rain’ in Rain Checks?”

  “Yep.”

  “How did he come up with the idea when California has so little rainfall? What is it, fifteen days a year?”

  “He was smart. Early in his career he worked for a company that made sports apparel. He was on the road a lot, mostly in the North-west, Oregon and Washington States. He could see the niche. People had raincoats, umbrellas, and boots, but it was all a hodgepodge and none of it was stylish. He decided to tackle the high-end market, where Burberry and London Fog were the only competition. Now we sell through all the luxury department stores; Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdale’s, Bergdorf Goodman. We have a huge worldwide presence as well. London, Rome, Prague, Tokyo, Singapore. ‘When foul weather threatens your day, take a Rain Check.’ ”

  “I love those ads,” I said. “You know how to run a business?”

  “I’m learning,” she said. She popped the last bite of biscuit in her mouth and wiped her fingers on her napkin. “After Daddy died, I changed my major from social work to business and got my MBA. I have a team of experts holding my hand, and we’ve done well so far. Knock on wood.”

  “I am totally amazed.”

  “You’re not the only one,” she said. “Anyway, I know your primary interest is the kidnapping—abduction, or whatever.”

  “I’m curious about the experience.”

  “It was fine. Really. I was four. I didn’t know what was going on so why would I react badly?”

  “No unpleasant associations?”

  “Not at all. The guys were nice. I got to play with this adorable yellow kitten. The only thing I was ever upset about was not getting to keep her when it was all over with.”

  “There were two guys?”

  “Two that I saw. One was Santa and the other was just this goofball who wore glasses with cardboard eyes in the frames and a big plastic nose. He had a wig, too—bright red fake hair like Raggedy Andy. There might have been other guys, but I doubt it.”

  “Your mother says they made you a house out of a cardboard box.”

  “That was great. They put in a pile of blankets for a bed and they cut windows along one side so I could look out. That’s where I slept, though I didn’t do much of it. They kept coaxing me into drinking lemonade laced with something. I’d get sleepy for a while, but I didn’t stay down long. Whatever it was, it had the opposite effect. Instead of tired, I’d get wired. The more they gave me, the more amped I got.”

  “But no aftereffects?”

  “None.”

  “What about the box? Was it a carton an appliance might have come in?”

  “I guess. Not big enough for a refrigerator or a stove. I was little, but even then the box didn’t seem gigantic. I’d say more or less the size of this table. Longer, but about as wide.”

  “You didn’t miss your mom?”

  “Some, but they told me my mother wanted me to be a good girl, just for a little while, and then they’d take me home.”

  “And they stayed with you the whole time?”

  “One or the other did. Usually not both. I think that’s why they wanted me asleep—to make their job easier. One would keep an eye on me while the other one left, probably to call my folks.”

  “Did you have nightmares afterward?”

  “Nope. Honestly, there was nothing traumatic about it. Weird as it sounds, I had a lot of fun.” Her expression shifted when she caught sight of my face. “What?”

  “I have trouble reconciling your experience with Mary Claire’s disappearance. Clearly, these guys weren’t thugs or hardened criminals. I can’t believe they were kiddie-killers either, at least from what you’ve said. It sounds like they wanted money and not very much of it at that. Somehow they were spooked into abandoning the twenty-five thousand dollars, which was more than they got for you.”

  “You think something went wrong?”

  “I can’t imagine any other explanation for the fact that you were released while she vanished forever.”

  “I feel guilty about that and I have for years. If there’s anything negative in the aftermath, it’s knowing I escaped with my life. She wasn’t as lucky and look at the price she paid.”

  24

  WALKER MCNALLY

  Monday, April 18, 1988

  Walker took a seat near the back of the small conference room at the city recreation center. There was a separate door on the side of the building, its purpose to promote privacy. The furnishings were plain—folding chairs set up in ordered rows, a lectern that had been removed from its stand and placed on the floor. Wooden tables had been herded into a corner where they’d be out of the way. There were maybe twenty people in attendance, most keeping a chair or two between themselves and others. This was the third AA meeting he’d sat in on. The air smelled like construction paper and library paste. As an after-school project, the kids had cut out a number of tree silhouettes that were pinned to the bulletin board. THIS IS MY FAMILY TREE was written across the bottom of each. The branches were covered with cutout leaf shapes in primary colors, each bearing a name printed in block letters. MATTHEW, JESSICA, CHRISTOPHER, ASHLEY, JOSHUA, HEATHER. Walker could see leaves with the names of siblings as well, one or two leaves for Mom and Dad, depending on their marital status. A generation of grandparents appeared above the immediate family, with great-grandparents closer to the tippy-top. He doubted grade-school kids could conceive of ancestors more remote in time.

  His sponsor was a guy named Leonard whom he’d met through the Episcopal church he and Carolyn attended sporadically. He’d been aware Leonard didn’t drink. They had few acquaintances in common, though they ran into each other at the occasional dinner party. Leonard’s wife, Shannon, was a kick, bright and funny, and Carolyn had been interested in getting the four of them together. Walker had resisted the idea. Being in Leonard’s company was like being in the presence of a born-again, and Walker preferred to keep him at arm’s length. Once Herschel laid down the law about Walker’s pulling himself together, he’d called Leonard and talked to him about getting help. Leonard had agreed to sponsor him and the two chatted frequently by phone. He was gradually warming to the man. He wanted his life back, and Leonard understood exactly where he was, even his ambivalence in the face of despair.

  He had to admit alcoholism was democratic, encompassing every age, race, social status, and financial standing. So far he hadn’t run into anyone he knew, but he was braced for the possibility. After his release from the hospital, he’d gone down to the police station with his attorney and surrendered himself to the authorities. The booking process had been matter-of-fact, for which he’d been inordinately grateful. He’d been more than cooperative, thinking to demonstrate that he was a cut above most of those who passed through their hands. It was a mark of how low he’d sunk that he deemed their opinions relevant. Later, at his arraignment, he’d pleaded not guilty and now he was waiting for a court date. When the cops caught up with him after the accident, he’d been forced to surrender his driver’s license, so he’d had to hire a car and driver to ferry him around town.

  Betty Sherrard, the bank vice president and portfolio manager, had offered a solution to the transpo
rtation problem. Her son, Brent, was living at home until school started in the fall. He was twenty and worked part-time stocking shelves at Von’s supermarket. He needed the extra money and he was able to tailor his hours to accommodate Walker’s needs. Walker paid him fifteen dollars an hour, plus mileage on his mother’s spare car, a 1986 Toyota. It was all a pain in the ass, but he had no choice.

  The woman standing up in front was speaking about the trajectory of her drinking woes, a spiral as relentless as a toilet being flushed, according to her report: First, the family intervention, which had shocked her into good behavior. She’d been one year sober and then her mother died and she’d begun to drink again the day of the funeral. Three months later, she swore off alcohol again, but there were countless falls from grace, each one more degrading than the one before. Her husband divorced her. She lost custody of her kids. She was a mean drunk and her friends had taken to avoiding her. One morning she woke up in her car, which was parked at a shopping mall a hundred miles from home. She had no idea how she’d gotten there. Her purse had been stolen and she’d had to hike to the nearest service station, where she bummed enough money to call and beg her ex-sister-in-law to pick her up. Waiting, she’d finally accepted the fact she couldn’t do it on her own. Now she was fifty-one days clean and sober, which netted her a big round of applause.

  Walker thought his circumstances were tame by comparison. True, Carolyn had forced him to leave the house, but he was confident she’d relent. He still saw his kids every chance he got and he still had a job, for god’s sake. He’d messed up badly, but his problems didn’t hold a patch on some he’d heard here. This was a bump in the road, a wake-up call. He’d stumbled off course and now he’d righted himself. All these stories about people losing everything and living on the streets? He sympathized, but his situation was entirely different. One guy had made it clean and sober for five years, two months, and five days. The best Walker could offer up was seven days, not even worth one hand clapping. He’d have felt like a fool if he’d stood up and shared that. Belatedly, he flashed on the fact that while he’d been busy patting himself on the back, he’d forgotten about the girl he’d killed.

  Sitting there, he could feel his demons stir. It wasn’t that he wanted a drink as such. It was the option to drink that he found hard to renounce. At some point in the future—five years or ten, he was unclear on the time frame—he wanted to believe he could enjoy a cocktail or a glass of wine. How many special occasions would come and go with him sipping soda water or a Diet Coke, detached and disengaged? Not drinking for the remainder of his life was too extreme a penalty. Surely, he’d regain the privilege once he learned to moderate his intake.

  Carolyn would have told him he was kidding himself, but it wasn’t true. He was grappling with his so-called drinking problem and he was doing his best. How much more did she expect? He wanted a drink. He admitted it, especially now with this other business coming to the fore. The subject was like a cracked tooth he kept feeling with his tongue to see if the fissure had progressed.

  He checked his watch. Half an hour yet. All he could think about was how burdened he was. Over the years guilt had chafed at him, and now his only relief occurred during that magic moment when a drink went down and the warmth spread through his chest, untying the knots, loosening the noose around his neck. He was losing his capacity to tolerate the weight of anxiety that dogged him from day to day. How would he grow old with such a canker in his soul?

  An eternity later, the meeting ended and the room emptied with a clatter of chairs being folded and stacked against the wall. He felt a touch on his arm that made him jump.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  He turned. Avis Jent stood close by, in a spiky blaze of dark red hair, the scent of whiskey pouring off her skin. Shit, he thought, had she come to the meeting drunk? His right arm was still in a sling so he didn’t make a move to shake hands.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of his face. “Oh, I love that blend of purple and yellow. The black eyes make you look like a raccoon. You got yourself banged up good.”

  “I take it you heard about the accident.”

  “Me and everyone else. The whole of Horton Ravine is abuzz.”

  “Thanks. I’m feeling so much better for having talked to you.” Walker hadn’t seen Avis since their chance encounter on Via Juliana, that nightmare of patrol cars, police personnel, and rumors of a dead child. He hadn’t read a word in the paper about the incident, unless an article had appeared while he was in St. Terry’s and out of commission.

  Avis wasn’t looking good. He’d once thought her attractive, but the fluorescent lighting didn’t do her any favors. In her current state of inebriation, her eyes were out of focus and her loose-limbed swaying was such that he had to put a hand out to steady her.

  She said, “Whoa.”

  “I hope you didn’t drive over here in this condition.”

  “I came by cab. My license was permanently yanked. What a drag,” she said. “And you?”

  “I have a kid who squires me around town.”

  “Lucky you. How many meetings? Is this your first?”

  “Third.”

  She smiled. “Clever move. Paying lip service so you’ll look good when your case goes to trial. I’ve done the same thing myself.”

  Her tone was bantering but smug, and it annoyed the shit out of him. “How’s Carolyn holding up?” she asked, eyes wide with sympathy.

  “Great. She’s been very supportive, a real brick.”

  Avis made a face. “Well, that surprises me. I don’t think of her as understanding. She let you stay at the house?”

  “Not at the moment. I’m at the Pelican in Montebello, two blocks from the bank, which simplifies life to some extent. I still see the kids.”

  She looked around the room, which was empty except for the two of them. “I don’t suppose you could give me a ride home. I’m low on cash and the taxi over cost me twenty bucks. We could have a quick drink.”

  “Jesus, Avis. Would you give it a rest?”

  She laughed. “It was a joke.”

  “Not a funny one.”

  “Oh, lighten up. This isn’t the end of the world.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement. Nice seeing you. Have a good life.”

  “Good-bye to you, too. Change your mind, you know where I am. Second house on the right as you turn on Alita Lane.”

  He moved past her, crossing to the exit, aware that she followed him with her gaze as he stepped out of the room. Four middle-aged men were standing on the patio, smoking, oversized coffee cups in hand. This was the life that awaited him, endless cups of coffee and a cloud of cigarette smoke. Avis, still plastered, represented the other end of the spectrum, which was no more attractive than the one in front of him. How had he ended up in this hell on earth?

  Brent was parked across the street. Walker waved and he started the car, swinging around the block to pick him up. Walker got in the backseat. Sitting up front with Brent was a little too chummy for his taste. Fortunately, Brent was discreet and he knew his place. He and Walker exchanged only the most banal of remarks. Walker didn’t want to be Brent’s buddy and he was sure Brent wasn’t interested in being his. This was a business arrangement and Brent seemed to understand that Walker didn’t want to hear his observations or opinions. Brent conducted himself as though he were invisible, squiring Walker from one place to the next without comment.

  Walker stared out the window as Brent navigated through the heart of town, following Capillo to the top of the hill. At the crest, he turned right on Palisade. The road curved down to Harley’s Beach and up the hill again on the far side. The route took them through the back entrance to Horton Ravine, stone pillars marking the outer limits of the enclave. Earlier in the day Walker had called Carolyn, asking if she objected to his stopping by after his AA meeting to pick up a load of clothes. He passed off the reference to AA as an afterthought, but he knew it would register with her, perhaps winning him points
.

  When possible, he avoided the motel he’d moved into. He’d have preferred a place with more class—the Edgewater Hotel being his first choice—but he didn’t want to give Carolyn the impression he was being extravagant. She was already pissed off about the money he paid Brent, but what was he supposed to do, take public transportation? He could just picture himself on a city bus. The Pelican Motel was perched on a rise overlooking the main road through what was known as “the lower Village” in Montebello. The building had a drab air about it, just the place for a penitent. All he needed was a hair shirt and a cat-o’-nine-tails and he’d be set.

  Brent pulled up in front of his house and parked. Walker let himself out of the backseat, wondering what Brent’s impression was. The place looked good. He’d never liked the word “quaint,” but that’s how it struck him now. This charming home was forbidden turf until he’d straightened up his act. Carolyn was the keeper of the gate. He’d have to kiss serious butt for the rest of his life to get back into her good graces. The very idea made him tired, the pretense, the carefully guarded behavior, the facade of virtue when all he wanted was the life he’d had before. Plus, a drink, he thought.

  Brent accompanied him to the door. Politely, Walker rang the bell, feeling like a door-to-door salesman with a trainee at his side and a traveling case full of wares.

  When Carolyn opened the door she scarcely looked at him. She said, “Oh, it’s you” like she was expecting someone else and had suffered a disappointment. He thought a pleasant greeting would have been nice, some semblance of goodwill for the children’s sake. At the moment they were off at school and Carolyn was having none of it. Brent didn’t warrant a greeting of any kind, so Walker should have been grateful she spoke to him at all.

  She turned away and proceeded down the hall, talking to him over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Let me know when you’re done. I put the mail on the table. Remind me and I’ll tell you about a call I should have mentioned before.”