Tunafish wrote it down in the notebook he'd show to Virgil. Time to move. He gave the man a good lead and followed his taillights east toward Rochester.
There were killer whales in Puget Sound and a sperm chasing a school of salmon in the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
Ryan could make out the shapes, dark shadows in the misty blue. The specks of silver and yellow must be the salmon.
"They're both oils," Denise said, "from memory. Not very good, either. I mean the technique or the memory. I've got to loosen up more, I'm stiff."
"You like whales, huh?"
"I love whales."
Ryan hadn't thought much about whales, but he said, "I can see where they'd be good to paint."
"During one summer I trailed a herd of gray whales from Vancouver Island down the coast to Ensenada, in Baja. I must've made a hundred and fifty sketches."
"You still have them?"
"No. Some are at home, if my mother kept them. The rest were lost, thrown away." She was staring at the two unframed canvases propped against the wall. "These are the first things I've done in about three years."
She moved away now, going into the kitchen that was separated from the living room by a bar-high counter with two stools. She called it part of the hot-setup contemporary decor. The place, she'd found out, was full of young swingies who turned their hi-fis up in the evening and invited each other in for cocktails and Sangria at their Studio bars. She had gone to one party and sipped coffee and the swingies had lost interest. It had been fun watching, though, she said. Like amateur night.
Ryan looked around the room again before going over to the counter. The place was freshly painted white and didn't feel lived in. There wasn't any worn-out furniture, things that had been handed down or bought at garage sales. There was beige carpeting and an Indian-looking rug. There were no curtains: a limp plant hung in the window. What dominated the room was a drawing board tilted up, with a straight chair, and a table littered with tubes of paint and brushes, a few ceramic pots, coffee mugs, and a full ashtray. There was an aluminum floor lamp that looked new, and a pair of director's chairs with bright-yellow canvas. Most of the wall area was bare and stark white except for a number of black-and-white sketches of whales above the drawing board, stuck to the wall with pieces of masking tape. There were the two blue-looking finished canvases and a word, Kujira, painted on the wall in thin, flowing black letters that seemed more a delicate design than a word. Ryan didn't know what to say when they came in and Denise turned on the floor lamp and he stood looking around. He said, "Did you do all this?" He studied the oils, not knowing what they were until she told him whales. The design on the wall, Kujira, was the Japanese word for whale, and the technique, the flowing, stiff-armed brushstrokes of ink, was called sumi. Denise said she was thinking about doing No More Bullshit in sumi. Ryan said it was a nice place. Clean. Denise said it was funny, she never thought of a place that way, being clean or dirty.
Leaning on the counter, he watched her as she put a kettle on to boil and dropped tea bags into blue ceramic cups.
"You mentioned, I think it was at that Saint Joseph meeting, you almost went home. Where's that, your home?" He had to think before he spoke and not refer to anything about her he had learned on his own.
"Bad Axe," Denise said, "You know where it is?"
"Everybody knows where Bad Axe is. Why didn't you go there?" He was interested. He was also groping, looking for a way to ease into telling her what was going on. Relieve his own mind without disturbing hers. Maybe if they got talking about real feelings and were honest with each other . . .
"I almost did," Denise said, "I guess, wanting to feel protected. But when I'm home, I'm not ever really me, I'm somebody or whatever my mother expects me to be. You know what I mean? I have to pretend I'm still her little girl and, oh gee, is it nice to be home, it's so good to see you, Mom, and all that shit. I love her, I really do, but I can't be honest with her and tell her how I feel. She wouldn't understand. She's full of shoulds and shouldn'ts and she's not going to change now. So I thought, why get into all that? I've got enough of a problem getting myself straight without worrying about offending good old Mom. In her own way, she's as unreal and fucked-up as I am. But she doesn't know it and that makes a difference."
Denise looked at him as she turned and placed the mugs of tea on the counter. "That's a habit I'm going to have to break."
"What is?"
"Talking dirty. I always said 'fuck' a lot when I was drinking."
"It's okay as long as you smile."
"The past year, I don't remember having much to smile about." She looked at him again. "Does that sound like 'poor me'?"
"Maybe a little," Ryan said, "even if it's true." He wanted to lead her along, get her to talk about herself. "How come you didn't paint?"
"I was too busy drinking."
"I asked you one time," Ryan said and stopped. "No, I guess I didn't."
"What?"
"When you started drinking."
"At State, I guess. I went to East Lansing, did the wine and pot thing. I guess I drank quite a bit, but I didn't worry about it then. Everybody got high or stoned, one way or another."
"Then you went to-what, art school?"
"Detroit Arts and Crafts. Did I tell you that?"
"Yeah, I guess. Or else I just assumed you studied somewhere."
"It has a different name now," Denise said, "like the Creative Center or something, and a new building. I went there three years, got very involved in fine art, mostly oils and acrylics. Then, well, I was living in the art center area, you know? around Wayne and the art museum, the main library-"
Ryan nodded. About ten blocks from where he had found her in the Cass Avenue bar, the Good Times.
"-and I felt I was into real life, there was so much going on around there. Sort of a Left Bank atmosphere with the art and the freaky students at Wayne and the inner-city stuff, the hookers and pimps in their wild outfits, all sort of mixed together. At the time I thought, wow, beautiful. Or bizarro, if it was a little kinky. That was one of the words. Or something would berserk you out, like a wine and pot party in a sauna. You see, I was very arty and open-minded, I mean as a life-style, not just on weekends playing dress-up. I was going around with a couple of black guys most of the time. . .." She paused.
Ryan waited.
"Yeah? You trying to find out if I'm prejudiced?"
"No, I was thinking, if I'd ever told my mother, God. Maybe that's what I should do sometime, say, okay, here's your little girl, and unload everything I've done. If she survives, fine. If she doesn't. . ."
"What?"
"Well, it would be her problem, wouldn't it?"
"I don't think you'd be unloading," Ryan said. "I think you'd be dumping on her, paying her back. You don't have to do that."
"No, I guess not. I keep looking for reasons, how I got here."
"We can save guilt and resentment," Ryan said, "if you want to keep it light."
"And my Higher Power, God Honey," Denise said. "I'm having a little trouble with that, too. I've got a long way to go, but already I feel good. I say it at a meeting and try to describe it, the feeling, but I don't tell everything I feel. I don't want to name names and put anybody on the spot." She was looking directly at him now. Her eyes were brown. She was in there feeling good things about him, letting him know.
"I don't think anybody tells everything," Ryan said, "at a meeting."
"Can I tell you?"
"If you want to."
"Maybe I'd better wait," she said. "Everything's working out, then I begin to worry maybe it's a false high. I get up there and find out it isn't real but an induced feeling, or else something happens."
"Were you on drugs," Ryan asked her, "when you were doing the arty thing?"
"No, downers once in a while when my nerves were bad, but that was part of the drinking. I smoked, there was always grass, but I never cared much for the smell. What I liked to do best was drink."
"T
he two, you mentioned a couple of black guys, did they get you going?"
"No, I didn't need help, I sort of went that way naturally. They didn't care. Then-well, I started drinking more and more until I was at it most of the day. It was what I did in life."
"Was there a reason? I mean at first, were you depressed or just out for a good time?"
"Both, I suppose. I used it either way." She hesitated and looked thoughtful as she fooled with her tea bag. "I got into a bad situation. I was married . . ."
Ryan waited. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to go on.
". . . in fact, I still am. We're separated now, we haven't been together in-I haven't seen him in months. I don't even know where he is." She paused, holding her tea bag, and looked at Ryan. "Bobby was black, too."
Ryan hesitated because she was waiting for him and he didn't know what to say. He said, "Yeah?" And then he said, "Leary. It doesn't sound like a name, you know, a colored guy would have." Ryan froze, realizing his mistake. She had told him her name was Denise Watson. Not Leary.
But she was looking at the tea bag again, lifting it and letting it settle. "We weren't together much. He was in and out of ... mental hospitals most of the time. That's not why I drank, I was drinking before that, but I guess it was a good poor-me excuse. Right?"
"It sounds as good as any," Ryan said.
"Why we got married-I don't know, maybe as you said before, to pay back my mother, if you want to get into all that, look for a subconscious reason. I don't know, maybe I was punishing myself or I saw it as a challenge and thought I could save him from . . . the way he was, the kind of person. Or, shit, I was attracted to him physically, the cool, hard dude-I mean, talk about cool, Christ-he scared me to death. I wanted to paint him, too." She paused, thoughtful again. "But I never did. Now-I hope I never see him, but I suppose I'll have to. I want to get a divorce started and out of the way and I think that, getting it off my mind, will help a lot." She looked up at Ryan. "Maybe you'll serve the papers. Wouldn't that be something?"
"If you file in Oakland County . . ."
He didn't know what he was starting to say. She hadn't asked a question that required an answer; he could duck around it. But he was sitting three feet away from her across the counter, looking at her face, her eyes. . . .
"I do some work out here," Ryan said, "and in Detroit, Wayne County. I like to move around."
"Do you ever get into any weird situations," she asked him, "where the people don't want to be served?"
You bet he did, like serving a rock and roll band in front of thousands of screaming fans, walking right out on the stage. . . .
There, they were off of it.
They talked about Ryan for a while, about serving papers and how he got into it, and about working in the cucumber fields north of Bad Axe. They talked about Denise's new job at the A&P and almost got into it again.
She told him she was using her maiden name, Denise Watson, because it was on her social security card. Trying to steer away, Ryan said, You like it, huh, the job? She said it was a new experience. It was funny to hear people calling her by her first name again, Denise. She hadn't been called that in years. Ryan said he thought it was a nice name. And hoped that would end it.
She told him, then, she had done something dumb: applied for a driver's license in Pontiac and put down the Pancake House as her address. She hadn't found the apartment yet, she was staying at a motel, didn't have a permanent address; and going to the Pancake House after meetings she had felt good there, comfortable.
"Have you gotten the license yet?"
"I'm afraid to ask if it came."
"Why?"
"Well, why did I use their address? I'd have to explain all that. They might think I'm doing something, you know, illegal."
"You are."
"Not intentionally. I think the best thing, I'll apply for another one and do it right."
"Let's see what I can do first," Ryan said, now protective, wanting to help her, wanting to tell her, right now, who he was, but still holding back.
What was he doing? Playing with her, drawing out information, then ducking when his poor sensitive guilty awareness felt she might tell him too much. Then playing safe with a little how's-work chitchat. Then feeling sorry for her-no, not sorry-feeling close to her and wanting to touch her because she was a winner, a good-looking winner with nice clean-looking hair and eyes that held his while he sat there hiding everything, afraid to tell her. A soft, smiling expression in her eyes. . . .
Afraid of what? Well, afraid she might not understand, get the wrong idea and start drinking again. Trusting somebody and seeing it blow up. Afraid of what she'd think of him, sneaking around, playing games. She'd ask why, and the wrong answer would be there before he could explain it.
For the money.
That's what she'd naturally think, that he'd slipped in snug and close so he'd be here when the money came in.
Picture it, when she found out he knew all the time. Her eyes holding his. . . .
Try convincing her eyes the money didn't have anything to do with it. He'd been looking for her, yes, he'd admit that. But he hadn't gone to the meeting to find her. That was an accident. She could be someone else, he'd still be here. . . .
But why go into all that if he didn't have to? At least not yet. He'd tell her sooner or later, naturally, but not just yet, okay?
The manager of the Pancake House didn't remember Ryan. He said, "Yeah, it came yesterday as a matter of fact. I called the Pontiac Police, and they said call the Sheriff's Department. I called them and they said they'd send somebody over."
"Oh, here," Ryan said. He took out his wallet and showed the manager his official Oakland County Constable star.
"I thought you'd be here yesterday," the manager said. He lifted the change drawer in the cash register and handed Ryan the Department of State window envelope addressed to Denise Watson.
"Thanks a lot," Ryan said.
Chapter 16
"I'm tickled to death I'm talking to you," Mr. Perez said. He was hunched over the papers and folders that covered the desk, smiling into the telephone.
Ryan, on the couch, was trying to listen while Raymond Gidre was telling him how he got along with niggers, how he didn't bother them and they didn't bother him.
"I know it must be a surprise, yes indeed." He was giving it his Nice Mr. Perez tone. "I'm just happy I was able to locate you. . . . No, I'm pretty sure. Miz Robert Leary, Jr., is that correct?"
"Matter of fact I had a good friend was a nigger," Raymond Gidre said to Ryan, across the coffee table. "Boy name of Old Jim, we called him. Me and Old Jim'd go crabbin' down to Grand Isle."
"No, I'm afraid, Miz Leary, I can't tell you much more than I have on the telephone. What I'd like to do is come out and see you, explain this in detail. . . . No, it's a property. . . . No, not necessarily, Miz Leary. Tell me something. When would be convenient for you?"
"You ever go crabbin'?"
Ryan said yes, to shut him up. Raymond told him about it anyway, how you put the meat in the crab net, rotten meat if you had some, and how the sides of the net collapsed when it was laying on the bottom, then, see, the sides raised up again when you lifted out the net.
"Yes, ma'am, I can come out this evening, or I can meet you somewhere if you'd rather. Whatever's convenient."
"Drop them suckers in the boiling water, watch 'em turn red. First, though, you want to put in your bay leaf and your Tabasco, also some thyme."
"That'd be fine, Miz Leary. It was nice talking to you and I'm looking forward to seeing you. . . . Yes, ma'am, five o'clock. Bye-bye."
"I generally eat five, six. Shit, they go down good."
"What's that, Raymond?" Mr. Perez was off the phone.
"Gulf crabs."
"What'd she say?" Ryan asked.
Mr. Perez was grinning at Raymond. "Now you talking. Leave this meat and potato country and get back to cooking."
"How'd she sound?" Ryan said.
"Su
rprised . . . though not too excited." Mr. Perez got up and walked around to his bookcase bar next to the window. He began making himself a drink. "She seemed vague, like she just woke up."
"Well, I doubt she'd be expecting anybody even to call her," Ryan said. "You think?"
Mr. Perez came over with his drink. Raymond got up quickly and Mr. Perez sat down in his deep chair.
"You talked to her, did you?"
"I had to. Find out where she lives."
"How'd she sound? I'm wondering if the booze has made her soft in the head any."
"She's not drinking," Ryan said. "She quit."
"She tell you that?"
"She was sober. You could see she hadn't had anything in a while."
"How do you tell that?"
"Her appearance. She looks like a different person now," Ryan said. "It couldn't have just happened overnight."
Mr. Perez nodded, accepting that, but still curious. "You say you hung around this place, Uncle Ben's. She came in to get her driver's license and you started talking to her. How'd you go about that?"
"I went up to her, I asked her if she remembered me. She said no. I said, Aren't you Denise Watson? I told her I met her in a bar one time. We had a cup of coffee and talked a little."
"You tell her who you are?"
"I told her my name, I told her what I did. She seemed nervous then; but I didn't pull out any papers, so she relaxed."
"How'd you find out where she lives?"
"I asked her. Well, first I asked her if she'd like to go out sometime. She wouldn't say yes right away, but before I left she gave me her phone number and told me where she lives."
"In Pontiac?"
"No, it's in Rochester."
"Rochester doesn't mean shit to me."
"It's east of Pontiac," Ryan said. "The address is on the piece of paper I gave you. With the phone number."
"You go to her place?"
Ryan paused. "Yeah, I did, to check. Make sure it wasn't a phony address."