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Daisy’s house was off Donovan Road to the west of the 135. She pulled into a driveway that ran between two 1970s-era frame-and-stucco houses, mirror images of each other, though hers was painted dark green and the one next door was gray. Against her house, bougainvillea grew from thick vines that climbed as far as the asphalt shingle roof in a tangle of blossoms the shape and color of cooked shrimp. I parked at the curb and got out of my car while she pulled the Honda into the garage and removed her suitcase from the trunk. I stood on the porch and watched her unlock the door.
“Let me get some windows open,” she said as she went in.
I stepped in after her. The house had been closed up for days and the interior felt hot and dry. Daisy moved through the living and dining rooms to the kitchen, opening windows along the way. “The bathroom’s off that hall to the right.”
I said, “Thanks,” and went in search of it, primarily because it gave me the opportunity to peek into other rooms. The floor plan was common to houses of this type. There was an L-shaped living-dining room combination. A galley-style kitchen ran the depth of the house on the left, and on the right, a hallway co
I closed the bathroom door and availed myself of the facilities-a polite way of saying that I peed. The tile in the bathroom was dark maroon, the counter edged with a two-inch beige bullnose. The toilet was the same deep maroon. Daisy’s robe hung on the back of the door, a silky Japanese kimono, dense sky blue, with a green and orange dragon embroidered on the back. I gave her points for that one. I’d imagined something closer to a gra
I joined her in the kitchen. Daisy had put a kettle on the stove, flames turned up high to speed along the process. On the table, she’d set out tea bags and two heavy ceramic mugs. She said, “I’ll be right back,” and disappeared toward the bathroom, which allowed me the opportunity to peer out the kitchen window. I studied the neatly kept yard. The grass had been trimmed. The rose bushes were thick with blooms-pink, blush, peach, and brassy orange. Ta
When she returned she carried a manila folder that she placed on the table. She settled in her chair and put on a pair of drugstore-rack reading glasses with round metal frames. She removed a sheaf of newspaper articles, clipped together, and a page of notes, neatly printed, the letters round and regular. “These are all the newspaper accounts I could find. You don’t have to read them now, but I thought they might help. And these are the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the people you might want to talk to.” She pointed to the first name on the list. “Foley Sullivan’s my dad.”
“He now lives in Cromwell?”
She nodded. “He couldn’t stay in Serena Station. I guess a few people reserved judgment, but most thought poorly of him to begin with. He’d been a drinker before she left, but he quit cold and hasn’t had a drop since. This next name, Liza Clements? Her maiden name was Mellincamp. She’s the babysitter who was watching me the night my mother ran off… escaped… whatever you want to call it. Liza had just turned fourteen and she lived one block over. This gal, Kathy Cramer, was her best friend-still is for that matter. Her family lived a couple of houses down-big place and nice, relative to everything else. Kathy’s mother was a dreadful gossip, and it’s possible Kathy picked up a few tidbits from her.”
“Is the family still there?”
“The father is. Chet Cramer. Foley bought the car from his dealership. Kathy’s married and she and her husband bought a place in Orcutt. Her mother died seven or eight years after Mom disappeared, and Chet married some new gal within six months.”
“I bet that was a popular move.” I indicated the next name on the list. “Who’s this?”
“Calvin Wilcox is Violet’s only brother. I think he saw her that week, so he may be able to fill in a few gaps. This guy, BW, was the bartender at the dive where my parents hung out, and these are miscellaneous customers who witnessed some of their famous public shoving matches.”
“Have you talked to all these people?”
“Well, no. I mean, I’ve known them all for years… but I haven’t asked about her.”
“Don’t you think you’d have better luck than I would? I’m a stranger. Why would they open up to me?”
“Because people like to talk, but a lot of stuff they might not be willing to say to me. Who wants to tell a woman how often her dad punched her mother’s lights out? Or refer to the time when her mom got mad and threw a drink in some guy’s face? Now and then I get wind of these things, but mostly people are falling all over themselves keeping the truth under wraps. I know they mean well, but I get weirded out by that. I hate secrets. I hate that there’s all this information I’m not allowed to have. Who knows what’s being said behind my back even to this day?”
“Well, I’ll be giving you regular written reports, so whatever I learn you’ll be hearing about.”
“Good. I’m glad. About time,” she said. “Oh, here. I want you to have this. Just so you’ll know who you’re dealing with.”
She handed me a small black-and-white snapshot with a scalloped white rim and then watched over my shoulder as I studied the image. The print was four inches square and showed a woman in a floral-print sleeveless dress, smiling into the camera. Her hair, which could have been any color, was a medium-dark tone, long and gently wavy. She was small and pretty in a 1950s kind of way, more voluptuous than we’d consider stylish in this day and age. Over one arm she carried a straw tote from which a tiny fluffy pup appeared, staring at the camera with bright black eyes. “When was this taken?”
“Early June, I think.”
“And the dog’s name is Baby?”
“Baby, yes. A pure-bred Pomeranian everyone hated except my mom, who really doted on the little turd. Given the chance, Dad would have taken a shovel and pounded her into the ground like a tent peg. His words.”
A two-by-four porch post appeared to be growing from the top of Violet’s head. Behind her, on the porch rail, I could read the last two house numbers: 08. “Is this the house where you lived?”
Daisy nodded. “I’ll take you by when we’re over there.”
“I’d like that.”
We were silent on the drive to Serena Station. The sky was a flat pale blue, looking bleached by the sun. The hills rolled gently toward the horizon, the grass the color of brown sugar. Daisy’s was the only car on the road. We passed abandoned oil rigs, rust-frozen and still. To my left I caught a glimpse of an old quarry and rusting railroad tracks that began and ended nowhere. On the only visibly working ranch I saw, ten head of cattle had settled on the ground like brawny cats in the slatted shade of a corral.
The town of Serena Station appeared beyond a bend in the two-lane road, with a street sign indicating that it was now called Land’s End Road. The street ran in a straight line for three blocks and ended abruptly at a locked gate. Beyond the gate, the road wound up a low hill, but it didn’t look like anyone had traveled it for quite some time. There were numerous cars parked in town-in driveways, along the streets, behind the general store-but nothing seemed to move except the wind. A few houses were boarded up, their exteriors bereft of color. In front of one, the paint on the white picket fence had been stripped to the wood, and portions of it sagged. In the small patchy lawns, what little grass remained was dry, and the ground looked hard and unforgiving. In one yard, a camper shell sat under an overhang of corrugated green plastic sheets. There were tree stumps and a tumble of firewood. What had once been the automobile-repair shop stood open to the elements. A tall, dark palm tree towered above a length of chain-link fence that extended across the rear. A stack of fifty-five-gallon oil drums had been left behind. Weeds grew in dry-looking puffs that, in time, the wind would blow free, sending them rolling down the middle of the road. A hound trotted along a side street on a doggie mission of some kind.