Keeper of the Keys

If they had looked at Henry objectively, not as a crazy, lovestruck young man who didn’t know what he was doing, they might have recognized him for the catch he was. Henry had graduated with honors from high school, attended Cal for two years. He almost finished his degree before they got married, and pla

Who could have predicted such a tall man with such wi

Pouring herself another glass, walking out into her garden, she remembered that she had been so young. Henry wanted her, yes. He loved her fluffy hair, her i

Oh, give Ray a girl like herself back then! She had been irresistible!

Then she’d had Ray. She ballooned from a hundred and ten pounds to a hundred and sixty-five. After graduation, Hank worked at Cal State Long Beach as a TA, a teaching assistant. He came home at the end of the day disgruntled, unsatisfied with his lot, and disapproving.

“Other women keep their figures,” he would say. “Other women go back to work right away after their baby is born.”

He wanted her to support him so that he could finish his graduate degree and couldn’t understand when she didn’t rate that goal as a priority.

She didn’t care about prettier women or his education. She would not go back to work until this amazing boy spent most of his days in school. She did not give a damn about her figure.

“Real men want their wives to stay home and take care of their precious sons,” she said.

Esmé wondered where Ray was. She had called him twice today. He didn’t answer. She tried his cell phone, leaving a message.

The last dregs of the bottle dribbled into her glass and she drank them. Although her thinking was fuzzy, she was sure her driving reflexes were fine. Certainly her emotions were full and flourishing. She called a cab, gathered up her keys, locked the front door, and picked up her own vehicle in Granada ’s lot.

She stuck her key into the ignition, which did not start.

But she did not believe in divine intervention. She did not believe in fate. After about four tries, the car started up. She recognized a certain unsound quality to her driving, but she seemed able enough to stay within the boundaries of her lane. Be very careful. She opened her eyes very wide and put both hands on the wheel and kept reminding herself that she was driving toward Topanga Canyon.

She made her way out of Whittier through the maze of numbered freeways. This exercise frequently reminded her of those mazes people marked with stones that started in the center and led to some outside goal. People claimed to find the walk edifying, even spiritual. She had tried walking the labyrinths, with mixed emotions. They frustrated and angered her. If a choice had to be made, which, depending on the maze, choices did have to be made, she invariably picked the wrong route.

Kind of like picking Henry, who turned out to be so wrong for her.

Now she followed a well-worn path, and when traffic stalled, she listened to talk shows.

“I hate my father!” one tearful caller said.

“Let’s figure out why,” said the patient radio host.

The host probably had no credentials, no counseling experience whatsoever. He probably had three ex-wives and seven children, vaguely related, all wondering what love meant witnessing his mean existence and emotional detachment.

Esmé arrived at Ray’s house around seven Saturday night. Maybe he was out.

During daylight savings time, even the canyon stayed relatively light. She saw no signs of life except for the landscape lights bursting on when she stepped out of the car. She wove up the driveway, her Rockports crunching on the gravel, aware that she was not at her best.

Tonight, she wanted to tell her son the whole story, the whole sad tale of herself and her hero, Henry Jackson. How it all fell apart. How she regretted so much.

She dreaded the encounter slightly more than she welcomed it. Her power over Ray had weakened through the years. Leigh came along, a normal course of events. Leigh loved Ray; even Esmé could see it, how much Leigh loved her son. But as a mother who had invested absolutely everything in her child, she could barely stomach the change. She went to work at the grocery store every day, yes, but with what purpose? No little boy came home to her anymore needing a hug, fresh crayons, help with his science project.

Sometimes she indulged in a vision of grandchildren. Whenever she broached the topic with Ray, she got put off. “We’ll think about that when the time comes.”

In other words, Leigh didn’t want them, not ever, and Esmé could just up and die of a broken heart, for all Leigh cared.

Drinking brought up negativity. She remembered that. She must crush these unpleasant thoughts. Finally reaching the entrance to Ray’s house, she rang the bell. Nobody came.

She knocked. No one answered.

“Ray?” she called softly. Then, “Ray!” regardless of the neighbors. After waiting a polite amount of time, she gave up and took the hidden key from behind a bramble bush. She pushed the old-fashioned key first into the door lock, then into the dead bolt. Both slipped open like well-oiled musical instruments. She opened the door to his immaculate, magnificent, sterile home.

A perfectly tempered air swept over her, forcing her eyes closed. “Ah,” she said, accepting this benevolent feeling that came from money and good pla

Replacing the key, she went into the house. Lights greeted her, turning on as if bidden. Ray adored modern technology, and at this moment, so did she. She felt so welcomed.

She poured herself a vodka from his wet bar, and looked around. She admired and hated the artwork on his walls. She peeked into his closet, but when she spilled her drink, decided she probably ought to lie down for a bit.

His sofa, worth thousands no doubt, was hard but at least had some loose pillows. She put her head on one end and stretched out on the unforgiving sofa.

She would tell all.

In a way, she couldn’t wait. All these years, she had kept her life bottled up inside so tight, corked, screwed down. Ray should know, she decided, plumping the pillow with one hand, feeling a little dizzy. He ought to know who his father was, and who his mother is.

Probably he deserved to know, although such niceties of morality seemed a little like the leaves outside, blowing in hot summer winds, untouchable unless they fell to the ground and you stomped on them. She would have a nap, and then he’d be home.

22

F or breakfast, Ray found some food they could eat, ca

The T-shirt sat in its bag on the couch. Ray kept away from it. Kat couldn’t stop looking at it.

“Plan of action,” Kat said. “Besides take the shirt back to the sheriff?”

“We didn’t finish searching this place. Maybe there’s more.”

“We hunt some more?” Kat said.

“Don’t want to miss anything, now that we’re here.”

“But it’s a crime scene. We shouldn’t mess it up.”

“Is it? I don’t believe it. Besides, we already slept here.”

They hunted. Kat made Ray search the small downstairs bedroom. She refused to go downstairs at all, in fact.

They tossed the place attic to foundation, finding nothing else that suggested Leigh had been there recently.

Kat found a picture album that documented many years of visits. Mr. Hubbel, not exactly a fine figure of a man these days, appeared godlike, handsome as a movie star. He water-skied, hiked, rode a bike, swam wearing a mighty tight Speedo. In occasional extras presumably taken by friends, his wife appeared alongside him, small and adorable. Leigh, young and accompanied by friends male and female over the years, gri