NINETEEN
Sunday.
Kerry and I went downtown to the St. Francis Hotel for an early brunch, something we do occasionally. Afterward she suggested a drive down the coast and I said okay; the fog and high overcast had blown inland during the night, making the day clear and bright, if still windy. But I wasn't in much of a mood for that kind of Sunday outing. Not depressed so much today as restless-what a Texan I had known in the Army called a “daunciness”; I couldn't seem to relax, I couldn't seem to keep my mind off Harmon Crane and Michael Kiskadon and that damned letter carbon addressed to somebody with the initial L.
As perceptive as she is, Kerry read my mood and understood it. We were in Pacifica, following Highway One along the edge of the ocean, when she said, “Why don't we go back?”
“What?”
“Back home. You're not enjoying yourself and neither am I. You can drop me at my place if you'd rather be alone.”
“Uh-uh. We'll go back, but I don't want to be alone. I'll only brood.”
“You're doing that now.”
“I'll do it worse if you're not around.”
It was noon when we got back to the city. I drove to Pacific Heights-doing it automatically, without consulting Kerry. But she didn't seem to mind. Inside my flat, she went to make us some fresh coffee and I sat down with the box of Harmon Crane's papers. I reread the letter carbon. I reread the fictionalized confession. I reread the carbon one more time.
I was still bothered. And I still didn't know why.
Kerry had brought me some coffee and was sitting on the couch, reading one of my pulps. I said to her, “Let's play some gin rummy.”
She looked up. “Are you sure that's what you want to do?”
“Sure I'm sure. Why?”
“You get grumpy when you lose at gin.”
“Who says I'm going to lose?”
“You always lose when you're in a mood like this. You don't concentrate and you misplay your cards.”
“Is that so? Get the cards.”
“I'm telling you, you'll lose.”
“Get the cards. I'm not going to lose.”
She got the cards, and we played five hands and I lost every one because I couldn't concentrate and misplayed my cards. I hate it when she's right. I lost the sixth hand, too: she caught me with close to seventy points-goddamn face cards, I never had learned not to hoard face cards.
“You're a hundred and thirty-seven points down already,” she said. “You want to quit?”
“Shut up and deal,” I said grumpily.
And the telephone rang.
“Now who the hell is that?”
“Why don't you answer it and find out?”
“Oh, you're a riot, Alice,” I said, which was a Jackie Gleason line from the old “Honeymooners” TV show. But she didn't get it. She said, “Who's Alice?” The telephone kept on ringing; I said, “One of these days, Alice, bang, zoom, straight to the moon,” and got up and went into the bedroom to answer it.
A woman's voice made an odd chattering sound: “Muh-muh-muh,” like an engine that kept turning over but wouldn't catch. But it wasn't funny; there was a familiar whining note of despair in the voice.
“Mrs. Kiskadon? What's the matter?”
She made the sound again, as if there were a liquidy blockage in her throat and she couldn't push the words past it. I told her to calm down, take a couple of deep breaths. I heard her do that; then she made a different noise, a kind of strangled gulping, that broke the blockage and let the words come spilling out.
“It's Michael… you've got to help me, please, I don't know what to do!”
“What about Michael?”
“He said… he said he was going to kill himself…”
I could feel the tension come into me, like air filling and expanding a balloon. “When was this?”
“A little while ago. He locked himself in his den last night after that Marin policeman left, he wouldn't come out, he sat in there all night doing God knows what. But this afternoon… he came out this afternoon and he had that gun in his hand, he was just carrying it in his hand, and he said… he…”
“Easy. Did you call his doctor?”
“No, I didn't think… I was too upset…”
“Have you called anyone else?”
“No. Just you… you were the only person I could think of.”
“All right. Is your husband in his den now?”
“I don't know,” she said, “I'm not home.”
“Not home? Where are you?”
“I couldn't stay there, I just… I couldn't, I had to get out of there…”
“Where are you?” I asked her again.
“A service station. On Van Ness.”
“How long have you been away from your house?”
“I don't know, not long…”
“Listen to me. What did your husband say before you left? Tell me his exact words.”
“He said… I don't remember his exact words, it was something about shooting himself the way his father did, like father like son, it was crazy talk…”
“Did he sound crazy? Incoherent?”
“No. He was calm, that awful calm.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No, no, nothing.”
“What did he do?”
“Went back into the den and locked the door.”
“And then you left?”
“Yes. I told you, I couldn't stay there…”
“How soon did you leave?”
“Right away. A minute or two.”
“So it hasn't been more than fifteen or twenty minutes since he made his threat. He's probably all right; there's no reason to panic. You go back home and try to reason with him. Meanwhile, I'll call his doctor for you-”
“No,” she said, “I can't go back there alone. Not alone. If you come… I'll meet you there…”
“There's nothing I can do-”
“Please,” she said, “I'll go home now, I'll wait for you.”
“Mrs. Kiskadon, I think you-”
But there was a clicking sound and she was gone.
I put the handset back into its cradle. And left it there: I couldn't call Kiskadon's doctor because I didn't know who he was; she hadn't given me time to ask his name.
When I turned around Kerry was standing in the bedroom doorway. She said, “What was that all about?”
“Kiskadon threatened to kill himself a while ago. His wife is pretty upset; she wants me to go over there.”
“Do you think he meant it?”
