ways that didn't add up.
But back then she was a handsome, accomplished woman who came from another landed family and considered herself aristocracy. By her lights, Pete was destined for much bigger things than poor-girl Celia, and she seemed to blame me for bringing that bad influence into his life. She was also oddly sexless, even prudish-one of the camp who'd have much preferred it if children never found out that roughly half the people on the planet were anatomically different from the other half. I had the feeling that she'd borne her first son out of a sense of duty, and then Kirk because having only one didn't look socially proper. Otherwise, she'd wanted nothing to do with that undignified business. Besides her other quirky behavior, she'd taken on an accusing air, especially toward young people-maybe because she figured, correctly, that they were obsessed with getting their hands on each other.
My worries about the beer vaporized with her first words.
'Don't you sit there oogling that little slut, too,' she said coldly.
I mumbled, 'Sorry, ma'am,' and retreated down the porch steps, too skewered by her spear of guilt to defend myself.
Then she spoke again, but this time it was like I wasn't there-she was gazing past me at Celia.
'If you think you're getting into this family on your back, you're in for a big surprise.' Her tone was calm, definite, not so much challenging as pronouncing judgment.
It turned out to be accurate and swift. Several weeks later, on October 27, Celia was killed on the Pettyjohn Ranch. She'd been alone and tried to ride a young, still half-wild stallion that she'd been warned against. He'd thrown her into the corral fence, and she'd fractured her skull against a post.
The investigation was a rubber-stamp formality, and there was never any autopsy. The sheriff at the time, Burt Simms, was a crony of Reuben's. The Pettyjohn family quietly made their condolences to Celia's parents in the form of a generous check. Officially, that was as far as it went.
Gary Varna was one of the deputies involved in the case, and while he never really questioned me, I could tell he sensed that I knew something I wasn't letting on. After things settled down, I started running into him a lot, just by chance, it seemed. We'd chat and the talk would always get around to Celia. Eventually, I came to realize that he was already on the path to what he would become, and he wanted to know what was under all the rocks-not to make waves, but because that kind of knowledge gave him satisfaction and power.
Gary was a cop right down to his bones, but he treated me well-never forgot that I was a kid who'd lost somebody dear, never tried to bully me, and presented a genuine friendliness. I'd grown to respect him and, moreover, to like him, and I still did. But I never gave up my secret.
What I knew was this: a few weeks before she died, Celia had stayed out late on a Saturday night date with Pete. All the rest of us in the family went to sleep before she got home. She must have come in quietly-nobody else woke up. I did only because she sat down on my bed.
I was half dopey with sleep, but startled. She'd never done anything like that before. The only thing I could think was that she was going to tell me some news that was too exciting to keep till morning.
In a way, she did, and my surprise jumped to amazement. She lay down with her back to me, took my hand, and slid it inside her blouse, pressing it against her bare belly.
There was a slight but definite swell to it that hadn't been there when I'd seen her naked at the creek. Naive as I was, I knew what that meant.
After a minute or so, she got up and left. She hadn't said a word and she never gave any sign afterward that it had even happened.
The reason I'd kept that to myself through the years since then wasn't anything noble like wanting to keep her memory pure. On the contrary, my motives were outright selfish. For that one minute, she had entrusted me with the deepest part of her. It erased all the times and ways she'd hurt me, and still remained the most intense intimacy I'd ever felt.
I was goddamned if I was going to share it with anyone else.
But there were probably others who'd known or suspected that she was pregnant. Her boyfriend, Pete Pettyjohn, for one. The mental unbalance he already had-maybe inherited from his mother-got worse over the next couple of months, and so did his drinking, to the point where his old man started locking the liquor cabinet.
That Christmas eve, Pete broke into it, holed up alone with the bottles he took, and ended up shooting himself in the head.
11
Sarah Lynn Olsen and I had been sweethearts in high school and until my last year in college. Since then we'd both been married to, and divorced from, other people. I didn't see her often these days-just when we'd run into each other on the street or in a bar. But she was always warmly friendly, and she was a partner in her family's real estate business, which owned things like shopping malls. I figured those were the best odds I was going to get for a loan, although I wouldn't have blamed her a bit if she'd decided that a phone call from jail didn't fit her Saturday night plans.
But Gary came back to say she was on her way, and he took me out to the visiting room. She must have jumped into her car as soon as they'd finished talking, because she was there within ten minutes.
Sarah Lynn was very attractive, with a sort of earth mother quality-buxom figure, long wheat-colored hair, and a sweetness that sometimes came across as drifty. Old friends called her by her initials, Slo. But right now she looked a little exotic, wearing an expensive black dress that was just short and clingy enough to turn the jailers' heads.
Not surprisingly, she seemed nervous. It didn't help that we were talking on phones with a thick Plexiglas window between us, and everything had the kind of greasy feel you didn't like touching your skin. But I also suspected that I'd interrupted her getting ready to go out, and now she was running late.
'Aw, Huey,' she sighed. 'Gary didn't tell me anything except you'd asked to see me. What'd you do?'
'Pissed somebody off.'
Her eyes widened in fake disbelief. 'No!'
'My bail's twenty-five thousand bucks, Slo.'
She sat back a little-maybe at the amount, maybe because it suggested a serious crime.
'I need twenty-five hundred, cash, or else I stay here,' I said. 'I can pay you back most of it as soon as I get out, and the rest within a few days.'
'I'm not worried about that, honey. I'm worried about what kind of trouble you're in. Of course I'll help you.'
I closed my eyes briefly in relief.
'I'll buy you a drink and tell you all about it,' I said.
'Deal.'
'You're an angel, Slo. I'm sorry to wreck your Saturday night.'
Her mouth twisted in a quick wry smile. 'My Saturday night's a bottle of white wine and whatever trash is on TV.'
'You look like maybe you had a hot date.'
She glanced down at her outfit.
'Oh, that's left over from this afternoon. Once in a while I decide I'm going to go out and do something wild and exciting. I usually end up shopping.'
Then she looked at me straight on. Her eyes were a deeper blue than Gary's and usually seemed dreamy, but right now, they were very focused.
'Thanks for noticing,' she said.
'It was easy.'
She stood up, still holding the phone, and smoothed her skirt with her other hand.
'I'll have to go to the office safe to get the money, so it'll take a few minutes,' she said. 'What then?'
I told her about Bill LaTray's bargain basement option. She said she'd make sure he agreed to it, and I knew she would. She might have been dreamy in some ways, but she had a good business head, like most people who'd grown up in that world.
