The look on his face said he knew exactly what I meant.
He moved back from the doorway a bit and said, “Mom doesn’t need any upsetting either.”
“I’ve no intention of upsetting her. Just talking.”
He thought for a while, said, “Okay, mister, I’ll take you to her. But I’ll be there all the time, so don’t be getting any ideas.”
He moved completely out of the doorway. The sunlight returned.
“Come on, you guys,” he told Jasper and Shirlee. “You should get back to those trees, make sure each of them gets a good soak.”
They looked up at him. Jasper handed him a drawing.
He said, “Great, Jasp. I’ll add it to my collection.” Overenunciating. Then the man-child bent low and patted the head of the childish man. Shirlee grabbed his hand and he kissed her lightly on the forehead.
“You take care of yourselves, you hear? Keep watering those trees and soon we’ll have something to pick together, okay? And don’t talk to strangers.”
Shirlee nodded gravely, then clapped her hands and giggled. Jasper smiled and gave him another drawing.
“Thanks again. Keep up the good work, Rembrandt.” To me: “Come on.”
We started to leave. Jasper ran after us, grunting sounds. We stopped. He gave me a drawing, turned away, embarrassed.
I raised his weak chin with my hand, mouthed “Thank you,” overenunciating just as the boy had. Jasper’s grin said he understood. I held out my hand. This time he gave it a weak shake and held on.
“Come on, mister,” said Gabriel. “Leave them be.”
I patted the little man’s hand and pried it loose, followed Gabriel toward the willows, jogging to keep pace. Before stepping under the weeping green branches, I looked back and saw the two of them, hand in hand, standing in the middle of their dirt lot. Staring after us as if we were explorers- conquistadors setting out for some brave new world that they could never hope to see.
29
He’d parked a big restored Triumph motorcycle in back of the Seville.
Two helmets, one candy-apple red, the other starred and striped, dangled from the handlebars. He put on the red one, climbed on, and kick-started the bike.
I said, “Who told you I was here? Wendy?”
He ran his hand over his bristle-top and tried to stare me down.
“We take care of each other, mister.”
He gave the bike gas, set off a dust storm in the dry weeds, then did a wheelie and peeled out. I jumped into the Seville, trailed him as quickly as I could, lost sight of him past the abandoned press, but found him a second later, headed back toward the village. I put on speed, caught up. We passed the mailbox that bore his family name, kept going until the schoolhouse, where he decelerated further and signaled right. He shot up the driveway, circled the playground, came to a halt at the schoolhouse steps.
He climbed the stairs, taking three at a time. I followed, noticed a wooden sign near the entrance.
WILLOW GLEN SCHOOL
ESTABLISHED 1938
ONCE PART OF THE BLALOCK RANCH
The letters were rustic and burned into the wood. Same style on the sign marking La Mar Road, a private road in Holmby Hills. As I stopped to take that in, Gabriel made it to the top of the stairs, threw open the door, and let it swing shut behind him. I ran up, caught it, and walked into a big, airy schoolroom that smelled of fingerpaint and pencil shavings. On the brightly painted walls were health and safety posters, crayon drawings. No apples. Blackboards hung on three walls, below Palmer penmanship guides. An American flag dangled over a large, round clock that put the time at 4:40. Facing each blackboard were about ten wooden school desks- the old- fashioned type, with narrow tops and inkwells.
A partners’ desk faced all three seating groups. A fair-haired woman holding a pencil sat behind it. Gabriel stood over her, whispering. When he saw me, he straightened and cleared his throat. The woman put the pencil down and looked up.
She appeared to be in her early forties, with short wavy hair and broad, square shoulders. She wore a short-sleeved white blouse. Her arms were tan, fleshy, ending in dainty, long-nailed hands.
Gabriel whispered something to her.
I said, “Hello,” and came closer.
She stood. Six feet or close to it, and older than a first impression suggested- late forties or early fifties. The white blouse was tucked into a knee-length brown linen skirt. She had heavy breasts, a thin, almost pinched waist that accentuated the breadth of her shoulders. Beneath the tan was a bed of ruddiness- a suggestion of the same coral tone that blanketed her son like some perpetual sunburn. She had a long, pleasant face enhanced by carefully applied makeup, full lips, and large, luminous, amber eyes. Her nose was prominent, her chin cleft and firmly set. An open face, strong and weathered.
“Hello,” she said, without warmth. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I wanted to talk about Sharon Ransom. I’m Alex Delaware.”
Hearing my name changed her. She said, “Oh,” in a weaker voice.
“Mom,” said Gabriel, taking her arm.
“It’s all right, honey. Go back to the house and let me talk to this man.”
“No way, Mom. We don’t know him.”
“It’s all right, Gabe.”
“Gabriel, if I tell you it’s all right, then it’s all right. Now kindly get back to the house and attend to your chores. The old Spartans back of the pumpkin patch need pruning. There’s still plenty of corn to husk, and the pumpkin vines need tying.”
He grunted, gave me the evil eye.
“Go, Gabey,” she said.
He removed his hand from her arm, shot me another glare, then pulled out his key ring and stomped out, muttering.
“Thank you, honey,” she called out just before the door closed.
When he was gone, she said, “We lost Mr. Leidecker last spring. Since then, Gabe’s been trying to replace his dad and I’m afraid he’s grown overly protective.”
“A good son,” I said.
“A wonderful one. But he’s still just a child. The first time people meet him, they’re overwhelmed by his size. They don’t realize that he’s only sixteen. I didn’t hear his bike start. Did you?”
“No.”
She walked to a window and yelled down: “I said
Protest noises floated up from below. She stood in the window, hands on hips. “Such a baby,” she said with affection. “Probably my fault- I was much harder on his brothers.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Five. Five boys. All married and gone except for Gabey. Subconsciously I probably want to keep him immature.”
