“Well, there she was, given a wonderful name at birth. A strong name. Adrian, of the Adriatic Sea. The only thing Donna did right by her. But did she appreciate it? No. She wanted to be called Melissa or Kelley or Amanda- just like everyone else of her generation. Honestly, sometimes I despaired.”
“You speak of her in the past tense, as if she’s dead.”
She swung around, face crumpling in dismay. “Oh, no! I speak of her that way because that was before…before she began to delight in her differences.”
“When was that?”
“Well…when she started to get past this terrible thing. As we gain strength, we accept who and what we are. In time we glory in it.”
In her way, June was as much into psychobabble as her sister-in-law. I said, “To get back to when you last saw Adrian, tell me about this autumnal equinox firing.”
“We dig pits on the beach, as kilns. By the time of the firing, they’ve been heating for days. Each student brings an offering, a special pot. The gathering is solemn but joyful-a celebration of all we’ve learned in the preceding season.”
“It sounds almost religious.”
June smiled wryly. “There’s also a great deal of good food and drink. And of course, when the pots emerge from the earth, we’re able to sell them to tourists for very good money.”
Now that I could relate to. “What about Adrian? Did she enjoy it?”
“Adrian’s been coming to my firings for years. She knows a number of my long-term students well, and she always has a good time.”
“And this time was no different?”
“Of course not.”
“She didn’t mention anything being wrong at home or at school?”
“…We spoke privately while preparing the food. I’m sure if there had been problems, she would have mentioned them.”
“And what about Kirby? Did he enjoy the firing?”
Wariness touched her face again. “I suppose.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He’s an adolescent boy. What’s to think?”
“I didn’t care for him,” I said.
“You know him?”
“I’ve spoken with him. I also spoke with a classmate of his and Adrian’s. He said Kirby is always into one scam or another, and that Adrian might have been involved, too.”
“That’s preposterous!” but June’s denial was a shade weak and unconvincing.
“Are you sure Adrian didn’t hint at problems when you spoke privately with her at the firing?”
“She’s a teenager. Things are never right with teenagers. Adrian took her father’s defection very badly, even though he and I tried to explain about one’s need for personal growth.” June gave her funny laugh again-
“June,” I said, “since you were so close to Adrian, what do you think happened to her?”
She sobered and her fingers tightened on the shaft of the poker. “I can’t tell you. I honestly can’t hazard a guess.”
Her eyes slipped away from mine, but not before I saw something furtive in them. Suddenly she started stirring the fire, even though it was already roaring like crazy.
I said, “But you have suspicions.”
She stirred harder. Aunt June wasn’t telling it like it was, and she felt guilty.
“You’ve heard from her since she disappeared, haven’t you?” Sharon taught me that little trick: no matter how wild your hunch is, play it. Chances are fifty-fifty you’re right, and then their reactions will tell you plenty.
June stiffened. “Of course not! I would have persuaded her to go home. At the very least, I would have called Donna immediately.”
“So you think Adrian’s disappearance is voluntary?”
“I…I didn’t say that.”
“Assuming it is, and she called you, would you really have let Donna know? You don’t seem to like her at all.”
“Still, I have a heart. A mother’s anguish-”
“Come off it, June.”
June Simoom heaved herself to her feet and faced me, the poker clutched in her hand, her velvet-draped bigness making me feel small and helpless. “I think,” she said, “you’d better leave now.”
When I got back to All Souls, it was well after midnight, but I saw a faint light in Sharon’s office and went in there. She was curled up on her chaise lounge, boots and socks lying muddy on the floor beside it. Her jeans, legs wet to the knees, were draped over a filing cabinet drawer. She’d wrapped herself in the blanket she keeps on the chaise, but it had ridden up, exposing her bare feet and calves, and I could see goosebumps on them. She was sound asleep.
Now what had she gotten herself into? More trouble, for sure. Was she resting between stakeouts? Waiting for a call from one of her many informants? Or just too tired to go home?
I went down the hall to the room of an attorney who was out of town and borrowed one of his blankets, then carried it back and tucked it around Sharon’s legs and feet. She moaned a little and threw up one hand like you do to ward off a blow. I watched her until she settled down again, then turned off the Tiffany lamp-a gift long ago from a client, she’d once told me-and went upstairs to the attic nest that I call home.
Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll turn out like Sharon: illusions peeled away, emotional scars turning white and hard, ideals pared to the bone.
Sometimes I’m afraid I won’t turn out like her.
We’re already alike in some ways. Deep down we know who we are, warts and all, and if we don’t always like ourselves, at least we understand what we are and why we do certain things. We often try to fool ourselves, though, making out to be smarter or nobler or braver than we are, but in the end the truth always trips us up. And the truth…
We both have this crazy-no, crazy-
I didn’t used to feel so driven. At first this job was a lark, and I was just playing at being detective. But things happen and you change-Sharon’s living proof of that-and now I’m to the point where I’m afraid that someday I’ll be the one who spends a lot of nights sleeping alone in her office because I’m between stakeouts or waiting for a phone call or just too tired to go home.
I’m terribly afraid of that happening. Or not happening. Hell, maybe I’m just afraid-period.
III
The next morning it was raining-big drops whacking off my skylights and waking me up. Hank Zahn, who pretty much holds the budgetary reins at All Souls, had let me install the skylights the spring before, after listening to some well orchestrated whining on my part. At the time they seemed like a good idea; there was only one small window in the part of the attic where my nest is, and I needed more light. But since then I’d realized that on a bad day all I could see was gray and wet and accumulated crud-nothing to lift my spirits. Besides, my brass bed had
