25.Flowers in the Sea
WHEN SHELLY RETURNED TO ALABAMA A WEEK LATER TO SETTLE his father’s estate, I agreed to run his business. Sweets and I moved with a Bible and a bottle of brandy into that back room one more time. The house was in shambles, stacks of unwashed dishes and heaps of clothes all about. Shelly’d done little work restocking inventory or filling orders. He’d always looked upon his family situation as a Hollywood producer might a revenge formula, a story that rose sweetly on the fulcrum of injustice until the glorious and satisfying moment when the bad guys met their deservedly brutal end. But there had been no such satisfaction or justice for him. His parents had simply died, all chances of forgiveness and restitution were lost, and he was more alone in the world than ever.
The door to Donny’s room was unlatched. Reluctantly, I entered. The bed was unmade. Someone had been sleeping here. And I knew that it was not Shelly. Sweets did not know who it might be, either. It is an old smell, he said, the smell of a person all over the house. I thought of Ed Gein, who’d flay his victims in order that he might one day be able to dress up in their skin.
The following day after hitting the swap meet and three garage sales (and landing a mint copy of “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by Johnny Rhythm and the Audios, 1961 on MGM, worth about sixty bucks), I drove to the old shell shop that stood above the Clam. A bell announced my arrival. The place was empty. The windows were like grape-blue photographs of choppy sea. There was the usual gift shop assortment of nautical bric-a-brac, cards, stained glass, shells, jewelry, model ships, brass barometers and sextants, somnolent volumes of photographs. The store had a ship’s smell, canvas, old wood, varnish, and the faint rank of harbor seals. There were rental arrangements on various types of snorkel gear. A sign next to the register informed me that for five bucks I could navigate the old smuggler’s tunnel that led to the ocean below and through which the bodies of the dead and maimed who jumped from the cliffs were brought.
A birdlike woman of about sixty appeared. She reminded me of a tern, so white and smooth with a needle nose and quick black eyes. “Can I help you?” she said.
I picked up a sand dollar. “I’ve recently learned about a boy who died here,” I said, gesturing toward the cliff. “The brother of a friend of mine. And I wondered if you might remember him.”
She folded her hands in front of her. “I used to keep track of them all,” she said, tapping her famous book, “but I finally stopped. I thought for a time that if I stopped writing they’d stop coming.” Her lips formed a prim imitation of a smile. “How long ago was it?”
“Oh, he would’ve been roughly my age. He was eighteen at the time. Somewhere around twenty-two years ago.”
“What was his name?”
“Donald Hubbard. Donny Ray, they called him.”
Her mouth turned down. She had a beautiful shop, rich in history, extraordinary view, some of the most valuable real estate on earth, but it was haunted by the cries of bleeding, drowning souls.
“I’d have that one,” she said, opening the book. “Donny Ray . . .” She leafed through the pages, licking her thumb. There must’ve been thousands of names catalogued, her guestbook a gate book of children born suddenly into dark new worlds.
“Here he is,” she said. “Donald Raymond Hubbard, July 3. I remember that one.” She let out a withering sound, like the whinny of a horse. Her eyes rolled back and she closed the book. Her head seemed to float as she drifted to the southern windows. “I can see them jump from here.” She pointed as if someone were standing out there now, poised to dive. “Donald was slim and dark,” she said. “He looked like a dancer with his long legs and gleaming skin. He laughed before he jumped, I recall.” She looked to me expectantly, as if I might understand. “Most are terrified. Others pretend they aren’t. But Donny seemed to not be afraid. There were two with him, a young girl and an older, pale boy who sat up the bluff a ways. He was a bit of a sulker.”
“Shelly?”
“I don’t know their names. The pale boy was shouting and taunting, telling Donny to jump. He must’ve felt awful when he got his wish. The girl still comes from time to time, like so many, to throw flowers into the sea.”
“The girl?” I said
“Yes. It was Donny’s girlfriend, I believe. She came briefly when they brought Donny up through the tunnel into the ambulance. She was devastated, hysterical. To watch someone you love end up like that . . .” Her glasses had slid to the tip of her nose. She pushed them back. “It tears your heart out, doesn’t it?”
26.It Ain’t Goldilocks
WHEN I PULLED INTO THE COCO’S LOT RENEE WAS WALKING out the door. It was too early for her shift to be up. She looked tense, though she always moved as if a stiff wind were at her tail. I was pretty sure she had quit and this might be the last time I would see her. By the time I’d circled back around she was squealing out of the driveway in her red Nissan Sentra. I followed. She drove as if she were in a motor race, passing recklessly, jockeying and tailgating as she got bottled up in the left lane.
The air cooled as we moved west, the clouds disintegrating as they made their charge inland. My old Ford was a six cylinder and needed a tune-up. I had trouble staying up. I almost lost her several times.
She took the Old Town exit, swept away south around Presidio Park, driving as if she knew she were being followed. I lost
