“Feelin‘ restless,” Jack would have said on a night like this, stars like white stitches in a navy quilt sky. We’d ride across cattle-cropped pastures, miles from the ranch, tie the horses to an oak tree, spread out an old wool blanket and look for planets.
“Like playing connect the dots with God,” he’d say, then turn to me and we’d make slow love, the lemony taste of his tongue, the husky rake of his calloused fingers on my neck, the sound of the horses blowing watery sighs in and out; nowhere to go, they seemed to say, all the time in the world.
I never knew myself capable of the kind of hatred I felt at that moment.
It became finally, as the dark sky faded into the gray-orange of morning, a blind, raging fury that threatened to explode like a dandelion at a child’s puff.
As the sun came up, I started toward San Celina. I had no idea what I was going to say to Carl. It never occurred to me to be afraid, even though he’d probably killed two people. I only knew that I had to hear the truth of what happened the night Jack died.
I stopped by his dad’s ranch first. The housekeeper informed me that both Carl and J.D. had been at the Tribune since three A.M. The computer had gone down and things were a mess. When I reached the newspaper, I used the employees entrance in back, walked through the empty lunchroom, past the unoccupied desks. The scent of a working office lingered: the crispy smell of old french fries, a mixture of sweet perfumes, the undeniable scent of a forbidden cigarette.
Carl sat in his office, his back facing the door as he talked on the telephone. I stood for a few minutes looking at him through the glass windows. The shininess of his blond hair, the very aliveness of it, angered me as he leaned back in his chair and laughed at something his caller said.
I paced in front of his office, not knowing how to start. Somewhere, a radio played softly. An oldies station. “Do you believe in magic?” the radio sang.
You remember the oddest things those moments in your life that are pivotal points of change.
I had been asleep in my childhood bed when Dove woke me that early morning nine months ago. For a split second, her hand on my shoulder, her voice sharp in my ear, I was a little girl again, time to get up, do my chores, run for the school bus, braids flying. My bare feet stung with cold as I stood in the kitchen where Wade told me, his voice tight with grief, choking out the words. The kitchen smelled of strawberries, onions and the steaks Dove had fried for dinner. I ignored Dove’s arms, backed up against the refrigerator, shivering as if I would never be warm again. The refrigerator cycled, a mechanical insect in my ear; Daddy cursed softly in the background. “Benni, Benni,” Wade had said.
I opened the office door.
“Benni,” Carl said. He turned his chair around and hung up the phone. He gestured to the brown office chair in front of his desk. “What’s wrong?” he asked when I remained standing. “You look like death microwaved.” He laughed at his own joke, then stopped when I didn’t respond.
“I’ve been up all night,” I said. “Driving.”
He furrowed his brows in concern. “Having trouble sleeping?”
“I went to Salinas. To find Suzanne Hart.” I waited for his reaction.
“Oh?” he said, his face blank. “Who’s Suzanne Hart?” He had to be the best actor in the world.
“A woman with a very interesting story.”
“Concerning what?”
I set my purse down on one of the chairs in front of his desk. “I wish you’d just tell me,” I said.
“Tell you what?” He tilted his head, perplexed.
“About Jack. Suzanne told me everything. Why keep pretending?”
He looked at me, his handsome features liquid with confusion. “Benni, I have no idea what you’re rambling on about.”
I started to cry. I couldn’t help it. At a time when I most wanted to stay in control, be strong, my emotions sold me out. The tears came in great torrents down my cheeks, wet, salty, hot. Losing control made me angry, which made me cry even more.
“Oh, honey,” Carl said. He stood up and came around the desk, holding out his arms.
“Get back,” I said, my voice soggy from tears.
“All right,” he said, his voice slightly hurt. He pulled some tissue out of the box sitting on his desk and held them out to me.
“No.” I reached into my purse to search for some. I didn’t want to take anything from him. My hands touched Jack’s pistol. I didn’t even think twice about pulling it out. I pointed it at Carl.
“Tell me about the night Jack died,” I said.
“That isn’t funny, Benni,” he said.
“It isn’t meant to be.”
He glanced up as the door of his office opened. Julio, the night supervisor, started to talk, then stopped cold when he glanced over in my direction and saw the gun.
“It’s okay, Julio,” Carl said in an easy voice. “Just a joke Mrs. Harper is playing. Go back to work.”
Julio gave him a nervous glance and backed out slowly.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Carl said. “You’ve gone and scared Julio. Honey, why don’t you just put the gun away and we’ll talk about this rationally.”
“Don’t call me that,” I said coldly. “And I’m not putting it away until you tell me what happened the night Jack died.”
“What are you talking about?” His voice became irritated.
“Look, Carl, I know you were with him. I talked to Suzanne Hart. She told me everything.”
“Who is this Suzanne Hart you keep talking about?”
I felt the gun tremble in my throbbing hand. Stop it, I commanded myself. Hold on.
“How could you? He laid there for hours before anyone found him. What if he was alive, Carl? What if he was alive?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I felt the
