LITMIR.BIZ

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didn’t know what she was going to say, and he didn’t know how he would react. “No, I have to get home,” he said. “Mother, you see. She.…”

      Jayjay Smith laughed and saw him to the door. He picked up his pocket organizer on the way. “I’ll need some more information.” He saw the look on her face. “Not now, not now, of course. But I’ll need to know where the Duesenberg was kept. Is the garage here on the grounds or.… And.…”

      “Yes, yes. Another day. I want to phone the hospital now, you get in touch when you need to. Don’t worry.”

      She almost shoved him out the front door. Rush hour was starting. Civil servants and lawyers and ordinary citizens were pouring from the county courthouse across the street. Commuters were rushing for home. Those with no homes to rush to were rushing to the bars on Fourteenth Street.

      Lindsey walked back to Broadway, found his car in the garage where he’d parked it and paid the fee, carefully filing the receipt to accompany his expense account. He headed for the freeway and started for home. The traffic was already heavy, but there was no point in trying to wait for it to grow lighter; the rush of commuters crossing the bridge from San Francisco would only pour onto the freeways and make them worse than ever.

      He got home drenched with sweat. The air was chilly and moist, typical for March, and the stress of dealing with freeway traffic got worse every year. Life in Walnut Creek was no bargain, not any more at least. But it certainly beat Oakland with its filth and its crime and its poverty.

      Lindsey left the Hyundai standing in the driveway and walked to the front door. He let himself in and heard the sound of something frightening coming from the kitchen.

      Mother was standing at the sink, slicing raw vegetables. She was laughing raucously, laughing at nothing. She’d been doing so well lately that Lindsey was able to leave her alone part of the time, able even to let her use kitchen implements. But now—

      She had heard him close the front door, and she turned to face him, a manic grin on her face.

      The laughter turned into words and he realized that she was singing. “Ha-ha-ha-haa-ha, ha-ha-ha-haa-ha, it’s the Woody Woodpecker song!”

      Lindsey let out his breath in relief. She’d been watching TV again, watching cartoons. They were the only things that she would watch in color, everything else had to be black-and-white or she became agitated, almost hysterical. There had been color movies in her girlhood, but no color television. Movies on TV therefore had to be seen in black-and-white. But cartoons could be in color.

      Go figure.

      They had meat loaf and lima beans and lettuce salad for dinner. Afterwards Mother made coffee. Lindsey asked for a cup and Mother frowned. “You’ll stunt your growth, Hobo. My little Hobo. You want to be big and strong when Daddy gets home from Korea.”

      “It’s all right, Mother. I’m all grown up now. See?” Lindsey stood up. He carried their dishes to the sink, then came back and stood beside the table. “And the war is over, Mother. And Father was killed. I’m sorry, Mother. Don’t you remember?”

      He looked into her eyes, looking for a pathway into her mind. Were clouds gathering there again? Was she slipping back toward the days when her husband was still alive, when Lindsey himself was not yet born?

      She stood up and looked at him as if were a stranger. She shook her head. “Don’t be silly, little Hobo.” She walked into the living room then returned carrying a 1951 issue of Newsweek. She held the magazine up, displaying a black-and-white photograph framed in a red border. The photo showed a soldier in a fox hole, heavy stubble on his face, his eyes weary. His helmet strap hung loose. A cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth.

      “You see,” Mother said, “those terrible commies are killing our boys. They’re nothing but barbarians, yellow commie barbarians! But General MacArthur will show them, he will. I’m just happy that your father is safe. He’s in the navy. He’s safe on a ship, not getting shot at in Korea.”

      But Lindsey’s father was dead, had been burned to death when a flaming MiG had crashed onto the deck of Lewiston, cruising in the Sea of Japan.

      Lindsey settled for a cup of cocoa rather than upset Mother even more. They washed the dishes and put them away together, Mother glancing at him now and then, clearly trying to understand and just as clearly falling short of her objective.

      Afterwards they settled in front of the TV. Mother found a movie that she liked, a gangster film with John Garfield and Linda Darnell. It was full of car chases, and every time an old car roared across the screen Lindsey thought about the missing Duesenberg and old Mr. Kleiner, Joe Roberts and Oscar Gutiérrez of the Oakland Police Department, Ollie and Wally and Martha Bernstein. And Jayjay Smith.

      When the movie ended Lindsey got Mother to bed. She settled in with a Vera Caspary novel and told him good-night, and it seemed that she knew who he was.

      He made himself a nightcap and turned on the late news. Some physicist in Santa Cruz was claiming that he could predict earthquakes and that northern California was due for one soon. The newscaster closed the segment with a shrug and a genial smile and an indulgent, “Who knows?”

      The TV went to a commercial for the state lottery and Lindsey punched the off button and headed for his own bed. He lay there staring at the ceiling, seeing a Duesenberg, hearing the ambulance whooper as it carried old Kleiner from the mansion, feeling Jayjay Smith’s hand on his arm. He could almost smell the perfume of her hair, and that was odd because he hadn’t noticed it at the mansion that afternoon. Or maybe he had. Maybe it was one of those submerged memories that come back to you later on.

      His sleep was troubled and in the morning he felt groggy even after two cups of coffee. Mrs. Hernández was on time for once and he left Mother in her care and headed for the International Surety office in Walnut Creek. At least he didn’t have to commute!

      There were half a dozen entries on the KlameNet log and he looked through them, turning the ones that didn’t require his attention over to Ms. Wilbur. The ones that did require his attention seemed to be routine claims. He filled out forms, dictated letters, made a few telephone calls. Harden wasn’t pestering him about the stolen Duesenberg. At least not yet, he wasn’t. Well, be thankful for small blessings.

      He checked his watch, looked up the number of the Kleiner Mansion in his pocket organizer and punched the call. An unfamiliar voice answered and told him that Ms. Smith was out. Lindsey asked the voice to have her return his call, please.

      He was relieved to learn that there were other people working at the mansion. Of course, there had to be a housekeeper, handyman, probably a couple of docents to take visiting school children on guided tours of the splendors of the past. He wondered what an Oakland ghetto kid, leaving a project filled with crack dealers and derelicts,and rats, would think of the Victorian gingerbread and polished mahogany of the mansion.

      He phoned his friend Eric Coffman and asked about having lunch at Max’s Opera Plaza. Coffman said he was working in his law office, waiting for a jury to come in. Sure, Max’s was fine.

      It would be good to spend a while with Eric again. He was Lindsey’s best friend. Come to think of it, he was just about Lindsey’s only friend. Not that Lindsey didn’t like people. It was just that he had to take care of Mother. He didn’t get out much, and he didn’t invite friends over very often. Not with Mother likely to decide it was 1953, or 1968, or some other year.

      But Eric had been his friend since their school days. If Lindsey were to swap places with anyone he knew, it would be Eric Coffman. He held a respected place in the world, he was a husband and a father. He understood about Lindsey’s mother. He was a busy man, forever running off to meetings and hearings and trials, but somehow he always had time to listen to Lindsey, to swap stories with him, to give him a sane view of reality when Lindsey needed it most.

      Lindsey spent the rest of the morning on routine work, relieved that nothing exciting happened. You need a morning like that once in a while. When he left the office at noon Ms. Wilbur said, “Not sending out for deli?”

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