A Room to Die In

Chapter 1

Ann Nelson taught second grade at Mar Vista Elementary School in San Francisco’s Sunset district. She lived in a third-story apartment at 6950 Granada Avenue, ten blocks from the ocean.

Arriving home one afternoon early in March, she noticed a large, rather shabby Buick parked at the curb. In the driver’s seat sat her mother. Ann’s first impulse was to drive quickly on, but Elaine had seen her and was purposefully jabbing out her cigarette.

Ann pulled into the parking area. Elaine got out, gave her girdle a tug, and marched briskly toward her. She was a short, not unattractive woman of forty-three — eighteen years older than Ann — plump as a robin, with a swaggering air of self-reliance. Her hair, tinted an impossible auburn-bronze, was teased into hundreds of tight curls. She wore a blue silk suit with large white buttons, a frivolous white hat, and spike-heeled blue pumps.

Ann was taller, with casual brown hair. By contrast, she looked cool and uncomplicated.

They greeted each other with perfunctory pecks; then Ann led the way upstairs. Elaine talked continuously. “...Say what you like about Frisco — sooner I get back south the better. My teeth haven’t stopped chattering since I got here, the damn fog and cold and wind... Last winter I was in Florida; that’s God’s country. I had the most marvelous house trailer, but I had to sell it. Wouldn’t you know!..”

She stood in the middle of Ann’s living room and assessed every object in sight with a panoramic glance.

“Sit down,” said Ann. “I’ll fix you a drink.”

Elaine perched on the edge of a chair. “With a job like yours,” she said gaily, “I’m surprised you keep liquor in the house.”

Ann smiled grimly at the ancient taunt. “Scotch or bourbon?”

Elaine wasn’t sure. Ann showed her the bottles, which she had picked out of a bin at the supermarket. Elaine read the labels and winced. “I’ll stick to the Scotch; it’s safer.”

“I’m not all that particular,” said Ann.

“Don’t get me wrong,” protested Elaine. “I know as well as the next one that a schoolteacher’s salary doesn’t extend to Jack Daniel.”

“I make out well enough.”

“I envy you your fortitude. I’d go stark raving mad the first day. The first hour.”

Ann’s smile was becoming brittle. “It’s not all that bad. Second-graders are pretty amenable.”

“On the rocks with a squeeze of lemon. Or bitters, if you have any.”

Ann brought ice from the refrigerator. Elaine jumped to the window and looked out into the street. Then she walked over to the counter that separated living room from kitchen and eased herself up on a stool. With quizzical eyes she watched Ann squeeze lemon juice into her glass. “I thought sure I’d find you married. At least going through the motions.”

Ann made no comment. She handed Elaine a glass and poured soda into her own. Elaine drank, ruminated a moment, then turned wry eyes on Ann. “My feelings are hurt. It’s been three years since I’ve seen you. And you don’t even say you’re glad to see me!”

“It’s certainly been a long time,” said Ann. “What have you been doing?”

“Oh... taking care of myself. I get the most dismal streaking headaches. Honestly, nothing seems to help. I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on every kind of treatment imaginable. I’ve been to three of the best doctors in Los Angeles. They look wise, give me some pills, and send a big bill. But night after night it’s the same old story — as if somebody hit me with a hammer. Right here.” Elaine rubbed her temples.

“Will you have more Scotch?” asked Ann.

Elaine shook her head. “I think not.” She primly pushed her glass aside. “I suppose you never see Larry?”

Larry was Ann’s ex-husband, an oboist of some reputation. “I think he’s in Cleveland, playing with the Symphony.”

Elaine screwed up her face. “The awful sounds that man used to make!”

Ann gave a noncommittal shrug. It was her conviction that Elaine, motivated partly by dislike for Larry, partly by sheer deviltry, had broken up the marriage. Ann could now recall the situation with dispassion, even a kind of humor. Larry had displayed a ridiculous tendency toward breast-beating; she probably had lost very little. Still, at the time...

Elaine absently reached for her glass. Finding it empty she twitched her mouth in a moue of surprise. Ann politely poured more Scotch. “I suppose you’re still married to what’s-his-name... Gluck?”

“I see Harvey off and on,” Elaine acknowledged. “He wants me to move back to Glendale, but” — she gave her head a sage shake — “uh-uh. I’ve had it with Harvey, unless he gives up those vile kennels.” She sipped the Scotch. “Do you ever see your father?”

Years of practice had schooled Ann in the most subtle shadings of Elaine’s voice. She asked, “What do you want with him?”

“You haven’t seen Roland, then?”

“About a year ago I had dinner with him and his wife. Then, let’s see — in August? — July or August I happened to be in Sausalito and I ran into him on the waterfront. He and Pearl were separated, and Roland was living out in the country. I don’t know what he’s doing now.”

“You lack all sense of duty toward either Daddy or Mommy,” declared Elaine.

Ann laughed grimly. “I certainly lack something. If it hadn’t been for Grandmother, I’d have lacked a lot more.”

Elaine sniffed. “Well, it’s not kind to say so, but you must know you were an accident. Heavens, I was just a kid. And after your father and I separated... well, I had my career to think of.”

“Career? What career?”

“I’ve tried everything.”

“That’s a fact.”

Elaine rose, smoothing the blue suit over her torso. Years ago, at Santa Monica High, she had been a cute redhead, full of mischief, ginger, and zip. She had been cheerleader, jitterbug champion, general hell-raiser. How and why she had ever cast her lot with Roland Nelson — scrounger, iconoclast, bum, and sometime chess player — was a mystery Ann had never resolved.

Elaine had decided to sulk. “I must say I expected you to show a little more warmth. You’ve got every bit of your father’s egotism. Here I’ve come all the way north, groped my way through this miserable city...”

Ann could think of nothing to say. Above all, she must be careful to avoid the slightest proffer of hospitality. Elaine was deft at converting a halfhearted “look in on us sometime” to three weeks in the master bedroom.

“Well,” snapped Elaine, “what is your father’s address? I want to talk to him.”

“Why?” Ann was surprised enough to ask.

Elaine smiled. “If the truth be known, dear Bobo has come into money, and I want what he owes me — which is plenty.”

“How in the world would Daddy come into money?” Ann asked, bewildered.

“Haven’t you heard? His wife died.”

“No!”

“Yep. What was her name... Pearl? Anyway, they were never divorced, and he inherited. As easy as that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ann. “I liked her.” She gave Elaine a puzzled look. “Where did you learn all this?”

Elaine laughed brightly. “Don’t you worry; I keep my ear to the ground. You do have his address?”

“When I spoke to him he was living in Inisfail. No telephone. He’d become a hermit of sorts.”

“Where in the world is Inisfail?”

“Cross the Golden Gate Bridge, keep on the freeway into San Rafael. Then ask or check a map, because it’s off the main highway. Toward the ocean. The address is five sixty Neville Road.”

Elaine noted it on the back of an envelope. Ann watched her write. “You’re just wasting your time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Roland won’t be anxious to share his wealth with you. Or me. Or anyone.”

Elaine pursed her lips in a thoughtful smile. “I think he will. In fact, I know he will. Or I’ll make his life so utterly unbearable—”

“You’ve got a point,” said Ann. “But I don’t think it’ll work.”

“We’ll see.” Elaine drained her glass. A moment later she left. Ann watched from the window as her mother crossed the sidewalk and got into her car. She looked up before she shut the door, flipping her hand in jaunty farewell. The engine started with a burst of blue exhaust.

The car lurched off, around the corner, and out of sight, and Ann was left in a mood of dark depression.