Demons

Chapter 23

Kerry and I finally had our little showdown on Tuesday evening.

There was another message from her waiting when I got home Monday night, but it was too late and I was too exhausted to return it then. I called her at Bates and Carpenter on Tuesday morning and we arranged for her to come to my place at seven o’clock. It wasn’t much of a conversation and it didn’t make me feel particularly optimistic; but then, there wasn’t anything ominous in her tone and I didn’t have any premonitions of doom.

She got there right at seven. We kissed — not much of a kiss — and went into the living room. I asked her if she wanted something to drink; she said no. She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly against her teeth. It made a sound like wind in a hollow place.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said, “and I’d better get right to the point. I haven’t been working every night the past couple of weeks. I lied to you about that. I’ve... been seeing someone part of the time. Another man.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want it to happen, I tried to keep it from—” She stopped as what I’d said kicked in. “You know?”

“Paul Blessing. Blessing Furniture Showrooms.”

“My God. How did you...?”

“Barney Rivera. He saw you and Blessing together one night and couldn’t wait to tell me.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since Friday night, for sure.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I would have,” I said, “if you’d been available.”

“You didn’t... I mean...”

“Follow you around? Spy on you? No. I thought about it, but I didn’t do it. I didn’t want to make something sordid out of it — bad fifties melodrama. I have too much respect for you for that. For myself too.”

She was silent for a time. She’d come here to do this a certain way and I’d rocked her equilibrium; she was regrouping.

I asked her, “Do you love him?” It was the question uppermost in my mind and I wanted it out in the open first thing.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think so, not the way you mean. A strong physical attraction... and he’s a good man, kind...” She let the words trail off. Then, almost angrily, she said, “God, I hate this.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I haven’t slept with him. I want you to know that.”

“All right.”

“I mean it. I haven’t.”

“I believe you.”

“I wanted to, I admit that. I almost did, Saturday night.”

“What stopped you?”

“You did. How I feel about you, what we’ve been to each other. I have too much respect for you too.”

“It shouldn’t matter, I guess, but it does. I’m glad.”

“So am I.”

We held eye contact; then we both looked away, as if by mutual consent. It got quiet in there, so quiet I could hear the faint ticking from the old ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. My mother’s clock, brought here from Italy nearly one hundred years ago; the lock of my long-dead sister’s hair in a yellow envelope was still tucked into the back. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.

When the silence got to be too loud I said, “So what happens now?”

“I don’t know,” Kerry said.

“You intend to keep on seeing him?”

“I... don’t know.”

“Which means you want to.”

“Part of me does. I can’t deny that.”

“How about me? Is there a part of you left for me?”

Her eyes had taken on a moist sheen, but at least they were looking at me again. “You think I want to end it between us?”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Neither do L But I’m not up to a competition with Blessing for you. I’m too old and too tired and too psychologically beat-up to get into that kind of game. If you want me, fine. If you want him, I’ll try to back out as gracefully as I can. But it’s got to be one way or the other. No dancing back and forth.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Babe,” I said, “you already have, for a while now.”

She closed her eyes, opened them again. “I know,” she said, soft. “I’m sorry. I won’t let it go on much longer.”

“How long?”

“No more than a few days. Right now I’m confused and ashamed and emotionally screwed-up. I need to get away by myself, somewhere where there’s no personal or professional pressure and I can sort out my feelings. Can you accept that?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve already talked to Jim Carpenter. He’s letting me have a long weekend off, starting Thursday afternoon.”

“Where will you go?”

“No idea. I’ll probably just get in the car and drive until I find someplace to stop.”

“Call me as soon as you get back?”

“Yes. That’s a promise.”

There was really nothing more for either of us to say. She stood and I went with her to the door. I said, “Have a safe trip,” and she said, “I will. You take care too,” and out she went. We didn’t kiss and we didn’t touch, not even a pat or a hand clasp.

When she was gone I felt all the things I’d felt since Barney Rivera’s call: sad, lonely, hurt, needy. But not despondent. The whole business was out in the open finally. And she hadn’t slept with Blessing. And she hadn’t told me to take a hike, not yet anyway. And there was so much history between us, so many good things. I felt hopeful. Not confident, not secure, just hopeful.

On Wednesday, Kay Runyon came to see me. She looked better than she had on Monday night, when I’d shattered the last of her illusions about her husband. “Matt and I are coping,” she said, and I believed her. She was there to pay me the balance of what she owed me. I told her it wasn’t necessary, that I could send a bill later on, but she insisted I figure up my time and expenses and we settle then and there.

I thought I understood why. It was part of a necessary closure for her, a sealing off — as rapidly as possible — from all the recent events and everybody connected with them. Only when that closure was complete could she and her son begin the healing process. When she walked out of there I knew I would never see or hear from her again. And that was as it should be.

She didn’t mention her husband’s name, not once. Nor did I. I knew, because I’d checked with S.F. General, that he was out of danger, listed in stable condition, expected to recover fully from his gunshot wound. I also knew, from Branislaus, that he had communicated with no one since his admittance to the hospital; had retreated to a place so deep inside himself that no one could reach it. Whether the condition was permanent or not was moot at this point. In any case, there was little question that Victor Runyon had a future date with a mental institution.

On Thursday, I had another visitor — a surprise one this time. Dr. Philip Muncon. He’d come to apologize to me, he said, for his dismissive attitude toward my investigation; and to thank me for helping to save Nedra Merchant’s life. Because of his past association with her, he’d been called in as a consultant on her case and he seemed genuinely concerned about her. So we were both guilty of misjudgment. I told him that, and accepted his apology, and shook his hand when he accepted mine.

When I asked him about Nedra’s condition, he said he was confident that given enough time she would regain what he termed her “mental equilibrium.” How much time? It was impossible to predict; it might take months, even years. And of course there would be scars no matter how long it took — deep emotional scars.

Yes, there would. I knew all about those kinds of scars.

On Friday, I spoke to Walter Merchant. The police hadn’t arrested him Monday night, or since, and the D.A.‘s office was still trying to decide if they were going to press charges against him. Not for the shooting — that had been determined to be accidental — but for failure to report it immediately and for leaving the scene with his ex-wife. He didn’t think there would be charges. Neither did I.

He’d been to see Nedra, he said, and she had recognized him and spoken briefly to him. He seemed buoyed by this. He badly wanted another chance with her; he intended to do all he could to aid and abet her recovery. He was convinced that what she’d been through would change her, make her realize how dangerously wrong her life-style had been, turn her into a better and more stable person who would be willing to give marriage another try.

He was right that she would be changed. He might not be right that the changes would be for the better, but I didn’t tell him that. Let him go on hoping as long as he could. If he was lucky, the things he hoped for might even come true.

And then it was the weekend, another long, long weekend. I worked a little, puttered a little, drove around a little, read and watched TV a little. And waited. And went on with my own hoping.

What keeps any of us going in this life, when you get right down to it, but hope?