Silent Partner

28

The San Bernardino Freeway propelled me, like a pea through a shooter, past an exurban blur of industrial parks, ticky tack housing developments and auto lots wider than some small towns. Just beyond Pomona and the County Fairgrounds, the scenery shifted to ranches, egg farms, warehouses, and freight yards. Running parallel to the south side of the freeway were railroad tracks. Cotton Bowl and Southern Pacific boxcars sat stagnant on the rails. The rear third of the train was meshed compartments crammed with gleaming little Japanese sedans. A brief burst of architectural fervor past Claremont and then everything got quiet.

I drove through empty, sun-scorched hills, past smaller farms and ranches, sloping fields of alfalfa, horses grazing sluggishly in the heat. The Yucaipa exit narrowed to a single lane that ran alongside a tractor graveyard. I slowed and cruised past a string of aluminum-sided trailers billed as “The Big Mall,” an untended taco shack, and a boarded-up shop advertising “Very Rare Antiques.”

Willow Glen shared billing on a road sign with a Bible college twenty miles south and a state agricultural depot. The directional arrow aimed me over a covered bridge and onto a razor-straight road that cut through more farmland- citrus and avocado plantings, ramshackle stables, and untended fields. Broad slabs of blank brown space were broken by trailer parks, tin-roofed juke joints, and cinder-block churches, and surrounded by the granite drapery of the San Bernardino Mountains.

The mountains faded from rawhide to lavender-gray in the distance, the upper peaks merging with a pearly mist of sky. Heat percolated up from the lowlands, softening the contours of the pines that clung to the mountainsides, creating fringed silhouettes that recalled ink bleeding into blotting paper.

Willow Glen Road materialized as the left arm of a boulevard stop in the middle of nowhere, a sharp hook past a splintered sign advertising fresh produce and a “Jumbo Turkey Ranch,” long vacated. The blacktop twisted and climbed toward the mountains, then up into them. The air got cooler, cleaner.

Ten miles in, a few apple orchards appeared: freshly tilled small plots backed by frame houses and surrounded by barbed wire and windbreak willows, the trees cut low with wide crotches, for handpicking. Cherry-sized orbs peeked out from under sage canopies of leaf. Harvest looked to be a good two months away. Homemade signs on stakes driven into the road shoulder welcomed the U-pick crowd but there didn’t seem enough fruit to provide more than a day’s desultory picking. As the road climbed higher, neglected orchards began to dominate the landscape- larger, dusty stretches filled with dead trees, some felled, others whittled to limbless, gray-white spikes.

The asphalt ended at twin telephone-pole-sized posts banded with Chamber of Commerce and service club badges. A chain dangling from between the posts supported a sign that read WILLOW GLEN VILLAGE. POP. 432.

I stopped, looked past the sign. The village seemed to be nothing more than a tiny rustic shopping mall shaded by willows and pines and fronted by an empty parking lot. The trees parted at the far end of the lot, and the road continued as compressed dirt. I drove in, parked, and stepped out into clean, dry heat.

The first thing that caught my eye was a large black-and-white Ilama nibbling hay in a small corral. Behind the corral was a narrow frame house painted barn-red and trimmed in white. The sign over the doorway read WILLOW GLEN FUN CENTER AND PETTING ZOO. I searched for human habitation, saw none. Waved at the llama and got a ruminant stare in return.

A handful of other buildings, all small, all wooden, shingle-roofed and unpainted and connected to one another by planked walkways. HUGH’S WOODCARVER’S PARADISE. THE ENCHANTED FOREST ANTIQUE SHOPPE. GRANNY’S TREASURE TROVE, GIFTS AND SOUVENIRS. Every one shuttered tight.

The ground was cushioned by pine needles and willow leaves. I walked through it, still searching for company, spotted a flash of white and a jet of smoke rising from behind the woodcarver’s shop. Low-hanging branches blocked the view. I walked past them, saw a series of weathered wood booths bolted together under a single, brand-new red roof. As I got closer, the air got sweet- the heavy sweetness of honey mixed with the tang of apples. The trees receded and I was standing in a bright clearing.

One of the booths was labeled APPLE PRESS & CIDERY, another CLOVER HONEY. But the sweet smoke was coming from next door, a green-shuttered section designated GOLDEN DELICIOUS CAFé. DEEP DISH PIE. COBBLER. The café’s façade was whitewashed planks and stained-glass windows- windows decorated with black boughs, pink-white blossoms, green, red, and yellow apples. The door was open. I went in.

Inside everything was spotless and whitewashed- picnic tables and benches, a white ceiling fan recirculating hot, honeyed air, a Formica-topped counter and three white Naugahyde stools, hanging plants, an old brass cash register, and a mimeographed poster advertising a Yucaipa astrologer. A young woman sat behind the counter drinking coffee and reading a biology textbook. Behind her a pass-through window provided a view of a stainless-steel kitchen.

I sat down. She looked up. Nineteen or twenty, with a sharply upturned nose, clipped curly blond hair, and wide dark eyes. She wore a white shirt and black jeans, was slim but hippy. A green-apple badge on her shirt said WENDY.

She smiled. Maura Bannon’s age. Less sophisticated, no doubt, but somehow older than the reporter.

“Hi. What can I get you?”

I pointed to her coffee cup. “How about some of that, for starts.”

“Sure. Cream and sugar?”

“Black.”

“Would you like a menu?”

“Thanks.”

She handed me a plasticized rectangle. The selection surprised me. I’d expected burgers and fries, but a dozen entrees were listed, some of them complex, with a nod toward nouvelle, each tagged with letters indicating the proper wine: C for Chardonnay, JR for Johannesburg Riesling. On the back of the menu was a full wine list- good-quality French and California vintages as well as a locally produced apple wine described as “light and fruity, similar in nose and flavor to Sauvignon blanc.”

She brought the coffee. “Something to eat?”

“How about an apple picker’s lunch?”

“Sure.” She turned her back on me, opened a refrigerator and various drawers and cabinets, tinkered for a while, put cutlery and a linen napkin on the counter, and served up a platter of perfectly sliced apples and thick wedges of cheese, garnished with mint.

“Here you go,” she said, adding a whole-wheat roll and butter molded into flowers. “The goat cheese is really good, made by a family of Basques out near Loma Linda. Organically fed animals.”

She waited.

Olivia’s eggs still sat in my stomach. I took a small bite. “Terrific.”

“Thanks. I’m studying food presentation in college, want to run my own place some day. I get to use working here as part of my independent studies.”

I pointed at the textbook. “Summer school?”

She grimaced. “Finals. Tests aren’t my specialty. More coffee?”

“Sure.” I sipped. “Kind of quiet today.”

“Every day. During picking season, September through January, we get a handful of tourists on weekends. But it’s not like it used to be. People know about cherry picking in Beaumont but we haven’t gotten much publicity. It didn’t used to be that way- the village was built in 1867; people used to go home with bushel baskets of Spartans and Jonathans. But city people came and bought up some of the land. Didn’t take care of it.”

“I saw dead orchards on the way up.”

“Isn’t it sad? Apples need care- just like children. All those doctors and lawyers from L.A. and San Diego bought the orchards for taxes, then just let them die. We’ve been trying- my family and me- to get the place going again. The Orange County Register might run a piece on us- that would sure help. Meanwhile we’re getting the jam and honey going, starting to do real good with mail order. Plus, I cook for the rangers and aggie commissioners passing through, get my independent study taken care of. You with the state?”

“No,” I said. “What’s with the Ilama?”

“Cedric? He’s ours- my family’s. That’s our house behind his pen- our village house. Mom and my brothers are in there, right now, planning out the zoo. We’re going to have a full-fledged petting zoo by next summer. Keep the little kids busy so the parents can shop. Cedric’s a doll. Dad got him in trade- he’s a doctor, has a chiropractic practice down in Yucaipa. That’s where we live most of the time. There was this circus coming through- gypsies or something like that, in these painted wagons, with accordions and tape machines. They set up in one of the fields, passed the hat. One of the men sprained his back doing acrobatics. Dad fixed him up but the guy couldn’t pay, so Dad took Cedric in trade. He loves animals. Then we got the idea for the petting zoo. My sister’s studying animal husbandry at Cal Poly. She’s going to run it.”

“Sounds great. Does your family own the whole village?”

She laughed. “I wish. No, just the house and Cedric’s pen and these back shops. The front shops are owned by other people but they’re not around much. Granny- from the gift shop- died last summer and her family hasn’t decided what they want to do. No one believes the Terrys are going to turn Willow Glen around, but we’re sure going to try.”

“The population sign said four thirty-two. Where’s everyone else?”

“I think that number’s high, but there are other families- a few growers; the rest work down in Yucaipa. Everyone’s on the other side of the village. You have to drive through.”

“Past the trees?”

Another laugh. “Yeah. It’s hard to see, isn’t it? Set up kind of to trap people.” She looked at my plate. I gobbled in response, pushed it away half-finished. She was undeterred. “How about some deep-dish? I baked some just twenty minutes ago.”

She looked so eager that I said, “Sure.”

She set a big square of pastry before me, along with a spoon, and said, “It’s so thick, this is better than a fork.” Then she refilled my coffee cup and waited again.

I put a spoonful of pie in my mouth. If I’d been hungry, it would have been great: thin, sugary crust, crisp chunks of apple in light syrup, tinged with cinnamon and sherry, still warm. “This is terrific, Wendy. You have a bright future as a chef.”

She beamed. “Well, thank you much, mister. If you want another piece, I’ll give it to you on the house. Got so much, my hog brothers are only going to scarf it down without thanking me, anyway.”

I patted my stomach. “Let’s see how I do with this.”

When I’d struggled through several more mouthfuls, she said, “If you’re not the state, what brings you up here about?”

“Looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“Shirlee and Jasper Ransom.”

“What would you want with them?”

“They’re related to a friend of mine.”

“Related how?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe parents.”

“Can’t be a very close friend.”

I put down my spoon. “It’s complicated, Wendy. Do you know where I can find them?”

She hesitated. When her eyes met mine they were hard with suspicion.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing. I just like folks to be truthful.”

“What makes you think I haven’t been?”

“Coming up here talking about Shirlee and Jasper maybe being someone’s parents, driving all the way up here just to send regards.”

“It’s true.”

“If you had any idea who-” She stopped herself, said, “I’m not going to be uncharitable. Let’s just say I never knew them to have any relatives- not in the five years I’ve lived here. No visitors either.”

She looked at her watch and tapped her fingers on the countertop. “You finished, mister? ’Cause I have to close up, do more studying.”

I pushed my plate away. “Where’s Rural Route Four?”

She shrugged, moved down the counter and picked up her book.

I stood up. “Check, please.”

“Five dollars even.”

I gave her a five. She took it by the corner, avoiding my touch.

“What is it, Wendy? Why’re you upset?”

“I know what you are.”

“What am I?”

“Bank man. Looking to foreclose on the rest of the village, just like you did with Hugh and Granny. Trying to sweet-talk all the other deed holders, buy up everything cheap so you can turn it into some condo project or something.”

“You’re a terrific cook, Wendy, but not too hot as a detective. I have nothing to do with any banks. I’m a psychologist from L.A… My name is Alex Delaware.” I pulled ID out of my wallet: driver’s license, psychology license, med school faculty card. “Here, see for yourself.”

She pretended to be bored, but studied the papers. “Okay. So what? Even if you’re who you say you are, what’s your business here?”

“An old friend of mine, another psychologist named Sharon Ransom, died recently. She left no next of kin. There’s some indication she’s related to Shirlee and Jasper Ransom. I found their address, thought they might want to talk.”

“How’d this Sharon die?”

“Suicide.”

That drained the color from her face. “How old was she?”

“Thirty-four.”

She looked away, busied herself with cutlery.

“Sharon Ransom,” I said. “Heard of her?”

“Never. Never heard of Jasper and Shirlee having kids, period. You’re mistaken, mister.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Thanks for lunch.”

She called after me: “All of Willow Glen is Rural Route Four. Go past the schoolhouse about a mile. There’s an old abandoned press. Turn right and keep going. But you’re wasting your time.”

I exited the village, endured fifty yards of potholes before the dirt smoothed and the RURAL ROUTE 4 sign appeared. I drove past more orchards and several homesteads graced by sprawling wood houses and fenced with low split rails, then a flag on a pole marking a two-story stone schoolhouse shaped like a milk carton and set in the middle of an oak-shaded, leaf-carpeted playground. The playground bled into forest, the forest into mountain. Name-tagged mailboxes lined the road: RILEY’S U-PICK AND PUMPKINS (CLOSED.) LEIDECKER. BROWARD. SUTCLIFFE…

I drove past the abandoned apple press before realizing it, backed up, and pulled to the side of the road. From that distance it looked like scrap: corrugated steel sides ulcered with rust and caving inward, mere fringes of tarpaper roof remaining, exposing age-blackened rafters, neck-high weeds scrambling for the light. Surrounding the building was sunken land littered with spare parts, dead-wood, and weeds that had reached the sun, been baked to summer straw.

Turn right and keep going. I saw no road, no entry, remembered Wendy’s distrust and wondered if she’d led me wrong.

I kept the engine running and got out. Four o’clock, but sun was still pouring it on and within moments I was sweating. The road was silent. My nose picked up a skunk scent. I shaded my eyes with my hand, looked around, and finally saw a bald spot in the weeds- the barest outline of a pathway running alongside the press. A shiny depression in the straw where rubber tires had finally vanquished the tangle.

I thought of walking, didn’t know how far in I had to go. Returning to the car, I backed up until I found a dip in the shoulder and nosed down into the sunken field.

The Seville didn’t take well to rural travel; it skidded and slid on the slick straw. Finally I got some traction and was able to negotiate my way onto the path. I nudged the car forward, past the press, into an ocean of weeds. The depression turned into a dirt path and I picked up speed, crossed a broad field. At the far end was a copse of weeping willows. Between the lacy leaves of the trees, hints of metal- more corrugated buildings.

Shirlee and Jasper Ransom didn’t seem like hospitable sorts.

Wendy had thought it unlikely they’d ever been parents, had stopped herself before explaining why.

Not wanting to be “uncharitable.”

Or had she been afraid?

Perhaps Sharon had escaped them- escaped this place- for good reason, constructing fantasies of a pure and perfect childhood in order to block out a reality too terrible to confront.

I wondered what I was getting myself into. Let a Jasper/Shirlee fantasy of my own float by: mammoth rural mutants, toothless and walleyed in filthy overalls, surrounded by a pack of slavering, fanged mutts, and greeting my arrival with buckshot.

I stopped, listened for dogs. Silence. Telling myself to keep the old imagination in check, I gave the Seville gas.

When I reached the willows, there was no place for the car to enter. I turned off the ignition, stepped out, walked under the drooping boughs and through the copse. Heard the trickle of water. A voice humming tunelessly. Then came to the habitat of Jasper and Shirlee Ransom.

Two shacks on a small plot of dirt. A pair of tiny, primitive buildings sided with irregularly cut wood and roofed with tin. In place of windows, sheets of wax paper. Between the shacks was a wooden outhouse, complete with a crescent hole in the door. A rope clothesline was strung between the outhouse and one of the shacks. Faded garments were pinned to the hemp. Beyond the outhouse was a water tank on metal braces; next to it, a small electric generator.

Half the property was planted with apple trees- a dozen or so infant seedlings, staked and tagged. A woman stood watering them with a garden hose connected to the water tank. Water dribbled out from between her fingers, making it appear as if she were leaking, feeding the trees with her own body fluid. The water spattered on the ground, settled in muddy swirls, turned to dirt soup.

She hadn’t heard me. Sixties, squat and very short- four foot eight or nine- gray hair cut in a pageboy, and flat; doughy features. She squinted, mouth open, accentuating an underslung jaw. A thatch of whiskers sprouted from her chin. She wore a one-piece smock of blue print material that resembled bed sheeting. The bottom hem was uneven. Her legs were pale and thick, pudding-soft and unshaven. She grasped the hose with both hands as if it were a live snake and concentrated on the water dribble.

I said, “Hello.”

She turned, squinted several times, raising the hose in the process. The water squirted against the trunk of one of the saplings.

A smile. Guileless.

She waved her hand, tentatively, like a child meeting a stranger.

“Hello,” I repeated.

“Hullo.” Her enunciation was poor.

I came closer. “Mrs. Ransom?”

That perplexed her.

“Shirlee?”

Several rapid nods. “Tha’s me. Shirlee.” In her excitement, she dropped the hose and it began to twirl and spit. She tried to grab it, couldn’t, caught a jet of water full in the face, cried out, and threw up her hands. I retrieved the muddy rubber coil, bent it and washed it off, and gave it back to her.

“Thanku.” She rubbed her face on the shoulder of her smock, trying to dry it. I took out a clean handkerchief and dabbed at her face.

“Thanku. Sir.”

“Shirlee, my name is Alex. I’m a friend of Sharon’s.”

I steeled myself for an outpouring of grief, got another smile. Brighter. “Pretty Sharon.”

My heart ached. I forced the words out, nearly choked on the present tense. “Yes, she is pretty.”

“My Sharon… letter… want to see it?”

“Yes, I do.”

She looked down at the hose, appeared lost in thought. “Wait.” Slowly, deliberately, she backed away from the saplings and made her way to the water tank. It took a long time for her to turn off the spigot, even longer to coil the tubing neatly on the ground. When she was through, she looked at me with pride.

“Great,” I said. “Nice trees.”

“Pretty. Apple. Mizz Leiderk gave them me and Jasper. Baby tree.”

“Did you plant them, yourselves?”

Giggle. “No. Gabe-eel.”

“Gabriel?”

Nod. “We take real good care.”

“I’m sure you do, Shirlee.”

“Yes.”

“Can I see that letter from Sharon?”

“Yes.”

I followed her flatfooted shuffle into one of the shacks. The walls were unpainted drywall streaked with waterstains; the floor, plywood; the ceiling, bare beams. A particle-board partition had been used to bisect the space. One half was a utility area- small refrigerator, electric hot plate, ancient washer with rollers. Boxes of soap powder and insecticide sat next to the fridge.

On the other side was a low-ceilinged room, floored with a sheet of orange indoor-outdoor carpeting. A white-painted cast-iron bed draped with an army-surplus blanket nearly filled the space. The blanket was tucked tight, with military corners. Against one wall was an electric heater. The sun streamed in, golden and gentle, through wax-paper windows. A broom was propped in one corner. It had seen good use: The place was spotless.

The only other furniture was a small raw pine dresser. A box of crayons sat on top, along with several pencils worn down to nubs and pads of pulp paper neatly stacked and weighed down with a rock. The top sheet was a drawing. Apples. Primitive. Childish.

“Did you draw this, Shirlee?”

“Jasp. He a good drawer.”

“Yes, he is. Where is he now?”

She left the cabin, pointed toward the outhouse. “Making.”

“I see.”

“Draw real good.”

I nodded agreement. “The letter, Shirlee?”

“Oh.” She smiled wider, cuffed the side of her head with one fist. “I forget.”

We returned to the bedroom. She opened one of the dresser drawers. Inside were precisely ordered piles of garments- more of the same bleached-out stuff I’d seen on the clothesline. She slid one hand under the clothes, retrieved an envelope, and handed it to me.

Smudged with fingerprints, handled to tissue-fineness. The postmark, Long Island, New York, 1971. The address written in large block letters:

MR. AND MRS. JASPER RANSOM

RURAL ROUTE 4

WILLOW GLEN, CALIFORNIA

Inside was a single sheet of white stationery. The letterhead said:

FORSYTHE TEACHERS COLLEGE FOR WOMEN

WOODBURN MANOR

LONG ISLAND, N.Y. 11946

The same block lettering had been used for the text:

DEAR MOM AND DAD:

I’M HERE AT SCHOOL. THE PLANE RIDE WAS GOOD. EVERYONE IS BEING NICE TO ME. I LIKE IT, BUT I MISS YOU VERY MUCH.

PLEASE REMEMBER TO FIX THE WINDOWS BEFORE THE RAINS COME. THEY MAY COME EARLY, SO PLEASE BE CAREFUL. REMEMBER HOW WET YOU GOT LAST YEAR. IF YOU NEED HELP MRS. LEIDECKER WILL HELP. SHE SAID SHE WILL CHECK TO SEE IF YOU ARE O.K.

DAD, THANKS FOR THE BEAUTIFUL DRAWINGS. I LOOKED AT THEM WHEN I WAS ON THE PLANE. OTHER PEOPLE SAW THEM AND SAID THEY WERE BEAUTIFUL. GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT. KEEP DRAWING AND SEND ME MORE. MRS. LEIDECKER WILL HELP YOU SEND THEM TO ME.

I DO MISS YOU. IT WAS HARD TO LEAVE. BUT I DO WANT TO BE A TEACHER AND I KNOW YOU WANT THAT TOO. THIS IS A GOOD SCHOOL. WHEN I AM A TEACHER I WILL COME BACK AND TEACH IN WILLOW GLEN. I PROMISE TO WRITE. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES.

LOVE,

SHARON

(YOUR ONLY LITTLE GIRL)

I slipped the letter back into the envelope. Shirlee Ransom was looking at me, smiling. It took several seconds before I could speak.

“It’s a nice letter, Shirlee. A beautiful letter.”

“Yes.”

I handed it back to her. “Do you have more?”

She shook her head. “We had. Lots. Big rains came in, and whoosh.” She waved her arms. “Everything wash away,” she said. “Dollies. Toys. Papers.” She pointed to the wax-paper windows. “Rain comes in.”

“Why don’t you put in glass windows?”

She laughed. “Mizz Leiderk says glass, Shirlee. Glass is good. Strong. Try. Jasp say no, no. Jasp likes the air.”

“Mrs. Leidecker sounds like a good friend.”

“Yes.”

“Was… is she Sharon’s friend too?”

“Teacher.” She tapped her forehead. “Real smart.”

“Sharon wanted to be a teacher too,” I said. “She went to school in New York to become a teacher.”

Nod. “Four-set college.”

“Forsythe College?”

Nod. “Far away.”

“After she became a teacher, did she come back here to Willow Glen?”

“No. Too smart. Calfurna.”

“California?”

“Yes. Far away.”

“Did she write you from California?”

Troubled look. I regretted the question.

“Yes.”

“When’s the last time you heard from her?”

She bit her finger, twisted her mouth. “Crismus.”

“Last Christmas?”

“Yes.” Without conviction.

She’d talked about a sixteen-year-old letter as if it had arrived today. Thought California was some distant place. I wondered if she could read, asked her:

“Christmas a long time ago?”

“Yes.”

Something else atop the dresser caught my eye: a corner of blue leatherette under the apple drawings. I pulled it out. A savings passbook from a bank in Yucaipa. She didn’t seem to mind my intrusion. Feeling like a burglar anyway, I opened the book.

Several years’ worth of transactions in an unwavering pattern: $500 cash deposits on the first of each month. Occasional withdrawals. A carry-over balance of $78,000 and some change. The account was in trusteeship for Jasper Ransom and Shirlee Ransom, co-tenants. The trustee, Helen A. Leidecker.

“Money,” said Shirlee. Proud smile.

I put the book back where I’d found it.

“Shirlee, where was Sharon born?”

Look of bafflement.

“Did you give birth to her? Did she come out of your tummy?”

Giggles.

I heard footsteps and turned.

A man came in. He saw me, hitched up his pants, raised his eyebrows, and shuffled over to his wife’s side.

He wasn’t much bigger than she- barely over five feet- and about her age. Balding, with virtually no chin and very large, very soft-looking blue eyes. A fleshy nose tunneled between the eyes, shadowing a protruding upper lip. His mouth hung slightly open. He had only a few, yellowed teeth. An Andy Gump face, coated with fine white hair that resembled soap film. His shoulders so narrow that his short arms seemed to grow out of his neck. His hands dangled at his sides and ended in pudgy hands with splayed fingers. He wore a white T-shirt several sizes too large for him, gray work pants tied with a string around the waist, and high-top sneakers. The pants were pressed. His fly was open.

“Ooh, Jasp,” said Shirlee, hiding her mouth with her hand and pointing.

He looked puzzled. She giggled and pulled up his zipper, patted him playfully on the cheek. He blushed, looked down.

“Hi,” I said, holding out my hand. “My name is Alex.”

He ignored me. Seemed preoccupied with his sneakers.

“Mr. Ransom… Jasper-”

Shirlee broke in. “Don’ hear. Nuthin’. Don’ talk.”

I managed to catch his eye and mouthed the word hello.

Blank stare.

I offered my hand again.

He threw rabbity glances around the room.

I turned to Shirlee. “Could you tell him I’m a friend of Sharon’s?”

She scratched her chin, contemplated, then screamed at him:

“He know Sharon! Sha-ron! Sha-ron!”

The little man’s eyes grew wide, darted away from mine.

“Please tell him I like his drawings, Shirlee.”

“Drawings!” shouted Shirlee. She did a crude pantomime of a moving pencil. “He like draw-wings! Draw-wings!”

Jasper screwed up his face.

“Draw-wings! Silly Jasp!” More pencil movements. She took him by the hand and pointed to the stack of papers on the dresser, then rotated him and pointed to me.

“Drawings!”

I smiled, said, “They’re beautiful.”

“Uhh.” The sound was low-pitched, guttural, straining. I remembered where I’d heard something like it. Resthaven.

“Draw-wings!” Shirlee was still shouting.

“It’s all right,” I said. “Thank you, Shirlee.”

But by now she was performing from her own script. “Drawings! Go! Go!” She gave his flat buttocks a shove. He trotted out of the shack.

“Jasp’ gofer drawing,” said Shirlee.

“Great. Shirlee, we were talking about where Sharon was born. I asked you if she came out of your tummy.”

“Silly!” She looked down and stretched the fabric of her dress tight over her abdomen. Stroked the soft protrusion. “No baby.”

“Then how did she get to be your little girl?”

The doughy face lit up, eyes brightening with guile.

“A present.”

“Sharon was a present?”

“Yes.”

“From who?”

She shook her head.

“Who gave her to you as a present?”

The headshake grew stronger.

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“Can’t!”

“Why not, Shirlee?”

“Can’t! Secret!”

“Who told you to keep it secret?”

“Can’t! Secret. Seek-rut!”

She was frothing at the mouth, looked ready to cry.

“Okay,” I said. “It’s good to keep a secret if that’s what you promised.”

“Secret.”

“I understand, Shirlee.”

She sniffled, smiled, said, “Uh-oh, water time,” and walked out.

I followed her to the yard. Jasper had just come out of the other shack and was walking toward us clutching several sheets of paper. He saw me and waved them in the air. I walked over and he shoved them at me. More apples.

“Great, Jasper. Beautiful.”

Shirlee said, “Water time,” and glanced at the hose.

Jasper had left the door of the other shack open and I walked in.

A single unpartitioned space. Red carpeting. A bed sat in the center, canopied and covered with lace-edged quilting. The fabric was speckled with green-black mold and rotted through. I touched a piece of lace. It turned to dust between my fingers. The headboard and canopy frame were muddy with oxidation and gave off a bitter odor. Above the bed, hanging from a nail driven crookedly into the drywall, was a framed Beatles poster- a blowup of the “Rubber Soul” album. The glass was streaked and cracked and flyspecked. Against the opposite wall was a chest of drawers covered with more decayed lace, perfume bottles, and glass figurines. I tried to pick up a bottle but it stuck to the lace. A trail of ants streamed over the chest top. Several dead silverfish lay strewn among the bottles.

The drawers were warped and hard to open. The top one was empty, except for more bugs. Same with all the others.

A sound came from the doorway. Shirlee and Jasper were standing there, holding each other, like scared children weathering a storm.

“Her room,” I said. “Just the way she left it.”

Shirlee nodded. Jasper looked at her, imitated her.

I tried to picture Sharon living with them. Being raised by them. Martinis in the sun-room…

I smiled to cover my sadness. They smiled back, also covering- a servile anxiety. Waiting for my next command. There was so much I wanted to ask them, but I knew I’d gotten as many answers as I ever would. I saw the fear in their eyes, searched for the right words.

Before I found them the doorway filled with flesh.

He wasn’t much more than a kid- seventeen or eighteen, still peach-fuzzed and baby-faced. But enormous. Six-five, two ninety, perhaps thirty of it baby fat, with pink skin and a short neck broader than his moon face. His hair was cut in a blond crewcut and he was trying, without much success, to grow a mustache. His mouth was tiny and petulant, his eyes half-obscured by rosy cheeks as large and round as softballs. He wore faded jeans and an extra-extra-large black cowboy shirt with white piping and pearl buttons. The sleeves were rolled as far as they could go- midway up pink forearms as thick as my thighs. He stood behind the Ransoms, sweating, giving off heat and a locker-room odor.

“Who’re you?” His voice was nasal, hadn’t totally crossed over to manliness.

“My name’s Alex Delaware. I’m a friend of Sharon Ransom.”

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“I know that. I drove up from-”

“He bothering you?” he demanded of Shirlee.

She winced. “Hullo, Gabe-eel.”

The kid softened his tone, repeated his question as if used to doing so.

Shirlee said, “He like Jasp drawings.”

“Gabriel,” I said, “I’m not out to cause any-”

“I don’t care what you’re out to do. These people are… special. They need to be treated special.”

He lowered an enormous paw onto each of the Ransoms’ shoulders.

I said, “Your mother’s Mrs. Leidecker?”

“What of it?”

“I’d like to speak with her.”

He bunched his shoulders and his eyes became slits. Except for his size it would have seemed comical- a little boy playing at machismo. “What’s my mom got to do with it?”

“She was Sharon’s teacher. I was Sharon’s friend. There are things I’d like to talk to her about. Things that shouldn’t be discussed in present company. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

The look on his face said he knew exactly what I meant.

He moved back from the doorway a bit and said, “Mom doesn’t need any upsetting either.”

“I’ve no intention of upsetting her. Just talking.”

He thought for a while, said, “Okay, mister, I’ll take you to her. But I’ll be there all the time, so don’t be getting any ideas.”

He moved completely out of the doorway. The sunlight returned.

“Come on, you guys,” he told Jasper and Shirlee. “You should get back to those trees, make sure each of them gets a good soak.”

They looked up at him. Jasper handed him a drawing.

He said, “Great, Jasp. I’ll add it to my collection.” Overenunciating. Then the man-child bent low and patted the head of the childish man. Shirlee grabbed his hand and he kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“You take care of yourselves, you hear? Keep watering those trees and soon we’ll have something to pick together, okay? And don’t talk to strangers.”

Shirlee nodded gravely, then clapped her hands and giggled. Jasper smiled and gave him another drawing.

“Thanks again. Keep up the good work, Rembrandt.” To me: “Come on.”

We started to leave. Jasper ran after us, grunting sounds. We stopped. He gave me a drawing, turned away, embarrassed.

I raised his weak chin with my hand, mouthed “Thank you,” overenunciating just as the boy had. Jasper’s grin said he understood. I held out my hand. This time he gave it a weak shake and held on.

“Come on, mister,” said Gabriel. “Leave them be.”

I patted the little man’s hand and pried it loose, followed Gabriel toward the willows, jogging to keep pace. Before stepping under the weeping green branches, I looked back and saw the two of them, hand in hand, standing in the middle of their dirt lot. Staring after us as if we were explorers- conquistadors setting out for some brave new world that they could never hope to see.