Telling Lies

Chapter Eleven

Aleda Weston was scheduled for arraignment in federal court at two o’clock. I wanted to be there early to talk with Fay Cohen.

It was nearly eleven by the time I got back on the freeway headed for L.A. If traffic cooperated, and I drove like a bat out of hell, I figured I might also be able to squeeze in a few minutes with Emily and my parents at the hospital.

I made good time as far as Norco. Then I hit the weather front. There was a deluge. It so rarely rains in Southern California that people forget from one storm to the next how to drive on wet streets. That meant bumper cars the rest of the way in.

Every few minutes, I tried to call my mother at the hospital, to check in. But the weather played hell with the telephone cells, and I couldn’t get through. Everything rolled together made me feel antsy. I’ve never mastered being in two places at once, or flying over obstructions, and that frustrates the hell out of me.

When I finally arrived downtown, I was out of time. If I skipped the hospital and drove straight to the federal courthouse where the hearing was scheduled, and if I lucked into a decent parking place, I knew a few minutes with Fay would be the most I could hope for. Mother would understand, that’s her nature. But it’s not mine. I was fuming.

I found parking in a public structure only a block and a half away. When I cleared the metal detectors at the courthouse entrance, I had maybe ten minutes, optimum, to find Fay and pound her ear. Still feeling juiced, I stopped at the information desk to ask for the department number and directions. What the desk officer told me stopped me like a full speed run at a block wall:

“There is no Weston arraignment scheduled in this court this afternoon,” she said, unmoved by my persistence. “You might call the court clerk.”

I called Metro Detention.

“Aleda Weston was arraigned at oh-nine-hundred hours and kicked,” I was told.

“Could you interpret that?” I asked.

“She posted bail and left.”

Not what I expected to hear. “Where is she now?” I demanded.

“I don’t have that information.”

I had such a weird feeling, like coitus interruptus I had said to Flint. That pretty much describes it. I had come expecting answers, some resolution. Suddenly, zip. Nothing. Christmas without Santa.

For a good minute, I stood in the cavernous court lobby trying to figure out which way I had come in and how and where I should go next, and whether or not I should just sit down on the marble floor and cry.

The handful of change I had dumped on the shelf under the telephone lay there like a rebuke. I could call around, but I didn’t know where to start. Fay Cohen must have been staying in the city, but I had no idea where. I did try Max, but of course he wasn’t in. I doubted whether Flint would even speak to me, and I had no idea what I would say to him: “How’s the love bite on your neck?”

While waiting for inspiration, I plunked some coins into the slots and dialed Denver. I hoped I wasn’t waking Linda from her afternoon nap. I prayed I wouldn’t have to argue with Scotty about his complaint of the day, whatever it might be. I wanted only to speak with my daughter.

To my great relief, Casey herself answered the phone. “How’s it going?” I asked.

“Okay.” The connection was scratchy. “Snowed last night and the powder on the slopes today was really good.”

“You skied?”

“Uh huh. With Dad. How’s Aunt Emily?”

“The same. Grandma and Grandpa are with her.”

“Oh,” was all she said.

“Have you thought any more about coming to Ireland with me?” I asked.

“Sure. It’s cool.” But she sounded cool.

“How’s Linda feeling?”

“She throws up a lot.”

“When is the baby due?”

“In June,” Casey said. “It’ll be strange to have a brother or sister. I mean, I don’t have a lot of relatives.”

“Good strange or bad strange?” I asked.

“Good, I guess. Babies are pretty cute.” There was a pause; then her voice came back very low. “Dad’s really happy.”

“He should be. He makes great babies.”

She made “Mom” sound like three syllables.

“Casey,” I said. “I’m happy Dad’s happy. You can enjoy yourself there and not be disloyal to me.

“I know that,” she snapped.

“Good.” I missed her more than I thought I would.

“Mom, when will we get back from Ireland?”

“I’m not sure. When the project is finished or the grant money runs out.”

“By June?”

“Long before,” I said. “Casey, you don’t have to decide about Ireland for a while. Wait and see how you feel when you come home from Dad’s after the holidays.”

“Okay. Mom, I have to hang up. We’re going to some kind of Christmas party.”

” ‘Bye. Have fun.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

I said good-bye and hung up, because one more word from her would have done me in. She was so far away and I really needed to hold her. Small uncomfortable insight here: I didn’t think I could get through the Ireland project without her company. What must it be like for Scotty, I wondered, month after month with only phone calls to connect them? I hoped he had a nice baby.

I gathered what was left of the change and poured it into my pocket. When I turned to leave, I walked face first into the broad chest of Flint’s partner, Detective Bronkowski. Surprised, I stumbled back and he caught me by the arm.

“Thought that was you I saw coming in,” he said. “McGee, right?”

“MacGowen,” I said.

“Right.” He hung on to my arm above the elbow. “I hear you’ve been out looking for scalps.”

“Just talking to old friends,” I said, thinking this surprise encounter was no accident. “Have you found out anything useful?”

“This and that,” he shrugged. “Case hasn’t broken yet. But it will.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Are you still staying at Emily’s?” he asked.

“At least through tonight.”

He handed me his card with its gold-embossed detective shield. “If you move, or you have anything you want to talk about, give me a call. You can reach Flint at the same number.”

“Thanks.”

“Come on. I’ll walk you out,” he said. We were in a big, empty lobby. He filled up his share of it with physical bulk rather than idle chatter while we walked. I knew he had something he wanted to say. He was awfully slow getting around to it. Maybe it was his technique, I thought. When he finally opened up, I was expecting him to say something like keep your nose out, or don’t track up the evidence. He surprised me again.

“Mike Flint’s a decent guy,” he said out of the side of his mouth, somewhere short of hostile.

“Yes,” I said. “He seems to be.”

“A good cop. I’d hate for him to get hurt.”

“So would I.”

“Uh huh.” Bronkowski tapped his chest above the tie tack. “I worry he might take a direct one right here. You know, from someone who was just fooling around.”

“You mean like a drive-by shooting?” I said.

“You know what I mean.”

“Flint’s a big boy. I suspect he can take care of himself.”

“He can,” Bronkowski said. “When he’s playing in his own league.”

I left Bronkowski in front of the courthouse. I turned once and saw him lumbering up the hill toward Parker Center, police headquarters. He had certainly given me something new to think about. I wasn’t aware that all that much had passed between Mike Flint and me. Some kissing and touching. He had been rougher than I expected. And I had liked it more than I thought I would. It was all vaguely disturbing.

The clouds began to clear just as I drove out of the parking structure. The sky was God-speaks-to-Moses stuff, straight out of the film files of Cecil B. DeMille. I had a lot of time to admire it. Though official rush hour didn’t begin for hours yet, traffic downtown already approached gridlock. I could have walked from the courthouse to French Hospital in the time it took me to drive.

It would have been nice to walk, I thought, to get a little fresh air to spur the thought processes. I simply couldn’t afford to walk. The parking lot charged three dollars an hour and I was down to the last twenty I had borrowed from Max.

At the hospital, I followed the sound of music to Emily’s room-Wagner played at top volume, the way it should be played. Emily used to argue with my father about Wagner. He insisted that one could appreciate Wagner without being a Nazi, no matter how Hitler had used his music. Emily disagreed noisily until Dad confiscated the keys to her VW bug, reminding her that the original bug was a product of the Third Reich. Even Emily had a price.

Because of the music, I expected to find my father inside. My mother was alone with Emily.

Lohengrin covered the sound of the door closing behind me. I paused for a moment and just watched her as she massaged lotion into Emily’s hands. No matter what she did, there was always an air of elegance about my mother. Her gray hair was pinned into its usual bun, a loose arrangement that always looks as if it’s ready to unravel, though it never does. She wore pleated gabardine trousers, loafers, a handknit sweater – a faculty wife’s uniform.

Emily inherited her long legs from Mother. They’re too thin and bony to look like much bare. But they do fabulous things for pants. Mother sat with one leg gracefully draped over the other, seeming very calm, considering the situation.

“Mother?” I said, reluctant to interrupt.

“Hello, dear.” She turned down the volume of the tape player and raised her cheek for a kiss.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.” She smiled. “I think I’ve had rather a lot of Valium. Dr. Song has been an angel about it. Once I get home, I’ll probably sleep for two days. Ask me how I am once I’ve wakened again. The hysterics are doubtless waiting for a more chemically friendly atmosphere.”

I laughed. “Is Dad stoned, too?”

“No, the poor dear. He and Max are out making preparations to fly Emily up to Palo Alto. The doctor thinks more can be done for her in a larger hospital. If she must move, we might as well have her closer to home. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” I said. “How is she?”

Mom touched Emily’s cheek. “No change.”

I went to the bed and leaned over Emily. The expression on her face was exactly as it had been the night before, her lips puckered into the same tight O. 1 felt discouraged. I sat down on the edge of the bed and patted her leg through the thin blanket.

“You look tired, Margot,” Mom said.

“I had a long night.”

“Have you learned anything useful?”

I shook my head. “I’ve collected more questions than answers. It’s maddening.”

“Aleda was very anxious to speak with you.”

That snapped me to attention. “You spoke with her?”

“Very briefly. I always thought the world of that girl. So did Marc. I always hoped something would develop between them. Such a shame what she’s going through.”

“Start at the beginning, please,” I said. “Where, when, who… “

“Let me think.” Mother glanced at her watch. “She telephoned rather early. She had been very sick during the night, she said. She didn’t sound well. The long trip across country and then incarceration just exhausted her. Jail always seemed to knock out Emily, too. The smell of the place, and all that racket, I suppose. I never much liked having a turn at bailing her out. Thank God you never put us through that.”

“Mother?” I prodded. “Aleda?”

“As I said, she was awfully sick. Rod Peebles-remember him? Awkward sort of duck. Rod was able to pull some strings. Privileges of office, I suppose. Maybe it’s not quite the fair thing, but now and then it is nice to have some influence on your side. Rod managed to get a judge out of bed for a quickie arraignment on compassionate grounds. Aleda was released into his custody. Nice of him. Odd, though. Of all that mob Em hung with, I never expected Rod to amount to much. Sometimes people surprise you.”

“Where is Aleda now?”

“Seeing a doctor, I hope,” she said with some force.

I called Rod’s assembly district office downtown and got a recording telling me the offices were closed for the day. I must have shown my disappointment. Mother took my hand.

“Ask Lucas,” she said. “He gave me his number. In Pasadena, I think he said. I wrote it down.”

I picked up the notepad beside the bed and tried to decipher my mother’s penciled scrawl. “Does this say St. Arnie’s? Only Lucas would have a church called St. Arnie’s.”

Mother put on her glasses and took the pad from me. “St. Anne’s. Says so very clearly. And Lucas doesn’t have a church. He was defrocked ages ago. I don’t know what this place is.”

There was no area code written down-Pasadena is outside L.A.‘s 213. The second numeral in the phone number Mother had written down could have been either a loopy seven or a half-formed nine. I tried nine, hoped it was local.

“Hotline.” The answering voice sounded young, female. “I’m looking for Lucas Slaughter,” I said.

I think he’s around. I can’t leave the phone to go look for him. He checks for messages.”

“Are you at St. Anne’s?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Pasadena Avenue at Lacy Street. Lincoln Heights.” The address was only ten minutes away.

I hung up and met my mother’s tranquilized gaze.

“Do you need me?” I asked.

“Don’t be offended, dear, but not at all. Go do what you have to do.”

I wish I knew exactly what that was.” I bent to kiss her. “Call me when you get to Palo Alto. And Mom? Can I borrow some cash?”

“That’s my girl.” She handed me a wad and patted my arm. “Be careful.”

“You, too.” I went to the door. “Give my love to Dad.”

“Margot, dear,” she called. “Max is driving Emily’s old Volvo. He has been patient about it, but he does seem concerned about his own car.”

I laughed. “He should be.”

St. Anne’s turned out to be a 1920s-era woodframe bungalow with a sloppy paint job and wrought iron bars on the windows. A couple of blocks further up the street was the Florence Crittenton Home, a juvenile facility for young mothers and their infants.

The girl who answered the door at St. Anne’s was about Casey’s age, very thin and very pretty. She balanced a toddler on each hip. Somewhere deep inside the house, a baby cried.

“Is Lucas Slaughter here?” I asked the girl.

“Yes, he is,” she said. She turned and yelled over her shoulder, “Luke! Visitor.”

Lucas appeared out of the darkness behind her, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

“Maggie,” he said, grinning, as he ushered me inside. “Welcome.”

“You live here?” I asked.

“Bite your tongue. The residents are all mothers under the age of eighteen. I don’t come through that door without both a caste-iron jockstrap and a chaperone. How was your head this morning?”

“Leaden,” I said.

“Mine still is. Can’t drink the way I used to. Your detective friend seemed able to hold his own.” Ever Lucas, he broke into a raucous hymn:

There is a fountain filled with blood,

Drawn from Immanuel’s veins;

And sinners plunged beneath that flood,

Lucas took a breath. “Do you remember the second verse?”

“No,” I said.

“I don’t either.” He shook his head. “Come into my office.”

He led me through a living room crammed with mismatched furniture and into a small office with HEAD SHRINK painted on the door. Among the cartoons and notices taped to the door was a counseling sign-in sheet with a pen imprinted Hotel Bonaventure dangling from a length of twine.

“The shrink?” I asked. “Is that you?”

“Yep. Counselor and general dog’s body.” He perched on the corner of a battered desk. “Good to see you, Maggot.”

In spite of his hymn singing, he seemed unusually reserved. Could have been the influence of his place of work, or something else. I didn’t have time to pursue it.

“Lucas, I very much want to see Aleda. But she keeps slipping away from me. Any idea where she is now?”

He frowned. “One of Rod’s staffers was assigned to take care of her, make sure she got the right medical treatment, didn’t take off again. Shit like that.”

“The question was, where is she?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “I never had a chance to see her.”

“You told me last night that Rod kept his distance from people in the Movement. Seems to me he’s really stuck out his political neck by helping Aleda this way.”

“Does seem uncharacteristically noble of old Rod,” he smiled wryly. “Still, it’s the best thing. Aleda’s sick, Maggie. She needs a little space out of the public eye to tie up some loose ends. When she’s ready, we’ll all get together.”

“I’m not the public.”

“Don’t get your back up. Remember, Aleda has been in hiding for half her lifetime. She survived by being cautious. You can’t expect her to open up all at once. Give her time.”

A soft knock on the door interrupted.

“Come,” Lucas called.

A teenager with a little curly-haired boy clinging to her neck stepped into the room. She had tears running down her face. “What is it, Nicole?”

“I forgot what you said about how long to cook the spaghetti.” Nicole burst into sobs. “It’s ruined.”

“There’s almost no way you can ruin spaghetti,” he said with saintly calm. “Unless there are flames shooting from the pan. There aren’t, are there?”

“What?” She wiped her nose on the child’s shirttail. “Flames.”

She seemed confused, but she shook her head.

“Wait for me in the kitchen. I’ll be right there.” Lucas pulled a tissue from a jumbo-size box on the desk and handed it to her. “Be careful that Stevie doesn’t get near the stove.”

I started to follow Nicole, but Lucas caught me by the arm and held me back.

“Give her a minute to figure things out by herself,” he said. “When she moves into a place of her own, she’ll have more than spaghetti to worry about.”

I didn’t smell smoke, but I stepped into the hall and sniffed the air, anyway. I could see Nicole through the kitchen door. Lucas looked over my shoulder.

“Mother told me you had left the church, Lucas,” I said. “Is this your church, the church of the here and now?”

He chuckled. “It’s the only one that will have me. I like it just fine, too. Every time I take a pregnant twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl over to Planned Parenthood, I like it better. Damn it, Maggie, those old farts at the diocese in their dark suits and clerical collars don’t have the least idea what the reality is for children like Nicole, babies raising babies. Or two babies or three babies. Let the collars pontificate. I’m making spaghetti.”

“St. Anne’s sounds religious Establishment to me.”

“House used to be a nunnery, teachers at Sacred Heart High School lived here. Emily bought them out years ago.”

“Emily?”

“She raised the financing, anyway. This is one of her pet projects.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. I should have. What I was seeing at St. Anne’s was totally consistent with Emily. Then I remembered a pro-choice sticker on an arrangement of flowers left for Emily at the hospital. And ugly graffiti on her apartment house wall. Controversy was Em’s morning coffee.

Lucas nodded toward the kitchen. “Shall we check on chaos?”

“Sure.” I walked with him. “Did Emily spend time here?”

“Oh yeah. We have a couple of projects in common. We’re both on the board at Planned Parenthood.”

With Stevie on her hip, Nicole was mopping up boiled-over pasta water. Lucas held out his hands and the boy reached up for him, happily transferring his grip from Nicole’s neck to Lucas’s.

Nicole had turned off the heat under the spaghetti pot. I tweezed a long piece out of the water. It was long past al dente, but edible. I found a colander by the sink and drained the pot into it. There was enough to feed a multitude.

“Can you stay for dinner?” Lucas asked.

“Another time. I’m going to see Celeste tonight.”

“Hah!” he barked. “But good luck trying.”

I smiled, but I felt a sudden torque. I counted off the people on the old indictment with Emily.

“Lucas,” I said, interrupting a game of patty cake. “There’s a great big world out there, with wrongs to right in every corner. How did so many of you end up in L.A.?”

“Sometimes, I think they’se poison in th’ life in a big city. The flowers won’t grow there… “

“I’m supposed to recognize that, right? Bob Dylan or Pete Seeger, maybe.”

“Mr. Dooley. 1892.”

“If it was 1892, he wasn’t talking about Los Angeles,” I said. “What’s the point?”

“It’s simple. If you’re going to make flowers grow, then go where the sun shines.”