up
here, which meant a good ninety minutes of commuting each way.
The school down on Pinehurst was what finally persuaded Jeanie;
that and the steep dirt roads, the communal saunas, the yards cluttered
with arcane salvage, and the neighbors who looked after one another.
I believe that Teddy even promised that they would eventually move
their office to Walnut Creek. A false promise if I ever heard one. He’d
insisted on tearing the house down and rebuilding. A necessity, I suppose,
given that the former owner had used it primarily as a set for his
avant garde films. His first big mistake was to insist that they live there
during remodeling. His second was to stop construction each time
the cash flow dropped at their two-person, husband-and-wife firm.
For three years Jeanie toughed it out. I have to give her credit. In the
end, though, it wasn’t having to live in that gutted shell of a house that
made her leave. That was just a symptom of deeper problems in their
marriage, as well as in Teddy’s heart. I don’t know exactly what it was
that drove the final wedge between them, but at bottom I suppose it
had to be the way my brother was, because of what our father had done.
After Jeanie left, he kept the work on the house going to the point
where rain couldn’t get in and he had the basic necessities of life: a
furnished bedroom, a functional kitchen, a back deck where he could
sit late at night and think. The rest of the place remained half finished,
plywood on the floors and drywall on the walls, plastic sheeting over
the eaves. To reach the front door you had to clamber up onto the
waist-high porch. He never got around to installing steps. He’d gone
with the lowest bidder and the cheapest materials, cutting corners
wherever he could. If I built a house, I would build it to last, I told
myself, and if I found the right girl, I was going to hang on to her. I
had Teddy to thank for showing me how not to live.
As I gained the porch I heard the phone ringing, echoing as sounds
can only echo in a large, unfurnished, uncarpeted structure. I unlocked
the front door, heading for a nook in the living room where my
brother had set up a cheap IKEA corner desk. The instant I got to the
phone it stopped ringing, and the answering machine clicked on even
though the caller had hung up. The tape must have been full, because
the machine clicked off as soon as Teddy’s message played.
Was it possible the police hadn’t driven here yet? I wondered. I
remembered Anderson’s promise to run down every lead, to bring
the killer to justice if only to spite Teddy. Thirty-six hours had passed
since the shooting, and it seemed odd that I was the first person to
set foot here. Again I remembered what Car had said about the cops
being involved. How many times would Anderson’s name come up
in Teddy’s files?
I picked up the phone and hit *69, but a recorded message informed
me that the number was blocked. I replaced the handset and turned
away, but at once it started ringing again. When I answered, a woman’s
voice said in a rush, “Teddy, thank God.” She sounded desperate, on the
edge of tears. “I knew it wasn’t true,” she said to someone on her end.
“This is Teddy’s brother, Leo,” I told her. “Teddy’s in the hospital.”
She gave a gasping cry and slammed down the phone.
I sat there, flipped on the light, and opened my other beer. Teddy had
a lot of girls—on the sly when he was married and in the open now
that he was not. I hit the play button and waited while it rewound.
“Teddy, I—look, just call me.” A different voice, this one with an
Asian accent. Then another time: “Teddy, it’s Martha. It’s Monday evening,
and I’m here with Chris. Call us right away.” Then she rang again.
And again. The repetition of her pleas was mesmerizing as the messages
grew more and more tense. There was also a call about a dentist
appointment Teddy had missed and another from a contractor saying
that he had a crew
here, which meant a good ninety minutes of commuting each way.
The school down on Pinehurst was what finally persuaded Jeanie;
that and the steep dirt roads, the communal saunas, the yards cluttered
with arcane salvage, and the neighbors who looked after one another.
I believe that Teddy even promised that they would eventually move
their office to Walnut Creek. A false promise if I ever heard one. He’d
insisted on tearing the house down and rebuilding. A necessity, I suppose,
given that the former owner had used it primarily as a set for his
avant garde films. His first big mistake was to insist that they live there
during remodeling. His second was to stop construction each time
the cash flow dropped at their two-person, husband-and-wife firm.
For three years Jeanie toughed it out. I have to give her credit. In the
end, though, it wasn’t having to live in that gutted shell of a house that
made her leave. That was just a symptom of deeper problems in their
marriage, as well as in Teddy’s heart. I don’t know exactly what it was
that drove the final wedge between them, but at bottom I suppose it
had to be the way my brother was, because of what our father had done.
After Jeanie left, he kept the work on the house going to the point
where rain couldn’t get in and he had the basic necessities of life: a
furnished bedroom, a functional kitchen, a back deck where he could
sit late at night and think. The rest of the place remained half finished,
plywood on the floors and drywall on the walls, plastic sheeting over
the eaves. To reach the front door you had to clamber up onto the
waist-high porch. He never got around to installing steps. He’d gone
with the lowest bidder and the cheapest materials, cutting corners
wherever he could. If I built a house, I would build it to last, I told
myself, and if I found the right girl, I was going to hang on to her. I
had Teddy to thank for showing me how not to live.
As I gained the porch I heard the phone ringing, echoing as sounds
can only echo in a large, unfurnished, uncarpeted structure. I unlocked
the front door, heading for a nook in the living room where my
brother had set up a cheap IKEA corner desk. The instant I got to the
phone it stopped ringing, and the answering machine clicked on even
though the caller had hung up. The tape must have been full, because
the machine clicked off as soon as Teddy’s message played.
Was it possible the police hadn’t driven here yet? I wondered. I
remembered Anderson’s promise to run down every lead, to bring
the killer to justice if only to spite Teddy. Thirty-six hours had passed
since the shooting, and it seemed odd that I was the first person to
set foot here. Again I remembered what Car had said about the cops
being involved. How many times would Anderson’s name come up
in Teddy’s files?
I picked up the phone and hit *69, but a recorded message informed
me that the number was blocked. I replaced the handset and turned
away, but at once it started ringing again. When I answered, a woman’s
voice said in a rush, “Teddy, thank God.” She sounded desperate, on the
edge of tears. “I knew it wasn’t true,” she said to someone on her end.
“This is Teddy’s brother, Leo,” I told her. “Teddy’s in the hospital.”
She gave a gasping cry and slammed down the phone.
I sat there, flipped on the light, and opened my other beer. Teddy had
a lot of girls—on the sly when he was married and in the open now
that he was not. I hit the play button and waited while it rewound.
“Teddy, I—look, just call me.” A different voice, this one with an
Asian accent. Then another time: “Teddy, it’s Martha. It’s Monday evening,
and I’m here with Chris. Call us right away.” Then she rang again.
And again. The repetition of her pleas was mesmerizing as the messages
grew more and more tense. There was also a call about a dentist
appointment Teddy had missed and another from a contractor saying
that he had a crew
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