Blame: A Novel by Michelle Huneven

upset. So I thought you had seen what happened.
    Patsy was gratified to learn her response to the accident. Nobody had mentioned it before. I’m sorry, she said. I don’t remember any of that.
    But you see that I had to ask, he said. The detective was a student of yours. He said you were a great teacher.
    Ricky’s a good guy, she said, although she’d never thought that before.
    They both got lost for a moment, watching their steps where the dirt track had eroded.
    With blackouts, said Patsy, you never remember what went on. Before he got sober, my father would tear apart the house at night, and the next morning he’d say, Hey—what happened to the living room?
    They passed a Latino family, two girls holding their mother’s hand, a third following with her hand hitched to her mother’s back pocket.
    I’ve been to any number of prisons for my job, Mark said suddenly. I did some work on climate control systems for the new women’s prison going in up north. Hard to see much good coming from such places. This is better, here.
    You’d think they could come up with something, said Patsy. So we could come out more educated, or at least less crazy, than we were going in.
    In the Old Testament, Mark said, they had cities of refuge, where people who accidentally killed someone could go live without fear of retribution.
    Like a wildlife relocation program, she said.
    He smiled, a first.
    She said, I read in the
Pasadena Star
that your wife taught piano.
    I don’t know where they got that, he said. She was a singer. We met in chorus at City College. She had the clearest, sweetest soprano voice. We sang at church together until Martin was born.
    A Jehovah’s Witness church? she asked, knowing otherwise.
    We were Lutherans. Jane only got into that other stuff later.
    And you didn’t?
    She wanted me to. Not my cup of tea.
    Darkness seeped into his face. She touched his arm. Did you bring pictures?
    •
    She has a twinkle, Patsy said, pointing to the girl on ice skates, her hands in a fur muff, a matching white fur collar. Her dark eyes reflecting stars of light. Behind her head, the extended leg of a passing skater.
    I took her to skating Saturday mornings, he said. In that old ballroom behind the civic auditorium. Here’s Jane maybe five years ago.
    A brunette in crisp office wear: blazer, butterfly pin, buttoned-up blouse, eyebrows tweezed to a thin line. Dark brown eyes in which the person had not quite surfaced. Shy, Patsy thought before blackness started lapping in her vision and the taste of metal flooded her mouth. As calmly as she could, she handed the wallet back and leaned down to get her head below her heart.
    She excused herself, went to the bathroom, rinsed her face. When she returned, Mark had bought Coca-Colas. They drank and watched the fog gathering down at the ocean for its slow roll uphill. Patsy was exhausted, like a cried-out child, but she felt impelled to talk. I want you to know I’m not just someone who had a little too much to drink and drove badly, she said. I had a long history of doing that, and I didn’t care enough to stop. You need to know the truth if you’re serious about knowing me.
    I do want to know. His eyes reddened quickly, still easily inflamed. His big knuckled hands rubbed each other.
    My driver’s license had been suspended. My father had my keys. But I kept another set in my kitchen. I’d taken the car out once before, thatI remember. I was supposed to be going to meetings. I was lying to everybody about all of it.
    Yes, he said. But you’re not anymore.
    •
    May I come again?
    His ivory windbreaker was zipped; it crackled softly in the wind.
    We’re in each other’s lives now, he said. We can’t change what happened, but we can help each other from here on out.
    Earlier in her life, she thought, Mark Parnham’s sincerity would have made her suspicious or embarrassed her. Now she wanted to give him something in return. She said, I think I remember your daughter’s long,