going on with her, maybe I
could have helped.”
“But you didn’t know. You can’t
blame yourself for that.”
Meredith pulled back her hands and
clenched them into tight balls of fists. “I don’t blame myself,” she cried
roughly. “I blame her. Oh, God, China, I hate her for what she
did!”
Then the tears came, as fierce and
hard as a flash storm. I got up and rubbed her shoulders awkwardly, not as well
as Ruby does it. But it seemed to help, and after the storm had passed, she
wiped her eyes.
“Thanks,” she said wearily. “I just
can’t seem to get over being angry. I want to love her, but I can’t. It gnaws
on me all the time.” I sat down again and we finished our cake in silence.
When we were done, Meredith brought
me the boxes. There were two of them, old boot boxes, tied together, their lids
taped. I stuck them in my hatchback and told Meredith to call if she needed
anything. When I got home, I left the boxes in the car. There was nothing
pressing about Jo’s old letters, and I was too whacked to fool with them. It
had been a very long day.
So I poured a brandy, climbed into a
steamy bubble bath, and gave myself over to some serious philosophizing. Jo
Gilbert was dead. Roz Kotner was about to trade her ruffled pinafore for the
Keenan millions and a shot at the White House. The way was clear for Arnold
Seidensticker to get his regional airport.
There was no justice in the world.
CHAPTER 7
I was awakened early the next
morning by a call from McQuaid. His pickup had started making an ominous noise
the day before. “It’s me water pump,” he told me. “If you’re not going to be
using your car today, can I borrow it?”
I agreed, so the first hour of the
morning was spent following McQuaid’s blue Ford pickup to Hank’s Auto Repair,
waiting while Hank filled out the paperwork, and stopping for breakfast. Maria’s
Taco Cocina is crowded into the front half of a small frame house on Zapata
Street, behind a bare-earth yard dotted with truck tires, painted white and
filled with dirt, transformed into flower beds. Inside, the tables are covered
with red-checked oilcloth and surrounded by mismatched kitchen chairs. Each
table has its own bouquet of plastic flowers. Ours were neon pink and citrus
yellow roses, stuck in an empty Del Monte ketchup bottle. Maria, a squat
Mexican lady with snapping black eyes and a renowned culinary talent, makes
extraordinary breakfast tacos with chorizos and eggs, seasoned heavily with
cumin and chili peppers and rolled up in a chewy flour tortilla. They’re so
good that nobody cares that the stainless doesn’t match, the plates come from
the Salvation Army thrift store, and the napkins are paper. After we’d pigged
out on three of Maria’s tacos and two cups of her fine Chilean coffee, McQuaid
dropped me off to open the shop and took my car to the campus, promising to
bring it back that evening when he came for dinner.
I was writing copy for the first
issue of the newsletter I’m planning when Constance Letterman came in. She was
wearing a pair of wine-red polyester slacks and a matching boat-necked jersey
top with a wide green stripe that went around the neck and down both arms. She
looked like a beet. A round, happily boastful beet.
“Ms. Kotner agreed to let me
interview her for the Enterprise” she said, leaning on the counter. “I’m
goin’ to write a feature article on her.” Constance has a sharply nasal East
Texas twang.
“That’s great, Constance,” I
remarked, straightening a stack of herb calendars on the counter. She must have
hit Roz up for an interview during the brief encounter I’d seen at yesterday’s
memorial service.
Constance regarded me hopefully. “I
thought maybe you’d come too.”
“Me?” I asked, surprised. “Why would
you want me to barge in on your interview?”
“Cause you know Ms. Kotner better
than I do. With you there, maybe she’ll feel looser, more like talkin’. We
might get into
could have helped.”
“But you didn’t know. You can’t
blame yourself for that.”
Meredith pulled back her hands and
clenched them into tight balls of fists. “I don’t blame myself,” she cried
roughly. “I blame her. Oh, God, China, I hate her for what she
did!”
Then the tears came, as fierce and
hard as a flash storm. I got up and rubbed her shoulders awkwardly, not as well
as Ruby does it. But it seemed to help, and after the storm had passed, she
wiped her eyes.
“Thanks,” she said wearily. “I just
can’t seem to get over being angry. I want to love her, but I can’t. It gnaws
on me all the time.” I sat down again and we finished our cake in silence.
When we were done, Meredith brought
me the boxes. There were two of them, old boot boxes, tied together, their lids
taped. I stuck them in my hatchback and told Meredith to call if she needed
anything. When I got home, I left the boxes in the car. There was nothing
pressing about Jo’s old letters, and I was too whacked to fool with them. It
had been a very long day.
So I poured a brandy, climbed into a
steamy bubble bath, and gave myself over to some serious philosophizing. Jo
Gilbert was dead. Roz Kotner was about to trade her ruffled pinafore for the
Keenan millions and a shot at the White House. The way was clear for Arnold
Seidensticker to get his regional airport.
There was no justice in the world.
CHAPTER 7
I was awakened early the next
morning by a call from McQuaid. His pickup had started making an ominous noise
the day before. “It’s me water pump,” he told me. “If you’re not going to be
using your car today, can I borrow it?”
I agreed, so the first hour of the
morning was spent following McQuaid’s blue Ford pickup to Hank’s Auto Repair,
waiting while Hank filled out the paperwork, and stopping for breakfast. Maria’s
Taco Cocina is crowded into the front half of a small frame house on Zapata
Street, behind a bare-earth yard dotted with truck tires, painted white and
filled with dirt, transformed into flower beds. Inside, the tables are covered
with red-checked oilcloth and surrounded by mismatched kitchen chairs. Each
table has its own bouquet of plastic flowers. Ours were neon pink and citrus
yellow roses, stuck in an empty Del Monte ketchup bottle. Maria, a squat
Mexican lady with snapping black eyes and a renowned culinary talent, makes
extraordinary breakfast tacos with chorizos and eggs, seasoned heavily with
cumin and chili peppers and rolled up in a chewy flour tortilla. They’re so
good that nobody cares that the stainless doesn’t match, the plates come from
the Salvation Army thrift store, and the napkins are paper. After we’d pigged
out on three of Maria’s tacos and two cups of her fine Chilean coffee, McQuaid
dropped me off to open the shop and took my car to the campus, promising to
bring it back that evening when he came for dinner.
I was writing copy for the first
issue of the newsletter I’m planning when Constance Letterman came in. She was
wearing a pair of wine-red polyester slacks and a matching boat-necked jersey
top with a wide green stripe that went around the neck and down both arms. She
looked like a beet. A round, happily boastful beet.
“Ms. Kotner agreed to let me
interview her for the Enterprise” she said, leaning on the counter. “I’m
goin’ to write a feature article on her.” Constance has a sharply nasal East
Texas twang.
“That’s great, Constance,” I
remarked, straightening a stack of herb calendars on the counter. She must have
hit Roz up for an interview during the brief encounter I’d seen at yesterday’s
memorial service.
Constance regarded me hopefully. “I
thought maybe you’d come too.”
“Me?” I asked, surprised. “Why would
you want me to barge in on your interview?”
“Cause you know Ms. Kotner better
than I do. With you there, maybe she’ll feel looser, more like talkin’. We
might get into
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