Where Echoes Live by Marcia Muller Page A

conflict isn’t new to me. All my life …I don’t relate well, and people don’t relate to me.”
    I hadn’t suspected he possessed such self-knowledge. “In what way don’t you relate?”
    â€œBasically I find other people uninteresting. Compared to ideas, they seem pretty trivial. Their concerns, their lives— when you examine them, you’ve got to admit they’re frivolous. I’m happiest when I’m alone: working out theoretical problems, catching up on my technical reading, creating crossword puzzles or acrostics. But I’m socially aware enough that I realize I should relate, so I compensate by talking too much. People find me boring.” He fell silent, putting a hand to his lips as if trying to force back the pain that underlay his words. I sensed that this was the first real confidence he’d shared with anyone in a good long time.
    It struck me that I had the reverse of Sanderman’s problem: all my life I’ve related—perhaps too well. People tell me things, frequently things they’ve never told another living soul. Maybe it’s because I have an open manner; maybe it’s because I ask the right questions; maybe I simply behave like someone who will respect and guard a confidence. Often it’s gotten me into trouble when someone later regrets having been too frank, but occasionally it’s formed the basis for solid friendships—to say nothing of having been extremely useful in my work.
    I asked, “Do you care that people find you boring?”
    â€œOf course I do! I have feelings, you know. Just because I don’t spread them out for everyone to see … You remember the other night when I said I had my mid-life crisis at thirty-nine?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWell, what brought it on was my wife leaving me. I know that doesn’t sound particularly unusual. In Silicon Valley, people are always divorcing. Men leave their wives for their secretaries; women leave their husbands for their co-workers or bosses. Hell, two of my wife’s women friends left their husbands for each other. But you know one of the reasons why my wife claimed she left me?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I was so boring that every morning she had to remind herself that I existed.” His pain was clearly apparent now. “How do you like that? To my own wife I was a nonentity!”
    Had I heard his story secondhand—had he, for instance, been one of Hank’s clients, who as a group have endured some of the most hilarious divorces on record—I would have been amused. But his outrage was such a transparent mask for hurt that I found no humor in the tale. I said, “Your wife doesn’t have much depth or compassion, does she?”
    It was the right response; Sanderman’s tense face relaxed. “No, she doesn’t. But she’s right about one thing—I am boring.”
    I smiled. “Boring and proud of it—that’s the spirit. But, Ned, to get back to Erickson, you should call the sheriff’s department and tell either Kristen Lark or Dwight Gifford what you know.”
    â€œI plan to. What about …”
    â€œDon’t worry about Anne-Marie and Hy. We’ll just say that you didn’t make the connection between the dead man and your Mick Erickson until we spoke this morning.”
    â€œThanks.”
    I stood up. “No problem.”
    â€œAnd thanks for listening. I’ve talked at you a lot since you’ve been here, but it was better talking with you.”
    â€œAny time you want to talk some more, I’m here. And, Ned, if I ever take up needlepoint, my first project will be a pillow for you saying—”
    â€œI know: ‘Boring and Proud of It.’ ”
    Two hours later, just as I returned from a long walk along the shoreline, Nickles tottered down the hill looking like death warmed over. She cringed at my offer of breakfast, but agreed to help