A sixth was on vacation in Montana. A seventh had gone to Los Angeles to see a patient at Children’s Hospital.
It was half-past ten when Turee reached the eighth name on the list, a Dr. Hamilton who occupied an office in a diagnostic clinic. Turee was informed at the main desk that Dr. Hamilton was at St. John’s Hospital but expected back any minute. Could his secretary do anything to help? Down the hall, three doors to the left.
Dr. Hamilton’s secretary turned out to be a harried-looking blonde wearing spectacles and a snug white uniform. “I’m Miss Gillespie. Are you waiting for Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“He should be in any minute. He has a patient scheduled for 10:45. Please sit down.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t sit down, however. He looked at his watch, picked up a magazine and discarded it, paced the length of the room twice, until finally Miss Gillespie said, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Well, perhaps. How long have you worked for the doctor?”
“Over three years.”
“My name is Ralph Turee. I came from Toronto in the hope of finding an old friend of mine. I know she lives — or lived — in Santa Monica but I’ve lost her address. Since moving here she has remarried and I don’t know her new husband’s name.”
“Are you sure you came to the right office? Dr. Hamilton is a pediatrician.”
“Yes, I’m coming to that. The woman I’m looking for has a little boy. The only hope I have of finding her is through this boy. She sent me a picture of him last Christmas. He’d be nearly two years old now. His name’s Ronnie.”
“We have dozens of Ronnies,” Miss Gillespie said with distaste, as if every single Ronnie gave her a pain in the neck. “Perhaps if I could see the picture? Actually, I know Doctor’s patients better than he does. I’m the one who entertains them and keeps them quiet until their turn comes. And if you think that’s easy, just come around some afternoon about four when we’re running behind schedule and emergencies keep popping in like flies and the kids are all howling and the phone’s ringing — well, you get the idea.”
“Vividly. I have four of my own.”
Turee handed her the picture of Ronnie and she studied it intently for a moment. “Yes, he’s one of our patients, I’m sure of it. Comes in quite frequently. He’s allergic — chocolate, eggs, milk, and so on.”
“Who brings him in?”
“His mother. She’s one of these fussy mothers, doesn’t care in the least about getting Doctor out of bed at one o’clock in the morning if the kid has the slightest symptom. Overprotective.”
It sounded like Thelma. She was not dead. It had been the lemon trees, after all. He said, “What does she look like?”
“Oh, nothing much. I mean, it’s hard to describe an ordinary-looking woman. Except her hair, it’s really beautiful.” Miss Gillespie glanced at the picture again and handed it back with a puzzled frown. “Did you say the boy’s name was Ronnie?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken. Or I am. One of us is.”
“Why?”
“That boy is little Harry Bream.”
Twenty-two
The house lay high in the hills and at the foot of a cliff, behind the city. The mailbox at the beginning of the curving concrete driveway was shaped like an old-fashioned stagecoach. It bore no name, only the street number 2479. The hinged doors were open, and the mail delivered but not yet picked up — a copy of Life magazine, nothing more.
A wind was blowing down the canyon. It shook the rows of eucalyptus trees, and the pods struck the roof of the car and rattled off with the sound of scurrying mice.
The house itself was simple and elegant, of stained redwood, with a wide expanse of patio which had recently been hosed down. Steam rose from the flagstones as if secret fires were smoldering underneath. Except for the rising steam there was no sign that the house was now occupied. Turee pressed the door chime, waited, pressed it again several times, but no one answered.
He crossed the patio and picked his way down a steep path through massed geraniums to the rear of the house. Here he found a second patio, more secluded, shaded by a plexiglass roof and decorated with camellias in redwood tubs.
He saw the child first, sitting quietly in a sandbox, completely absorbed in the operations of a dump truck. Then he saw the woman. She may have been inside the house and seen his car stop, or she may merely have heard the door chime and the unfamiliar footsteps on the path. At any rate, she seemed to be expecting him, waiting for him. She was sitting bolt upright, tense, in a canvas sling chair made for lounging. Her hands were pressed tightly against her knees as if they had been frozen there.
“Hello, Thelma.”
Her only response to the greeting was a blink of her eyes.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Not long enough. Not nearly long enough.” She watched warily as he approached. “How did you find me?”
“Through the picture of the boy.”
“Yes. That was a mistake, wasn’t it? Well, it can’t be helped now.” She leaned back in the chair and looked up at the sky, as if she were making some silent plea. “I was afraid that some day I’d be sitting here just like this and suddenly you’d turn up. Now that it’s happening, it hardly seems real.”
“It’s real.”
“Yes.”
“How is Charley?”
There was no response.
“And Anne?”
This time, by way of answer, she gave a tired little shrug.
“There never was any Charley,” Turee said. “Or any Anne. There never was — a lot of things.”
“That doesn’t sound very grammatical, but it’s true, of course. There never was any Charley, or any Anne.”
“Just you and Harry?”
“Just Harry and me.”
“And Ron?”
“Ron.” She spoke the name as if it were one she hadn’t heard or thought about for a long time. “Yes. You’ll be wanting to talk about Ron, of course?”
“Won’t you?”
She smiled crookedly. “Not exactly. I — sit down, Ralph. I’d better put the baby to bed for his nap.” Climbing awkwardly out of the sling chair, she crossed the patio to the sandbox where the boy was playing and held out her arms. “Come on, wee one. Put the truck down for now. It’s time for our nap.”
Wee one let out a rather perfunctory howl of protest.
“Now, Harry, don’t make a fuss. We have company. Come say hello to the man.”
Harry crawled out of the sandbox on all fours, grinned shyly at Turee, and ran ahead of his mother into the house, slamming the screen door behind him.
“I won’t be long,” Thelma said. “He’s very good about naps. He’s a — I wish. ”
She pressed her hand to her throat as if to ease the pain of the unspoken words. Then she turned and walked swiftly into the house.
Turee wondered what she’d been going to say. He’s a wonderful boy — I wish you’d go away and leave us alone — I wish you had never come...
Sounds filtered out of the kitchen, the opening and closing of a refrigerator door, the clink of glassware, the whirring of a mixer.
“Here’s your orange juice, Harry.”
“I want milk.”
“Now, dear, you can’t have milk, you know what the doctor said.”
“I want milk.”
“You know something, Harry? When I was a little girl we didn’t have oranges the way you do now. Only at Christmas time did I see an orange, and then it looked too beautiful to eat, like pure gold. So I used to keep it in my room, dreaming of the day I’d eat it. But I never did eat it because it got all hard and shriveled and it was no good any more.”