Now it was Devon who stared, and a pulse began to beat rapidly in the back of her head like a warning signal. “You shouldn’t go around saying things like that to strangers.”
“I never did before. I wish you’d—”
But she had already started to walk away.
“Please wait,” he said. “Did I frighten you? I’m sorry. It was a dumb thing to do. It’s just that I haven’t talked to anyone since I came to town and you looked nice and gentle like Ruth.”
Her name was Ruth, Devon thought. She looked nice and gentle and a lot of people think this young man killed her and maybe he did.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said. “Wait just a minute, will you?”
She turned to face him. “Appearances are deceiving. I’m not very nice and not at all gentle, so you’d better forget whatever you had in mind.”
“But—”
“And I suggest that for the balance of the concert you go and sit somewhere else.”
“All right.”
For the next hour the seat beside her remained empty. She wanted to look around to see if he was sitting any-where nearby but she forced herself to keep her eyes on the stage and to concentrate on the music, applauding when other people applauded.
After the concert he was waiting for her in the lobby. “Miss? Would you let me talk to you for a minute? I’ve been thinking over what a stupid thing I did. It’s no wonder you were scared.”
“I wasn’t scared. I was annoyed.”
“I’m sorry. My only excuse is that I felt I should be honest with you right from the start.”
“There hasn’t been a start,” she said. “Nothing has started. Now if you’ll—”
“My name is Robert Osborne, Robert Kirkpatrick Osborne. What’s yours?”
“Devon Suellen Smith.”
“I like that. It’s pretty.”
While she explained that her parents wanted something different to make up for the “Smith,” she became aware that she’d been wrong and the young man right: there was a start.
It continued through coffee and éclairs at Schrafft’s, and the next morning they met for a walk in Central Park. It was the first warm Sunday of the year. There must have been people everywhere in the park, but the only one Devon could remember seeing was Robert as he strode across the grass toward her, his pockets bulging with peanuts he’d bought to feed the squirrels. He told her about his ranch in California, which was really a farm, and about the squirrels on it that lived in holes in the ground instead of trees. He talked about Maxie, the spaniel; about his father, who had died years ago in a fall off a tractor; about the land, which was irrigated desert, and the crazy river that was either flooding or bone-dry. By the end of the day Devon knew that her life had changed abruptly and would never be the same again.
“...please respond to the question, Mrs. Osborne?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear it.”
“Was your husband a big man?”
“Six feet one and about a hundred and seventy pounds.”
“He was in good health?”
“Yes.”
“Active and strong?”
“Yes.”
“Did he have any physical disabilities? For instance, did he wear glasses?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“To correct his short-sightedness — I think myopia is the right word.”
“Did he have more than one pair?”
“Yes. Besides his ordinary horn-rimmed glasses he had prescription sunglasses which he used especially while driving. During the early part of the summer he’d been fitted with contact lenses, and he wore them for tennis and swimming and other times when his ordinary glasses would have been a nuisance.”
“These contact lenses were prescribed and fitted by an ophthalmologist?”
“Yes.”
“Do you happen to recall his name?”
“Dr. Jarrett.”
“Where is his office?”
“Here in San Diego.”
Ford consulted some notes on the table in front of him. “Now, Mrs. Osborne, you stated that one of your husband’s reasons for driving to the city was to pick up a new tennis racket he’d ordered. Did he actually try the racket out during the afternoon?”
“Yes. He played several sets on one of the courts in Balboa Park.”
“Did he wear his contact lenses?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain of this?”
“I’m certain that he was wearing them when he got home.”
“Did he continue to wear them through dinner?”
“Yes.”
“And after dinner when he went out looking for the dog, Maxie, was he still wearing the contact lenses?”
“Yes.”
“Who has these lenses at the present time, Mrs. Osborne?”
“The police.”
“What about his prescription sunglasses — where are they now?”
“In the glove compartment of his car.”
“Where he left them?”
“Yes.”
“What about his ordinary horn-rimmed glasses? Where are they now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean they were lost or misplaced?”
“Neither.”
“When was the last time you saw them, Mrs. Osborne?”
“Three weeks ago. If you want the exact time it was the day you phoned to tell me this hearing had been scheduled. My husband’s glasses were among other things of his which I packed in cartons. I intended to store the cartons in the attic. Then I realized that this would be merely postponing the inevitable, so I decided to give the stuff to the Salvation Army in the hope that some use could be made of it. I know Robert would have approved.”
“Did you deliver it to the Salvation Army yourself?”
“No. Mrs. Osborne, Robert’s mother, offered to do it.”
“When you were packing those cartons, were you pretty sure what the outcome of today’s hearing would be?”
“I was sure my husband was dead. I’d been sure for a long time.”
“Why?”
“Nothing would keep Robert from getting in touch with me if he were alive.”
“You were happily married?”
“Yes.”
“And expecting a child?”
“Yes.”
“Did you carry the child to term, Mrs. Osborne?”
“No.”
She remembered the trip to the hospital in the back of Estivar’s station wagon, with Dulzura beside her, strangely silent and dignified, and a police car clearing the way, its siren screaming. It took a long time to come home from the hospital. Autumn was nearly over, the migrants were gone, the crops harvested.
The return trip was quieter. There was no police escort. She rode in a taxicab instead of the station wagon, with Agnes Osborne beside her instead of Dulzura. Mrs. Osborne talked to her in a flat, low-pitched voice which gave no indication that the loss of the child was a more severe blow to her than it was to Devon. For Devon there would be other chances, for Mrs. Osborne it was the end of the line. She told Devon what to do, sounding as though she were reading off a list she’d written down in a corner of her mind: get lots of sleep and fresh air, avoid worry, be brave, exercise, replace Dulzura with a more responsible person, take up a hobby, eat plenty of protein...
“...attention to me, Devon?”
“Yes.”
“We’d probably be wise to ignore Christmas this year, it’s such an emotional occasion anyway. Perhaps you’d enjoy going off on a little holiday by yourself. Don’t you have an aunt in Buffalo?”
“Please stop bothering about me.”
“I hate the thought of you staying alone at the ranch. It’s not safe. Dulzura is unreliable, you should be aware of that by now.”
“I know she drinks a little bit now and then.”
“She drinks a whole lot and whenever she can get her hands on the stuff. As for Estivar, how can we really tell whose side he’d be on in an emergency? He’s learned English and the ranching business and a few manners in the last twenty-five years, but he’s just as Mexican now as when he crossed the border— What happened to your aunt in Buffalo?”