“We can’t stand here all day.”
“Sit down then.”
He didn’t move. “What else do you want to know?”
I picked a fairly neutral subject. “How was she doing in school?”
“Pretty well. She knocked off mostly B’s at the midterms. She was majoring in French, and she has a knack for languages. She told me she was doing a lot better than last year at Stanford – didn’t have so many emotional problems.”
The wry and ugly smile took hold of his mouth again. He straightened it out, but it left the impression that he was mocking himself.
“What about her emotional problems?” I was wondering about his.
He shrugged his muscle-packed shoulders, awkwardly. “I’m no psychiatrist. But anybody could see that she had her moods. She was up one day and down the next. I thought she ought to go to a psychiatrist. She told me she’d tried that.”
“When?”
“Last spring in Palo Alto. She didn’t give it much of a try, though. She only saw the doctor a couple of times.”
“What was his name?”
“I wouldn’t know. Her aunt might be able to tell you. Mrs. Trevor. She lives on the Peninsula near Palo Alto.”
“Do you know the Trevors?”
“No.”
“Or the rest of the family?”
“No.”
“How long have you known Phoebe?”
He thought about his answer. “Just since she came here, in September. About two months altogether. Less than two months.”
“In less than two months you decided to get married?”
“I decided it right away. Something clicked,” he said, “the first time I saw her.”
“When was that?”
“In September. She came to look at the apartment. I was painting the kitchenette.”
“I understood you met her before that.”
“You understood wrong.”
“You didn’t meet her at a beach last summer, and talk her into coming to college here?”
He went into deep thought, which left his face inert and his eyes blind. I thought for an instant that this case was going to be short and successful and bitter: the girl dead, killed by the boy, who was getting ready to crack.
“Yeah,” he said painfully. “As a matter of fact I did.”
“Why lie about it?”
“I didn’t want my mother to find out.”
“I’m not your mother.”
“No, but you’ve been talking to her. You’ll probably be talking to her again.”
“Why is it so important that she shouldn’t know?”
“I guess it really isn’t. It’s just that I didn’t tell her. She wouldn’t have liked the idea of Phoebe taking one of our apartments. She has a suspicious mind.”
“So have I. Were you and Phoebe having an affair?”
“No. We weren’t. It wouldn’t be any business of yours if we were. We’re both adults.”
“Legally, anyway. Were you having an affair?”
“I said we weren’t. You don’t fool around with the girl you want to marry. I don’t.”
I almost believed him.
“Where did you meet her?”
“A place called Medicine Stone, north of Carmel. I went up there for a week in August. They have a good reef for surfing – better than anything around here. Phoebe was staying there with the Trevors and I got to know her on the beach.”
“You picked her up?”
“That’s twisting what I said. She wanted to try surfing, I let her. She was looking for a school to shift to, and I told her about this one. She’d been considering it, anyway.”
“And while you were at it you rented her an apartment.”
“She asked me to find an apartment for her,” he said, flushing.
“So you had a cozy two months.”
His fists tightened; the muscles stood out like brown wood in his arms. I thought he was going to hit me, and I sort of wished he would. Give me a chance to shake out the truth that I felt I wasn’t getting from him.
But he held himself under rigid control. “Crack wise if you like. We had a good two months. Followed by the worst two months of my life.”
“When did you see her last?”
He seemed ready for the question: “On the morning of November the second, that was a Friday – early in the morning. She was going to drive up to San Francisco to see her father off. She asked me to check her oil and tires, which I did. My own car wasn’t running, and on the way out to the highway she dropped me at the corner of the campus. That was the last time I saw her.” He said it without emotion.
“What kind of a car was she driving?”
“1957 green Volkswagen two-door.”
“Do you know the license number?”
“No, but you can get it from the dealer. She bought it secondhand at Imported Motors, in town here. I helped her to pick it out.”
“How long before she left?”
“A month, or more. She found out she needed one here, to get around. The bus service to town is pretty chancy.”
“Was she in good spirits when she left?”
“I think so. You never could tell about Phoebe. Her moods were always changing, as I said.”
“Did she tell you what her plans were for the weekend?”
“No. She didn’t.”
“Or when she was coming back?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think I asked her. I took it for granted that she would be back Sunday night or Monday morning.”
“Did she mention anyone that she was going to see, besides her father?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t ask her what she was going to do all weekend?”
“No.”
“What do you think she did, after she said goodbye to her father and left the ship?”
“I have no ideas on the subject.” But he had ideas. They flickered darkly at the back of his green eyes like fish in water too deep for identification.
Suddenly he looked sick. He lowered his head. The color of his eyes seemed to have run and tinged his cheeks greenish.
“Did you by any chance go along to San Francisco with her?”
He waggled his hanging head.
“Where did you spend that weekend, Bobby?”
He looked at his hands as if they fascinated him. “Nowhere.”
“Nowhere?”
“I mean here. At home.”
Mrs. Doncaster said behind me: “Bobby was here with his mother, where he should be. He came down with a touch of the flu that Friday. I kept him home in bed all weekend.”
I moved sideways along the wall, and looked from the son to the mother. Her face was grim. His eyes were intent on it. He nodded almost imperceptibly. He was very much his mother’s boy at the moment.
“Is that true, Bobby?” I said.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” the woman said. “Because if you are I want to know about it so that I can take legal recourse. My son and I are respectable citizens. We don’t have to put up with any guff from people like you.”
“Have you ever been in trouble, Bobby?”
He looked to his mother for an answer. She was boiling with answers:
“My son is an upright young man. He’s never been in trouble, and he’s not going to start now. You’re not going to drag him into something like this, just because he had the misfortune to go out a few times with a foolish girl. You go and peddle your dirt someplace else. And I warn you, if you besmirch our good name, you’ll find yourself at the receiving end of legal action.”
She moved on him in a kind of possessive fury and put her arm around his waist. I left them looking at each other.
Outside, the offshore wind was rising. The choppy sea at the foot of the street reflected crumpled light.