Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (latest books to read txt) 📗

steady, so clever. She’d been in the back seat of that Chrysler, too, observing her mad sister shouting into the wind, never joining in but never critical, quietly enjoying all that life had to give. She’d come today in a navy frock that she’d probably worn to a dozen funerals for the Times—go home and put it in its plastic bag until the next person died, whoever it was. Maggie watched them go down the aisle, Joe taking her arm, Joe who had so much more than he showed, keeping it in so he could pour it into his writing. Joe would miss Terry. Who would have thought Lizzie could make such a good marriage with a pudgy, bald socialist? First marriages are for glamor; second marriages are the real ones, the ones for children, however the children turn out. Behind Joe, Cal walked alone. Living with the woman whose husband killed his father.

The hearse was waiting when they came out, sinister black death vehicle followed by two V.A. buses and a few cars, Ralph’s Buick at the front. Six men of varying ages and physiques carried the casket, two from Hughes, two from the beach club, two from the V.A. The gathering broke up, some people joining the cortege, some apologizing that they couldn’t make the burial or the repass in Bel Air. She understood. Some of the vets could barely walk. Some couldn’t walk at all. Many had sent regrets.

The Buick was specially made, heaven knows where Nelly had found it, not at all like Eddie’s old Buick. It had gray velveteen seats, a roll-up window between the front and back and ample room for three in the rear. It was the first time Maggie had been in it. Nelly quickly pointed out that the window was never rolled up. Ralph was part of the family.

“What did you think of the service, honey?” Maggie asked her daughter as Ralph followed the hearse down to Wilshire. Motorcycle policemen were stationed at each end of the cortege to keep cars together. In the chapel, the casket had remained closed. He’d flown right into the mountain. The control tower said they’d lost contact; that he shouldn’t have been over Mount Lemmon but coming down the Highway 10 corridor. There’d been a storm and he’d strayed off course. So much for the Hughes night flying system. She’d watched her daughter standing by the casket, her lips moving like she had things she wanted to clear up with Daddy while there was still time. Maggie felt tears, but Didi’s eyes stayed dry.

“I don’t want to go to any more funerals,” she said as the Buick turned off Wilshire toward the cemetery.

“Ah,” said Nelly, “that is a wish I share with you completely.”

“The funeral is not quite over,” said Maggie. “Now comes the hardest part.”

“Do we have to?” asked the girl.

The thought of bringing Didi back to Playa del Rey had passed Maggie’s mind, but it wouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen. She would remain alone. Didi was happy with Nelly, grandmother substituting for mother. Why interfere?

“Life is full of things we have to do, sweetie,” said Nelly.

“Why?”

Maggie turned to look at her daughter, pretty, vulnerable, something of Terry’s solid build in her, not as fragile in appearance as in character. Different from the rest of us, she thought, with an odd sort of emotional lethargy. Where did it come from? No one else in the family had anything like it.

“Duty,” Maggie said.

“To whom?” asked the girl, who at least had the grammar right.

Chapter 39

He bought a .38 Colt Detective Special and took it to an indoor pistol range on Sixth Street to learn how to fire it. Along with most able-bodied men born in 1910, he’d been to war but never learned how to fire a pistol. A rifle, yes, the M-1 that every infantryman learned to handle, but a pistol was something new in his hand. The gun shop on Pico sold him on the Colt after asking what he wanted it for. Dangerous neighborhood, he said. The salesman, looking at the Los Feliz address on the application, knew it wasn’t true but wasn’t going to argue the point. He pulled out the snubby Detective Special, let Cal turn it over in his hand a few times and made the sale. No good for long range, he said, but for household protection it was the best. Up close, you can’t miss. Can’t miss what was left unsaid. It was a strange conversation, but Cal supposed not really that different from buying a car or a hat. “What are you looking for, sir?” they ask. There are different cars for cross country and tooling around town; different hats for rain, sun, snow, show; different pistols for firing ranges or shooting someone up close in the heart, as Henry Callender had done.

She’d showed him the card Gil sent to the temple from San Francisco after they released him from Folsom:

Been thinking about you, Angie baby.

Been thinking about you for 15 years.

See you soon.

Of course, it was unsigned. If he violated the restraining order he’d be back in Folsom. She took it to the police who said there was nothing they could do. Afterthat she invited Cal to move in. They were still seeing each other, so why not? She was scared to death and didn’t hide it. He bought the pistol without telling her, stashed it in the closet by the back door off the kitchen and moved into the upstairs bedroom next to her master bedroom. It was a nice arrangement. They saw each other when they wanted, and went their own ways the rest of the time. She had new locks put on every door and thought of fencing the property but no fence would keep out killer or coyote that wanted in bad enough. Pines and slopes on both sides made fencing impractical. She thought of getting a dog but didn’t like barking dogs.

All that was six months ago, and