The drawers were warped and hard to open. The top one was empty, except for more bugs. Same with all the others.

A sound came from the doorway. Shirlee and Jasper were standing there, holding each other, like scared children weathering a storm.

“Her room,” I said. “Just the way she left it.”

Shirlee nodded. Jasper looked at her, imitated her.

I tried to picture Sharon living with them. Being raised by them. Martinis in the sun-room…

I smiled to cover my sadness. They smiled back, also covering- a servile anxiety. Waiting for my next command. There was so much I wanted to ask them, but I knew I’d gotten as many answers as I ever would. I saw the fear in their eyes, searched for the right words.

Before I found them the doorway filled with flesh.

He wasn’t much more than a kid- seventeen or eighteen, still peach-fuzzed and baby-faced. But enormous. Six-five, two ninety, perhaps thirty of it baby fat, with pink skin and a short neck broader than his moon face. His hair was cut in a blond crewcut and he was trying, without much success, to grow a mustache. His mouth was tiny and petulant, his eyes half-obscured by rosy cheeks as large and round as softballs. He wore faded jeans and an extra-extra-large black cowboy shirt with white piping and pearl buttons. The sleeves were rolled as far as they could go- midway up pink forearms as thick as my thighs. He stood behind the Ransoms, sweating, giving off heat and a locker-room odor.

“Who’re you?” His voice was nasal, hadn’t totally crossed over to manliness.

“My name’s Alex Delaware. I’m a friend of Sharon Ransom.”

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“I know that. I drove up from-”

“He bothering you?” he demanded of Shirlee.

She winced. “Hullo, Gabe-eel.”

The kid softened his tone, repeated his question as if used to doing so.

Shirlee said, “He like Jasp drawings.”

“Gabriel,” I said, “I’m not out to cause any-”

“I don’t care what you’re out to do. These people are… special. They need to be treated special.”

He lowered an enormous paw onto each of the Ransoms’ shoulders.

I said, “Your mother’s Mrs. Leidecker?”

“What of it?”

“I’d like to speak with her.”

He bunched his shoulders and his eyes became slits. Except for his size it would have seemed comical- a little boy playing at machismo. “What’s my mom got to do with it?”

“She was Sharon’s teacher. I was Sharon’s friend. There are things I’d like to talk to her about. Things that shouldn’t be discussed in present company. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

The look on his face said he knew exactly what I meant.

He moved back from the doorway a bit and said, “Mom doesn’t need any upsetting either.”

“I’ve no intention of upsetting her. Just talking.”

He thought for a while, said, “Okay, mister, I’ll take you to her. But I’ll be there all the time, so don’t be getting any ideas.”

He moved completely out of the doorway. The sunlight returned.

“Come on, you guys,” he told Jasper and Shirlee. “You should get back to those trees, make sure each of them gets a good soak.”

They looked up at him. Jasper handed him a drawing.

He said, “Great, Jasp. I’ll add it to my collection.” Overenunciating. Then the man-child bent low and patted the head of the childish man. Shirlee grabbed his hand and he kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“You take care of yourselves, you hear? Keep watering those trees and soon we’ll have something to pick together, okay? And don’t talk to strangers.”

Shirlee nodded gravely, then clapped her hands and giggled. Jasper smiled and gave him another drawing.

“Thanks again. Keep up the good work, Rembrandt.” To me: “Come on.”

We started to leave. Jasper ran after us, grunting sounds. We stopped. He gave me a drawing, turned away, embarrassed.

I raised his weak chin with my hand, mouthed “Thank you,” overenunciating just as the boy had. Jasper’s grin said he understood. I held out my hand. This time he gave it a weak shake and held on.

“Come on, mister,” said Gabriel. “Leave them be.”

I patted the little man’s hand and pried it loose, followed Gabriel toward the willows, jogging to keep pace. Before stepping under the weeping green branches, I looked back and saw the two of them, hand in hand, standing in the middle of their dirt lot. Staring after us as if we were explorers- conquistadors setting out for some brave new world that they could never hope to see.

29

He’d parked a big restored Triumph motorcycle in back of the Seville.

Two helmets, one candy-apple red, the other starred and striped, dangled from the handlebars. He put on the red one, climbed on, and kick-started the bike.

I said, “Who told you I was here? Wendy?”

He ran his hand over his bristle-top and tried to stare me down.

“We take care of each other, mister.”

He gave the bike gas, set off a dust storm in the dry weeds, then did a wheelie and peeled out. I jumped into the Seville, trailed him as quickly as I could, lost sight of him past the abandoned press, but found him a second later, headed back toward the village. I put on speed, caught up. We passed the mailbox that bore his family name, kept going until the schoolhouse, where he decelerated further and signaled right. He shot up the driveway, circled the playground, came to a halt at the schoolhouse steps.

He climbed the stairs, taking three at a time. I followed, noticed a wooden sign near the entrance.

WILLOW GLEN SCHOOL

ESTABLISHED 1938

ONCE PART OF THE BLALOCK RANCH

The letters were rustic and burned into the wood. Same style on the sign marking La Mar Road, a private road in Holmby Hills. As I stopped to take that in, Gabriel made it to the top of the stairs, threw open the door, and let it swing shut behind him. I ran up, caught it, and walked into a big, airy schoolroom that smelled of fingerpaint and pencil shavings. On the brightly painted walls were health and safety posters, crayon drawings. No apples. Blackboards hung on three walls, below Palmer penmanship guides. An American flag dangled over a large, round clock that put the time at 4:40. Facing each blackboard were about ten wooden school desks- the old-fashioned type, with narrow tops and inkwells.

A partners’ desk faced all three seating groups. A fair-haired woman holding a pencil sat behind it. Gabriel stood over her, whispering. When he saw me, he straightened and cleared his throat. The woman put the pencil down and looked up.

She appeared to be in her early forties, with short wavy hair and broad, square shoulders. She wore a short-sleeved white blouse. Her arms were tan, fleshy, ending in dainty, long-nailed hands.

Gabriel whispered something to her.

I said, “Hello,” and came closer.

She stood. Six feet or close to it, and older than a first impression suggested- late forties or early fifties. The white blouse was tucked into a knee-length brown linen skirt. She had heavy breasts, a thin, almost pinched waist that accentuated the breadth of her shoulders. Beneath the tan was a bed of ruddiness- a suggestion of the same coral tone that blanketed her son like some perpetual sunburn. She had a long, pleasant face enhanced by carefully applied makeup, full lips, and large, luminous, amber eyes. Her nose was prominent, her chin cleft and firmly set. An open face, strong and weathered.

“Hello,” she said, without warmth. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I wanted to talk about Sharon Ransom. I’m Alex Delaware.”

Hearing my name changed her. She said, “Oh,” in a weaker voice.

“Mom,” said Gabriel, taking her arm.

“It’s all right, honey. Go back to the house and let me talk to this man.”