Part 21 (2/2)

Much of that time was taken up finding a parking place that wouldn't bankrupt me. I had to park the car deep in the bowels of a garage two blocks away from the county-city complex, which meant that the cell phone probably wouldn't work. Thus, I ended up using a pay phone in the building's lobby.

It took Directory a.s.sistance several minutes to search for Gary Mallett in what I a.s.sumed was the greater Phoenix area. He was finally located in Apache Junction, apparently a suburb.

It was only when I heard Uncle Gary's whiskey baritone that I realized I didn't know how to begin the conversation. Would he remember his niece from Seattle? Did he know that his son was in jail? Would he care?

”Who?” he rasped into the phone.

”Emma Lord,” I repeated, grimacing at Vida, who was leaning on the stall of the next booth. ”Your wife's niece. From Seattle. Martha and Ray's daughter.”

”Ray? He's been dead for years. Plane crash or some d.a.m.ned thing. You got the wrong number.”

I gritted my teeth. Uncle Gary sounded as if he were already in the bag at ten A.M. ”Let me speak to Marlene,” I said, investing my voice with what I hoped was authority.

”Marlene?”

Good grief, the man was drunk and deaf. What a combination. And, as I recalled, he was stupid, too. ”Your wife. Mrs. Mallett.”

Uncle Gary turned away from the phone, his words m.u.f.fled. I a.s.sumed he was calling for Aunt Marlene. After what seemed like an interminable wait, a husky voice reached my ear.

”Who's this?” demanded my aunt.

Marlene Lord Mallet had always been on the heavy side. I pictured her weighing about three hundred pounds, wearing a muumuu, with flip-flop sandals. ”It's Emma, your niece,” I said. ”Ray's daughter. You remember Ben and me?”

”Of course I do,” Aunt Marlene retorted. ”What do you want? If you're stranded, we can't get you. Gary don't drive no more. His legs got too bad.”

Hoisting those cases of Old Snootful will do that, I thought nastily. ”No, I'm in Seattle. When was the last time you spoke with Ronnie?”

”That little s.h.i.+t?” Aunt Marlene, all warmth and charm, paused. ”A couple of years ago, maybe. I forget. Why do you want to know?”

It didn't seem like a good idea to tell Aunt Marlene that her son was in jail on a homicide charge. Obviously, her opinion of Ronnie wasn't very high.

I fabricated. ”I'm doing a family retrospective, and I'd like to-”

”A what?” Aunt Marlene cut in. ”You're expecting? How old are you anyway?”

”It's like a family tree,” I said, wis.h.i.+ng my patience wasn't on such a short leash, ”only with old pictures and souvenirs. Tell me about what it was like raising Ronnie and his sisters.”

Aunt Marlene snorted. ”Are you kidding? It was like h.e.l.l. Isn't that what raising kids is all about? Say,” she said, lowering her voice, which had grown suspicious, ”what are you doing? Is this for some book?”

”No, it's a family alb.u.m,” I said. ”Just for me and for Ben.” I left Adam out. As far as I knew, my aunt and uncle weren't aware of my son's existence.

”You sure?” Still the wary note. ”I thought you was going to be a writer.”

”I were,” I felt like saying, ”but grammar don't run in the family.” How could this woman have been my father's sister? They were like day and night, light and dark, a handsome stag and a big fat cow.

”I work on a newspaper,” I said, ”but this has nothing to do with my job. It's strictly personal. I wanted to include you and Uncle Gary and your children. What can you tell me about them?”

It took my aunt a few moments to round up her thoughts, which I a.s.sumed were scattered around the floor like so many loose marbles. ”Lucy's in Dallas. This third husband works in some factory there. They got five kids between them. Or maybe six, I forget. Leah got the one boy, must be in high school by now. I forget his name. I ain't heard if her divorce is final, but that was a while back. She's up north, Montana. One of those towns that begins with a B.”

b.u.t.te? Billings? Bozeman? It didn't matter. I barely remembered the Mallett girls, except as a pair of pale, nondescript ent.i.ties who spent a lot of time pointing at people and talking to each other from behind their hands.

”And Ronnie?”

”Ronnie's up north, too, still in Seattle, I think. We ain't much at writing letters and it costs too much to call. Say, how're you affording all this?”

”I've saved up a bit,” I lied, wis.h.i.+ng Vida wasn't leaning so close that it must look as if we were both wearing the same ostrich-plumed hat. ”Tell me, Aunt Marlene, does it make you at all sad to have your children so far away?”

”Ha!” My aunt started to laugh, then choked, and began coughing. ”Sorry. Cigarette smoke went down the wrong way. What was that? Sad? h.e.l.l, no. Me and Gary always wanted some peace and quiet. You don't get none of that when you're raising three kids. Oh, the girls weren't so bad, but Ronnie was a pistol. Always into something. He drove me and Gary nuts. I can't tell you how many times Gary had to get out the old strap. With the girls, it was different. All Gary had to do was show it to 'em.”

Good old Uncle Gary, I thought, my heart sinking. Poor Ronnie. No wonder he was scared stiff of what blow life would bring him next. No wonder he lived with a woman who beat him up. No wonder he didn't mind that Bubba was treating his head like a cantaloupe. At least there were guards to finally call off the bully; at least there was medical attention.

”School of Hard Knocks, huh?” I said feebly.

”You bet. How else can you bring 'em up proper?”

If she didn't know by now, there was no point in telling her. Anyway, it was too late. The damage had been done. And no wonder Ronnie didn't care if he was found guilty-he always was, in his parents' bloodshot eyes. I suspected he'd been framed before, many times, by his silly sisters.

”Thanks, Aunt Marlene,” I said. ”This has been very helpful.” It had, in a pathetic, tragic way.

”Sure. Say h.e.l.lo to Bob when you see him.” She hung up before I did.

”Bob,” I echoed dumbly. ”I think she meant Ben. Not that it matters.”

Vida had caught most of the conversation at the other end. As we walked the two blocks to the jail, she agreed with my a.s.sessment. ”An occasional swat on the bottom until a certain age,” she said. ”That's permissible in my opinion. Why, I've even been tempted to give Roger one-but not since he got older.”

Forty lashes wouldn't deter Vida's evil grandson. If ever a child had needed a good paddling somewhere along the line, it was Roger. But the poor kid had been coddled and pampered by both parents and grandparents. It was he who wielded the whip in the Runkel family.

”You're upset,” Vida remarked with sympathy. ”You never guessed that Ronnie was abused?”

”I hardly ever saw him,” I replied. ”Three, four times, maybe. He was so much younger, and Uncle Gary and Aunt Marlene didn't live close by.”

Vida held on to her hat as the wind blew up from Elliott Bay. ”Such a shame when families don't stay close.”

”It happens,” I said tersely. ”Uncle Gary worked for the state, though I don't know exactly what he did. The Mallets aren't all that old, middle sixties, I think. He must have taken early retirement.”

”Disability, I'll wager,” Vida said as we entered the building that housed the jail. ”How long have they been in Arizona?”

”I don't know that, either,” I admitted in a miserable voice that surprised me. ”And I can't figure out how my father and his sister could have been so different.”

”That's not surprising,” Vida said as we headed for the elevator. ”My husband and his brothers were all very different. Drink, that's what can happen. Ernest never took more than a gla.s.s of wine. But the rest of them...” She glanced at me and rolled her eyes.

Maybe that was the answer. Gary Mallett had changed Marlene Lord. I didn't remember either of them as ever being young. Mainly, I remembered Ronnie, hopping around in that sack at the rare family picnic. He had lost that race, too.

”My mother's brothers are good people,” I said, going on the defensive. ”They live in Texas and Colorado now, but I keep in touch with them and my cousins.” I paused, aware that I was exaggerating. ”Well, at least at Christmas. We exchange cards and letters. But I'm not ashamed of that side of the family.”

”Your mother's side,” Vida murmured as we got into the elevator. ”Then who all was at the family picnic on your father's side?”

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