“Nothing to thank us for, Bobbie Jean,” Kerry said gently.
“I don’t know that I’d’ve come, in your place. After the way we treated you — not going to your wedding, no card or anything. I wanted to accept the invitation, truly, but...”
“But Eb didn’t,” I said. “No part of it or us.”
“He still blamed you for what happened to our wedding plans. Stubborn and bitter and carrying a fool’s pride. I’d still have married him if he’d asked me again, or I would’ve until recently. But he never did. I’m so sorry I let him talk me around to his way of seeing things.”
“Past history, Bobbie Jean. None of that matters now.”
“I just want you to know. So sorry about everything.”
“Us, too. You going to be okay?”
“In time. My girls, and Cliff, have been real supportive. I’m staying with Pam and Cliff for the time being. That house, Eb’s house... I couldn’t keep on living there. He willed it to me but it isn’t mine, not my home. I can’t go back to it.”
Kerry said, “Of course, not for a while.”
“No, I mean ever. Not even to pick up the rest of my things. Pam will get them for me. I don’t want any of the furniture — it can all stay with the house when it sells.” She drew a shallow, wincing breath. “Eb’s things, his personal belongings, I don’t know about those. Cliff and the girls can put them all in boxes and have the Goodwill come for them, but that doesn’t seem right. Without somebody sorting through it all first, I mean.”
Her eyes were on Kerry, but it was obvious enough what she was leading up to. I said, “No. Not me.”
The burned-out eyes slid my way again. I could almost feel them like too-dry fingers moving on my face. “I don’t have any right to ask you, I know that, but there’s no one else—”
“Barney Rivera.”
“He and Eb weren’t close. He never once came to the house after the poker game you all had broke up.”
“Joe DeFalco then.”
“He’s not the right person, if he’d even agree to it. And I don’t believe he would.”
“What makes you think I’m the right person? That I’ll agree.”
“You and Eb were such good friends once—”
“Were we? I’m not so sure of that.”
“Closer in some ways than he and I were,” Bobbie Jean said. “But that’s not the only reason. There’s more than just his personal things — his business affairs, too. His office files and all. You’d know what to keep, what to throw out. Some of his clients you might want to—”
“I’m not interested in taking on a dead man’s clients.”
That came out harsher than I’d intended; Bobbie Jean winced again and Kerry’s fingers dug into my arm. There was a brief, awkward silence before Bobbie Jean said in a labored voice, “Oh, God, I didn’t mean... I don’t know what I meant. I know how you must feel. I shouldn’t be trying to burden you at a time like this. I’ll find someone—”
“No, you won’t,” Kerry said. “You have too much to deal with as it is. We’ll take care of it — it’s the least we can do.”
I threw her a sharp look. She answered it with one in kind. She has greenish chameleon eyes, the sort that change color shades according to her emotions; the darker they get, the more determined she is. They were very dark now, more black than green, jadelike.
“We’ll take care of it,” she said again, as much to me this time as to Bobbie Jean. “One or both of us.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“The keys to the house and his office are at Pam’s...”
“Cliff still works in the city, doesn’t he? Well, he can drop them off one day next week. Or if he’s too busy, we’ll pick them up at his office.”
“He’ll drop them off. Kerry, thank you. Thank you both.”
Another wan smile, and Bobbie Jean went slowly to rejoin her family. As soon as she was out of earshot, Kerry said, “Take it out on me, not her.”
“What?”
“Your rage at Eberhardt for killing himself. Bobbie Jean doesn’t deserve to be hurt any more.”
“All right,” I said.
“I can’t turn my back on her. I don’t see how you could.”
“I don’t want any part of his leavings.”
“Fine. Then I’ll do the sifting and sorting myself.”
“No. No, you won’t.”
“You just said—”
“I know what I just said. But it’s not your place, it’s mine. I don’t like it, not one damn bit, but I’ll do it.”
She gave me one of her analytical looks. “You’d have agreed to it eventually on your own, even if I hadn’t stepped in, wouldn’t you.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I know you. Grumble and grouse, get it out of your system, then you’re reasonable again. Most times anyway.”
“Don’t be too sure you know me as well as you think you do.”
“Tough guy. Mr. Macho.”
“Just set in my ways.”
“Mr. Bluster with a heart of cream cheese.”
“Get in the car,” I said. She went around and got in. I slid under the wheel. We sat there for a little time in the cemetery quiet, not looking at each other. Or at least I didn’t look at her until I said, “I’m not doing it just as a favor to Bobbie Jean.”
“I know that, too.”
“Yeah? Then why else, smartass?”
“You think there might be something in Eb’s leavings to explain what made him shoot himself. It bothers you, not having a clear idea. It’s why you haven’t slept more than a few hours a night since it happened.”
Without answering, I leaned forward to start the engine.
“See?” she said. “I do know you just about as well as I think I do.”
2
The rest of the weekend was lost time, empty time. And that’s another thing I have against funerals — they leave you at loose ends, depressed to one degree or another. Everything seems gray for a while afterward; nothing looks or tastes or feels quite right, as if the loss of a friend or loved one has been made even more acute by your attendance at the ceremonial coverup of the remains. Even the time-honored wake — I’ve been to a couple of those, too — has the same hollow, dreary effect, at least on me. The gaiety always seems forced, the party atmosphere faintly repellent and disturbing, as though you were taking part in an ancient pagan rite designed to ward off evil spirits.
Kerry and I spent Saturday afternoon and evening at her condo in Diamond Heights. Neither of us felt like going out; but staying in was a monotonous string of gin rummy games, bad TV programs, reading matter that wasn’t particularly involving, tasteless food, and careful avoidance of mentioning Eberhardt’s name in any context. Shameless, the black-and-tan kitten we’d adopted, sensed our moods and pretty much left us alone, proving that cats can sometimes be wiser than humans. We went to bed early and made love, and in keeping with the rest of the day, it wasn’t very satisfying for either of us. I didn’t sleep well again. Kerry was almost as restless in the early-morning hours.
She had a Sunday brunch with one of Bates and Carpenter’s out-of-town clients — “one of the many perks,” as she put it wryly, “of being Creative Director of a large, aggressive ad agency.” So I left her a little before nine and drove to my Pacific Heights flat. A married couple maintaining separate residences has its drawbacks, but for individuals like Kerry and me, who value and require a certain amount of privacy, it’s an arrangement that has more plusses than minuses. Most of the time I like her condo, but when she’s not there I always feel more like a visitor than a resident. On days such as this one I prefer the old-fashioned, semi-sloppy ambiance of the Laguna Street digs I’ve leased for nearly three decades.