Of course, the whole house seemed to be different without Mama fluttering among her treasures, and tapping those silly heels on hardwood between Persian rugs. I stood there yelling, “Mama” like an idiot, my hand still on the wall switch, when I thought, well now, this is not finding Mama, and I walked determinedly to the sitting room, switching on lights; to the dining room, flashing on the chandelier; then to the kitchen, turning on the overhead lights — two bedrooms, two baths, the desk lamp in the study.
The house was ablaze and empty except for me, quiet except for the sound of the wind outside, and that damn line came back to haunt me: “The wind blows wild—” when the front door slammed, sending me at a dead run through all the alien rooms to wrench it open again.
It must have been the wind. It really must have been the wind. I looked for the bust, a bronze that had always stood in the hallway, to prop the door open — but the bust was not there, nor the pedestal on which it had always stood.
I tore out then, slammed the door behind me, raced down the stairs and along the flagstone path around the house, up the steps and into my car. Dark now; I could see the shafts of light I had left shining from Mama’s windows down below. The houses across the street above looked warmly bright. The trees whipped in the wind, and diamonds flickered in the town bowl.
I drove down the hill, found a motel, registered and phoned home. Of course there was no answer. I glanced at my watch: seven thirty. Jeff and the kids would be out somewhere to dinner — catch any of them turning a hand to the frying pan or kettle. So I sat down and cried. Then I went out, got into my car, and drove to the police station.
They looked at me, the officer behind the desk and the one leaning on it, as if I were a hysterical female (which I never am, although I was sobbing rather wildly and speaking in an uneven voice), and orated from the heights of their Male and Official Authority, explaining, as if to a child, that I had broken and entered (no matter that I was a daughter), that my mother was an adult (which I questioned), and if she chose to be absent it was strictly her business, certainly not theirs.
I sneered through my tears and raced out, burning rubber as I left to return to the motel. Those officers must have shaken their heads as they debated whether or not to tag me on a speeding charge.
Then I called home again. Thankfully, the family now had its stomach full and Jeff was available for talking — listening, rather, which he does poorly, being an ad man who always has to have the triple word. “She isn’t home?” he said. “Well, like I told you, she probably took off on one of those trips she’s been talking about...
After a restless night on a motel mattress made for people who need to sleep on boards, I had a sketchy breakfast and drove on up to Mama’s. I peered through the windows as I walked around the house, and by cupping my hands, I could see the glow of electric bulbs through the faint light of day in shadowed rooms.
The street was quiet except for a boy cycling toward the high school two blocks away. I waited until he passed before I got out my credit card.
I switched off the hall light and left the door open. The Santa Anas had blown themselves out, so it
It was a half-basement, built under the part of the house on the slope, with nothing down there but a furnace, some stored boxes, a couple of trunks, and several pieces of luggage. The basement stairs led down from the kitchen, the door secured by a slide bolt. I switched on the light at the top of the stairs and leaned over the wooden banister. The low-wattage naked bulb lit the basement dimly, leaving the corners in shadow. I put one foot on the second step, then backed up hurriedly, slammed the door shut and shot the bolt. There was no body down there, no shadow large enough in that small space to hide a body unless, of course, one were to consider the dark pocket under the stairway — but I would not consider it, not for a minute!
