Ask for Me Tomorrow

“He’s retarded as well as crippled, Mrs. Decker... Now don’t start crying again. The boy’s safe, he’s being looked after by relatives. Mexican families are very close-knit, as I mentioned to you before, and retarded children aren’t considered undesirable.”

“Have you nothing decent, nothing pleasant to tell me?”

“I think it’s both decent and pleasant that Pablo is being taken care of. He’s luckier in many ways than his American cousins.”

“How long ago did they leave him there?”

“Four years. He’s eight now, chronologically. Mentally, perhaps three. There is no way he could fit into your life, Mrs. Decker.”

“I never thought he could,” she said quietly. “I just hoped a little bit. If it were only a matter of his being crippled, I could have paid for doctors, operations... Now, of course, I realize that it’s impossible. I wish I’d never been told of his existence. Maybe B. J. told me deliberately to rouse my sympathy so I’d send him the money he asked for. If I could believe that, it would make it easier for me to accept — what I’m afraid you’re going to find out.”

“Which is?”

“That he’s dead, he died in jail and they dragged him out and buried him like a common criminal.” He heard her take a long deep breath as if to regain control of herself. “Okay, all the news is bad so far. What’s the next step?”

“I’ll talk to Jenkins.”

“Suppose he doesn’t know anything?”

“Then I’d better quit wasting your money and come home.”

“Call me after you’ve seen him. And thanks, by the way, for leveling with me, even though I didn’t like it. The truth hurts... I wonder who first discovered that.”

“Probably Adam.”

“The little boy, does he seem happy?”

“He seems not unhappy. He gets affection and enough food to eat, and he has children to play with who aren’t much more advantaged than he is. You could present a bigger problem to him than any he has now, Mrs. Decker.”

“Yes, I see. It was really stupid of me after all this time to get the idea that — well, anyway, thanks again. And call me.”

“I will.”

She hung up. Reed was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed on his chest, watching her. She had never realized before what cruel little eyes he had. They didn’t match the rest of his face, which smiled a lot.

“You were practically screaming at one point,” Reed said. “Women should learn to modulate their voices.”

“Why?”

“So people will assume they’re ladies. Also to make it harder for eavesdroppers like Violet Smith to hear everything. Violet Smith is ninety-eight percent ears and mouth and two percent common sense. She could be dangerous.”

“I didn’t say anything she can’t broadcast to the world if she wants to.”

“Fear not, she’ll want to. Wait until the next show-and-tell meeting at her church — you and B. J. will be the star attractions, with the kid thrown in for a touch of pathos. By the way, you’re not fooling me for a minute. And if Aragon weren’t such a boy scout, you wouldn’t be fooling him, either.”

“How am I trying to fool anyone?”

“The kid. You wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole even if he had a perfect physique and an IQ of a hundred and fifty.”

“You’re malicious, you’re really malicious.”

“That’s why we get along so well. Malice is something we both understand. Now, Violet Smith isn’t malicious. She’s just dumb and self-righteous, which is a lot harder to cope with. You’d better go and have a talk with her right now. Lay it on the line but keep it light, casual. Don’t let on that it matters too much.”

“You’re giving me orders?”

“Suggestions.”

“They sounded like orders.”

“No, my orders sound quite different,” Reed said. “You may find that out.”

The cleaning woman and day maid had left and Violet Smith was alone in the kitchen, cooking dinner and watching TV.

“Turn that thing off,” Gilly said.

“I’m in the middle of a murder.”

“Turn it off.”

“My stars, you needn’t shout. I didn’t know this was top priority.”

“You do now.”

Violet Smith turned off the set, grumbling. “My programs are always being interrupted, phones ringing, Mr. Decker buzzing—”

“Speaking of phones, did you listen in on the extension to my conversation with Mr. Aragon?”

“I told you, I’m in the middle of a murder, which is a heap more interesting than anything Mr. Aragon has to say.”

“Answer the question. Did you listen in?”

“No. Honest injun, though I’m not supposed to say that. It’s ethnic. I heard all about ethnic from a black man at church. People shouldn’t use ethnic expressions like ‘eeny meeny miney mo, catch a nigger by the toe,’ or—”

“At these church meetings of yours, what do you talk about when it’s your turn?”

“My life.”

“Including the part of it that takes place here?”

“Here it’s your life, not mine.”

“Then you wouldn’t mention my personal affairs in front of the group?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Because what goes on in this house is my own business and I don’t care to have any of it repeated in the name of the Lord or soul cleansing or mental health or any damn thing at all. Understand?”

Violet Smith stood mute as marble.

“Do you understand?”