sign from Mallon that they had walked far enough.
Finally, Mallon stopped, looked at the cliffs to his right, the big rocks at their base, then up at the crest where the tops of a couple of eucalyptus trees were visible, and said, “This is it.” He pointed at the spot in the ocean where she had gone in.
Lydia looked at the rocks along the upper part of the beach under the cliffs. “When she arrived, exactly where were you? Do you remember?”
Mallon started to point, but Lydia said, “Go there.”
Mallon sat among the rocks, where he had been when he had first noticed he was not alone anymore. He watched Lydia walk to the spot where the cliff curved and came out near the water and the beach was only a few feet wide at high tide. She stopped at the spot where the girl had stood that day, staring out at the sea. Lydia turned to Mallon. Mallon nodded: that was where she had been.
“I’m not surprised that she didn’t see you.” Lydia took a slow, deliberatestep toward the ocean, then another, a bit faster, and maintained a steady pace down to the hard, wet sand at the surf line. Then she stopped. She looked back at the beach above her, then began to walk in her own footprints, back toward the little point. Mallon stood up and followed her at a distance.
She was stepping slowly, dragging one foot sideways across the sand. Now and then she would go out of her path to the nearest part of the cliff face to delve in the sand around the base of a rock of a certain size, then return to the path she’d been making. It led her back the way they had come. After about fifty feet, she turned to look again at the spot where she’d left Mallon, and saw Mallon coming after her. It didn’t seem to strike her as important. She had only wanted to know where Mallon had been sitting, and she kept looking back at the spot until she was around the point. Then, instead of stopping, she went to work even harder. This time she picked up a long piece of driftwood, an inch-thick branch of some drowned tree, and began to make grooves in a sweeping motion as she walked. After ten minutes, she stopped, dropped the piece of wood, and dug with her hands. She lifted something and set it aside on the sand.
Mallon came closer. “It’s her purse, isn’t it?”
“I think so.” She was still digging, now lifting each handful of sand and sifting it through her fingers instead of merely pushing it out of the way.
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “She didn’t have money or I.D. when you saw her, or any keys. She’d had them earlier, so she left them someplace. This is what they sometimes do.”
“You have the purse. What are you looking for now?”
“Whatever she had that she didn’t put in the purse.”
She sifted some more sand, and then held out her hand. In the palm was a simple gold ring with designs etched on it. She looked at the place where she had been digging, then seemed to make a decision. She stood, taking the ring between her thumb and forefinger andlooking inside it. “It’s not a wedding ring. It’s one of those rings men give a girlfriend.”
Mallon said, “How could you know she buried these things?”
Lydia glanced at him impatiently, then looked back at the ring. “I’ve been hired a few times over the years to find out if suicides were really suicides. It’s just one of the things they do sometimes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It feels right to do it, so they do. By the time it happens, they’re way past pleasing anybody else, or explaining themselves. Maybe they’re not sure whether they want to destroy these things or just put them where they’ll turn up someday and be wondered about.” She thought for a moment. “And you can stop feeling bad, thinking that you said the wrong thing or didn’t think of something good enough to convince her to stay alive. She was already gone.”
“Why do you say that?”
“After you pulled her out, she didn’t come back looking for
Finally, Mallon stopped, looked at the cliffs to his right, the big rocks at their base, then up at the crest where the tops of a couple of eucalyptus trees were visible, and said, “This is it.” He pointed at the spot in the ocean where she had gone in.
Lydia looked at the rocks along the upper part of the beach under the cliffs. “When she arrived, exactly where were you? Do you remember?”
Mallon started to point, but Lydia said, “Go there.”
Mallon sat among the rocks, where he had been when he had first noticed he was not alone anymore. He watched Lydia walk to the spot where the cliff curved and came out near the water and the beach was only a few feet wide at high tide. She stopped at the spot where the girl had stood that day, staring out at the sea. Lydia turned to Mallon. Mallon nodded: that was where she had been.
“I’m not surprised that she didn’t see you.” Lydia took a slow, deliberatestep toward the ocean, then another, a bit faster, and maintained a steady pace down to the hard, wet sand at the surf line. Then she stopped. She looked back at the beach above her, then began to walk in her own footprints, back toward the little point. Mallon stood up and followed her at a distance.
She was stepping slowly, dragging one foot sideways across the sand. Now and then she would go out of her path to the nearest part of the cliff face to delve in the sand around the base of a rock of a certain size, then return to the path she’d been making. It led her back the way they had come. After about fifty feet, she turned to look again at the spot where she’d left Mallon, and saw Mallon coming after her. It didn’t seem to strike her as important. She had only wanted to know where Mallon had been sitting, and she kept looking back at the spot until she was around the point. Then, instead of stopping, she went to work even harder. This time she picked up a long piece of driftwood, an inch-thick branch of some drowned tree, and began to make grooves in a sweeping motion as she walked. After ten minutes, she stopped, dropped the piece of wood, and dug with her hands. She lifted something and set it aside on the sand.
Mallon came closer. “It’s her purse, isn’t it?”
“I think so.” She was still digging, now lifting each handful of sand and sifting it through her fingers instead of merely pushing it out of the way.
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “She didn’t have money or I.D. when you saw her, or any keys. She’d had them earlier, so she left them someplace. This is what they sometimes do.”
“You have the purse. What are you looking for now?”
“Whatever she had that she didn’t put in the purse.”
She sifted some more sand, and then held out her hand. In the palm was a simple gold ring with designs etched on it. She looked at the place where she had been digging, then seemed to make a decision. She stood, taking the ring between her thumb and forefinger andlooking inside it. “It’s not a wedding ring. It’s one of those rings men give a girlfriend.”
Mallon said, “How could you know she buried these things?”
Lydia glanced at him impatiently, then looked back at the ring. “I’ve been hired a few times over the years to find out if suicides were really suicides. It’s just one of the things they do sometimes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It feels right to do it, so they do. By the time it happens, they’re way past pleasing anybody else, or explaining themselves. Maybe they’re not sure whether they want to destroy these things or just put them where they’ll turn up someday and be wondered about.” She thought for a moment. “And you can stop feeling bad, thinking that you said the wrong thing or didn’t think of something good enough to convince her to stay alive. She was already gone.”
“Why do you say that?”
“After you pulled her out, she didn’t come back looking for
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