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Authors: Ross MacDonald
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Davy again, I’d—”
She touched his mouth. “Don’t say it. You care about him just as much as I do.”
“After what he
did
to us?”
She looked across him at me. “My husband can’t help feeling bitter. He put a lot of stock in Davy. He was a real good father to him, too. But Davy needed more than we could give him. And when he got into trouble the first time the Holy Brethren of the Immaculate Conception asked Edward to step aside as a lay preacher. That was a terrible blow to him, and with one thing and another we left town and moved here. Then Edward came down with his ulcer, and after thathe was out of work for a long time—most of the last three years. Under the circumstances we couldn’t do much for Davy. He was running loose by that time, anyway, running loose and living on his own most of the time.”
Spanner was embarrassed by his wife’s candor: “This is all ancient history.”
“It’s what I came to hear. You say you moved here from another town?”
“We lived most of our lives in Santa Teresa,” she said.
“Do you know a man named Jack Fleischer?”
She looked at her husband. “Isn’t that the name of the man who was here last month?”
I prompted them: “Big man with a bald head? Claims to be a retired policeman.”
“That’s him,” she said. “He asked us a lot of questions about Davy, mainly his background. We told him what little we knew. We got him out of the Santa Teresa Shelter when he was six years old. He didn’t have a last name, and so we gave him ours. I wanted to adopt him, but Edward felt we weren’t up to the responsibility.”
“She means,” Spanner put in, “that if we adopted him the county wouldn’t pay us for his board.”
“But we treated him just like he was our own. We never had any children of our own. And I’ll never forget the first time we saw him in the supervisor’s office at the Shelter. He came right over to us and stood beside Edward and wouldn’t go away. ‘I want to stand beside the man,’ was what he said. You remember, Edward.”
He remembered. There was sorrowful pride in his eyes.
“Now he stands as tall as you do. I wish you’d seen him today.”
She was quite a woman, I thought: trying to create a family out of a runaway boy and a reluctant husband, a wholeness out of disappointed lives.
“Do you know who his real parents were, Mrs. Spanner?”
“No, he was just an orphan. Some fieldworker died and lefthim in the tules. I found that out from the other man—Fleischer.”
“Did Fleischer say why he was interested in Davy?”
“I didn’t ask him. I was afraid to ask, with Davy on probation and all.” She hesitated, peering into my face. “Do you mind if I ask you the same question?”
Spanner answered for me: “Mrs. Laurel Smith got beat up. I told you that.”
Her eyes widened. “Davy wouldn’t do that to Mrs. Smith. She was the best friend he had.”
“I don’t know what he’d do,” Spanner said morosely. “Remember he hit a high-school teacher and that was the beginning of all our trouble.”
“Was it a woman teacher?” I said.
“No, it was a man. Mr. Langston at the high school. There’s one thing you can’t get away with, and that’s hitting a teacher. They wouldn’t let him back in school after that. We didn’t know what to do with him. He couldn’t get a job. It’s one reason we moved down here. Nothing went right for us after that.” He spoke of the move as if it had been a banishment.
“There was more to it than hitting a teacher,” his wife said. “Henry Langston wasn’t a teacher really. He was what they call a counselor. He was trying to counsel Davy when it happened.”
“Counsel him on what?”
“I never did get that clear.”
Spanner turned to her: “Davy has mental trouble. You never faced up to that. But it’s time you did. He had mental trouble from the time we took him out of the Shelter. He never warmed up to me. He was never a normal boy.”
Slowly she
She touched his mouth. “Don’t say it. You care about him just as much as I do.”
“After what he
did
to us?”
She looked across him at me. “My husband can’t help feeling bitter. He put a lot of stock in Davy. He was a real good father to him, too. But Davy needed more than we could give him. And when he got into trouble the first time the Holy Brethren of the Immaculate Conception asked Edward to step aside as a lay preacher. That was a terrible blow to him, and with one thing and another we left town and moved here. Then Edward came down with his ulcer, and after thathe was out of work for a long time—most of the last three years. Under the circumstances we couldn’t do much for Davy. He was running loose by that time, anyway, running loose and living on his own most of the time.”
Spanner was embarrassed by his wife’s candor: “This is all ancient history.”
“It’s what I came to hear. You say you moved here from another town?”
“We lived most of our lives in Santa Teresa,” she said.
“Do you know a man named Jack Fleischer?”
She looked at her husband. “Isn’t that the name of the man who was here last month?”
I prompted them: “Big man with a bald head? Claims to be a retired policeman.”
“That’s him,” she said. “He asked us a lot of questions about Davy, mainly his background. We told him what little we knew. We got him out of the Santa Teresa Shelter when he was six years old. He didn’t have a last name, and so we gave him ours. I wanted to adopt him, but Edward felt we weren’t up to the responsibility.”
“She means,” Spanner put in, “that if we adopted him the county wouldn’t pay us for his board.”
“But we treated him just like he was our own. We never had any children of our own. And I’ll never forget the first time we saw him in the supervisor’s office at the Shelter. He came right over to us and stood beside Edward and wouldn’t go away. ‘I want to stand beside the man,’ was what he said. You remember, Edward.”
He remembered. There was sorrowful pride in his eyes.
“Now he stands as tall as you do. I wish you’d seen him today.”
She was quite a woman, I thought: trying to create a family out of a runaway boy and a reluctant husband, a wholeness out of disappointed lives.
“Do you know who his real parents were, Mrs. Spanner?”
“No, he was just an orphan. Some fieldworker died and lefthim in the tules. I found that out from the other man—Fleischer.”
“Did Fleischer say why he was interested in Davy?”
“I didn’t ask him. I was afraid to ask, with Davy on probation and all.” She hesitated, peering into my face. “Do you mind if I ask you the same question?”
Spanner answered for me: “Mrs. Laurel Smith got beat up. I told you that.”
Her eyes widened. “Davy wouldn’t do that to Mrs. Smith. She was the best friend he had.”
“I don’t know what he’d do,” Spanner said morosely. “Remember he hit a high-school teacher and that was the beginning of all our trouble.”
“Was it a woman teacher?” I said.
“No, it was a man. Mr. Langston at the high school. There’s one thing you can’t get away with, and that’s hitting a teacher. They wouldn’t let him back in school after that. We didn’t know what to do with him. He couldn’t get a job. It’s one reason we moved down here. Nothing went right for us after that.” He spoke of the move as if it had been a banishment.
“There was more to it than hitting a teacher,” his wife said. “Henry Langston wasn’t a teacher really. He was what they call a counselor. He was trying to counsel Davy when it happened.”
“Counsel him on what?”
“I never did get that clear.”
Spanner turned to her: “Davy has mental trouble. You never faced up to that. But it’s time you did. He had mental trouble from the time we took him out of the Shelter. He never warmed up to me. He was never a normal boy.”
Slowly she
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