Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

pillow on it, and one ancient rocking chair with a broken cane seat. There was also an old but expensive stereo set and a CD player. An old crook-necked desk lamp had been plugged in near the mattress. Other than that, there was no furniture. The walls, what few patches you could see of them, had been painted black. It looked like the abode of college students— or possibly of someone Adrienne’s age who hadn’t grown up yet. But if it had been Adrienne’s apartment originally— rather than Jason’s— what was she doing with the old-fashioned records?
    Rob said, “Rebecca Schwartz, Adrienne Dunson.” But Adrienne ignored me. She stared at Rob, lower lip trembling. She wanted him to take her in his arms, and he didn’t want to. Finally, I gave him a nudge. He didn’t step forward, but he opened his arms, and she took the cue. Once she was enfolded, he did fine, patting and cooing as if he were the father of five. While no one was looking, I took a spin around the apartment.
    There was a dark, underfurnished kitchen, the walls thick with grime, dishes piled in the sink. Paint peeled from a small table pushed against a wall, but no one ever ate there, I was sure. It was piled a foot high with newspapers, catalogs, magazines, and unopened junk mail. Two chairs that didn’t match were drawn up to it.
    An inhospitable hall opened onto a bedroom and bath, the bath divided into water closet and shower, in the old San Francisco manner. Both were dirty and dim.
    The bedroom was shocking— a piece of fabric, a Cost Plus bedspread from the looks of it, had been tacked over the window to serve as a curtain, so that the room was plunged in perennial darkness. A perfectly plain double bed, unmade, the sheets redolent, was crowded into a corner, clothes littered the floor, and a chipped, white-painted chest of drawers stood against one wall. If I had to guess I would have said depressed people lived there. I’d been on the premises two minutes, and already I felt like eating my gun.
    I went in the water closet and flushed the toilet, to cover my spy mission. When I got back, Rob was still holding Adrienne and stroking her hair, but she had stopped crying. “I don’t think you should stay here,” he was saying.
    “I’m fine. Really.”
    “Where are you from, Adrienne? Do you have relatives around here?”
    “I grew up in El Cerrito. Why?”
    “Wouldn’t you like us to drive you over there? I get the feeling you could use some home cooking.”
    “My mom’s dead.”
    He gave me a look that said
Help!
    I came up behind her and touched her back. “Does your dad still live there? Wouldn’t you like to go home for a while?”
    Miserably, she shook her head, leaning into Rob, trying to bury her face even deeper into his shoulder. He gripped her upper arms and stepped away from her. “Look at me, honey. Listen, I really don’t think you should stay here.”
    She looked around doubtfully. “I guess … Danno … I don’t know.”
    “Who’s Danno?”
    “A guy I used to hang with. But he might not want me there.”
    “What about a girlfriend?” I said.
    She didn’t answer, just shook her head to let me know what a dumb idea that was. Either she didn’t have any girlfriends or didn’t want to stay with one.
    “Danno then.” I wasn’t exactly brimming with sympathy for Adrienne. Her boyfriend was dead and she had a horrible apartment, but on the other hand she didn’t seem to be doing a lot to get through the gloom. I know that this is the way with depressed people, but it makes me impatient.
    She pulled away from Rob and looked at me, possibly drawn by the edge my voice was developing. “No, I don’t think so. I think I should stay here.”
    The idea sounded dreadful. If the apartment wasn’t bad enough, aesthetically speaking, there was the problem of Jason’s memory, his clothes scattered on the floor, his toothbrush in the bathroom. I made my voice softer. “You need to be away from Jason. It’s so sad this way.”
    To my surprise, she nodded. “He was killed here, you know. Right outside— crossing the street on the way to his car. I keep looking out the window. Something draws me there. It’s creepy.”
    I had an almost irresistible urge to look out the window; Rob crossed over and did it. “Isn’t that his car?” She joined him and so did I. “Yeah, it’s still there.” Rob pointed it out. “The old Nissan.” It was old and battered indeed— far from the sharp little sports car