W Is for Wasted

mention the proximity of his youngest child. If Cheney so much as glanced in her direction, she’d gallop over and fling herself onto his lap, the better to slurp him.
    “What happened to him?”
    “He drank heavily for years. He was also hooked on prescription meds. When he died, he was fifty-three years old and he looked like an old man. When I saw him at the morgue I had no idea we were related. Turns out I’m his sole heir and executor of his estate.”
    “That ought to keep you hopping.”
    “Actually, it has. The man left me half a million bucks.”
    Casually, Cheney leaned forward. “Are you dating anyone?”
    I laughed and he had the good grace to look sheepish.
    “That came out wrong. No connection. I was just wondering,” he said.
    Robert Dietz popped to mind, but I didn’t know what to make of him. Were we on again or off?
    “That’s a tough one,” I said. “I’ll have to think about it and let you know.”
    I watched Anna’s departure without moving my head. No point in calling attention to her when Cheney had just declared himself. I kept him company for an additional half hour just in case she was lurking outside.

29
    Tuesday morning, I caught my alarm clock one split second before it went off and rolled out from under the covers. The loft felt chilly and I was tempted to crawl right back in. Instead, I pulled on my sweats and laced up my running shoes before I brushed my teeth. I avoided the sight of myself in the mirror. I pulled on a knit hat, which I knew would be too hot once I got into the run. For now it did double duty: to contain my coiffeur and to muffle my ears against the damp morning air.
    The three-mile jog satisfied my need for oxygen, for action, for solitude, and for a sense of accomplishment. With daylight savings time in effect until the end of the month, the tag end of my run was accompanied by a spectacular dawn. At the horizon, above the silver band of the Pacific, a wide expanse of brooding gray changed to a dark red, and from that to a matte blue. Within a minute, the atmosphere had lightened and all the rich hues were gone. Gulls rode the air currents, screeching with happiness. The wind was down and the tops of the palms scarcely moved. Slow-motion waves thundered along the sand and the surf, then receded to a hush. By the time the sun was fully up it was 7:06, and I was back in my living room, prepared for a final go-round with the remaining two boxes of Pete’s crap.
    Instead of getting cleaned up, I sat down and ate my cereal, put on a pot of coffee, and then washed my bowl and spoon while the coffee-maker gurgled to its conclusion. Still in sweats, I sat on the floor with my coffee cup and made quick work of the first box, which was filled with old catalogs and outdated service manuals for appliances I suspected were long gone. The contents yielded no receipts and no personal correspondence. I did come across a black-and-white newspaper photo of Pete and Ruthie on their wedding day. Saturday, September 24, 1949. They’d have been married forty years when September rolled around again.
    Pete was gaunt-faced and young. His hair seemed comically thick back then and he had eyebrows to match. His shoulders protruded like the rounded metal ends of a coat hanger. The sleeves of his suit jacket were too short, so his bony wrists extended a good two inches. He did look pleased with life and more than proud to have Ruthie on his arm. She was easily as tall as he was. The dress she wore was a pale chiffon with shoulder pads and ruffles down the front. Her hair was concealed beneath a white straw hat with a broad brim, a length of white tulle serving as a band. She had a corsage pinned to her left shoulder. I looked closer and identified white roses and white carnations. The newly married couple stood on the low steps of the First United Methodist Church with a scattering of wedding guests in the background. I set the photo aside for her.
    The second box contained nothing of interest. I repacked the files I’d spread on the floor and hauled fourteen boxes out to the Mustang. I kept the fifteenth, which contained the Byrd-Shine files, Pete’s eavesdropping equipment, and the Bryce file, which was largely Dietz’s work. I took another look at the papers Pete had photocopied, which included the proposal Linton Reed had submitted in support of his theory about Glucotace. This is what had netted him the operating funds for the study he was running. I wondered what Pete