Free Blame: A Novel by Michelle Huneven Page A

reached her. She dreaded calling attention to herself, even by proxy. I’m not kidding, she hissed. Nobody’s supposed to talk to other visitors. You’ll get us all thrown out.
    Hi there, Brice, he said, overriding her. So nice of you to drive four hours just to tell me the poop on Mr. P. that you so thoughtfully unearthed.
    So nice, she said. I mean it. It’s just . . . She gave a wild glance around the room, then smiled at his face. You look good, great—that’s a terrific haircut. You’re a marvelous human. Now, tell me everything.
    Do you really like the cut? You don’t think it’s a little froufrou in back?
    And the sides. And front, especially the front.
    Brice grinned and touched his tarnished blond hair.
    They sat down at one end of a concrete picnic table. Another couple sat on the opposite end, hands clutched across the table.
    She and Brice did not clasp hands. Your guy lives in West Altadena, near the arroyo, he said. I looked him up in the phone book. Alittle ranch house, I cruised it—don’t worry, nobody was home. One of those fifties stucco jobs tarted up with wood siding. Fruit trees in the front lawn. Kid’s toys lying around. Guy could use a gardener, and arborist.
    Did you see him? Or the kid?
    Nobody was home. But—Brice paused dramatically—the house next door was for sale, and I disturbed the occupant. Said I was on the verge of an offer, but since I was moving because of bad neighbors, I didn’t want to repeat the problem. She was young, her husband was at the Jet Propulsion Lab but had been transferred to Cape Canaveral. At first she talked to me through the screen door, but I got her out on the stoop. She told me right away about your guy and what happened. His son is her son’s best friend, and she’d had both father and son over for dinner a lot since the accident. They’d become close, she said, and that hadn’t been the case when the man’s wife was alive. Not that the wife wasn’t nice, but—Do you want to hear this, Patsy? Brice stopped, checked Patsy’s face.
    Every word, Patsy said, though she was already weirdly cold.
    I guess Mrs. P. was extremely shy. She’d bring this neighbor lady bags of fruit from her trees, but leave them on the porch without knocking. The only time she ever went inside the neighbor’s house was right after she became a Jehovah’s Witness. To convert her.
    I can’t believe you found all this out, whispered Patsy.
    And that’s just for starters, said Brice, turning to look at a woman at the next table over who was humming at him.
    Hah, baby, whispered the humming woman. Hah, handsome.
    Brice, Patsy hissed. What else?
    He turned back. Let’s see. Yeah, well, I asked the neighbor lady, Isn’t the husband a JW too? And she was like, Oh no, god no, not even close. He hated that his wife got all caught up with that.
    He’s not a Jehovah’s Witness?
    Defiantly not. Distrusts them. After the accident, a dozen Witnesses got to the hospital before he did. Some janitor there had put the word out. At first your guy was really touched, you know, that her church group had rallied, but soon it was obvious that they’d only come to talk him out of authorizing a transfusion. They don’t believe in transfusions.
    I can’t believe she told you all this, said Patsy.
    Oh, she was a talker, said Brice. Of course he did authorize a trans-fusion.
    Of course, said Patsy. Boy. You hit the gold mine.
    Yeah, though I also had to hear about the guy on the other side who parks his RV right by her bedroom window, and the witch across the street . . .
    I owe you, said Patsy.
    Teach?
Teach!
One of the women a few tables away whispered sharply. He’s on a show, ain’t he, Teach?
    Patsy turned further away from the woman.
    C’mon, Patsy, called another woman, sotto voce. Just say what show.
    She can’t say, Brice stage-whispered to the second woman.
    He’s on a show! I knew it, I tole you, the woman crowed.
    Don’t, please, Patsy murmured to Brice. I have to