The Murderer's Daughter (11 page)

The room was narrow, like a closet you could walk into. A single dormer window draped with white muslin let in nothing of the night. The roof sloped sharply and Mrs. Stage pointed that out and said, “Your size, you'll be okay unless you sit up too sharp in bed, but in general be careful not to bean your noggin, your noggin's the most important thing God gave you.”

Grace's eyes were already fixed on the bed. Bigger than any she'd ever slept in, with a brass headboard that had turned greenish brown. Two big pillows in pink flowery cases were plumped against the board, each dimpled in the middle. The bedspread was pink with white stripes and looked new. A metal rack near the window served as hanging space. A two-drawer oak dresser sufficed for what Mrs. Stage called “foldables.”

She and Grace put away Grace's things and a few times Mrs. Stage refolded something Grace had thought she'd done a good job with.

That done, she walked Grace out to the shared bathroom and sniffed. “Those boys, for the life of them they can't aim.”

Grace smelled nothing but she kept that to herself. Ramona Stage said, “Brush your teeth good,” and waited as Grace complied.

“Thorough brushing, excellent. Always take care of the body you've been gifted with. Now to bed.”

But before they reached the smallest room, Ramona stopped Grace with a finger and cracked the door of the room where the one boy slept and stuck her head in.

Grace heard a faint hissing noise, like a tire losing air.

Ramona closed the door softly. “Okay. Want me to tuck you in?”

“I'm okay.”

“I'll do it, anyway.”

Tucking in consisted
of ordering Grace to get under the covers and “arrange your pillows the way you like, then make sure to think pleasant thoughts because, trust me, life's too short for disconsolate thoughts.”

The linens smelled sweet, like Grace was lying in a flower bed. Ramona Stage turned off the light and Grace drew the covers up to her chin. Now, with the room all dark, something
did
filter through the muslin curtains.

Moonglow, satiny silver, lighting on Ramona Stage's face as she stood in the doorway. It gave her a softness, as if she'd turned younger.

She returned to the bed. “You can do what you want but I suggest this for ultimate comfort,” she said, and folded the covers down, creating a neat flap that bisected Grace's chest. Positioning Grace's hands atop her tummy, with the fingertips barely touching, she said, “You're making a letter V, see? As in you've got value. Something to think about, Grace. Now you go ahead and sleep perfectly.”

To Grace's surprise, she did.

Despite the place's
history as a ranch, Ramona kept no animals. “First the horses went, then the goats, then the geese. Finally, the chickens, because I got the cholesterol and went off eggs. The dogs I kept until they passed naturally.”

It was six o'clock on Grace's first morning at Stagecoach Ranch. When she peeked out her bedroom door, Ramona was out on the landing, dressed in a plaid shirt, jeans, and flat shoes, her long white hair braided and coiled atop her head. One hand held a coffee cup, as if she'd been waiting for Grace to make an appearance. The two of them went downstairs to the kitchen, where Ramona drank the coffee and Grace had orange juice and some toast.

“You're sure no eggs or meats?”

“No, thank you.”

“Not a big breakfast gal, huh? Suit yourself but you may change your mind.”

The kitchen was huge, with a view of the mountains. The appliances were white and looked old. Over a mail table hung another photo of that same man in the fancy shirt and the cowboy hat, older than Grace remembered from last night, with a fuller face.

Ramona Stage said, “So no more dogs. You like dogs?”

“Never had one.”

“I've had tons of them, they're as individual as people.” She got up, pulled something out of a drawer, showed it to Grace. Faded photo of two big, sorry-looking mutts stretched on the house's front porch. “That one's Hercules, didn't live up to his name, the other's Jody, got him from a film crew, sometimes he ate his own poop, you could never predict when, which only made matters worse. After they both went off to doggie heaven, I figured I'd get at least one more because this is a big place to have with nothing else around that's breathing. But then I got to liking not having to deal with issues so the only zoology you're going to see here now are unwanted pests like mice and rats, possum and ground squirrels and skunks. For which I got a man named Ed Gonzales to spray regularly. I'm telling you this so should you come across a skinny Mexican man with strange equipment and he seems to be lurking around, you won't be scared.”

“Okay.”

Ramona studied her. “Toast too well done?”

The toast tasted like cardboard. Grace said, “It's good,” and ate some as proof.

“I'll bet not much scares you, am I right?”

“I guess.” Grace's eyes drifted to the man in the cowboy hat.

“Who do you think that is?”

“Your husband?”

Ramona's eyes danced. Grace noticed their color for the first time. Brown so dark it verged on black. “You are a smart one. Though I guess it's the logical assumption seeing as I've got him all over the place and I'm too old for a teenage crush.”

More young-woman laughter. Then Ramona's lower lip quivered and she blinked. She flashed white teeth, as if to prove she was happy.

Grace said, “He was a cowboy?”

“He sure liked to think he was. He also fancied himself an actor and he did do a few B oaters—that means not-so-famous western movies, back when westerns were the thing. You ever see a western?”

Grace shook her head.

“He made fourteen,” said Ramona, glancing at the photo. “But he was no Gary Cooper, so finally he got smart and bought this place and started renting it out to big-shot directors and we made a fine living. His movie name was Steve Stage. Think that was his real name?”

Grace shook her head.

“Correct,” said Ramona. “But he made it his real name, legally and all, by the time I met him he was Steve Stage so I was Mrs. Stage. In fact, he didn't tell me different until we were driving to Las Vegas, that's where we got married, it was kind of a quick thing.”

She smiled. “Fifty miles before we get to Vegas, he's already given me the ring and I say sure, so he probably figured he could risk telling me.”

She showed Grace her hand. A shiny chip glinted in a white metal setting, bright and smooth against dry, weathered skin.

“Pretty,” said Grace.

“Pawnshop find,” said Ramona. “Place near the studio—Paramount, that's in Hollywood. Anyway, fifty miles away, he decides to tell me. Not just his name, his whole family, where he's from, the works. Guess where he was from.”

“Texas.”

“Good guess, dear. And totally wrong. New York City. Turns out the hunk of desperado I knew as Steve Stage was really Sidney Bluestone. What do you think of that?”

Grace shrugged.

Ramona said, “He figured—rightly so—that Sidney Bluestone wouldn't find much employment in oaters, so off to court he went and voilà, Steve Stage. When I wanted to kid him, I'd call him Sid from Brooklyn. He was good-natured about it but it wasn't his favorite thing. Remembering can be hard.”

She looked at Grace.

Grace didn't feel like smiling but she did.

“Anyway, let's talk about your schooling,” said Ramona. “Wayne Knutsen told me your history, moving around but mostly going to the same school because all those other people lived close to each other. Unfortunately, we got a problem: You're too far from that school now. From any school, period, because the city bus won't come out here and the county's not ponying up for private transportation. I'd drive and pick you up but it's just me and Maria-Luz, that's the woman who cleans, and we both need to be here. Top of that, she doesn't drive, her husband drops her off and picks her up. If you were a little younger, we'd be okay. There's a preschool over in Desert Dreams, a trailer park, which is where the two boys go, but it's basically some woman, nothing educational. So we have a problem. You like school?”

When no one bothers me and I can learn.

Not wanting Ramona Stage to feel bad, Grace said, “It's okay.”

“So no big deal. Your IQ, you're most likely way ahead of grade anyway, most of what you learned you probably taught yourself. Am I right?”

Now Grace's smile was real. “Yes, ma'am.”

“So what I'm thinking is we go for homeschooling. I already applied and it was no big deal. Basically we get books and lesson plans and do it ourselves. I went to college, got a degree from Cal State, so I figure I can handle fourth-, fifth-grade material, even math, though I kind of taper off at algebra. What do you think?”

Books and being alone; it sounded like heaven. Unable to believe it, Grace said, “I just read?”

“A lot of it will be reading but you'll also have to do exercises and take tests just like if you were in a real school and I have to grade everything. I'm not going to cheat, you get what you earn. You up for that?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I figure it'll be easy once I know your level. To do that, I'm bringing in an expert to test you. A kind of doctor, but not the kind who gives shots or touches your body or anything like that, he'll just ask you questions.”

“A psychologist.”

Ramona's white eyebrows rose, clouds lofted by a breeze. “You know about psychologists?”

Grace nodded.

“Might I ask how?”

“Sometimes kids would have problems—in the other fosters—and they'd get sent to the psychologist.”

“You're making it sound like punishment.”

The kids who'd talked about it made it sound that way.

Grace was silent.

Ramona said, “Other kids.”

Grace knew what she was getting at. “I never got sent.”

“You have any other notions about psychologists?”

“No.”

“Well this one, he's not going to be like punishment. I'm not talking through my hat, I know him as a person, not just a doctor. He's my husband's baby brother but that's not why I picked him. He's a professor, Grace. That means he teaches people to be psychologists, so we're talking a top-of-the-line expert.”

Ramona waited.

Grace nodded.

“His name is Dr. Malcolm Bluestone, Ph.D., and let me tell you, he's smart.”

Ramona flashed another easy smile. “Maybe even as smart as you, young lady.”

Soon after she'd
finished her toast, Grace met the two boys who shared one room. Both were black and she knew they were five years old because Ramona had told her.

“They look alike but they're cousins, not brothers, have had hard lives, you don't want to know, I'm hoping their adoption goes through.”

Grace couldn't see any resemblance between the boys. Rollo was much taller than DeShawn and his skin was lighter. Both entered the kitchen appearing sleepy. Rollo held on to a ragged blue blanket. DeShawn looked as if he would've liked something to hold.

“Rise and shine, troopers,” said Ramona. She made the introductions. The cousins nodded absently at Grace and took chairs at the table. DeShawn managed a shy smile and Grace pretended she hadn't seen it.

The boys spread napkins on their laps and waited as Ramona set out scrambled eggs, sausage patties and links. They ate silently, began to wake up.

Ramona said, “You three are okay down here, right? Time to see how Bobby's doing.”

The mention of Bobby's name caused Rollo and DeShawn to exchange a quick, nervous look. Ramona left and the kitchen turned silent. Grace had nothing to do so she just sat there. The boys ignored her and continued to eat, slowly but without pause, like robots. The eggs looked stiff and rubbery and Grace already knew what Ramona's toast tasted like. None of that gave the cousins pause and Grace wondered if they'd never gotten over feeling hungry.

It had been a while since she'd been hungry but you didn't forget that kind of thing.

She turned away from the cousins and looked up through the kitchen window over the sink. One of those roundish trees with the small leaves stood a few feet away from the glass.

Grace got up to have a closer look.

To her back, Ramona's voice, “California oak, water them too much, they die.”

She hadn't heard the old woman enter, felt as if she'd been caught doing something wrong.

Turning, she saw Ramona holding the hand of a different-looking boy.

Small—no taller than DeShawn—he had the face of an older child, maybe even a teenager, with pimples and a large jaw and a shelf-like forehead that shadowed squinty eyes set crookedly, one a good quarter inch higher than the other. Curly red hair was thin in spots, like that of an old man. His mouth hung open in some kind of smile but Grace wasn't sure that meant he was happy. Widely spaced yellow teeth were separated by an oversized tongue. His body—sunken and bowed—swayed, as if he needed to move to stop from falling. Even though Ramona held his hand tightly.

Grace realized she was staring. Realized the cousins weren't.

She looked away, too.

The new boy—Bobby—gave a raspy laugh. Once again, it was hard to call that happy.

Ramona Stage said, “Bobby, this is Grace, she's eight and a half, so you're still the oldest.” She patted Bobby's head. He smiled again, swayed more violently, let out a single loud cough, then bent double as a coughing fit overtook him.

Rollo and DeShawn stared down at their plates.

Ramona said, “Poor Bobby had a rough night, even with the oxygen.”

Rollo said something.

“What's that, dear?”

“I'm sorry.”