He shook his head. “It was upsetting, but hardly surprising. I know how harsh that sounds, but . . . Linda never managed to find a way to cope with what had happened. I felt so helpless through the years, never knowing what to say, how to help her move on.”
“She was lucky to have people who cared about her,” I said. “Hugh, and you. You can’t . . .” What was I supposed to say? How would I feel if Caleb had suffered a similar trauma, and I couldn’t help him get over it? Helpless. Heartbroken. Guilty. “You can only do so much,” I finally finished lamely.
The beignets arrived, drowned in snowy powdered sugar, the sweet aroma wrapping around us like a fragrant shawl. I realized with a start that I hadn’t thought of escaping to Paris when ordering the French delicacies. Was this an indication of personal growth, or had I simply been too distracted by the resounding notes of sadness and resigned defeat in Ray’s voice?
Neither of us moved to serve ourselves.
“‘You never get used to what grief feels like,’” said Ray at long last. “That’s what one of the therapists told me. You might make accommodations for it, adapt to it in order to survive, but you never get used to it. I guess Linda never was able to adapt; she seemed to live mired in it, day after day.”
“You took in both Linda and Hugh after . . . after what happened?”
“Just Hugh. Linda wanted to leave town, so she chose to live with her aunt in Palo Alto. I thought it was a good idea for the kids to remain in the neighborhood, to face their fears . . . I don’t know whether it was the right decision or not, in the long run. I’m not sure how happy Hugh is, ultimately.”
“But at least he loses himself in his poetry, and his art contributes to other people’s lives.”
“Whereas Linda just lost herself in booze and drugs. I guess that’s why Hugh was so hell-bent on exposing her to the house, like exposure therapy. He thought if she could face things . . . But I guess it was all too late. She was determined to destroy herself, and she finally managed.”
He played with the spoon, then continued.
“Do you know, it was one of the sweetest moments in my life when Hugh stopped correcting people when they assumed I was his father? I’ve never had children, so when he started calling me Dad . . .” There were tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry; I’m not usually emotional. It’s just . . . that was such a hard time for him, for all of us. But he made it through—he didn’t know his own strength. None of us do until we’re tested. Not to change the subject, but . . . how well do you know Monty?”
“Just through the program. You probably know him better than I, since you’re familiar with the neighborhood.”
“I only saw him by chance when I was at Hugh and Linda’s house once. But . . .” There was a long silence; Ray seemed to be pondering his next words. “I don’t know how to ask, but does he strike you as a drug user?”
“I really don’t know,” I said.
“I thought he might have had pain pills, given his injuries . . .”
Our eyes met and held.
“I apologize,” he said, sitting up and shaking it off. “I don’t mean to insinuate . . . You know what? I’m going to let the police do their work and stay out of it. It’s just that it’s so personal, it’s hard not to look for someone to blame.”
He pushed up the sleeve of his nice wool suit and checked the time.
“I’m afraid I have to run,” he said. “I have an appointment for a therapeutic massage.”
“Everything okay?”
“Take my advice: Never get old. I gave up drinking and smoking decades ago, became a health nut. But there’s no getting around age. Between my sciatica and this damned knee . . . somehow I thought surgery would solve all my problems, but it’s never that easy.”
“That’s what my dad said—he had a knee replacement a few years ago, and I think it was the physical therapy afterward that nearly did him in.”
“Listen to me complain, when we’re talking about Linda. . . .” He shook his head, his sadness palpable. “I’m so much luckier than most.”
I forced a smile and watched him leave.
The beignets grew cold, untouched.
• • •
I took the beignets and two coffees to go, and Dog and I headed to San Francisco State University. Luz held office hours now, so I figured she’d be alone and in the mood to offer advice.
“He just seemed so sad,” I said as Luz bit into a beignet. A soft shower of sugar sprinkled down on her black silk shirt.
“Híjole, ’mano,” she muttered with a shake of her head. My rudimentary construction-site Spanish wasn’t sufficient to translate that expression, but I gathered it had to do with being exasperated or upset. Whether the words were in response to the sugar or to my description of Ray and the situation, I couldn’t be sure.