I turned the pages until I found the kindergartners. I checked the names listed in small print under each photograph. Michael Sutton was in the third grouping, front row, second from the right. His eyes were big and brown and worried even then. Most of his classmates towered over him. His teacher’s name was Louise Sudbury. I looked for the two other Michaels, Boorman and Trautwein. Michael Boorman was a towhead, a goofy grin showing a blank where his two front teeth had been. Michael Trautwein was heavyset with a round face and a crown of dark curly hair. All the boys wore shoes that were comically large compared to their bony little six-year-old legs.
The copy machine wasn’t old but it was slow. Nonetheless, my visit to the library and my return to the parking area, photocopies in hand, were accomplished in a snappy fifteen minutes. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Things seldom went this swimmingly for me, which should have been a clue.
5
The home address Sutton had given me was 2145 Hermosa Street, on the west side of town. His was a neighborhood of condominiums and single-family residences, many of which were rentals. The houses tended to be small and plain, with stucco exteriors and shallow-pitched asphalt roofs. Frame bungalows were tucked between two-story apartment complexes devoid of architectural interest. Mature trees towered over the tenth-of-an-acre lots on which they’d been planted, suggesting a lack of vision on the part of those first owners, who’d apparently failed to recognize that after forty-five years of California rain and sun, a red gum sapling or a two-foot spruce would dominate the front yard and dwarf the modest house it was meant to ornament.
I slowed, scanning the progression of house numbers on a stretch of pinched-looking, one-story board-and-batten cottages. The exterior of 2145 Hermosa was painted a gaudy yellow, the window frames and trim outlined in royal blue. The effect was not as cheerful as one might hope. The strong hues only emphasized the cheap construction and the sad state of disrepair. Above the small covered porch, a square window suggested habitable attic space, which would be unbearably hot and stuffy in the summer months and cold and damp at any other time of year. To the right of the wooden porch steps, a mass of pink snowball bushes obscured one of the two front windows. To the left, the thorny paddles of a prickly pear cactus had fanned out in a configuration that rendered the narrow side yard impassable.
I found a parking place, locked my car, and walked back to the house. Ordinarily, locking my car was more cautionary than critical, but not in this area. Hermosa came to a dead end at the 101, which was visible through a bare patch of wire fence that was otherwise blocked by weeds. Freeway traffic kicked up a buffeting wind, accompanied by an eddy of exhaust fumes. Trash had been sucked up against the fence where the rush of passing cars created a vacuum. How did a kid raised in Horton Ravine end up in a neighborhood as crummy as this? When Climping Academy boasted about entire graduating classes going on to college, there wasn’t any mention of what came afterward. I’d always imagined a high-toned education guaranteed an equivalent high-toned lifestyle, but I lived better than this guy and what was that about?
I went up the porch steps and knocked on the screen, turning to continue my visual survey while I waited. The two houses directly across the street from Sutton’s had been torn down and someone had taken advantage of the empty double lot to offer off-street parking for ten bucks a week. This was enterprising as parking at the curb was free. Every house I saw had iron grillwork secured across the windows to deter the burglars, who probably had the good sense to burgle the pricier houses in town.
When I heard the front door open, I turned. Sutton stood behind the screen, wearing the same shirt and tie I’d seen him in the day before. His dark brown eyes conveyed the usual unspeakable gloom. He said, “Oh, hi. I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“Sorry to stop by unannounced, but there’s something I want you to take a look at.”
“I was just on my way out. I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“This won’t take long. A minute tops.”
By way of a reply, he held open the screen door. I crossed the threshold and stepped into his front room. The light was muted, filtered through the pink hydrangea blooms that crowded against the window glass. The air smelled of bacon, scorched coffee, spilled beer, cigarettes, and dog hair. A golden retriever lumbered to its feet to greet me, long tail banging against an overstuffed chair. The room was too small to accommodate an animal that size. Dogs need a yard to wander in and a shady spot where they can curl up and snooze. A retriever might also appreciate the opportunity to actually retrieve something, like a ball or a stick. I’ve never even owned a dog and I knew that much.