W is for Wasted

I backtracked to the M’s and again found Quillen Millhone. I could find no other Millhones. Again, I made a note of the neighbors on either side of the Choaker Road address on the off chance there might be someone still living who remembered them. A quick study of the city map showed Choaker Road off Panama Lane, which was too far out of town to worry about at this point. I’d confirmed that the Daces and my grandparents were contemporaries. I’d seen both sets of names in the years 1943 and 1946. All were present and accounted for.

I checked the 1972 Polk and found R. Terrence Dace. Evelyn was there as well (her name tucked next to his inside parentheses), followed by his occupation, tree trmr, and the street and house number, 745 Daisy Lane. I noted the names and addresses of neighbors on either side. There was a David Brandle at 741, a Lorelei Brandle at 743, and a Penrose and Melissa Pilcher at 747. No Millhones. I returned the books to the shelves. On a hunch, I moved forward in time to the current telephone book in hopes of finding the last names Pilcher or Brandle, wondering if Dace’s neighbor lady was still living. There was an L. Brandle at another address, though I didn’t expect the two were a match. There was no sign of Mr. and Mrs. Pilcher. In that same phone book, I flipped through the residential listings to the H’s, searching for Ethan’s wife. I ran a finger down the page: Heiman, Heimendinger, Heimluck, Hein, Heindle, Heinemann, Heining, Heinrich, Heintz, Heiser, Heisermann. The name after the surname Heisermann was Mamie, complete with a street address in the 5600 block of Laurel Canyon Drive. That was the best news I’d had all day. I made a note of the phone number, though I didn’t intend to call first. In my business, it’s better to tackle certain interviews without warning the subject in advance. Metaphorically speaking, you can sometimes catch people with their pants down around their ankles.

15

I stood on Ethan’s front porch and rang the bell. Mentally, I amended that to Mamie’s front porch, as the house was in her name. This place was a big improvement over the one he’d been renting. No doubt, his budget was limited. A wife who kicks her hubby out for idleness is usually not that eager to pay for his idleness somewhere else. A banged-up white Toyota was parked in the drive. As I passed, I peered in, making a note of the car seats, toys, board books, Happy Meal boxes, and cracker crumbs, which suggested he used the vehicle to tote the children from place to place, as why would he not?

This was a neighborhood of tract homes probably built in the past ten years. All of the exteriors were peach-colored stucco and the roofs were the standard red tile. It was clear the occupants took pride in their properties. The backyards I could see through a succession of wire fences sported evidence of young children: a chunky-looking plastic sliding board, a tricycle, two Big Wheels, a wading pool, and a one-room playhouse also made of plastic, complete with shutters and window boxes.

Ethan answered the door with a girl-child on his right hip and a boy-child crowded against his left leg. He said, “Yo!” as a form of greeting.

“Hi, are you Ethan Dace?”

“That’s me.” His expression changed from pleasant to cautious.

“I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said, holding out my hand.

Obligingly, he shifted the baby so we could shake hands. His manner was pleasant, but it was clear my name meant nothing to him. The Millhones must not have occupied a prominent place in the family lore. He said, “If you’re here trying to sell me something, I’m afraid I can’t help. Sign says no soliciting.”

He gestured toward a stenciled notice to the right of the front door.

“I can see that,” I said. “I’m here for something else.”

“You better make it quick. Baby needs a diaper change.”

“I drove up from Santa Teresa this morning with bad news about your dad. Would it be all right if I came in?”

He stared at me briefly, his expression opaque. “Might as well.”

He moved aside, allowing me to step into the living room. He closed the door behind me. “These are my kids. Two of ’em, at any rate. I got another girl in first grade.”

The little boy was staring at me, trying to make up his mind if I was of interest.

The baby’s age was indeterminate. He looked down at her, jiggling her in a manner that made her smile. She had four teeth the size of freshwater pearls. “This is Bethany. We call her ‘Binky,’ and this is Scott. Amanda’s still at school, though she should be home shortly. A neighbor picks her up.”

“How old is the little one?”

“Ten months. Scott’s three and a half, in case you’re about to ask.”