skeletons by Glendon Swarthout Read Free Book Online Page A

clearly for the first time, and not as Tyler’s father, for there was no physical resemblance. Small, graying, balding, hidden somewhere in his sixties. Practically pipsqueak. His features were forgettable, his eyes vague behind the horn rims, his shirt and tie bought on sale. Educated and intelligent he might be, but he did not look a judge, a champion of the law chewing the hell out of juries and throwing strong men in the slammer.
    Charles S. Vaught Jr. was exactly that—had always been, would always be. JUNIOR. Still, out of that juniority had jumped an unexpected passion.
    “How is my girl?” The voice was lowered.
    I lowered mine. “She’s fine.”
    “Is she beautiful?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Is she happy?”
    “As she can be.”
    “Do you love her?”
    “I do. Or I wouldn’t be here.”
    “What are you looking for?”
    “Judge, I don’t know.”
    “Then why—”
    “Not for anything evil. I hate evil.”
    “Take care.”
    On the road to San Carlos that afternoon I was followed by a patrol car. I think they use “tailed” in crappy crime novels. When I slowed, he slowed. I kept the Rolls right at or below the speed limit. After I passed a sign saying I had entered Maria de la Luz County, he dropped off and I was picked up and “tailed” by another patrol car, probably from that jurisdiction. Ridiculous.
    San Carlos was up higher, in pine country. The earth was red, smoke from a smelter defaced the sky, copper tailings the land.
    2100 Tamarisk Drive turned out to be a clutch of low brick buildings secluded in pines at the edge of town. I parked. Down the street, the patrol car parked. I got out, noted a copper name plate at the gate: “Tamarisk—State of New Mexico.” Then I noted additionally that the place was fenced in with high chain-link and that every damned window in every damned building was screened with heavy wire mesh. Bells rang.
    I had to lean against the car.
    CRACKER CITY.
    BANANALAND.
    When I recovered I pressed a button, the gate opened, and I was presently inside an administrative office signing a visitors’ register and talking with a psychology Ph.D. who said yes, Tamarisk was a mental institution funded by fees from affluent relatives of the residents but operated by the state. I said I wanted to see Mrs. Charles S. Vaught Jr. and she said why. I had to go through the entire off-again-on-again-son-in-law routine.
    “What’s wrong with her?”
    “When she was first admitted, we used the term ‘dementia praecox.’ Now, to be more exact, it’s ‘schizophrenia.’ To simplify, let’s just say she—she has difficulty coping with reality.”
    “How long has she been in?”
    She referred to a card. “Since 1947.”
    “My God.”
    “It is a long time.”
    “Does her husband, Judge Vaught, visit her?”
    “No.”
    “What about her daughter, Tyler?”
    “No.”
    “My God.”
    “Of course, she might not know them anyway.”
    “Are you saying she hasn’t had a visitor in thirty years?”
    “Well, no. There was one, week before last.” The Ph.D. glanced again at the card. “A man from New York City. Mr. Max Sansom.”
    “Wouldn’t you know.” I thought a minute. “Has she ever been out of here?”
    The card again. “Twice. We don’t call them ‘escapes,’ just ‘unauthorized absences.’ We merely sigh and notify the police, who find them and return them, usually rather soon.”
    She smiled indulgence. “The fence is high, but Helene’s a strong, spirited woman. The last time, two years ago, they located her in Santa Fe, at the summer opera, enjoying the second act of Traviata.”
    She sent me into a patio with a bench under a pepper tree and a fountain and, on its rim, a pottery turtle who reminded me of Chata, my Acapulco turtle. In a short while I was face to face with Mrs. Charles S. Vaught Jr. She wore a light blue sort of smock, evidently the uniform at Tamarisk. We were alone. I introduced myself and invited her to sit with me on the bench and