Acts of Violet(81)
As I reach the entrance to Cordova Park, a rhythmic thump behind me snaps me out of my thoughts, sneakers on pavement accompanied by panting.
“Were you ever going to tell me about this meeting with Antoinette?” Quinn calls out to me, her voice breathy.
Instead of taking the hilly nature trails as originally planned, I direct us to the flat jogging track, past a series of pavilions shaped like giant steel mushrooms. “You stalking me or something?” I slow my pace so she can keep up.
“You gave me your account password when you were trying to recover that photo. But isn’t it fucked-up how I need to stalk my own mother to find this stuff out?”
Fair point, but I still bristle at her acidic tone. “Your mother had this wacky notion that she was entitled to some privacy. Is that why you’re accosting me? To get the dirt on Cameron and Antoinette? Since you won’t be hearing any of it on the podcast—it’s all gonna be off the record.”
“I pretty much figured. Nah, I just happened to be up early and thought I’d try to get hooked on endorphins like you. So far, it’s not working.”
“You’re lifting your knees too high and you’re overstriding. You’ll last a lot longer with a shorter stride. And loosen up those clenched fists, you’re running like you’re angry.”
She rewards me with a snort, this one borderline irked. One of the things that helped me survive Quinn’s teenage years is understanding her lexicon of grunts and other monosyllabic expressions.
“It’s okay if running isn’t your thing,” I say, bringing down the pace another notch. “Gardening isn’t my thing.”
“Yeah, but you’ve tried to get into it with me a bunch of times, you just happen to be a disaster around plants. I was always opposed to the basic concept of jogging. If no zombies are chasing me, I don’t see the point. But I thought I’d give it another shot.”
“How come?” What an effort to keep my voice light and free of suspicion.
“I don’t know, maybe you’d actually talk to me, like for real, if we had our thing.” Whoa, where is this hostility coming from? “Dad and I have our thing—” She cuts herself off and comes to an abrupt halt. “Oh my god, Mom. I wish you watched Beyond Bizarre with us last night. There was an episode about Agatha Christie that was amazing.”
I run in place, still processing the undercurrent of hostility coming from her, and muster some polite curiosity. “Oh yeah?” It baffles me, this affinity for true crime, especially unsolved disappearances. No matter how often she explains the odd comfort she gets from immersing herself in these stories, I can’t grasp the logic in it. If I had my arm torn off by an alligator, the last thing I’d want to do is watch nature shows about alligators.
“Did you know she mysteriously disappeared in the 1920s?”
We resume a slow jog, beginning our second lap of the track.
“I think I vaguely heard about it at some point, but I don’t know the details. They did find her, right?”
“That’s the insane thing. They found her, but nobody really knows what happened.”
“What do you mean, nobody knows what happened?” I have to keep my gait from quickening, my legs eager to break into a sprint. This isn’t enough motion for my body, not enough exertion.
“Hey, we’re right near Better Beans, let’s grab some coffee.”
Rounding the corner, we end up on Audubon Street, the main drag of Willow Glen. Other than Better Beans, only a bakery and an Italian deli are open this early, the scents of baking bread and freshly brewed coffee commingling. With the other businesses still shuttered, the town’s full charm won’t go into effect for another hour or two, when the outdoor retail displays kick the quaintness up a notch: baskets of flowers, artisanal soaps and jams, knickknacks, secondhand books, racks of colorful vintage clothing, handmade jewelry, petite paintings and sculptures … and soon enough, my salon A-frame chalkboard bearing a pithy quote (today’s is I REGRET TAKING GOOD CARE OF MY HAIR—SAID NO ONE EVER).
I get us coffees from the Better Beans window counter while Quinn wipes her damp forehead with the bottom of her T-shirt, which is five sizes too big, as per usual.
“Thanks,” she says, taking her cup, and we continue strolling. “So the story goes, Agatha was married to some dude who was cheating on her with his secretary. Apparently, the day he told her he was gonna leave her and went off to be with his side piece is the day she vanished. Her car was found abandoned somewhere in Yorkshire, which set off this national panic about where she could be. All these people got involved in the search, including the Sherlock Holmes guy.”
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”
“That’s the one. I mean, this was Agatha Christie, who was super popular. It’s like if Stephen King went missing today.”
“I am familiar with Agatha Christie’s contribution to literature.” There’s something equally endearing and infuriating when your kid is needlessly condescending toward you.
“Anyway, a week or two goes by, and they finally find her in some hotel like fifty miles from her abandoned car. How did she get there, right? Shrugs all around.” Quinn offers her own exaggerated shrug. “But there she is at the Old Swan Hotel and get this: she was checked in under a fake name, pretending to be some rando South African lady.”