Follow the Dotted
Line
Introducing the Andrea Bravos
Mysteries
By Nancy
Gilsenan Hersage
Published by Kindle Press 2016
This is book is for:
My jet packing children, Tom, Molly,
and Shannon
My sibs, great and gracious, Norma and
Russ
My wonderful mom, Elnor, and my
enigmatic dad, Walt
My friend and partner in
screenwriting, Shirley
And the Lorna of my life, Barbara
A special thanks
to my college roommates—
Sandy,
who helped so much by proofing the manuscript and by sharing my ridiculous worldview,
and Cathy, who helped me remember it’s never too late to get that story down on
paper.
Prologue
Phone Tree
Mitch
Kornacky stared, more than a little appalled, at the human ashes in the
Styrofoam burger container. The young entrepreneur could not take his eyes off
the box that his assistant had just brought into his office, set on his desk,
and opened gingerly.
“Not the
sandwich you were expecting. Right, boss?” asked Billy, the bearer of both the
box and the bad news.
Mitch
nodded in the affirmative, as the assistant then handed him a small,
handwritten card that had arrived in the same package as the box of ashes.
The
underling was feeling a touch squeamish. “I think I’m done opening your mail.”
“Thanks
for your undying devotion, Billy,” hissed Mitch, still reeling from the
delivery. “How did it come?”
“Regular
mail.”
“God, she
didn’t even have enough respect to send my poor father FedEx,” Mitch snorted,
as he read the accompanying card.
“Your
father’s wife? She sent this?” the
assistant asked, feeling his duty now included closing the squeaky yellow box
with as much reverence as possible.
“His
fourth,” Mitch pointed out. “They’ve been married less than a year. Never met
her.”
Mitch’s
eyes wandered to the north-facing office window with a view of the Getty Center
on the hills above. His father had never actually seen Mitch’s company in the
fashionable Santa Monica office tower or met any of his nearly 50 employees.
“Did you
get an eyeful of that note . . . accompanying the . . . remains?” Billy prompted.
Mitch
looked down at the desk and read it for a second time.
Dear Mitchell,
Your father died recently. I had him
cremated, so I could send him to you. So there’s no need for any more annoying
phone calls about your new house or your business. Just leave me alone or I’ll
put a hex on you.
Sincerely yours,
Tilda Trivette Kornacky
“My old
man sure could pick ‘em, couldn’t he?” mused Mitch.
“How old
was he?”
“Almost
60. She’s, like, 32.”
“Whoa. Is
she serious about the hex thing?”
“He met
her at a palm reading. That pretty much says it all,” Mitch announced. “You
wanna put him someplace? I gotta make a call.”
“What place?”
the assistant asked, warily.
“Ah, how
’bout the fridge?”
“Really?”
“Why not?
In the freezer compartment. Just be sure to mark the container.”
The
underling mulled over the request for a moment.
“How do
you want me . . .”
“Shit,
Billy, I have no idea,” Mitch said, with more emotion than he intended,
probably because he was feeling more than he expected. “This is the part where
you show me some initiative, okay?”
“Okay.”
Billy
walked solemnly out of the office, hoping to impress his superior, then glanced
quickly from side to side, desperate to attract an audience with questions
about what he was carrying; he was going to dine out on this one for a long
time.
Mitch
picked up his cell and dialed.
“Hey,
Mitch. What’s shakin’ on the Left Coast?”
“Hey, Ian.
Glad I caught you. I’ve got some sad news.”
“What?
What’s wrong?”
“Dad’s
dead.”
Ian
missed a beat. In fact, he missed about four quarter notes, which was
considerable for a man who made his living playing music. Then he said, “Dad?
Our dad?”
“Um hum.”
“The one
in Texas?”
“You got
another one?”
“Jeez,
I’d forgotten he was alive.”
“That’s
mean, Ian.”
“I’m
being serious. I literally haven’t talked to him in ten years. What happened?”
“No clue.
His latest life partner just sent me his ashes in the snail mail. With a little
sidebar saying: ‘Don’t call me or I’ll put a hex on you.’”
“Is this
the palm reader?” Ian asked.
“And
woman-of-curses, apparently. Dad was always into exotica.”
“Double
jeez!”
“God,
Ian, you’re starting to sound like a girl. You’ve got to find a different
band.”
“Not a
chance. Making too much money, bro. Girl bands are very big in Nashville these
days. Doing the Tonight Show next week and opening for the Chili Peppers in
Atlanta the week after.”
“Well,
double jeez yourself, old buddy!”
“Thank
you, thank you,” Ian said and then realized this was probably not the time to
brag about his career. He sucked in a deep breath and released a sigh of heavy
responsibility. “Who’s telling Mom?”
“Not me,”
Mitch said. “In fact, why don’t you call Sam later tonight and then have her
call Lilly in the morning. Let them figure it out.”
“Good
solution. What should I tell them?”
“Just say
he arrived in a fast-food container this morning, and I’m doing everything I
can.”
“What
does that mean?”
“I’m
keeping him on ice.”
“Really?
Why do you have him on ice?”
“I’m not
sure. It just seemed appropriate.”
Ian
nodded and thought for a moment about what, exactly, was appropriate at a time
like this.
“Are you, you know, upset, Mitch? That he’s
dead, I mean,” Ian asked.
“Too
early to tell, I guess,” replied his brother.
“Yeah,”
Ian sighed again. “What about a funeral?”
“No need
to rush. Let’s talk to the girls, and we can decide later. We can have it at my
new house.”
“Cool. I
saw the pictures online. It’s beautiful, Mitch.”
“Thanks.”
“Right.
Sounds like a plan. Sad day, buddy.”
“Sad day.
Later, bro.”
“Later.”
Samantha
Kornacky Bravos, who had changed her last name to satisfy her mother’s
political agenda and now kept it to satisfy her own, heard her cell ringing but
was too out of breath to answer right away. She had just conquered the bridge
spanning the Firth of Forth in a pair of truly outstanding cross trainers. Her
watch announced it was a new personal best, which would put her among the top
115 women finishing this year’s Scottish Bridge 10K.
“Yo,” she
wheezed, “Ian! I can’t believe you called. What time is it there?”
“About
2:30 in the morning. I just finished a show,” her younger brother said.
“I didn’t
think you even knew about today. And if you did, I didn’t think you’d have the
social skills to remember.”
“Remember?”
he said without thinking—and confirming that he didn’t actually have the social
skills to remember.
“My
race,” she prompted.
“Oh,
yeah, your race,” he said weakly, once again making it abundantly clear he had
no idea what race she was talking about.
Okay, Sam thought, this phone call is
evidently not about me. “Right,” she said. “Just give me your congratulations,
Ian, and we’ll move on.”
“Congratulations,”
Ian repeated, sounding as inept as he felt.
“Thanks,”
she answered. She was determined to be pleased with her running accomplishment,
even if no one else noticed. “And congratulations to you and the Girls with
Grits. I hear you’re going to be on the Tonight Show.”
Sam, he
knew, had enough social skills for the both of them. While he paid no attention
to her career teaching history at the University of Edinburgh, she remained one
of his biggest fans. Samantha did everything well, including being a big
sister. Still, this conversation would not go well, that was a given, even
before he picked up the phone.
“I’ve got
some news, Sam,” he said. “About Dad.”
She
didn’t respond, but he could feel the heat in her cheeks all the way across the
Atlantic.
“Mitch
got a letter from his latest wife. Tilda. He’s dead.”
“Oh.” The
word popped out involuntarily, and they both waited for the emotion to follow.
Nothing came.
“Sam?”
“He
didn’t come to my wedding,” she said, evenly.
“I know.”
“Or do
one thing to acknowledge the birth of Ella and Jake.”
“I know.”
“I
haven’t heard from him in 12 years.”
“He was
an alcoholic,” Ian reminded her, trying not to sound too sympathetic.
“He was a
narcissist,” she spat, and now he could visualize the small puffs of steam
accompanying her words.
“He did
his best, Sam.”
“I don’t
think so,” she retorted, her voice cracking with bitterness. “He was a son of a
bitch!”
“Okay,” Ian agreed, hoping the worst was over.
“That’s a big ten-four. I haven’t talked to him in a decade myself. But I
thought I should call to let you know.”
With
that, his big sister retreated.
“Sorry,
Ian,” she said, mollified by the fact that he, too, hadn’t stayed in contact
with their old man. “Sorry about my attitude. And I certainly never wished him
dead. So what happened?”
He filled
her in on the burger box and ashes. Then he told her about the hex.
“She’s
the palm reader, right?”
“Mitch
said Dad liked to call her a spiritualist.”
“Yes,
well, Dad was always one for inflating job titles, wasn’t he?” She let her mind
wander to the obvious thought. “Has anyone told Mom?”
“Not yet.
I was hoping you’d call Lilly, and then maybe she could call Mom, . . . and
then, also, maybe you two could kick around some funeral ideas
. . .”
Sam took
a moment to process everything he had packed into this last sentence. “I’m sensing
a major burden shift here, Ian. From the boys to the girls.”
“No. Not
fair,” he said, firmly. “Mitch has volunteered to work on the funeral or
memorial service or whatever. He likes, you know, hosting and wants to have it
at his new house. I think he just wants some input from you two.”
“And
you’d just like to run away and tune your guitar?”
He felt
that familiar, toxic mix of shame and lame invading his guilt stream. “You know
me, Sam. That’s what I do.”
“I know,”
she said. “Thank god you’re one of four
children, Ian. You would have made a very disappointing only child. Still, for
all your social shortcomings, little brother, you do tune—and play—the guitar
beautifully. Love you.”
“Love
you, too,” he said, feeling the warmth of her forgiveness.
And they
both hung up.
By the
time the phone tree reached Meridian, Idaho, a sweet little suburb of Boise,
Lilly Kornacky Bravos (who shared both the political views and last name of her
mother and younger sister) was lying on the sofa nearly comatose. The four
preschool boys she had been shepherding since 5:30 a.m. were at a two-hour baby
gym class, and her husband was pouring sugarless mochas, while telling her
about the fluctuating price of the rhinestones he had just ordered from Korea.
Lil and
her husband, Joey, were living the American Dream. Not the current one, the one
from the 1950s. They had left Silicon Valley—with its genuinely insane real
estate prices, rotten traffic, and high-paying, high-tech jobs—for the new
California suburbs, which were located anywhere between Sacramento and the
Canadian border. Boise was full of expats, the houses were really affordable,
and the public schools still worked. Joey had gone from life as an Internet
traffic guru in Menlo Park to manufacturing rhinestone t-shirts out of his
four-car garage in the potato state. And with the surprising success of sales
to old ladies in Bunco clubs and teenage girls on cheerleading squads, along
with the low cost of living, he was killing it. Dad, Mom, and their four little
towheads were living like the Cleavers of Beaver fame in a house only a venture
capitalist could afford in the Bay Area. And Lil was sublimely happy and
painfully exhausted each and every day.
“Hi, Sam”
Lil said, picking up the phone, as Joey handed her one of the early morning
calorie-free caffeine cocktails.
“It
finally happened.”
“What
happened?”
“Dad’s
dead.”
Lil shot
up straight to a sitting position. “What?!” she said, as her drink collided
with a hand grenade her four-year-old had created out of oversized Legos and
left perched on the arm of the sofa. The whipped cream atop the coffee cascaded
onto the carpet.
“Mitch
got a letter today from Tilda the Magnificent.”
“Oh,
god,” Lil gasped. “That’s terrible.”
“Spare
me.”
“Come on,
Sam. The man is—was our father.” Lil did not adore Mark Kornacky. Or even like
him all that much. But she had a sentimental attachment to the institution of
parenthood and kept in contact. It was pretty much a one-way thoroughfare; she
sent emails and photos and birthday cards, while he generally responded with
indifference. In all honesty, she felt, indifference was his biggest failing.
He was never a mean man or abusive. He was just, well, self-absorbed. And more
than a little irresponsible about meeting his financial obligations. Still the
four of them were his offspring. A platitude she now repeated for Sam’s
benefit.
“Whatever
he was, he was our father, Sam.”
“Yes,
yes,” Sam replied quickly, not wanting to argue the point. “I’m working on
facing up to that issue. Sorry. Anyway, Mitch called Ian. Ian called me. I’m
calling you. And you’re calling—”
“—Mom,”
Lil pronounced, finishing her sister’s sentence.
“You got
it.”
“Yes, I
apparently have. Nice handoff. Thank you very much.” She inhaled, as if she’d
just received a felony conviction, and went on. “So what’s the story?”
“The
story is that Tilda sent Mitch a carton of ashes.”
“Ashes? Ashes? That’s creepy.”
“And a
note saying she’ll put a hex on anyone who doesn’t leave her alone.”
“Even
creepier. I wonder what that’s about?”
“Jealousy
is my guess,” Sam ventured. “LOL because he never actually paid us any
attention.”
“Hmm,”
Lil reflected. “He told me she was a stunner.”
“No
surprise. The man had his priorities. What else do you know about her?”
“Not
much. Brunette clairvoyant with a birth date in the neighborhood of mine.”
“Now that’s creepy.”
“I think
they were both Captain Morgan fans; he told me that’s the reason they were
paired on Match.com. I’ve only received one communiqué from him since they got
married. A newspaper clipping of their nuptials, along with a free coupon on
the same page for twenty percent off at Red Lobster. Don’t know if that was an
accident or some kind of gesture.”
“Always
the gentlemen,” Sam said. “Mitch wants us to come up with some ideas for a
memorial service. He wants to have it at his new house, and he’ll be the emcee”
“And
D.J., no doubt. Can’t wait to get a look at his Dearly Departed mix.”
“He does
have great taste in music, Lil. So you got any ideas?”
“No. It
will take all my creative energy to find a way to get Joey and the four boys in
the car for the drive to California. How are Ella and Jake?”
“She has
pinkeye from the nursery, and he’s excitedly awaiting his turn.”
“You’re
still coming to UCLA for the World War II Underground lecture series?” Lil asked,
anxiously.
“Of
course. And you’re still coming to see me while I’m in LA?”
“Forty-eight
hours is as long as I can get away from the boys,” sighed Lil. “That’s with
three shifts of babysitters and their first overnight at the in-laws. I’m still
working out the last ten hours of day care.”
“God,
Lilly, what’s Joey going to be doing all that time?”
“An order
of rhinestone embossed sweatpants and jackets for the University of Alabama
gymnastics team.”
“You have
chosen such a life of your own free will, you realize this?” said Sam.
Lil could
feel her sister shaking her head in dismay. She rose to her own defense. “Well,
at least I’m not married to a one-eyed golfer whose only claim to fame is a tie
for third at the Scottish Open.”
“He’s not
actually blind in that eye, Lilly; it’s a misshapen cornea. And he hits a
helluva fade!”
“Oh, my
goodness,” said Lil, in a voice filled with mock triumph. “I don’t think I’ve
ever heard you defend your husband so vehemently, Samantha.”
“I’m
hanging up now, Lil, with the satisfaction of knowing that you are the one calling Mom. Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
Chapter 1
Loss of Gravity
At 57,
Andrea Bader Bravos felt herself slipping. Slowly, to be sure, but still
slipping. She lived in a spacious but dated townhouse in Valencia, California.
It was perched just 1000 feet above the San Fernando Valley—and about fifteen
miles north of Hollywood, where she had once worked but didn’t work very much
anymore. She had spent most of her career writing treatments and, occasionally,
scripts for mediocre TV movies-of-the-week. That business began imploding with
the arrival of reality television; along with it had gone Andy’s center of
gravity.
Andy’s
four children had noticed her fumbling around for meaning the last few years,
but they didn’t really understand it. Even if they did, they were too busy to
offer any solutions. Mostly, they kept suggesting she retire, as if that were a
choice. People in Andy’s business didn’t retire, they were retired by the forces that eventually swept everyone in the
entertainment business out to sea: an inability to keep up with the
breathtaking speed of pop culture—and aging skin.
At
several points in her life, Andy had considered herself an unusually relevant
person, both a rebel and a crusader for justice. As a 16-year-old feminist
pioneer, she was the first girl to work the cash register at the new McDonald’s
in Glendale, California. She had helped integrate the marching band at her
small liberal arts college. And when she divorced 22 years ago, she had dropped
the name Kornacky, as a sign she was no longer beholden to the patriarchy. Now
Andy wondered about the value of those accomplishments. Especially the name
change. She chose Bravos—telling her four children that it symbolized courage—and
asked them to join her in making a political statement. Unfortunately, they
were all under twelve at the time and had no idea what she was talking about.
In the end, the kids split into their usual teams: girls on one side, boys on
the other. Looking back, she thought her activism might have done more harm
than good. After all, most of McDonald’s underpaid employees were now women,
not men. Her liberal arts college had gone belly up. And her four adult
children never missed an opportunity to rehash the name change episode every
time they managed to gather for a holiday meal.
So it was
that Andy Bravos, aging activist and unemployed writer, stood watering the
drooping daisies on her patio that June day—feeling slightly irrelevant—when
the call came about the death of her ex-husband.
“This is
tragic! Just tragic,” Andy pronounced.
“Don’t
sound so indignant, Mom. Or surprised,” said Lil, trying to keep things on an
even keel. “He drank enough to inebriate a rugby team. And he never exercised.”
“But he
wasn’t that old, for god’s sake! Sixty.”
“Lots of
people die at 60, Mom. And since you are fueled almost exclusively by bean
burritos and hominy grits and you walk four miles a day, you will probably not
be one of them. Whether you like it or not, you’ll live until you’re 90.”
“This is
not about me, Lil.”
“Yes, it
is. We all know you are in the middle of a mortality crisis—”
“Midlife
crisis—”
“Mortality crisis. As a consequence,
Dad’s death comes at a bad time for you.”
“You make
me sound pathetic, Lil.”
“That’s
beside the point. The point is, given his lifestyle, this was bound to happen
sooner rather than later.”
Andy shut
up and thought about that. “Okay,” she admitted. “I guess that’s true.”
Lil had a
rather painful knack for cutting to the chase in most things. Over the past few
years, Andy had suckered her elder daughter into writing several spec movie
scripts with her. Lil’s facility with words and instincts for a good story were
remarkable. But with all those preschool boys around the house now, Lil didn’t
have time anymore. Lately, it seemed her daughter was reduced to using her
verbal karate skills on the phone with her mother.
“Okay,”
Andy repeated in a calmer voice. “So how did he die?”
“I don’t
know. Tilda didn’t say.”
“I mean,
in the gutter? In his sleep? Watching the 49ers? Was there no color coverage at
all?”
“Just the
note about a hex if anybody bothered her.”
Andy
paced the patio, cell in hand. “How does she get away with that? Not even
telling us the cause of death?”
“He’s not
your husband anymore, so what does it matter?”
“But he’s
your father. Don’t you want to know? You deserve to.”
Lil
counted silently to three, then responded. “Let’s try not to make a big deal
out of this. All right? There is no principle at stake here. “
“You are
his children. You have a right to know!”
“It’s not
that important. Really.”
“She
should have told us. Someone should ask her.”
“Oh no,
no, no!” Lil said, emphatically. “That’s exactly what we are not going to do, Mom. Dad had a thing
for crazy women.” Lil heard the hiss on the other end of the line. “Present
company excepted.”
“Thank
you.”
“The
older he got, the more he drank and the loopier his wives. Let’s just keep our
distance and get on with things. If you’re really that concerned, why don’t you
get a copy of his death certificate?”
When Andy
said nothing, Lil got a little worried. “Mom?”
“I am
stunned by your good sense.”
“What?”
“I’m
going to do that.”
“Okay,”
Lil said, skeptically. “Without actually making any contact with the grieving
widow, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s
good, Mom.”
“Yes, it
is.” Andy replied, suddenly feeling herself become, well, a little more
relevant. “I can’t do anything about your dad’s death. But I can at least find
out what caused it. I’m sure, as his children, you’ll all feel better knowing.”
Lil
decided it was easier to agree than to point out that the only person who
seemed to want that piece of information was Andy. “Yes, I’m sure we will all
feel better if you take on that little crusade.”
“You’re
mocking me, Lil.”
“I do it
with love, Mother.”
“I’m
going to get that certificate anyway.”
“I’m sure
you will.”
That
settled, Andy moved on. “What about a funeral?” she asked.
“Mitch is
taking charge of that.”
“Oh, god,
not another one of his music mixes,” Andy said, thinking out loud. “Still, I
suppose we all grieve in our own way.”
Sensing
her mother’s mind wandering, Lil saw an opportunity to change the subject and
jumped at it. “How’s cousin Harley?” she asked.
Andy
snapped to attention again. “He’s driving me nuts. My sister sold me a real
bill of goods when she sent him out here to stay this year.”
“What do
you mean? I thought he was going to school somewhere in Valencia.”
“So did
I. I figured it was either CalArts, up the road, or the local junior college across
the street. But it’s not.”
“What
else is there?”
“Something
called Our Savior’s Tabernacle University in Lancaster.”
“What the
hell is a Tabernacle University?”
“An
oxymoron. And so is this kid. I had to buy him a car just so he could get
there, for crying out loud. And he’s so far behind academically that they made
him come out for summer school before they’ll let him start as a freshman in
the fall.”
“Can’t you send him back to Nebraska?”
“Apparently
not. My sister has gotten herself into a job training program and can’t be
distracted,” Andy said.
“Aunt Pam
is in a job training program? But she’s older than you are!”
“She has
no pension, so she’s starting a new career. In the bakery industry. With a
concentration in cake decoration. In the meantime, I am babysitting her son.”
“Well, at
least you have someone to keep you company. Right?”
“Harley
is not company, Lil. He is an annoyance. And there is a real possibility I will
kill him shortly.”
Lil knew
immediately where this was going and tried to head it off. “I hear the sound of
peeing, Mom, and it’s not in the toilet.”
Andy
charged ahead, as if she hadn’t heard what Lil said. “Let’s do another script
together, Lilly. We’ll have a great time. We can do it over the phone. On
Skype. I’ll do all the typing.”
“Really.
Mom. I don’t have the time.”
“I know I
could get my mojo back if we just worked together—”
“Oh,
there goes another jet stream. The boys have developed a herding instinct
lately. I think I see the twins with diapers down behind the couch . . .”
“Lilly, I
need—”
“Oops!
Gotta run. Love you.”
Lil hung
up, and Andy felt another little slap of futility hit her in the face. Her
career really was over. Now her ex was dead and gone. And her leech of a nephew
was upstairs in the guest bedroom glued to a novel about the End of Days.
Chapter 2
Israelites in LA
If Andy
had been insensitive about giving her kids a new last name, her sister had been
downright idiotic about giving hers a first one. After only one date with a
long-distance truck driver named Phil Davidson, Pam announced she had found the
love of her life and was going to marry him. By the third date, she felt they
were destined to have a son, and he would be called—Harley. And so it came to
pass, both the wedding and the birth. All this might have seemed a little less
laughable had Harley been big and beefy and liked motorcycles. But he wasn’t
and he didn’t. The Harley Davidson now sharing her domicile was short and
doughy. In addition, he appeared to be as dumb as a two-by-four. Even more disturbing
was his ambition to become a preacher and establish his own Christian
denomination.
Andy
knocked on the door of her former guestroom where the future Reverend Harley
Davidson currently resided.
“Come on
in,” Harley said. He laid the paperback across his chest and smiled up at his
aunt.
“How’s
the book?” she asked.
“Just
tremendous!” he said. “It’s the third one in the Left Behind series. I love
it.”
She
looked down at the dramatic lettering on the cover of the book, The Rise of Antichrist and instantly
felt an affinity with the title character. “Shouldn’t you be reading the Bible
or something?”
“This is
better.”
“No
doubt.”
“I mean,
it’s fiction, so they make it very exciting,” he explained. “The real stuff,
you know, like Exodus and Deuteronomy, is kind of boring.”
“I see.”
“In
comparison, I mean.”
Andy
pondered this and thought it her duty to encourage him to pay more attention to
his studies.
“Well, I
can’t imagine the Bible’s that boring,” she offered. “I’ve worked with a lot of
Israelites in the film business, and they’re generally pretty good
storytellers.”
“No
kidding? You know some real Israelites here in LA?”
“In a
manner of speaking.”
He looked
at her in amazement. “We don’t have that many back in Omaha,” he said.
“I
suppose you’d have to go looking. But I’m sure they’re there. Anyway, you want
some lunch?”
He
hesitated, scrunching up his chubby cheeks.
“What is
it?” she asked.
“I’m
kinda tired of burritos.”
“Okay.
Why don’t I take you to In ‘n Out Burger?”
“Gosh, I
love that place, Aunt Andy.”
“I do,
too,” she said. “And I need to get out of the house. Put your cowboy boots on
and meet me in the car.”
Valencia
was built as a New Town in the 1960s, completely planned to accommodate a
Southern California suburban lifestyle. It was one of the few places in Los
Angeles County with actual bike lanes and where you could still get a parking
spot at the mall. Andy discovered the little gem of a community when she
decided to take up golf ten years ago. The public course was cheap and seldom
crowded, plus people rarely scoffed if you shanked your tee shot on the first
hole. The town had been annexed a few years back and was now part of the City
of Santa Clarita, famous for almost nothing except the Six Flags theme park on
Magic Mountain Parkway.
Harley
and Andy sat outside at a round table with a red and white striped umbrella,
eating their animal-style Double Doubles. As the adult in the unlikely pairing,
Andy made a feeble attempt to bond.
“You like
it here?” Andy asked.
“It’s
only been three weeks,” Harley said. “But, yeah, I think so.”
“You miss
your family?”
“Not
really,” he answered. “Not as much as you miss yours.”
Andy
looked at him suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”
“You call
your kids all the time.”
“No, I
don’t.”
“Yes, you
do. And if you don’t call them, they call you. You people never leave each
other alone.”
This kid
was a master at pushing her into a defensive position. “I guess we’re big
talkers,” she said, begrudgingly.
“Tell me
about it,” said Harley. “It’s like everything you’re thinking comes right out
your mouth.”
“Really!”
Andy snorted, nearly choking on her grilled onion. She tried to glare at him,
but she couldn’t get a bead on her target because he was slouched over a pool
of ketchup, dipping his fries. “We’re all extroverts,” she finally said, by way
of explanation. “Except Ian. He’s more of an introvert.”
“The
guitar player in Nashville?”
“It’s a
steel pedal, “Andy instructed him.
“He’s
coming to LA this weekend, right? I mean his band is.”
“They’re
playing at the Wiltern.”
“And he’s
getting us tickets?”
“Right.
For you, me, and Mitch and his girlfriend.”
The pudgy
head bobbed up and down with approval. Then he observed solemnly, “I guess you
can’t talk all that much if you’re supposed to be playing a guitar and singing.
So maybe that’s a good job for him. I don’t think your other kids could, you
know, restrain themselves that much.”
Andy
tried the glare again, but he was either naturally adept at avoiding eye
contact or self-taught. Whichever the case, she’d had about as much
conversation as she could stomach. She started to gather up the leftover
napkins.
“So who
died?” he asked.
She
stopped short, crumpled the napkins with a vehemence she generally reserved for
representatives of her current cable company and sat back down. “Have you been
eavesdropping on my phone conversations, Harley?”
“Nobody
has to eavesdrop, Aunt Andy. You get so worked up I can hear you in Dolby
Stereo.”
It was
not difficult to understand why her sister had exiled the boy to California;
the family gene pool had finally produced an unbearable combination of its
worst two alleles—cluelessness and cheek. “I’m sorry if my voice bothers you,
Harley,” she said, diplomatically. “It is my house, however.”
“I get
that,” he said, oblivious to her irritation. “No problem. I just wondered who
died.”
“My
ex-husband. Mark. You wouldn’t remember him. We were divorced before you were
born.”
“Oh,
yeah. He’s the dad, right? For all your kids?”
“Yes.”
He tilted
his round face slightly to the left and opened his eyes so that she really saw
them for the first time. Blue. Creamy blue. His best feature by a mile, she
mused.
Now
Harley rolled his thin lips inward, as if he were contemplating something.
“That’s gotta hurt a little, huh? I mean, you probably loved him once.”
“What?”
she asked.
“I said
you must feel pretty bad.”
It was an
uncomfortably perceptive statement from a kid Andy judged to be psychologically
below grade level. Because the truth was, she did feel bad. After all, she had been married to Mark Kornacky for 14
years, and they weren’t all miserable. Many of them were damned exciting. He
was a man with a big personality who loved to be the center of attention. A guy
with good friends and better stories. He could cook. He could sing. He could
drink. He could whip up a party on a moment’s notice. People loved him. She
loved him. For a while, anyway.
The two
had met when he was starting his own production company in Studio City. He was
filming a series of exotic-animal cooking shows, a repulsive—but highly popular—niche
concept. She was a struggling writer, and he underpaid her for helping with the
scripts. They shared the same middle class upbringing, had similar politics,
and fit together in a quirky sort of way, like Sonny and Cher or Bert and
Ernie. She could never quite find the right simile for their marriage, and
maybe that was the problem.
Whatever
the attraction, the partnership worked. Until they had children. That Mark
Kornacky would be such a spectacular failure as a parent never occurred to her.
That it would take child number three for her to begin to notice was her own
spectacular failure. By the time baby number four was born, Andy knew it was
time to stop. Sadly for everyone concerned, it would take another seven years
of his drinking, cheating, and self-indulgent spending for her to take the kids
and get out. After that, her ex-husband was rarely seen in the vicinity of his
offspring, and they began referring to him as their ‘ex-father.’
“I do feel bad,” Andy finally confessed to
the corn-fed minister-in-waiting.
“And your
kids must feel bad, too, right?” Harley suggested.
“I’m sure
they do. But their dad was more of a myth than an actual presence, so it’s
always been hard to know how to feel about him.”
Harley
nodded, seeming a little less clueless than he usually looked. “Well, maybe
they’ll get a better feel for that when they see his will,” he said.
“Huh?”
Andy grunted, dimly.
“You
know, his last will and testament. Often absent parents make up for their
emotional negligence through their estate.”
Emotional
negligence? Where on earth did a mind like Harley Davidson’s have to go to find
that many syllables? She was tempted to ask to meet his ventriloquist but was
afraid he wouldn’t get the joke—and then was terrified he might.
“Aunt
Andy?” he prompted.
“I’m
thinking,” she finally said.
“About
what?”
“About
why nobody thought to mention a will, especially Tilda.”
“I thought to mention it,” Harley pointed
out.
“Yes,
that’s the other thing I’m thinking,” she said, standing up and pulling the
keys out of her purse. “Harley, I don’t get you. I don’t get you at all.”
Chapter 3
Elvis Impersonators
Located
on the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Western Avenue, the Wiltern Theater
passes for what is an historic building in the City of Angels. That is, it was
built in the 1930s. Originally home to vaudeville acts, the Art Deco structure
is named for what was once the busiest intersection in the world, just the kind
of thing Angelinos would find it necessary to brag about. It seats nearly 2000
people, and Harley Davidson had never seen or imagined anything like it.
“Whoa,”
he murmured, prayer-like, as Andy, Mitch, and his girlfriend, Melissa—the
family called her ‘The Impresario’—all took their seats. “I guess Ian’s pretty
famous. I mean, if he plays here.”
“The
band’s pretty famous,” Andy told him. “Ian is just one of the musicians and
back-up singers.”
“You know
it’s a girl band,” added The Impresario, who was dressed in elegant black
spiderweb tights, a leather skirt, and cowboy boots. Harley knew cowboy boots,
and he’d never seen a pair like hers in Omaha. “The critics are calling them
the pioneers of a new genre.”
“What’s a
genre?’ Harley asked.
“A style.
Or category,” said Andy.
Harley
gnawed on this for a moment. “Oh. You mean the ‘Girls with Grits’ style?”
“No,
that’s the name of the band,” The Impresario corrected. “Their record label
calls their style Country Candy.”
“Oh,”
repeated Harley, very slowly. “I get it.”
Mitch
looked at his junior cousin and smirked. “No, you don’t, Harley.”
Harley
looked back at the older man quizzically and opened his creamy blue eyes so
they were fully visible. “Yes, I do. It’s country music, only it’s sweet,
right?” Harley observed.
“Exactly,”
pronounced The Impresario. “Pay no attention to the jackass seated next to you.”
She elbowed Mitch, who winced.
“Okay,
I’ll behave, I promise,” Mitch said, a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Harley.
Melissa’s right, I shouldn’t have said that.”
This
wasn’t the first time Andy had witnessed Melissa discipline the incredibly
successful knucklehead into which her oldest child had grown. She liked this
woman, despite the startling streak of white that ran through her jet-black
hair and the studded, fingerless gloves that were, evidently, her signature
apparel. The girl was gorgeous, Andy had to give her that. And she was
accomplished, in a La-La Land sort of way. She was a talent agent for aspiring
comics and, in her free time, she manufactured monogrammed leather steering
wheel covers for the Aston Martin dealership in Beverly Hills. On any given
day, Melissa de Toro was hustling enough money to afford a two-bedroom
apartment near the beach in Santa Monica. For the majority of people in Los
Angeles, it didn’t get any better than that.
The house
lights in the expansive theater dimmed, and the crowd quieted. After the
perfect dramatic pause, stage lights electrified, and the band swarmed out from
stage left and stage right, taking their places. There was Ian, the shortest
and undoubtedly the sweetest of Andy’s brood, wearing a western hat and tight
jeans, seating himself at his pedal steel guitar and beaming, as if he had
reached nirvana.
In the
privacy of the theater’s darkness, Andy smiled to herself. Her son looked so
happy. In fact, both of her sons looked happy tonight, she thought. It occurred
to her that all four of her children were currently happier than she had any
right to expect, given their unsteady upbringing. She had done so much wrong,
and yet they’d each turned out so right—so right for themselves and, therefore,
so right for her. God, I wonder what I could do to mess up all this bliss, she
thought with the predictable panic that always showed up when things were going
too smoothly between herself and her children. Then she metaphorically gave
herself a sharp slap to obliterate her stinking thinking and willed herself to
slide gratefully into the warm, soapy music.
It was an
“epic” concert, according to Harley, as the applause finally flamed out and the
audience made its way out of the theater, elbow to elbow.
“Where
are we meeting Ian?” Andy asked.
“The Tofu
Cafe on Western,” Mitch told her.
Harley
looked up at his aunt.
“It’s
Korean food,” she said.
His
lingering excitement seemed to drain away suddenly. “What’s tofu?” he wanted to
know.
Andy and
Mitch both turned to Melissa to handle this one.
“Anything
you want it to be,” she said, putting her hand on Harley’s shoulder. “Kind of
like polenta or bean curd.”
Harley’s
eyebrows shot skyward.
“You’re
only feeding his anxiety,” Mitch pointed out.
“Oh,
don’t be scared,” she said, taking the teenager’s hand and smiling seductively.
“Stick with me,” Melissa whispered. “I shall lead you to a garden of earthly
delights.” His spongy fingers melted into her touch.
“Oh, my
god,” quipped Mitch, turning to his mother. “Look at the poor kid’s face.”
“I think
he’s just discovered a whole new meaning for the ‘rapture’,” Andy suggested.
They
watched the boy walk off with The Impresario, hand-in-hand.
Mitch
wrinkled his brow, admiring the awesome power of the woman he was dating. “Uh
huh, and she’s probably just committed some kind of statutory offence in the
process.”
Besides
the exotic Asian food, Harley was treated to one of Koreatown’s finest
traditions: Elvis impersonators. Throughout the meal, four different men, three
Koreans, and some Anglo in a wig, jumped on stage and did their best to imitate
The King, accompanied by a karaoke machine. Andy noticed that her nephew was so
absorbed in the entertainment that he plowed through the food without once
asking her to identify any of the ingredients.
Andy
assumed the conversation between her sons would inevitably turn to the passing
of their father, but Ian spent most of the meal filling his older brother in on
some financial hiccup the band was experiencing.
“Avocados,”
explained Ian, so distraught that he didn’t seem to care his mother could hear
every word. “Somewhere out of the country. Puerto Rico, maybe, I wasn’t really
paying attention.”
“And who
recommended these avocado orchards?” Mitch asked.
“I don’t
know. Some investment guy our manager knows. All I know is that avocados were
supposed to be very big.”
“Really,
Ian? Really?” Mitch said, with an
edge of skepticism that clearly cut through Ian’s thin skin.
Melissa
was on it like a hawk. “We’re not all CEOs, Mitch,” she shot back. “And you’ve
made a few mistakes of your own with the IRS.”
“Honest
mistakes,” Mitch said, defensively.
“This was
an honest mistake!” Ian nearly shouted. “We were all told it was a legitimate
tax shelter.”
Andy
could tell her youngest child was dazed and confused by how to handle the
situation and would like nothing better than go in his room, close the door and
practice, over and over, the fingering to ‘Black Bird.’ But the days of running
away from the chaos surrounding him had long passed. She began to mull over what
she might say to comfort Ian, but what the hell did she know about avocados?
Then
Mitch, who was never one to mull over anything, said something that amazed even
his mother. “Well, congratulations, bro. You’ve made it!”
Everyone,
including Harley, looked at her eldest, who had finished his dinner and was
rolling an unlit cigar in his fingers.
“What do
you mean, I’ve made it?” Ian asked, perturbed.
“Unless
you’re a poor starving artist or a drug dealer, being audited is part of the
American experience,” Mitch pointed out. “You’re grown up now, Ian. Even Uncle
Sam thinks you’re important. It’s part of life. Part of a successful business
life. Be proud of yourself.”
Ian
considered this, as Mitch continued to roll his cigar. “It’s only money, little
bro,” Mitch concluded. “I doubt they’ll put you in jail.”
Melissa,
whose hand had been resting on Mitch’s arm, dug her black enameled nails into
his skin. “No one is going to jail, Mitchell!” she hissed. “It’s an IRS audit,
for god’s sake.”
The
waiter arrived unannounced with the bill and glanced subtly around the table.
“That goes to him,” the Impresario
instructed, taking the bill and handing it to Mitch. “Because paying the bill
means never having to say you’re sorry.”
