Follow the Dotted Line (2 page)

“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.”

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.”