I hustled across the yard to the pickup, wondering if I had enough cash on me to gas it up, thus giving Gray a little back. I opened the door and slung myself inside. Nearly crying out in shock to discover Daniel sitting on the passenger's side, quietly waiting. "Can I go with you?" he asked plaintively, accustomed to no as an answer.
"I thought you were putting the sealer on."
He shook his head gloomily. "I screwed it up," he said. "And then I spilled some. Dad took the brush away."
Yanked
it away, I imagined. I was flooded with double feelings, wanting to make it all better for Daniel but also to punish my brother. He'd always been a stupid perfectionist, his rigid marine defense of neatness in the house of a slob drunk. By way of reply I cranked the key in the ignition and popped us forward in second, making a neat U-turn. I pumped the gas easy, just as instructed, and rolled not quite to a stop at the end of the drive. No traffic. We sailed out onto the coast road, heading south.
I was trying to think of something to say to cheer him up, when he suddenly asked, "Is that where Ricky Gun lives?"
I glanced over. He was gawking out the window at the turret and gated arch of the Norman castle. "No, he lives on the other side," I said, disheartened by his awe of the rock star. I still wanted Daniel to see the beach house the way I did, as a desert island unencumbered by the world's dreck. But here he was, a child of MTV, possessed by ear-splitting superheroes. Who had even told him the sequined Mr. Gun was our next-door neighbor? He certainly didn't miss a trick.
Then he said, "Gray's your friend, right?"
"Yes," I replied carefully, my stomach beginning to clench. "Why?"
"He's really nice."
And that seemed to be that, just a moment of piercing sincerity, where the kid had managed to say exactly what he felt. I was the one who was thrown, suddenly riddled with questions. Had his parents said something about Gray and me? And if Daniel knew about Gray, did he also know about AIDS? I could feel my hands gripping the wheel for dear life. I understood in that instant that I had to be as open as this boy, and that nothing real would hurt him.
"I'm very lucky," I said, "because he lets me live in his house. And he brings me food so I never go hungry. It's a really good deal."
I turned to flash a grin at him, and suddenly a roar was on my left. I swiveled to look. A Jeep was passing with screaming teens, inches away. Directly ahead, in our lane, a dump truck heaped with gravel lumbered along. There was hardly twenty feet between us and the dumper, but the Jeep wanted in. It gunned and nosed for the gap. As it fishtailed by our front bumper I braked and swerved right, thudding us along the shoulder. Daniel was sprawled on the seat beside me.
It was over in seconds. We regained the pavement, the Jeep lurching out to pass again and disappearing round the truck, teens howling, bound for a head-on crash before they were out of high school. "You all right?" I whispered at my nephew in a strangled voice.
"Uh-huh." He picked himself up and sat by the door again, completely unfazed.
I was a wreck. Creeping with horror, I realized we'd set off without any seat belts. The frigging pickup
had
no seatbelts, one of its legion of violations. And what if Daniel had been thrown against the dashboard? Then what would I say to his parents—the split lip, the broken teeth? I was shaking. Daniel, bless him, was oblivious, craning around to check out a couple of rubber-suited surfers zipping up. But I had this bone-zero realization that I'd almost failed him, and along with that, an overwhelming sense of what it meant that his life was in my hands.
I slowed the pickup till we were barely doing thirty-five, which only made more people pass us. The responsibility was almost unendurable. I think I came the closest to comprehending Susan's fear—of me, the virus, everything after the bomb. For how would she ever keep her baby safe now? For a minute I couldn't even bear to look at Daniel, all that trusting innocence.
At last the Chevron came into view on the left, and I edged into the turn lane, wincing with dread at the oncoming cars, letting fifteen chances go by. I waited and waited, till a car was honking behind and the stretch of road to the south was empty. I coasted in next to the phone booth and stopped, my hands still so tight on the wheel I thought they'd have to be pried loose.
"You stay here," I declared, which was fine with Daniel. He was happy to peer out the window at the exotic beach types going in and out of the scruffy convenience store beyond the gas pumps. I walked across the gravel and accordioned myself in the booth, but making sure I was facing the pickup. I drew the card from my pocket, dialed the number in Venice.
"Salva House," a woman's voice answered. I asked for Kathleen Twomey. "She's with a group right now," came the reply. "Why don't I give you her machine?"
And after two clicks and a beep, my ex-nun's recorded voice spoke. "Hi, it's Kathleen. I'm out of the office. Please leave a name and number where I can get ahold of you. If you have no phone, or you feel you're in danger, then come right down to Salva House. We're always open. Remember, nobody has to live in a battered place." Then a long beep.
"Hello," I said, suddenly shy, "this is Miss Jesus calling. Remember me? The queen of Judea. Listen, I've got this... uh... problem. I mean I don't want to dump it on you, but maybe you'll have some ideas. See, my brother and his family kind of dropped out of the sky on me. This is the Irish branch—very low communication skills. And if they don't start talking, there's going to be this terrible explosion."
Really? What did I mean by that, exactly? Perhaps it was just a free-associated image of the bomb that had ripped my brother's house. "Don't worry, it's nothing urgent," I reassured the machine, except I didn't sound very convincing. "I don't have a number, but I'll call you back, okay?"
As I rang off, startled by the urgency even as I denied it, I saw Daniel lean out the window of the pickup. A fat old dog, three colors of shepherd and retriever, came trotting over from the convenience store, wagging its tail shamelessly. Daniel's whole upper body was out the window as he reached to scratch the dog's ears. I whacked the door open and called in a too-loud voice, "You stay in that truck! And leave that dog alone!"
In a flash the canine took off, tail between legs. Just as quickly Daniel pulled in and sat down. Because of the glare on the windshield I couldn't tell if he was upset, but I felt like a jerk. What did I think, that the dog had rabies or Daniel would fall on his head? Total overreaction. Guiltily I huddled back into the booth, determined to make it up to him. Then I dialed Mona's number in Westwood, relieved when she answered in person.
"It's like Ibsen around here," I said by way of hello. "And my Norwegian is very rusty."
But she was in no mood for drollery. "Are you sure you can't get in trouble?" she demanded rather shrilly. "You're harboring a fugitive, aren't you?"
"That's not how it works," I retorted with some superiority. "He's making a deal with the prosecutors. After he testifies, they'll get him resettled."
"You shouldn't be around kids. They're full of germs, and they've always got colds."
I laughed. "I believe the drift of paranoia goes the other way, doesn't it? I'm the Typhoid Mary around here."
"I'm serious, honey. You don't need all this stress. Who's taking care of
you?"
"I am," I purred in reply, but of course she had a point. For all I wanted to do right then was get off the phone and go take care of Daniel. "Listen, take this number down." I read off Sister Kathleen's information from the card, asking Mona to keep trying till she connected. "Find out when I can call her. I think we need some facilitating."
As good as done. Mona lets nothing slip between the cracks. Then she said, "So how's Gray?"
"Oh, we'll be okay, if we ever get any time alone. We sort of banged heads yesterday—"
"Yeah, he told me."
And right there I saw how tricky it all was, the nexus of power lines that strung us all together. Even if I didn't have a phone, Mona and Gray did. I suddenly had this vivid picture of the two of them chatting late into the night, Mona in the role she was born for: lovers' confidante. It was only a couple of weeks ago that they barely gave each other the time of day. And now she was Juliet's nurse.
"So," I said, drawing out my sharpest needle, "I gather Daphne's been given back her key to your ball and chain."
"Meaning what, precisely?"
"Looked to me like you two are wife and wife again."
"Lies and gossip," Mona drawled. "I only brought her for
your
sake, in case you had a breakdown. Daphne and I are officially free, white, and over thirty. All that craziness is behind us."
"Mm. I'd still hide all my clocks if I were you."
But my heart wasn't in it, impatient as I was to get back to Daniel. Admonishing Mona once more to call my nun, I got off the phone and padded back to the truck. Daniel looked up brightly from reading an old torn newspaper on the floor, seemingly unbruised by my having barked at him. I leaned my arms on the driver's door and poked my head in.
"You want to go in there and get an ice cream?"
"Great," he said briskly, scrambling out on the other side.
Coming around to join him, I noticed how he set his pace to mine as we walked across to the store. I would have done anything for him just then, for he made me feel like I was a fellow to be emulated, as he studied his way to becoming a man. I held the door open, and he walked in wide-eyed, casing the place with instant attention. Myself, I can't find anything in a 7-Eleven; the system eludes me. But Daniel turned immediately down the first aisle and headed for the freezer case in back, as if by radar.
I followed in his wake. Already he had the glass door open, reaching inside, practically disappearing among the frozen goods. He pulled out a very upscale concoction on a stick, wrapped in designer paper. "I like these," he said soberly. "What do you like?"
The same. Graciously he handed me the one in his hand, then reached in for another. As he closed the freezer door and marched toward the front, carefully ripping the wrapper away, I felt the most curious envy of his single-minded concentration. Just then he didn't seem unhappy at all. I wondered if he had some special fortitude I lacked, that let him slough off the rages and confusions of his household. He looked so carefree, scanning the racks of magazines by the counter as I pulled my wallet out to pay. I certainly couldn't recall any single equivalent moment from my own cracked boyhood, or any free ice cream either. So maybe he could survive intact, given a little breathing room and a few side trips to the Chevron.
"Why don't you get one of those?" I declared, watching him pore over the comic books at the end of the rack.
He turned, ice cream stick in his mouth, as if amazed I'd even noticed. He shook his head. "No, they don't let me."
"C'mon—pick one. You can't just live on book reports."
Listen to me, the resident barbarian, coaxing a seven-year-old away from Robert Louis Stevenson to schlock. His eyes alight with guilty pleasure, Daniel turned to the comics again and instantly plucked one up. Knew exactly what he wanted. Brimming with largesse I smiled at the dullard cashier, waving my wallet to indicate the two sweets and the reading matter. As he gathered my change from a ten-dollar bill, slow as a cow, I glanced at the cover of Daniel's comic.
All-New Tales from the Crypt,
with the twisted bug-eyed face of a man clawing his way out of the grave. Well, I wouldn't have chosen quite that one, but if that was what he wanted. I pocketed my change, and the two of us headed out. Besides, I rationalized, wasn't it psychologically sound for a kid to see his nightmares played out in story form? Bruno Bettelheim and all that.
We'd almost reached the pickup, Daniel once more gauging his pace to mine, when a voice called out, "Hey, dude." I looked to my right, and there was my Redford surfer, pumping gas into his red van. He pointed up at the smoky sky. "Looks like another doozy, huh?" His teeth flashed white against the cocoa tan of his face.
"Yeah, let 'er rip," I retorted, and would've turned away, except Daniel had stopped in his tracks beside me. He stared riveted through the open side door of the van, where the surfboard was stowed between the seats, sleek and tense with power as a loaded gun. I rested a hand on Daniel's shoulder and smiled at the hunk. "Can he see your board?"
"Hey, my pleasure."That vast California enthusiasm. He flipped the gas hose to automatic as Daniel and I walked over. Then he beckoned the boy into the van and started rattling off the specs. As usual I was deaf to all the technical jargon, but I delighted in the mesmerized look on my nephew's face. He reached out to touch the slick white fiberglass, its zaps of Day-Glo green like mystic script.
As for Redford himself, flawless in his orange jams and a county lifeguard's windbreaker, this was the dude I had ached at the sight of, back in the thick of the last typhoon. Before I fell in love with Gray; before my brother's family came. Strange, but now I didn't desire him at all, or feel any less a man than he. Silently I gave him back the riotous promise of his youth, the effortless beauty that looked as if it couldn't ever die. And I seized with greater savor at my own life, mirrored now in this terrific kid who rode with me today. I felt absurdly proud, chest puffed out, as the surfer led Daniel out of the van.
"Your first board's the most important," Redford intoned, sincere as an adman, " 'cause that's where you learn your moves. So go for the top o' the line."
Daniel nodded in awe, as the other winked at me and moved once more to straddle the gas hose. I don't know who was more deliriously happy just then, Daniel or I, as we walked back over to the pickup, slurping the last of our ice cream. I swear, you'd think I'd fathered the kid myself. And I was on red alert when I pulled us out to the edge of the road, waiting for an opening in the line of passing cars. I willed away all reckless teens and scooted in behind a Winnebago, stately as an ocean liner, proceeding up the coast at cruising speed.