“That was third grade, I think,” said Miriam. “Or maybe fourth.”
Rallston turned the page. “Do you mind?” he asked.
“No, go ahead,” Miriam answered. Vernon sat quietly, sipping his beer and looking down at the photos from the corner of his eye. Rallston went from page to page, trying to record the details in his mind. There were a few pictures of a young Warren playing baseball and posing with his team. In another shot he stood beside his sister. Dorothy had a round face and wire-rim glasses. The two of them were dressed in matching red pants and white shirts. “That was Christmas,” said Miriam. “Dorothy lives across the lake in Slidell now with her husband and children.”
Rallston nodded and kept going. With each turn of the page Warren appeared to be a little older. A newspaper clipping showed a teenage Warren playing a saxophone at a local blues festival. He wore a dark suit, with dark sunglasses and his hair combed back. “I didn’t know he was a musician,” said Rallston.
“He plays wonderfully,” said Miriam.
“Never got him anywhere,” griped Vernon.
“This looks like some sort of professional group,” said Rallston.
“He was still in high school when he started with them,” said Miriam. “Warren had big dreams, but there wasn’t much money in it. Not enough to make a living anyway.”
“Where did he learn to play?”
“He was always a musical child. I’m a music teacher myself, by profession, so of course I nurtured his interest. It wasn’t until his first year in high school, though, that he really took to the saxophone. They had a good program there.”
Rallston nodded and turned the page. When he saw the next photo he leaned close to get a better look. This one showed Warren standing at the end of a pier with his arms around a girl, his head over her shoulder. They were gorgeous, both of them. Warren’s blonde hair hung low over his eyes. His face was clean shaven and he had an authentic smile and an easy-going air of satisfaction about him. He wore blue jeans and a white collared shirt, un-tucked. The girl’s expression was somewhat more serious. Her posture was rigid. She had short dark hair cut in a bob, and beautiful green eyes. “Who is Warren with here?” said Rallston.
“That was his girlfriend, Ophelia,” said Miriam.
“Was it serious?”
“Oh, yes. They were engaged to be married for some time.”
“What happened?”
“You know how kids can be. It just didn’t work out. I suppose they were too young.”
“Where is she now?” Rallston asked.
“Married to someone else,” said Miriam sadly. “They live over in Jefferson Parish.”
“Do you have their address?”
“I don’t, but you could try looking them up. Her husband’s name is Larry. Larry Ignatowski. He’s in the landscaping business.”
Rallston wrote down the information on his pad of paper and then went back to the photos. The next one was a shot of Warren in a cap and gown at his high school graduation. In another he stood beside his father, together yet oddly apart, as though they were wary of having too much contact. The very last photo in the album was a portrait of Warren in an olive-green camouflage uniform. Behind him was an American flag. Above his right front pocket were the words AUGUST. Above his left, U.S. ARMY. “Warren was in the service, too?” said Rallston with some surprise.
“You don’t know much about our boy, do you?” said Vernon, accusingly.
“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t. That’s why I’m here. Can you tell me, did he serve overseas?”
“What do you think?”
“Is there anything in particular you can tell me about that?”
“He served his country proudly. There’s nothing more that needs be said.” Vernon was stern. He clamped his jaw tight and tilted his head back, as though daring Rallston to ask another question.
Rallston considered the prospect. Why the hostility? He found himself feeling pity for Warren, having to grow up in this household. Obviously his father was not an easy man to get along with. His mother, on the other hand, was quite kind by comparison. Rallston suspected that Warren took more after her than his dad. So why had he joined the military? Fighting for his father’s affection? That was one question Rallston wasn’t comfortable asking. He picked up his recorder and turned it off. It was only then that Vernon seemed to relax a little bit. “Thank you for taking the time to see me today, I greatly appreciate it,” Rallston said.
“It was our pleasure,” said Miriam.
“I wonder if I might be able to speak with Dorothy as well?”
“I can give you her phone number,” said Miriam.
“That would be great. And do you mind if I borrow these photos long enough to make some copies? I’ll send them right back.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Miriam worriedly.
“Go ahead, take them,” said Vernon. “Don’t matter to me.”
“Thank you, I promise to return them as soon as I’m finished,” said Rallston.
Miriam nodded uneasily. “All right, let me get that number for you.” She stood up and moved out of the room.
“Thank you again for your time, sir,” Rallston said to Vernon, who furrowed his brow and nodded, waving a hand in the air.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Charles stood in a giant chicken suit on Sunset Boulevard waving a sign in the air. It was the opening of a new fast-food restaurant and while he was mightily embarrassed that he’d stooped to taking this job, at least people couldn’t recognize him inside the suit. And besides, a paycheck was a paycheck. He did his best chicken dance and waved at passing motorists who mostly ignored him. When his cell phone rang, Charles desperately twisted and turned inside the suit, trying to retrieve one hand from his “wing” and slide it into his pocket. He hopped and wiggled on the sidewalk in spasms as people walking past gaped in awe. Finally he got the phone into one hand. He unzipped the front of the suit and ripped the mask off of his head with his other hand.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” yelled the owner of the restaurant, running out onto the sidewalk. He was a greasy man with slicked back hair, wearing a white apron with a chicken logo stitched on the front.
“Sorry, phone call!” said Charles. For a starving actor, his phone was his life. He couldn’t afford to miss a call-back, but by now this call had already gone to voicemail.
“I don’t care if it’s the Pope calling, you don’t take off the suit! You’re killing me here!” said the owner.
“Sorry, sir,” Charles said. “It won’t happen again.”
“It better not!” the owner continued.
Charles reached into his pocket again and pulled out an earpiece. He slid it in one ear and looked on the phone at the number from the previous call. It was an area code he didn’t recognize. He hit the call button before he dropped the phone in his pocket. “Sorry, sir,” he said again before he put the mask back on. The owner shook his head and walked back into the restaurant. Charles zipped up the front of his suit and waited for the call to go through.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice answered on the other end.
“Hello, this is Charles Jones,” he replied. “You just called me?”
“Charles!! Don’t you recognize my voice?” said the caller, suddenly more animated.
“Bridget Peterson!”
“That’s better,” she said. “Guess where I am?”
“I don’t know. Peoria, Illinois?”
“Try Sunset and Gower.”
“You’re kidding!” said Charles excitedly. “I’m on Sunset myself, just a few blocks away!” Through two small slits in his mask, Charles saw the restaurant owner watching him through the window. Charles began his dance again, waving the sign.
“Why does it sound like you’re inside a box?” said Bridget.
“Actually, it’s a chicken,” said Charles.
“A what?”
“Never mind. I can’t believe you’re back!”
“I guess I couldn’t stay away.”
“You must be a glutton for punishment. How long have you been here?”
“Since last night. What intersection are you at? I’ll walk down.”
“Actually I’m kind of busy. I’m working.”
“As a chicken?”
“Don’t ask. At least I finally got an agent. You should talk to him. He’s got a great gig lined up for me. He might be able to get you in, too.”
“It’s not another background job, is it? I think I’m done with that.”
“No, this is much better. Have you got a fancy dress?”
“How fancy?”
“Never mind, we’ll get you a dress.”
“Could you please explain yourself?!” said Bridget, exasperated.
“I’ll tell you all about it later. Can I call you in a couple of hours?”
“Of course.”
“And Bridget,” said Charles giddily.
“Yes?”
“Welcome back.”
“Thanks, Charles. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Bridget hung up her phone and pulled up an online ad she’d bookmarked. “Charming unfurnished studio apartment, $895 per month.” She checked the address again and started walking, thinking of the furniture she’d have to accumulate all over again. She wondered if she might be able to get her big chair back. No, that was long gone, she knew. She’d have to start all over, but the sooner she was able to get out of her hotel and into her own place, the better.
Bridget continued up Gower and turned right on Carlton Way. This wasn’t a bad street; quiet and lined with stately palms. The single family homes and small apartment buildings were reasonably well maintained. She could live on this street, if the place was still available. Bridget was determined to do better this time than she had before. She was going to make this work, whatever it took, and nothing could stop her. Of course there was still the lingering heartache to deal with over Warren. She’d hoped to be over him by now, but the truth was she thought about him all the time. She worried about what might have become of him, keeping a constant eye out on the streets. She even went by the homeless shelter to see if he’d been around lately, but nobody had seen him in months. She thought of the Oscars and wondered if he’d show up. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt guilty for some reason. Even after what he’d done, Bridget couldn’t help but feel she’d abandoned him. Warren needed someone in his corner, but now he was gone and all she could do was silently wish him well. He would have to take care of himself. Bridget had her own life to worry about.
When she arrived at the address, Bridget saw a sign planted on the front lawn.
Carlton Arms Apartments, For Rent, One Studio.
It was a nice looking place. This was a smaller building, vintage they called it, with four apartments on two floors, grey on top and brown on the bottom. White columns lined either side of the front door. Before she even looked inside, Bridget knew this was home. She could feel it with an uncanny sense of clarity, as though she’d lived here all her life. She moved up the walk. Things were going to be better this time around.
Chapter Thirty-Six
From Pomona, Warren caught a ride in an eighteen-wheeler from a weathered driver complete with mutton-chop sideburns and a penchant for singing along to old Johnny Cash tunes. “I shot a man in Reno…,” he sang as they rode east across the California desert, past Palm Springs and the ruddy Chuckwalla Mountains, through the small town of Blythe and on into Arizona.
In Phoenix, a college student in a primer-gray Pontiac Trans-Am picked Warren up by the side of the road and took him south as far as Tucson. When they stopped for lunch, the student even offered to pick up the tab. “It’s my parents’ money, anyway,” he’d said, but that gave Warren pause. Did he really seem so desperate? As long as he had some money in his pocket, he would pay his own way.
A blur of short hops led him to El Paso and then one long ride to San Antonio where Warren now stood outside a truck stop with his thumb in the air. With any luck he’d be in New Orleans in another few days. Back to his beloved Ophelia. If only he could convince her to take him back, he knew that everything would be all right.
By the time two hours passed, Warren began to feel discouraged for the first time. It was a late afternoon in early February and large, white cumulonimbus clouds gathered overhead, spitting down occasional bits of rain. If he didn’t catch a ride soon he might have to spend the night here, nursing a cup of coffee in the all-night diner. When the skies finally opened up for real, Warren ran toward the gas pumps to stand under the shelter. He held his jacket tight around himself, shivering as he watched the rain pour down in sheets. This was not a promising development. At a pump nearby, a man in his 40’s eyed Warren with suspicion while he filled up a large black SUV. The man had short brown hair, with a small, trim beard. He wore brown leather shoes, with pleated navy pants, brown belt and a light blue polo shirt. When his tank was full, the man replaced the pump handle, climbed into the drivers’ seat and slammed the door shut. The engine rumbled to life and the SUV pulled out into the rain. Warren eyed the vehicle as it stopped for a moment before the reverse lights flashed on. Back it came, slowly, under the shelter once again, stopping right beside Warren. The driver’s window rolled down and the man poked his head out. “Where you headed?” he shouted over the sound of the storm.
Warren was caught by surprise. “Me? I’m going to New Orleans,” he answered.
“I can get you to Houston.”
Warren nodded quickly, struck by his good fortune. He hurried around to the passenger door. When the man unlocked it, Warren climbed up and in.
“I saw you out on the road with your thumb up,” the man said as he pulled back onto the road. “I didn’t figure you’d have much luck with this weather.”
“No, neither did I.”
“I know how it is.” The driver looked Warren over again, as though trying to take the measure of the man. “Name’s Dan,” he said, holding out his right hand.
“I’m Warren,” he replied as they shook.
“What’s in New Orleans?” Dan asked, turning up the windshield wipers as they hurtled down the freeway onramp amid the torrent.
“A woman,” Warren answered honestly. He didn’t mind telling the truth.