Reef Dance

by John Decure

  Father Ashton waited. I swallowed, the faint taste of incense left over from mass sliding down the back of my throat. My school days were harmless, history. I had to tell him. “Do you think she would have had an abortion?” I said. “I mean, she was a practicing Catholic. It’s a pretty big sin.”

  Father regarded the silver crucifix around his neck as if he were pondering the death of his savior. The doubt in his eyes struck instant fear in me. If he knew the truth about her, he also understood that speaking it could damage me. But then, perhaps I was misreading the situation. His eyes were merely haggard. The man was slowed by his years, more deliberate with his speech, merely taking his time to answer. Not wanting to touch off another argument.

  Shit. I was losing my grip again.

  “There’s no answer to that, J.,” he finally said. “People don’t always sin for simple reasons. Sometimes you have a chain of events. Sometimes it gets complicated.” He paused. “Life today is very complicated. That’s why original sin is such a central concept to belief. It traces humanity back to the Garden, back to man’s essential failing. Which is sin.”

  “She left me—isn’t that a sin?” I said.

  “I knew Marielena,” he said. “She came here twice a week, for twenty years, sang in the choir. She never said good-bye. That wasn’t like her.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He seemed mildly surprised by the question. “Keep looking.”

  I frowned. “Last time I saw you, you acted like you knew she was dead.”

  “My mistake,” he conceded.

  The basketball game wore on, the church casting a shadow over the backboard now. I was worn out, fried from the inside out. All control of my life had dissolved. My resolve was for shit. I doubted Jackie in spite of his eagerness to help me work the Randall matter. In my zeal to reach out to Sue Ellen, I’d only further confused her feelings and now faced being kicked off the case in disgrace. I wouldn’t accept Carmen’s translations, couldn’t accept what was plainly spelled out in those old letters. I closed my eyes, unable to speak.

  The old priest studied me. “You don’t look so well.”

  I looked around to make sure we were alone. “What’s the use?” I said. “Certain people—like you—they’re meant to help others. I’m not. When I do, it just comes out wrong.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m a hypocrite. I don’t want to be bothered with someone else’s mess. I only help others to help myself.”

  He waited before speaking. “Let me tell you a little something about your father,” he said. “I knew him, too.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Last time we talked about him, you said some things—”

  “Just let that go for a moment,” he said. “Please.” Shaking his head. “Anyway, we talked about a few things over the years, your father and I.”

  I was skeptical. “What about?”

  He paused as if waiting for his memory to take shape more fully. “Faith. Prayer.”

  “My dad used to pray for surf a lot,” I said. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  Father Ashton smiled. “He had a zest for life, he did. But he prayed for more than surf. He was very hard on himself—like you, J. he had . . .” A thought seemed to dim the light inside him. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a young man named Roger Nelly?”

  “Sure. Jelly-Belly.” Grog Baker had told me stories about the original crew from Christianitos, and about that particular, unlucky soul. “He’s the guy who drowned.”

  Father Ashton nodded. “You know how?”

  “I heard he went surfing with my dad at some spot down south, a gnarly, cliffy break in La Jolla. No one else was out. A giant day.”

  “Your father told me all about it,” he said. “The sun was going down. Nelly had a bad wipeout, got pushed in without his surfboard, pinned against the rocks in surging, shallow water. He panicked. Your father came in after him, tried to rescue him, but Nelly had hit his head and gone under. Your father was very seriously injured.”

  “I never heard that part.”

  “He dislocated his shoulder, badly cut his leg. He might have bled to death in the water had he not crawled up that cliff so quickly to get his friend into the ambulance.”

  “I . . . didn’t know.”

  “I don’t think your father was the type to broadcast his injuries, even among friends. But that wasn’t it. He was hurting on the inside, too.”

  The image I’d built of Robert Shepard was cut from granite, sanded smooth with time, as flawless as the vintage surfboards hanging in my garage at home. “How?” I asked.

  “He experienced a personal crisis. That is, when he went after his friend. Surfers have a term for it, as I recall. When you’re stuck there, in shallow, rocky water, caught between the land and the ocean, the waves pounding you, trying to knock you off your feet. Forcing you to go forward or back, but you can’t do either one.”

  “The reef dance,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Funny,” I said. “I’ve always heard he was pretty comfortable in the surf”

  “Right you are. Very capable. But that day when Nelly got in trouble, your father came to his side, never thinking of his own safety. That day, he nearly lost his own life trying to save a friend who was probably already dead. And it troubled him, deeply. He found himself wishing, praying even, to never be put in such a situation again.”

  “He told you this?”

  “Eventually. Some years after Nelly’s death. He felt ashamed of his misgivings. He wanted me to give back Nelly’s medal.” The priest shook his head. “I wouldn’t take it.”

  He’d lost me. “What medal?”

  “Before Nelly went to fight in Korea, his parents gave him a medal, a simple Christopher.”

  I knew the kind, silver medals the size of a quarter with a profile of Saint Christoper and the prayer for his protection inscribed around the edges. The nuns sold them with the rosary beads and holy cards from a small counter in the back of the church.

  “At Nelly’s funeral,” he went on, “his parents gave your father his Saint Christopher, in gratitude for being their son’s protector.”

  “He wanted to give it back,” I said.

  “He didn’t feel worthy.”

  I couldn’t remember whether my father wore a Saint Christopher—it was too long ago. But my mother had one. “You wouldn’t take it?” He shook his head. “What did you tell him?”

  Father Ashton’s eyes met mine. “That God loved him.”

  “That’s it?” I said a little too forcefully.

  He paused the way he did during his sermons when he was about to make a weighty point. “You know about your father’s heart, J.”

  I did. “The growth in his arteries. Coarctation of the aorta.”

  “He knew he could die young.”

  I felt the memories pressing in, that nagging sense of missed opportunities. “And he was right.”

  “Know why he was cremated after he died?”

  Not this shit again, I thought. “No, I just know it wasn’t cool with the Church.”

  “Never mind that,” he said. “You’re a Catholic all right. We’ve done a fine job teaching you rules. No wonder you don’t come here anymore.”

  “I have my own reasons.”

  He looked at his shiny black shoes, then at me. “The rules have changed since the sixties, for your information. But I suppose . . . no. Anyway, that day I came to your house . . .”

  “The cremation,” I said, “just tell me.”

  He waved me off. “I’m trying to.” I’d apparently rubbed him a bit raw, but he took a deep breath and forced a little smile my way. The man was really making an effort.

  “Sorry, Father.”

  “You had every right to be upset with me that day. See, I’m the big boss around here, pretty used to having my way. You really struck a nerve with me.”

  “Likewise. You couldn’t have picked a worse time to criticize my dad.”


  “I left your house angry, just burning mad, and for weeks I wondered why. But I realized later . . . I’d got what was coming to me.”

  Not from me, he hadn’t. “I don’t see how. All I did was rant and rave.”

  “I thought I knew your father better, assumed we’d bury him. The instructions . . . the cremation was a surprise. I suppose I took it personally.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said.

  “No,” he said, “I was wrong. A few months later, I looked into it, talked to some of his old friends around town. Found out he was cremated because his vital organs had already been earmarked for transplants. Course, I should’ve known it, because of his heart condition. You see, it was an act of responsibility. My anger that day . . . was vanity.”

  All this talk of my old man made him less of an abstraction to me at the moment, and my mood continued to darken.

  “I appreciate the explanation. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked.

  Father Ashton’s shoulders twitched as if he was chilled. “I figured I’d see you around here sometime. Sometime never came.”

  I didn’t know what to say—my confusion over my mother, the bad memories about my father, it was too much to process right now. I just stood there and watched a procession of kids shoot free throws to decide new teams.

  “That was your father, J.,” the old priest said. “He was just a man. I think he learned to live with his doubts, his human imperfections. Maybe he didn’t always follow the rules. But he did what he thought was right. He was worthy of Nelly’s medal.”

  The bells in the high tower clanged to six. Another game of hoop got underway amid long shadows and stripes of late-summer gold, the two of us wordlessly observing along the sidelines. I found myself formulating another prayer. Reflexively I prayed for surf, but I promised the Lord there was more to follow.

  Sixteen

  Lamont Dunne’s art showing was well attended. Eugene Bardo, the gallery owner and Pam Baker’s boss, had promoted the show for weeks by running print ads in the local papers and further hedging his bets with a slew of strategic invites. When I arrived just after eight, Bardo was a peppy blur, plying would-be buyers with white wine and hors d’oeuvres as he chatted about ocean art with childlike awe. Patrons fell in love with Eugene faster than they could absorb an easy seaside composition. Having seen Lamont Dunne’s work before, I instead took note of the tiny white, deadly serious price stickers staring up from the bottom corner of each piece like a detached evil eye. No matter, for I’d come not to buy, but to watch Pam sell, and the buzz was encouraging. The waterfront section of downtown Long Beach is often a sleepy scene even on weekends, but tonight the sidewalk fronting the gallery hummed with motion. I was panhandled twice before reaching the door.

  The people inside were casual but moneyed. Older men in sport-coats and club ties, studying their price sheets and calling out friendly greetings to country club acquaintances. Crisply tailored wives issuing forth opinions as to who had the best interior designer or Mercedes mechanic. Young professional men sipping wine in pleated slacks and black turtlenecks, their sideburns razor sharp. Model-thin young women milling about like bored gazelles. Everyone talking at once, some on sleek, handheld phones, others jabbering straight at the canvases as if expecting the breaching whales and winking dolphins to hold up the other end of the conversation. I’d forgotten how many wealthy people chose to live near the ocean.

  I’d dressed in the same university-stripe shirt, tan slacks, rep tie and navy blazer I’d worn to court many times on laid-back Friday mornings. Presently I considered the choice a mistake, a personal reminder of the tonnage of files that lurked in my drawers thirty miles due north, waiting to be worked up sooner or later.

  Jackie arrived alone. He was decked out for the occasion in a tan, gabardine thrift-store number, an ecru silk shirt and a bizarre, hand-painted tie depicting a red sun setting behind a bending palm that was anchored amid creeping marijuana growth. By some minor miracle of fashion, the ensemble worked perfectly, his slicked hair and wraparound shades boosting his air of big-city élan. More than a few females took note of his entrance.

  “No offense, J.-man,” he said as he drank in the energy in the gallery, “but a connoisseur needs room to fully appreciate fine art and—oh, yes”—he ogled a beauty as she drifted past my elbow, smiling at Jackie—“there is some very fine viewing to be done.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said, “but you break or steal anything, I don’t know you.”

  “Tut tut,” he said, grinning. “Say, Lamont,” he called out across the room to the artist, who was chatting with a group in front of a flaming tropical sunrise. “Great show! A veritable tour de force.”

  Lamont Dunne looked up from his conversation and eyed us stolidly, as if we’d come to collect on an old debt. I turned to pluck a stuffed mushroom from a passing tray.

  Jackie stroked back his hair and massaged the back of his neck, contemplating his next action. He seemed to be rolling over a complex problem in his mind, and at one point, I thought certain he’d determined to shine me on and venture out among the paintings. But he stayed.

  “You’re not getting anywhere, are you?” he said finally.

  We both knew he was talking about Marielena Shepard. I didn’t really care how he’d found out. I just didn’t want to hear the rap that was coming.

  “I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to tell you,” he said. “Better to be in forward than reverse. It’s easier to see the turns in the road.”

  “That’s the least of my problems,” I said. “My mother’s been gone a long time, Jack. That may be that. But I could be kicked off the biggest case I’ve ever been on, and even if I’m not, at this rate we’re gonna lose anyway.”

  “Not so fast. Couple of bets I placed earlier in the week just paid off big time.”

  It was the first good news I’d heard since the case began. “Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “I went by the pad twice after your new girlie friend and her brother split. You weren’t around.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Found Weinstein’s nurse, the one who was there when Nathan was born. Name’s Rosemary Egan.”

  “What did she say? Will she testify?”

  He grinned, self-satisfied. “Dig this, she’s a two-for-one witness, man. Not only was she there for Nathan, she was there back when the rich bitch had her baby, too.”

  “Kitty Danforth had a baby? When?”

  “I dunno, couple years ago, I think. Didn’t work out, though.” Jackie stopped to reflect on something. “Miscarriage, I think it was. Guess it explains why she’s such a sketch. You know she had her tarot cards read yesterday? ‘Madame DeBalzac,’ this high-class gypsy broad in Pasadena who specializes in conning the rich and powerful.”

  He’d been getting nowhere tailing Kitty Danforth. “Weinstein was Kitty’s doctor,” I said, trying to keep him on course. “He was her choice to handle Nathan’s birth.” I remembered Sue Ellen’s charge that she’d been pushed into having her baby early. “Did you ask Egan about the induced labor, why Sue Ellen had to give birth by May sixth?”

  “Oh yeah, yeah! You won’t believe this, man. They went to a party.”

  “A party?”

  “Not your typical, everyday rage. They attended a ball. In Washington, at the White House.”

  “Wait a minute. May sixth was a Monday, I looked it up. They went to a ball on a Tuesday night?”

  Jackie sighed as if waiting for me to catch up. “Saturday, the eleventh. I told you old Kitty was a sketch,” he said. “According to Egan, Kitty had Tuesday and Wednesday carved up just for gettin’ ready. They left Thursday. Wanted to see the town a little before they did the ball.”

  “But their week would’ve been shot if they were on standby, waiting for Sue Ellen to give birth.”

  “They have a housekeeper,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Why didn’t they just have her cover for
’em while they were in D.C.?”

  It was beginning to make sense to me. “Sue Ellen wouldn’t have it,” I said. “She demanded they be there when Nathan was born. She was screwing up their trip, so they told her she had the due date wrong and induced her labor.”

  “That is the definition of cold,” Jackie said.

  I’d underestimated the Danforths’ social status. “What kind of ball did Egan say it was? They tell her?”

  “I think they’re heavy campaign spenders. Kip’s company has something to do with hardware for jet fighters.”

  “Defense,” I said. “They’re Republicans.”

  We stood in silence, mulling over the news. “This mean you got ’em sussed?” Jackie asked.

  “It’s significant, but I don’t think it’s enough,” I said.

  “Why not? You thought they were using her, now you got your proof. That was beyond harsh.”

  “They’ll deny everything,” I said. “And we can’t prove otherwise.”

  “What about Egan? If she testifies, she’ll tell the judge. She’ll set ’em straight.”

  My hopes sank. “What do you mean if?” I said. “This is all total hearsay without her. You did tell her she’d have to testify.”

  He held up his hand. “Take a chill-pill, brother. You just dialed into her sore spot. She’s retired. That’s why I couldn’t find her until now. She’s seen the whole shit-storm coming on the TV. Face it, you’re looking like the captain of the Titanic and she’s not too stoked about going down with the ship.”

  I wasn’t worried about disturbing Rosemary Egan’s golden years. I just wanted to win. “I’ll type a subpoena tonight. Can you get her to testify?”

  He nodded in the affirmative. “Just loan me your ride Monday. She’s got a little transport problem, but I’ll get her there.”

  I sighed, partially relieved. “We’ll carpool.”