Or, rather, they would scramble for what Elton left them. Because, after the sermon just delivered—and telecast—Elton’s place at the top of the heap was assured. Elton would keep his bogus bargain with God. What Caesar had done for Mark Antony, her father had done for Elton.
She turned to Peter, on her right, whispering, “Why don’t you get the car? Bring it around to the side entrance.”
Dressed in his blue suit and white shirt and striped tie, Peter could have been any one of a million men—anyone but Peter. She could see that he was suffering, just as she was suffering. If Peter believed in the devil, the face beneath the horns would be Elton’s.
He rose to his feet, reached across her to touch her mother’s hand, then walked across the stage, moving awkwardly, stiffly. She never should have asked him to come. After they took her mother home, she would release him. She would spare him tomorrow’s obscenity.
She pointed through the windshield. “Get over to the right. You have to get on the Hollywood Freeway.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Peter switched on the turn signal and cautiously changed lanes. He was frowning and shaking his head, muttering a mild profanity as a bright red sports car cut sharply in front of them. Driving on Los Angeles freeways was almost the only task that could intimidate Peter.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” he asked, scowling at a careening van painted with polka dots.
“There’s no need. It’ll just be more of the same, tomorrow.”
Looking at her, he asked quietly, “How do you feel?”
“A little numbed, I guess. I’m not sure.”
“It’ll take time, for you to sort it all out. Maybe a lot of time.”
“I know.”
For a few moments they drove in silence before Peter said, “I talked to Mitchell. He said that he hadn’t recognized Carson. If Carson hadn’t panicked, he would’ve—” Peter hesitated. “He would’ve been able to do what he’d come to do.”
“He did it anyway.”
“In a way, yes. But not really. Your father died a natural death. And whether you approve of what he did with his life, the fact is that he probably believed most of what he said. He kept working, too, even with a bad heart. And he died doing his job.” He raised a hand in a gesture that signified both approval and resignation. “You have to respect him. You don’t have to agree with him. But you’ve got to respect him.”
Eyes straight ahead, she made no reply.
Because she couldn’t respect him. Not now. Not so soon. Not remembering the bodies he’d left behind, the dead and the dying.
She felt him looking at her, then heard him say, “What about your mother?”
Still looking ahead, she pointed to the “Los Angeles International” exit. He nodded; he’d seen it, and was once more changing lanes. She let another moment of silence pass. Then: “She hasn’t had a drink for two days. I’m taking it one day at a time. I guess she is, too.”
“Maybe—” He drew a reluctant breath. “Maybe you should ask her to stay with you for a while.”
She shook her head. “No. It wouldn’t work.”
“I guess not. In fact, I agree with you. But I wanted to—to offer.”
She smiled at him. Turning his head, he returned her smile. Then he asked, “Will she go on—performing?”
“We talked about it for a little while last night. I told her she shouldn’t do it for a while—for a period of mourning, so called. Hopefully, it could become permanent.”
“Did you tell her that you hoped it would be permanent?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Good. That’s smart. I get the impression that a lot of communication between you and your mother is unspoken. Which is good. Or, at least, probably inevitable. The point is, I imagine she knows how you feel about it, whether or not you’ve actually said the words.” He drove silently for a moment before he said, “I wonder whether it’s possible that her drinking might be connected to the fact that she’s got to play her part every Sunday?”
“I was wondering the same thing myself.”
They were on the airport boulevard now, angling toward the sign marked “United,” “American,” “P.S.A.,” “Braniff.” Another moment of silence passed. There was more for them to say—more to share. But somehow the words weren’t coming, for either of them. The United loading zone was just ahead. Cars were parked two deep at the curb, while harried passengers unloaded their baggage, bid hasty goodbyes and hurried into the terminal—all under the baleful eyes of airport policemen, blowing their whistles, urgently waving the passengers into the terminal and the cars on their way.
Pulling in behind a slow-moving Mercedes, Peter said, “When do you think you’ll come home?”
“Two or three days—just as soon as I can. I’ll have to play it by ear.”
They were stopped at the curb now. Setting the parking brake, Peter sat silently for a moment, staring straight ahead. Finally he turned to face her squarely. His eyes were serious, his voice somber as he said, “I—ah—I’ve been thinking, lately, about that time in Mill Valley, after we had dinner with Ann and Cy, and we were talking about—about having children, and everything. Do you remember?”
Slowly—almost reluctantly—she was nodding.
Why reluctantly? And why couldn’t she answer him? Why could she only stare straight ahead—silently, helplessly? The next moment could mean everything to her. Why did the prospect numb her?
“I—” He swallowed. But, doggedly, he went on: “I was thinking that you were right, that night. I mean—” He swallowed again. “I mean, I guess I can be pretty one-way about things. I—ah—got burned so badly, getting divorced, and feeling guilty about what the divorce did to my kid, that I never stopped to think about you—about what having children would mean to you. I—” As his voice trailed off, she saw an irate policeman standing squarely in front of the car, urgently gesturing them to pull away from the curb. Peter nodded to the policeman, tried to placate him with a palms-out gesture, then turned again to her. Saying: “I was laying my hang-ups on you. Which isn’t fair. In fact, it’s a pretty crappy trick, when you come right down to it. So—” He gestured again, this time turning his palms up, eloquently signifying his inability to put it into words. He swallowed again, then doggedly continued: “So I—I was thinking,” he said, speaking in a low, husky voice, “I was thinking that, if you want to have kids, it—it’s all right with me.”
She knew the answer that she must give. She didn’t need to search for the words. Quietly, she said, “I wouldn’t ever want to have children without being married, Peter.”
She saw him nod: a grave, considered inclination of his head. “Yeah,” he answered, “Yeah, that too.”
As she reached out to touch his hand, a sudden crash made her jump. It was the policeman, hammering with the flats of both hands on the hood of the car—furious.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1981 by Collin Wilcox
Cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4804-4656-4
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