Fallen Idols

by J. F. Freedman

  Callie was more sympathetic about Clancy's striking out than his brother had been. “He isn't ready to come back to the fold yet. When he is, he'll let us know. Don't beat yourself up over this,” she counseled her husband gently. Whatever's making him act this way will change. It's going to take time. You can't force time, Clancy. You work with injured athletes, you know that.”

  “But it's so damned frustrating.”

  “Leave it alone.”

  “Since I have no choice, I have to. I wanted to see him, Callie,” Clancy lamented. “I need to know that he's okay. He's never lived alone, he never had to deal with the day-to-day, routine stuff. Grocery shopping, laundry, bills. Mom always handled all that for him. He could be living like a bag lady, for all we know,” he said, forcing a laugh.

  “I sincerely doubt that,” she replied. “Your dad can take care of himself. He's a capable man. Give him credit.”

  “I guess.” Clancy didn't sound convinced. “He always had mom at his side. Being on his own is foreign to his nature. He could never stand a void.”

  “He'll be fine,” she said again. Clancy's fretting was becoming exasperating. “You're the one I'm worried about. Let's not talk about this anymore now, okay? It's making you get agitated. I'll pick you up at the airport the day after tomorrow, we'll go home and talk about it. Without stress.”

  “Yeah, that'll be good. Incidentally, I'm flying home out of L.A. instead of San Diego.”

  There was a brief pause. “Why are you going to be in Los Angeles?” she asked.

  “One of the guys I met here at the conference has a clinic in L.A. that's similar to mine but with newer equipment, stuff I haven't seen yet. I'm going up there with him to check it out. I'm out here already, so why not?”

  “If you want to,” she said, sounding dubious. “This has nothing to do with Walt, does it?”

  “How could it?” he answered quickly. “He won't be there.”

  “Okay, then,” she said. “I miss you, honey. I want you home.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  Clancy hadn't been serious when he had told Callie he was worried his father could be living like a bum; that was nonsense, and they both knew it. But voicing the possibility of deterioration, out loud, had made real the true concern they had about Walt—that he wasn't in control of his life. Not his outward life; Clancy knew his father wouldn't fall apart physically, he had too much vanity about how he looked. But it was obvious to all of them that Walt's emotional life, the life of his mind and heart, was increasingly becoming a cause for alarm. A passionate professor doesn't quit his prized, lifelong post without fighting back, and a loving father doesn't turn away from his children unless there are deeply felt issues left unresolved. Losing the one absolute in your life, as had happened to him with Jocelyn's sudden and violent death, could have thrown everything out of whack for Walt, who was a colossus, not only in the world, but more important, in his own mind. A man who couldn't be bothered with life's petty aggravations, who pretty much didn't even know they existed because of how his wife had sheltered him from them, could be thrown for a loop when he unavoidably had to confront them, now that he was alone.

  Clancy couldn't literally be with his father now, since Walt was conveniently not going to be in L.A. (a spur-of-the-moment invention, Clancy thought, but motive was irrelevant; Walt wasn't going to be there), but at least he could see the physical circumstances of his father's current situation. That would be better than nothing. He was only a hundred miles away. Besides being concerned, he was curious. They had lived in the same house in Madison since Clancy was six years old. It had been the family's shelter from the storms of life, a big, rambling place, full of happy memories. Walt had often vowed, hail-jokingly, that they'd never get him out of there until he was dead.

  Now, instead, his mother was dead and a large part of his father, Clancy knew, was with her. So the house had to go. Clancy could understand that. It was better not to live among those memories if the person you had created them with wasn't there to share them.

  What would this new house be like, Clancy thought? Similar to the old one, or a deliberate departure?

  It would be dumb not to take advantage of the proximity to find out.

  Changing his schedule cost Clancy an additional seventy-five dollars. He paid with his mileage-plus Visa card and put the Dodge Neon Hertz rental car on the same card. At least he'd get some frequent-flyer miles out of the transaction. The counter attendant gave him directions to Walt's address in Los Angeles.

  He checked out of the hotel at nine-thirty in the morning; there was no reason to rush. He'd arrive at his father's new house around noon, satisfy his curiosity, be at the L.A. airport in plenty of time for his evening flight home. Throwing his duffel onto the backseat of the little rental car, he hit the road.

  The journey to Los Angeles was uneventful and boring. The I-5 took him up into Orange County, where it melded into the I-405. An ugly drive. Mile after mile of billboards, chain hotels, high-rise office buildings, each one a weak carbon copy of the other, their unifying feature being floor-to-ceiling windows tinted dark against the sun, dozens of floors of them. Anonymous, benignly foreboding. As he entered Los Angeles County he passed by massive oil refineries that were lit up even in the brightness of day, their natural gas waste fires flickering against the cataract sky.

  Following the instructions on his map, he got off the freeway at Sunset Boulevard and drove east for a brief spell, then took a right on Beverly Glen, heading south. To his left, a short distance away, he could see the redbrick towers of the UCLA campus.

  He reached Walt's street. It was brisk inside the car from the air-conditioning, but he felt clammy. Nerves. His dad wouldn't be home, but he was jittery anyway. He was intruding into a situation he had been firmly requested (ordered, to be precise) to keep his ass out of.

  He'd take a quick look around. If there weren't any nosy neighbors lurking about he'd try to get a glimpse inside through a window. As he got closer, checking the house numbers against the address on the slip of paper in his hand, a slow burn started inside his gut, a reaction to his angst about intruding.

  Screw this defensive-attitude feeling, he thought. There was no reason for him to be guilty about what he was doing. Walt was his father. He had every right to be here. He had to know that his father was okay.

  Three quarters of the way down the block he saw his father's new house. It was one-story, Southwestern-style. Classic-looking, like pictures Clancy had seen of movie stars’ homes: whitewashed walls, turquoise wood window frames, Mexican tile roof. It was set back about twenty yards from the street, fronted by a well-manicured lawn. A large fig tree threw shade onto part of the lawn and house. The yard was bordered with tastefully arranged desert succulents, small cactus, and iceplant. On the left, a driveway led from the street to a detached garage behind the house. The garage door was closed. The wooden blinds on the house windows facing the street were three-quarters drawn.

  Clancy sat in his rental car, staring at the house from across the street. Now that he was actually here, he didn't know what to do. Okay, so he'd seen the house.

  Now what? It was a very nice house, nicer than he'd expected, but that's all it was—a house. What he wanted to see was his father, and his father didn't want to see him. Or his brothers. His father had hastily improvised a trip to take him a thousand miles out of town, to avoid seeing his son.

  Nothing I could do about that, Clancy thought, looking at the house. If he doesn't want to see me, I can't force it.

  He got out of his small, cramped car and leaned against the door, stretching his back and legs. There was no foot traffic on the block. The people who lived on this street were either inside minding their own business, or at work.

  A silver BMW Z3 convertible, the top down, turned onto the street and headed in his direction. As it approached, Clancy ducked around to the opposite side of his rental car, using it as a shield. Whoever was driving the Beemer wouldn't know him, but h
e didn't want to be seen—an instinctive, gut reaction.

  The Z3 turned into Walt's driveway, stopping when it was parallel to the front of the house. The driver, a woman wearing sunglasses and a Nike baseball hat over her light blond ponytail, got out. She was dressed in shorts and a tank top. The shades and hat obscured her face, but she looked good. Nice figure, stellar legs. Bare, tan, long. Opening the trunk of the little car, the woman took out a couple of shopping bags—Fred Segal and Gelson's, Clancy could read the logos from where he was watching—closed the trunk, walked along the stone pathway that led from the driveway to the front door, unlocked the door, and went inside. The door closed behind her.

  What the hell?

  Could he be at the wrong house? Or even on the wrong street?

  He looked at the address he'd written down. No, he was in the right place. Right address, right street. That was his father's new house.

  Who was this woman? She had her own house key, she was carrying groceries. Walt hadn't mentioned anything about a woman. But he had been tight-lipped about his new life in general.

  His mother had been dead for a year now. Clancy knew one thing about his father—Walt wouldn't remain celibate. He was a robust, attractive man who had always liked women, and had been liked by them, too.

  He didn't know how to handle this. He could go over, knock on the door, introduce himself. Assuming the woman was involved with his father, she would know who he was, certainly. But then what? Go inside, look around? Clancy didn't care what was in the house. Old furniture and pictures belonging to his parents? He knew that stuff, he'd lived with it all his life. Seeing their old furnishings in new, unfamiliar surroundings would make him feel melancholy, another sad reminder of the special woman who was no longer with them.

  This had been a bad idea, coming up here. He should have respected his father's wish to rejoin the family on his terms, when he was ready. Not before, and not forced.

  He turned away from the house and started to get into his car. A sleek new-looking black Mercedes sedan, gleaming in the midday sun, came in sight around the corner. As it drove closer Clancy pulled his door shut and scrunched down in his seat. The Mercedes turned into his father's driveway and parked next to the BMW.

  Walt Gaines got out.

  He looks good, was Clancy's first, ffom-the-gut reaction. You ‘re not breathing was the thought that followed immediately after the first. He forced himself to take a deep breath: in through the nose, out through the mouth. He worked with athletes, he knew that deep, steady breathing was the best way to keep yourself from freaking out.

  His father stood in the driveway for a moment, like a stag in the forest who is sniffing the air, checking for signs of danger. Clancy was frozen, crouched down in the too-small car seat. He knew that his father couldn't see him, hidden there in the protective cocoon of the rental car.

  Stay where you are, he cautioned himself. Wait until he goes inside, then drive away, go to the airport, get on your plane, and go home.

  He took another deep, cleansing breath. Then he opened the door and got out of the car.

  It was like throwing a pebble into a cosmic stream— Walt sensed the ripple. He turned in Clancy's direction and looked at him, squinting against the sun in his eyes. For a moment, who he was seeing didn't register; then his mouth opened wide, an involuntary jaw drop.

  The two men, father and son, stared at each other, as if taking the other's measure. Then Clancy walked across the street, into his father's driveway. He stopped fifteen feet away from Walt.

  “Hey, dad,” he said.

  Walt peered hard at Clancy, as if not believing what he was seeing; or not wanting to. Then he nodded, a gesture of recognition, Clancy thought, rather than of invitation.

  “What're you doing here?” Walt asked. His tone was not accusatory, exactly. The words were neither angry nor inquisitive. It was more a statement than a question.

  Clancy took in his dad. Walt was dressed casually—shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, sandals. Like he always dressed in the summer. Except the shorts were Ralph Lauren, not Dockers, the old Hanes pocket T-shirt was now a Tommy Bahama silk, and the sandals were Italian leather.

  The older man raised a hand over his eyes to shade them from the high, hot light. “Do I get an answer?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” Clancy answered.

  Walt twitched. “I live here.”

  Clancy walked a step closer. “You were going to Seattle. Some last-minute conference or something.” His father hadn't said “last-minute,” but Clancy knew that it was. If there had been a conference at all.

  Walt didn't bite at the implied accusation. “Oh, yeah, I forgot about that,” he said casually, as if the question was a fly he was brushing off his leg. “One of the participants got sick at the last minute. They canceled it.” He gave his son a wary smile. “So you. What's your excuse?” His smile widened, a joker's smile. The boys and Jocelyn had nicknamed this look Walt's I'm the boss motherfucker in town smile. It could be intimidating. It was now. “You spying on the old man?”

  Clancy almost winced visibly. This was his father, he knew his son from the inside out.

  “I had to come to L.A. anyway,” he lied. “There's a clinic up here a friend runs. I wanted to check out his new equipment.” It was important to tell Walt the same lie he'd told Callie. Someday, hopefully a better day, this might come up, in casual conversation. He needed to keep his lies straight. It was getting harder. “I had a few hours to kill before going to the airport, so I decided to drive by the old man's new digs, check ‘em out. Wanted to make sure you weren't living in a double-wide,” he said, forcing what he hoped sounded like an easy laugh.

  Walt grinned. “Nope, no trailer park life for me. Not yet, anyway.” He paused. “You don't have to sneak around,” he said. He sounded hurt. “What's mine is yours, Clancy. You and the others. You've always known that. Haven't you?”

  “Yes, dad. That's how it's always been.”

  Always had been.

  They eyeballed each other for another moment. Then they came together, their arms around each other's bodies, bear-hugging tightly.

  “Goddamnit!” Walt cried out, when they broke and looked at each other from close range. “I've missed you, son.”

  It was hard for Clancy to speak. “We've all missed you, dad.”

  “You have some time? Before you have to go?”

  “I have as much time as you want to give me.”

  Except for a few artifacts his father had collected from his expeditions over the years, Clancy didn't recognize anything inside the new house. In their old place the furnishings had been a hodgepodge of couches and chests and armoires, the rooms overflowing with too many pieces, heavy wooden things given them by Jocelyn's parents, or items they'd bought piecemeal at department stores. Mix and match, or unmatch, as his mother used to joke. It was homey furniture, unpretentious. Theirs was the kind of house that had coffee tables overflowing with academic journals piled next to MAD comics cheek by jowl with books, books, more books. Half-made beds, pots and pans in the sink.

  A decorator had furnished this house. That was obvious. Stickley furniture, beautiful dark wood, hand-rubbed, covered with rich leather. Native American rugs were scattered over the hardwood floors. The art was a mixture of California plein air realistic landscapes, some of Walt's Central American pieces, African masks, a few abstract sculptures. It was all first-rate.

  Walt led his son on a quick tour. Living room, dining room, newly redone kitchen, big master bedroom and bath, nice study, the works. It was impressive. A house for people with taste and culture. And the money to spend making it so.

  Clancy didn't see the woman he had spotted earlier. She was making herself scarce deliberately, he was sure.

  The backyard was spacious. More lush grass, recently mowed and edge-trimmed. A fieldstone deck, furnished with Adirondack chairs and lounges and a wrought iron dining set, abutted the rear of the house. Deeper into the property there wa
s a barbeque area with a built-in range, a lap pool with an accompanying Jacuzzi, and at the far reaches of the property, a good-sized greenhouse.

  “Very impressive,” Clancy said admiringly. “Who's the gardener?” he asked, pointing at the greenhouse. He griinned. “Have you finally developed a green thumb?”

  Walt was notorious for never seeing a garden through a full crop. He had started half a dozen vegetable gardens over the years, but had always let them go fallow—he liked to plant, but then he lost interest. The zucchini and melons and tomato plants, so lovingly placed in the fleshly turned soil, would turn to weeds.

  “Not much,” Walt answered. “That was already here. Gives the place a Midwest touch, don't you think? Out here, you don't need it, the weather's good year ‘round. One of the earlier owners raised orchids,” he explained. “That's one of the few plants you need a hothouse for. Not my style, orchids.”

  They were bantering easily enough, but Clancy sensed an uneasiness coming from Walt, a reticence to open up about anything under the surface. That was understandable; they hadn't seen each other for almost a year, you don't jump-start deep feelings in an hour.

  It was good to see his dad, nonetheless. Clancy hadn't realized how much he missed him, and how hurt he was about Walt's turning his back on them.

  “Let's go inside,” Walt said, throwing an arm around Clancy's shoulder. “I'll buy you a beer.”

  They sat in Walt's spacious study, drinking Mexican beer from the bottle. Walt's desk was snugged up against one wall; adjacent to that was a block of poster boards covered with pictures of La Chimenea and other sites Walt had worked on. Archaeological volumes overflowed the bookshelves. It was the only room in the house that had any feeling like old times, Clancy thought; except there was nothing of the family. No pictures of his mother, or him and his brothers. It was as if Walt was forging ahead into a future that had no relationship to his past.