by R. L. Fox
“Did you say red diary, Mr. Christie?”
“Nothing fancy. Wasn’t lockable. I had her name put on the cover, in gilt letters. I believe it was placed with her remains, that’s why I didn’t mention the diary before.”
“Thanks, Mr. Christie.”
“I do wish you’d stay in touch, Daniel. Come see me.”
“Sure, Mr. Christie. Will you tell me more about my mother?”
“Yes, son. And we can discuss your college plans as well.”
The time to speak with Julie about the diary is long overdue, I tell myself. I’ll try to catch her alone as soon as possible. In the meantime I’ll drive to the beach and check on Devon. I feel a burning obligation to do so. But first I’ll pay a visit to Mr. Bingham and get the key to my grandma’s apartment.
Next, I phone Sarah.
“Hello?”
Mrs. Hartford’s soft, cultivated “Hello” is alive and attentive. I like Sarah’s mother; she seems nice. But I find disagreeable the idea of my father with her. I’m definitely against their getting married, if it ever comes to that, because I want Sarah, not as my sister, but as my girlfriend.
“It’s Daniel Rosen, Mrs. Hartford. May I speak with Sarah, please?”
“Hello, Dan. How are you?”
Before I can reply, Mrs. Hartford says, “Just a moment. Sarah’s upstairs.”
A few seconds pass and Sarah says, “Hold on, Daniel.” Her tone of voice seems different, a trifle dispirited, unlike her usual bubbly, joyful voice and that sends shivers through me.
“Bye, Mom,” I hear. Then, “I’m back.”
“My grandma in Boston has paid for an apartment in Pacific Beach, where she used to stay when she visited in summers past, but she’s not coming this year. She said I could use the apartment until the end of September.”
“That’s great, perfect. I’ve missed you.”
“There’s a lot on my mind. I’m going to see the apartment tonight, moving to the beach actually.”
“I want to go with you, Daniel,” Sarah says determinably.
“All right. Tomorrow. Ask your mother and I’ll call back.”
“No, you don’t understand, I’m running away and it was hard to decide before, but just now when you told me you were going to live by yourself something happened inside of me and I can’t stand the thought of being without you much longer.”
“Sarah, you’re fifteen. That’s crazy. What about your mother?”
“I care about my mother. But I’m confused, Daniel. I need you with me. I need your help, as my closest friend. My mom will be back in a few minutes, but yes, the day after tomorrow, Friday, she’ll be gone all afternoon.”
“What if I pick you up then, we go someplace, talk, and I take you home again?”
“That won’t work, Daniel. I told you, I’m running away and you can’t stop me. I have enough money to stay in a motel. If you won’t help me, I’ll just take the bus to the beach, Mission Beach, by myself and see what’s—”
“All right, all right. I’ll pick you up Friday afternoon, one o’clock. But we’ll have to figure something out. You can’t simply run away. There’s the police and—”
“Oh, yes I can, you just watch me. I’ll be waiting on the front lawn, with Manny. I love you, Daniel. Bye.”
I walk outside, into the front yard and sit down on the porch steps. The air is warm. To the northeast, a few thunderheads converge over the mountain.
Sarah’s words, “I love you, Daniel,” gnaw at me, sort of like the words of the drunken man that troubled Oedipus, drove him to consult the Delphic Oracle.
I have no oracle to consult, but I decide as I drink in the beauty of the limitless blue sky, to confide in Sarah, to tell her the truth about my father.
Then I whisper to myself, “I love you too, Sarah,” and I begin to sing, softly, “I’m Yours,” by Jason Mraz.
15
Sarah
Wednesday evening, August 6
Coronado Island
“I sure wish my dad was here,” I tell Manny. “Just as everything in my life is getting better, like Daniel kissing me, and having my period after waiting so long, I have to find out that my mother has betrayed me for my entire life. Have you ever felt like you’re running very fast, just to stay in the same place, Manny?”
Manny stops pacing back and forth across the pink quilt on my bed. He cocks his head and looks at me with one eye. “If you’re going to run away, kid, take me with you.”
I’m sitting up in bed, my head resting on a pillow against the headboard. I’ve been writing things about Daniel in my diary. “If my dad were here,” I explain to Manny, “I might not have to run away. He would know how to fix things. As it is, though, it’s hard to believe the foundation of trust with my mom that I’ve been building since infancy has suddenly crumbled into dust.”
“You’d better tell your dad about this, kid. Running away from home is no small thing.” Manny begins to pace again.
“I have to be with Daniel, I just have to,” I say. “I’ll be counting the hours until he picks me up tomorrow. And yes, of course, Manny, I’ll take you with me.”
I pick up my diary and start to write. “Dear Dad, I have so much to tell you. First, guess what!?!? Daniel kissed me. What a strange feeling!! Don’t worry, he’s very chivalrous. He would never take advantage of me. Anyway, Mom and I went to visit Frank and Daniel, and Daniel and I went hiking on Rattlesnake Mountain. He showed me the yoni stone of the Kumeyaay Indians, which was once used for their fertility rituals. We went to Daniel’s hiding place, his cave, and I read him a poem. Then he kissed me. He’s a marvelous kisser, by the way.
“And guess what else!! I finally got my period. Yes, I’m using Kotex pads and everything. It’s wonderful. I suppose I’m well on my way to becoming a woman now. I emailed all my friends from school right away.
“Are you ready for the bad news, Dad? I found out today that Mom has betrayed me since before I was born. I mean she intended to betray me but she really hasn’t. Let me explain. Today Mom told me (and don’t take this wrong, Dad, because I know it’s not true, well, not all of it) that Frank is really my father, that she had an affair with him the night before you guys got married.
“I am aware that you already know about this, Dad, but what you don’t know is that it isn’t true. I mean the affair part is true, but not the part about Frank being my father. I feel it inside, intuitively that you are my father and Daniel is not my brother. That’s what I believe, and that’s what I’m going with. But it was kind of a shock to know that Mom betrayed me for all these years on purpose.
“The last thing I have to tell you today, Dad, is that I’m running away from home, with Daniel. He’s moving into his grandma’s vacant apartment at the beach, and I’m going with him. He’ll pick me up tomorrow. Daniel is reluctant to help me run away, but I sort of forced him into it. So please don’t think unkindly of him. I’m pretty sure Mom didn’t intend to introduce me to Frank when I came home early from school last Friday. Maybe she would have wanted to later, but not then. There was that betrayal, and now this. I have to get out of this house, Dad, for a while at least, to think. After that, I don’t know.
“On the bright side, I’ll be with Daniel. He’ll help me get through this, I’m sure. I have to go now, because I think I’m going to cry. I miss you, Dad. Love, Sarah
“P.S. I’m taking Manny with me.”
I close my diary, look at Manny, and the teardrops begin to roll down my cheeks. But then I tell myself, C’mon, there’s no use in crying like this. Stop it this minute.
And I do.
16
Daniel
Wednesday evening, August 6
PB, Mission Beach, OB
It’s close to eight p.m. when I arrive at the two-story, twelve-unit apartment complex on Turqoise Street in Pacific Beach. The small parking lot is full; I park my Mazda on a side street.
What am I going to do, I’m wondering, about Sarah’s plans to live
with me? Where does she get such grandiose ideas?
Carrying a worn gray suitcase I’d found in the garage at The Gables, I circle the swimming pool and locate the manager’s apartment. The night air is warm and heavy, salt-scented. The Pacific Ocean is only a few blocks west.
Mr. Bingham, an elderly man who looks as if he’s been assembled with pickup sticks, all angular limbs like a preying mantis, opens the door and glares at me. He wears wire-rimmed spectacles. “What is it?” he says annoyingly. Then, peering through the screen, he recognizes me. “Oh, it’s you, Dan. Sylvia said to expect you, but I thought you would have come weeks ago.”
Outside, Mr. Bingham leads me up the stairs to the second floor. “This is a respectable place. We have a few rules. No parties or loud noise, and no girls, you know the kind I mean, in and out at all hours, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you ... the rules for using the pool are posted. Goodnight.”
I let myself into the apartment and switch on the lights. It’s a studio apartment, and it’s tiny, but it’s mine—until the end of September, anyway. In the living room there’s a sleeper sofa, coffee table, end table and TV. I think about attaching a mezuzah to the doorway. But does my Jewishness really matter? The traditional law of patrilineal descent says my father isn’t even Jewish because his mother was a gentile, a Catholic.
I place my suitcase on the sofa and open it. I figure I’ll unpack later, while watching the David Letterman show on the Zenith flat screen. I change into a clean shirt, my 501 Levi’s and my brown boots. I decide to go first to The Palace, look for Devon. If J-man’s there, Devon will be with him.
As I drive west on Mission Boulevard, I try to remember where I’ve seen a Jack-in-the-Box. A cheeseburger with fries sounds good, and I don’t have much money. I definitely need a stake of some sort; my father will surely cut me off completely now that I’m moving to the beach. I’ll have to find a job soon.
I turn on the radio and begin to sing along with Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep,” perhaps my favorite song of hers.
I stop singing when, as I’m passing a side street, I see a woman in a red dress stumble and fall to the pavement.
Braking hard, I pull into a 7-Eleven, and then I run back to the side street. The woman is face down on the pavement, a dozen or so red roses scattered around her. One white high-heeled shoe has slipped off her foot.
I kneel beside her. “Are you okay?” I look around to see if I might be able to summon help. Apparently, the woman is unconscious. From which house had she come? I put a hand on her shoulder and turn her over; in the Army I’d been trained in first aid, including mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She’s an attractive lady, glamorous-looking but rather old, thirty-five or forty. Her light-brown hair is tied in a bun held taut with a pink ribbon.
She stirs, and I start. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
The woman raises her head and braces herself with her arms as though she might stand. With eyes half-open, she looks at me. I smell alcohol on her breath.
I help her to her knees, and then to her feet. She wobbles, so I put an arm over her shoulder. She leans on me as we walk slowly to the curb, where I sit her down. I pick up her shoe and the flowers and place them next to her. I stand by silently.
“Thank you,” she says, her words a little garbled. “I was going to hail a taxi.” She chuckles drunkenly. “Had a fight with my boyfriend; don’t want to go back to that party. They’re all as soused as me.”
“Where do you live, ma’am? Is there someone I can call?” Since I don’t own a cell phone, I’ll have to find a payphone.
“My car’s in Ocean Beach. Sunset Cliffs Boulevard. At my rental.”
“Is there someone there who can help you? Can you tell me how to get there, exactly?”
She nods, nonstop.
I have to make a decision: call the cops or take the woman to OB.
“Would you like me to drive you there?”
She’s smiling, trying to stand after putting on her shoe.
I arrange the flowers into a bouquet. She leans on me again as we walk to my car. I open the door and let her slide into the prone position across the back seat, all the while trying not to stare at her bare thighs.
I take the beach route, Mission Boulevard, drive past Belmont Park and observe the giant roller coaster I’d enjoyed so often with Liz, in times gone by.
On Mission Bay Drive the woman suddenly sits up. I catch sight of her face in the rearview mirror. She appears bleary-eyed, and her hair is frightfully disheveled, sticking out from her head like wet hay. But the fresh air seems to be helping to sober her up.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask. She couldn’t have been out for more than ten minutes.
She’s quiet for a moment, and then she says, “Who are you?”
“Daniel Rosen. I found you back there in Mission Beach, lying in the street.”
“Yes, of course, I remember.” She sighs audibly. “My name is Madeline. I don’t know how to thank you for saving me; my head is pounding so hard I can’t think straight.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m only giving you a ride home.”
“Not home, honey, that’s Malibu Canyon. I’ve rental property here, come down for parties. I was staying in La Jolla and loaned my car and, oh dear, I want to make this well worth your trouble but I’ve left my purse at Gerald’s. He was giving the party. Most everyone was from LA, you know. Do you smoke grass?”
“No, but some of my friends do. Been trying to get it together for quite some time, so I never tried pot.”
“You’re kind of cute and I’d like to do you a favor, lay an ounce of quality weed on you, grown in Humboldt County, when we get to my rental. Oh, turn right, here.”
Instead of turning onto Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, I continue along Mission Bay Drive and head towards The Palace.
“If you’ll bear with me while I make a brief stop,” I say, “I’m interested, but I have to see a friend first.” This is my golden opportunity, I am thinking. The stake I need.
“Sure thing, kid.”
If J-man wants to buy the pot, I can make at least six hundred dollars in no time. It’s the only way I’ll accept Madeline’s gratuity because I don’t want to carry the pot in my car for any longer than it takes to drive back to The Palace. With the money I can get an iPhone and live decently while I’m looking for a job. There’s some risk involved, but it’s minimal.
Inside The Palace, a converted warehouse, I see sexy chicks in short dresses everywhere: mulling along walls filled with film posters, talking animatedly at tables or browsing expensive jewelry in the retail shop. Couples on the strobe-lit dance floor are totally grinding on each other.
The club glitters and rocks like some royal residence the night after a young prince finds the woman of his dreams, the goddess who will become his princess.
I’d been inside for five minutes, watching carefully for Liz or David, or both, God forbid, when I spot J-man sitting on a stool at the nonalcoholic bar. With his handlebar mustache and flattop hair, J-man, an ex-marine in his fifties who served in Vietnam, stands out like a regular guy in a freak show.
J-man sees me, nods and gives a wide grin. We shake hands in a brotherly manner, the clasping of thumbs and wrists. I take a seat on J-man’s right, so we can talk during music breaks and, more importantly, so I can watch the house blues band, With Feeling, as it belts out tunes like “Ain’t Misbehavin’” and “Blues in the Night.”
After a brief discussion about Devon, while the band plays “A Mess of Blues,” a tune performed by Elvis Presley in 1960, J-man stands and follows me outside, to the dirt parking lot. We stand next to J-man’s chopped Harley.
“Far fucking out, baby,” says J-man, smiling wickedly. “I heard you was in Afghanistan. I had some really good hashish from there once. Too bad you don’t smoke shit. I’m lookin’ for somethin’ extra good right now. This is perfect. That kinda quality usually goes for seven hundred or more a pop.”
“I point at my car, wh
ere Madeline waits. “I was hoping you’d front me the cash so I can get something going. I’m moving to PB, and I’m broke.”
After a serious, quietly thoughtful moment, J-man says, “You know I’m happy to do that, man. You’re one of the few people in this world I trust. If you can’t make it back tonight, I’ll be here every night this week. Don’t have anything better to do.” He chuckles loudly.
I smile. “Roger that.”
J-man takes from his pocket a huge wad of greenbacks, peels off six bills and hands them to me.
Just then, Devon approaches. “Hello, Daniel,” she says, anxiously, but without animosity, and licks her lips. She averts her eyes guiltily, as if she’s hiding something. She’s wearing a short sleeveless dress in magenta that intensifies her golden tan.
I remain silent. Devon looks nice, but I’m not fooled. Her eyes are a little too bright, the pupils dilated. She’s wired; I recognize the signs.
J-man breaks the ice. “Why don’t you take Devon with you to make the score, Daniel?”
“I’d love to go,” she says.
J-man places a hand on my shoulder and walks me out of earshot. “Get her out of my hair for awhile, man,” he says quietly. “I mean, Christ, why’d you have to go and upset her with that David and Liz thing? I know it’s the truth, but it was pretty cold.”
“I’m truly sorry,” I say. “I want to make it up to her.”
***
“Right here,” Madeline says. “There’s my car.”
I pull up in front of Madeline’s rental on Saratoga Avenue in OB, a large two-story Victorian. I park my Mazda behind Madeline’s new Jaguar XKE.
“Wait here,” she says.
Sitting in the half-light of the car, with Devon, I turn and look at her. “You’re on something, aren’t you?” I say, chagrined.
Devon smiles spitefully. “Someone at The Palace gave me a few lines of crystal last night. I was feeling sooo good. But I’m coming down. I want more. I need more speed. Can you get me some, Daniel?”
