Follow the Dotted Line

by Nancy Hersage

  Andy knew her son was used to firing off questions, as well as commands, to those in his employ, but it exasperated the hell out of her.

  “What’s this about, Mitchell?”

  “Never mind. Just bring him along.”

  “I don’t want to bring him along. Why should I?”

  “Melissa wants to talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Stop firing questions at me, Mother. It annoys the hell out of me. See you Friday.”

  As soon as Mitch hung up, Andy’s phone re-upped. Good, she thought. His most prompt apology ever!

  “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  It was Ian’s voice, as tentative as Mitch’s was cocksure.

  “Hi, honey. How are you?”

  “Good. Good. Fine. And you?”

  “Great.”

  “I’m between sets, but I wanted to give you a quick call to see if it’s okay to bring Annabelle with me.”

  Not sure what he meant, but feeling she should, she fished, “With you?”

  “To the funeral.”

  “Ah, hah,” she aspirated, involuntarily. “Mitch has told you his plan.”

  “Oh,” Ian whispered. “He hasn’t told you?”

  “Not in detail.” This awkwardness was Mitch’s fault, not Ian’s, so Andy moved to put an end to it. “Of course you should bring Annabelle. We’d all love to meet her. Are you two that serious?”

  Long pause. Dumb question. He wasn’t ready for it. She tried again. “So tell me how the story went when you told her.”

  Another pause.

  “I mean, the story about Dad and Tilda, remember? You wanted to tell her something funny because you said her family stories were so funny.”

  “Oh, yeah! She loved it. She really cracked up. I guess she’s heard a couple other black widow stories at the office but nothing with a burger box,” Ian said.

  “Really?” said Andy, who couldn’t imagine a group of government geeks getting off on black widow stories.

  “So has she found a way for you to avoid paying all those back taxes?”

  The frost on the ensuing silence made Andy’s ear hurt; she’d managed to say something stupid again!

  “Annabelle would never do that, Mother,” he said, protectively. “She’s a real professional.”

  The reproach sounded almost chivalrous coming from her unassertive son. Who knew that a relationship with an auditor could be so transformative? “Of course she is, Ian. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. And absolutely, bring her to the memorial service.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” he told her by way of a rapprochement. Then he made one of those nervous, throat-clearing noises and added dramatically, “You won’t regret this.”

  Not sure she had heard him right, Andy looked at her phone, then put it back to her ear. “That’s a peculiar thing to say, Ian.”

  “No, it’s not,” he said. She detected more than a little indignation.

  Where did that come from, she wondered. “I mean, why would I regret meeting your girlfriend?” she asked.

  “Because you’re always meeting someone’s girlfriend.”

  Okay, now he was sounding downright snippy. Evidently, this was leading somewhere, but Ian’s route to anything important was often so circuitous it was difficult to follow. “Are you talking about Mitch’s girlfriend?” she asked, taking a stab at the only target that popped to mind.

  “Girlfriends, Mom. He brings home a lot. I don’t.”

  “Umm. I guess that’s true.” Hell, that had been true for years. Why was he bringing it up now?

  “Soooo . . .” Andy let the word hang out there long and loose, hoping he’d pick it up so she didn’t have to.

  “So I just want you to know, I’m not wasting your time.”

  Oh my god, she thought darkly, why don’t I just hang up and let him call back in a year or two, when he’s ready to get to the point? “Ian,” she said with far more tenderness than she was feeling, “you seem to be angry about something.”

  “I am not angry, Mom.”

  “Wrong word. Let me try again. You seem to be more serious than usual.”

  “I am. I am very serious. We’re talking about a memorial service here.”

  “Yes. Yes, we are. And?”

  “And you don’t bring just anyone to a memorial service, Mother,” he pointed out. “Do you?” Those final syllables shot across the cellular signal with more force than any two words her youngest had uttered since childhood.

  “Oh!” said Andy, finally getting it. “Are you trying to tell me she’s—”

  Ian rarely interrupted anyone. He had a hard enough time completing his own thoughts. But this was a sentence he clearly wanted to finish for himself. “She’s the one, Mom,” he cut in. “Annabelle is definitely the one.”

  Chapter 27

  Take a Load off Fanny

  Never one to spare the food and spoil the chance to have a really good meal, Mitch ordered Indian takeout in excessive amounts and instructed his guests to gather round the pool with their curry-laden plates. Berkeley, who had all of her father’s smarts and none of his alpha-male combativeness, chatted amiably with everyone present, including her grandmother. It was a remarkable display of social graces by someone four years younger than Harley. Watching Berkeley in action, Andy hoped her nephew would pick up a few pointers. Then she noticed that Harley was so smitten by Melissa—distractingly dressed in leopard leggings and a denim miniskirt this evening—he was probably destined to remain graceless forever.

  Oddly, there was no mention of the funeral at dinner, but as soon as the biodegradable cartons were cleared, Mitch suggested he and his mother retire to smoke cigars, while everyone else did the dishes. Vaguely, Andy felt abandoned by the others, as if she had to face the lion in his den all by herself. She knew, as they all did, that Mitch would probably get whatever he wanted tonight because the sheer force of his wanting it would render any resistance, including his mother’s, absolutely exhausting.

  “Labor Day,” Mitch began.

  “Labor Day? But I’m not sure I can confirm your dad is, you know, dead by then,” Andy fumbled.

  “I thought you said you had no reason to believe otherwise.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Don’t you think if he were still above ground, you would have found him in Texas?”

  “Probably.”

  “And you didn’t, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Not a sign of him anywhere, right? Accounts closed. Phone terminated. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “But you’re still searching for …” Tilting his head to one side, he squinted, as if he couldn’t quite get his mother in focus. “What, exactly, are you searching for, Mom?”

  “You know.”

  “No, really. I don’t.”

  “I’m searching for the truth, Mitch.”

  She saw the cynicism creep into this smile. “Um hum. And how long do you imagine this is going to take?” he asked.

  She was finding it harder and harder to defend her reluctance to have the service.

  “Tell me, Mom, why do you have to make this so hard?”

  “I’m sorry, Mitch. Believe me, that’s really not my intention.”

  “Then would it really be so bad if we just go ahead and do this? Because as it turns out, Ian’s going to be in town playing at the Greek Theater on Labor Day. And that also works for Sam and Lil.”

  “You talked to the girls already?” Andy managed, weakly.

  “I didn’t want to waste your time, if we couldn’t all be here,” he said, “so I scoped things out. Everybody can make it. Long weekend. No school in Idaho, and Sam’s happy to take the kids out of nursery.”

  “All the kids are coming?”

  “Nice, huh?”

  “But how can everyone afford—”

  Mitch put his hand up to stem the flow of protest.

  “And now it’s about the money?”

  “Okay.
Okay,” she relented. “I’ll shut up now.”

  He lit a delicate, cigarette-sized cigar and handed it to her. “I think you’ll like this. Has a hint of chocolate.”

  Andy sat back and drew the vapor into her mouth. It tasted amazing. Mitch lit something that looked like a baseball bat in comparison.

  “I told each of them I’d send a little check to help out. I want everybody here. I really want to do this. More importantly, I really can. So let it go.”

  On her son’s prompt, Andy exhaled and wondered why everything, even her ex-husband’s memorial service, had to be cost-effective in her mind. The feeling was genetic, she was sure. At least two people in every generation of the Baders had been maligned as ‘penny pinchers,’ according to family lore. Proudly, often stupidly, Andy had carried that ignoble torch higher than anyone else among the baby boomers.

  “Thank you, Mitch. That’s really nice,” she told her son, successfully stifling her biopsychology and secure in the knowledge that Mark Kornacky himself wouldn’t have given a damn how much the plane fare cost his children.

  “Now about the music,” Mitch trotted on. “I’ve already decided which songs I want to go on the CD mix, but I’m not sure what kind of music to use for the service.”

  “There’s a service?”

  “Melissa’s going to handle the nuts and bolts of that. It frees me to concentrate on the music. You know, she’s pretty spiritual.”

  “Any particular denomination of spirituality?” Andy asked, both horrified and intrigued by the prospect of a service planned by The Impresario.

  “I just told her it had to be completely inoffensive.”

  Not ‘according to Scripture,’ not ‘meaningful’ or ‘moving,’ just ‘completely inoffensive,’ Andy mused.

  “What’s inoffensive?” she asked.

  He shrugged and puffed out a small, but surprisingly dense, smoke ring. “You know, no schmaltzy tributes to Dad’s character and no homilies about meeting up in the afterlife.”

  “You don’t think any of us believe in the afterlife?”

  “No idea. I just think Dad hasn’t spent that much time with any of us in this one,” he said. “Seems hypocritical to go on and on about getting together in the next. So I told Melissa to avoid the subject all together. Any objections?”

  Well, this was a bracing revelation, thought Andy, who had to admit she’d never seriously pondered her children’s attitudes toward the afterlife and wasn’t all that clear about where any of them stood. As a mother, she’d definitely put them off believing in hell. But she had been a real waffler when it came to heaven. Still was.

  “No. No objections,” she said.

  “The net and net is, I’ve decided to hire an acoustic guitar and singer for the actual service.”

  “Why hire a guitar player? Or singer? Just ask Ian.”

  “Nope. He’s part of the family,” Mitch said, firmly. “I’m not going to impose on him. I’ll find somebody worthy of his approval, I promise. But my question to you is, what was Dad’s favorite song?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I mean, a song that might be appropriate?”

  Andy drew a deeply disturbing blank. “I’m not sure.” She shuffled through the options. What music had Mark liked when she first met him? What had he listened to when the kids were young? What might he like now? “Tell me again what you’re asking.”

  “Let me put it this way. Are you okay with using a song from The Band?”

  Andy gave a careless shrug. “Why not? Did your dad like them?” she asked, a tad ashamed she didn’t know the answer herself.

  “Not all that much. But he loved this one cut. From the ‘60s. About somebody named Fanny. We used to sing it together in the car when he drove me to soccer. I thought maybe you knew why he played it all the time.”

  Andy didn’t. But she knew the song.

  I pulled into Nazareth, was feelin' about half past dead

  I just need some place where I can lay my head

  "Hey, mister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed?"

  He just grinned and shook my hand, "no" was all he said

  Take a load off, Fanny

  Take a load for free

  Take a load off, Fanny

  And (and) (and) you put the load right on me

  (You put the load right on me)

  “I think that’s perfect,” she said, imagining father and son half singing, half shouting the lumbering melody and strangely alluring lyrics in the Volvo station wagon, as they tooled down Ventura Boulevard.

  “Don’t suppose you know what the words mean.”

  “No. Do you?”

  Mitch shook his head. “I asked Dad one time.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said it was either about sex, drugs or redemption. He wasn’t sure which. And he didn’t care. He just loved to sing it.”

  It was the most uncontaminated memory Andy had ever heard Mitch recall of time spent with his father, and she felt a tear pool along the rim of her lashes. “I think it’s perfect,” she repeated, maneuvering to keep the excess emotional moisture out of her eyes and voice.

  “Good,” he said, seeming not to notice. “Then our work here is done.” He stubbed his cigar and stood up with an urgent, but unannounced, purpose.

  “It is?”

  “We’re running a little short of time. Melissa wants me to help her with Harley before you leave tonight.”

  Andy was struggling to follow this abrupt turn in conversation. “Help with Harley?” she asked, surprised and a little perturbed. “What does that mean?”

  “Think of it as career counseling,” Mitch advised, as if she needed his assistance in understanding Harley. “He seems to be riding some kind of vocational pendulum at the moment. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “Haven’t I noticed?” she repeated, instantly incensed. Who did he think the boy was living with? And what gave her bull of a son the right to go rummaging around in this particular china closet? “Have I noticed that I am living with a multiple personality?” she huffed. “Is that what you’re asking?”

  “Okay. Okay. I put that badly. Of course, you’ve noticed. Everyone has. All I meant to say is that Melissa and I know you’re having a hard time with him. And we thought we might be helpful. Somehow.”

  “How-how?”

  “It’s too complicated to explain. Just don’t worry about it.”

  “What? Are you taking over Harley now, too?” she blurted out, her voice cracking with convoluted emotion. “Have I managed to become irrelevant in this area, along with all the others?”

  Mitch realized he’d unintentionally hit one of his mother’s panoply of raw nerves and decided on an immediate withdrawal. “We just had this idea. And we wanted to try it, Mom. Don’t be so proprietary. Okay? Now I really gotta go.”

  This was what she both hated and loved about Mitch. He could be heartbreakingly helpful. He often was. But his incurable confidence in having a better solution to any problem, particularly hers, made Andy want to bare her teeth. Which she did. Fortunately, the intensity of her snarl was muted by the fog of tobacco spewing out of her mouth.

  “You presumptuous—,” she began mumbling through clenched bicuspids.

  “I know. I know. But you’ll thank me some day,” he said, cutting her off and nearly patting her on the head, then thinking better of that idea. “In the meantime, Berkeley is waiting to play Gin Rummy with you in the living room. We’ll take care of Harley in the sunroom.”

  The card game, along with the baby Buddha persona of her granddaughter, returned Andy to a state of near-calmness within half an hour.

  “You and Dad remind me of AP chemistry,” Berkeley said, after losing the second game in a row.

  “Did you just throw that last hand, Berkeley? So that I would win?”

  “You used to do that for me when I was little.”

  “You knew I let you win?”

  The girl smiled so sweetly that Andy actually ached a
little. “You knew I liked to win,” Berkeley said. “I know you like to win. Just returning the favor.”

  Andy smiled back. “Why do Mitch and I remind you of chemistry?”

  “Similarly charged atoms repel one another. It’s a law of nature, Grandma Andy. You can’t help upsetting one another.”

  “He doesn’t upset you?”

  “Sure. But I’m not like him, the way you are. I don’t compete for energy in the universe the way the two of you do.”

  “I nearly flunked chemistry,” Andy laughed. And, yet, it was the most apt description of her relationship with her elder son that she’d ever heard. “But you’re right, Berkeley. I guess we can’t help ourselves. Your deal, honey.”

  The girl shuffled the cards and distributed 13 to each of them. “Did you find out anything more about what happened to Grandpa Mark?” she asked.

  “A little,” Andy said, hoping to avoid a genuine discussion. “Nothing definite.”

  “Does Dad know you’re going to Big Bear this weekend?”

  Silent alarms sounded. Andy squared her shoulders slightly, as if this might help her fortify her position. “How do you know where I’m going this weekend?”

  Without comment, Berkeley drew from the pile and laid down three aces.

  “Harley said something to you. Didn’t he, Berkeley?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

  “Well, at least he swore you to secrecy. I know it may sound a little adolescent—present company excluded, honey—but I don’t think my kids would approve of the direction my research is veering. It’s a little melodramatic. Even I find it kind of crazy.”

  “Then why don’t you just stop? Do you think Grandpa’s still alive?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t think he died of natural causes,” Andy said with highly inappropriate candor to the 14-year-old sitting across from her. In for a dime, in for a dollar. “And that really pisses me off.”

  With the wisdom of the old soul Andy believed her eldest grandbaby to be, Berkeley declared, “Truth can be a dangerous goal, Grandma Andy. But it would be really epic if you nailed that palm reader’s ass.”

  Chapter 28

  A Dotted Line to Follow

  Whatever Mitch and The Impresario were up to, it involved giving Harley a brand new ‘do,’ which he sported without comment on the drive up to Big Bear the next afternoon. It was a little shortish, a little spikyish, and centuries removed from his Hassidic cut—or non-cut, to be more accurate. The new coiffure, along with the shedding of excess pounds, made him look years younger and irksomely cuter, Andy thought, despite the residual black-on-black pants and shirt. Melissa clearly had an eye for something in the boy that Andy couldn’t conjure in her wildest dreams.