A Song for the Asking

by Steve Gannon

  Although he didn’t arrive home until well after two, Kane was up early the following morning. After his customary workout on the deck he roused his family, then started preparing for the trip. By the time everyone joined him out front in the family’s red Chevy Suburban, he had already lifted Sam into the back, finished his second cup of coffee, and idled the engine long enough for the temperature gauge to have climbed to the center of the scale. “This has got to be the slowest family on the face of the damn planet,” he complained as Catheryn slid in beside him.

  “Honey, you really should try to watch your language,” she chided. “I listened in on a bit of your talk to the children yesterday morning, and although I generally agree with the content, I think you could set a better example in your choice of words.”

  “Oh, goodness gracious,” said Kane, thinking back. “How could I have uttered crudities like ‘crap’ and ‘damn’ around the tender young ears of my lily-white kids?”

  “You said ‘turd’ and ‘peckerwood’ too,” said Nate as he climbed into the rear with Sam.

  “‘Peckerwood’ isn’t a cussword. Everybody in?”

  “That’s right, Nate,” Allison noted from her spot in the backseat between Travis and Tommy. “Jesus used to say ‘peckerwood’ all the time. In fact, he used it repeatedly when he drove the money changers from the temple, along with the word ‘turd,’ I might add.”

  “Nate, that’s not true,” said Catheryn, shooting Allison a sharp look. Then, to Kane, “See what I mean?”

  “I have an idea,” Allison continued, ignoring her mother’s glower. “Instead of those dumb guessing games we usually play on trips, let’s see who can think up the most compound cusswords that Dad shouldn’t use anymore, in alphabetic order, starting with, say … asswipe.”

  “Buttbreath,” said Travis, catching on.

  “Chickenshit,” Tommy joined in.

  “Dickhead,” Nate giggled from the back.

  “E-nough,” ordered Kane, dropping the car into gear. “You’re upsetting your mother,” he added as he accelerated onto the highway, pulled into the center lane, and executed a smoothly coordinated U-turn that put them back on the road heading north. “Besides, if you’re cataloging all the cusswords I won’t be using in the future, I can tell you right now it going to be a mighty short list.”

  Kane pushed the speed limit, eager to leave Malibu behind as soon as possible. The road was still nearly deserted, but he knew Saturday traffic would soon begin building, with everyone from longhaired surfers to carloads of families from the valley jamming the highway to escape the heat of the city. Minutes later the Malibu pier flashed past on the left, followed by a steep climb to the broad, manicured lawns of Pepperdine University on the right. After that the road opened up, with the signs, restaurants, and shops of central Malibu quickly surrendering to a string of oceanfront homes set far back off the highway, hidden amid lush curtains of pampas grass, eucalyptus, and flowering shrubs.

  “Where are we headed?” asked Allison.

  “I already told you,” said Kane. “I have something planned in honor of Nate’s successfully making it out the old birth canal nine years back.”

  “Gross, Dad. I meant a destination.”

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  “Mom?”

  Catheryn smiled mysteriously. “Your father wants to keep it a surprise.”

  All the children groaned.

  “What’s this I’m hearing from the back?” asked Kane. “You don’t trust the ol’ dad?”

  “No!” the children screamed in unison. “Come on,” Tommy pleaded. “At least tell us how long it’s going to be.”

  Kane glanced up to find Tommy’s eyes in the mirror. “We’ll get there when we get there. By the way, that’s where you’re going to be working,” he said, pointing to a high bluff overlooking the ocean, where a number of partially framed structures stood silhouetted against the skyline. Travis and Tommy craned their necks for a better view.

  “Work. Gee, I can’t wait,” Tommy complained under his breath.

  “What’s that, Travis?” asked Kane. “Bitching about doing an honest day’s labor? Don’t worry, princess, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time left for piano plinking.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Travis protested hotly.

  “I know where we’re going,” Allison broke in to deflect the impending argument. “Solvang!”

  “Solvang?” Kane snorted. “Phony windmills and cutesy-pie shops sure as hell aren’t my idea of a good time. Guess again, petunia.”

  “We’re visiting Grandma in Santa Barbara,” Nate offered from the back.

  “Nate, seeing as how this is part of your birthday celebration, I guess I can tell you you’re getting warm.”

  “The zoo at Santa Barbara?” Tommy guessed.

  “Nope.”

  “How about Refugio State Beach?” asked Allison.

  “Now, that’s really dumb. We already live at the beach.” Kane pressed down on the accelerator. “No more guessing. I will say there are more than a couple hours of hard driving ahead, and we’ll be stopping for something to eat. In the meantime just settle back and enjoy the scenery.”

  Thirty minutes later they reached the Point Mugu Naval Air Station and shortly afterward entered the outskirts of Oxnard. There a patchwork of vegetable fields flanked both sides of the road, many already populated with lines of colorfully garbed stoop laborers who had started early to avoid the heat. Kane fiddled with the radio, which until then had been turned to a classical-music station. “Enough of this longhair stuff,” he said.

  “Could we stick to something soothing, Dan?” Catheryn requested.

  “No problem, Kate. A little soothing country music will be just the ticket.”

  “Anything but that,” said Catheryn in mock horror.

  “Yeah, come on, Dad,” Allison cried, immediately siding with her mother.

  “Yeah,” added both Tommy and Nate, jumping into the skirmish. Travis, still brooding over Kane’s earlier slight, remained silent.

  “You kids know what I think?” said Kane, feigning dismay. “I think your mom here is turning you into a bunch of snobs. Sure, she loves her music and plays it great, but you have to admit that classical’s not exactly topping the charts these days. Now, country music, for instance—”

  “Come on, Dan,” interrupted Catheryn. “You should be proud that your children are sophisticated enough to enjoy great art.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Kane laughed, deciding to stir the pot. “Spoken like a true highbrow. Let me tell you something, sugar. To my mind there are only five kinds of music worth mentioning: classical, pop-rock, elevator, jazz, and country and western—of which classical is definitely the most boring. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ll be the first to admit some of the old boys came up with a good tune or two—Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Schubert, for instance. But for the most part that kind of stuff is good for only one thing,” he added with a sidelong grin at Catheryn that belied his words. “Putting people to sleep.”

  “That’s incisive, Dad,” said Allison. “You should consider writing the music review for the Times. Don’t you think, Mom?”

  “I think your father enjoys jerking my chain once in a while,” Catheryn said patiently. “He knows perfectly well that most of the work he’s denigrating has stood the test of time, which is more than one can say for his country music.”

  “None of us here is going to stand your so-called test of time, so who gives a rat’s ass what they’ll be playing a hundred years from now?” Kane countered.

  “You said ‘ass,’ Dad,” Allison noted.

  Kane grinned again. “Allison, you and your mother can gang up on me all you want, but it won’t change the simple fact that she’s been playing classical music for so long, she can’t see the forest for the trees. Personally, I’d rather set my hair on fire and put it out with a hammer than listen to most of it.”

  “I would definitely like to see that,”
said Tommy.

  “Watch it, Tom,” Kane advised amiably, warming to the subject. “Now, where was I? Oh, yeah … pop-rock. I’m going to slide right past that, along with elevator music and jazz—none of which I consider worth discussing. Which brings us to the last category: country and western, the only kind of music worth listening to. It has clear lyrics a person can understand, tunes you can remember, and occasionally even has something to say about the human condition. Like the man said, ‘That’s my opinion, oughtta be yours.’”

  “I think that’s: ‘ … we’d like to hear yours,’’’ said Catheryn.

  “Well, I want to listen to some more classical,” said Allison.

  “Naw, what this trip needs is some Led Zeppelin,” Tommy jumped in. “Or maybe some jazz.”

  “Even elevator music would be better than country,” said Allison.

  “I see I’ve been tossing pearls before swine,” Kane noted dryly. “Okay, we’ll settle this fair and square. I’ll think of a number between one and a hundred. Whoever hits it gets to choose the station.”

  “Seven,” said Allison, going first.

  “Sixty-nine,” said Tommy.

  “Eighty-six,” Travis guessed, slowly breaking out of his funk.

  “A hundred,” said Nate, poking his head over the back seat.

  Catheryn glanced at her youngest. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Who can sleep with Dad talking?”

  “Good point,” said Catheryn. “Fifty.”

  “You’re all wrong,” announced Kane. “It was forty-two, my number when I played linebacker for USC. You should have guessed that one, Kate,” he added, turning the radio to K-Country, a Ventura station broadcasting 150,000 watts of pure country music twenty-four hours a day. With a satisfied grin, he cranked up the volume.

  “That’s not fair, Dad,” complained Allison. “You already knew the number.”

  “Tough,” said Kane, disregarding the grumbles from the back. “You guys can pick the next station when this one fades out, if it ever does. Now quit complaining and enjoy the music.”

  Forty-five minutes later, after a quick stop at McDonald’s in Ventura, Kane reluctantly slowed for traffic as they entered the outskirts of Santa Barbara. By then everyone had finished eating, and Catheryn gathered up the golden M-emblazoned remains of their meal—stuffing cups, straws, napkins, and foil wrappers into a trash bag she had brought along for that purpose.

  “Will you look at this place?” said Kane, glaring at the ubiquitous red-roofed homes blanketing the hillsides. “The mayor of this dump must own the tile factory.”

  “Hey, isn’t that where you and Mom spent your honeymoon?” asked Tommy, pointing to a large, single-story hotel with a series of outlying bungalows along the beach.

  “Yep. That’s the Miramar, all right,” Kane answered, recognizing the stately old hotel bordering the ocean. “What was the number of that bungalow we were in, Kate?”

  “Twenty-one,” Catheryn answered. “That’s one you should have remembered.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I do. I was just testing. Man, what a weekend. That first night—”

  “Dan!”

  “Don’t get ruffled, Kate. I was just going to say—”

  “Never mind what you were going to say,” Catheryn interrupted, reaching over to take his hand.

  Kane gave her hand a squeeze. “An unlikely pair, huh? Catheryn Erickson, innocent little music student …”

  “… and Dan Kane, big football jock on scholarship, doing his best to see how much hell he could raise before flunking out,” Catheryn finished.

  “Don’t take this wrong, Pop,” Allison interjected, “but what did Mom, uh …”

  “See in me? Hell, your mom had the hots for me right off the bat, only she didn’t know it. I just had to stick around long enough for her to recognize my good points.”

  “Good points? Like what?” Tommy asked. “Banging heads and kicking butt?”

  “Right,” Kane replied. “Care for a demonstration?”

  “Sure, Dad. Maybe later.”

  “Listen, kids,” Kane continued more seriously, “I know your mom likes to make our courtship sound like some ‘Beauty and the Beast’ tale, but we’ve been married a lot of years. That says something.”

  “Especially considering I still can’t stand you most of the time,” Catheryn laughed.

  “Hey, the ol’ dad never claimed to be perfect.”

  “No argument there. For once we’re in total agreement.”

  “Come on, Mom, tell us,” Allison persisted. “What made you like Dad in the first place?”

  “Yeah, Kate,” said Kane. “Was it my good looks, my dazzling wit, my sophisticated sense of humor, or was it simply just a case of pure animal magnetism?”

  Catheryn smiled at her daughter, ignoring her husband. “To tell you the truth, Ali, when I met your father, although I knew right away he had a good heart, there wasn’t much else about him I found attractive. Actually, the feelings I had for him were more like …”

  “Irritation? Revulsion? Disgust?” Allison giggled.

  “Watch it,” Kane warned.

  “Sorry, Pop,” said Allison. “Seriously though, Mom, there must have been something about dad …”

  Catheryn paused thoughtfully. “You know,” she said finally, “I think what I initially liked about your dad was his persistence. That, and discovering that despite what he leads people to believe, there’s a lot more to him than first meets the eye.”

  As the Suburban left behind the tiled roofs and avocado groves and eucalyptus stands of Santa Barbara, the Kanes settled back, the steady purr of the engine and the rush of wind in their ears. Gradually, fields of western buttercup and cow parsnip and cinquefoil and California poppies began to carpet the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains, with occasional pockets of larkspur, columbine, and thistle nestling like mist in the hollows, their colorful presence tracing the course of drainage channels like contour lines on a map. Lulled by the gentle rocking of the car, Travis drifted in a limbo between languor and sleep, watching through drooping eyelids as the scenery flowed past, the land growing more feral with each passing mile. Allison slumped beside him, leaning against his shoulder, her eyes closed. The sound of Nate’s and Sam’s rhythmic breathing came from the back. Even Catheryn and Tommy seemed to have nodded off.

  At Gaviota, taking a tunnel cut through solid rock, the highway turned inland and ascended into the mountains. Scrub oak soon sprang up in isolated clumps of twos and threes, quickly thickening to dense stands that filled the canyon. Before long, ranches, open grazing land, and wilderness supplanted the coastal groves and farms that had earlier bordered the road, and as the car progressed north, the odd notion struck Travis that they were somehow traveling back in time, retreating through the Californian landscape toward a simpler, more elementary existence.

  Occasionally during the journey Travis had shifted his glance to the front of the car, secretly studying his father. Now, watching the way Kane’s large hands held the wheel and the tireless manner his eyes searched the road ahead, it occurred to Travis that his father’s entire being, even while performing a task as rudimentary as driving a car, spoke a language of decisive action, of obdurate resolution, of uncompromising force. For him there existed no confusing shades of gray.

  As the rest of the family slept, Travis leaned forward, resting his forearms on the seat in front. “Dad?” he said, as usual slightly uncomfortable to be talking one-on-one with his father.

  “Um,” Kane replied absently.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You just did.”

  “I mean something else. Something serious.”

  “It’s natural, Travis. It’s called a period. Don’t worry about it; all the gals get ’em.”

  “Come on, Dad …”

  “Okay, Trav. Shoot.”

  “I know you don’t think much of classical music, but how would you feel if I wanted to study it in college? Mom says they
have a great music department at USC, and—”

  “Hold on right there.” Kane glanced over at Catheryn. Satisfied that she was asleep, he lowered his voice and continued. “Look Travis, classical music is just fine as a hobby, or when you’re trying to get your date in the mood, or maybe even to enjoy as one of the finer things in life—but a career? Hell, look at your mom’s friends. Almost all of them bitch about their jobs, if they have one. They’re narcissistic and snobbish, for the most part, and worst of all, most of them are barely getting by financially—which is nothing new in the music world. I’d rather see you get off your ass and get something real going for yourself than having you spend four more years plinking away on the keyboard. And USC? With your grades?”

  “My grades aren’t bad,” said Travis defensively. “I get mostly A’s and B’s.”

  “Two years back you got C’s in both math and history, and last year you got another one in English,” Kane pointed out. “Plus your grade-point average has slipped the past three years running—3.50, 3.44, and a 3.30.”

  Travis, who had long ago ceased being surprised by his father’s seemingly photographic memory, said nothing.

  “That’s not nearly in the scholarship category, and that’s what we’re talking about here, if you’re setting your sights on USC,” Kane went on. “When Tommy was your age, he already had football scouts sniffing around. What have you got planned in that department?”

  “I … I don’t know, Dad,” Travis stammered. “But isn’t the idea in life to find something you love, really love, and then do it?”

  “Don’t believe the baloney you see in the movies,” Kane replied. “Life isn’t art, Travis. If you’re poor, you’re miserable. Besides, I wonder about you and music. Your mom’s always kicking your butt to practice lately. Do you love playing the piano? Really love it? Is that what you honestly want to do with the rest of your life?”

  Instead of answering, Travis wrestled silently with his thoughts, amazed that his father had somehow sensed his doubts. Unlike his siblings, who to Catheryn’s disappointment had shown little musical ability, technique had come easily for him. At the age of three he’d begun sounding out songs and themes picked up from watching TV, effortlessly reproducing them on the piano. Shortly afterward Catheryn had begun his instruction, but by the time he turned six, he had far outstripped her abilities to teach him on the keyboard. Certain he had the makings of a prodigy, she’d subsequently arranged for him to continue studying with Alexander Petrinski, one of her colleagues at USC.