by Jill Barnett
But nowhere in that crowd below her did Laurel see a tall, handsome man in a lemon yellow shirt. He had disappeared as if he had never existed. And for her, he didn’t exist. Not really, because she didn’t even know his name.
Los Angeles, CA
Victor checked the clock on his desk, stood—his foot on a floor button that buzzed his secretary—and effectively brought the magazine interview to an end. The interviewer’s questions had just gone in a direction he disliked. “I have another appointment.”
“But I have more questions, Mr. Banning . . . Victor. It’s only five thirty. You know this is our cover story?”
Victor laughed at him. “I wouldn’t be talking to you if this weren’t your cover story.”
The door to his office swung open and his secretary recited, “The car’s waiting, Mr. Banning. You’re running late.”
The journalist still sat there, a tape recorder on the arm of the chair and a shiny Italian pen in hand. He wore a clipped beard and his dark, curly hair in a ponytail, which fell halfway down the back of a five-hundred-dollar suit.
Victor came from behind his desk. “I see I’ve reduced you to silence, which is best. We don’t speak the same language, son.” He left the young man juggling his pad and recorder, stammering for him to wait, and headed down the hall toward his private elevator.
The article would label him a corporate villain. At his center he was a hardscrabble oilman born in a boom-or-bust era, and the polar opposite of a journalist out to cauterize enterprise and whose radical point of view smacked of being all too trendy. An ill-fitting sobriety emanated from men like him, a languidness in the face of the real and vital things that changed the world around them.
That reporter’s Berkeleyesque scorn was detectable even when cloaked by a professional voice. With high degrees from expensive schools, his kind persuaded courts to stop the building of freeways, put hundreds of people out of work, boondoggled, and stopped progress to save a damned frog. Victor could have respected them if they were actually doing it for the frog, but men like him were faux avant-garde—the ultimate luxury for those who already had everything.
Victor and men of his ilk made things better for everyone: gas stations with car washes and streets fitted with drains so they wouldn’t flood; tax dollars that fed the public schools and highways, and opportunity for golden equity in land and homes with values that rose monthly.
Later, at home, he took an overly long shower—an attempt to wash off the grit of an interview that implied what he had accomplished in his life was all wrong. His annoyance was difficult to shake off. The seeds of it stayed with him even as he traveled north along the 405, Harlan at the wheel of his Bentley.
In the distance, covered in a green veil of haze, were the rolling hills connecting San Pedro to Palos Verdes. Victor could remember those hills when they were just purple wildflowers, waist-high mustard, and a crumbling Spanish hacienda with its scattering of guest ranches, land deeded before California was ever a state. Now streets with expensive homes cut along those hillsides, looking as pronounced as veins on the arm of a growing economy.
It was change. It was good. So he told himself he didn’t mind articles written about men like him—a generation hungry for success and power, winners who carried with them accomplishment and the pride of building something out of nothing, instead of making a brouhaha out of nothing in order to sell magazines.
Lately he’d been the topic of too many articles, and the human interest ones made him clam up faster than today. Perhaps he was annoyed now because he’d had a touchy interview for Look six weeks ago. Newspapers and magazines sent women reporters for human interest stories, armed with his family history and seeking an angle that was lonely, silly, and romantic—something his life was anything but.
Victor had been married twice and in love only once. He’d worked most of his life, hardest when he had a wife and young son. Anna died with no warning, and he couldn’t remember crying for her, a woman forbidden to him whom he’d married after a long chase.
His son was a stranger, barely three when he buried Anna. Victor remembered thinking he had nothing in common with Rudy other than bone and blood and the same last name. His son cried every time Victor came home—took one look at him and ran away, disappearing for hours in some nook of the monstrous Pasadena house that belonged to his wife’s family.
The day Victor found his son cowering in Anna’s closet symbolized their dismal relationship: the father who had been locked in a closet and his son who sought refuge in one. It was a long time before Rudy could sit in the same room with him, longer still before he accepted that Victor was the man who fathered him.
Victor had spent his childhood fighting for acceptance. Not even for his son would he fight for acceptance again. Soon he recognized in his own son’s expression his father’s look of failure. He and Rudy were doomed from the start. The Banning curse had skipped a generation, and nothing Rudy ever did changed Victor’s opinion that he was a weak young man, destined for nothing. The only thing his son ever had the strength to do was walk away from Victor and stay away.
The second wife also walked away from Victor, and he never regretted that. She was a convenience—she’d done the chasing. The women and marriages, even the affairs were long gone, and he was left now with his only progeny, Cale and Jud.
The radio phone between the car’s seats rang, his attorney calling with news. “Jameson’s kid agreed to sell the painting.”
Victor didn’t move. “How much?”
“Half a million.”
“Cut the deal,” Victor told him in a voice more even than he actually felt. To finally win was almost a physical thing, live and sweeping through him like some kind of drug. “Any word on the other pieces?”
“That Seattle gallery claims they’ve lost track of the client.”
“Then we need to find the client.”
“No one will release the name, Victor. It’s been thirteen goddamn years and I can’t even buy that name out of those people.”
“Raise the offer another quarter of a million,” he added. “And the commission another ten percent. That ought to prod somebody to locate who bought those paintings.”
After making arrangements for delivery, he hung up and rested his head against the back of the seat while Harlan turned the car into the Loyola parking lot. In an instant so real he would never be able to explain it, Victor caught a whiff of Arpege and sat forward sharply. On the seat across from him were the images of his son and daughter-in-law, an echo of another time and clearer than any memory should be; they held hands. Rachel was pregnant and Rudy didn’t look like a failure.
“The game’s already started.” Harlan opened the back door.
The images across from Victor evaporated in the overhead glare of parking lot lights, but what they represented stayed with him and made him pensive and touchy. Once inside the gym, they took seats in the middle of the crowded bleachers. By 9 P.M., Loyola was losing, so Victor sent Harlan to get the car and stood hidden in the shadows of the bleachers.
He watched Cale trot down the basketball court, weaving in and out of the other players with long-legged agility and a sure-footedness that helped him score three points. With that single basket, the energy in the gymnasium changed. The crowd noise grew louder; they were on their feet. The university band began to play with the crowd clapping and singing, “Down on the corner . . . out in the street.”
Rudy had played basketball, too, but was never good enough and spent his games mostly on the bench. Victor could have missed every game and it wouldn’t have mattered.
But this game changed in under five minutes. Dorsey cut quickly, stole the ball, dashed past his opponent, his grin as big as the sections on the basketball. Then he became all business and shot the ball in the opposite direction, right to Cale, who let the ball fly. It arced through the air, then hit the rim with a deep thud, bounced, and went straight up in the air.
Nothing moved in that gymnasium
but the ball. It came down on the rim, swirled around and around. On the edge of defeat or victory, players jumped up, arms reaching for the ball. The ball fell into the net and the white numbers on the scoreboard flipped: 89-87 Loyola.
Pom-poms flew into the air and the university cheerleaders tumbled across the wooden floor. The crowd cheered and stomped their feet so loudly you could barely hear the time buzzer. Players and coaches swarmed all over one another, and a teammate ripped Cale’s jersey in two and ran around him, holding the torn piece with his number, twenty-three, high in the air. They shouted, “Banning! Banning! Banning!”
Victor didn’t know he was smiling. He felt something he couldn’t ever remember feeling for Rudy.
Maybe a hundred feet stood between Cale and him. They hadn’t spoken since Christmas. He placed one foot in front of the other, closing the distance.
“Cale!” An attractive young blond girl raced down from the bleachers and across the court, her ponytail flying, her long tanned legs running straight toward the knot of Loyola players. She wore a Mount Saint Mary’s sweater and flip skirt, and flung her arms around Cale, who caught her and spun her around, laughing as she kissed his cheeks.
Victor stopped, unable to move forward. Another girl he can throw his future away on. Cale hadn’t learned a thing from last year, from any years. Victor turned away in disgust and walked out of the gym without looking back. He wasn’t there when Cale set his roommate’s girlfriend down and tugged affectionately on her ponytail. And when Cale slung a towel around his sweaty neck and looked around the gym for the one person in his life to whom winning was everything, Victor was already on his way home.
7
Catalina Island, California
The Island Theater was housed inside the old casino and always busy on the weekends, so Laurel studied the coming attractions on posters lit with small strings of Hollywood lights. A group of girls her age joined the back of the line, chattering. Shannon worked part-time at her mother’s shop, so Laurel stepped out of line and moved toward them, then waited for a pause in their conversation. She tapped Shannon on the shoulder. “Hi.”
“Laurel. Hi. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“I’m home for spring break.”
Shannon introduced her, then said, “The town’s going to be really crazy. Spring break always is. The beach gets packed. The bars. Guys and girls all over the place. Parties in the hotels. It’s pretty wild. You haven’t been here for Easter yet, have you?”
Laurel shook her head. “I’m not here much anyway, because of school. Just some weekends and holidays.”
“Laurel already graduated.” Shannon explained to the other girls. “She goes to cooking school in LA. What’s that place called again?”
“Pacific Culinary Institute.” The school was one of only three in the country that offered Cordon Bleu courses and certificates. The classes were small, tuition steep, and they accepted only one out of every few hundred applicants. The administrators and internationally famous instructors there would have cringed at the phrase, “cooking school.” One of them could easily have waved a boning knife under poor Shannon’s nose and said, “Culinary institute. Cooking school is for the people who work at Denny’s.”
“You want to be a cook?” one of the girls asked, as if Laurel were nuts.
“I want to be a professional chef.”
“Like the Galloping Gourmet?” One of them giggled.
Shannon gave the girl a pointed look, but Laurel laughed. “Graham Kerr is a good chef.”
“Why would you want to be a chef? You’ll have to work in a hot kitchen, just to cook food for other people? Why not just be a housewife?”
“Ouch!” someone said. “That wasn’t nice, Karen.”
“Well, I mean, isn’t that like being some kind of glorified slave?”
Shannon punched Karen in the arm. “I wouldn’t talk. You said you wanted to be a nurse. I’d rather cut vegetables and take out the garbage than change sheets, give sponge baths, and clean bedpans.”
“You don’t meet cute doctors in a restaurant kitchen.” Clearly Karen had a plan.
At the box office, Laurel paid her admission and stepped aside, waiting for them. They bought their tickets, then the girls looked at her and at Shannon.
“Well, we’re going inside now,” one of them said.
“Do you mind if I tag along?” Laurel spoke to Shannon. A couple of the girls exchanged strained looks. Karen stared pointedly at Shannon. It was one of those long moments of telling silence and Laurel felt awful, but she kept a plastic smile on her face.
“Sure,” Shannon said without much enthusiasm. “Come on.”
The lobby was crowded and the concession counter hummed with activity, surrounded with the crackle of popcorn popping, the hollow rattle of ice in an empty cup, and the whirring of the drink dispenser. It smelled like popcorn and hot dogs and Laurel was hungry almost instantly. A pack of local boys joined them and swept the girls toward the counter. Laurel ordered Coke, popcorn, and Butterfingers, and when she turned around, the two groups had all paired off. Five boys. Five girls. And her. While the others were talking, she edged her way to Shannon and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know we were meeting them.”
“I’ll just ease away. I don’t mind sitting alone,” she lied.
“No,” Shannon grabbed her arm and turned to her boyfriend. “Jake? This is Laurel Peyton. I work for her mom.”
He seemed genuinely nice and before she could sneak away, he introduced Laurel to the other boys. She made some lame excuse and turned to leave, but they stopped her.
“You can’t sit alone.”
The girls weren’t happy. She wasn’t alone, but a few minutes later, when the heavy red curtains parted and the lights dimmed, she decided even sitting alone would have been better than sitting in the middle of a long row of seats with snuggling couples on either side of her.
M*A*S*H flashed on the screen, and by the time Sally Kellerman was nicknamed Hot Lips, the couple on her right was making out. Laurel set her Coke down and bumped into Karen’s knee. “Sorry.”
A boy’s hand closed over her thigh. Karen’s boyfriend had the wrong girl’s leg. She removed his hand, but they shifted positions and now were leaning on her arm. On her other side, Shannon was locked in a long, deep kiss with her boyfriend. Hunched in the center of her seat, surrounded by lovers, Laurel shoveled handfuls of popcorn into her mouth, ignoring the soft whispers and moans next to her.
The film suddenly fluttered over the screen, then snapped off. The audience groaned and everyone sat in the dark. The lights came on and the manager came out to a round of boos. “Sorry. Sorry. The film’s broken, so there will be free passes for everyone at the box office. But don’t leave your seats. We will be showing Love Story.”
The audience clapped and whistled as the lights dimmed and Ryan O’Neal stood on the huge screen. Both Laurel and her mother had watched every single episode of Peyton Place, her mom always joking that they had to be loyal to the name.
Laurel settled into her seat with the jumbo Coke, the tub of popcorn, and the huge yellow box of Butterfingers to hold on to instead of a boyfriend’s arm. Instead of being in a romance, she would watch one, forced by lousy luck to dream of happily-ever-afters.
The camera panned in on O’Neal, sitting alone in the bleachers as he said, “What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?”
It seemed a cliché, a man sitting at a bar drowning his troubles. But bars supplied the perfect environment to beat yourself up for making stupid mistakes, so Jud was living the cliché in a small beachside bar in Avalon that night. The bartender whipped through drink orders and Three Dog Night blasted from the requisite jukebox in a smoky corner. Deep in the recesses of the place, couples played pool and drank.
In under an hour, the place had swelled with people until the noise level measured many decibels. Jud sipped the foam off a beer, trying to shut out the sa
ccharine song that was sending “joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea” and the obnoxious noise from a nearby table, where a group of college guys from UCSD were slamming back shooters and singing their college fight song in a key that didn’t exist. They acted as if the world was theirs. That kind of partying had lost its appeal before his third year of college. He felt suddenly old. Today he’d hounded after a young girl who was jailbait, and he’d managed to convince his grandfather he was a first-class fuckup. This morning he’d thought the world was his. Now he felt like the world had him by the balls.
Right after he’d left the company offices with his crushed pride and his tail between his legs, he’d wondered bitterly if what happened this morning was another way for his grandfather to manipulate him. Victor was happiest when he stirred up trouble. But now, when he wasn’t angry anymore, Jud knew Victor didn’t play games with his business deals.
Earlier, Jud had called his connections and scheduled a lunch for the next week, but he felt skittish about it. As much as he’d hated to hear the truth from his grandfather’s mouth, those men would not have welcomed him into their business ventures. He had been so full of himself, so glad to be accepted. He couldn’t see their motive anymore than he could see that the girl today was under twenty. Seventeen? Could have been real trouble there.
He stared into the bottom of his beer glass, still chewing over the mysteries of Victor versus Marvetti until he decided none of it was going to solve itself tonight. He scanned the place. Bars never seemed to change much, still smoky, still smelly, still one of the few places on earth where you could be in a crowd and feel completely alone. The empty summer house on the cove held more appeal for him than a smoke-filled bar, where too many college kids on spring break needed to let loose. He downed his beer, paid, and went outside, where he could breathe again.