I had no idea where the kids and I would end up when we left Chicago. We spent five months in Phoenix then moved on to Seattle. From there we went to Houston, Miami, Atlanta. The longest we stayed in one place was eleven months. I liked each city in its own way, but something always made me leave. Sometimes it was an omen, like the couple I caught a glimpse of at Pike Place Market in Seattle who I could have sworn were Amanda and Thorny. Other times it was just a hunch, a feeling that it was time to go, though I was always concerned that a sudden departure might make people suspicious. The kids whined a little when we moved but got over it quickly. When we came to Southern California, I promised myself I’d stop running. Elliot was seven, Sara just turning ten. I wanted to create a stable environment for them. Let them stay in school from one year to the next and hang on to the friends they made. I felt like I needed some stability for myself as well. I had become a good carpenter and had ideas about starting a contracting business of my own. I told myself I wanted to meet a woman I could connect with, someone I could trust, maybe even marry. But that was probably a lie.
Most of the women I met were single mothers, divorcées whose children went to school with Sara and Elliot. Virtually every woman had the same reaction when she found out I was a widower raising the kids on my own. She’d give me a look of pity and admiration, then fall all over herself making offers to help. Feel free to drop the kids off at my place anytime. Do you do your own cooking? I have some wonderful dishes I could teach you to make. If you ever need someone to talk to Sara about, you know, girl stuff… I never ceased to be astounded how a woman could be kind and predatory in the same breath. My first serious involvement was with a legal secretary in Atlanta. She had big blue eyes and a body that turned my brain to tapioca. Her husband had walked out on her when she was seven months pregnant, and she had to keep taking him back to court for child support. We started spending a lot of time together. Conversations came easily. She was a Braves fan and liked to go to their games. She and her daughter occasionally stayed over at my place for the night, which was a first for me. But she was in a hurry. She wanted to move in together and start making plans. I guess I was running from her as much as anything when we left Atlanta. I told her I had a great business opportunity in California that I couldn’t pass up, but she knew I was lying. She cried and said, I was hoping you’d be different. I said, I was hoping so too.
In the eight years the kids and I had been in California, I’d had three long-term relationships, but they all fizzled out. Sooner or later my girlfriend would tell me I just wasn’t there for her. She’d say she wanted to get closer but could feel me holding back. I didn’t talk about Lucy, but it wasn’t uncommon for a girlfriend to accuse me of being hung up on my dead wife. She’d say she needed something more from me. Like love. Commitment. I accepted the blame and didn’t fight back. Sometimes she’d suggest we go see a counselor, but I said I believed a relationship either worked or it didn’t, you couldn’t fix it by talking. Sooner or later she’d get frustrated and leave. I never asked her to come back. When she was gone I missed her the way I missed an old car, remembering the things I liked and forgetting the problems. I’d mope around for a month or two then start going on test drives.
My current girlfriend, Gwen, had been Elliot’s eighth grade math teacher. She flirted with me on parents’ night, but I waited till the school year was over before I asked her out. She was only twenty-nine, petite and sassy, and still believed in love.
I went in the house to call the pizza shop and check on my order for the graduation party. The man on the phone said the last batch had just gone in the oven; the delivery van would be there in twenty minutes. I stood by the open window in the kitchen. Out on the deck The Indolents segued into their theme song—a catchy rockabilly tune called “Unchained Malady.”
My girl’s depressed and anorexic,
I’m bulimic and dyslexic,
And we caught a little STD.
But we got shrinks and pills,
To cure our ills,
And we’re filming it all for MTV.
None of it was true, thank heaven. Ajit and Sara’s romance was famous for its melodrama, but they were great kids. He was a terrific soccer player and class valedictorian who would be going to Yale. Sara was yearbook editor and captain of the golf team. Seeing what other parents went through with their teenagers, I felt blessed. Sara and I were as close as a father and daughter could be. We bantered constantly, but it was all in fun. We liked to surf and golf and watch old movies together. We played fierce games of Scrabble and cribbage for penny a point. Most important, we talked. Sara confided in me and valued my advice—no topics off limits except Ajit and sex, which was fine with me. There was an unspoken trust between us. From the window I could see her laughing and dancing, the world at her feet. She was headed off to Stanford in the fall. I tried not to dwell on it, but I knew I’d miss her terribly when she left.
The Indolents finished their song and a cheer went up from the crowd.
Ajit bent toward the microphone. “Hey, all you high school grad-u-ates.” The cheer got louder. He savored the moment, then put up his hand. “All right, all right, the night is young. Let’s not get crazy.” There was a trace of Calcutta in his accent. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his dark, handsome face. “Now we’d like to slow it down a little. We have something new we’ve been working on. Something smoo-o-th and mellow.” He played a soft jazz riff. “But we need a real musician to come up here and help us out.”
I felt my heart catch, hoping.
Ajit looked to his left. Elliot walked across the deck slowly, oboe in hand, his eyes fixed on his feet. Ajit fluttered his handkerchief and bowed like a courtier. Whistles came from the crowd. Some of the girls called Elliot’s name, affectionate and teasing. The yard went quiet as Ajit checked the tuning on his guitar.
“This one’s by Elliot,” Ajit said. “It’s called, ‘Ask Me Later.’”
He played the same jazz riff, this time with more feeling. One by one the other members of the band joined in. The first notes from Elliot’s oboe were sweet and haunting, like a summons from an enchanted world.
Elliot was fifteen. He was tall and thin and shy, just finishing the ninth grade. Teachers said he was bright but unfocused. His schoolwork was sloppy and mediocre. Pressuring him didn’t do any good. He was never flip or defiant but had a quiet, stubborn streak. Sometimes it seemed as if he were completely self-contained. He had a few pals in school but preferred to be alone. Sara was his only real friend and confidante. Much as I loved him and knew he loved me, I felt like I was always reaching out for him and he was pulling away. He had no interest in sports. I stayed up half the night one time teaching myself one of his video games, but he didn’t want to play it with me. He enjoyed reading novels like Dune and The Lord of the Rings, but the oboe was his true calling.
When Elliot was in the fourth grade, a woodwind quartet gave a performance at his school. He came home and couldn’t stop talking about the oboe. He said it sounded spooky, like the desert at nighttime. I bought a used instrument and found a teacher to give him lessons. Within a year the teacher told me his potential was unlimited. The teacher said, It isn’t just the fact that he has perfect pitch and can memorize long, difficult pieces. His technique is so nuanced and mature. The oboe is like a fickle woman—you have to know how to read her moods. Otherwise, all you get is screeching and whining. He tutored Elliot for three years, then recommended a woman who was a professional oboist to help him get to the next level. Elliot studied with her for only a few months, then stopped going. He refused to say why. I couldn’t get him to try a different teacher or go back to the first. He wouldn’t join any of the youth chamber societies in the area or play in the school band. But he kept practicing, often as much as four hours a day. He had a stack of milk crates filled with sheet music, hundreds of cassettes and CDs. I bought him a high-quality tape player to record hi
s own work. He picked up a used flute at a music shop and started playing that too. Most of the time he practiced in his room with the door shut, but some nights he’d go out on the back deck, as if he were inspired by the moon. When I praised him, he’d just smile and shrug. He’d never write a piece and say, Hey, Dad, listen to this. It was almost as if the music was his way of keeping a diary, playing for himself alone. This song with The Indolents was the first time he had ever performed in public.
I eased out the side door of the house. I wanted to find some inconspicuous place in the yard where I could watch him play. As I started to walk around the side of the house, a car pulled into the driveway. It was Gwen with the cake, late as usual.
“Hey, darling,” she said, slamming her car door. “I had to—”
I tapped my lips with my fingertip. Gwen’s eyes lit up when she heard the sound of the oboe coming from the backyard. She stood on her tiptoes and gave me a kiss.
“This is amazing,” she whispered. “Did you know he was going to play?”
I grinned and shook my head. I took her hand and started to lead her to the backyard. Another car pulled into the driveway behind Gwen’s. I looked over my shoulder. It was a dark blue Crown Victoria—unmarked, unmistakable. Two plainclothes detectives were sitting in the front seat. The driver cut the engine while he and his partner remained in the car, talking. What I felt wasn’t fear so much as sadness. I had been expecting this day for thirteen years. I believed it was never a question of if but when.
Gwen squeezed my hand and said, “What?”
Long ago, I made myself a promise that when the authorities came to arrest me, I would hold my head high. Look them in the eye and acknowledge my real name, unbowed by what I had done. But when the detectives got out of the car, I was thinking, Please, not now. Not on a perfect day like this. As if there were a good time for the law to come and take me away.
One of the cops was a tall, caramel-skinned guy with a goatee. He was wearing a cream-colored linen suit, which probably cost a week’s salary. His partner was a bald white guy in baggy pants and a rumpled plaid sports coat.
“Evening, folks,” the tall detective said. “We’re looking for the owner, Adam Owens?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Adam.” My heart was trying to punch a hole in my chest.
The cop offered his hand. “I’m Detective Martinez from the sheriff’s office. This is my partner, Detective Holloway.” He nodded politely at Gwen. “Mrs. Owens.”
“No,” she said, raising one eyebrow, “but I’m working on it.”
Martinez frowned, annoyed at himself for his small mistake.
“Gwen Landry,” she said, grinning.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Martinez said, “but we got a complaint down at the station. Guess one of your neighbors feels the music’s too loud.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t think any of my neighbors lived close enough to be bothered by the band. Besides, the police wouldn’t send two detectives to check on a complaint about loud music.
Martinez cocked his ear. “Is that an oboe?”
I nodded. “My son Elliot.” The song coming from the backyard was slow and melancholy.
“Man, I love that sound.” He grinned. “You don’t have any cobras back there, do you?”
“Definitely a few vipers,” Gwen said.
The detective laughed. His partner leered at her and showed his yellow teeth. We stood there, listening. The song ended, and the kids in the backyard let out a big roar.
Martinez shook his head. “I don’t know how anybody could complain about jazz like that. I’d pay good money to hear your boy play.” He shrugged. “Just tell the band to turn down the volume a notch or two when they crank up the guitars again.”
There was an awkward silence. I realized the detectives had not come to arrest me. But it was like that feeling you get in the middle of a bad dream when you’re fleeing a wild animal or about to fall off a cliff and you begin to realize that the dream isn’t real. You know you’re safe—all you need to do is open your eyes—but the dream is so vivid something holds you back. You want to know what happens next.
The Indolents started playing “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”
“I’ll go tell the boys,” Gwen said.
“Thanks,” Martinez said. “I want you folks to have a good time. Fact is, my son Preston’s here at the party. I was in the station when the call came in and figured I’d take it myself.” The light bulb went on in my head. Preston was the goalie on the soccer team and a good friend of Ajit’s. The resemblance between father and son was striking.
We watched Gwen walk toward the backyard in her white cutoffs, her legs taut and tan from running. Elliot came around the side of the house with his oboe, and Gwen said something to him and gave him a hug. He looked our way, and Martinez waved him over.
“Congratulations, young man,” Martinez said. “That’s a terrific sound you got going.”
“Thank you.” Elliot shook the detective’s hand but kept his gaze on the ground.
“Who wrote that piece you were playing? Sounded like something by Wayne Shorter.”
Elliot looked up for a second, then dropped his eyes again. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or offended by the question. I had never heard of Shorter.
“It’s one of his own,” I said proudly.
Martinez did a double take and looked at Elliot. “You’re kidding me. You wrote that yourself?”
Elliot shrugged.
“He’s written dozens of songs,” I said proudly.
“That’s fantastic. You keep it up. I got a nephew went to the Berklee College of Music in Boston. Great school. He’s a percussionist, studio musician in New York now. Plays with some of the best jazz artists in the world.”
Elliot gazed at his oboe as if he were hoping it might speak for him. I wished I could give my son the confidence to smile and look the detective in the eye, but he muttered his thanks and turned and went into the house.
The detective said to me, “He get his talent from you?”
“I wish. It’s a complete mystery. One of those lucky miracles, I guess. I’ve got a tin ear. His mother did too.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had such a strong feeling of Lucy’s presence, as if the police in their routine mission had brought her along for the ride. “She died a long time ago.”
I felt a twinge of guilt and let it go.
***
Over the next few years, Elliot continued to be a slacker in school. None of the needling from me or his teachers did any good. He did enough to get by, unconcerned about his grades. He had his heart set on going to Berklee. I guess it was Detective Martinez who had put the idea in his head. When it came time to fill out applications, I told him I didn’t want to pay a small fortune for him to go to a trade school three thousand miles from home.
“What do you mean, Dad? Berklee is the best. You won’t believe how many great musicians have gone there.” He rattled off a bunch of names. The only one I recognized was Quincy Jones.
“Yeah, I know. I’ve read their literature. But most students who go there don’t even bother to get a degree. They spend all their time playing music and graduate with what they call a professional diploma.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get a degree.”
“Why not go to a liberal arts college with a good music department?”
“And do what? Minor in astrophysics?” He rarely got sarcastic like that. “I’m a musician, Dad. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be since I was in the fourth grade.”
“You know Berklee’s cutthroat, right? They’ve got kids coming in from all over the world. Every one of them scratching and clawing, trying to grab that little brass ring.”
“And you don’t think I can compete?”
“No, I just think you’re—”
“Lazy and irrespon
sible.”
“I never said that.”
“Whatever.”
“I love your music, El. I know how much it means to you. I just want you to consider other options.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to apply to other colleges. I probably won’t even get into Berklee anyway. But I want to try. Isn’t that what you want me to do, aim for the top?”
I liked his spunk, but I kept coming up with reasons and incentives to steer him elsewhere. My arguments were legitimate. He’d get a much broader education at a liberal arts college. But it wasn’t just the narrow focus at Berklee that concerned me. I didn’t want Elliot to go back to Boston. I couldn’t shake the feeling that if Lucy saw him, even if it was just a casual glance on the street, she’d recognize him in an instant.
Chapter 29
Lucy
Boston—November 1999
On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Zoe and Eric Underwood invited Jill and Terry and my beau William and me to their house for leftovers. The gathering had become a tradition for the six of us over the past few years, and Zoe could make leftovers seem like a gourmet meal.
As we sat around the dinner table talking, Jill said, “Is that a new necklace, Luce?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I touched the string of carnelian stones. “A present from William.” I leaned into him, and he squeezed my thigh under the table.
“It’s lovely,” Jill said.
“You need to stop that, my friend,” Terry said. “It makes the rest of us guys look bad.”
“Understood,” William said. “That’s the last thing she ever gets from me.”
“Let me ask you, William,” Terry said, changing the subject. “What do you think about this whole Y2K business? Is it just a bunch of scare tactics, or is the whole world going to come crashing down around our heads?”
William was the CEO of a high-tech firm that made widgets for the government, the kind of stuff he wasn’t supposed to discuss even if the bad guys spirited him off to some Third World dungeon and pulled out all his fingernails.
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