by LEE OLDS
“You mean nothing like June’s?” Hammond made a pun.
“No,” I agreed, “nothing like June’s. Nothing could be like June’s.” He laughed out loud.
And so the night or what was left of it went peacefully with the old grandfather clock chiming punctually on the hour much like our sun rises every morning according to its progression, sending its gentle gong-like vibrations through the silent house. And even when Sylvia rose at six a.m. it promised to be a rewarding day, business as usual for the attorney.
She had slept well, showered, did her toilet and squirmed into one of her tight fitting grey suits with blouse and jacket. In the kitchen she brewed some coffee, boiled several eggs and along with her toast washed them down with her juice. Then she set a little bouquet of garden flowers on the breakfast table for her visitors. Her briefcase was filled with the documents she’d sorted through the night before on the dining room table. They were filed as to how she’d need them according to the order of the day, which she well had in mind for she’d seen many of them in court. Occasionally there was a surprise but not many as law is cut and dry whether one wins or loses.
“Oh, and the note.” She said aloud as she was ready to leave the house for in her anticipation of the legal detail she’d soon need, she’d almost forgotten the two upstairs. She’d intended to leave her son a note on the kitchen table next to the roses, a nice one, stipulating she hoped he’d enjoyed the evening. That he and Gloria’d come next week for dinner. She was such a nice girl. And she signed it with a smiley face, the older logos, which was still being used, a rarity for her face since it was said to scowl more than smile and I think that was true.
“It was,” said Hammond. “I’ve seen old Sylvia myself in court. That was her demean and she’s still practicing and scowling though her hair now is somewhat gray.”
Reflective suns had illuminated the windows across the street. In her haste to leave the house she hadn’t looked down into the driveway but as she descended her front steps, the strange car became apparent and she recoiled. At first in distant confusion.
Blocking the garage where her car was parked stood a small black convertible. She … her first reaction was that a neighbor’d taken the privilege to… And along with this association she was already calling a tow truck to get that monstrosity (as she saw it) out of there and she wouldn’t have time to wait for it and then drive to work. It might be an hour or so before… She’d have to take a cab.
Now … and why just now … she thought of her son up there sleeping away, the good for nothing, while she had to go to work and had been so unjustifiably delayed.
“Could … could he have anything to do with this car?” She mused but reasoned negatively for he’d’ve brought his old wreck as he always did when he came over with Gloria. And then he’d always had the civility to find a space on the street so as not to block her for he knew her schedule. On weekdays at least. She, matter of fact, walked to the street; looked up and down to see whether she could spot his old red Bug. She didn’t, of course, so she went inside to phone.
Yet when once again in the large silent house she heard no stirrings she decided just to cover any possible alternative (the way her mind actually worked) to knock on her son’s door quietly so as to just ask him one simple question before going through all the trouble of alerting the tow company, which he’d have to direct. Perhaps the door to the car was open, her son could get into it and roll it onto the street out of the way. Let the owner then have it towed. Why should the burden rest on her? It was her driveway.
So she did. She climbed the two flights of stairs to the third floor and knocked gently on his door. The light as it sometimes does when it enters a rectangular window made a trapezoidal patch in the hallway.
“And did he answer?” Said Hammond. “Did the lazybones even have the gall or decency to do that?”
“He did eventually,” I said though he was reluctant to open the door.
“Louis dear. There’s a car in my driveway,” said the timid but persistent voice. “Do you know anything about it? I’m about to call a tow.” She didn’t say tow truck.
“What?” Answered the sleepy and perturbed son for he never liked to be wakened and he felt it was his right to sleep. Then came from him casually. “Yes, mother, it’s ours. Go downstairs will you please? I’ll be right down to move it.”
The stunned mother obeyed like a mechanical robot. The problem’d been solved but … ours … her son had said. What’d he mean by that? She, of course, stood in the front hallway waiting for him. He at that point, naturally, hastened to the rescue. He in his drunken revelry had completely forgotten his mother had to go to work in the morning. That someone in the world had to work to at least support his lifestyle and those of others like him. He certainly remembered it now.
“And he definitely should have,” said Hammond. “The distress call should’ve told him something. Did it?”
“How can you reach a man who doesn’t want to work but feels that the world owes him a living? How many inherited wealth freaks are enjoying that luxury in our country? Too many I’d say. Especially if he can exact that tithe from the world whether he works at that or not. He came rushing down the stairs in his robe and slippers like he certainly was concerned all right.”
“Yes mother, I’m sorry. I totally forgot. I’ll move the car in a jiffy.”
But he wouldn’t look into her eyes as he passed her with the keys in his hand. He got into the Mercedes, and started it up. By then, of course, she was seriously curious. Fully dressed, with her briefcase in hand, the front door of the house still wide open, she went up to his car window, which Hartwig then let down with its automatic button.
“You said ours just a little while ago,” now said the feisty attorney in her angry barrister tone ready to battle this time out of court. “Just whose car is this you’re driving? And who’s the passenger?” She blinked doubtfully. For the duplicity of her mistaken identity the night prior was beginning to sink in. She hadn’t had enough coffee.
“What do you care, mother?” Hartwig sassed her back.
“You’re in my house. I have a right to know. And who’s upstairs?”
Well, believe me, Hartwig told her. That was the one thing about him, if pressed enough he was thoroughly honest. When she heard the name, of course, she placed it immediately for everyone in those circles knew Sandy Hightower or at least about her. And though Gloria’d told Sylvia about some older wealthy woman in her son’s life she hadn’t mentioned the woman by name and it hadn’t seemed important then. You can imagine when Sylvia heard it; it hit her like a ton of bricks.
“Sandy Hightower!” She exclaimed. “You mean that dissolute bitch’s in my house. You get her out right now before I come back or I’ll call the police and have her thrown out.”
“Yes mother, of course.” Hartwig was still unperturbed. He felt he’d committed an amusing caper when his mother felt completely betrayed. Believe me she was down. Her everyday faith in people hit rock bottom then and all because of her son.
Hartwig backed the car onto the street to let his mother by and as she passed, of course, she rolled her own window down to give her son a little medicine of his own.
“I … I’d never take someone like you abroad even if you are my son. Quite frankly I’m ashamed of you. I never should have had you,” she said to her own son, and to tell the truth she had no idea what she’d accomplished by her censor. She hadn’t known a thing about her son’s relationship with the socialite, and knew less about it now though it seemed overwhelming to her and could very well set her apart from her son forever. This because she, of strong will, would never give into such a relationship, shocking or not. As she drove herself to work she found herself shaking all over.
“What about Sandy?” Hammond asked me.
“Oh her?” I was a little numb myself. “She poor thing had heard every word, for right after Hartwig’d left his old room she’d come after him in her own robe and slippe
rs (Gloria’s actually) and stood behind the front door listening to the ruckus in the driveway. Imagine how she felt. Imagine if Sylvia’d seen her wearing Gloria’s things? And she hadn’t wanted to come over there in the first place but had thought it a bad idea.”
No, as soon as the mother pulled away, Sandy high tailed it right back upstairs, jumped into bed and went on a crying jag. The mother, apparently, hadn’t been the only female trembling that morning. At any rate that’s how Hartwig found her, under the covers and sobbing up a storm. An unusual feat to say the least for a woman who wore her heart on her sleeve but never seemed to let anything affect her very deeply. Hartwig had, of course. She was deeply in love with him. The ostracism by the mother (who she’d naturally wanted acceptance by) had been a crushing blow even though she might’ve known it to be inevitable. People in those situations just hope the clash never comes about, that it’s perpetually postponed and the tension diffuses entropically on its own. When it doesn’t they don’t know which way to turn.
The ebullient Hartwig, now, yanked the covers off her, jumped into bed and was all for arousal until he suddenly realized this was one defeated woman and that sex was the last thing on her mind. Such things can happen in real life you know. He turned her over and shook her gently. Her grey pupils were ringed by red corneas. She resembled a pop-eyed monster one sometimes sees in the comics.
“Sandy,” said Hartwig, “what in the hell’s wrong. Mother’s gone. It was no big deal. I moved the car.”
And almost as quickly as she’d covered her face with her hands she uncovered it and like a wounded warrior, who’s suddenly regained full control to fight to the end, she said,
“Liar. I heard everything. I followed you downstairs.”
“Really?” Our hero was stymied.
“Yes. And when you see her again you can tell her I hate her too. I don’t want to be in her old haunted house anyhow. You brought me here. Now let’s leave. If you don’t want to I’ll go myself.”
She grabbed the keys from him, which he still held, stood up and began stripping.
“I’ll also get rid of these.” She threw Gloria’s clothes on the floor like they’d been dusted with poison. Hartwig, naturally, having little choice by then followed suit. And there they were, the socialite couple that nine hours prior had been dancing to a Strauss waltz on the stage of the opera house, their clothes by this time a little rumpled.
“So,” said Hammond. “What’d the two do then, leave?”
“Yes,” I admitted, “but not before Hartwig got her down into the kitchen where he opened up a bottle of his mother’s finest champagne and proceeded to get her tipsy and laughing again at least at the entire incident.”
“And who cares about what my mother thinks anyhow,” said the gallant. “I’ve never valued her opinions. You won’t come back here. I won’t either. Let’s drink to that.” They touched glasses and he got her to drink up.
“What I can’t understand,” said Sandy, “is her pervasive cruelty. You mean for that she won’t take you abroad? What a termagant.”
“You heard that too?”
“Yes and you know what I said to myself right then. If she won’t take him, I will.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m not. Within a month we’re leaving. That is if you agree. As soon as Benji graduates from school.” The two toasted once more leaning across the mother’s table for a kiss this time. Do you think Hartwig’d object, never!
“And so you see,” I said to Hammond. “That, in effect was how Hartwig got his trip or the promise of one anyhow. It certainly wasn’t from his mother but rather in essence was what he’d been angling for all the time. You could almost say that was how he planned it, by bringing her over there in the first place, couldn’t you?”
“That’s stretching it a little bit, isn’t it? Said Hammond. “But I see what you mean. That’s certainly how the hustler works. Why any man in his right mind would’ve refused it out of pride.”
All we knew at that point, of course, was that the bet appeared to be won, though four weeks in the lives of some people can be a long time. An eternity to be precise I joked.
Chapter Fifteen
In the meantime, changes continued at the beach that kept Hartwig and his mistress busy, and one of them involved the two boys, Marcus and his best friend Benji, Sandy’s son. Among other things Hartwig’d been engaged in at June’s, drinking her liquor and conversing with her when she was there, and drinking it when she wasn’t, for she trusted him so completely he could consider her mansion his own home, to say nothing of eating her food, he ran into Marcus who was living there. Those two carried their intellectual conversations into the late afternoons and sometimes when he knew June’d be delayed he’d treat Marcus to a shot or two of her famous Scotch over the rocks. Seemed the boy took a liking to it.
“Of course he wasn’t of age yet,” said Hammond. “That’s a different thing. Nowadays, however, most kids drink at home well before they’re of age but that’s under the supervision of their parents, not a distracting influence like Hartwig. Then what about Sandy when all this was going on? Did she know her boyfriend frequented the illustrious June’s still?”
“I’m sure she did,” I said. “I’m not so sure she liked it but when he was over on that side of the hill and she was at the beach my guess is she figured it’d keep him out of trouble for he really had convinced her June didn’t interest him physically, and she didn’t. She actually felt sorry for June. That’s how far her jealousy had been conquered.”
“Really,” said Hammond. “That’s a good one compared to the way she felt before, but I guess people can change once they feel safe. Matter of fact that’s probably the greatest stimulus for change in our possession though perhaps certainly not the best, for when something serious does arise (and it always does), your trust makes you ill-prepared for it.”
Along with teaching Marcus to step into the drinking world of men, in the afternoons he and the kid’d spar out on the back lawn of the garden. They’d found some old boxing gloves out in the garage and one day Hartwig said,
“OK kid, let’s put em on. See what you can do?” The unathletic actor had been reluctant at first but after assuring the kid he would take it easy on him he finally tried it. Liked it too. He was, said Hartwig,
“Faster than you’d think for a kid like that, and, of course, with speed comes a punch.”
“Both you and I know it doesn’t hurt for any kid growing up to learn to defend himself, for we live in a world of daily violence wherein you can get hurt if you can’t. Marcus learned all right. Perhaps he learned a little too well. That and with the drinking.”
“What do you mean?” Said Hammond, “too well. He obviously wasn’t going into the ring, though the Golden Gloves for amateurs is a healthy event. All that headgear, the big padded gloves, short rounds and concerned refs make it safe too.”
“That,” I said, “wasn’t what I meant. It was the ‘new feeling’ of confidence it gave him and with that came about the desire to settle old scores. You know how things like that can be. If you can you want to even things up. And even if you can’t you might resort to terrorism as we see all over the world. That obviously wasn’t the issue here.”
One afternoon Marcus filched several bottles of his mother’s Scotch and took them over to the beach house where he met Benji. Sandy was out somewhere, as for Hartwig, who knew where he was? The two boys got to talking about what they were going to do with their lives; both were soon graduating from high school, and drinking. First it was a shot over the rocks; then two. You know how those sorts of thing escalate though both kids were maintaining well. They were young, strong and healthy enough to though Benji was the roughneck of the two. He’d begun hanging out with the bike crowd over at Sears Point and was actually thinking of a profession for the first time in his life.
“Really,” said Hammond. “And what was that? Son of rich mother without too many smarts.”
; “Race car driver,” I said. “You don’t have to be a genius to do that and though it’s a pointless and smog polluting profession mainly for the sort of person, who like mountain climbers or bull fighters claim the temporary threat of death makes them more full of life, the boy had a considerable amount of reckless courage. So what? I suppose he’d gotten that from his mother and perhaps his rancher father whoever he’d been. You know, the kid for all practical purposes was from a broken home. He’d never had a father and quite frankly with a mother like he had, well, what can you expect.”
“A, a race car driver. That’s what I expect,” said Hammond. “He certainly had the money to get a sponsor. That is if his mother’d allow…”
“And,” said Marcus as the two sat at the round oak table in the kitchen alcove just above the beach. “By the way what’s with my mother? She still with that creep? You know I don’t see her anymore since…” He abruptly choked followed by a swallow.
“Still with that creep,” Benji added. “You know I’d really like to bust his ass.” For he hated the boyfriend as much as Marcus. “Goes around town now like he’s Jesus Christ or some kind of saint. It’s disgusting.”
“Really,” said Marcus. “Thinks he’s got people fooled, does he? Well, his hash can be settled too. He’ll get it one day. He’s got it coming.”
And, of course the more the two of them talked they decided that’d be the day. If they went looking for the ex con in town and found him, between the two of them they’d knock him silly. So, after several more shots that’s what they did. The two went looking for the man they felt was no good. And he probably wasn’t if one judged him by his entire life. He was an irresponsible troublemaker and bully who’d been in and out of jail the entire time. If he’d wanted it to, his new leaf couldn’t’ve turned into anything for he had a long sentence hanging over his head, he knew it and there was no way he could get out of that except to run. He’d thought of it though he hadn’t told anyone.