House of Smoke

by JF Freedman

  “Nobody,” Kate assures her. “Except me.”

  Brittany regards her warily.

  “Yet,” Kate adds.

  “So is this blackmail? I don’t have any money, lady, I’m a working girl like you. I’ve got a kid to support, and a mother in a nursing home. You want money, you come to the wrong place.”

  “No. It’s not about money.”

  “Then what?”

  “Mr. Sparks has some people who, shall we say, would like to hurt him,” Kate begins, improvising as she goes. “I don’t want to see that happen. Do you?”

  “Hell, no. Freddy’s a great guy. He’s the nicest man I know.”

  “What happened that night? The night you spent with him?”

  “From when we got to his ranch?” Kate shakes her head. “From here.” Brittany takes a deep breath.

  Kate listens as Brittany talks, interrupting her only when she comes to the end of the card games. “How much did Mr. Sparks lose?” she asks.

  “About one hundred forty thousand, I think it was.”

  Jesus. One night.

  “How did he take it? Losing that much money?”

  Brittany shrugs. “About the same as he always does. No big deal.”

  “He loses more than he wins,” Kate continues.

  Brittany nods. “Yes. It’s not that he’s not a good player,” she explains. “He is. But he isn’t quite good enough for the company he keeps. The difference is small, but over time it has a definite impact. These men he plays with are piranhas—they smell blood, they’ll strip you to the bone.”

  Kate thinks a minute before asking her next question. “How long have you known Frederick Sparks?”

  “About ten years. We’re old buddies, Freddy and me. He always requests me. I’ve made good money taking care of him over the years.” She shakes her head. “Those pictures. All those years of those pictures. He promised me they’d never be seen. That they were for him, his own private collection. And I believed him. Shit!”

  Ten years. Most marriages nowadays don’t last ten years.

  “And he usually lost,” Kate continues. “At gambling.”

  “He’s lost more than he’s won,” the woman answers judiciously. “Thank God he’s so rich. A mortal man would have gone bust years ago with those kind of losses.”

  “How much?”

  Brittany shrugs. “Millions. Tens of millions. I don’t know. A fortune. Several of them.”

  And his ranch foreman is caught smuggling a multi-million load of grass onto his dock. What an interesting coincidence.

  She changes the subject. “At the ranch, that night,” she begins fresh. “Describe the scene.”

  “Fucking. Sucking. Front and back. The usual stuff. What Freddy always goes for.”

  “You and him and the third party. Alex.”

  Brittany shakes her head, almost laughing out loud. “No way.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Freddy doesn’t fuck.”

  Oh?

  “What does he do?”

  “He watches. And he takes pictures.”

  “The infamous pictures,” Kate says.

  “Yes.”

  “And watches.”

  “You got it.”

  “You and Mr. Sparks make love privately. Out of camera range.”

  Brittany shakes her head again. “I’ve never fucked Freddy.”

  “In ten years of knowing each other this intimately you’ve never made love?”

  The woman nods. “He just watches. That’s his whole bag. I came on to him plenty of times, too, before I got the message. I guess he’s saving himself for his wife. He’s a damn nice man,” she says, almost ruefully. “I hope she appreciates him.”

  16

  MIRROR, MIRROR, ON THE WALL

  EVERY TIME SHE CATCHES her reflection in the mirror she cringes. Is that really me? Is that who I am now? She knows she will heal, that in time the scars will fade, that no one else thinks she looks as bad as she herself does; but that doesn’t help now. She tries to think of her face as a badge of honor, a testament to guts and steely resolve, but that doesn’t cut it, either. If it’s any kind of testament it’s to laxness in keeping her guard up, in thinking she was hotter than she really is. A testament to ego, and all the stupidity that comes from that.

  Macho, macho, macho woman. As tough as the guys. Yeah, right. Even if that’s true, so what? Big fucking deal. What is it you have to prove, girl?

  That’s what the mirror is telling her, every time she catches herself in its stark honesty.

  She’s overreacting, this morning more than usual, because she’s driving up north to see her kids. They haven’t laid eyes on each other since she got busted up. They wanted to—Julie would’ve driven them down, she pleaded with Kate to let her, but Kate flat-out would not let them see her looking like she did in those first terrible weeks. Their relationship is already tough enough without having to absorb another emotional wallop.

  This past week the girls have been on the phone with her almost every night. It’s as if her pain has passed from her to them, bringing them back together. They miss her, they could feel her anguish through the wire, traveling through three hundred miles of their collective unconscious. They’re her blood, they’ll understand. If nothing else good comes out of this, getting tight with her daughters again might make it better, at least in that one small area.

  She throws her suitcase in the backseat of the Rooster, fills the tank at the cheap gasoline station on De La Vina, kicks off her shoes, jams her bare foot down on the accelerator, and heads north, up Highway 101. Her gun, loaded, is in the locked glove box, within easy reach.

  Past Lompoc the hills widen, start rolling, the classic central California look, scrub oak and eucalyptus and high grass. The air is fresh, smelling of dozens of native plants borne in the breeze. She’s lost in space, drifting, like the pollen rushing by her windshield.

  At San Luis Obispo she leaves 101 and starts up Highway 1, along the ocean. The prettiest highway in the world; the prettiest highway she’s ever been on, anyway. If there’s a prettier one somewhere else she’d love to see it. Maybe she’ll go to that place someday. With Cecil, maybe.

  The two-lane road winds and curves and climbs. To her left the face of the rock drops off, almost straight down, to the ocean and the sand and rocks below. She cruises, taking her time, her mind on automatic pilot, enjoying the gorgeous vistas. A few cars come up behind her, and she pulls over to let them pass. She doesn’t want to be rushed—it may be a long time before she takes this drive again.

  It’s late in the afternoon when she reaches Big Sur. She drives past Esalen, past the gallery that contains all the Henry Miller artifacts, past Deetjen’s—another place she’d like to come to with Cecil, he’s on her mind more than she thought he’d be; she thinks she likes that—and then past the Nepenthe parking lot. Normally, as part of the ritual when driving along Highway 1, she stops at Nepenthe and has an Ambrosiaburger. Eat it sitting out on the deck, watching the waves, the endless ocean, and dream romantic dreams.

  Today, though, she’ll save her appetite for dinner with her kids.

  She drives down the bumpy road to Pfeiffer State Beach, the one with the natural rock arch that Dick and Liz made famous in the movie The Sandpiper. No one’s around; it’s coming on sunset, too late in the season for tourists to walk. Stripping out of her clothes, she runs naked along the hard-packed sand and dives into the surf. The freezing water hits her like a hammer, literally taking her breath away. It feels great; a cleansing, inside and out.

  The ocean rejuvenates her. It’s the best way she knows of to get close to God.

  She swims for about twenty minutes. Then she dries off, rough-toweling herself vigorously.

  The sun is sliding into the ocean as she pulls out of the parking lot and continues on her way, heading north into the night.

  Coming into the city, her battered old car cruising Interstate 280, a plume of wet-gray exhaust in its wake as
it labors uphill, past City College, where she had taken courses as a young woman, two or three lifetimes ago it feels like now, the 280 connecting to the 101, surging up and over the last stretch of highway, until there it is: the city as seen in a million photos and postcards, revealing itself as the most beautiful and welcoming of human abodes, from this perspective especially—night, distanced—a perfect jewel, self-contained and snug in its uniqueness. Even though she had lived all her life on the east side of the bay and was in turn defensive and combative (and angry) about how San Francisco looks down at Oakland, its pull is irresistible, you can see it a million times and it still works its magic, it reaches out to her like the last long enchanting dream at the end of sleep, drawing her in with waiting arms.

  Her mind is a whirl of emotions. What will her daughters’ reactions be when they see her? Will she repulse them, looking like this? They’ve seen her looking bad before, are they going to think this is the way it is, how it’s always going to be?

  She peels off the freeway at Fell and heads west to Masonic, left again up the hill through the Panhandle, past Page, Haight—still in glorious hippiedom after all these years—right on Frederick, left on Cole.

  All the front windows on her sister’s apartment are lit. They’re inside, waiting for her. She parks halfway down the block on the opposite side of the street, slowly gets out, grabs her hanging bag and backpack out of the backseat, locks the doors.

  She’s scared; really scared. They’re going to take one look at her and run like hell. Or they’ll try to fake their way through it and they’ll all know it’s phony.

  She shouldn’t have come. She isn’t ready to face them, she should have been honest about that. She can check into a motel, call them from there. She’s been delayed, it’s getting too late, she’ll come over tomorrow morning. Buy one more day, twelve more hours to find some courage.

  The downstairs door flies open and both girls come running out, running right through traffic as if it isn’t there, almost tackling her, both of them hugging her at the same time while being careful not to touch her face.

  Her very first thought as they slam into her is: they’re so tall. You don’t see them for a few months and you forget. In her memory bank they’re always younger, still kids—but these are women.

  The girls back off, looking at her face. Her broken cheek still shows prominently under the face guard she wears whenever she goes outside.

  “How do I look?” she asks them, nervous as hell.

  “Not so hot,” Wanda tells her honestly.

  “But not as bad as I was afraid of,” Sophia says.

  “Not nearly as bad,” Wanda agrees.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Kate says, her voice thick with relief.

  “We were worried about you, Mom,” Wanda adds. Wanda is tall, thin, fair, blue-eyed. She resembles her long-forgotten father, not her olive-complexioned mother. She speaks in a voice that carries concern, exasperation, anxiety. An adult’s voice with adult’s fears.

  She’s seventeen already, Kate realizes, in another year she’ll be starting college. She wants to be a doctor (the last time Kate checked—over a year ago, she realizes with another jolt). How are her grades? She hasn’t seen a report card since the spring.

  “How are your grades?” she asks in reply, her mind flying in random access, unable to keep up with her emotions.

  The girl laughs. “My grades? They’re fine, Mom. Don’t worry, I’ll get into Stanford. They’re huge on women’s soccer, I’ll probably make all-city this year.”

  “Is that where you’ve decided to go?” Her firstborn is going off to college next year and Kate doesn’t even know where she’s applying.

  “Well, Brown’s my first choice. That or Wellesley. But they’re too far away. I’d never see you.”

  You don’t see me now.

  “And Stanford will give me pretty good financial aid, I’ve already met with them.”

  “You have? When?”

  “Couple weeks ago. Walt drove me down. They gave me the grand tour. It’s bitchin’, Mom, totally. You ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll show you around, next time I go you’ll come with me—if you can make it,” she adds with a flush.

  “We can discuss that while I’m here.” Her stomach’s churning; she’s missing everything, everything in their lives.

  “That would be great, Mom.”

  She turns to Sophia, her younger daughter. The one who looks like her. The one who has her hair. And much more patience.

  “Hello, sweetheart. I’ve missed you. So much.”

  “Oh, Mom!”

  She buries her face in Kate’s shoulder; she has to bend over slightly, she’s a good four inches taller—taller even than her older sister. Both taller than Mom.

  A woman and her two daughters.

  The emotion hits her like a tsunami; how can she live without them? She pulls them to her, hard, a face buried in each shoulder.

  Wanda pats her on the back. “It’s okay, Mom. Really, it is.” She looks into Kate’s face. “You don’t look all that bad,” she pronounces. “You’ve looked much worse.”

  “You look great, Mom,” Sophia chimes in. “Just like always.”

  “Your car looks gross, though,” Wanda interjects, giving the Rooster a cold appraisal.

  “Like always.”

  They all laugh. The girls have never liked her wheels, they were embarrassed to ride in it, it’s too hoody.

  “I’m thinking of trading it in, finally. Maybe an Accord?” she offers, wanting them to be part of the decision-making process.

  “Hondas are cool. Acuras are cooler; so’re Lexuses,” Wanda states.

  Secretly, she knows she’ll never quit on her car. It would be like putting an old family pet to sleep; worse. She’s slept in this car, made love in it. It will leave on its own terms, not before.

  Each girl grabs a bag. As they cross the street she looks up. Julie is standing in the window, looking down at them. She smiles and waves. Kate smiles, waves back.

  They’re her family. They love her. It’s going to be okay.

  If only it could be that easy.

  “Just like always.” They don’t know how heavy that innocent, well-meaning statement hangs on her: that their memory of her has gone so deep into denial that this is how they think she always looks; this is how they remember her.

  Julie can’t hide her reaction to seeing Kate’s face. “God, Sis.”

  She says it with compassion, with concern, for what’s happened to her sister.

  “You should’ve seen the other guy,” Kate jokes lamely.

  They hug. Sisters, like her own two. They have to take care of each other, even when they can’t or don’t want to.

  “Hungry?” Julie asks.

  “I’m starving!” Wanda exclaims. “We expected you two hours ago, Mom!”

  “It smells good,” Kate tells Julie. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked meal,” she adds, immediately wanting to bite off her tongue; she doesn’t want her daughters to think about how she lives day-to-day. They’ve seen it, for years. That’s why they’re here with their aunt and uncle instead of down in Santa Barbara with her, their birth mother, the flesh of their flesh.

  Dinner is roast chicken, whole new potatoes, green beans with almonds, Caesar salad, garlic bread. Delicious to Kate’s tongue; it’s been a long time since she ate like this, or cooked like this. When she gets home she’ll cook dinners for Cecil. He’s a man who will appreciate a good meal.

  She’ll cook dinners like this for her daughters.

  That’s why she’s here. She wants them to live with her, their mother. She wants her children back.

  They talk at dinner; superficial, polite conversation: Walt’s new responsibilities on the job, local politics, the ugliness of the recent baseball strike. Walt is a die-hard Giants fan; shutting the season down was akin to an act of treason for him, he still harbors a grudge.

  The
girls clean up, load the dishwasher.

  “Let me help.” She carries a stack of dirty dishes into the kitchen.

  “Sit down, Mom,” Wanda commands her. “You’ve had a long, hard drive.”

  “You’ve always taken care of us,” Sophia says. “We want to take care of you.”

  If only that were so.

  Julie and Walt are going to the movies, over by Telegraph Hill, they have to leave now or they’ll miss their show. They’ll be back late, they tell the girls, do all your homework and don’t stay up too late, it’s a school night. No TV.

  “You sound like me,” Kate quips.

  “Well, yeah …” They need a mother, you’re not here, somebody has to.

  Guilt-tripping, big-time. Not completely safe all the time … the girls, I want them to be safe after all this. …She remembers how it went down in court the day she lost her daughters to her sister, who’d never had any of her own.

  “They’ll be in bed on time, don’t worry.” Jesus Christ, she is their mother, she knows how to do this stuff. They’re big girls, they don’t have to be talked down to like they’re ten years old.

  She and the girls sprawl out on the living-room floor. Wanda makes tea.

  “Is Julie strict on you?” Kate asks.

  Sophia wrinkles her face.

  “She’s not so bad,” Wanda answers in Julie’s defense.

  “We’re the only kids we know who have to be in by midnight on weekends,” Sophia returns. Sophia’s quieter, less flamboyant in personality, but she’s the one who has an earring in her nostril—a tiny diamond—and is wearing chocolate lipstick.

  “Yeah, but if we’re not they don’t do anything about it.” Wanda slurps her tea. “At least they care about us.”

  “I care about you,” Kate responds swiftly, stung by the pain so casually provoked by the unconscious remark.

  “I didn’t mean you, Mom. Don’t get your feelings all hurt. I was talking about all the kids we know whose parents never know where they are and care less.”

  They sip their tea. The traffic noise outside suddenly seems invasive.

  “These guys … that did this to you,” Wanda ventures, trying to bridge the fissure. “What happened to them?”