by Jack Getze
“I’m not, anyway,” he said.
Nothing.
“Getting any younger, that is.”
“Forgive me if my timing’s bad,” she said, “or if it’s a lot to ask on your birthday, but I really need to know where we’re headed.”
As they waited out the light at Main Street, Ben felt a draft despite the heater’s being on. Half a green cycled while an older couple ambled across.
“Take a number,” he said quietly.
2
It was almost eight, the moon well clear of Balboa’s masts and lights, the Friday night crawl on Pacific Coast Highway, the sweep of coastline. Ben topped the bluff and swung into his drive, leaving the Cherokee out in case it came down to pizza.
Cracking the window, he ran a hand over sand-colored hair he’d worn sport-short forever and according to Shay was coming back. Deep breaths until Walter and Tommy faded and were replaced by what was in front of him: primarily how he’d wound up there. Set in “The Headlands,” a development overlooking the harbor, the house was part of a deal in which one of Jeb’s clients needed cash. Jeb had jumped on it, offering to let Ben and Kate assume the payments while he put up the equity—Jeb’s to appreciate, which, of course, it had. Near triple what he’d paid for it.
That was in ’95, before Ben decided he owed it to his father-in-law to accept a job offer he otherwise wouldn’t have thought twice about turning down. Four years into marriage with Kate—now a VP at TeleDigm—two since the papers Ben had filed to adopt Shay had been approved. Father and ex-husband Henri Dufresne still chasing down the pro skiing career that had gone south before he and Kate divorced in mid-’90.
He remembered meeting Dufresne once, at a hearing Kate asked him to attend just before she and Ben married in ’91. Dufresne wanting to meet before they finalized the settlement and he went back to Europe. Satisfying himself that Shay would be all right with the Ben part.
Ben found him not unlike many French he’d met, some of which he wrote off to the pro-athlete mentality. But there’d been something he hadn’t anticipated—a certain tristesse detected over their fast drink together.
“Face it, she’s more than either of us deserves,” he’d told Ben as they bottomed-up, then went outside into bright sun. Down the steps to where a black Porsche was waiting, a model type at the wheel. “But that old man...” Letting his headshake say it.
Prior to that, Ben had barely exchanged ten words with Jarrod Hartzell Hallenbeck. Decorated fighter pilot, America’s Cup skipper, boating magnate. Widower, father, grandfather.
Presence—even when not around.
“Just do as I did not,” Dufresne had said—leaving Ben to wonder about the specifics if not the intent. Dufresne, the man who would give up all rights to Shay two years down the road, the papers coming back notarized from someplace in Italy where he was competing. Five months later, dead in a horrendous eighty-mile-an-hour wipeout replayed endlessly by the networks and sports channels.
Ben retrieved his briefcase, started toward the two-story neo-Mediterranean. By design and despite the plantings, walkways, and lap pool he’d added himself, the house would always be more imperious than welcoming. A venue for entertaining clients and superiors, largely Kate’s. He wondered sometimes what she really felt about it—a thought he sometimes applied to them.
It occurred to him that every light seemed on, a Kate trademark, though she wasn’t due back until tomorrow. Indeed, as he turned the key and opened the door, he heard: “Today is Ben’s birthday—happy, happy birthday. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Ben, happy birthday to you.”
“Surprise, surprise,” he said. Smiling as she relieved him of the briefcase and stepped into his arms as he tried not to wince.
“Ben, you okay?”
“Tweaked something at the gym,” he said, brushing her lips with his before she could ask him if he’d taken anything for it. “Let me look at you.” Holding her out at arm’s length.
Trim and still sporting an innately Newportish charm, that effortless sexuality—thirty months older than he was and still looking as if she’d stepped out of Self magazine. Wildflower-honey hair with sun streaks and highlights, the skirt half of a navy business suit under a loosened cream blouse. Shoes kicked off and coming close to Julia Ormond in Sabrina. Maybe even to Audrey Hepburn in the original they’d rented after seeing the remake.
“Better now that I’m home,” Kate said. “And somebody’s been celebrating already.”
For a moment Ben thought she meant Loren, and froze, realized as she sniffed him, asked how many he’d had, that she meant his breath. He let his smile re-form. “I didn’t think anybody’d be here.” Kissing her again, this time tasting gin. “How come?”
“Your birthday or a seven-million-dollar deal,” she said. “Tough choice.”
“You nailed it early?”
“All but the ink. So...hasta luego. I got Shay at Jennifer’s—she’s upstairs.” Backing toward the kitchen. “Going Gourmet, all right? They were just here.”
“What—not pizza?”
She smiled back, cocked her head at the stairwell. “One of us is adjusting as we speak. Want a Beefeaters?”
“Beer, if there’s some left.” Noting as she left the room the chocolate monster on the dining table, Happy Birthday Ben inside the candles and a wrapped package next to the half-dozen cards between his knife and fork. Silver and crystal he thought they’d hocked, chandelier lights down, music on the stereo.
Kate emerged from the kitchen holding a frosted mug she set down to plant one on him, Ben trying to recall the last time the three of them had dinner together in the dining room. Food smells and the rest of it fueling in no small measure his unease.
They’d come to the part where Shay and Kate would take out the cake, light the candles, and parade it into the room. Happy Birthday into the glow. Dinner had been fine, the exception being Shay’s relative detachment. Still they’d followed Kate’s lead and kept it even-keeled, the greeting cards mostly from old friends still working as lifeguards up and down the coast. One was from a high school teammate who detailed boats and still called him “Clutch” despite what happened later. Another, from Darnell Light, he intended to follow up with a call. The final one was from his mother, who’d phoned that morning from the Costa Mesa tract where she still lived, regardless of his entreaties.
“Not much to report,” he told Kate, who’d been stuck in Veracruz since last Sunday and wanted to hear all about Evelyn’s call. “Beyond her doctor shining her on and another friend dying off.” Pausing to hear his mother’s voice again, the cigarette rasp that still dogged it five years into cold turkey.
“She asked if I’d forgotten the anniversary of Thurman’s getting shot.”
“What did you tell her?”
“No luck yet.” Ben cleared his throat to signal a change of subject. “What else...thanks but no thanks to the mall-walking you proposed. Too far or too inconvenient or something.”
Kate had a sip of wine and studied him. “Fifteen years last week.”
“Thurman? Something like that.”
“How come you always call your father Thurman?” Shay put in without looking up.
“That was his name.”
“Sounds disrespectful the way you say it.”
“You’d have to have known him, Shay.”
Deputy Thurman Metcalf, the man nobody but Ben and Evelyn Metcalf really knew. A privilege best suited to the shrinks and therapists who would have charged double—one for each side of him—had his wife and son prevailed on him to go.
“Anyway, it’s what he told me to call him. You’ve heard me say that.”
This time, Kate read him and steered the talk. “Ben, malls are like toadstools around here. One of us could even take her.”
“Ours not to reason why,” he said, putting away the last of his Caesar.
“Theirs but to do and die,” Shay murmured. “All in the valley of death.”
&
nbsp; “And a happy birthday to you too, Shay.” Half-trying to raise a smile, her standard “Daaaad” to go with it.
“You’re the one quoted it. I just finished it.”
“So you did,” he said.
“Besides, it’s your birthday.”
“Who says families don’t talk anymore?”
“We’re a family? Thanks for telling me.”
“Maybe it’s time to ask what you’re doing to help make us one.”
Said the kettle to the pot.
“All right, kids,” Kate said. “Timeout.”
“Sorry.” Ben thinking now that if Shannon Kay Metcalf were trying to contrast with her mother—Kate in her office clothes, another Beefeaters and a sauvignon blanc giving her a nice flush—she didn’t have far to go. Faded jeans, rips at both knees, sweatshirt she’d helped build the pool in last year, brown hair pulled back.
Pretty if she’d let herself be.
Like the moods, part of being fourteen, he hoped. A private-school fourteen—his and Kate’s ongoing debate: sheltered-from-it versus equipped-to-deal. He watched Shay work a bite of lasagna and set down her fork.
“Mom, can we cut the cake soon? I’m really tired.”
Kate reached over to palm her forehead. “You feeling okay?”
“Told you, just tired.” Watching Ben and Kate exchange looks before getting up to follow her mother into the kitchen.
Ben was still reflecting when they reentered with the cake, Kate carrying, Shay bringing up the rear and handing Ben the knife after he’d made his wish and blown out the candles. He cut them each a slice, then himself one. Knowing where Kate had ordered it: a place they used to go for coffee and a bear claw Saturdays after they’d made love.
Past tense.
At least the cake was as he remembered—chocolate with a rum-laced filling. They’d about finished, Ben thanking them both for the surprise, when Kate said, “Well…?”
“What...this?” Picking up the package and shaking it.
“Never in a million years,” Kate said.
“Kleenex? Surf wax? Neckties?”
“Since when do you wear neckties?”
“Codpiece? Edible briefs?”
“Daaaad.”
He looked at Shay. “Your turn.”
“How should I know? Open it, will you?”
“Yeah, Dad,” Kate said.
At that, Ben had to smile. What little he knew about being one he’d learned from books and the seat of his pants—Fighting Thurman Metcalf and Darnell Light not exactly poster children for the being-a-dad category. More like Dennis Rodman in a bridal gown. One thing sure, though: Like roundball, it came best when you weren’t forcing it.
He had the paper off now, only to discover another wrapped box and yet another, his anticipation starting to go beyond a silent prayer. Fearing the worst as the packages got smaller and her grin bigger—expensive the corollary to small—he opened a last wrapping, tore the tissue from what was inside.
Oh, God...Three first-class airline tickets...photographs of a boat under sail and power...guidebook and travel brochure for Costa Rica, glorious in living aquas, greens, sunset reds, and lavenders.
Seventy-five hundred at least. More probably.
In the mirror behind her, Ben’s smile looked stricken even to himself.
Frosting-smeared dishes, Shay announcing that no way could she take two weeks off from school, leave her friends, yadda-yadda, before marching upstairs. Ten by the brass chronometer, thin dings to mark it—Ben having settled into a Rob Roy over ice, Kate another glass of wine. Saying after a sip, “So much for thinking I’d have to stop you from doing backflips.”
“It’s just totally impractical right now,” he said, feeling like a shit. Each time he shifted in the chair his hurts reminding him why.
“Jeb said he could spare you, if that’s what’s on your mind.”
“Permission granted, huh?”
“Unworthy, Ben.”
“What’s on my mind is money, Kate. The thousand-pound eight-ball we’re behind.”
Only too aware of how it sounded. As if she’d been the one twisting his arm to lay it off with a weasel like Al Devore. Regular games, playoffs, Super Bowl: black Sundays. The meanest season in all the years of trying to win Evelyn Metcalf some breathing room after Deputy Thurman left her with gutted insurance and a ransacked IRA. SOB DOA at Fountain Valley Regional, the gang banger who’d fired first already dead from the old man’s service nine—a matte-finish S&W he’d let Ben hold, run a rag through, shoot sometimes on Anza-Borrego escapes from the main events he had with Evelyn. Deep-sixed the night of Thurman’s funeral.
Twenty, Ben had been. Five months before the point-shaving mess that bought probation and swift closure to any NBA aspirations he might have had coming out of college. Bye-bye college, period: Cal State Irvine’s most promising shooting-guard prospect shot down. And he’d been the one loading the bullets.
“I didn’t use our money,” Kate was saying.
“Come again?”
“Savings bonds. Mine since I was a kid. ”
Explain it to Walter and Tommy, Ben thought.
“And the boat is Craig and Nancy’s. You know how they’ve been pestering us to use it. Supplies and fuel, that’s it. Why I splurged on the tickets.”
“So cash out.”
Double shit. Triple, quadruple shit.
“Nonrefundable. And not the airline’s idea, Ben—mine. I figured it was something I could do to make up for being gone so much. I thought it would please you. But I can’t say I didn’t expect this.”
Ben tipped the Rob, felt its heat as she picked up steam.
“It’s so typical of us lately. One goddamn trip.”
“Which I appreciate, Kate. I really do. It’s just that—”
“What...”
“Have you thought about Shay?”
Quintuple shit: We have a winner!
“What about her? She’s fourteen, she’ll come around.” Pausing to drive it home with shining eyes, breaking off to glance up the stairs before coming back to him.
“All right—who is she?”
He felt a shriveling. “What are you talking about?”
“The one Shay saw you with, the one she’s all conflicted over. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
Hoping it passed for exasperation, Ben blew a breath. “That’s what’s bothering her? Some fling I’m supposed to be having?”
“Tell me this isn’t you not wanting to leave her—whoever-she-is I smelled on you before dinner. The perfect wife and mother I may not be, but I am not stupid.”
“Then please don’t act like it.”
A door slammed upstairs, momentarily snapping them in that direction, then into silence.
“Wonderful,” Kate said finally. “Happy birthday.”
“My fault, as usual.”
“Not altogether. I’m inadequate for being ambitious, or not making more out of it, or less of what she thinks I should be making of it, or something.”
“As you say, she’s fourteen.”
“I deserve better. Me.”
“You’re being melodramatic, Kate. Not to mention reckless.”
Please welcome to the Hall of Fame: Total Shit, Benjamin Dean Metcalf.
“Am I? Prove it. What’s really stopping you from going?”
Loren, the debts and Little Al, Walter and Tommy: Redemption starts here. All you have to do is tell her.
“Nothing’s stopping me,” he said.
Dried frosting on an empty plate—Kate staring at him.
“Nothing,” he added, as though closing a deal with himself. Tossing off his drink and sliding back his chair.
“Not a goddamn thing.”
Back to TOC
Here’s a sample from Rob Brunet’s Stinking Rich.
One
Danny Grant couldn’t afford to lose twelve hundred bucks at blackjack, but he did anyway. When he and his pal Lester Freeden had each played their las
t dollar, drowning themselves in Jack and Cokes while they were at it, they got bounced out of the Great Horned Owl Charity Casino. The towering Ojibwa doing the honors wore a nametag Danny couldn’t read.
“What’s that say? Eddie? Ettie?” he asked, trying hard to focus.
“Effie,” said the bouncer. He yanked Danny off his feet with one hand and dumped him in a planter.
“What kinda name is that?” Lester asked.
“Big Effin’ Indian,” he answered. “Mister B-F-I to you. Drive straight and slow off the reserve or I’ll show you how I earned it.”
Danny stood up, teetered a moment, his head cocked to one side until its off-centre weight nearly toppled him back into the yucca. Stone-faced, the bouncer said, “You really don’t want to know.”
Lester nudged Danny’s elbow and they stumbled past row after row of seniors’ tour buses in the blazing white light of the late night parking lot. When they reached his car, he looked back at the casino. BFI was still watching them.
“You wanna drive my car?” he asked, leaning on Lester’s shoulder for balance.
“Sure thing, Danny-ol’-buddy-ol’-pal. I got your back. Least I can do for you.” Lester flashed a grin, exposing an extra wide gap where he’d lost two teeth in a bar fight gone bad. “You lean back and relax while I drive us on home. Just call me Jeeves. You must be some tired, sir. Lotta work losing all that dough.”
Danny closed his eyes and pretended to snooze until they pulled in at Lester’s place, a nineteen-foot trailer perched in a clearing on a plot of land his uncle owned. They pounded back three beers each, listening to Whitesnake and cursing the casino. Danny said he figured the Indians made more money renting colored chips to white gamblers than the settlers had ever made trading beads for beaver pelts.