A Hard Light

by Wendy Hornsby

At three o’clock on Thursday afternoon, I was in the main dance studio of Casey’s school, camera on my shoulder, a parent-voyeur.

  Casey is a wonderful, talented, hardworking dancer. But nothing she could do, no quantity of practice or conditioning, would fix her essential flaw if she wanted to make a career out of ballet: Casey is too tall. Six-foot ballerinas have no one to partner them. She was head and shoulders above the rest of the troupe, a standout like a swan among goslings.

  At five-thirty she was a tired, wilted swan, and happy to have a ride home with dear old mom. As she gathered her school materials and soiled dance clothes, she only mentioned once that she thought it was time she had her own car.

  We walked out to the parking lot arm in arm, both of us with loaded bags over our shoulders. It was nearly dark, and the heavy skies made it seem later than it was. Other dancers and their rides and some teachers were also leaving, most headed, as we were, toward the parking lot. The lot lights were just coming on.

  “I’m doing a solo,” Casey said, her feet light under her. “Mr. Andreavich is rechoreographing a pas de deux for me to dance solo. He said not to let it go to my head. There aren’t enough good boys to cover all the parts. And there is, like, no one who can dance with me.”

  “A solo is a solo,” I said. “Think of the bragging rights Grandma and Grandpa will get out of the show.”

  “I suppose the whole family has to come.” She tried to make a face as if displeased by the burden of family. But she wasn’t convincing. Performers need an audience.

  “Your grandparents have come to every single performance you’ve been in since you were the spout in ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ when you were three. Now that you’re the exalted soloist, you know they’ll be here. Get used to it.”

  All of a sudden Casey wasn’t listening. She pulled me toward her. “Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Those men.” She dipped her head toward the parking lot. “I saw them this morning when I got on the bus. Leon asked if they were friends of mine.”

  “Who is Leon?”

  “The bus driver.” She gripped the front of my raincoat. “Who are they?”

  The white car was parked next to the van. This time, there were three men inside.

  I handed Casey the camera and my cell phone. “I intend to find out who they are. You stay here. If I look like I’m in trouble, scream like bloody hell and dial 911.”

  “Okay.”

  Chip off the old block, Casey put the camera on her shoulder, aimed it at the white car, and started the tape.

  A light drizzle fell. As I approached the white car, the driver snapped on his dome lights. It was a showy thing to do, something like training a single spotlight on a figure in the middle of a dark stage. The three men inside looked straight ahead until I was abreast of the driver’s side door.

  The driver turned his pale, close-cropped head on a thick-muscled neck and looked me over. Wordlessly, he challenged me with sun-faded eyes.

  Fresh from the war zone, I thought, meeting his stare. I have seen soldiers when they come in off the field of battle. There is a stone-hard fierceness about them that time and adjustment to civilian life tempers. From the look of him, this man—maybe fifty, white squint lines etched across the corners of his flat cheekbones—he hadn’t come in yet. But where was his war?

  I felt off guard, because I had misjudged him. Or, rather, failed to really notice him. The scene in the marina restaurant had seemed buffoonery to me. Now I understood: He wanted my attention.

  I rested one hand on the roof of the car and spoke down to him. “Did you want to speak with me?”

  He winked at the man beside him before he answered. “I’m not much of a talker.”

  “I seem to see you everywhere I go. Now my daughter tells me she sees you, too. We could talk about stalking laws. Or you can tell me what it is you’re up to.”

  “Stalking? Kind of full of yourself, aren’t you? Why would we want to stalk you?”

  “That’s my question.” I took one of the freeway pictures out of my pocket and flipped it into his lap. I lied: “The LAPD has the rest of them, and a videotape from the marina on Tuesday. Now, who are you?”

  “I leave the heavy philosophical questions to my partner here.” The driver dropped the picture into the lap of the man beside him. “So, Bowles, who are we?”

  Bowles only shrugged as the third man leaned forward from the backseat, his round, pale face a sharp contrast to the leaner men on either side. He propped his forearm along the back of the driver’s seat as if he wanted me to see the puffed, jagged scar that cut a path through his dark hair from his wrist up his biceps, disappearing under his sleeve. I recognized the challenge here, a warning maybe: He’d already survived something damned horrible. But when he looked up at me, he had long lashes that made him effeminate and ruined his air of malice. “Show the lady some ID, Elwood.”

  “Mrs. MacGowen?” Casey’s dance teacher, Mr. Andreavich, was walking toward me. “Is there a problem?”

  I heard the driver snicker. Mr. Andreavich had thrown on a short jacket over his flesh-colored leotards. He looked frankly ridiculous, less than imposing if I did have a problem. But dancers are formidable athletes. If I needed backup, Mr. Andreavich would be a good choice.

  “We’re okay,” I said to him. “But if you don’t mind, would you please keep Casey company for just a few minutes?”

  Mr. Andreavich took another hard look at the men in the white car before he turned away to join Casey.

  I said to the driver, “You were going to show me some ID.”

  “Sure.” He flipped open a new-looking wallet and passed it to me. A not-quite-focused color photograph of the driver in the center, the signature of E. P. Dowd, Field Investigator, Department of Fish and Game, on the bottom.

  I handed the wallet back. “Your mother had a sense of humor, Mr. Dowd.”

  The passenger said, “Who says he had a mother?”

  “Whoever the hell you are,” I said. “I don’t want to see you around me or my family again. Capisce?”

  “You won’t see us unless you go fishing without a license.” The passenger seemed to think it was a good joke. “Or poaching for rabbits.”

  Dowd started the car and began to back out. “Catch you later.”

  I walked back toward Casey, listening to the car’s sounds, making sure it kept going away.

  Casey walked up to meet me. “Who are they, Mom?”

  “I wish I knew.” I reached out my hand to Mr. Andreavich. “Thanks for being the cavalry. If you see those men or that car around again, I think you should call the police.”

  “Count on it,” he said.

  When Casey and I climbed into the van, simultaneously we hit the door locks.

  I used the car phone to call Arlo, put it on the speaker so that I had both hands to drive. “Any more word on that car I gave you?”

  “There’s been a development, Maggie. You sure you gave me the right tag numbers?”

  I pulled out the picture and read off the numbers to him.

  “According to Hertz, those tags belong to a 1996 Celica. Green,” he said. “The car was rented on a corporate account, and it was turned in this afternoon.”

  “I saw the car again, a white Ford, not five minutes ago.”

  “Did you happen to look at the tags?”

  “No. I didn’t look. I have a name for you to work on, though I have a very strong hunch it won’t get you anywhere. Would you find out from the Department of Fish and Game if they have a field agent named E. P. Dowd on their roster? That’s Elwood P. Dowd.”

  Arlo laughed. “This is a good sign, honey. I see your sense of humor is intact.”

  “I hope it is, Arlo. But I’m not kidding.”

  “Whatever you say. I’ll make the calls. Just promise me, if they send the boys in white jackets after me that you’ll come rescue me.”

  “Count on it.”

  I clicked off.

  “What was that abo
ut?” Casey asked.

  “The name’s a phony. Elwood P. Dowd is a character in an old play. Dowd talks to an invisible rabbit named Harvey. Using the name is someone’s idea of a joke. A bad joke.”

  We picked up Chinese take-out on our way home.

  When I was first separated from Scotty, my father got into the habit of dropping by. First, he changed all the locks and put in superlong dead bolts. After that it was little things, like washers in the kitchen faucets and a new cord on an antique lamp. All he wanted was to know that Casey and I were all right. It was very dear of him.

  That evening when Casey and I walked into the kitchen, shielding our take-out bags from the rain, my father and my Uncle Max were sitting at the table with a box of crackers and a brick of cheddar between them. Spread all over the table, under a dusting of cracker crumbs, was a sheaf of legal-sized documents.

  My dad, tall and gangly, is best described as Ichabod Crane’s better-looking brother. He wore professor-wear, a madras shirt with six pens in the breast pocket, good but old slacks, and soft-soled leather shoes.

  Max, who is my father’s much younger brother, must have been left by the stork at the wrong house. There is no resemblance I have ever discerned between Max and Dad. Where Dad is tall and angular, Max is short and round.

  Max is extravagantly handsome and dark in a Gallic way; masses of rich brown hair sweeping down to thick, well-shaped brows. Still, they have a great deal in common. Most notably, their affection for one another.

  “Dad?” I set the food on the counter. “Uncle Max? This is a surprise.”

  “We called,” Dad said, reaching out an arm to draw Casey to him, raising his cheek for a smooch. “Talked to that cute little redhead over at the studio. I like that girl.”

  “Her name is Fergie,” I said. “What did you tell her?”

  “Max and I thought we might as well come on down. I know you said you were coming up this weekend. But I also know how that goes. Seventy-eight percent of the time you say you’re coming, you get caught up in obligations and you can’t leave town.” Dad handed me a cracker with a triangle of cheese on it. “Max says the buyers want an answer right away on this offer for your house. So we brought the papers down. If you’re going to make the right decision, Maggot, you need to take the time to read the fine print. Right, Max?”

  “Hi, sweetheart.” Max stood up to put his arms around me. He whispered in my ear, “Can a guy get a drink around here?”

  “Sorry, no. Mike took everything out of the house. His father got into a situation last night, and Mike decided that as long as Oscar is staying here, we shouldn’t have anything around to tempt him.”

  “I understand.” In a stage whisper, imitating W. C. Fields, Max said, “I come all this way only to find there’s a terrible drought.” He reached for the jacket of his pinstripe suit and pulled a silver flask from the inside pocket, uncorked it, and took a long pull.

  “You can wait until we get back to the hotel.” Dad snatched the flask from Max, smelled the contents with a disapproving, prudish sneer on his face. Then he took a drag. “Good brandy. Is it mine?”

  “Was until I claimed it.” Max slipped the flask back into his jacket.

  We went through a little family drill, I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re all fine, while Max gathered up the papers and I set the table for dinner.

  Mike called on the phone. “Don’t wait dinner. Michael and I are taking Pop to see this halfway house in Reseda. If it’s okay, he’ll stay there tonight.”

  “And if it isn’t okay?”

  After a pause, Mike said, “Trona. I’ll drive him up tomorrow. Got Shannon out of the way, and now this happens. I don’t know what it will do to the San Francisco trip. I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “I’d hardly be alone,” I said. “Casey, Guido, Lana, and a whole film crew will be there with me. But I hate to go without you. Let’s put the trip off, Mike. My dad tells me that seventy-eight percent of the time we cancel out on him, so we’ll merely be upholding precedent.”

  “Where did he get seventy-eight percent?”

  “Made it up.”

  “Reminds me. Fergie called. Your dad is flying down.”

  “He’s here now.”

  Mike chuckled. “Have fun. See you later.”

  Casey counted place settings. “Where’s Guido?”

  “He went to check on his house,” I said. “If the house is standing, he’ll stay there.”

  She looked disappointed. “Did he take his cats?”

  “Not yet.”

  She smiled. “I think Bowser likes the cats.”

  I sighed. I could say, Don’t bring home any kittens. But it would do no good.

  Over Chinese food, Max outlined the offer on my house.

  “It’s solid, Maggie. The buyer deposited an earnest money check, and it cleared the bank. Top Standard and Poor and Dunn & Bradstreet ratings. If you want to sell, I don’t think you’ll do better. The only catch may be the short closing.” He reached for the soy sauce. “Think you’ll be ready to let go in thirty days?”

  I turned to Casey. “What do you think about selling our house?”

  She studied me. “It’ll be okay to sell, Mom. We like it here with Mike and Michael. I know what Mike says about moving into the woods when he retires. But he isn’t going anywhere until Michael graduates. And that’s two years away, if Michael graduates on time.”

  “She’s a wise child,” Dad said. “Listen to her.”

  “And another thing.” Casey pushed aside the bowl of rice that was between us. “Michael says that if Mike gets Oscar into a good rehab, it’ll cost so much that Mike won’t be able to retire as long as Oscar lives.”

  Dad raised his eyebrows, looked worried. “Is that true, Maggie?”

  It was true. Mike’s pension, which would be roughly half his LAPD salary, would barely cover his agreed-to share of Michael’s tuition and his own groceries. And then only if Michael continued to live at home. Oscar had never been factored into the budget before.

  I thought of my own situation if I left the shelter of a network contract: Casey’s tuition, our health insurance, rent—I looked at Dad—my own parents, possibly, in the future.

  Lana had been pressuring me to extend my contract and do another set of documentaries. Next time she brought it up, I would ask her to draw paperwork.

  My dad reached his long arm across the table and took my hand. “Maggot?”

  I squeezed his hand. “Okay, Max. Give me the bottom line. After sales costs and the mortgage payoff, what will I have?”

  “You planning to buy a replacement home within twenty-four months, or are you going to pay the capital gains?”

  “Give it to me both ways.” I looked at the columns of figures Max had computed and groaned. “Mike should be here.”

  Dad contributed, “You should marry that boy. Think of the tax savings.”

  Casey said, “If we rent again, can I still get a cat?”

  The only time since my divorce that I was ever glad to hear Scotty’s voice was right there after the cat comment. Actually, I would have been glad to speak with anyone. But it was Scotty who called and interrupted things.

  “You were going to get back to me about dinner tonight,” he said.

  “It can’t be tonight. I have guests. But here’s the scoop you wanted.” I repeated to him the offer as Max had presented it to me. “You need to do better than merely match what is already on the bargaining table. These people have deposited nine percent in earnest money.”

  “I’ll need a little time to put a package together.”

  “You have twenty-four hours,” I said.

  “All right.” Sounded like a poker bluff, but he wasn’t folding. “Dinner tomorrow then. I’ll have my offer together. Pick you up at seven?”

  I shuddered to think of being closed in a car with him. “I’ll meet you.”

  He named a restaurant at the far end of Monterey Drive, down near the Arroyo Seco—translation,
the big, dry ditch—and said he would make reservations for seven. He also said he was looking forward to it.

  “Here’s Casey,” I said, and handed her the phone.

  I couldn’t talk Dad and Max into staying the night with us. If we’d had anything to drink, Max might have. But Dad is always very reticent to stay at anyone’s house except his own much past the dinner hour, unless there’s a bridge game. If he felt more comfortable staying in a hotel, then it was fine with me.

  After good-night kisses, Max asked what time they should come for breakfast.

  By nine o’clock, Casey and I had the house to ourselves.

  We were sitting in front of the television and I was making a French braid in her long hair when she said, “Are we going to sell our house?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Well, if you had wanted to sell it last year right when we moved down here, I would have been all, like, don’t do it. But we’re here and it’s pretty much the bomb. I mean, when you think how the renter-people have trashed the house in one year, well, what could they do after two years? Kelp in the bathtub. I mean, how gross. Good thing they moved out.”

  “Exactly my sentiments. But I miss looking out at the ocean, hearing the foghorns at night. No smog. Good public transportation.”

  “And tourists everywhere all the time up there. It’s not like you can ever just go for a walk on the beach by yourself. Or swim in the water, because it’s too cold and too rough. All you can do in San Francisco is, like, look at the water. Down here you can actually go into the water.”

  “I miss being able to drop by and see Grandma and Grandpa.”

  “As if they’re ever not here, Mom.”

  “You’re right.” I took the rubber band she was holding and wrapped it around the end of her braid. “Anyway, we’re not going anywhere for at least two years. Not until you and Michael are ready to fly the nest.”

  She leaned back against me and pulled my arms around her. I couldn’t see over her head.

  “So, Mom. You going to marry Mike?”

  “What? And live in the woods for the rest of my life? I don’t think so.”

  She laughed, the wise child.

  Oscar came home with Mike and we made him a bed again on the living room sofa. Mike seemed dispirited. When we were upstairs in our room, he told me about the rehab facility he had visited in Reseda.