“I couldn’t leave my dad there.” Mike looked drained. “It was clean, but that’s the best I can say. Marginal neighborhood. The food was all starch. He has diabetes, he wouldn’t last long on macaroni and white bread. The brochure says there’s a counselor on staff, but it’s a grad student trying to build up clinical hours. Drops by three times a week. Dad would chew him up and spit him out. Four men to a small room, can’t take any of his own furniture. Difficult cases they put in restraints.”
“You think Trona will be better?”
“It has to be. I know two guys who have their fathers there. He’d have a private room and his own TV. No place is perfect, but I want Dad to keep some dignity. I worry that Trona is so far away—six hours in the car.” He put his head in his hands. “So damned expensive.”
“Look at this.” I sat down on the bed beside him and held out Max’s figures.
He looked them over, nodding approval. “If you accept, you’ll be set. You’ll have money for Casey’s college so you can quit the network and go do your own films again.”
“Michael said that if Oscar goes to Trona, you won’t be able to retire.”
“Not for a while.”
“Can you live with that? How many more days can you spend with Shannon and Tina and Pen before you lose it?”
“I’ve done it for twenty-five years. I can do it for a few more.”
“Don’t re-up right away. Don’t sign anything.” I put the paper with all the dollar signs into his hand. “We can take care of Oscar.”
He seemed confused at first, then he thrust the paper back into my hand. “Forget it. This is your money, Maggie. I can’t take any of it.”
“Give me a break.” I straddled his lap and pushed him over backward, pinning his shoulders to the bed, kissed his face, his neck, opened his shirt and kissed his chest. “And you don’t have to pay me back. I’ll just take it out in trade.”
CHAPTER
17
Friday morning, the kitchen of our house could have passed for a neighborhood diner.
Max and Dad were knocking on the back door just as I stumbled downstairs for my first cup of coffee. Mike came in from his morning run a few minutes later.
“Beautiful day,” Mike said by way of greeting.
“How do you know?” I yawned, taking mugs out of the cupboard. “The sun is hardly up.”
“I saw patches of blue in the sky. Maybe it’s going to clear up for us.” He planted a sweaty kiss on the back of my neck. “Boy, am I hungry.”
I counted mouths to feed—no one had been to the market all week. There was a box of Bisquick in the pantry and milk and eggs in the refrigerator. I said, “Pancakes?”
“Don’t put yourself to the trouble.” Mike excused himself to go shower, taking his coffee with him.
Max put his hand against my back and pressed, impelling me toward the door. “You go get dressed, Maggot. Daddums and I don’t have anything better to do. We’ll make breakfast.”
I was the last one down. Michael was carrying extra chairs into the kitchen from the dining room. He grinned at me. “Morning. Welcome to Denny’s. How many in your party?”
Someone had put the leaf in the kitchen table to make room for everyone. Mike and Dad sat together at the laundry room end, the house documents sharing space with their dishes. Casey had the morning paper. Oscar was upright, barely, clutching a cup of coffee with shaking hands.
Guido had dropped by to check on his cats, and had brought Lana with him. Like everyone else, they had stacks of pancakes in front of them.
“Good morning, all,” I said, pushing a chair into the gap between Mike and Lana. “What’s up?”
“Good morning.” Lana, way too hyper for the hour after dawn, pushed a wedge of pancake from one side of her plate to the other. “You look well.”
“Sit down, sit down.” Max set a plate in front of me. “Eat and be amazed. Someone named Connie called and said she’s having car trouble so she’ll be a few minutes late.”
“Khanh.” I kissed his cheek. “Thanks.”
“Plane leaves at noon for San Francisco.” Guido spoke around a mouthful. “Our bags are in the car. The crew will meet us at the airport. Are you coming with us?”
“Not at noon today.” I poured myself some juice. “Maybe tomorrow morning. Khanh’s coming over, and I’m hoping she’ll agree to talk about Bao Ngo on camera. If she does, that segment of the film will be pretty much set, don’t you think? I have all of Mike’s little torture killers on tape now. We still need some filler. You get good background stuff this weekend, and we’ll be ready to start a rough edit the first of next week.”
“Wonderful,” Lana said. She drizzled syrup on her pancakes. I had yet to see her put anything into her mouth. “I have such great expectations for this project.”
“Yeah,” was Guido’s gratuitous response to her. He turned to me. “I don’t have to go today. Want me to stay and give you a hand with Khanh?”
“Thanks, but I think she’ll be more likely to talk openly if we’re alone.”
Guido thought hard about something. “We can go back to plan A and film the Tet parade in Little Saigon. We don’t have to go to San Francisco. Save a lot of money and effort if we don’t.”
“Bite your tongue, Patrini.” Lana swatted at him. “We’re going. You’ve both promised me one hell of a party. As close as the West Coast gets to Mardi Gras, you told me, and I do not intend to miss it. Especially not if you think I can be impressed by frugality. It’s my budget, and that’s the last I want to hear about staying home.”
I was just saying, “More coffee?” to Lana when there was a loud crack outside that made everyone jump.
“What the hell?” Lana bolted to her feet.
“No, she doesn’t want more coffee,” Guido said.
“Just kids.” Mike reclipped the stack of documents, reached back and set them on the dryer. He looked at me. “It’s a good offer.”
Lana was still juiced. “Mike, what was that noise? Shouldn’t you go out and look? It sounded like gunfire.”
“What? You want me to go out there and get shot, Lana?” He laughed. “It’s just the Lunar New Year bang-up. Kids get their hands on firecrackers and can’t wait until the party to shoot them off.”
“Wait till you get to San Francisco, Lana,” Casey said. “Like, if that little firecracker bothered you, you’d better take ear plugs.”
Max chimed in with, “I think Halloween in the Castro District is closer to Mardi Gras than Tet is.”
“Never been to Mardi Gras,” Dad offered.
Mike reached for the pancake platter. “Yesterday, I saw a guy on the street in Chinatown selling cherry bombs and bottle rockets to kids. Big ones, M-80s. There’s a uniformed cop standing right there on the corner, and he doesn’t do a damn thing about it.”
Casey perked up. “Did you buy me some, Mike?”
“No, I did not buy you some.” He took some pancakes and passed her the platter. “People who live in wooden houses shouldn’t fool around with firecrackers. Firecrackers aren’t just illegal, they’re dangerous.”
Casey imitated his know-it-all tone. “If you don’t let people have firecrackers during Tet, they shoot off their guns into the air. In San Francisco, everyone has firecrackers.”
“San Francisco burned to the ground once before, Miss Wiseacre, Junior,” he said, grinning at her. “You think it can’t happen again?”
“Take your pick, Mike,” she said. “It’s either firecrackers or accidental lobotomies.”
Lana, head bobbing like a tennis match spectator, turned to me. “Aren’t they precious?”
“Just darling,” I said. She seemed tense. Family life was foreign turf for my boss.
Mike appealed to me. “Who runs the show up there? Is no one in charge?”
“The trains run on time. Isn’t that enough?” I thought, and not for the first time, that no matter what he said, retirement would not settle easily on Mike. During all his twenty-
five years on the streets, I doubted whether Mike ever stood by passively when there was something happening that he could meddle with. I asked him, with a sort of dread, “Did you say anything to the Chinatown cop?”
“I wanted to say, Get a haircut. The back of his hair almost touched his collar. What is going on when the department lets foot patrol cops wear shorts and Reeboks? Long hair, soft shoes, fat guts. Every one of those guys should be beefed for being out of uniform.”
I stood to kiss the top of his well-trimmed head. “The good news is, Mike, come May, firecrackers and fat-bellied cops are someone else’s problem.”
Michael spoke for the first time. “Unless they burn the house down.”
Lana checked her watch, and then she scraped back her chair and rose. The food on her plate had been skillfully arranged to look like table scraps, but I knew that not one bite was missing. I watched my daughter’s eye follow that plate and then slide to Lana’s skinny behind, and I worried, not for the first time, about the powerful message she might get from it. Ballerinas and Hollywood career women share the same horror: getting fat.
“We should be going.” Pointedly, Lana said, “Guido, did you have some business to take care of?”
“Right.” Guido picked up his plate. “Michael, you’re staying home all weekend?”
“Yeah. I’ll be around.”
“Would you mind looking after George and Gracie until Sunday night?”
“Sure.” Michael shrugged. “No problem. What do I do?”
“Just feed them, one can each in the morning. I already took care of the litter box. Thanks, Michael.” Guido stood. “Business taken care of, Lana. Ready when you are.”
She seemed annoyed, but kept smiling. “Mike, Maggie, please excuse us. Sorry to run, but I have a meeting to take before we fly out, a conference call with New York. Breakfast was fabulous.”
Lana pushed in her chair. Instead of leaving, she hovered, stalled, looking so uncomfortable that I expected her to lower the boom, say something like, Breakfast was fabulous and by the way, you’re fired.
She said, “Guido, you can’t leave without saying goodbye to George and Gracie.”
This was an obvious dismissal. She didn’t want to drop her bomb in front of a colleague. Guido, after a pregnant hesitation, excused himself. But his were the only pair of eyes that left the room.
All of us watched her, waited for her to get up courage. In the time it took her, I decided that being fired wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. We could live off the proceeds from the house for a while. Then we’d think of something.
Finally, after a deep, reedy breath, Lana said, “Maggie, would you mind stepping into the next room with me?”
“I think I would mind, Lana. Anything you have to say to me, my family should hear.”
“If you wish.” She looked at every face at the table, including Oscar’s. “I am absolutely forbidden to leak any hint of this, so I beg you all—I implore you—to keep it to yourselves. Not a word, even to Guido. Promise?”
A chorus: “Promise.”
“The network is putting together a new package to offer you, Maggie. Carte blanche. Content control, artistic freedom.”
“And the catch?” I asked.
“They want a long-term commitment.”
She went on about how maternal she felt about my network projects to date, but I didn’t hear much after long-term. I watched Mike watch me.
“I don’t need a decision now,” she said, winding down. “I just want you to begin thinking.”
From the next room, Guido called out. “Is it safe to come back now?”
“It’s safe,” Lana called back.
There was a round of air kissing and they were gone.
Michael broke the silence they left in their wake. “Well, well.”
“Interesting confluence of events.” Dad cleared Lana’s and Guido’s plates from the table. “Does this offer help you make up your mind about the house, Maggot?”
I was watching Mike. I said, “How long do you think long-term means?”
“She said, total freedom.”
“We need to talk,” I said.
He nodded. Then he put a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “We’re not in a hurry to head out, are we, Pop?”
Oscar, red-eyed and pale, shook his head. “Anytime, son. Anytime.”
“Last call for pancakes.” Max slung a dish towel over his shoulder and squirted dish soap into the sink. “I’m ready to clean the skillet.”
Dad took the butter dish from my hand. “Your mother asked me to ask you whether you had any objections if she redid your old bedroom.”
“My bedroom in the Berkeley house?” I was puzzled. “Of course not.”
“She thought that if you sold your house you might need to know you still had a room.”
“Paint the room, Dad.”
Casey leaned toward Mike. “Lyle is moving into Mom’s old room at Grandma’s house, you know.” Lyle had been our San Francisco housemate. Now he lived with my parents.
Mike leaned in and met her, nose to nose. “I don’t think your mom needs her old room anymore.”
“It’s Mom’s museum,” Casey said. “Lyle will rip down her Jim Morrison posters.”
Mike’s turn to scoff: “Jim Morrison?”
“I’ve seen your baseball cards,” I said. “And your little cigar box shrine to Mickey Mantle.”
“Damn right.” Mike puffed up a bit, girding his loins for the offensive. “The Mickster was a genuine, red-blooded American hero. For you to in any way compare him to a needle-freaking, rock-and-rolling lunatic like Jim Morrison is worse than farting in church. Jeez, Maggie, I’m surprised your parents let you hang his posters. What sort of role model was he? OD’d before he was thirty.”
“The Mickster OD’d, too, big guy.” I took a handful of Mike’s shirt front. “His drug of choice just took longer.”
“Mom, may I be excused?” Casey had already gathered her share of breakfast dishes and deposited them on the sink. She was headed for the door before I could say, “You may,” an answer as ritualistic as the question had been. With three long strides she was through the door.
“What’s your schedule for the day?” I called after her.
“Stuff.”
“What stuff? What are you doing after school?”
“I told Madame I would talk to her senior classes about the academy in Houston. Alyssum has her mother’s car today. We’re all going to the mall and maybe rent a movie. If we aren’t flying up north until tomorrow, I might sleep over at Rachel’s. I’ll call you.”
“Curfew is …”
“I know. I know.” I heard her feet hit the stairs, her recitation receding as she went up. “I know the drill. Don’t talk to strangers. Use the buddy system. Grandpa, are you ready?”
“Ready,” Dad called out. He fished keys out of his pocket. “Volunteered for chariot duty. I’ll help you with the dishes, Max, when I get back.”
“Miss Wiseacre, Junior.” Mike was watching me again.
I said, “What’s keeping Khanh?”
Mike stacked his plate atop the pancake platter and handed it to Max. “So, Khanh’s visit is a business meeting?”
“Turned into one,” I said. “Started as a holiday visit. We used to go to their house for the big Tet meal every year—I met Nguyen Cao Ky there once. Remember him? The flyboy vice president of South Vietnam. If you’re lucky, Khanh’s bringing us spring rolls.”
“As long as she doesn’t bring Nguyen Cao Ky.” Ever skeptical. “What’s your schedule for today?”
“Talk to Khanh. I’ve sent a crew down to shoot the park, the house, and the school where Pedro spent his last day. I should check on them, but I don’t have to.”
“Ever seen Trona?”
“No.” I put my hand against his cheek. “But I’ve always wanted to. I can be ready by noon.”
We heard sirens in the distance. Oscar perked up. “That police or fire, Mikey?”
“
Can’t tell, too far away.”
I said, “Maybe some long-haired cop is going to hammer a kid for possession of illegal firecrackers.”
“You can only hope.” He yawned. “Feel like taking a walk?”
“Sure,” I said. I glanced at the mantel clock. “As soon as Khanh leaves.”
“Why don’t you two go ahead?” Max opened the dishwasher. “I’ll wait for Khanh and keep her entertained, if you’ll take the dog with you. He’s been underfoot all morning, driving me nuts.”
I actually hadn’t seen Bowser all day. I looked out the back door and spotted him sleeping on the patio in a patch of sunlight.
“Good idea, Max,” I said. If Khanh came on the most direct route from San Marino, I thought, she would probably pass us. If not, well, Max would be good company for her.
When we stepped out the front door, Bowser pulled at the leash for a few paces until he got the message that we weren’t going for our usual run. He quickly settled into an easy saunter, checking constantly to make sure Mike and I were still with him. We walked over to Fremont Avenue and headed north toward the mountains, thinking we would browse through a bookstore on Mission and pick up some fruit on the way home for the drive to the desert.
There was some blue showing among the dark clouds hanging low overhead, but the air was cold and heavy. The mountains that rose above the north end of the city wore a dense blanket. The forecast said snow above four thousand feet.
Mike zipped up the front of his windbreaker when we faced into the breeze. “Is Lana true to her word?”
“As television industry promises go, she’s better than average. I’ll wait to see what the network comes up with, but it could be a good gig, Mike.” I looped my arm through his and used him as a windbreak. “At least for a couple of years. Give you time to figure out what your next career is going to be.
“And I’ve been thinking about it,” I said. “As much as I complain when I’m answerable to other people, at least I’m working. Arts funding has dried up so much in the last couple of years that it’s scary out there. When I see how many of my colleagues are making commercials and instructional films or doing completely unrelated jobs altogether, I realize how cushy my slot is.”
A Hard Light Page 17