by Louis Barr
I realized I’d gotten a “specific suggestion” from Grant. It’s only one of the clever skills taught in The Big Book of Shrinkology.
“Since Sierra’s death, have you felt that you’re living or existing?”
“Is there a difference?”
Grant, the clever doctor, had handed me a couple of things to consider. He was on a roll. “I’m sensing you’re under a great deal of stress,” Grant said.
“I guess.”
Grant dropped his pen onto his notebook. “I think you need to take at least a week off from work. You can go on short sightseeing trips or stay at home doing things you enjoy. Sit in the shade and read, take your son to Disneyland, work in your gardens. Would you give a week or ten days to yourself while we begin your daily talk therapy sessions?”
“I can try.” I considered all that this task would encompass, finally saying, “I’m afraid Sierra’s death put a gaping hole in my heart that will never heal.”
“Which philosopher said something like, there is no truth, only perception.”
“Socrates, Goethe, Descartes, and Nietzsche all had slight variations on the truth-perception theme,” I said.
“Maybe what you’re seeing as a gaping hole in your heart is a matter of perception?”
I shrugged.
Grant inclined his head slightly. “You know, Sierra will always, always hold a spot in your heart.”
I looked at my feet.
“Try seeing Sierra’s love as a gift she left you that you can treasure as long as you live,” Grant suggested.
Sir Grant the Clever had given me more specific suggestions.
For the first time in over two years, I let myself cry.
I finally wiped my eyes, took a long breath, and let it out. I’d known for a long while I needed to get beyond my grief and start living again. The time had come to turn the page.
After leaving the clinic, I stopped by the office and told Hope I’d be on vacation for the next seven business days.
She slid her pencil into her silver bouffant. “You’re way past due for a vacation.” She smiled. “You’re like the son Stella and I never had, and we love you dearly. But we’ve been worried about your endless grieving.”
She rose from her chair, came around her desk, and hugged me. “While you’re out of the office, either feed the kitty or give some trick a hot beef injection. Better yet, aim for both.”
Hope returned to her keyboard. “Least said, soonest mended. Now get the fuck outta here.”
I’d learned long ago to appreciate Hope’s candor.
Chapter Eighteen
The Thing with Feathers
Clint, The Flats, Saturday, May 12
Around 1040 hours, I sat in the sunshine, reading an espionage novel while keeping one eye on Ian and his buddy, Sage, as they yelled and splashed in the pool.
I looked up as a mockingbird began singing its repertoire. It reminded me of a work of literary genius. Not To Kill a Mockingbird, which reads like a Truman Capote novel. I’d long thought if Capote hadn’t written it, he’d edited it with a heavy hand.
No, I’m thinking of Emily Dickinson’s “Hope Is the Thing with Feathers.” I recalled the opening lines:
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
and never stops—at all.
No matter how tough, painful, or surreal life gets, hope always dwells within us.
Instead of defining my life as a result of Sierra’s death, Doc Grant had gotten me thinking along the hope, expectation, and courage lines.
And I’d started getting six hours of sleep most nights. The clouds had begun to break. I saw my life as a great new beginning.
But when it came to hope and courage, Raoul deserved a gold medal. He’d lost his house and everything in it. The fire inspector believed a defective gas line made the pressure rise, causing pipes to crack. The gas water heater, gas dryer, gas kitchen range, and two gas-fueled fireplaces simultaneously exploded, not to mention making his neighbors simultaneously shit themselves.
Adding insult to injury, Raoul’s agent wouldn’t return his calls. Likely cause of the radio silence: Raoul declined the men’s grooming products commercial that would’ve given every viewer a millisecond look at his junk. He’d simply shrugged. “Tinseltown agents can become such unforgiving assholes. Hoo-fucking-ray for Hollywood.”
Raoul hadn’t linked his misfortune to, as he’d put it, “that retro Mercury gloom and doom horseshit” pitched by my astrologer neighbor. Hell no, he’d told me it had been nothing but great luck we had gone out for dinner at Fat Boy Benji’s the evening his house went up like a NASA rocket.
Raoul’s homeowner’s insurance would cover his losses. He’d arranged for the rubble of his house and its contents to be hauled away in dump trucks and the lot bulldozed. He’d begun designing his new home.
Through it all, Raoul hadn’t become frustrated and hadn’t lost his optimism. And I’d helped him capture his dream of a film career.
I’d spent last weekend putting Raoul through his theatrical paces, shooting stills and videos, coaxing the best out of him as if I were a director, while capturing him in optimal angles, lights, and shadows like a studio cinematographer. I’d learned a thing or two about the movie biz by cutting my teeth watching great actors, directors, and technicians practicing their crafts.
Once I finished editing Raoul’s new, high resolution digital portfolio, I would stop by Steele Productions to show Aunt Vona the star of her next blockbuster.
And during one day of my vacation, I’d bagged all of Sierra’s cosmetics and toiletries and tossed them into the dumpster. Next, I placed her clothing, shoes, and purses in lawn and leaf bags.
I asked Raoul if he’d mind hauling it all to Goodwill. He understood my need for some time alone and asked Ian if he’d like to come along. He didn’t need to ask twice. Ian loved going for rides in Raoul’s big diesel pickup truck.
What had been our walk-in closet had become my walk-in closet. I now had enough room for my casual and dress clothing; all perfectly spaced, separated by colors, and neatly hanging. Anal much?
I boxed Sierra’s books, CDs, and DVDs to donate to any library willing to take them. I gathered her awards, letters, cards, yearbooks, and diplomas, and stored it all in the Saratoga trunk in the attic. I hoped her personal and professional mementos would one day give Ian a better understanding of his mother and her accomplishments.
I kept Sierra’s wedding band and engagement ring with my cuff links and tie tacks where I could see them each day while I got dressed. Then I turned the final page, so to speak, and removed my wedding band from my left ring finger. I placed all three rings in their original boxes and set them in the back of my safe.
Someday, Ian might want to give his mother’s engagement ring to his fiancée. And the new couple might wear our wedding bands. Hope is indeed the thing with feathers.
But until that day came, I would occasionally open those ring boxes to remember, to weep, and to smile.
Then I’d closed the walk-in closet doors, leaned against them, and felt centered for the first time in a long while.
Chapter Nineteen
Uncle Martian
Clint, The Flats, Sunday, May 13
Ian squealed and took a run at Mars Hauser as he stepped into the kitchen. He caught Ian mid-leap and held him to his chest.
“How you doing, Boo-boo?”
“I’m fine, Uncle Martian.”
At the age of three, Ian pronounced “Marston” as “Martian.” He could now say Marston, but he stuck with the misnomer.
Raoul had gone to his warehouse to inventory supplies with Katie, his right-hand crew boss. I didn’t expect him back before midnight.
Mars had caught me sitting at the kitchen island, working on Sunday’s crossword. I put down the pen as Mars took the stool beside mine, holding Ian on his lap.
The three of us spent the day in the So Cal sun,
playing catch and dodgeball, swimming, and going through a large bottle of sunscreen. We ate burgers and hot dogs for lunch and had barbecued chicken for dinner. For all intents and purposes, we had a family Sunday.
By 2030 hours, Ian’s eyes had begun to droop. I didn’t get an argument when I told him he needed to get ready for bed.
Showered and in his pajamas, Ian asked, “When my penis gets big, will I get hairy legs like you and Uncle Martian?”
I sighed inwardly. “Yes, son, without a doubt.” I kissed him on the cheek and told him I loved him.
“I love you too, Daddy.” He hugged me.
He’d fallen asleep before I turned on the nightlight.
Mars and I sat at the poolside table, shooting the shit and drinking beer. I occasionally glanced at the nearby audio-video monitor. Ian remained sound asleep.
Mars sipped some beer. “When you get your lazy ass back to work tomorrow, where do you pick up on the Shane Danning case?”
I set my bottle of beer aside. “A couple of days after Shane was seen in Laguna, Captain Flynn closed his missing person file.” I checked the monitor. “Needing a fresh trail to follow, I’ll wait until someone spots Danning again. It’s merely a matter of time.”
Shane didn’t need to call, email, send a letter, or unloose a courier pigeon to his mother. He had the right to hide his address and phone number from anyone he chose, including Diana. With no evidence of foul play and no ransom demand, the LAPD couldn’t invade Shane’s privacy by tracking him down.
But I could hunt Shane down and ask him to go home. I might turn on the charm, but I would not cuff him, force him into my car, and take him to his mother.
I lacked a piece or two in the matter of Shane’s disappearance, and my curiosity would spur me on. I wanted to know what motivated him to vanish like smoke, briefly reappear in Laguna, then disappear again.
Noticing that Mars had fallen silent, I knew he was reliving a memory. I lightly kicked him under the table. “What’s on your mad scientist tech nerd mind now?”
“I was thinking about the time you and I got a weekend pass, went to Manhattan, and got our asses abducted by those twin sister cops.”
I exhaled a laugh. “We met them in a bookstore, they started chatting us up.” I again kicked Mars under the table. “Then they opened their bags, showed us their guns, and ordered us to follow them.” I laughed. “They took us to their apartment, and damned near had us bare-assed naked before the door finished closing.” Smiling, I shook my head. “We each could’ve gotten a dishonorable conduct dismissal.”
“Well, shit, they swore they were single. How the hell did we know they were estranged from their husbands?”
“Christ on a crotch rocket, the way they went for our cocks and goddammed screamed their pretty asses off, I thought they hadn’t gotten laid in years,” I said.
Mars gave me a barefooted kick under the table. “I could understand your cop’s squeals. I always felt as if you’d split me in half each time we fucked. It became our dating game. The two of us and two women, then you and I later on.”
“As bisexuals, we gave credence to the adage about dating West Point cadets: The odds are good…”
“But the goods are odd,” Mars finished. “I miss the close, personal relationship you and I shared at the Point.” He paused. “Do you think we could go back to the way we were?”
“Now that your ass is single again, I wouldn’t mind.” I drank some beer.
“Before we get started, I’ll need to use some toys for a while,” Mars said.
“I read about something that will neither split you in half nor have you walking funny for days,” I said.
Mars lifted one eyebrow. “And what would that be?”
I glanced at the child monitor. Ian still slept peacefully. “Stand up and drop ’em.”
Mars’s shorts hit the pool deck. It sounded as if he had keys, Swiss Army knife, metal-jacketed Zippo (someone might need a light), lip balm, iPhone, nail clippers, and about ten bucks’ worth of change in his pockets. No matter how metro-hip handsome his looks, in one way or another, he’s always a nerd.
“Do you have a condom in one of those pockets?” I asked.
He bent, dipped two fingers into his right rear pocket, snagged a condom packet, and opened it with his teeth. He rolled the condom on.
I told Mars to close his eyes.
Standing face-to-face, I held a fist to my mouth and made the sound of a radio squawk. “Mars probe, this is Houston.”
Mars squawked. “Copy, Houston.”
I squawked. “Prepare for docking.”
Then I began docking (JFGI) him.
“Wow, that’s softer than any vagina I’ve ever had my dick in. How come we never tried this before?”
“I recently read about it. Ain’t the worldwide web a wondrous thing.”
Twenty minutes later, Mars said, “Moose, can you dock me again?”
I did.
Chapter Twenty
Can’t Find My Way Home
Shane Danning, The Ranch, Monday, May 14
When I was fifteen, Mom sent me packing to one of London’s exclusive prep schools. I met my roommate, Robert, the day before classes started.
Robert’s bearing and locution tagged him as a member of the British aristocracy—the penniless but proud Fifth Earl of Krotchrotten Downs, or something like that. I was a Hollywood princeling whose mother owned a twelve-million-dollar Palisades Beach mansion in the People’s Republic of Santa Monica. My roommate and I became fast friends.
Robert always had deep pockets, never mind his family didn’t have a pot to piss in or a crumbling castle window out of which to throw it, or so he’d told me. When I asked him about his monthly allowance, he snickered. “You Yanks may be the world’s best shoplifters, but we Brits long ago turned picking pockets and purses into an art form.”
He let me observe him at work in London’s crowded squares, packed tourist spots, and tube stations. He taught me some of the tricks of his trade in exchange for sex. Don’t be shocked. Or, as Robert would’ve put it, “Do try to carry on.” After all, we attended an all-boys’ school while our pubescent hormones were running wild.
I’d never needed to use the specialized skills Robert had taught me until this morning, when everything for a breakout from Jud Tucker’s private prison fell into place.
Tom Andrews, casino pit boss turned kidnap victim, and I had slapped together a basic escape plan. I would pick the prison key from a guard’s pocket, subdue him, hijack some wheels, and get the fuck off the Ponderosa.
We’d a few flaws in our plan. First and foremost, we didn’t know our twenty; that is, we didn’t have a frigging clue where the fuck we were. Our abductions had happened at night, and each of us had been drugged senseless before Jud Tucker brought us to his slave ranch and private prison.
But shit, I navigated the wild blue yonder by flight instruments and the seat of my pants while flying four hundred and eighty miles per hour at thirty-six thousand feet. During his military service, Tom had driven in Middle Eastern deserts without signage. We could, damn it, determine our location once we got outside the prison’s windowless walls. Roger that.
We knew Tucker kept only one guard on duty Monday mornings. And this Monday’s bull had been wanting to get his hands on me since Tucker caged my ass.
When he unlocked my cell this morning, I was lying on my bunk faking sleep, and wearing only boxers with my dick hanging out the fly.
While the bull gazed at my junk, I picked his pocket. Then I subdued his ass, bound his wrists behind his back with his T-shirt, tied his ankles with his jeans, and gagged him with his socks. I waggled my cock near his bull face. Yeah, I can sometimes turn into a bit of a douche.
Then I got dressed and unlocked my cell with the bull’s master key.
Tom Andrews was dressed and ready to run when I unlocked his cell. We jogged toward the prison’s only door.
I hoped either Andrews or I could get law enforcemen
t into this private hell before Jud Tucker returned. Failing that, I knew the young bull bound and gagged in my cell would be dead before dark. I didn’t want to be responsible for his death, but I suspected he wouldn’t be the first of Tucker’s guards and prisoners to vanish.
Outside the cinderblock prison, Andrews and I each did a three-sixty, trying to get our bearings. The morning sun pointed us east.
A large two-story white house, probably Jud Tucker’s, stood not far from us.
But we didn’t need shelter. We needed transportation. We ran for the barn.
A heavy padlock kept us from opening the barn’s solid wood sliding doors. Peering through cracks between the barn’s boards, I saw a tractor, grain truck, van, and an old GMC pickup.
“Tom, buddy, I believe we found the transportation mother lode.”
But we couldn’t even work our fingers between the slight gaps in the padlocked wooden doors.
“That old GMC looks solid enough to drive through these thick doors without denting the bumper,” I said. “We need to find another way into the barn.”
“What about keys to that Jimmy?”
“We’re on a working ranch. We’ll find the fucking keys either in the ignition or behind the sun visor. If I’m wrong, that pickup is old enough to start by hotwiring it.”
Looking for another barn entrance, Tom and I ran along one side of the building—nothing but solid wood, except for the door below the roof’s peak where hay bales were loaded into the loft.
We loped to the back side of the barn, slowed, and stopped, spotting another pair of double doors sans a padlock. To get to them, we needed only to climb over a six-foot-high barbed wire fence.
Andrews put his foot on the fence. His ankle touched a wire, and the current jolted him backward about ten feet.
Tom landed flat on his back. Kneeling beside him, I couldn’t find a pulse. He didn’t appear to be breathing. I began CPR. After about every two minutes, I stopped the chest compressions and exhaled a breath into his mouth. After twenty minutes of CPR, Tom’s heart hadn’t started beating, and he still couldn’t breathe on his own. One look at Tom’s eyes, and I knew he was dead. I sat cross-legged beside his body.