by Mark Tufo
“You make me want to puke.”
The sliding door behind them opened and their mother walked in carrying a bag of groceries. Jean Webster wore blue jeans and a chambray shirt, and when she smiled, Peter thought she looked pretty darned good for her sixty-eight years, despite her gray hair and pronounced laugh lines.
“Hi, boys. Any word from Matthew?”
They both shook their heads.
Peter stood, towering over his mother, who was only 5’6” tall. Both Glenn and Peter had gotten most of their father’s height, and towered over her. While they had the same color brown hair, Glenn kept his fairly long, just to his shoulders, and Peter kept his trimmed appropriately for his work as a school principal.
“You got your hair done,” Peter said. “Looks good.”
“Perm’s tight yet. It’ll loosen.” She looked at the clock. “You boys must be hungry. Why on earth is Matthew always late?”
Glenn scratched his head, his eyes rolled upward. “Let’s see Jean, I’m not sure. Maybe because he’s a fucking drunk?”
Peter cringed. “Quit being an asshole, Glenn, and don’t call Mom by her first name.”
“Now, Peter. If that’s what he wants to call me, it’s his business. But I don't like the language and I do prefer mom.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Glenn said, feigning a sad face.
Peter shook his head and took a sip of his cabernet. Their mother knew what was going on as well as anyone. It was just easier for her to pretend certain things weren’t true. Like the fact that Glenn, her wealthy attorney son was a sleezebag, or that her youngest son was an alcoholic. Putting the glass down, he said, “If we didn’t look alike, I’d swear we weren’t brothers.”
“Let’s see . . . a teacher, and an attorney. Yep. It’s hard to imagine we're related. I personally try to hide it with the beard and mustache.”
Peter shrugged. “It may be a cliché, but at least I sleep at night.”
“I guess masturbation can wear a guy out.” Glenn tilted back his lager and drank until it was gone. “How long's it been since your wife walked out on you for that surfer dude? Three years?”
Peter stood up. “You know, this isn’t a whole lot of fun tonight—”
“Boys, stop it right now, and Glenn, don’t be so ornery,” she said, a seldom-heard edge in her voice. “And I don’t want to hear either of you call Matthew an alcoholic.”
Peter sat back down and glared at Glenn, then turned to his mother. “As much as I don’t like to agree with Glenn, it’s true. So far Matt controls his drinking to the point he hasn’t . . . well, let’s just say he’s a functional alcoholic.”
“Well, I disagree,” their mother said. “He’s been driving a school bus for years. He couldn’t have kept his job if he drank as much as you say. Either way, we’ll still wait for him to get here before we eat.” She unwrapped the lettuce and started tearing pieces. “Peter, will you get those steaks unwrapped please?”
“In the meantime, let’s talk about you working for me,” Glenn said. “Being my brother, you gotta have it in you. You can be a research assistant at first, then we’ll see what happens.”
Peter looked at him, dumbfounded. His brother's practice was dedicated to defending criminals of the worst sort. It sometimes seemed to Peter that if the case wasn't horrific enough, or if it didn't appear absolutely unwinnable, Glenn wouldn't take it. And it often appeared to have little to do with money. Not that Glenn didn't have his share of it, but to take cases that were clearly long shots, representing thugs and scumbags who could never pay him what the case would demand was ludicrous. Still, who was Peter to question him. He'd probably lost only one case in the last five years. His success rate put him at the top, and the wealthiest criminals wanted him as their counselor.
“How many times do I have to tell you I enjoy teaching?” Peter put the package of steaks down and leaned on the counter, staring into the face of his identical twin.
“Remember that time when we were like nine years old? We buried those frogs in matchboxes and left them overnight?”
Glenn nodded. “Sure, then we dug them up to see if they were still alive.”
“Did you know I had trouble sleeping when they were buried? I thought about them all night, wondering what it must be like in that tiny box covered with dirt, in complete darkness. When we went back the next day and dug them up, I was so relieved to see they were alive. I took mine to a field and let it go again. I always thought it was like a lesson for the frog. That it learned something about survival.”
“You’ve always been pretty bizarre.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m bizarre. When you found your frog alive, it pissed you off. You smashed it with a hammer.”
“I don’t get your point. What does this have to do with my question? Come to work for me—as anything, maybe a researcher—and use that frog compassion for the human beings I defend. You'll be on board—and in a good position, I might add—when I run for Mayor.”
“Mayor of what? Purgatory?”
Glenn threw his head back and laughed.
Peter shook his head. “First of all, the voters and your opponents would eat you alive. You defend pure, career criminals, and everyone knows it. You couldn't win an election. Second of all, I’m happy right where I am. To be honest, even if you found something for me to do, you’d have to hold me at gunpoint to make me agree to work with you and then I’d have to give it some serious thought.”
“I don't believe what I'm hearing,” Jean Webster said. “I’m proud of both of you, and your father would be, too.”
Matthew Webster, the youngest son of Jean and the late Edward Webster, did not show up that night. So much for a Sunday dinner family tradition.
* * * * *
When Peter arrived at school on Monday morning, his best friend, Emma Sandelli, awaited him. They had met twelve years earlier in 2000, when both were attending the University of Southern California. He had been just twenty-two then, full of ambition and apprehension, and she had been focused on her goal as a trauma surgeon. While he never felt anything more than a warm friendship with her, several of his friends used to joke that she was secretly in love with him.
He loved her because she was a very close friend, and the lack of a romantic relationship didn’t have anything to do with her looks or her personality. She was a smartass, yes, but that was part of her sarcastic charm. She kept her dark brown hair cropped just below her shoulders, and her Italian-bred olive skin gave her an exotic look. The brown eyes came from her parents, but nobody knew where she got the slightly turned up nose that some described as ‘perky.’
But not in front of her. That might end up with a not-so-playful punch in the arm. And Emma could punch. She insisted she wasn’t cute, but of course, she was, and Peter was almost sure she knew it.
But as far as Peter and her being an item, he always brushed off the comments. She was his buddy, just like they were a couple of guys. They’d party, hang out the next day. When Jill left him devastated, Emma did what best friends are supposed to do—badmouthed her, recounted several times when she'd been a complete bitch to her, and told Peter he'd be better off without her.
After a while, when he started dating again, his girlfriends would come and go, and Emma was always there, his best friend. Now, looking back and picking out key moments over the years, Peter realized Emma was probably in love with him then, or had entertained feelings of love for him, but most likely had given up hope for anything more than the close friendship they’d always had. But still, here she was at age thirty-two with no man in her life and practically only Peter’s number in her phone book. No matter how much he teased her about not having a boyfriend, she brushed it off, insisting she was seeing someone, but wasn’t ready to introduce them yet. Peter never believed it, but never pressed the matter. She was, after all, his best friend. She would tell him what she wanted him to know, when she wanted him to know it.
Peter almost dreaded the next time someone would come between
them, though it had to happen sooner or later. When it did, it would probably be the kick in the ass the other needed to start their life.
Emma sat on the low stucco wall smoking a cigarette, her jeans dotted with ragged holes. When she saw him, she smiled and waved, brushed her shoulder length, brown hair away from her eyes and snuffed the cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe.
“Hey Web,” she said, burying the butt in a planter box.
“Hey Em. What’s up?” She never met him at school, and in fact, wasn’t much of a morning person at all. “Everything okay?”
“Great. Had some time before work,” she said, giving him a quick hug and peck on the cheek. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
Peter looked over at her vintage ‘56 Volkswagen Beetle and squinted. “Where?” he asked.
“Not right now, dork,” she said. “It’s a woman I met at the trauma center.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Oh, how did I know it was a woman? Em, I don’t want to be fixed up, especially to a trauma victim. I’m not that desperate yet.”
Emma laughed and pushed him, and her brown eyes twinkled. “Take a powder, Web. She’s a pathologist. She came in for a first-hand look at a stabbing victim I couldn’t save.”
Peter cringed, but it turned into a yawn. “Sorry to hear it. You want to come inside? I need a cup of java.” They walked into the one-room continuation school where Peter served as principal. He led the way into his small office in the front right corner of the building.
“We got to talking and I asked her if she’d be interested in speaking to your class,” Emma said. “She gives talks on forensic pathology—you know, what you can learn from a corpse that might determine the cause of death or give clues as to the identity of the killer.”
“Sounds like you’ve been practicing. How did you get so close so quickly? You just met her, right?”
“Like I said, I performed surgery on the stabbing victim. He died, and we had a reason to work together. Don’t worry, she’s very pretty.”
Cringing, Peter asked “Where did the guy get stabbed?”
“The abdomen.”
“No, what city?”
“Costa Mesa.”
“And I thought we were safe here in Orange County.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Santa Ana’s in Orange County. Feel safe there?”
Peter shook his head. “That’s north county. Anyway, sorry I drifted. The subject does sound interesting. The kids ought to like it.”
“Of course they will. She’ll call you today to arrange it.”
“Okay, but it’s just a speaking engagement. If I like her I’ll think about asking her out. Coffee?” Peter filled a cup with water and put it in the microwave.
Emma looked at the jar of Taster’s Choice and pinched her nose. “Yuck. Keep your instant. I only drink real coffee. Anyway, Allyson said she’s open for tomorrow.”
“Allyson?”
Emma smiled. “Allyson Newland. And you are gonna love her. Gotta run.” She turned and walked back through the main room toward the door.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Peter called after her. “What time you picking me up tomorrow night?”
“6:00,” she called back. “We’ll catch the carpool lane and make it to the Center in an hour and twenty. But I’ll see you tonight at El Torito.”
“Hold up, Emma. I can’t make it. I’m going to see Matt. Find out what’s happening with him.”
She stopped in the doorway and looked at Peter. “Why, what’s wrong with him?”
“He didn’t show up at mom’s house for dinner last night. I just want to check him out, see if he’s drifting too far into the booze.”
“Want me to go with?”
Always willing to help Peter out when he needed it, Emma’s eyes reflected genuine concern. Peter shook his head. “Nah. I’m better off alone. Don’t want him to think it’s an intervention or anything.”
“Okay, but tell him I love him, okay? I’ll talk to you about it on the way to the game. I want to know all about what you thought of Allyson, too.”
The phone rang on his desk. Peter gave Emma a quick wave and sat in his chair, the receiver in his hand. “Hello?”
“Peter Webster?” a feminine voice asked.
“Yes . . . this wouldn’t be Allyson Newland, would it?”
“How did you know—”
“Emma just left. She said you’d be calling me.”
* * * * *
The next morning, Peter arrived at school early and drank too much coffee. He jittered over some papers he was supposed to review but got little done. Allyson had a sexy voice on the phone, and it had been a while since he'd been with a woman. He could rest assured that if Emma set this thing up, she'd already filled Allyson in on his marital status. Now it almost felt like a blind date.
By the time Allyson Newland arrived, he was on edge and nervous. All fifteen students in the school were just coming out of their pottery course when she walked in, and more than a few of the boys turned their heads. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, was a gleaming platinum blonde, her eyes a clear, almost Cayman green. Her narrow face and fine cheekbones accentuated her beauty, and her long neck made a wonderful transition to a body at which Peter had to make a conscious effort not to stare.
Damn, she must be almost six feet tall, thought Peter.
“Miss Newland, I presume. I’m Peter Webster.” He held out his hand and she took it. His eyes drifted to her breasts for just a split second, but one that he was sure she caught.
“Allyson, please. I understand your friends call you Web.”
“Emma calls me just about everything, but I don’t protest. She’s earned it by putting up with me.”
“Is she your . . . girlfriend?”
Allyson cocked her head in a way Peter faintly recognized as the gesture of a woman trying to be subtle but who knew she had failed miserably. Perhaps she thought there might be a chance that Emma misunderstood their relationship and was just being cautious. “No,” he smiled. “And if you've talked to Em for even five minutes I'm sure you know my entire life story, and not much of hers. We’ve just been close friends since college. Gone through some times together.”
She looked around at the students and smiled. “Are they ready for me?”
Peter nodded. “Sure.” He waved his associate, Holly Wrenfield, over. She was in her fifties and had been teaching art and English for the continuation school for eight years. Her brilliant red hair was as straight as corn silk and hung from a center part to her shoulders. Her skin was fair, and she smiled easily.
“Yes, Peter?” She looked at Allyson, then back at him, and winked.
Peter glanced quickly toward Allyson and was relieved to see she was watching the students. With a slight glare, he said, “You want to bring the smokers in from out back?”
“Oh, interrupt their nicotine,” she said to Allyson. “You’re going to be real popular with them.” She smiled and made her way toward the back door.
“The kids can smoke here?”
“The way we look at it, they smoke anyway. Their parents have to sign off on it, and if they can smoke out back, they won’t skip school just to escape the meddling arm of the school administration. It works.”
“Makes sense to me,” Allyson said. “I’ve just got a few things to bring in from the car. Help me out?”
Peter helped her inside with her laptop computer, an LCD projector and some other boxes. After setting up, she spoke for nearly an hour, showed some semi-gory PowerPoint slides and held the kids’ attention the entire time. Even Peter was fascinated. When it was over, he helped her back to the car with her things and wondered how to ask her for her number. It was such an awkward feeling, and he detested rejection.
As she opened her car door, he fumbled with words. “Well, it’s been really great having you here, Allyson. Maybe you can come back sometime.”
She leaned into her Audi and pulled out a card. “Here. Take this and call me if
you like.”
He took it, and she said, “Wait. Give it here.”
Confused, Peter handed it back to her. She took a pen from her purse and wrote something on the back of the card, then gave it back.
Her cell number. Peter smiled at her. “I wanted to ask for that but I was having trouble.”
Allyson smiled. “My digits, as the kids say.” She hesitated. “If they still say that. I can’t keep up. But anyway, now you don’t have to ask. See you soon, maybe.” She dropped into the car, started the engine, and took off.
As she drove away, Peter laughed aloud. Humming to himself, he spun on his heel and went straight to his office to waste the rest of an already perfect school day.
* * * * *
The VW’s horn beeped out front, and Peter grabbed his Los Angeles Kings jacket and ran out, pulling the door closed behind him. It blew again, and he shouted, “Lay off, Em! I’m coming!”
As he opened the car door she said, “Man. I clean my mom’s attic, take a long shower, and still I get ready before you.”
“Well . . . so what. I’ll think of a good comeback later.”
“Comebacks have a shelf life and that one’s already expired.” She backed the car up and aimed it down the steep driveway, watching for oncoming traffic.
Peter reached over and pinched the back of her neck, glancing into the back seat. “What’s all that crap?”
“Those were in a big trunk in the corner of my folk’s attic. Stacks of pictures and stuff.” She made a jerky right turn onto Pacific Coast Highway, better known by southern California locals as PCH, and headed north. “Check it out. Mom said the trunk’s not theirs. It was up there when they moved in.”
“They’ve lived there what, thirty years?”
“Twenty-six, and they’ve never been in the attic. They just opened the hatch and put stuff right where they could reach. Fucking trunk was like a time capsule. Some clothes, lots of old photos.”
Peter laughed. “Potty mouth. You ought to talk more like a lady.” He reached into the back seat and grabbed a faded, black-covered album and put it on his lap. When he opened the cover, dozens of loose pictures spilled out onto his lap. He thumbed through them.