The Perpetual Summer

by Adam Walker Phillips

  He eyed me closely, but he eyed Hector even closer.

  “Who are you guys again?” he asked.

  I made up some story about a property management company working with Sheila and her estate. We’d worked mostly with her lawyer but he was out of the country and we needed to meet with her about some matters. That lifted his spirits as he envisioned a future where the dump on his right would stop dragging down his property value. He ran inside to get the information I wanted.

  “Yard’s been a bit of an eyesore for a while now,” he said and handed me a slip of paper. “It’d be great for the neighborhood.”

  The Calvary Convalescent Home was a two-story structure that resembled a converted motor inn. It was just off the 210 Freeway in a semi-commercial area on Foothill Boulevard. We parked under a carport that once served as a loading zone for vacationers to unpack their luggage. The air was hot and dusty and recalled the brittle desert winds of autumn.

  The lobby was populated with furniture you’d find at any hospital, dentist office, or clinic—the medical industry had a singular approach to furnishing. Old display racks that once held pamphlets for local attractions now contained flyers on estate planning and funeral services. I approached the front desk where a woman who was close to becoming a resident herself smiled up at me.

  “I’m here to see Sheila Lansing,” I informed her.

  “Did you have an appointment?” she asked.

  I responded that I didn’t, that I was a family acquaintance and that if she had the time, I would like to spend a few minutes with her.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” she smiled. “Our residents always appreciate a visitor. Any kind.” She called out to an overweight Filipina in maroon scrubs. “Tala, can you please show these gentlemen to Ms. Lansing’s room?”

  I turned to Hector, but he was already headed for the door and back to his car.

  “Well,” I said to the attendant, “I guess it’s just me.”

  I followed the woman down a linoleum-lined, fluorescent-lit hallway. We passed a small chapel where a pre-dinner service for about five residents and their attendants was in progress. I tried to make small talk with the nurse but she wanted no part of it. She silently led me out to a second-floor balcony that ran the length of the building. Ten or so cushioned glider chairs separated by dusty potted palms looked out on the parking lot below. Straight across was the freeway and its ever-present traffic. If you closed your eyes and thought long enough you might just mistake the sounds of the cars for the lapping waters of the South Bay.

  The sun was just creeping over the roofline, and a male attendant lowered blinds before the glare fell on the residents. I followed my escort to the last chair, where a slender woman sat with her hands clasped over her lap. You could see the former beauty under the poorly applied makeup and sweater much too heavy for the temperature outside. I thanked the attendant, but she waddled off without acknowledging it.

  “Not the friendly type,” I commented.

  “Don’t mind her. She’s just angry that she’s fat and doesn’t have a man,” said the woman and put out her hand. “I’m Sheila Lansing.”

  “Chuck Restic.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Restic?” she said, wary of a reverse mortgage pitch or some other scam to bleed money out of her.

  “I was hired by your ex-husband to help him find his granddaughter,” I said.

  Her frail hand went limp in mine.

  “She’s in trouble,” she said more as a statement than a question. She seemed to get lost in the thought.

  “Do you know her, Mrs. Lansing?”

  “Yes,” she answered and motioned for me to pull over one of the plastic chairs. “I met her last year.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Here,” she answered. “Right here in this building. She was part of a school program that puts volunteers into the community.”

  Jeanette’s school was some twenty miles from here. There must be a hundred other such convalescent homes between the two. “Us old biddies get lonely and a voice in person, any person, is very welcome.”

  I glanced down the balcony at the other visitors and wondered how many were family and how many were just strangers trying to do a good deed.

  “Did she know who you were when you first met?”

  “She said she didn’t.”

  “But you don’t believe that,” I finished for her.

  “No.” Sheila unclasped her hands. “She knew but pretended to be surprised. It came up in the most comical way, like bad acting on a soap opera.”

  “Why do you think she sought you out?”

  “Other than our mutual relationships with Carl,” she answered, “I can’t figure out why.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. We talked about almost nothing of much significance—things going on in school, some boy she had a crush on, a new movie, kid stuff. We would talk for hours, right here with her in that chair.” She reflected on the moment. “All these visitors are here to provide comfort to us buzzards but it always felt like I was the one comforting her.”

  “Why did you assume Jeanette was in trouble?” I asked.

  “Because she’s a troubled girl.” I gave her time to elaborate. “She doesn’t seem like a normal child. There’s something very sad about her.” I thought of all the self-help books in her room and the photo with Valenti. “I never could figure out why.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “A few weeks ago,” she said, then added, “maybe. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be.”

  I pressed her for details but the only contact information she offered I already had. I found myself asking her more questions even though there was little to gain from them. With rush hour traffic looming, I should have left long before but I had this overwhelming feeling of guilt and found myself lingering. Our conversation wound its way to bits of her life and eventually to her time with Valenti. She spoke of a different man than the one I knew. He came from very humble beginnings in San Pedro, the son of a pig farmer. “He was shy but eager,” she recalled. “And the hardest worker I ever met. My father fell for him just as hard as I did, after he got over the fact that he had no money. Carl became the son he never had. My poor dad, he fed us for most of those years.” Sheila’s father supported them in all facets and even bankrolled many of Valenti’s early business ventures, all of which flopped. She spoke of their financial struggles and each recollection tasted a little more sour than the last. She stopped before she got to the part about the divorce.

  “Is that hoodlum still following him around?”

  “Who’s that, Mrs. Lansing?”

  “That Chicano character,” she replied.

  I looked over the edge of the balcony at Hector, who stood by the car in the parking lot below. The late-day sun reflected brilliantly on whatever prodigious amount of product he was using in his hair.

  “Did Hector work with Mr. Valenti when you knew him?”

  “Inseparable,” she scoffed. “Neither of them is any good. Carl’s dirty to the core and Hector’s the towel he uses to keep his hands clean.” Her anger was palpable but it only lasted in that momentary flash. “I apologize. I don’t mean to come across as the scorned woman. Carl and I were together briefly but it didn’t work out, for no fault of our own. I eventually married a wonderful man who was very good to me,” she told me a little too emphatically, as if trying to convince herself of that fact more than anything. I got the sense that poor Mr. Lansing spent thirty years of marriage feeling like number two. I let her drift back into a place where happier memories outnumbered sad ones and then thanked her for her time.

  “Will you do me a favor?” she asked as I got up to leave.

  “If I can.”

  “Don’t mention me to Carl. And if you have to, don’t mention all this to him,” she gestured to the shabby surroundings. “I don’t hold any resentment but I do still have my pride.”


  I walked out of the lobby into the sunshine and thought about what the woman had told me. It felt like something was being left unsaid, either deliberately or not.

  As I crossed the parking lot toward Hector and the Lincoln, I heard the high-pitched whine of a Japanese compact. I turned to my left. A junky two-door with a cracked windshield was bearing down on me. It was no more than twenty feet away and had no intention of stopping. I heard the car being shifted into a higher gear and I froze. It felt like I was running but my body wasn’t moving. The car hiccupped as its operator ground the gears like a driver’s education student on his first attempt with a stick shift. The compact hippity-hopped toward me.

  The split-second decision was more a five-second deliberation, but I eventually reacted. I dove back toward the lobby even though I could have casually walked over and still made it safely out of the way of the oncoming car. I crumpled onto the asphalt as the car swooshed by, missing me by a wide margin. Pulling myself together, I looked over at Hector. He hadn’t moved. He stood there with his arms crossed and a blank stare. I detected a smile.

  The shame about how I reacted hurt more than the scrapes on my hands. I was angry at Hector and I was angry at myself. But I was also angry at the person who tried to run me over.

  There was no mistaking him. It was the face in the photograph I got from Jeanette’s room—Nelson Portillo.

  THE PERPETUAL SUMMER

  The standstill, rush hour traffic across the Valley granted me sufficient time to process the events of the last few days. One of the few benefits of the relentless traffic in Los Angeles was that it sometimes allotted you the headspace to just think.

  I had little hope that a call from Jeanette’s father was going to bring her home. The more I learned, the more I felt there was something else driving this saga beyond a mere teenage spat with her parents. A troubled girl sought out a relationship with her grandfather’s ex-wife. It was important enough that her boyfriend felt the need to protect it by trying to run me over. And then there was the curious man driving me all over Los Angeles. I concentrated on the black mass that was the back of his head, where even the hairs low on the nape of his neck were dyed. I stared into this void hoping to penetrate the impenetrable but got nothing more than I already knew. He was too comfortable with a knife for my liking and he had a reputation that went back decades. Neither sat well with me.

  I pulled my gaze from Hector’s head and realized we had exited onto Van Nuys and were heading toward the hills. This was nowhere near where my car was parked at my office downtown.

  “Where are we going?” I asked but didn’t receive a reply. As we turned onto Mullholland Drive and began the winding path toward Benedict Canyon, the answer became clear. But I wanted Hector to say it. I wanted him to know that I knew where we were going and wasn’t happy about being summoned like a bellhop. “Where are we going?” I repeated multiple times like a petulant child until I got the answer I wanted.

  “Mr. Valenti wants to see you,” he answered dully.

  As we passed through the electric gate, I watched groundskeepers taking down dozens of “Vote Yes on 57” placards. Someone apparently wanted to take the message about the museum fight straight to Valenti’s door.

  The house was as I remembered it. The structure loomed out on the hill’s edge. At night, it was an architectural monstrosity. During the day it was just ugly.

  Hector parked the sedan on the right edge of the gravel drive and got out. By the way he walked purposefully around the front of the car and into a shaded arbor, it was clear that I was intended to follow him. But I didn’t like being led around like a flunky. Even if I was at Valenti’s beck and call and slavishly followed the money lurking behind those calls, it didn’t mean I had to fully participate.

  I remained in the backseat with my arms crossed in childlike defiance. Like other people with no power, I clung to some vague demand for “respect.” If only I had chosen a better spot to make my stand. The car’s interior grew increasingly hotter with no air conditioning and with the black paint absorbing every last ray of the sun’s light. Beads of sweat dotted my forehead and two separate streams trickled down my back and pooled at my beltline. I began breathing with my mouth open, and the air was hot going in and hotter coming out. Dignity came at the cost of heat exhaustion and a dress shirt stained dark with sweat.

  Hector mercifully returned before I required a trip to the emergency room.

  “Please follow me,” he grumbled reluctantly.

  “Thank you,” I said hoarsely, emerging from the sweltering car. Before I could get my second foot out, Hector flicked the door like he was about to slam it closed on me. He was hoping for a flinch and got a gross overreaction instead. I threw out both arms to stop the door from crushing me and nearly fell out when it never came.

  “Where is he?” I snapped but didn’t wait for his answer and stormed off into the arbor.

  Valenti sat at a small, wrought iron table with an ice bucket chilling a bottle of white wine. He flicked through the LA Times and only put it down a good minute after I had settled into the chair opposite him.

  “Why are you wasting time meeting with my ex-wife?” he began. “I’m not paying you to dig into my past.”

  “You haven’t paid me anything yet.”

  He let that one go.

  “What led you to seek her out in the first place?”

  I told him about the article I’d found in Jeanette’s bedroom and how she and Sheila had been meeting regularly for a year and a half. I also explained that it looked like Jeanette had initiated the contact, but for what reason I wasn’t sure. Suddenly feeling pressure to explain my lack of progress in locating his granddaughter, I rambled through all the work I had done so far, but Valenti already knew the details.

  “If you want more regular reports,” I told him, “I am glad to provide them. All you have to do is ask.”

  “Don’t be hurt,” he said, picking up on the irritation in my voice. “I demand information on everything I do and get it from any source I can. Do not be annoyed by Hector. He’s only doing what I ask of him. He’s there to help you.”

  “Help? Or watch my every move?”

  “Maybe both.”

  “Do you trust this guy?”

  “With my life,” he stated firmly.

  It was clear Hector was giving a blow-by-blow account of the work, or lack thereof, to Valenti. I was curious how detailed those reports were.

  “Did he tell you about the encounter with the brother of Jeanette’s boyfriend, the one who collected the money?”

  “He told me you didn’t get your hands dirty,” he countered.

  “Your ‘driver’ looks pretty comfortable with a switchblade in his hands. It’s a curious trait for someone who just needs to wait outside buildings while you have meetings.”

  “Yes, he has some rather unique and valuable skills.” Valenti folded the newspaper and placed it on the empty seat next to him. The action signified he was finished with the topic of his driver and wanted to move onto something else, the real reason he summoned me to his canyon-top retreat. “What else did my ex-wife have to say?” he asked casually.

  “She didn’t tell me too much,” I replied. I didn’t want Valenti to know what she told me about his past but I also didn’t want him to think that she told me nothing. He got the message.

  “But she told you something.”

  For one of the few times in the relationship, I felt like I held the trump card. This card featured a young Valenti in overalls picking up table scraps to feed a swine business. I imagined him in the pens with the beasts, stomping through the mud and pig refuse, and having that odor that somehow gets into your skin and can’t be washed off with soap no matter how hard you scrub. With his manicured nails and silk ties and perfectly chilled bottles of Sancerre, I was sure it was an image he’d prefer was relegated to the deep recesses of memories euphemistically known as the “early years.”

  “Of course she told you about th
e pigs.” He smiled.

  And the trump card was summarily plucked from my fingers.

  “What pigs?” I played dumb, but he saw through it.

  “Yes, I see she did. She never understood it. She and that milquetoast Orange County crew never had to taste a struggle.” I recalled the dusty balcony at the convalescent home and thought she finally may be tasting that struggle after all, though this one was against the onslaught of old age, and there was no happy ending no matter how long you held out.

  “I built this off people’s trash,” he said, admiring the sweeping views of the canyon and beyond. He was leaving out the three failed business ventures funded by his former father-in-law. Success stories were often written long after the fact. With time, the brain got the distance it needed to self-select the events that led to those grand accomplishments. Distance also allowed one to conveniently forget the numerous failures that somehow didn’t quite fit into the narrative.

  “Who is the beneficiary of your estate?” I asked brazenly. I wasn’t in the mood for an acceptance speech and the details of his estate might play a role in his granddaughter’s disappearance.

  “That’s not any of your concern,” he shot back.

  “It’s okay, I know enough to get the big picture. I know The Barnacle is out and that there will be a foundation for the art. And by the way your daughter spoke, it sounds like she’s none too pleased about future finances. Is it all going to your granddaughter?”

  Valenti stared at me with a mixture of contempt and admiration; he was impressed that I knew the details about his affairs, but he was angry that I knew so much.

  “For a beaten man you have quite a chip on your shoulder.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “And I’m not going to.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “But it might play a role in your granddaughter’s disappearance.”

  He studied the bottle and even spoke directly to it. “Why do you say that?” he asked softly.

  “Doesn’t money always play a role?”

  He chewed on that. We were finally singing off the same hymnal.