“What's this?” Clancy asked, as his father pushed the money toward him.
“You're five up. You won ten bucks on stroke, and two on the front. That was our bet.”
Clancy pushed the money back. “You're paying for everything. I don't want your money.”
Walt placed the bills in front of his son. “You won it, fair and square. I pay my debts,” he said stubbornly.
Fine, you want to play the injured party, be my guest, Clancy thought. He picked the money up and stuffed it in his pocket. Later, he'd give it to Raúl, with the rest of his tip.
“You'll win it back on the back nine,” he told his father encouragingly. More likely, he thought, I'll crush you. He wanted to win the rest of the holes, every one.
Their sandwiches came, along with cold Snapples in iced cups. The waiter put the check in front of Walt, who signed it and handed it back. “I'll reimburse Ed later,” he explained to Clancy. “This way, he can apply it toward his minimum. Even mega-millionaires watch their nickels and dimes,” he said gravely, as if he was giving his son a piece of deep, important advice.
Walt took a healthy bite of his sandwich, chewed, swallowed, drank some Snapple. He looked at Clancy with a serious expression on his face. “Emma and I are thinking of trying to get pregnant,” he announced.
Clancy almost spewed out his mouthful of drink. “Are you kidding?”
Walt's face clouded. “No,” he said stiffly. “Why would I kid about something as important as that?”
“Because it's too weird, dad, come on. You're going to have a kid who'd be younger than mine but would be what, my stepbrother or sister, my kid's aunt or uncle? You want to be father to a teenager when you're eighty? Dad, get real.”
“Men my age are having children all the time, more and more,” Walt informed Clancy with a pedantic, highhanded air. “Look at Larry King, Jesse Jackson. Strom Thurmond had a kid when he was in his seventies.”
“Strom Thurmond?” Clancy shook his head in disbelief. “He's your role model now?”
“I'm merely pointing out that it happens, all the time.”
Clancy put his sandwich down. “It doesn't happen all the time,” he rebutted. Anger was rising from his gut. “Those men are freaks. Are you and Emma getting married? Or are you going to pull a Jesse and just have a love Child?” he asked bitingly.
Walt glared at Clancy. “That was uncalled for.”
“You're right, I apologize,” Clancy said. He was flustered. “Are you getting married, then? You and Emma are actually thinking of doing that?”
His mind was reeling. His father marrying any woman, but particularly one half his age? Particularly this woman, whose life, what they were finding out about it, made Mata Hari look transparent? This was like watching a bad sitcom; worse, being in one against your will. His father remarrying would be brutal for him and his brothers to swallow under normal circumstances, without also having to deal with their investigation into their father's and now Emma's hidden and frightening actions of the past two years. Did his father even know this woman wasn't who she claimed to be? He doubted it, the ramifications of which were chilling by themselves, let alone the rest of this Pandora's box.
“What about mom?” he asked.
Walt stared at him unblinkingly. “Your mother is dead,” he said flatly.
“I know, dad,” Clancy replied harshly. “You don't have to tell me.”
“Are you saying I wasn't a good husband?” his father rasped. “Implying it? Because that would be blasphemous, Clancy. I mean that.” His voice was rising. “I was, a wonderful husband. I was completely devoted to your mother.”
“That's not what I'm talking about.” This was turning into a grade-A screwup, the same pattern that had been played out between him, his brothers, and his father ever since his mother died. A dead-end pattern he couldn't seem to stop. His father wanted to keep them off-balance but they couldn't let him set the agenda, not anymore, not with what they knew about him now. He needed to back off, not let his dad get under his skin like this.
“Don't I deserve to be happy with a partner as I get older?” Walt asked.
“Yes, dad, you do.” That wasn't what was upsetting him. It was with who.
“If I hadn't been a good husband, if our marriage for whatever reason hadn't worked out, if your mom and I had gotten divorced, would you feel this way?” Walt asked.
Clancy shook his head. “No.”
“Then why is this different? You're saying it's like I should be penalized for having been a good husband. An exemplary husband. I worshipped the ground your mother walked on.”
No, dad, Clancy thought. You might have loved her— you did love her, that I will grant you—but you did not worship her ground, or her. You left the worshipping to others, to do about you.
“She felt that way about you, too, dad,” he said, swallowing, yet again, his true feelings. “She died because she was supporting you, being with you, helping you.”
Walt rose up in his chair. “Are you saying I'm responsible for mom's death?” he almost shouted.
“No,” Clancy said, backtracking. “Of course I'm not. That's the last thing I'd ever think.”
Except that was precisely what he was thinking. The facts had been thrust to the foreground: the secret insurance policies, all the lying, his father's mysterious lover. How could he and his brothers not think of that possibility, as grotesque and horrifying as it might be?
“Good,” Walt said, sitting back. “Because if I ever believed you had those thoughts, it would kill me.” He leaned toward Clancy, put his hand on his son's. “If I could have taken that bullet for her, I would have.” His voice quivered. “I wish I had.”
They played the back nine, although neither of them had much heart for it. Clancy's game went to hell, and when the eighteen-hole score was totaled he had barely broken ninety. Walt didn't fare any better. He played as he had on the front, erratically, self-critical and impatient after every bad shot.
“Tough game, golf,” Walt said as he put his clubs into the trunk of his car. “You're supposed to keep the world outside at bay, that's the secret.” He slammed the trunk shut. “We didn't do a good job at that today, did we?”
Clancy shook his head sadly. “I'm sorry, dad. I get emotional, thinking of mom. You caught me off-guard, and I didn't handle the situation gracefully.”
His father clapped him on the back. “It hurt, I'm not going to lie to you about that, but it means you care, too.”
“Of course I care.”
“I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that,” Walt said. “I should've alerted you in a letter, letting you and your brothers know Emma and I were more serious than! you realized, that down the road …”
Clancy thought about that. “It happens when it happens,” he said quietly, fatalistically. “When are you two going to make a decision about getting married?”
“I don't know,” Walt answered. “We've been talking. Soon. I'm not getting any younger, kiddo.” He gave Clancy a tap on the biceps. “But there's still plenty of fuel in the tank,” he asserted.
“You'll be young till you die,” Clancy told his old man.
He meant it. Whatever faults and problems his father had, his motor only ran at one speed—full out, balls to the wall. It always had; and, Clancy knew, it always would.
While the men were golfing, Callie and Emma shopped at the Farmers’ Market in Santa Monica. After they finished, which included a stop at a specialty butcher store that sold Muscovy duck, the main course Emma was going to prepare for dinner, they browsed Main Street, buying matching T-shirts and sweaters like two sisters, or at least longtime good friends. Emma had insisted on buying baby clothes for Callie and Clancy's unborn child, even though the sex was unknown. “Yellow and white goes with either sex,” she'd stated. Before she was finished she had rung up a baby clothes bill of over three hundred dollars, which she paid for with cash, just as she had paid for the groceries and the cappuccinos they drank hi Starbucks
on the Third Street Promenade.
All the while, Callie had obliquely but persistently tried to pry open the lockbox of Emma's life, remarking about siblings (did she have any, what sex, etc.), family background (“I'm from South Dakota, of all places, where are you from?”), whatever she could think of to draw Emma out. Emma was polite and cordial, even funny at times, but it was like throwing a tennis ball against a wall, it came bouncing back. The small tidbits Callie got from Emma were that she was somehow ashamed of or repelled by her background, or both, that had disassociated herself from her family when she was young, still a teenager, and had never looked back. It was as if she had reinvented herself at an early age, and didn't leave a trace.
After only a few such questions it became apparent to Callie that her snooping was too obvious and that Emma was on to her, so she dropped it. Later, if the moment presented itself, she'd try again.
Walt and Clancy were both subdued when they arrived home shortly after dark. Callie followed Clancy into the guest bedroom when he went in to shower and change for dinner.
“How did it go?” she asked. “Did you have fun?”
He slumped down on the bed and peeled off his shirt, shoes, and socks. “We started out okay, but as always now, it seems, we went for each other's jugulars.”
“Why this time?” She sighed. “This trip hasn't been what I'd hoped it would be. We're not having any fun and we're not learning anything about him or her, especially her, except that she doesn't exist, which leaves us nowhere.”
“No go with cracking her shell?” he asked, stripping off his pants and shorts.
“I struck out. She's a master of obfuscation, she's been doing it a long time, that was the one thing I got from her. So what ignited the fire between you and him today?”
He looked up at her and almost laughed, but it hurt too much. “He wants to marry her.” He paused. “Have a baby with her.”
Callie's hand went to her mouth. “You're shitting me.”
“Swear to God. He says they're trying.”
“They? Or him?“
“Probably more him than her,” he agreed. “It felt desperate, hearing him go on about geriatric fathers. It sounded to me like he's afraid if he doesn't do it, he'll lose her.”
Callie shook her head. “They do seem happy together, although God knows what the truth of any of this is. But she doesn't want children.”
She told him about the shopping for baby clothes, her clear perception that Emma wanted to participate vicariously, but not for herself.
“You can't live in the shadows and have children,” she said. “Because you can't hide.”
Dinner was a gourmet feast, as exceptional as the restaurant meal of the night before (which had cost a cool thousand dollars with tip; Clancy had almost gagged when he'd caught a glimpse of the bill).
Clancy and Callie praised Emma to the skies. “You could go into the catering business, or open your own restaurant, you're that good,” Callie told her. “The Alice Waters of Los Angeles.”
“I wish I had that kind of talent,” Emma laughed. “I did a stint as a chef for a short time,” she mentioned casually. “Too much work, too much devotion. I wasn't serious about it, it was one of those things you do when you're young and want to try everything once, like sing pack up with a rock band or go trekking in Nepal.”
“Where was that?” Callie asked. Come on, lady, give us one crack in the dike. We flew two thousand miles to find out something about you, anything. Don't make us go home empty-handed.
Emma remained inscrutable. “That was a long time ago, in a country far, far away,” she said with an enigmatic smile, as she began clearing the table.
Now it was late. Callie and Clancy lay in bed, side by side. They were leaving tomorrow, and they didn't know any more about Emma Rawlings, or what she was doing with Walt, than they had before they had come. Only that she was a woman of deep mystery, taking great care to hide her identity and her past.
Outside it was warm, even though it was November. A Santa Ana condition had blown in earlier in the day, bringing with it a hot, dry wind. The moon, full and low, shone on the gently moving water in the swimming pool, casting reflected, moving rhythmic shadows through the open-curtained window onto the ceiling above them. Clancy stared at the almost hypnotic movement.
“I'm going to have to confront him,” he declared.
She grabbed his hand. “Don't,” she said quickly.
“What other options do I have?”
“I don't know. But that's not going to solve anything. All it'll do is anger him and make him retreat.” She turned over and looked at him. “At least now we're in communication. He isn't hiding from you anymore. But you can't get in his face, he'll slam the door on you. You're going to have to keep trying to come at this from the side.”
“For how long?” He thought for a moment. “Do you think he's suspicious?”
“Of what?”
“Of us. Of everybody. If he isn't, he ought to be. He's been lying his ass off ever since mom died. Liars are paranoid. He's got to be wondering when the dime's going to be dropped on him.”
“Not necessarily,” she said in disagreement. “Maybe he thinks he's pulled it off, not telling you guys the truth.”
She got up and sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing him. “If he hadn't bought this expensive house, we wouldn't be here,” she said. “If he had moved to some reasonable place, no one would have thought to look into all the other stuff, the stocks, the insurance, none of it. It was the only chink in his armor, because what father expects his children to investigate him? Plus he's in heavy denial, you don't need to be a shrink to see that. Your mother's death, leaving the school, I know he could have fought to stay on but let's face it, they screwed him over, a man of his achievement and reputation. Those were bitter blows to absorb. We've talked about this before, but you can't forget it, Clancy. He is not seeing the world through a clear lens. So confronting him is not the way.”
He fell back. “So we do nothing?”
“No. We keep trying.”
“How?”
“I don't know yet,” she answered. “But I have a feeling that sooner or later we'll figure something out that'll give us a key.”
Callie didn't know how long she had been awake. She I was warm and uncomfortable. She wasn't sleeping well—ever since the hormonal changes that came with pregnancy she hadn't been able to sleep through the night. Clancy, lying beside her, slept heavily, his body curled up into itself. Quietly, so as not to disturb him, she slipped out of bed, took off her nightgown, donned the thick terry cloth robe that Emma, ever the gracious hostess bad laid out for her, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and tiptoed out of the bedroom.
When she stepped out onto the back deck, she saw she wouldn't be swimming alone. Emma was already in the pool, stroking back and forth with practiced ease.
As she watched Emma swimming she thought, do I or don't I? This would be her final opportunity to try to pry open Emma's shell.
Let it go, she decided. She was too tired to engage Emma in psychological warfare. She had done what she could, and had drawn a blank. She'd have a nice swim, tire herself out so that she could fall asleep, and worry about Emma later on down the line. She stepped off the deck and walked barefoot across the lawn, which was damp with nighttime dew, toward the pool.
Emma was naked. Callie wasn't wearing a bathing suit, either; she hadn't expected anyone to be out here. As she stood at the edge of the pool, she hesitated for a moment. She was an athlete, she had been naked with scores of women in the locker room, but there was something about this situation and this woman that caused her to waver.
As Emma came to the shallow end of the pool she stopped swimming and looked up at Callie. “Couldn't sleep?” she asked with a smile.
“No,” Callie answered.
“It's the moon.” Emma pointed skyward. “I always have a hard time sleeping when the moon's full. Plus the Santa Ana winds. The Devil's Wind, I've
heard it called.”
It's an ill wind that blows no good, Callie thought. “With me it's being pregnant,” she responded. “I'm having a hard time sleeping in general.”
Emma stood. The water dripped off her hair and body in shimmering rivulets. “Come on in. The water's soothing. We keep it warm, I don't like swimming in cold water.”
Callie dipped a toe in. It was almost bathlike. “Does Walt swim with you?” she asked, involuntarily glancing over her shoulder.
“Not very often,” Emma replied. “He's not coming out here, if that's what you're concerned about. He's dead asleep.”
A revealing phrase, Callie thought? Don't read too much into this, she cautioned herself. You're not out here to psychoanalyze.
She sat on the edge of the pool, dangling her legs in the water. Then she slipped in, ducked her head under, and pushed off from the wall. As she started a slow, methodical crawl toward the other end, she could see from out of the corner of her eye that Emma was swimming in tandem with her.
Back and forth they went like synchronized swimmers, stroking languidly. Callie lost herself in the rhythm, feeling her muscles expanding with the effort. It felt good, swimming. When she got back to Chicago she'd join a health club that had a pool. Emma was swimming effortlessly, an easy reach, catch, and pull, then gliding. She's good, Callie thought. I wonder if she ever swam competitively. I could ask her, that's innocuous. But not now. She was too tired to be a detective at the moment. Maybe in the morning, if the opportunity presented itself.
When she started to feel winded she stopped; she didn't have as much energy now as she'd had before she had gotten pregnant.
Emma also stopped. Callie sensed that Emma was timing her movements to hers. It made her feel uncomfortable, for a moment, as if Emma was playing a subtle head fame with her, trying to match their internal rhythms. It reminded Callie of a phenomenon that occurred when she played team sports with other women, and spent a lot of lime with them in intimate situations. Gradually, over a period of months, they would all begin having their periods at the same time. Some kind of vestigial pack instinct. This was different, of course, but she felt a certain psychic similarity. An attempt to bond. Or perhaps, to Control.
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