Strings Attached

by Nick Nolan

  He’d just run away.

  Secondly, he was not naive enough to think that he looked like anything other than white trash; he had long ago resigned himself to the social status he’d inherited. He usually never even gave it a second thought that his clothes were torn, his hair hadn’t seen scissors in years, and his old running shoes had holes in the soles. But all in all he figured he looked about the same as the other guys who slouch their way through their teens, alarming convenience-store owners and pissing off their parents. So what was it that had drawn the man to him?

  He knew he looked pathetic, but it hadn’t occurred to him until now that he also looked gay. How else could some stranger in a bus station know the part of him that was hidden in the masking-taped shoe box buried inside his head?

  But what shook Jeremy to the foundation of his being, as the bus lumbered toward the crimson sun, was the kinship that the old pervert had assumed: Bud Stygian and Jeremy Tyler were the same kind of folks.

  But I’ll kill myself if I ever end up like that.

  He needed a change. It was now or never.

  Ballena Beach. He’d seen it on TV, and it looked like the kind of place where the rest of the planet dreams of living. Stretches of sunny beach, million-dollar houses, shining sports cars, beautiful girls everywhere. Guys his age hanging out together on the beach, surfing and skating and even kite boarding. Weekends spent at parties and weekdays spent getting ready for adulthood.

  But how could he ever fit in there, of all places? After all, they had laughed at him in Fresno. Geraldine Trailer, the tough boys had named him in sixth grade.

  And a quiet, very mean voice in his head had secretly called himself that ever since.

  But maybe this Aunt Katharine would buy him some new shoes, for starters. He decided he would ask her, probably not tonight, but tomorrow for sure. And eventually he could get some new clothes, make some friends, and then he could have someone to talk to besides a stinky old drunk lady.

  He might even be able to have his own room.

  If nothing else, at least now I won’t have to take care of my mom.

  Could all of this actually work out?

  His eyes drifted out the windows as the fading light gilded the rows of bean fields as they rolled by, and the first stars of the evening glimmered up high in the east.

  He sat back in his seat and hummed quietly.

  Chapter Five

  The bus hit a snag of traffic outside Bakersfield at the base of the Grapevine, so from his window all he saw were brake lights blinking in the darkness. His anxiety had mounted with each minute that crept past their scheduled arrival time of 8:05 p.m., culminating in a state of full-fledged terror as he glanced at the black plastic watch on the wrist of the sleeping army guy in the row in front of him. It read 9:17.

  Would his aunt and uncle have waited for him? What would he do if he were stranded? Who would he call? Where would he stay?

  He felt like throwing up.

  Try to think positive thoughts, the school counselor had once suggested, after following up on a referral issued by one of his teachers upon noting how anxious the boy looked. Then he added, Picture good things happening to you, and sent him back to American Lit. Such was his over-the-counter remedy for Jeremy’s jumpy demeanor.

  Well, OK then.

  He couldn’t, for the life of him, place himself in any sort of lavish scenario, and neither could he imagine what his aunt and uncle looked like, so he gave up trying. But he’d seen plenty of movies about rich people. Did they have a stuffy English butler who carried things on big metal trays? How many Rolls-Royces did they own? And what about racehorses? Did they have any, and if so were they named Luck’s Wicked Girly or Favorite Blue Ladybug?

  How big was their private jet?

  He’d seen fancy Las Vegas hotels on TV with Roman statues and tropical waterfall swimming pools. Is that what their house looked like? He hoped they had a pool; he’d been on the swim team for the past few years and discovered that he loved it. All rich people had pools, he told himself.

  Finally, something to look forward to!

  At the top of the Grapevine, the traffic cleared and his anxiety diminished as the road descended. At a quarter to ten they exited the freeway and a few minutes later pulled into the driveway of the bus depot in Van Nuys.

  After the vehicle stopped, he lifted his duffel from the overhead net and took his place behind the line of passengers shuffling toward the door. Once outside, he watched the people greeting their families or being swallowed by taxis, and within minutes the parking lot was deserted except for a few cars, including a dirty gold Camry, a beat-up BMW, and an old Ford van.

  No Rolls-Royces.

  Maybe his aunt and uncle had come and gone already. Or maybe she’d forgotten, or this was the wrong stop.

  He wasn’t used to relying on adults.

  What should he do?

  He entered the depot and looked around. No rich ladies here, but no creepy old men either. He’d better find out if any message had been left for him, so he made his way across the gum-pocked linoleum floor toward the ticket booth against the far wall. Inside, as if on display, sat an ancient woman sporting a jet-black wig. She was still as a corpse.

  As he approached, she looked up from her magazine but said nothing.

  “Yeah, someone was supposed to pick me up, and they’re not here,” Jeremy told her. “I was wondering if anyone came by already and left before the bus pulled in. A nice-looking lady and her husband?”

  “Couldn’t tell ya. Just came on at nine myself,” she replied. “But we’re open ’til 2 a.m., so you can wait around ’til then.” Her attention returned to an article about Mariah Carey. “Phone’s over there, next to them chairs.” She pointed without looking up.

  “Thanks.”

  He was making his way toward the row of chairs when he noticed a snow-white Jaguar glide into the driveway of the station and then pull underneath the portico next to the lobby. As it got closer, he saw that the driver was a well-dressed middle-aged woman, and the passenger an older, grandfatherly man. The sight filled him with both intense relief and anxiety.

  He hoisted his duffel from the floor and then pushed the glass door open.

  The driver’s door swung wide, and she got out. “Jeremy?” The woman held out her arms. “Is it really you?”

  Her voice was pleasant, with an elegant accent.

  He had no recollection whatsoever of this woman. “Aunt Katharine?”

  He went to her, and they embraced briefly.

  “Oh, it is wonderful to see you again!” She beamed, studying him from head to foot, her face unreadable—until she grimaced at the sight of his shoes. “You are…” her throat caught, and she cleared it “…the very image of your father when he was your age. Isn’t he, dear?” She glanced at her husband.

  “He is.” The older man nodded from the passenger seat.

  “Jeremy, please put your things in the trunk. Bill, do help him.”

  The man got out of the car and then made his way toward Jeremy. “Bill Mortson.” He held out his hand and made a smile, in spite of his nonexistent lips. “Call me Uncle Bill, just like your father used to.”

  Jeremy shook his hand. “Hi, Uncle Bill.”

  The trunk popped open.

  He examined the attractive, delicate woman in front of him and guessed that she was in her late fifties or early sixties. She wore a beige suit and tortoiseshell glasses, and her reddish-blonde hair was cut in a simple fashion that stopped just above the shoulders. She wore very little makeup and had a curious lack of lines on her face. She looked even younger than his own mother, but then so did anyone under ninety.

  “I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t remember either of you,” the boy stammered.

  “Of course not, dear. You’ve been kept so far from us since your father’s accident. But here you are again. I must tell you that I’m so excited to have you staying with us!”

  “Yeah, thanks for taking me in.” He
looked from one to the other. “I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Oh, nonsense! There’s just Bill and I rambling around that big house together. We’re both so glad to have one of those extra bedrooms put to good use. Have you eaten?”

  “Not since Bakersfield,” Jeremy replied, trying not to think of Mr. Stygian.

  “Then get in and let’s get you some dinner.”

  He threw his bag into the trunk and slid himself into the Jaguar’s sumptuous backseat. The smell reminded him of an expensive shoe store he used to pass in the Fresno mall.

  “My, it’s late,” Katharine stated after starting the motor and glancing at the clock on the dash, while the interior lights dimmed like the house lights in a theater, extinguishing the sight of the saddle-colored leather and gleaming wood. “There are fast-food places open, but I’d prefer you eat something more nourishing. We’re still about an hour from the house. Could you wait until then?”

  “Sure.” He was used to going days without decent meals. What was another hour?

  “Wonderful! Bill, will you please call ahead and have Arthur order something for him?”

  “Of course,” the man replied. He snatched a cell phone from the console and made the call.

  Who was Arthur?

  “What would you like to eat, Jeremy dear?” She notched the gearshift into reverse.

  He pictured his favorite meal: a steaming bowl of macaroni and cheese, the cheap kind that came in a box. But that seemed completely pathetic, so he said the next thing that came to mind: “I don’t know. Pizza?”

  “Tell Arthur pizza, but without pepperoni, plenty of vegetables.” She threw the transmission into drive and hit the gas.

  “Pizza, but no pepperoni, plenty of vegetables,” Bill echoed into the phone, then snapped it shut.

  For the rest of the trip Bill was silent, while Katharine generated a stream of questions about Jeremy’s life in Fresno: his likes and dislikes, his friends, his academic strengths and weaknesses, his mother’s condition prior to being hospitalized, and so on. Which sports did he like? She expressed delight at his enthusiasm for swimming. What did he wish to study in college? Most of his responses were monosyllabic, due to the fact that she made him nervous and he was starting to feel carsick.

  Really carsick. His head was throbbing, and his stomach had begun to flip-flop. Jeremy imagined his M&M-speckled vomit splattering the immaculate leather in front of him.

  After switching freeways and directions a few times, they headed west over a treacherous mountain pass, with Aunt Katharine chattering constantly as the heavy car glided and heaved in the dark atop the curving asphalt, seemingly oblivious to the jutting mountain boulders to the right and the speeding oncoming headlights and abyss to their left. His aunt’s manner of driving on this road indicated to Jeremy that either she knew this strip of road really well or she was nuts. Or maybe bad driving just ran in the family.

  She threaded the car through a tunnel bored straight through the mountainside, and finally the road began to dip and straighten toward the base of the hills. He made out a dim strip of twinkling lights winding along an edge of glassy blackness that he figured to be the ocean.

  “This is so much prettier during the day, Jeremy. I’ll take you around tomorrow and show you around town. We’ll go shopping, have lunch at Jeffrey’s. How does that sound?” she asked.

  “Terrific. Great.” He was seeing spots.

  They came to the stoplight at Pacific Coast Highway, turned right, then headed north past the miles of rolling lawn at Pepperdine University. Eventually the car made a left and then crawled along a narrow street that descended as it approached the ocean, past an assortment of gargantuan homes in varying architectural styles with artfully lit gardens and glowing windows. Katharine motored open the sunroof, filling the car’s interior with the ripe tang of sea air. At the end of the cul-de-sac, the Jaguar’s headlights flashed upon a looming, cursively intricate black wrought-iron fence supported by hefty adobe walls that ran interminably in each direction, over which cascades of scarlet and tangerine bougainvillea billowed in the night sea breeze. She tapped a button on the dash, and the gates swung open majestically, revealing a cobblestone drive encircling a carved stone fountain, and beyond that an immense tile-roofed villa surrounded by orange trees and rose gardens and carved topiaries.

  The effect was more like pictures Jeremy had seen of a grand European hotel than someone’s house. He nearly expected to hear trumpets blasting a short, regal tune at their arrival.

  “Home at last,” she announced, wheeling the car past the fountain and down the side driveway lined on both sides with up-lit palm trees.

  “Jesus, this is one beautiful house,” Jeremy said as they pulled into the garage, estimating that the parking garage and its adjoining guesthouse were nearly as large as the apartment complex that had been his home in Fresno just this morning. With delight, he spied the gleaming black Range Rover 4.6 HSE and the platinum Bentley Continental parked in wide adjoining stalls.

  “Thank you for saying so,” she said. “It’s exciting for us to see it through someone else’s eyes from time to time. I’m afraid one becomes numb to its beauty after a while.”

  Living with my mother in Fresno for a week would slap you out of your numbness…

  As the three exited the car and Jeremy went to the trunk to retrieve his bag, he saw a door open, and the light from inside revealed the silhouette of a strongly built man.

  Arthur?

  The man grinned at him as he made his way up the steps of the house with his duffel over his shoulder. “Here, let me take that,” he said, as he took the burden from Jeremy.

  Chapter Six

  “I’m Arthur Blauefee,” he said. “Welcome home.”

  “Hi,” was all the boy could think to say. Relieved of his bag, yet still heavy with fatigue, Jeremy lurched through the doorway then froze. There was no way he belonged here, no way he would ever feel comfortable enough in this palace to have it feel like home. Home meant chaos and a Dumpster ten feet from the front door.

  “Come in, dear.” Katharine waved him in from the back entry into the kitchen as Bill brushed past them. “Mr. Blauefee takes excellent care of us, so if there’s anything you should need, please see him.”

  “Call me Arthur.” He smiled and nodded, and the boy nodded back. “The pizza place was closed, so I had to whip up something strange and exotic,” he said with a wink. “Mac and cheese, a salad, and some garlic bread, choice of beverage. Have a seat, and the waiter will be with you shortly.” He motioned to a barstool.

  Jeremy hesitated, complied, and cocked his head.

  How had Arthur known?

  He looked around and saw that over his head hung an iron rack as big as a king-size bed, from which dozens of gray metal pans and copper pots dangled between ropes of garlic and dried plants he didn’t know the names of. To his right, a vaultlike refrigerator stood beside twin restaurant-size ovens, and at the far end of the room was a fireplace so immense he figured he could walk inside it and stand up. The opening was topped with a thick wooden mantel, above which hung a gloomy painting of a whale harpooned by a sailing ship that seemed about to smash upon the rocks. And to his left, there was a series of plate-glass windows so large that the moonlit ocean beyond loomed as if projected on a drive-in theater screen.

  As he scanned the room, he caught a glimpse of his reflected self in the glass and realized he looked like a runaway getting a charity meal in some fancy restaurant. He looked down, checking to see if he’d tracked in dirt.

  “We’re going to the salon tomorrow, dear boy. First thing,” his aunt announced. Their eyes locked and he nodded. Had she read his mind?

  “I think a crew cut would work,” Arthur suggested, sliding a plate of steaming food under his nose. “Very Bruce Weber.”

  “Very who?” Jeremy snatched his fork and dug in, the first bite scalding the roof of his mouth.

  “Never mind,” Arthur chuckled, leaning against the
bar. “Careful, it’s hot.”

  In spite of his nervousness, it took him only a few minutes to shovel through his meal, which he barely tasted due to the screaming in his head to take smaller bites and chew with his mouth closed and use his napkin. In the meantime, Arthur attended to his kitchen duties while Katharine scrutinized her great-nephew’s table manners from across the room with narrowed eyes, like an anthropologist might have.

  “Are you finished?” she asked.

  Jeremy blinked up at her. Wasn’t it obvious? His plate was scraped clean.

  “Would you like some more?” she offered.

  “No thanks,” he replied, wanting more.

  “Then come. I’ll show you the grounds. It’s a lovely evening.” She held out her hand, and he jumped from the barstool. Together they stepped out of the kitchen onto an immense patio.

  It does look like a hotel, Jeremy thought again, noting the white-cushioned chaises arranged around the huge rectangular pool that bathed the area in flickering turquoise light, as well as the clusters of tables and chairs with their white canvas umbrellas flapping in the breeze.

  “The house was modeled after the Villa de Flores in S’Agaro on the Costa Brava in Spain, where Bill and I spent our honeymoon,” she said, hooking her arm through his while gesticulating grandly with her free hand. “The original dates back to the late Renaissance, but ours was finished in 1963, which now makes it one of the older structures in Ballena Beach.”

  They made their way to the edge of the patio to peer over the stone balustrade, where Jeremy saw that the house sat on a peninsula surrounded by a sheer drop on three sides to a shadowy beach below. On the western end of the compound, a jetty protruded away from the main property, upon which, high above the sea, a small, round wooden structure perched, appearing and then vanishing between puffs of fog.

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s the gazebo. Your parents were married there.”

  Parents. For so long it had just been himself and his mother, so it was strange to have himself referred to as part of a trio instead of the usual miserable pair. But he liked the reference. It sounded homey.