Strings Attached

by Nick Nolan

  She continued with the tour, telling him how the waves could be illuminated at night by powerful beacons installed on the cliff’s edge, then walked them through the immense cross-shaped rose garden, which had been established with cuttings brought in from Tuscany. The drizzling fountain at its center was copied after one carved for Catherine de Medici.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” was all he could say.

  “It is remarkable, yes,” she replied. “Your father loved this place dearly.” She paused for a moment, her face frozen. Then her eyes met his. “My hope is that you grow to love it as much as Jonathan did. And that you never take it for granted, or become ‘numb,’ as I’d mentioned earlier.” She turned to him, and the careful smile vanished. “No matter what happens in the future to any of us, I don’t want you to forget that we are a very special and fortunate family.” She reached her hand to his face and pushed the hair from his eyes. Then she smiled. “You’re like him, you know. I can feel it in you, all that Tyler blood. I see it, too, in your eyes. Your father is inside you.”

  Jeremy looked away.

  “Oh, I’ve made you uncomfortable. Will you forgive me?” She broke out her smile again, then threaded her arm through his. “Now, where was I? Yes, well there had been an old termite-ridden Cape Cod on the site originally. It’d been built by my grandfather in the 1920s, but fire took it while your uncle and I were on our honeymoon. And when the old house perished, we couldn’t imagine being happy anywhere else, so we built this on the same spot. As I recall, we were notified of the fire during brunch at the villa, and by dinnertime we’d gone nearly crazy sketching measurements and taking photos all day. We’ve had some close calls through the years, with those dreadful El Niño storms and the fires in ’96. But somehow we’ve been spared.”

  They turned around and climbed the steps back to the kitchen. Once they were inside, she touched him lightly on the wrist. “I should think you’d like to wash up and unpack your things—it’s been a very long day for you, I’m sure. After all, we have tomorrow to catch up and talk about your future.” She turned and leaned over to a small panel of numbers and blinking lights on the wall, then pressed a button. “Arthur, please come back to the kitchen for a moment,” she said. “Mr. Blauefee will see you to your room. I’m certain he’s set out everything you might need for the night. I’ll see you bright and early for breakfast, and then we can go into town for that haircut and some shopping.” She smiled brightly, smoothing his hair again from his eyes. “It’s so good to have you here, my dear. You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this day.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad I’m here too.” He tried a smile.

  “Wonderful then. Good night.” She made an about-face and left.

  After she had gone, he, beckoned by the film of mac and cheese coating his mouth, stood before the refrigerator, tempted to yank the door open but afraid some shoplifting-type sirens would go off.

  “I expect you’ll need a map for the first few days. To find your room, I mean.”

  He spun around and found himself staring into Arthur’s broad grin.

  “Oh, I was just…”

  “Sit down. I’ll fix you a plate you can take to your room.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Blauefee. Arthur.” While the man prepared the snack, Jeremy saw that initially, he’d misjudged the man to be in his thirties, but the silver specks in his army-style haircut and the friendly wrinkles fanning the corners of his eyes placed him comfortably into his next decade. But he was still quite handsome for an older man, with an angular jaw and the body of an athlete. And there was something nice about him, something that Jeremy couldn’t name, except that it made him feel somehow…teeny. And safe. Like instead of being a servant, he was the kind of guy you’d see in the park playing catch with his son.

  A few minutes later, Arthur presented him with a cellophane-covered plate in one hand and a sports bottle full of milk in the other. Jeremy followed the man down a hallway to a narrow back staircase that wound upward in a tight spiral. Once they were at the top, he followed him down another hall to an open door.

  “This one’s yours.” Arthur nodded, and they went in. “There are fresh towels in the bathroom there, along with every grooming product known to man.” He then crossed the room to a bank of shuttered doors, pulled open the nearest, and flooded the room with fresh air. “Your own patio is out here—you look pretty worn out, so I’ll show you how to work the alarm system and the intercom tomorrow. Just don’t open any of the exterior doors or go downstairs after midnight, which is when the motion sensors come on. If it gets too hot or cold, you can adjust the thermostat on the wall, or you can ring for me—just press one then three on the keypad.” He smiled. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “No thanks.” Jeremy shook his head. “Oh…just one thing. If it’s not too much trouble, could you make sure I don’t sleep too late? I’m going out with my aunt kind of early.”

  “I’ll wake you at seven, and in the meantime ring me if you need anything. Remember, lucky thirteen.”

  “Great. Thanks.” How could he make this man go away? He couldn’t wait to be alone.

  “No problem. Anything you need out of that duffel bag before I take it to the laundry?”

  “That’s OK. I can do it myself. I’ve been doing the wash since I was little.”

  “Hey, it’s what I’m here for, but suit yourself. I’ll show you where the machines are tomorrow. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Lucky thirteen. I know.”

  Arthur smiled, turned, and then pulled the door shut behind him.

  Jeremy looked around.

  His quarters were about the same size as the old apartment back in Fresno, with a main area furnished with a fancy queen-size bed, a prissy-looking sofa and two matching club chairs, a fussy desk and chair that looked like it would break under his weight, and an old carved wardrobe encrusted with beveled mirrors. Every fabric in the room was the same guacamole-green, the walls were painted butter yellow, and the trim and woodwork gleamed white. A bouquet of fresh sunflowers drooped their heads from a crystal vase on a marble stand between the two pairs of French doors leading to his own terrace and a pair of luxuriously padded chaises. And beyond that stretched the Pacific, as well as the faraway sparkle of other rich folks’ homes hugging the coastline.

  After finishing his leftovers, Jeremy kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the bed, his nose aimed at the chandelier. He lay that way for some time wondering why, in this fantastic place, he felt so sad and even scared, like he’d just been shipped off to battle.

  And then it hit him.

  From now on, every aspect of his life would need to pass a very rigorous inspection based on a code he knew little of: his grades, his manners, his clothes, his grooming, how he spoke, even his friends, if he ever made any. And every choice would now be made for him months, even years, in advance. But what terrified him most was the realization that he was now expected to be, by Tyler standards, successful. Valedictorian, Class President, Dude-Most-Likely-to-Succeed.

  So he had been shipped off to war, only this was the battlefield of manhood and he was armed with a squirt gun.

  What would he do when, inevitably, he failed?

  He closed his eyes and made a wish.

  I guess I should write that down.

  He found a pen in the nightstand drawer, dug his journal out of the duffel, and cracked it open.

  A few minutes later, he closed the cover, having found the courage to scrawl, with pessimistic fingers, his most secret wish on the blank page. He got up and stuffed the book far in between the mattress and box spring, went over and locked the patio doors, turned off the lights, then lay on top of the comforter facedown.

  An hour or so later, he reached the conclusion that he couldn’t sleep.

  He got up and went to the duffel bag, pulled out his pillow, and threw it on the bed. He buried his nose in it. It stunk like home.

  He slept.

  Cha
pter Seven

  He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he rounded the corner of the kitchen and nearly bumped his aunt off her barstool, causing the teacup in her hand to splatter the skirt of her beige suit.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “Shit! Oh God, I’m sorry.” He blinked stupidly, waiting for her to scream at him, while at the same time amazed by how put together she looked for so early in the morning. Like the First Lady in a commercial for children’s literacy, only classier.

  “Shit, indeed.” She examined first her skirt, then peered at him over the rims of her horn-rimmed glasses, her momentary irritation melting into amazement at how much, by the light of day, he resembled his father—in spite of that awful hair. Could it be that the boy was salvageable, in spite of that whore’s DNA?

  “I trust you slept well?” She switched her attention back to the stocks page; the very sight of him reminded her of those awful dreams she used to have where Jonathan was suddenly here again, grinning and laughing and sublimely ignorant of the fact that he was dead.

  “Uh-huh. Thanks.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

  “You need to eat breakfast. Sit.” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward the stool opposite her and then arose. “Arthur prepared a meal for you, which I will have to reheat, because apparently you are a late riser. But I don’t mind.” Her lips made a thin smile. “You’re welcome to anything we have here. This is your home now—that is, so long as you leave the yeahs and uh-huhs and oh shits back in Fresno with your mother where they belong.” She made her way to the microwave and tapped some buttons, making the dish inside light up and spin. “Here we use perfect manners, Jeremy, especially when addressing each other. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then help yourself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “By the way, you’ll be starting school tomorrow at Ballena Beach High, so we’ve no time to lose for making you look like a Tyler. We’ll be leaving for the salon as soon as I finish my paper and…change my skirt. Have you bathed?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Finish your breakfast, then run upstairs and ready yourself—and from now on, please do not come downstairs until you’ve made yourself presentable. Mr. Blauefee pulled together an outfit for today; you’ll find it there.” She motioned to a Barneys New York bag on the floor and then read from a list on the counter. “29x33 flat-front khakis, large navy-blue Oxford button-down shirt, size 10 1/2 Kenneth Cole shoes with belt to match. Dark brown socks. Oh, and some Calvin Klein items. Will these fit?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Exactly.”

  “Good. Don’t ask me how he does it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And Jeremy, dear?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Please do not call me ‘ma’am.’ I am not your department store customer. You will call me ‘Aunt Katharine.’”

  “Yes, Aunt Katharine.”

  “Now hurry and eat. We don’t want to keep Walter waiting.”

  “Yes, Aunt Katharine.”

  Salon Polendina was part of a modern commercial complex built along a bluff leaning over Pacific Coast Highway, all steel beams and tinted glass and white walls like some government laboratory. Katharine was the one with the appointment with Walter, which was good, because the overly tanned owner of the salon made Jeremy jumpy, as the man made no effort to mask his hungry smile and crotch-checking eyes upon their introduction. Instead, his stylist turned out to be a stunning young woman with sparkling eyes and a jet-black flattop haircut.

  “I’m Carmen.” She held out her hand and Jeremy shook it.

  “Hi.”

  “Young lady,” Katharine announced from the neighboring chair. “I’m picturing for him something that a young Kennedy…a respectable young Kennedy might wear. Ivy League and not bowling league, if you will.”

  “Uh-huh.” She confirmed her understanding with a bite of her lower lip and a scrunching of eyebrows. “It would be a shame to cut all this off.” Carmen shook her head. “But—” her voice dropped to a murmur “—it would be even worse to hide all this.” She studied him with one eye shut, scrunching his hair in a ponytail with one hand while standing to the side and scrutinizing his face. “Yep. I know exactly what I want to do to you.” Their eyes caught at reflected angles in the mirror.

  He looked down.

  Gay, she concluded. And just Carlo’s type. “How about real short in back, buzzed even, but long enough in front to bed-head it for school or gel it back for going to church with your grandma.”

  “I’m his great-aunt, and that sounds fine,” Katharine muttered into her New Yorker.

  “Well how about you? It’s your hair.”

  “Like she said, it sounds fine. Anything’s better than this.” He laughed, pushing the mop out of his eyes. “Anyhow, my aunt’s trying to make me look respectable.”

  “I think I can make you look better than respectable.” Carmen smiled, revealing two rows of perfect teeth between rosy-brown lips. “So let’s see what we can do. But first tell me about yourself. I’ve never seen you around before.” She grabbed his hand. “Let’s go over and wash your hair. My assistant’s out sick today, so I’ll do it.”

  “Your assistant didn’t look sick the other night dancing his little butt off on the go-go box at the Frat House,” Walter corrected, brushing red goop onto Katharine’s head.

  “Are you suggesting Carlo is neglecting his duties here, Walter?”

  “That boy’s duties are his business, sweetie. All I know is what I and most of West Hollywood saw; your baby brother’s healthy as a horse. How else could he have put on such a memorable show?”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Carmen whispered into Jeremy’s ear as she guided his head back into the sink. “So where’ve you been hiding all this time?”

  “I’m from Fresno. I just got here last night.”

  “You visiting or here to stay?” She sprayed some warm water through his scalp, then massaged in some bubble-gum-scented shampoo.

  “Kind of both, I guess. My mom’s sick, and Aunt Katharine, actually she’s my dad’s aunt, told me I could stay with her until my mom gets better. But that’s gonna be a while.”

  “You go to school?”

  “I’m starting at Ballena Beach High tomorrow.”

  “You’re kidding! That’s where I graduated from last year, and my brother Carlo is a senior there now too. His real name’s Carlos, but he thinks dropping the ‘s’ is more European or exotic or something. You’d like each other I think…I’ll tell him to keep an eye out for you.”

  “Thanks.” He shifted in his seat.

  She rinsed the lather out of his head. “So where’s your dad, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “He died when I was two. Car accident.”

  “That sucks. Lots of accidents up here. Mostly drunk tourists pulling out of the restaurants on PCH. Do you drive?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well then, if you need someone to show you around, call me. I was born here. In fact, my brother and I were raised on one of the oldest ranchos in the area, way up in Topanga; it’s been in my family since the 1800s, so there’s not an inch of this town I don’t know. Now let’s get to work.”

  She toweled him dry, then began combing and snipping his hair with quick precision while he watched his covered lap and the floor around his chair become littered with long moist strands, the only remaining evidence of his former life.

  After she finished, she ran some gel through his hair, then stood back and grinned while blocking his view of the mirror.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “See for yourself,” she replied, stepping aside.

  He caught his reflection, but then looked away.

  “Too sexy?” she asked.

  “It’s fine, I guess.” He smiled at her.

  She unpinned the huge plastic bib. “Now go show your aunt.”

  He got up and shuffled over to wher
e Walter worked and Katharine sat reading, her glasses threatening to drop from the tip of her nose, her hair now wig-perfect.

  “Aunt Katharine?”

  She looked up and narrowed her eyes. “Turn around.”

  He complied.

  “I’d pictured something shorter on top, like your father used to wear…more collegiate…more conservative. Young lady?”

  “Yes, ma’am?” answered Carmen.

  “I must say, this is not what I was picturing—but I suppose it will do for now; we’ve shopping to do and reservations to keep. Next time, shorter, if you will.”

  “Absolutely.” Carmen nodded. “Shorter.” And then, “Here,” Carmen said, pressing a Polendina business card into his hand. He saw that a phone number was scribbled on it. “Give me a call, OK? I mean what I said about showing you around, and I’ll tell my brother to look for you at school. Like I said, you two are gonna hit it off.”

  Chapter Eight

  As they sped down Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Monica, Katharine phoned, upon Arthur’s suggestion, the Banana Republic store on the Third Street Promenade. “I need an autumn wardrobe for a seventeen-year-old boy. Listen carefully and have these items bagged and ready to go in, say, fifteen minutes? Do you have a pen? Good. Just a moment, please.”

  She handed the phone to Jeremy as she rolled through a reddening yellow light at the corner of Temescal Canyon and PCH. “Tell the young man your measurements. Mr. Blauefee wrote them on that little yellow paper in my handbag.”

  “Hi, hold on a sec,” the boy said into the tiny silver phone, feeling very uncomfortable at rummaging through his aunt’s purse. Finally he came upon the paper and began reciting the specifications. “I have a 29 waist, a 34 inseam, wear a large shirt, and…” he was amazed that Arthur had been so precise in his recommendations “…look best in olives, tans, rusts, beiges, and black. Absolutely no orange or light green or turquoise. A nice mix of dress and casual. And flat-front pants, no pleats.”