by Nick Nolan
“Anything else?” asked the voice.
“Uh, nope.”
“OK. Let me talk to your mom.”
“She’s not my mom.”
Jeremy handed the phone back as they made a sharp left on Chataqua and then continued up the steep hill to the stoplight at the top, across from Palisades Park.
“We’ll need five pairs of slacks, five jeans, five sweaters, five sweatshirts, three jackets, three belts, two pairs of athletic shoes, two pairs of dress shoes…” the light turned green and she gunned the engine, nearly hitting a man crossing the street sipping from a Starbucks cup “…some colored socks. Oh, and a nice leather book bag of some sort. We are now ten minutes away. Please meet us in the alley with the bags. My American Express number is five-nine-one-seven…” she recited her fifteen-digit card number from memory while navigating between a merging transit bus and two bicyclists “…yes, yes. You’re most welcome.”
She snapped the phone off as they roared down West Channel, made a right on 7th, then another right onto Wilshire. Just past 5th Street, they turned left into an alley lined with yawning Dumpsters and sagging cardboard boxes. At the end of the roadway, two well-dressed young men, laden with a dozen or so shopping bags, emerged from behind a heavy metal door.
“For the record, I believe that shopping this way is crass,” she said, slamming the car to a halt while popping open the trunk in front of the silent salesmen, who dutifully filled the trunk with her purchases and then presented to her, through the driver’s window, a lengthy receipt to be signed. “But the paparazzi is so brazen now that anyone noteworthy can’t take the chance of trying on clothes in a fitting room.” She scribbled on the receipt, handed it back, and then nodded to the young men. “But alleys are tricky business, my darling. Those with anything to lose should never be caught in one alone.”
Thirty minutes later, the pair was headed again along the Coast Highway, traveling farther north past The Colony. Jeremy squinted through the windshield as the noonday October sun danced on crayon-blue waters. As he tilted his head back, the rush of the clouds and tree branches through the sunroof made him dizzy, like he was flying upside-down.
She glanced at her watch. “Good. We made better time than I expected.”
“Why the big hurry?” he asked.
“We have 12:30 reservations.”
“Wouldn’t they wait for you?”
“Of course they would hold our table, but that isn’t the point. There are two kinds of people in Ballena Beach: those with manners and everyone else. And Tylers have manners, of which you are one…officially, as of yesterday. Our first lesson takes place this afternoon, when we review the dying art of dining in public.”
“Oh.”
“We have so much to discuss, young man. Ah, and here we are.”
She waited for the traffic to clear and then made a left into a driveway that plummeted sharply down and to the left, where she nearly plowed into two handsome valets in navy blazers.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tyler,” the first said while opening her door and offering his hand, which she took. The second opened and held the door wide for Jeremy.
“Thank you, and good afternoon to you, Miguel. This is my nephew, Jeremy Tyler.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” the man said. “And this is Ernesto. He’s my cousin from Durango.”
“Mucho gusto, Don Ernesto,” stated Katharine, with a coy smile. And with that, Ernesto bowed to her.
“Hi.” Jeremy waved first at one and then the other.
“And how are the children, Miguel?” she asked while gathering her purse and sweater from the backseat.
The man smiled broadly. “Oh, they’re growing up so fast, Mrs. Tyler.”
“Miguelito—is he ten now? And Carolina, she must be in third grade this year.”
“Yes, Mrs. Tyler. Thank you for asking.”
“I would love to see pictures of them—I’ll bet they’re both simply beautiful.” She waved Jeremy along. “Miguel, I would so appreciate your parking my car in the shade, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Of course, Mrs. Tyler.”
They climbed the steps toward the maître d’, who greeted Katharine as if she were his very best friend and then guided them past the other diners toward her favorite table at the far end of the flagstone terrace, tight against the railing overlooking the ocean. On the way, two sharply dressed men lunching together waved a cheerful hello to his aunt, and she returned their gesture with equal enthusiasm. Jeremy noticed, as soon as she looked away from them, that the men tracked his own progress across the patio.
“Who are they?” he asked when they reached their table.
“They are two of my best clients from the gallery.”
“What gallery?”
“Oh, it’s nothing much.…” The maître d’ pulled out her chair, and she folded herself down into it as gracefully as the Queen. Jeremy followed suit. They were handed menus. “A few years back I bought a little shopping center near the center of town and then found that I couldn’t rent out the last two spaces. Primitive art has always fascinated me, so I decided to combine the spaces and build a gallery to showcase some of the Chumash Indian art from this region. With its success I’ve branched out, of course, and now feature antiquities as well as work done by some of the local artisans; I have a special passion for wood carvings, as you’ll see. I’ll swing you by the space sometime. It’s called Galleri Collodi.”
“Sounds interesting,” he noted blandly. He looked over and caught the men stealing glances at him. One threw him a bold smile. Jeremy grabbed his menu and studied it. “What’s the name mean?”
“It’s an obscure reference to the author of Pinocchio; there’s something about that story that I’ve always loved. And there are those wood carvings that I mentioned.”
Presently their waitress, a pretty young blonde dressed in a spotless white shirt and slacks, took their drink order. Aunt Katharine decided on a glass of Chardonnay for herself and an iced tea for Jeremy, then ordered a grilled salmon for him and a shrimp salad for herself. The waitress nodded courteously and then disappeared.
“I suppose you’d prefer a soda, which is fine at home,” she said, “but not in a place like this.”
“It’s OK, there’s sugar here.”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled thinly, then knitted her hands together. “If you don’t mind, I’ll suggest your food order the first few times we dine together. To help refine your tastes.”
“Sure, Aunt Katharine. Whatever.”
“Good.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You may.”
“What was with those guys in the parking lot? Back in Fresno, my mom said you shouldn’t talk to Mexicans.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, Jeremy; Tiffany had the breeding of a rodeo clown. So your first lesson for the day is this: a true gentleman treats everyone with the same respect, from a senator down to the lowliest beggar on the street. Unfortunately, our society confuses class with money, both of which are often mutually exclusive. Your second lesson is that it is always good form to show interest in other people’s lives, even if you have none. And while we are discussing good form, we need to discuss your poor posture. Hasn’t anyone told you to walk and stand tall, imagining that a string is holding up your head?”
“A string?”
“Yes, a string, such as that which holds up a marionette. If you accustom yourself to visualizing this, you shall, with practice, never slouch.”
“OK. I’ll try it.”
“Very well. But these are trivial matters.” She removed her glasses, squinted at him, then slipped on a pair of sunglasses drawn from her purse. “Jeremy, please tell me, are there any serious character flaws that you possess? I’d much prefer you tell me now so that I might get you the help you need.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” His eyes shifted.
Their conversation halted as the waitress deposited their drinks o
n the table then fled. “What I mean, if I may speak frankly, is that you are your mother’s son.”
Jeremy stiffened. “Why’s that so bad?”
“It’s worse than you might think.” She stopped, took a sip of her wine, grimaced, and then continued in a softer voice. “How much do you know about her past?” She touched him on the wrist.
“Not much. Only what I can remember. She wouldn’t tell me much about my father or herself. She always said there was no point in digging up buried garbage.”
“What, if you don’t mind me asking, did she ever tell you about me?”
He looked down at his iced tea, snatched some packs of sugar, tore them open, and then dumped them into the glass. The substance floated atop the ice cubes like a miniature snowy island. “I only knew that she talked like…she hated you.”
“She hates me?” she snapped. “That is lunacy! If not for that woman, my Jonathan would still be alive! If anyone should hate, it should be I!”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, nervously stirring his now cloudy tea.
She sighed. “Well, I’d better start at the beginning if I’m to make any sense of this for you.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Where is that waitress? I’m going to need a better Chardonnay to get us through this.”
Chapter Nine
“I assumed guardianship of your father in 1973, when he was just six years old, under much the same circumstances as yours. But let me go back even further, so you might know the entire story.
“Jonathan’s parents, my brother John and his wife Donna, had divorced rather suddenly. Their separation came as a shock to the family, as we all knew how much he loved his wife and how happy he seemed after having begun his own little family with her. After the divorce, little Jonathan went to live with his mother in Lakewood or Bellflower or some other dreary little suburb, while John remained here with us.
“As I mentioned, it was the early ’70s, and my brother was called, as were so many young men, to fight in Vietnam. Naturally, we were sick with anxiety, and our father schemed and pulled strings and plotted for him to stay here, or at the very least to be shielded from combat if he had to serve. But none of us predicted that he would himself decide to go to that godforsaken country and fight that hideous war, which at that time was winding down into a humiliating defeat for our soldiers.
“You see, my brother had just lost his family and was understandably discouraged. And being a headstrong and honorable Tyler male, he believed it was his duty to go there and battle the Communists. To our dismay, there was no reasoning with him otherwise. He was killed in a helicopter crash only two weeks after his arrival in Saigon. But as heavily as we grieved, at least we had the comfort of knowing he hadn’t become one of those unfortunate POWs or MIAs rotting forgotten in those jails, while our politicians made deals with their lying diplomats.
“The last time I saw Jonathan’s mother was at my brother’s memorial service. You could tell she blamed herself for his death; she knew, as did we all, that if she hadn’t divorced him, he’d never have volunteered to fight overseas. Donna looked physically ill that day, as if every fiber of her being was woven with regret. And poor little Jonathan, just old enough to comprehend that his beloved daddy was never coming back. It was enough to break your heart just seeing him standing bravely in his little navy suit, saluting his father’s flag-draped casket.”
“So why do you think she blamed herself?” asked Jeremy.
“There had been rumors, of course. Still, no one was certain what had destroyed their marriage so suddenly. If she’d been unfaithful to him, which I believe she had, he was too much the gentleman to make that information known, even to his immediate family. Whatever had been the cause of their divorce died with him, and then a short time later with her.”
“She died too?”
“The coroner ruled it an accidental death, but I believe it was suicide. She ingested more than a few Valium and, if memory serves, a fifth of Southern Comfort. She was only twenty-seven at the time, as had been my brother. Your father was only four. A four-year-old orphan from a broken home.
“Of course, I volunteered to be Jonathan’s guardian. And I’ll tell you right now that there was no more heart-wrenching sight than your father as a boy, wandering around the house by himself, never playing or laughing or running—at least not for the first few years or so that he was with me.
“It wasn’t until he reached twelve or thirteen that he began to heal and come out of his shell, at that time in life when most boys are retreating into one. Eventually, he pursued sports and other extracurricular activities. In fact, he won a few state ribbons for swimming and later debate.
“Your father grew into one of the most handsome young men in the area. We Tylers are Irish, but Donna had been Italian, and the mixture of the two bloodlines was quite spectacular. Jonathan was clearly what is referred to as ‘the best and the brightest.’ Bill and I were certain that he was headed on the straight and narrow road to a brilliant, fulfilling life.” She turned her head, looked out to sea, and then sighed heavily. Then she turned back to him and removed her sunglasses, and Jeremy saw that her eyes were actually copper-colored. “In 1987, your father was a senior at Ballena Beach High, and with his athletic ability as well as having earned excellent marks all through school, we were expecting he would have his choice of the finest colleges and universities in the country, if not the world. He’d been approached by Harvard, Yale, Stanford, even Oxford.”
“This must be the part where my mom comes in,” said Jeremy.
“A clever assumption, dear boy,” she replied with a sad laugh. “You’ll please forgive me for saying so, but your mother was what I will euphemistically refer to as common. And please know that I do not refer to her family’s unfortunate socioeconomic status. To be blunt, she scratched her way into Jonathan’s social circle by using her floozy looks and by being a colossal manipulator. From what I recall, the more respectable girls would have nothing to do with her because they knew if they looked cross-eyed at her she would steal their boyfriends or worse, just for sport. She eventually clawed her way to the position of head cheerleader or drill-team captain or some other such nonsense, which unfortunately put her in close proximity to your father at all the school functions, including his illustrious swim meets.”
“She was a drill-team captain?” Jeremy asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes, and to be honest, she was quite a knockout. I remember overhearing some boys describing her as a stone fox, whatever the devil that meant, although I quickly came to understand the stone part. With her bleached blonde hair she looked just like that girl from, what was that insipid television show? Yes, Dynasty. Heather Something-or-other. Only more impressive. In the early ’80s, every young woman in Ballena Beach looked as if she was impersonating that actress; only with your mother, it looked as if Heather Whatever was impersonating her.
“I’ll never forget seeing her for the first time at the high school swimming championships, after Jonathan had placed first in the butterfly competition. We had unwittingly sat next to her in the front row of the bleachers, down by the pool’s edge. I didn’t know at the time who she was, but I took one look at her and thought, That girl is trouble. Imagine my horror when Jonathan rose from the water in his black swimsuit, all glistening muscles and white teeth, and this squealing bimbo ran to him and pressed her breasts against his half-naked body.
“The rest is history. Of course, she ‘accidentally’ became pregnant by him; and even though every girl in the country was routinely running off for abortions, Tiffany remembered suddenly that she was Catholic and had no choice other than to have the baby. And predictably, Jonathan offered to marry her.
“Of course, I knew the only reason she wanted the baby was because it would be her ticket out of the trailer park, which it was, literally; her family actually lived in a mobile home if you can believe the cliché. She and Jonathan married shortly after the end of the school year and took up residence in the
guesthouse at the rear of our property. Naturally, they were miserable.
“You were born in March following their graduation. But if I had been opposed to her having decided to keep you, after you were born I was equally relieved she’d made the decision she had. You were the most agreeable and beautiful baby, so calm and quiet, never a trouble to anyone. Everyone loved you; even I began thinking myself a grandmother.”
His aunt paused for a moment, deep in thought, staring intently out to sea, the faint breeze tousling her hair. Suddenly the waitress appeared, and with a flourish placed the wrong dishes before them.
“Enjoy!” the girl piped.
“The other way, dear,” she corrected. “And a better Chardonnay this time.” She tapped the crystal rim. “Or better yet, a glass of that lovely Viognier that Maurice keeps in back.”
Jeremy watched with interest as his aunt’s tongue loosened with each sip of wine, and he began to feel afraid of what he might hear next. He stabbed at his salmon steak; she ignored her salad. A fly landed on the rim of her plate, and she waved it away absently.
“As I’m certain you know, your parents were ill-suited as a couple, and they grew visibly more unhappy with each passing week. Your mother left one night, taking you with her, claiming that Jonathan had hit her during a disagreement, which, of course, he had not. She even called the police and tried to press charges.
“We assumed that divorce was imminent, and I consulted with the family lawyers and a private investigator about deeming her unfit to care for you. After all, you are Jonathan’s son and would eventually inherit a substantial share of the Tyler holdings.
“Of course, your mother’s family got involved in the dispute; they all had a nose for other people’s money. In any case, both parties began building cases for when the time came for custody to be determined.”
“But why would my mother’s family want to keep me?”
“Jeremy, dear, has no one told you that on your eighteenth birthday your trust becomes available to you?”