“She has pinkeye from the nursery, and he’s excitedly awaiting his turn.”
“You’re still coming to UCLA for the World War II Underground lecture series?” Lil asked, anxiously.
“Of course. And you’re still coming to see me while I’m in LA?”
“Forty-eight hours is as long as I can get away from the boys,” sighed Lil. “That’s with three shifts of babysitters and their first overnight at the in-laws. I’m still working out the last ten hours of day care.”
“God, Lilly, what’s Joey going to be doing all that time?”
“An order of rhinestone embossed sweatpants and jackets for the University of Alabama gymnastics team.”
“You have chosen such a life of your own free will, you realize this?” said Sam.
Lil could feel her sister shaking her head in dismay. She rose to her own defense. “Well, at least I’m not married to a one-eyed golfer whose only claim to fame is a tie for third at the Scottish Open.”
“He’s not actually blind in that eye, Lilly; it’s a misshapen cornea. And he hits a helluva fade!”
“Oh, my goodness,” said Lil, in a voice filled with mock triumph. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you defend your husband so vehemently, Samantha.”
“I’m hanging up now, Lil, with the satisfaction of knowing that you are the one calling Mom. Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
Chapter 1
Loss of Gravity
At 57, Andrea Bader Bravos felt herself slipping. Slowly, to be sure, but still slipping. She lived in a spacious but dated townhouse in Valencia, California. It was perched just 1000 feet above the San Fernando Valley—and about fifteen miles north of Hollywood, where she had once worked but didn’t work very much anymore. She had spent most of her career writing treatments and, occasionally, scripts for mediocre TV movies-of-the-week. That business began imploding with the arrival of reality television; along with it had gone Andy’s center of gravity.
Andy’s four children had noticed her fumbling around for meaning the last few years, but they didn’t really understand it. Even if they did, they were too busy to offer any solutions. Mostly, they kept suggesting she retire, as if that were a choice. People in Andy’s business didn’t retire, they were retired by the forces that eventually swept everyone in the entertainment business out to sea: an inability to keep up with the breathtaking speed of pop culture—and aging skin.
At several points in her life, Andy had considered herself an unusually relevant person, both a rebel and a crusader for justice. As a 16-year-old feminist pioneer, she was the first girl to work the cash register at the new McDonald’s in Glendale, California. She had helped integrate the marching band at her small liberal arts college. And when she divorced 22 years ago, she had dropped the name Kornacky, as a sign she was no longer beholden to the patriarchy. Now Andy wondered about the value of those accomplishments. Especially the name change. She chose Bravos—telling her four children that it symbolized courage—and asked them to join her in making a political statement. Unfortunately, they were all under twelve at the time and had no idea what she was talking about. In the end, the kids split into their usual teams: girls on one side, boys on the other. Looking back, she thought her activism might have done more harm than good. After all, most of McDonald’s underpaid employees were now women, not men. Her liberal arts college had gone belly up. And her four adult children never missed an opportunity to rehash the name change episode every time they managed to gather for a holiday meal.
So it was that Andy Bravos, aging activist and unemployed writer, stood watering the drooping daisies on her patio that June day—feeling slightly irrelevant—when the call came about the death of her ex-husband.
“This is tragic! Just tragic,” Andy pronounced.
“Don’t sound so indignant, Mom. Or surprised,” said Lil, trying to keep things on an even keel. “He drank enough to inebriate a rugby team. And he never exercised.”
“But he wasn’t that old, for god’s sake! Sixty.”
“Lots of people die at 60, Mom. And since you are fueled almost exclusively by bean burritos and hominy grits and you walk four miles a day, you will probably not be one of them. Whether you like it or not, you’ll live until you’re 90.”
“This is not about me, Lil.”
“Yes, it is. We all know you are in the middle of a mortality crisis—”
“Midlife crisis—”
“Mortality crisis. As a consequence, Dad’s death comes at a bad time for you.”
“You make me sound pathetic, Lil.”
“That’s beside the point. The point is, given his lifestyle, this was bound to happen sooner rather than later.”
Andy shut up and thought about that. “Okay,” she admitted. “I guess that’s true.”
Lil had a rather painful knack for cutting to the chase in most things. Over the past few years, Andy had suckered her elder daughter into writing several spec movie scripts with her. Lil’s facility with words and instincts for a good story were remarkable. But with all those preschool boys around the house now, Lil didn’t have time anymore. Lately, it seemed her daughter was reduced to using her verbal karate skills on the phone with her mother.
“Okay,” Andy repeated in a calmer voice. “So how did he die?”
“I don’t know. Tilda didn’t say.”
“I mean, in the gutter? In his sleep? Watching the 49ers? Was there no color coverage at all?”
“Just the note about a hex if anybody bothered her.”
Andy paced the patio, cell in hand. “How does she get away with that? Not even telling us the cause of death?”
“He’s not your husband anymore, so what does it matter?”
“But he’s your father. Don’t you want to know? You deserve to.”
Lil counted silently to three, then responded. “Let’s try not to make a big deal out of this. All right? There is no principle at stake here. “
“You are his children. You have a right to know!”
“It’s not that important. Really.”
“She should have told us. Someone should ask her.”
“Oh no, no, no!” Lil said, emphatically. “That’s exactly what we are not going to do, Mom. Dad had a thing for crazy women.” Lil heard the hiss on the other end of the line. “Present company excepted.”
“Thank you.”
“The older he got, the more he drank and the loopier his wives. Let’s just keep our distance and get on with things. If you’re really that concerned, why don’t you get a copy of his death certificate?”
When Andy said nothing, Lil got a little worried. “Mom?”
“I am stunned by your good sense.”
“What?”
“I’m going to do that.”
“Okay,” Lil said, skeptically. “Without actually making any contact with the grieving widow, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s good, Mom.”
“Yes, it is.” Andy replied, suddenly feeling herself become, well, a little more relevant. “I can’t do anything about your dad’s death. But I can at least find out what caused it. I’m sure, as his children, you’ll all feel better knowing.”
Lil decided it was easier to agree than to point out that the only person who seemed to want that piece of information was Andy. “Yes, I’m sure we will all feel better if you take on that little crusade.”
“You’re mocking me, Lil.”
“I do it with love, Mother.”
“I’m going to get that certificate anyway.”
“I’m sure you will.”
That settled, Andy moved on. “What about a funeral?” she asked.
“Mitch is taking charge of that.”
“Oh, god, not another one of his music mixes,” Andy said, thinking out loud. “Still, I suppose we all grieve in our own way.”
Sensing her mother’s mind wandering, Lil saw an opportunity to change the subject and jumped at it. “How’s cousin Harley?” s
he asked.
Andy snapped to attention again. “He’s driving me nuts. My sister sold me a real bill of goods when she sent him out here to stay this year.”
“What do you mean? I thought he was going to school somewhere in Valencia.”
“So did I. I figured it was either CalArts, up the road, or the local junior college across the street. But it’s not.”
“What else is there?”
“Something called Our Savior’s Tabernacle University in Lancaster.”
“What the hell is a Tabernacle University?”
“An oxymoron. And so is this kid. I had to buy him a car just so he could get there, for crying out loud. And he’s so far behind academically that they made him come out for summer school before they’ll let him start as a freshman in the fall.”
“Can’t you send him back to Nebraska?”
“Apparently not. My sister has gotten herself into a job training program and can’t be distracted,” Andy said.
“Aunt Pam is in a job training program? But she’s older than you are!”
“She has no pension, so she’s starting a new career. In the bakery industry. With a concentration in cake decoration. In the meantime, I am babysitting her son.”
“Well, at least you have someone to keep you company. Right?”
“Harley is not company, Lil. He is an annoyance. And there is a real possibility I will kill him shortly.”
Lil knew immediately where this was going and tried to head it off. “I hear the sound of peeing, Mom, and it’s not in the toilet.”
Andy charged ahead, as if she hadn’t heard what Lil said. “Let’s do another script together, Lilly. We’ll have a great time. We can do it over the phone. On Skype. I’ll do all the typing.”
“Really. Mom. I don’t have the time.”
“I know I could get my mojo back if we just worked together—”
“Oh, there goes another jet stream. The boys have developed a herding instinct lately. I think I see the twins with diapers down behind the couch . . .”
“Lilly, I need—”
“Oops! Gotta run. Love you.”
Lil hung up, and Andy felt another little slap of futility hit her in the face. Her career really was over. Now her ex was dead and gone. And her leech of a nephew was upstairs in the guest bedroom glued to a novel about the End of Days.
Chapter 2
Israelites in LA
If Andy had been insensitive about giving her kids a new last name, her sister had been downright idiotic about giving hers a first one. After only one date with a long-distance truck driver named Phil Davidson, Pam announced she had found the love of her life and was going to marry him. By the third date, she felt they were destined to have a son, and he would be called—Harley. And so it came to pass, both the wedding and the birth. All this might have seemed a little less laughable had Harley been big and beefy and liked motorcycles. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. The Harley Davidson now sharing her domicile was short and doughy. In addition, he appeared to be as dumb as a two-by-four. Even more disturbing was his ambition to become a preacher and establish his own Christian denomination.
Andy knocked on the door of her former guestroom where the future Reverend Harley Davidson currently resided.
“Come on in,” Harley said. He laid the paperback across his chest and smiled up at his aunt.
“How’s the book?” she asked.
“Just tremendous!” he said. “It’s the third one in the Left Behind series. I love it.”
She looked down at the dramatic lettering on the cover of the book, The Rise of Antichrist and instantly felt an affinity with the title character. “Shouldn’t you be reading the Bible or something?”
“This is better.”
“No doubt.”
“I mean, it’s fiction, so they make it very exciting,” he explained. “The real stuff, you know, like Exodus and Deuteronomy, is kind of boring.”
“I see.”
“In comparison, I mean.”
Andy pondered this and thought it her duty to encourage him to pay more attention to his studies.
“Well, I can’t imagine the Bible’s that boring,” she offered. “I’ve worked with a lot of Israelites in the film business, and they’re generally pretty good storytellers.”
“No kidding? You know some real Israelites here in LA?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
He looked at her in amazement. “We don’t have that many back in Omaha,” he said.
“I suppose you’d have to go looking. But I’m sure they’re there. Anyway, you want some lunch?”
He hesitated, scrunching up his chubby cheeks.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I’m kinda tired of burritos.”
“Okay. Why don’t I take you to In ‘n Out Burger?”
“Gosh, I love that place, Aunt Andy.”
“I do, too,” she said. “And I need to get out of the house. Put your cowboy boots on and meet me in the car.”
Valencia was built as a New Town in the 1960s, completely planned to accommodate a Southern California suburban lifestyle. It was one of the few places in Los Angeles County with actual bike lanes and where you could still get a parking spot at the mall. Andy discovered the little gem of a community when she decided to take up golf ten years ago. The public course was cheap and seldom crowded, plus people rarely scoffed if you shanked your tee shot on the first hole. The town had been annexed a few years back and was now part of the City of Santa Clarita, famous for almost nothing except the Six Flags theme park on Magic Mountain Parkway.
Harley and Andy sat outside at a round table with a red and white striped umbrella, eating their animal-style Double Doubles. As the adult in the unlikely pairing, Andy made a feeble attempt to bond.
“You like it here?” Andy asked.
“It’s only been three weeks,” Harley said. “But, yeah, I think so.”
“You miss your family?”
“Not really,” he answered. “Not as much as you miss yours.”
Andy looked at him suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”
“You call your kids all the time.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. And if you don’t call them, they call you. You people never leave each other alone.”
This kid was a master at pushing her into a defensive position. “I guess we’re big talkers,” she said, begrudgingly.
“Tell me about it,” said Harley. “It’s like everything you’re thinking comes right out your mouth.”
“Really!” Andy snorted, nearly choking on her grilled onion. She tried to glare at him, but she couldn’t get a bead on her target because he was slouched over a pool of ketchup, dipping his fries. “We’re all extroverts,” she finally said, by way of explanation. “Except Ian. He’s more of an introvert.”
“The guitar player in Nashville?”
“It’s a steel pedal, “Andy instructed him.
“He’s coming to LA this weekend, right? I mean his band is.”
“They’re playing at the Wiltern.”
“And he’s getting us tickets?”
“Right. For you, me, and Mitch and his girlfriend.”
The pudgy head bobbed up and down with approval. Then he observed solemnly, “I guess you can’t talk all that much if you’re supposed to be playing a guitar and singing. So maybe that’s a good job for him. I don’t think your other kids could, you know, restrain themselves that much.”
Andy tried the glare again, but he was either naturally adept at avoiding eye contact or self-taught. Whichever the case, she’d had about as much conversation as she could stomach. She started to gather up the leftover napkins.
“So who died?” he asked.
She stopped short, crumpled the napkins with a vehemence she generally reserved for representatives of her current cable company and sat back down. “Have you been eavesdropping on my phone conversations, Harley?”
“Nob
ody has to eavesdrop, Aunt Andy. You get so worked up I can hear you in Dolby Stereo.”
It was not difficult to understand why her sister had exiled the boy to California; the family gene pool had finally produced an unbearable combination of its worst two alleles—cluelessness and cheek. “I’m sorry if my voice bothers you, Harley,” she said, diplomatically. “It is my house, however.”
“I get that,” he said, oblivious to her irritation. “No problem. I just wondered who died.”
“My ex-husband. Mark. You wouldn’t remember him. We were divorced before you were born.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s the dad, right? For all your kids?”
“Yes.”
He tilted his round face slightly to the left and opened his eyes so that she really saw them for the first time. Blue. Creamy blue. His best feature by a mile, she mused.
Now Harley rolled his thin lips inward, as if he were contemplating something. “That’s gotta hurt a little, huh? I mean, you probably loved him once.”
“What?” she asked.
“I said you must feel pretty bad.”
It was an uncomfortably perceptive statement from a kid Andy judged to be psychologically below grade level. Because the truth was, she did feel bad. After all, she had been married to Mark Kornacky for 14 years, and they weren’t all miserable. Many of them were damned exciting. He was a man with a big personality who loved to be the center of attention. A guy with good friends and better stories. He could cook. He could sing. He could drink. He could whip up a party on a moment’s notice. People loved him. She loved him. For a while, anyway.
The two had met when he was starting his own production company in Studio City. He was filming a series of exotic-animal cooking shows, a repulsive—but highly popular—niche concept. She was a struggling writer, and he underpaid her for helping with the scripts. They shared the same middle class upbringing, had similar politics, and fit together in a quirky sort of way, like Sonny and Cher or Bert and Ernie. She could never quite find the right simile for their marriage, and maybe that was the problem.
Whatever the attraction, the partnership worked. Until they had children. That Mark Kornacky would be such a spectacular failure as a parent never occurred to her. That it would take child number three for her to begin to notice was her own spectacular failure. By the time baby number four was born, Andy knew it was time to stop. Sadly for everyone concerned, it would take another seven years of his drinking, cheating, and self-indulgent spending for her to take the kids and get out. After that, her ex-husband was rarely seen in the vicinity of his offspring, and they began referring to him as their ‘ex-father.’
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