“Ummmmm, Cherry Garcia.”
“Really,” said Ben. “Why?”
“Because she’ll say anything to sound different,” mumbled Elyssa.
“Because I like it!” argued Nina.
“Then name one Grateful Dead song,” said Elyssa.
“It’s not about a song,” said Ben. “It’s about a flavor.”
“And I’m a Cherry Garcia,” said Nina. “It’s like eating something tie-dye.”
“Doesn’t anybody want to know my flavor?” asked Betsy.
“I do,” said Ben, squinting into the rearview mirror. The Volvo was angled east to west, allowing the morning sun to strike squarely in the middle of the back window. Ben slipped down his shade then twisted the mirror so he could meet Betsy eye-to-eye.
“Okay. I have lots of flavors that I am. Favorite flavors and fun flavors and ones I like because they remind me of Johnny.”
“Johnny who?” asked Ben.
“Johnny Crismani,” chimed Nina, “Betsy’s boyfriend du jour.”
“Is not!”
“Du jour?” asked Ben, amused at Nina’s faux command of adult vernacular.
“I only sit next to him,” said Betsy.
“I’m looking for your flavor?” reminded Ben.
“I’m Rainbow Sherbet, of course,” said Betsy.
“Of course,” added Nina. “Didn’t we all know?”
“Because of all the things you love,” answered Ben for her.
“Okay. Ben’s turn,” prompted Elyssa.
“Too old to be a flavor,” said Ben.
“No you’re not,” said Nina. “Everybody’s a flavor.
“I’m not a flavor,” said Ben. “I’m an acquired taste.”
“That’s what Mom says,” said Elyssa.
“And Mom would know,” said Ben.
“I know,” volunteered Betsy. “You’re Rainbow Sherbet, too.”
“Fine. Betsy said it,” shrugged Ben. “I’m Rainbow Sherbet, too.”
“Not fair,” said Elyssa. “You have to come up with your own flavor or we’ll give you one.”
“Okay, then,” said Ben. “Give me one. Betsy already says I’m Rainbow Sherbet. What do you think I am?”
“Ummmmm,” said Nina.
“Vanilla,” piped in Elyssa with a somewhat cutting understanding the flavor’s social significance.
“That’s what I was gonna say!” said Nina, disappointed her sister beat her to the punch. “But not because vanilla is vanilla. Because everybody likes it.”
“Is there vanilla in Rainbow Sherbet?” asked Ben, hoping to be saved by either Betsy or the miracle of moving traffic.
“I don’t know,” said Betsy. “But vanilla’s okay with me, too.”
“Not even with chocolate sauce and nuts?” asked Ben.
“Sundaes aren’t flavors,” said Elyssa, sounding every bit the know-it-all.
And so it went. Two straight weeks of Ben driving his three adopted amigas to the Simi Canyons School, queuing up on Tierra Rejada with all the other private-school parents, partaking in the daily traffic jam, dropping the girls off with kisses and a “have a nice day,” then not-so-promptly swinging onto the eastbound 118. Nearly each winter day was identical, a slight breeze from the west, and seventy-one degrees Fahrenheit.
Identical too was the order of freeway exits and interchanges. Like ticks on a clock, clicking all the way down to zero. Zero being where Ben stayed in one of the left-hand lanes, past where the southbound I-5 connected with the 170. After that, it was maybe ten minutes to the front door of his office. Ben could almost smell the hot coffee. And maybe, if he was lucky, Josie would have bought him some kind of pastry. A simple success, Ben decided. All temptation and curiosity would be averted for another day. His life was back on track.
Moving on.
But, if Ben were to let temptation flower—if while on the I-5 he were to inexplicably veer into the right-turn lanes, arch over the flood-control channels and find himself traveling south on the 170 —he would quickly be mere moments from the Burbank Boulevard exit.
North Hollywood.
Home of Stew Raymo.
As days passed, this became both Ben’s figurative and literal crossroad. He would safely move along at the mean traffic speed, beginning his countdown as the 118 Freeway lifted him over the 405. Glancing to the distant north, he could see the water that fed the San Fernando Valley cascading down the California Aqueduct. Turning his gaze south, Ben could see thousands of daily commuters and truck drivers from places like Santa Clarita, Lancaster and Bakersfield, each waiting for his turn to merge onto the southbound San Diego Freeway.
Continuing eastbound, Ben would position himself in the centermost traffic lane, intently focused on keeping each wheel equidistant from the neat rows of Botts’ Dots—those round, raised markers created by Dr. Elbert Botts, a California Department of Transportation engineer, as a warning system to sleepy or wandering drivers. “A genius invention,” Ben would often remark, always crediting the man who, in many estimations, had saved tens of thousands of lives. When a car’s tires ran over a row of Botts’ Dots, the one-inch bumps delivered a distinctive, staccato vibration through the drivetrain to the steering wheel, and into the hands of the drifting driver.
Only when Ben had securely fixed his sights on staying dead in the middle lane, could he actually sense that he was straddling the line between his future and his past.
Stay left and his pledge to Alex would be kept.
Slide right and the promise would be shattered.
Left. Ben was moving on.
Right. A giant leap into his primeval past.
Left. Ben could taste his own limp flavor. Vanilla.
Right. Ben could taste blood.
So it was that on Friday, March 7 at exactly 8:32 A.M, four months and six days since he had first listened to that scratchy, dying voice utter Stew Raymo’s name, Ben Keller decided that he would do something dumb and patently foolish. An act absolutely detrimental to the stitches that held his soul intact. As the 5/170 interchange approached, Ben chose to let fate—or God—decide which direction his life should take. And with that...
Ben took his hands off the steering wheel.
Whether it was the imperceptible canter of the road or the car’s alignment or the slight wear on the treads of his Michelin steel-belted radials or even a meager gust of wind from the north, Ben would never, ever know the true cause.
But the car lingered to the right.
Only when the right front tire came in clear contact with Dr. Elbert Botts’ Dots did Ben resume control of the vehicle. Then, without thought or true clarity of purpose, Ben instinctively clicked his right turn indicator, checked his mirrors, and entered the lanes designated for the 170 south.
Hell-bound, he thought. Jesus God help me.
“My name is Pamela.”
Pam bit her lip and with it, her budding anger. The stupid Internet was down again. All she needed to do was determine from the DSL provider if the problem was on her end or theirs. After that, she could handle the next step. Unfortunately, she was stuck following a procedure laid out by some faceless phone tech in far-off India.
“Hello, Pam. My name is Roger,” said the tech, adding insult to Pam’s intelligence.
No it’s not, said Pam to herself. Your name isn’t Roger. It’s something like Asim or Taj or Ganesh.
“For our records, can you confirm your full name and billing address?”
“Pamela Raymo. Two-one-two-three Morrison Street. North Hollywood, California.”
That’s right, she reminded herself. North Hollywood.
North Hollywood. A suburb within the City of Los Angeles. And it is, as its name would indicate, north of Hollywood. To the south, Studio City and the east, Toluca Lake and the City of Burbank.
North Hollywood, or NoHo as some real estate brokers had dubbed it in order to make living there sound chic, wasn’t where Pam had wanted to invest in their first home. She had wanted Sant
a Monica, Mar Vista, or Pasadena, even. Wherever they bought, she had wanted to be far from the San Fernando Valley. More importantly, far from North Hollywood where she was born, schooled and recruited for her first movie role while still attending Grant High School. It was a student film, shot over two days for a wannabe director taking an introduction to filmmaking class at Valley College. And like so many young actresses who see the world through a prism made of stars, she had fallen hard for the young Spielberg, slept with him before the little film was finished, then dropped out of high school to move in with him in the guest house behind his mother’s house.
She called him College Boy.
He called her Misty Fresh.
Within six months College Boy had convinced Misty Fresh that in order to fund their maturing cocaine habit, she could make easy money giving a few blowjobs on film. “Just oral sex,” he had promised her. “Like Monica Lewinsky did for President Clinton.”
Only Misty Fresh was way hotter than Monica Lewinsky.
Pam would later concede that her decision to make adult films had more to do with cocaine and curiosity than her love for College Boy.
“No,” said Pam to phone tech from far, far away. “The power sync light is green, but the 10Base light is yellow.”
“Is that the T2000 model modem?” asked Roger. “Or the T3000?”
“T3000,” said Pam.
“Would you mind holding for a moment?”
Hell yes, I mind!
Stew would have hung up by now. Stew would have cursed, called poor Roger “Punjab” or “Camel Jockey,” ripped the phone from the wall and stuffed it into the trash compactor.
Stew wasn’t very practical. Pam was. And it was the hardscrabble nature of the porn business that had educated her.
“Nothing like screwing on film,” she had once said aloud in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, “to knock the stars clean out of a young girl’s eyes.”
Pam checked her watch. She had been in tech-hell for twenty-six minutes. Adding the hour prior to calling for assistance when she had jiggled wires, checked every connection, reconfirmed network settings, powered up and down her router, and waited on the multiple restarts of her computer, she had been two hours without a connection.
Two hours too long, considering that when Pam’s Internet connection failed, she had been in the midst of adopting a baby boy without Stew’s knowledge, let alone approval.
“Would you mind continuing to hold?” asked Roger. “We’re experiencing our own technical problems.”
Whatever.
Pam's one-woman adoption quest had begun the night Stew had disappeared. Only hours after she had discovered her beefy husband assembling the For Sale sign on the front lawn, fought with him over selling the house, and then kissed, cried, and made up, they had made plans to see a George Clooney movie that night. And he had turned around and stood her up. Not a call, not a text. Sure, Stew eventually showed his face the next morning with an armful of flowers and mea culpas.
She wasn’t the least bit surprised when Stew confessed that he had spent the night with his old pals, Jack and Coke.
“I went out,” Stew had said. “Fell off the wagon.”
Pam was seated at the kitchen table, rimmed in morning daylight, grazing the Style section of the Los Angeles Times while spooning a cold soup of granola, sliced bananas, and soy milk into her mouth.
Stew talked. Pam never looked up.
“Not asking to be forgiven. I know that. I gotta get back into the rooms. This morning. Soon as I can. But I owed it to you to tell the truth. No hiding. I’m sick about this. Ten years in the shitter. So I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Real, real sorry. And I promise I’ll get this done right. Back on the wagon. You’ll see first, then you’ll forgive when you’re ready to forgive. Only then. Only when you’re ready.”
It was a good speech. And Pam really wanted to cry. She could feel the tears, the rumble of her nerves, and the plain sadness inside her wanting to override her emotional switchboard. But Pam wouldn’t give Stew the satisfaction of witnessing a single tremor.
“Okay,” was all she had said.
With that, Pam had risen from the table, rinsed her bowl in the sink and neatly placed it in the dishwasher. That was when she had decided. That was the moment. She was going to adopt a child. A baby. No more discussions. No more canceling of appointments with adoption lawyers. No more of Stew finding convenient reasons to delay. The decision to adopt a child had become painfully simple for one reason and one reason alone.
Pam had leverage.
The moral—and sober—high ground.
Stew could liquidate every damn asset to save his precious spec house. He could even liquidate their marriage, if he chose. What he wouldn’t be able to liquidate was her resolve to be a mommy.
With the phone stuck to her ear, still on hold, Pam took in the little North Hollywood home she had first loathed. From the hardwood floors to the ceilings trimmed in molding to the custom-paint finishes she had personally applied to every wall. The old, country, hardwood accents were counterpoint to the soft, colorful fabrics she had chosen for every slipcover and cushion. Under protest, she had still made it her home, adorned by her own hand.
Suddenly, the thought of selling the house sickened her. With that, she briefly entertained an idea of how she could temporarily save her house and Stew. All it would take were a few simple phone calls. Surely there was some enterprising adult-film producer willing to pay her top dollar for a single comeback video. A three-day, one-off performance could make her as much as ten grand in cash. Why the hell not when she still had a body worth watching and abusing?
The Return of Misty Fresh.
Then Pam shook off the idiotic idea as quickly as it had snuck up on her. That was her former cocaine-addict-thinking. Or “Stinkin’ Thinkin’” as they so often said in The Program.
And Pam thought Stew needed to get to some meetings? Hell, she should get to a few meetings herself if thoughts like double-penetration-sex-for-money were finding back-roads into her psyche. She blamed the long wait on hold with Roger the Indian Phone Tech.
Pam refocused herself to a single purpose. To the mission she had been engaged in when the Internet had crashed. Her thoughts returned to her new favorite website, www.theadoptionoption.com, a clearinghouse for all things related to child adoption. A baby of her own, or their own if Stew could find it within himself to step up and be a dad.
“Just another minute,” said Roger. “I’m very sorry for the wait.”
Pam had enough of waiting. She hung up, closed the notebook computer and shoved it into her backpack. She decided to speed-walk off her frustrations. It would take her about twenty minutes to break into a cleansing sweat. After that, she would duck into the nearest wireless-friendly Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf and plug back in.
Pam slipped into socks and pair of pink and white Adidas, matching golf visor and a wide pair of imitation Gucci sunglasses. She checked her appearance in the mirror hung opposite the front door.
See if anybody recognizes Misty in this getup.
She gripped the doorknob and twisted. The Baldwin hardware felt cold in her hand. Solid. Just like it did the day she had tested the sample model at Crown City Hardware in Pasadena. She loved the feel of the mechanism at work, the tumblers, the springs as they compressed, and the distinct click as the lock released.
She swung the door inward, only to be stopped by a stranger on her doorstep. He was of average height, finely featured, with a shaggy haircut. He wore a pink polo shirt, jeans, and running shoes, though he looked nothing like a jogger. His index finger, frozen only inches from the doorbell’s button, withdrew and quickly formed with the rest of his hand into an open, surrendering half-wave, half-Navajo “How.”
“Sorry,” said the man. “I saw your sign. For Sale by Owner.”
“There’s a phone number on it,” said Pam, her voice abrupt and sharp as a knife.
“No cell signal,” said the man, revealing the mobile phone in
his other hand. He shrugged. “Truly sorry if I’m bothering you.”
Funny thing about her address. It seemed to be smack in the center of a cellular void. Some carriers’ signals would connect like landlines, others would vanish like the caller had stepped into the Bermuda Triangle.
“Was just checking around the neighborhood,” defended the stranger. “Saw this house and... well... I’ll call and make an appointment.”
The man took a step backward off the porch, once again surrendering with that little wave. It was clear he wasn’t a stalker. Otherwise, the instant the door opened, there would have been that telltale pause. A hiccup in time when the sexually possessed man, not quite prepared to be within spitting distance from the object of his desire, freezes, stutters, or even pisses himself with sudden, overwhelming anxiety.
“I know,” said Pam. “Shoulda listed it through a real estate agent. But my husband...”
“Commission’s too steep. I can relate to that.”
“Too bad my husband’s not here. You could relate together.”
The man laughed. It was a healthy laugh. Real. Pam liked when men were genuine.
“Can I ask what you’re asking for?”
“Six-hundred-fifty-nine thousand... I think.”
“Sounds like a place to start.”
“Look,” relented Pam. “I’ve got a few minutes. If you want to see the house?”
“I’m already bothering you.”
“Quick walk-through wouldn’t hold me up. Then, maybe, you can call my husband if you’re interested.”
“Sounds fair.”
“I should tell you we don’t have a pool. Room for one, but no pool. If that’s an issue.”
“Not much of a swimmer,” said he man.
“Then, well... come on in,” said Pam, retreating a step and swinging the door into a more welcoming position.
“Thank you,” said the man. “Really appreciate you doing this.”
“I’m Pam,” she said, hand stuck forward, as if ready to take a karate chop.
The Safety Expert Page 19