Part 7 (1/2)

'An actor,' said his father in the harsh light below deck after all the votes were in. 'A Californian. One of our own. A hero straight outta storyland. That's just what it's gonna take to win this country back its b.a.l.l.s. You know what I mean when I say b.a.l.l.s don't you, son?'

Here the boy looked the man in the face and it seemed to him that the dark blond beard he wore was a disguise, something from a picture book, something to hide behind, beyond which might lie a fantastic world, maybe where the wild things are, maybe a place where all fathers are good fathers and wise. Then the boy looked down at his little penny loafers and started to cry.

'Jesus Christ. Your mother's molded you into quite the p.u.s.s.y, hasn't she?'

'You still didn't tell me where she is,' wept the child.

'She left us.'

'When's she coming back?'

'Coming back? She's not coming back. Not till h.e.l.l freezes over. Not till a field of roses grows all the way down Sunset Strip. There's Jew lawyers making sure of it.'

'Where'd she go?'

'You really wanna know?'

'Yes,' sobbed the child into his hands. This child eight years old. This thirty-foot Hatteras rocking in the cold night waters.

'She started f.u.c.king some gypsy f.a.ggot of a singer. Bobby something. Some B-rate Donovan she met at a party in Laurel Canyon last year when I was away on business in New York. Shame on me for trying to make an honest woman out of her. I guess this is my penance for making a kid with a go-go dancer. Sheila. Stock name for any low-life rag doll from any old s.h.i.+thole in the Midwest. My mother, your grandmother-rest her soul-said it best: Love is a fairy tale, let's leave love to Hollywood, when it comes to marriage the trick is in the breeding, and that girl isn't fit to scrub our floors.'

What hidden savagery can live in the hearts of the painfully rich. A secret saved for the country club toilet. And Ross Klein, lying pale in his open robe on a sweaty rug, growing the beard his father handed down to him, is heir to such things. Should he wish to be.

But how could he forget the quiet beauty with the black braid? The scared and haunted mom he'd not see again. Sheila chasing songs. The faint patchouli she wore. The lisp when she talked, first voice he knew, and for the first few years of his life he would have sworn the billion other tongues on earth were flawed, not hers. She played him her best tapes on the 8-track player in the porch window of their place in the Hills. Van the Man and Jackson Browne and Tim Buckley and Joni and The Byrds. Carole King and Sweet Baby James and Judy Collins and Earth, Wind & Fire till the tapes broke. Songs that told of the life she gave up to live in this gigantic house. The boy in her lap rocking softly in the piney air when she'd sing along and they'd watch the city traffic struggle in the twilight down there, all the lights of Los Angeles blinking on through the haze like phosphorous life in a nameless sea of want and pending disaster.

But boys turn to men. And men litter their worlds with pain. Ross on the floor. His world a falling world. His gla.s.sy eyes on the ceiling. His ticking heart, blue-black and hidden like a mine.

Joe's pants are on the floor of Debbie's bedroom in the back of the Dairy Queen. A dusty broken walk-in cooler six months ago, this ten-by-twelve s.p.a.ce, got to through a heavy metal door behind the old kitchen in back, has since been reinvented as a veritable love den complete with candles, vaguely Eastern tapestries above a twin futon, baby oil on the nightstand, Rite Aid brand. It's just barely dawn, a Greyhound bus pa.s.ses out on the main road in the half-dark, Deb snores lightly by his side and the cell phone in the pocket of his d.i.c.kies on the carpet sings a muted We will, we will rock you.

'Joe here.'

'Joe boy?'

'Who is this?'

'Who else calls you Joe Boy?'

'Why you callin' so early, Mom?'

'I want to go to the drive-in one more time before I die.'

'You're not gonna die, Ma.'

'Oh yes I am. I hate to be a party p.o.o.per but so are you. And that strange big bird you've shacked up with. And every other blessed creature in the universe one day or another. And my day's just around the bend, whether you like it or not. No sense moping about it. That's why I'm singin' in the rain,' sings Bea Two-Feathers.

'But isn't there something we can do to-'

'Singin' in the rain. I'm not gonna be one of those sad sacks who fights tooth and nail for nothing. I sincerely hope I just clap off like the clapper the day he comes knocking.'

'Who?'

'The guy with the cycle. Death. The Boatman. Ferryman. Whatever you wanna call him. All I want is to go to the friggin' drive-in movies one last time and that G.o.dd.a.m.n Director Steve won't grant me a day pa.s.s.'

'Why the h.e.l.l not?'

Debbie stirs beneath the sheet. 'Who you talkin' to, baby?'

Joe covers the phone with his long hand and whispers, 'My mom. I think she's losing her marbles.'

'I heard that.'

's.h.i.+t. Sorry, Mom. I'm just worried about you.'

'So then get your a.s.s down here and have a talk with this n.a.z.i director.'

'Okay, I'll be down, just let me get my pants on,' says Joe and hangs up.

'Don't you dare put those pants on yet,' says fat Deb. 'You hear me, Tonto?'

Just upstairs in the crow's nest, the young Marine sweats in his blanket with his knees drawn up to his chest, his maimed eyelids twitching, his pale stoned head host to a s.h.i.+fting slideshow of horrors not seen on CNN. Not seen on FOX. Babar crushed against his armpit where elephants can't forget.

He can hear sh.e.l.ls falling three miles to the west, a dull simple rhythmic barrage he's come to regard as an unlikely comfort in this alien land. He's not supposed to be here. Not in this country and not in this empty lot. He's slunk off to hide awhile, to sit with his back against a wall, his gun on his lap and his head tilted back in an uneventful corner of this ruined capital where he might find a little rest from the fight, the shrill finite stabbing in his temples, the grinding of his jaw, a built-in standard of confusion, the whole of his half-hearted liberating force getting nowhere quick.

They're building a Burger King here. See the signposts they drove into the ground. It boasts the name of the contractor awarded the job, 'Liberty Corp.: Working hand in hand with your community to build a brighter tomorrow'. A lean yellow dog runs from the shadows and rattles a paint can and it scares Black Jesus half to death. The slightest unexpected thing. The smallest crash nearby. A bottle breaking. Kids throwing stones. Maybe a Datsun backfires. All these things will make him gasp, make him shake, send the coldness up his back.

He's not supposed to be here. Not supposed to see what he saw.

'Mike London here with your 98.9 FM, The Hawk morning weather. Unseasonably cool today but sunny and clear in the higher elevations. Highs in the upper sixties. Not a cloud in the sky. I see a warm front moving up the coast from the Carolinas but we won't feel the effects of that till the weekend. More updates every hour, on the hour. Now it's time for On This Day as we take a quick ride down memory lane with some fun facts from the internet. It's the 11th day of August. So let's start this one off right. On this day in 1956, Elvis Presley releases 'Don't Be Cruel', h.e.l.l yeah. On this day in 1971, construction begins on the Louisiana Superdome. On this day in 1978, the world mourns the death of Pope Paul VI and legionnaires' disease bacteria was isolated in Atlanta, Georgia. On this day in 1866, the world's first roller rink opens in Newport, Rhode Island. On this day in 1991, s.p.a.ce shuttle Atlantis 9 lands back to earth. On this day in 1982, the US performs a nuclear test in the Nevada desert. On this day in 1976, Keith Moon, drummer for The Who, collapses and is hospitalized in Miami. On this day in 1980, the Yanks' Reggie Jackson hits his 400th home run. On this day in 1999, the Salt Lake City tornado tears through the downtown district killing one. And on this day in 1965, The Beatles movie Help opens in New York City. So I hasten to add that this day is as good as any to say something from the heart, in these tough times we could all use a little Help, so here you go Catskill region, and remember: I really appreciate you sticking round.'

'I lost my virginity to this song,' says Debbie White to a bewildered customer, an old lady in a platinum blonde wig who's come to declare that one of the antique rings for sale in Deb's jewelry case is indeed her wedding band and she wants it back.

'You gotta be kiddin' me,' Debbie tells her. 'I traded a pair of 180 Dolomite skis for that ring with a kid from up the mountain, musta been last November.'

'When Harold left me I didn't know what else to do,' says the woman. 'I was all alone with the kids and the bills piled up so I took it to a p.a.w.nbroker in Albany.'

'Ain't that a shame.'

'So quick bright things come to confusion,' says the woman, looking off in the distance.

'What the h.e.l.l's that supposed to mean?'

'It's Shakespeare, you dimwit. Harold was so fond of poetry. It's how he weaseled his way into my pantyhose.'

'That's funny, we got a Shakespeare's right down the street, and there you'll find comedy,' Deb takes a pause for dramatic effect, '. . . and tragedy.'

'And maybe a busted lip if you mouth off,' chimes in Lionel.

The octogenarian looks at the kid in the rocking chair, smiles a wry smile and says, 'Cupid is a knavish lad, thus to make poor females mad.'

'Okay lady, listen,' says Deb, 'I'll give you a ten per cent senior citizens discount. That's the best I can do.'