Episode 18
Ernie’s hand rests lightly on the staircase railing. A glacial age passes before he says, “Go on up. You can’t miss it.” He adds, “I think John might prefer a fierce game of pool.”
“You got that right.” John grins. “I’ll beat your— socks off.”
Ernie leads him down to the game room, their footfalls almost silent on the carpeted steps. I touch the railing where Ernie’s hand lay, and am puzzled by the dampness of a sweating palm. Anticipation to discover whatever he’s nervous about makes me run up the two short flights connected by a landing.
I can’t miss it because it takes up half the second story. Walls stretch away in a long rectangle at my left to a row of open windows. Morning sun. Old-fashioned sheer curtains billow in little breezes.
At this end, across from the entry, is a bathroom. Usual stuff. One set of unused towels on the rack. On the counter, a few used toiletries meant for a male. After relieving myself, I return to those windows. The roofed terrace and tables seem far below, and leafy woods block my view of anything beyond the brick wall.
There’s a leather swivel chair, worn to a comfortable shape and softness. Resting my head, I survey the desks and low bookcases on either side, book shelves and framed art and posters scattered above. Enough storage space for a dozen collections, starting with picture books and toy soldiers and moving through years of board games, school art projects and photo albums, videotapes and CDs and DVDs, novels and electronics, native artifacts and computer paraphernalia, textbooks and a telescope.
His bed is antique and huge, right next to the bathroom, and the matching six-drawer dresser is piled on top with small boxes and pottery. The only mirror is in the bathroom. The only clothes visible are jackets and caps on a coat tree. No strays under the bed, no dirties tossed in a corner. No old snack wrappers or cartons—not even in the trash basket. Is he this neat, or is there some paid maid? Mother is gone, so it’s not her.
Shutting my eyes, I imagine him coming in from school. He tosses down his books, grabs a baseball and glove, rushes to play with friends. Sits at that desk, his study lamp angled just right, doing his homework. Writing term papers. Listening to music, reading for enjoyment.
I imagine him younger, nine maybe. Fran’s only seven, pestering him to play dolls. He refuses. Later, when she’s nine, she brings her book (what was the title? He told me. Dependable Fran) and being eleven, he flees, leaving her crying.
How would I have treated a younger sister? Probably the same. Girls in the foster homes were usually biting two-year-olds. I stayed out of their way. Older ones, but younger than me, carried around dolls not books, and were beneath my notice.
What I do notice is a framed photo among small trophies and a group of achievement medals pinned to a velvet-covered stand. Leaning close, I recognize Ernie beside a woman who must be his mom. They look alike, and happy. I don’t see any pictures of his father or sister. Feeling sneaky, I skim through the top photo album.
The house, the school, school friends. Cub Scout troop. Boy Scouts. Youth group. Even teachers. Arty shots of objects arranged like still life paintings. Trees, squirrels, an occasional dog. The same dog, a mutt. He had a dog. Maybe.
But no dad. No Fran. There are blank spaces where things have been taken out.
I remember my camera and unfinished film cartridge. Without a flash, the shots have to be made outside. I’ve skimmed the other two albums—more of the same—when I hear laughter downstairs, and then a single pair of footsteps coming up.
He’s flushed and sweaty, the smile still on his face.
“Who won?”
“Who do you think?”
“You let the old man win?”
“Of course. It’s only polite.”
He strips off shoes, pants, shirt—the same grungy outfit he’s worn since the campground bathhouse—and heads into the shower. I realize what’s been bothering me. Where’s the sauna? Jacuzzi? Oversize bath tub with rotating jets? Why doesn’t he use the air conditioning? I know his class of people live that way. Which piece of Ernie’s puzzle doesn’t fit?
Picking up his clothes from the floor, I’m startled when a handful of cartridges fall out of the shirt pocket. I wonder when he unloaded Hoodoo’s gun, and suspect it was long before I pulled the thing on John and said like a dork, “Blink.”
I shove the bullets back into the pocket and glance around for something to be doing when he finishes. Not meddling in desk drawers. Not lounging on the bed, wrinkling the bedspread. Ah. A two-inch-thick school project notebook. Criminal Justice, pages and pages of neat notes with dates, and research papers based on case files. My heart flips a few times. Crazy thoughts bang around in my brain.
He’s an undercover FBI agent, older than he looks, gathering evidence on John. Or, he’s working for East Wind and any minute now O’Leary will walk in and slap cuffs on me. The house is really headquarters for a detective agency, not his home at all, and this room is his office. Then sanity returns. I once wrote a school project on string theory, go figure.
One of the cases is Frank Logan, AKA ‘Hoodoo.’ And I thought Jerry was a wacko.
Ernie comes out of the bathroom in a towel and raids the dresser for clean briefs, socks, and tee shirt. “You have time for a shower, if you want. Lunch won’t be ready for another forty minutes.”
While I’m making myself presentable, I can hear another shower on the other side of this wall and figure John’s rousing game of pool has left him in a mellow mood. Not enough to sing, but relaxed enough to get naked in a strange rich man’s home.
Ernie gives me a button-down-collar shirt from the back of his closet, and a pair of jeans somebody has ironed. He’s comfortable in his preppy mode, loafers on his feet, wet hair slicked behind his ears. I wonder if John was willing to put on Ernie’s father’s clothes.
When we meet him at the glass patio doors, I see that he was. Knit shirt and pleat-front pants. We’re a real trio, sauntering to the terrace for a meal served under the vine-roofed picnic area.
There’s actually a maid with cloth napkins, silverware, pitchers of lemonade and iced tea, and dishes with silver dome covers. When she’s out of earshot, Ernie says, “It’s not what I wanted, but it’s what they had.”
John looks at the array of food, then at me. Now I understand why Ernie’s nervous. John’s voice my mind’s ear slams the coffee I’d made: ‘Tastes like the stuff fancy places serve in a thimble.’
We chow down on the best stuff I’ve ever eaten in my life. Except for a mixed green salad, I don’t know what half of it is, disguised in toppings and sauces, and the portions are small but satisfying. At last the dessert is recognizable. John and I both cry, “Junket!” And he adds, “Haven’t had that in years. My mom used to make it every Friday night.”
Ernie shrinks into an invisible shell, clearly dreading his guest’s first taste.
Eyes on his dish, John admits, “This is better.” And Ernie breathes again.
I haven’t had this, ever. East Wind cooks don’t make theirs from scratch. It’s strawberry, and I’m considering asking for seconds when the maid brings a fancy coffee pot and cups, along with a chocolate fudge cake with whipped cream, and something between the layers tastes like rum raisin ice cream. The coffee’s strong, but mellow.
John cleans his plate without a word. Until the maid returns and says, “Chef would like to know what drinks you’ll be wanting.”
Drinks? I’m floating now. John holds his tongue until Ernie tells her, “I think lime margaritas would suit everyone,” and she’s gone inside. Then he spits out one: “Chef!?”
Ernie shrugs. “I don’t sign his paycheck. Don’t blame me.”
A young man in a white shirt and black trousers brings another cart and clears the table. The maid returns and places cloth doilies, a larger one in the middle for the big pitcher. Sets frosted glasses, bowls on stems. Must hold two pints.
Lime is one of my favorite flavors, so the drink goes down way too fast. Though I’m already woozy, and hanging out with these two is bound to be bad for my liver, I fill the glass again. I wonder what Ernie’s Criminal Justice instructor would have to say about giving alcohol to a minor. Funny, when the blonde was involved, he was mean to her, yet he’s never objected to my drinking John’s beer and he’s okay with whatever is in a margarita.
Free, I think. Under the vine-covered structure Ernie calls a pergola, it’s quiet and shady. The angle of the sun arches over, and he says, “Anybody for tennis? Or will it be a nap?”
John seems to want to say a few things, but presses his lips together. I know he’s thinking about the Caddy, not sure what to do about it. Or even what he wants to do about it. “Nap,” he says. “Then you guys can entertain me with a tennis match. It ought to be worth watching.”
We leave the dessert dishes, assorted glasses and cups, coffee pot and empty pitcher for the maid. At the bottom of the stairs, Ernie tells me, “I’ll be down the hall there if you need me.”
He walks the length of the corridor and enters a room at the end. Something tells me, it’s his mom’s room, and he wants to be alone.
Behind me, John leans close, says, “So what’s your story?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you two aren’t brothers. He told me all about this Hoodoo character his sister ran off with, but not a damn word about you.”
“I hitched a ride with them a few days ago, and kinda like life on the road.” I try to stare him down, but when the corners of his mouth twitch in a losing battle with a grin, I look across the emerald lawn to the scrolly gate and think about Jerry’s losing battle with the grass at East Wind.
John reads my mind. “I ran away once.” He sobers. “Twice.”
“Bet the first time was a lot more fun.”
“Yeah.” He taps a cigarette out of the pack. Thumbs open a matchbook. Pauses. “Vinnie, people this rich don’t get that way honestly.”
I’m stymied. To me, John’s no longer poor, but there’s a neat explanation for the source of his money. “I don’t care. Ernie’s not responsible for what his folks do.”
I suspect that he feels he is. The Golden Boy. I bet he’s got all twelve report cards in a drawer, straight A’s. Awards, medals, probably newspaper articles. Big trust fund which caused all the anger. When Ernie’s less nervous, when the three of us are toasting our toes on some beach, I’ll dig the whole story out of him.
I spend the nap time lying on his bed, reading one of his books, The Mills of God, by William H. Armstrong. Mostly I’m outraged, and hope the ending justifies all this torture. It does.
When we assemble again, Ernie says, “Tennis will have to wait. She’s ready.” By ’she’ he means the Caddy and I watch John for his reaction. His face is like a stone. Sunglasses and captain’s hat in place, Ernie jingles the keys. “You guys coming?”
We return to the boat, cruise to the docks, drive the ‘loaner’ car to the Starshine to pick up our stuff. After the mansion experience, the seediness of the motel hits me in the face like a fist. Stale pizza and chocolate milk cartons in the trashcan. Ratty carpet, streaked mirror, cardboard landscapes in plastic frames that remind me of the Morningbird. But I was happy here, for those few hours.
Ernie brings the extra rolls of toilet paper from the bathroom, and our eyes meet. “Free,” I say, and he smiles. “Come on, Mouse, let’s make John sweat.”
“You really get a kick out of teasing him, don’t you?”
Ernie locks the motel room. “Stay with him while I turn in the key.”
John’s already sitting in the car. I open the door. “Where’s your key.” John tosses it to me, I yell “Hey!” and toss it to Ernie. “Every dollar counts.”
Ernie drives us along a new route, so twisty I’m sure he’s doing it to tantalize John. Saturday, not much work traffic but people running to and fro just the same. We pass through every kind of area from trendy shops to unbelievable shacks with small children playing in the yards.
Finally we arrive at what looks like a car dealership, body shop, storage building, parking garage complex. Ernie doesn’t let the ‘closed’ signs on the doors stop him. He drives around to the back and cuts the motor. “Knock three times,” he jokes, and we all get out.
He’s not joking. A man in coveralls answers his coded summons by raising a metal door and letting us into a facility with at least ten bays. It’s cleaner than I expected, though the smell of hot oil, fresh paint, and stuff I can’t name fills the air.
John’s eyes gleam at the sight of vintage and foreign cars on racks or lined up to be driven away. For the moment, he’s distracted from the purpose of our trip. Then another man in a suit leaves an office, shakes Ernie’s hand, says, “They’re bringing her now.”
When we see the Caddy roll into view, my spit dries up so I couldn’t speak if I tried. Black, just like Ernie promised. He’s watching John like an eagle zeroing in on a rabbit. His eyes gleam, too, and he’s tensed to fight—or run.
John’s stony face melts in anguish and I expect to hear heart-rending wailing rip from his throat as he grabs Ernie and cracks his head against the concrete floor before any of the men here can stop him. He’s trembling all over, his gaze riveted on the Caddy coming slowly towards us.
TO BE CONTINUED!