Blown Away (21 page)

Chicago
July 1978

“Home already?” Alice Kepp asked. Her football-crazy son insisted on staying an hour after every practice to correct any weaknesses his Summer League coaches noticed. “How did it go?”

“OK.”

“OK,” she grunted in affectionate mimic. “There's pop in the fridge. Leftover cherry pie, too, if you can't wait till supper.”

Brady shook his head. “I'm not hungry.”

Alice looked up from the roaster chicken she was flouring. Her thirteen-year-old son was so big and hardworking on the field that college scouts were already chatting up Dwight about scholarships. Brady was always ravenous! “Are you all right, honey?” she said.

No answer.

“Please tell me,” Alice urged, wiping her hands on the hen-and-chicks apron around her waist. Brady hardly ever confided in her, preferring his father's “man-to-man” counsel. But Dwight wouldn't be home till midnight. He was flying back from Los Angeles after firing a manager caught diverting policy premiums into some bizarre investment scheme involving computers the size of bread boxes. And the Defense Department and “Net” hookups and all kinds of crazy things that sounded like science fiction to her. “You look sad. Maybe I can help.”

“Well…” Brady hesitated, then plunged ahead. “There's this girl at school, Mom. I've been thinking about her all summer. She's really neat, and I'm pretty sure she likes me.”

“Well, she should! You're a wonderful boy!”

“Aw, geez, Mom,” he said, embarrassed.

Alice patted his cheek with great affection. “I take it you like her, too?”

Brady nodded, face alight with a joy Alice hadn't seen since he was little.
My boy likes a girl! And she likes him! Finally!
He'd never shown much interest, alarming Dwight so much, he'd dragged the boy to a poker game at the VFW, forcing him to stay for the stag film afterwards. Thank God she could report Brady was all-American!

“I'm thinking of asking her to the homecoming dance in September,” Brady continued. He'd never mentioned Valentine's Day, telling his parents instead that his black eyes and split lip came from “clobbering three guys for calling me a sissy.” Which made Father so happy, he'd solicited Brady's advice on which model aircraft “they” should build next. “I think she'll say yes.”

“That's great, honey,” Alice enthused. “So what's the problem?”

“Father won't approve,” he said, staring at the kitchen table.

Alice abandoned the chicken to rub her son's shoulders. “Of course, he will, darling,” she cooed. Brady was hard as nails emotionally, made that way by a hammering father who insisted “my boy can't show weakness—or even feel it. The predators will smell it and eat him alive.” Occasionally, though, Brady showed the briefest flash of a normal child's love and compassion. Which, she believed, came from her. “Your father will be so pleased you want to ask a girl to a dance,” she said. “Who is the lucky lass?”

He looked up. “Emily Thompson.”

 

“Colonel Mustard, in the library, with a dagger?” Emily tried.

“Wrong!” Alexandra cackled. “Which means I win! Bwa-ha-ha!” She loved daughter and hubby to distraction but was happy to whip their fannies at game time. Games brought out her competitive streak, and Emily had gotten so sharp over the years, she was practically unbeatable.

“Aw…shoot,” Emily grumbled, just catching herself. Daddy smirked, and she kicked him under the table, making it wobble so much the game pieces slid around like tiny hockey pucks.

 

Oh, no.
Emily was that pretty young pitcher whose parents objected when Dwight razzed that umpire. Her husband's face pinched like a crab claw every time he brought up Mr. Thompson's name, which was at least once a week, even after all these years. “Why do you say that, Brady?” she asked, not knowing what Dwight had told him. “Why wouldn't your father approve of your seeing Emily?”

“He ordered me to stay away from her, Mom,” Brady said. “After that softball game with Our Lady. I can't even talk to her at school. He said Emily and her parents are jealous of our success. That they're blue-collar trash and they want to make big trouble for our family.”

Not knowing what Brady meant, she asked, “What did the Thompsons do—”

“I don't believe it, Mom! Emily's great!” Brady interrupted, frustration pouring out. “She's supersmart and plays baseball as good as I do. She's beautiful. And she doesn't take crap from anyone, not anyone. She keeps trying to talk to me, Mom. Even after I ignore her and treat her like garbage. Why can't I talk to her, maybe help her with math or something? Why won't Father let me ask her to the dance? It's not fair!”

 

“
Kojak's
on!” Emily squealed, prompting the fast break from the game table to the TV set. Mama darted to the kitchen for the ice cream, Daddy tuned the channel, and Emily pushed Mama's rocker next to Daddy's chair. Mama passed out bowls of French vanilla as Emily plopped onto the shag carpet, sitting up against Daddy's shins. She was too old to sit on his lap—“Those sharp elbows just poke me to death,” he teased—and this was the next best thing. They spooned in unison as the theme song played. “Ahhhh,” Daddy moaned after the first swallow. “I'm telling you, ladies, the French do everything right! Maybe we'll fly there when Emily graduates college. I'll show you my D-day beach and all the places I visited after I personally plucked out Hitler's mustache.”

“Oui, oui, monsieur,” Mama said, rubbing his thigh. “And we'll find those French doctors who kept you alive after being shot. I want to thank them for all the years we've had.”

“Shhhh!” Emily shushed. “Kojak's gonna say it…now!”

“Who loves ya, baby?” they shouted in unison.

 

Alice fumed as Brady turned to hide embarrassed tears. Why should her boy have to worry about the simple act of asking a girl to a school dance? Why should he have to worry about anything at age thirteen?
And why, in fact, should I?
As Dwight's career stalled, thanks to that investment scandal in L.A., the “corrections” of his family were getting worse. After he locked Brady in a closet for an entire weekend, she'd said she wanted the family to seek professional counseling to learn how to not anger Dwight so much. Instead, she couldn't leave the house for a week lest neighbors notice the staggering gait that came from her kidneys being punched till she threw up. Thanks to his high income, winning personality, and soundproof root cellar, everyone believed Dwight was a fine, upstanding family man who doted on his son and wife. Which he did, actually, in between “punishing” and “correcting” and “guiding to greatness.” He was handsome and articulate, with a keen eye for clothes, cars, and artwork. He was a stallion in bed and didn't fool around on the side as far as she knew. Professionally unstoppable until the scandal, he provided a beautiful home in a safe neighborhood, with all the modern conveniences a wife could want. He never forbade her girlfriends from visiting and was garrulous even to strangers, greeting them as “friends I haven't met yet.” More than one wife had confided to her during a coffee klatch that they'd kill for such a great husband.

But those were trappings, she'd finally come to realize, and they just weren't enough any more. Death or crippling shouldn't be the tax she paid for Dwight's love. Her best friend, Maggie, said she'd take them into her home in Wisconsin “for as long as it takes,” so food, clothing, and shelter were covered. She could get a job at a tourist boutique, work her way up, maybe attend night school and start her own business. She'd make it, no matter what. The real problem was Brady. He worshipped Dwight. Like a slave loves his cruel master perhaps, as Maggie so sourly put it, but that didn't mean it wasn't real.

As for Dwight, she had a pretty good idea how he'd react. Which is why she'd decided to flee while he was out of town. Maggie would arrive any minute from Lake Geneva, they'd throw in the suitcases she'd already packed, and their new life would begin. If losing his family jarred Dwight into seeking help, maybe one day they could return. Despite his abusive ways, she still loved him, and Brady still needed a father. But she couldn't keep assuming their son wouldn't die in one of Dwight's frenzies. Accidentally, of course, but that wouldn't make the ground less cold or the darkness less eternal. She owed her child this chance to keep living.

“Honey,” she said, stroking her boy's butter blond curls. “I've got some fun news. Aunt Maggie called while you were at practice. She wants us to come visit. Would you like that?”

“Sure!” he said, brightening. “Aunt” Maggie was his overwhelming favorite of Mom's friends. He loved the hills, forests, and endless blue water of her home in Lake Geneva, where he could swim, fish, and hunt to his heart's content. “With that rifle Father bought me for my birthday, I could shoot enough rabbits to feed us for a week,” he said. “Could we stay that long?”

“Maybe even longer,” Alice said, smiling. “And honey, we can leave right now….”

 

“Holy cannoli!” Gerald barked. “That's the ugliest Mr. Potato Head I've ever seen!”

Emily held up her gnarled, sprouting creation. “It looks like Father Snowe!”

“Now, Emily,” Alexandra admonished as she scooped more ice cream into the bowls. “You shouldn't say mean things about people.”

“Even if it's true?” Gerald asked.

“Truth is entirely beside the point, dear,” Alexandra said, squishing a glob of French vanilla on his ski-slope nose. He crossed his eyes like Crazy Guggenheim, trying to lick it with his tongue, making Emily fall off her chair giggling.

 

“Finally,” Dwight grumbled as the baggage carousel rumbled to life. “The one time I catch an early flight, the luggage takes forever.” He grabbed his blue Samsonite, walked outside to hail a taxi, headed for the Southwest Side.

 

“No way! We can't leave Father!” Brady said, shocked at what Mom said when he asked why she'd packed so many suitcases. “He loves us. We love him!”

“That's true, darling,” Alice said. “But we're not leaving your father. We've giving him time to deal with his problems.”

“He doesn't have any problems!”

“Yes, he does,” she said. “He beats us senseless when he's angry. Makes you do push-ups till you vomit, then punches you for dirtying the floor. He burned your foot with that cigarette—”

“I deserved that, Mom! I didn't run fast enough to make the catch! I lost us the championship—”

“And he forces you into that little closet. Wrapped in your own wet sheets. Remember that?”

Brady's shudder made her pray Maggie didn't get a flat tire. “He'll beat you so badly one of these days, you won't recover. You wouldn't be able to play football or go to college. You might not even be able to walk.”

“Father would never do that!” Brady howled, springing from the chair. “Never! We're his family!”

 

The Yellow Cab turned onto Dwight's well-lighted street. “Hey, Mr. Kepp, didja run into any of them Hollywood starlets on your trip?” the cabbie inquired.

“I sure did, friend,” Dwight said. “There were several at the dinner party the L.A. boys threw for me last night. Liz Taylor even stopped by.”

“Hoo-wee!” the cabbie said, mightily impressed. “So didja…you know…get lucky?”

“Didn't try,” Dwight said, clapping the bony man's shoulder. “The only starlet I want lives right there in my house. I've been away from her and my boy much too long.” The cabbie pulled to the curb, retrieved the suitcase from the trunk, grinned at the huge tip. “Wow! Thanks!” he enthused. “Any time you need a ride, you ask for me personally, Mr. Kepp. I'll take real good care of you.”

Dwight nodded, then headed to the front door, suitcase in one hand, Chinese takeout in the other. He had the cabbie stop on the way. His family would celebrate tonight. He'd managed to convince Los Angeles prosecutors the firm had zero knowledge of the office manager's deceptions and should be held criminally blameless. That would put him back on the fast track. He'd also quietly put a chunk of his own savings into this midget-computer thing. If it worked out half as well as he thought it might, forget CEO—he'd own the damn company.

 

“Hey, remember that guy?” the senior Chicago cop asked his junior partner as Dwight disappeared into the white brick house. “Kepp?”

“Yeah,” junior said. “We rousted him for beating his kid? Three or four years ago?”

Senior nodded, jinking the cruiser around a pothole. “Guess it worked,” he said. “He's been a good boy ever since. Hope his son's doing OK.”

“I hope Mama's OK,” junior said, fondly recalling the lithe beauty of Kepp's wife.

“Don't let your old lady hear that,” senior laughed. “She's a pistol. She'll mount your pecker over the fireplace for sure!”

 

“Beautiful night for a walk,” Alexandra said, linking her arm through her husband's.

“You say that even when it's twenty below and I'm freezing my balls off.”

“But you love how I warm them afterwards,” Alexandra teased. Gerald winked, then pointed to the Kepp house, the turnaround point of tonight's meander. “Not a peep,” he said, nodding to the cops driving by. “Guess old man Kepp listened to me.”

Alexandra snuggled closer.

 

Emily washed the Jell-O bowls as her parents took their “constitutional.” She found herself thinking of Brady Kepp in his tight orange football uniform. Their little cold war had started thawing after she beat him up, and they'd come to like each other. She knew they'd never be boyfriend-girlfriend or anything—their parents' dislike made that impossible—but they might get away with going to homecoming together. If Brady didn't ask her by the first day of school, she'd bicycle over to his house and pop the question herself.