Strings Attached (11 page)

“Oh yeah?” He tapped his foot.

“Our family’s consumer software division is always running to stay ahead of the competition, of which there is aplenty.”

“I’ll bet,” he responded, wondering how long it was going to take for him to break the news that he’d be going back to Fresno.

“In any case, when things calm down a bit, I hope we can do something together as a family. Your aunt and I were never fortunate enough to have children of our own; the closest we came was having the privilege of raising your father, of whom I was extremely fond.” He paused here, and Jeremy figured his uncle might be expecting him to say something.

“I don’t remember him,” Jeremy said.

“Of course not. You were far too young.” He shook his head. “After your father’s tragic accident, my wife and I tried desperately to bring you back home, but to no avail. But you know this already.” He stood again. “What I am trying to say in my awkward fashion is that we, your aunt and I, are so very pleased to have you back with us again, at long last.”

“I hope I never have to leave,” Jeremy replied sourly.

“You’ve no idea how that makes me feel to hear you say that.” He smiled. “In any case, I won’t take up any more of your time, as I’m certain you’ve had a long, arduous day. But before you go, I want to give you something.”

He tottered over to a pair of closet doors, then pulled them open to reveal a storage room piled high with large boxes. “Come and get this, son. The one on the floor here.”

Jeremy sprang from the chair to where his uncle was bent over, feebly dragging backward a large carton from inside the doorway into the office itself.

“A computer!” Jeremy exclaimed. The box had been opened already, and he saw that a printer was inside, as well. “Thanks so much, Uncle Bill!”

“I expect you’ll need this for your studies. It’s a rather good starter machine, and when you’re ready, I’ll get you something faster. It’s heavy. Why don’t you let me ring for Arthur to help you take it to your room?” He reached for the intercom button on the wall.

“It’s OK, I got it.” He began sliding the box toward the door, knowing that he wasn’t yet up to fielding Arthur’s questions about his study session with Carlo. “I’ve never had my own computer before. I really appreciate this, Uncle Bill.”

“It’s my pleasure, young man,” he replied. “Incidentally, I’ve ordered the best man in my company to come by and configure your high-speed line while you’re at school. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be online with your own e-mail address.”

“I hope I can make this up to you somehow,” Jeremy offered enthusiastically, pushing the box along the carpet ahead of him toward the hallway. The door magically swung open for him.

“You can start by testing our new e-mail software that I’ve installed on that machine. It may have some glitches, so I want you to let me know just as soon as you have any problems. Will you do that?”

“Sure I will,” he replied over his shoulder. “I’m glad I can help out.”

“Good! You’re already speaking like a Tyler. Your aunt will be so proud.”

Jeremy stopped and stood facing him, holding out his hand. “And Uncle Bill? I really want to thank you for taking me in. I don’t know what I would’ve done otherwise.”

The man reached out and took the boy’s hand, grasped it, then pumped slowly. “Son, you have to understand something,” he began. “For the past seventeen years, it’s been my wish to do for you exactly what I did for your father.” Jeremy saw that although the man’s eyes were looking at him, he got the feeling they were seeing something from long ago, instead. “We just had to wait for the right opportunity to come along, and God bless us all, here it is.”

He’d nearly lugged the computer to the very top of the stairs when the phone in his room rang. It was nearly ten; who could be calling him at this hour? Had Carlo forgotten something, or was it Ellie or Reed about the party? With a final push, he hefted the box over the top few risers, then leapt through the doorway, snatching the handset as he belly flopped onto his bed.

“Hello?” he puffed.

“Jeremy Tyler?” He did not recognize the voice.

“Yeah?”

“Jeremy, it’s Mom. I need to talk to you about something important.” She didn’t sound drunk. Instead, her enunciated words were as careful and deliberate as a newscaster’s. And no baby voice, for once.

His body snapped upright as he whirled around and sat up on the edge of the bed. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked innocently, disguising his dread.

“How’s everything going there? And be honest with me.”

Why did she sound suspicious?

“It’s going great so far. I mean, it’s only been a few days. So how’re you doing in the hospital?”

And be honest with me.

“Same old bullshit rehab. It never changes. You’d think someone would be able to come up with something new by now. But that’s besides the point.” She began speaking so fast that her words rear-ended each other. “Listen, I can only make local calls here, and I can’t talk long because I’m on one of the nurse’s cell phones and she doesn’t know I’m using it. So I need for you to listen carefully to what I’m going to say.”

“Sure. I’m listening,” he sighed.

“Watch out for Bill. Don’t trust him for a second.”

“And what the fuck do you mean by that?”

“Don’t cuss at me, Jeremy. I mean he might try to do something bad to you,” she whispered. “Have they told you about the Tyler Trust yet?”

“Yes, Mom. Aunt Katharine just did,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me about it before? Our family has more money than God, and up ’til now I’ve been wearing the same shoes for three years…”

“It’s a long story, and I’ll explain—” she paused to take a drag on her cigarette “—the whole thing later. You’ve got to believe me when I say that Bill might try to get you out of the way, like he did your father.”

“You better slow down and explain exactly what you mean…” he was appalled that she would bring up his father’s death as part of whatever scheme she was working “…because Uncle Bill’s been
really, really
nice to me.” No wonder Arthur had overheard Katharine talking about restraining orders and attorneys!

“Of course he is. That’s how he works.” A deep rattling cough sent her into spasms. “Like Satan.”

“So now you’re trying to tell me he had something to do with Dad’s accident? That Uncle Bill murdered my father and suddenly, oh, by the way, I’m next?”

“I’m pretty sure he did, but I can’t prove anything yet.”

“And being the world’s best mom, you sent me away to a place where you felt there was a chance I could get murdered too?” he laughed bitterly. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I’m worried about you.”

She almost sounded convincing.

“Bullshit! You’ve never been worried about me!” he yelled, remembering the old joke:
How do you know if an alcoholic is lying? Her lips are moving.
“You’re trying to scare me into running to your side because someone at the hospital pissed you off and now you’ve had enough of this
bullshit rehab,
or you just saw a beer commercial and boy did it look good.” He stomped across the room toward the balcony. “Well you can stay there or leave or do whatever the hell you want because I’m not going anywhere.” His voice rose to a pitch he’d never heard come from himself. “You’re on your own,
Mother
!”

“Jeremy!” she hissed.
“Listen to me!”

“I’m never leaving this place, do you understand? This is my new home, and Aunt Katharine and Uncle Bill are my family.
They’re my new parents.
Something good has finally happened to me, and you’re not going to steal it from me again!” He felt his eyes brim with tears. “She told me how she fought you in court to keep me here and all you wanted was the money. You fucked my father to get pregnant, and then you only had me because of the money!” He began crying, his words now nearly incoherent. “Then he died! Isn’t his death and seventeen years of fucking up your son’s life enough for you?”

“I understand you’re angry, Jeremy,” she pleaded. He could hear the tears in her own voice—were they real? “It wasn’t like that! I’ll explain it all to you later if you’ll give me the chance. Just promise me you’ll watch out for yourself. Promise me, Jeremy!”

He heard a second voice yell through the earpiece. “Bitch, gimme back my phone!”

Sounds of scuffling, then dead air.

With a shaking hand, Jeremy hung up, his mother’s words spinning in his head. He fell face forward onto the bed, his body jerking with sobs as he buried his face in his pillow. What was happening to him? He’d never dared talk to her like that before! And only this afternoon he’d told Arthur that if she relapsed he would be the good son and tend to her. What if, after the way he acted, she never called him again, or his words caused her to go on another bender and she died? And then what would happen when he screwed up or failed his classes or
his serious character flaw
was discovered and Katharine and Bill wanted nothing to do with him?

Where would he go then?

With a heave, he pulled the leaden door open and then froze. The thunder of male voices, spraying water, and slamming metal blasting him from beyond the doorway made him want to flee; if he went farther, he’d be subjecting himself to the sharpened beak of the school’s pecking order. But he had to do this; it was his only chance. So he pictured the string going through the top of his head and lifted himself higher, then entered.

“Where’s the coach?” Jeremy asked a tall Asian boy who’d just slipped his shirt off.

“The cage.” He pointed absently, then unbuckled his belt. Jeremy made his way to the end of the locker room where a sunburned, crinkle-faced man with a whistle around his neck leaned against the doorway to a chain-link room. Jeremy saw him scrutinizing his clipboard, shaking his head.

“Coach?”

“Coach Tunny,” the man replied, not lifting his eyes.

“Coach Tunny, here’s my admission slip.” He offered the dog-eared paper to the man.

“What’s your game?” He punctuated his question with a gum snap.

“Two-hundred-meter backstroke, but I’m a little out of practice.”

“Best time?”

“Just under three.”

“Gotta suit?”

“Not yet.”

“Get one from the box over there, then meet the team poolside for drills.” He pointed with the clipboard at a box on the floor, then reached into a cubby and retrieved a strip of paper. “And here’s your locker combo.”

“Thanks, Coach Tunny.”

He raised his eyes finally. “Just ‘Coach,’” he mumbled.

Jeremy bent and fished through the assortment of spandex Speedos until he found a black one that appeared to be his size and then stretched it to the slim width of his hips.

Perfect.

After changing, Jeremy hugged his shoulders against the cold and tiptoed along the slippery cement toward the sounds of splashing water and the coach’s shrieking whistle.

The air outside was thick with chlorine; it scorched the lining of his nose and singed his eyes. The huge rectangular pool was furious with thrashing and kicking as the swimmers windmilled along the lanes with frantic arms. Watching them called up a memory of himself as a child, hooking his fingers through the chain-link at the swim park while watching the young men practice. Their grace had mesmerized him; he imagined them to be flying boys, skimming the water like geese before liftoff. So he’d been delighted when, at the age of eight, his mother had enrolled him in lessons so she wouldn’t have to look after him during the endless summer days while school was out. And he learned to love swimming. It was the one physical activity he excelled at naturally.

His stomach clenched. He probably had no business trying out for this team, as he hadn’t practiced at all since last season ended nearly four months ago.

“You!” The coach pointed at Jeremy. “Lane four!”

Although he executed the best start he knew how, he still hit the surface with too big a splash; he’d always had trouble with his start, and so instead relied on his long, strong stroke to make up time and distance. The shock of the frigid water tensed his body, but he knew the sensation would pass quickly. He flipped onto his back, then reached behind himself, first with his left arm then his right, and the top of his head pushed a wake like a breaching submarine headed toward the target mark at the opposite wall of the pool. He swam lazily at first, letting his muscles stretch and pull as they pumped themselves with rich, warm blood. After a lap and a half, his limbs resumed the rhythm and cadence of a swimmer at one with the water.

On his third lap, he spotted a boy, two lanes over, whose butterfly pace was only slightly quicker than his own backstroke. Jeremy deepened his breaths and began pulling his arms through the water with more force, the way he knew how to make them ache. His legs kicked mechanically, as if driven by a motor; he knew his speed came from concentrating on his arm strokes and breathing. Soon he was abreast of the other, and whoever it was had apparently taken notice of his competitor and was pulling ahead. Jeremy judged the other swimmer’s reach to be longer, but no more able than his own.

But this past summer, while Jeremy had lolled around watching talk shows in his mother’s smoke-filled apartment, the athlete in lane six had been training.
Hard.
His lead stretched to almost half a length by the start of the seventh lap, and by the time the coach’s whistle signaled the end of the practice, Jeremy was barely able to make it to the side of the pool and lift himself out. His arms and legs shook as he toweled himself vigorously from hair to ankles.

“Not bad, except for your start,” the coach growled. But the crooked grin on the man’s face told him what he’d hoped for.

“I’m just…out of…practice.”

“Well, even out of practice I could see you were giving Carson a run for his money. What was your name again, bud?” He took the pencil from behind his ear and poised it over the clipboard.

“Jeremy Tyler.”

“Knew another Tyler once, about twenty years ago.” The coach scribbled. “Johnny Tyler, fastest freestyler in the state; think his record still stands. You’re not a relation, are you?”

“He was my father,” Jeremy beamed.

The man’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “You’re jokin’!” He squinted at Jeremy, scanning him up and down. Then the hard creases around his eyes and scowling mouth softened, and he looked suddenly gentle, like someone’s grandfather. “Good God, you are his boy!” He clapped a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, nearly knocking him into the pool. “Where the hell you been hiding? We could use you!”

“I just moved here to my aunt and uncle’s.” He wrapped his sopping towel around his hunched shoulders and shivered, in spite of the sun cresting the ridge of hills to the east.

The coach turned to the troop of boys heading to the locker room. “Men! We’ve got the son of another celebrity on our team!”

They stopped and turned, and Jeremy saw Coby in the center of the group, his easy smile melting.

“Men, this is Jeremy Tyler, the son of Ballena Beach High’s ’86 State Champion Jonathan Tyler, a.k.a.
Tyler the Freestyler,
who was twice the swimmer you girls will ever be!”

The boys jeered and laughed, and a few lolled over to introduce themselves. The last to pass was Coby.

“Jeremy, this is Coby Carson, our star butterfly.”

“Yeah, we met already,” he responded coldly, ignoring Jeremy’s outstretched hand for the second time in two days.

“Hey, don’t be such a prima donna, Carson. He don’t know it yet, but if he’s anything like his father, his game’s gonna be the crawl for the 800 relay, so you don’t have to worry about him snatching your crown. Now shake hands. You’re gonna work together. He’s part of the team.”

Coby obeyed. “Good to have you, dude.”

Their hands pumped each other.

“Thanks.” A grateful smile split Jeremy’s face.

“Go hit the showers. Tyler, see me in the cage before you go.”

Steam filled the air like fog. Whoops and howls echoed, and the water streaming against tile sounded like a tropical downpour. As Jeremy made his way to his locker, he glanced sideways at the assemblage of young naked men, trying to ignore how each that he passed seemed more exquisitely muscled than the last.

Coby was peeling his suit down his thighs as Jeremy approached his own locker two over. He avoided looking at him by verifying the numbers on the slip of paper with those on the lock, even though he’d already memorized them.

“Hey,” Coby said.

“Hey.”

“So what’s your best time on the backstroke?” he asked, balling up his Speedo and throwing it in his locker.

“Just under three in the 200.”

“Cool. So your dad was really a state champ?”

“Yep. But I don’t remember his time offhand.”

“So where’s he now, some 300-pound attorney?”

“He died in a car accident right after I was born.” Saying the words had no effect on him anymore, like telling someone what time it was. He slid his own suit off.

“Bummer.”

They walked to the shower area, Coby in the lead. Jeremy slyly appraised the other’s sculpted ass as he strutted in front of him with a towel in one hand and soap in the other. They took side-by-side places at an empty pair of spigots in the middle of a bunch of sudsy guys.

“We train fuckin’ hard. Hope you can take it.” He stepped under a spray of water and threw back his head, the ricocheting droplets splattering Jeremy’s face. Jeremy, in the meantime, peered sideways from under his own steaming spigot, secretly studying the other’s physique.

Coby’s torso twisted and flexed, the bar of soap sudsing first his bulging shoulders, then the armored muscles of his chest, and next sliding in descending circles to lather his buckled stomach, then finally lingering over the crisp ridge where his abdomen tapered to join his tan-lined hips. His thighs glistened like wet marble in the streaming water, and wagging between them hung his hefty cock, swinging in opposition to the salacious movements of its master. He was statuesque and powerful, with limbs rigidly defined but not yet overbuilt, and skin so evenly bronzed and free from blemish it looked like miraculous plastic. Jeremy quickly concluded that in all his life he had never seen a more perfect human being—like an anatomically correct G.I. Joe come to life, but without the empty joints.

“Got soap?” Coby held the bar out to a squinting Jeremy.

“Thanks.” He took it and began rubbing himself quickly from neck to feet.

“Hey, did you say you were going to Ellie’s party tomorrow?” Coby rinsed himself, then stepped away from the showerhead and shook his head like a dog just out of the rain. He snatched his towel off the wall hook and rubbed it over himself, then tossed it on the floor. He turned and leered splendidly, throwing his naked beauty at the other.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, feeling exposed even under the protective cover of the spray.

“Then I’ll see ya there.” Coby strutted away between the banks of lockers and then disappeared.

Jeremy turned off the water, then dried himself, cinched the towel around his waist, and walked to the cage. He found Coach Tunny thumbing through a peeling three-ringed notebook, his feet tapping the air atop a junkyard-looking desk.

“Coach?” he asked from the chain-link doorway.

He looked up. “I need to weigh and measure you. Over there.” He motioned with his clipboard to an ancient scale in the corner. Jeremy dropped his towel and stepped up onto the cold metal platform while the coach adjusted the sliding weights.

He raised a bar and brought it down on Jeremy’s head. “Five-eleven and a half, 169.” He frowned. “You could slim down a bit, but I can see you’ve got some strong meat on your bones. If you shed about eight pounds, it’ll help you get further under two minutes, so long as you keep your muscle mass. So how long you been swimming competitively?”

“Since I was eleven.”

“Good. Here’s the deal: no smoking, no drinking, and absolutely no drugs. If I find out about you doing any of the above, you’re off the team. But if you train hard, quicken up that start a’ yours, and become one of my champs, I’ll see you go to any college you want. Deal?”

“Yes, Coach, sir.”

“Good man. Go dress.” He paused in mid head toss. “Wait a second, I think I got something you might like.”

Jeremy retrieved his towel and tucked it around his waist.

“Somewhere here…” he threw open, then slammed shut each of the desk drawers “…here it is, 1986 California State Champs. Your pop is the one in the middle wearing the medal. He won the relay for us.” He handed over a long, dog-eared photograph.

Jeremy looked. Even through the layer of dust, Jonathan’s dazzling grin jumped out from the rest, dead center in the back row of a dozen bare-chested swimmers squinting in the sunlight of twenty years past. He held the picture up closer and came to the conclusion that Katharine was right—his father had been stunningly handsome. He handed the photo back to the coach, afraid of somehow having his thoughts read.

“That there’s an extra, you know. We keep the others framed in the Main Hall of the Administration Office. You can have it if you like.”

Jeremy looked up. “Thanks a lot, Coach.”

“And Tyler? I just wanted you to know how much I liked your old man.” A sad smile creased the skin around his eyes. “He was quite a guy, one in a million, and like a son to me. I can remember hearing about his accident like it was yesterday, just like I’ll never forget that funeral. One of the biggest, saddest funerals I ever went to. They had to cut down the eulogies, there were so many broken-up folks. This whole town mourned for him. Everybody was crazy for him, ’specially your mom. By the way, how is she?”

“She’s not doing so good.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. She was one beautiful girl.” He gave a low whistle.

“So I’ve heard.” Jeremy shifted from foot to foot, wanting to get back to his locker. He didn’t want to be late again to Miss Irwin’s.

“I’ll bet if he were alive today, he’d be proud to call you his own.” His gray eyes held Jeremy’s, and the boy’s said
I don’t think so.

“You bet he would, son.” He rose from his chair and rested a leathery hand on his shoulder. “I can tell just by lookin’ at you that you’ve got natural ability and intelligence. The only thing we got to work on is your start and your stamina. You already got the moves.” He smiled and nodded reassuringly. “You’re built almost as strong as him, and if you lean up and train hard and get your start down, you’ll be the team’s anchor for the relay, just like him. But remember, the start is where the magic is. You got to picture yourself like a rock out of a slingshot. Pull baaaack…” he pantomimed with his hands “…then release. Instead, you’re pushin’ off; there’s a difference. Now how you gonna practice it?”

“Pull baaaack, then release. Like a rock from a slingshot.”

“Good boy! And one more thing.” He snatched the photograph out of Jeremy’s hands. “I changed my mind. You let me take this, and I’ll frame it and hang it here in honor of your pop.” He held it up against the chain-link, under a rusting sign stating
NO GIRLS ALLOWED.
“I’ll give it back at the end of the season, and in the meantime it’ll be a reminder for you to push yourself hard as you can, every day. Now go get dressed, bell’s gonna ring. Be here Monday, 6:30 sharp. And remember our deal.”