Strings Attached (4 page)

The bus hit a snag of traffic outside Bakersfield at the base of the Grapevine, so from his window all he saw were brake lights blinking in the darkness. His anxiety had mounted with each minute that crept past their scheduled arrival time of 8:05 p.m., culminating in a state of full-fledged terror as he glanced at the black plastic watch on the wrist of the sleeping army guy in the row in front of him. It read 9:17.

Would his aunt and uncle have waited for him? What would he do if he were stranded? Who would he call? Where would he stay?

He felt like throwing up.

Try to think positive thoughts,
the school counselor had once suggested, after following up on a referral issued by one of his teachers upon noting how anxious the boy looked. Then he added,
Picture good things happening to you,
and sent him back to American Lit. Such was his over-the-counter remedy for Jeremy’s jumpy demeanor.

Well, OK then.

He couldn’t, for the life of him, place himself in any sort of lavish scenario, and neither could he imagine what his aunt and uncle looked like, so he gave up trying. But he’d seen plenty of movies about rich people. Did they have a stuffy English butler who carried things on big metal trays? How many Rolls-Royces did they own? And what about racehorses? Did they have any, and if so were they named Luck’s Wicked Girly or Favorite Blue Ladybug?

How big was their private jet?

He’d seen fancy Las Vegas hotels on TV with Roman statues and tropical waterfall swimming pools. Is that what their house looked like? He hoped they had a pool; he’d been on the swim team for the past few years and discovered that he loved it. All rich people had pools, he told himself.

Finally, something to look forward to!

At the top of the Grapevine, the traffic cleared and his anxiety diminished as the road descended. At a quarter to ten they exited the freeway and a few minutes later pulled into the driveway of the bus depot in Van Nuys.

After the vehicle stopped, he lifted his duffel from the overhead net and took his place behind the line of passengers shuffling toward the door. Once outside, he watched the people greeting their families or being swallowed by taxis, and within minutes the parking lot was deserted except for a few cars, including a dirty gold Camry, a beat-up BMW, and an old Ford van.

No Rolls-Royces.

Maybe his aunt and uncle had come and gone already. Or maybe she’d forgotten, or this was the wrong stop.

He wasn’t used to relying on adults.

What should he do?

He entered the depot and looked around. No rich ladies here, but no creepy old men either. He’d better find out if any message had been left for him, so he made his way across the gum-pocked linoleum floor toward the ticket booth against the far wall. Inside, as if on display, sat an ancient woman sporting a jet-black wig. She was still as a corpse.

As he approached, she looked up from her magazine but said nothing.

“Yeah, someone was supposed to pick me up, and they’re not here,” Jeremy told her. “I was wondering if anyone came by already and left before the bus pulled in. A nice-looking lady and her husband?”

“Couldn’t tell ya. Just came on at nine myself,” she replied. “But we’re open ’til 2 a.m., so you can wait around ’til then.” Her attention returned to an article about Mariah Carey. “Phone’s over there, next to them chairs.” She pointed without looking up.

“Thanks.”

He was making his way toward the row of chairs when he noticed a snow-white Jaguar glide into the driveway of the station and then pull underneath the portico next to the lobby. As it got closer, he saw that the driver was a well-dressed middle-aged woman, and the passenger an older, grandfatherly man. The sight filled him with both intense relief and anxiety.

He hoisted his duffel from the floor and then pushed the glass door open.

The driver’s door swung wide, and she got out. “Jeremy?” The woman held out her arms. “Is it really you?”

Her voice was pleasant, with an elegant accent.

He had no recollection whatsoever of this woman. “Aunt Katharine?”

He went to her, and they embraced briefly.

“Oh, it is
wonderful
to see you again!” She beamed, studying him from head to foot, her face unreadable—until she grimaced at the sight of his shoes. “You are…” her throat caught, and she cleared it “…the very image of your father when he was your age. Isn’t he, dear?” She glanced at her husband.

“He is.” The older man nodded from the passenger seat.

“Jeremy, please put your things in the trunk. Bill, do help him.”

The man got out of the car and then made his way toward Jeremy. “Bill Mortson.” He held out his hand and made a smile, in spite of his nonexistent lips. “Call me Uncle Bill, just like your father used to.”

Jeremy shook his hand. “Hi, Uncle Bill.”

The trunk popped open.

He examined the attractive, delicate woman in front of him and guessed that she was in her late fifties or early sixties. She wore a beige suit and tortoiseshell glasses, and her reddish-blonde hair was cut in a simple fashion that stopped just above the shoulders. She wore very little makeup and had a curious lack of lines on her face. She looked even younger than his own mother, but then so did anyone under ninety.

“I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t remember either of you,” the boy stammered.

“Of course not, dear. You’ve been kept so far from us since your father’s accident. But here you are again. I must tell you that I’m so excited to have you staying with us!”

“Yeah, thanks for taking me in.” He looked from one to the other. “I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh, nonsense! There’s just Bill and I rambling around that big house together. We’re both so glad to have one of those extra bedrooms put to good use. Have you eaten?”

“Not since Bakersfield,” Jeremy replied, trying not to think of Mr. Stygian.

“Then get in and let’s get you some dinner.”

He threw his bag into the trunk and slid himself into the Jaguar’s sumptuous backseat. The smell reminded him of an expensive shoe store he used to pass in the Fresno mall.

“My, it’s late,” Katharine stated after starting the motor and glancing at the clock on the dash, while the interior lights dimmed like the house lights in a theater, extinguishing the sight of the saddle-colored leather and gleaming wood. “There are fast-food places open, but I’d prefer you eat something more nourishing. We’re still about an hour from the house. Could you wait until then?”

“Sure.” He was used to going days without decent meals. What was another hour?

“Wonderful! Bill, will you please call ahead and have Arthur order something for him?”

“Of course,” the man replied. He snatched a cell phone from the console and made the call.

Who was Arthur?

“What would you like to eat, Jeremy dear?” She notched the gearshift into reverse.

He pictured his favorite meal: a steaming bowl of macaroni and cheese, the cheap kind that came in a box. But that seemed completely pathetic, so he said the next thing that came to mind: “I don’t know. Pizza?”

“Tell Arthur pizza, but without pepperoni, plenty of vegetables.” She threw the transmission into drive and hit the gas.

“Pizza, but no pepperoni, plenty of vegetables,” Bill echoed into the phone, then snapped it shut.

For the rest of the trip Bill was silent, while Katharine generated a stream of questions about Jeremy’s life in Fresno: his likes and dislikes, his friends, his academic strengths and weaknesses, his mother’s condition prior to being hospitalized, and so on. Which sports did he like? She expressed delight at his enthusiasm for swimming. What did he wish to study in college? Most of his responses were monosyllabic, due to the fact that she made him nervous and he was starting to feel carsick.

Really carsick. His head was throbbing, and his stomach had begun to flip-flop. Jeremy imagined his M&M-speckled vomit splattering the immaculate leather in front of him.

After switching freeways and directions a few times, they headed west over a treacherous mountain pass, with Aunt Katharine chattering constantly as the heavy car glided and heaved in the dark atop the curving asphalt, seemingly oblivious to the jutting mountain boulders to the right and the speeding oncoming headlights and abyss to their left. His aunt’s manner of driving on this road indicated to Jeremy that either she knew this strip of road really well or she was nuts. Or maybe bad driving just ran in the family.

She threaded the car through a tunnel bored straight through the mountainside, and finally the road began to dip and straighten toward the base of the hills. He made out a dim strip of twinkling lights winding along an edge of glassy blackness that he figured to be the ocean.

“This is so much prettier during the day, Jeremy. I’ll take you around tomorrow and show you around town. We’ll go shopping, have lunch at Jeffrey’s. How does that sound?” she asked.

“Terrific. Great.” He was seeing spots.

They came to the stoplight at Pacific Coast Highway, turned right, then headed north past the miles of rolling lawn at Pepperdine University. Eventually the car made a left and then crawled along a narrow street that descended as it approached the ocean, past an assortment of gargantuan homes in varying architectural styles with artfully lit gardens and glowing windows. Katharine motored open the sunroof, filling the car’s interior with the ripe tang of sea air. At the end of the cul-de-sac, the Jaguar’s headlights flashed upon a looming, cursively intricate black wrought-iron fence supported by hefty adobe walls that ran interminably in each direction, over which cascades of scarlet and tangerine bougainvillea billowed in the night sea breeze. She tapped a button on the dash, and the gates swung open majestically, revealing a cobblestone drive encircling a carved stone fountain, and beyond that an immense tile-roofed villa surrounded by orange trees and rose gardens and carved topiaries.

The effect was more like pictures Jeremy had seen of a grand European hotel than someone’s house. He nearly expected to hear trumpets blasting a short, regal tune at their arrival.

“Home at last,” she announced, wheeling the car past the fountain and down the side driveway lined on both sides with up-lit palm trees.

“Jesus, this is one beautiful house,” Jeremy said as they pulled into the garage, estimating that the parking garage and its adjoining guesthouse were nearly as large as the apartment complex that had been his home in Fresno just this morning. With delight, he spied the gleaming black Range Rover 4.6 HSE and the platinum Bentley Continental parked in wide adjoining stalls.

“Thank you for saying so,” she said. “It’s exciting for us to see it through someone else’s eyes from time to time. I’m afraid one becomes numb to its beauty after a while.”

Living with my mother in Fresno for a week would slap you out of your numbness…

As the three exited the car and Jeremy went to the trunk to retrieve his bag, he saw a door open, and the light from inside revealed the silhouette of a strongly built man.

Arthur?

The man grinned at him as he made his way up the steps of the house with his duffel over his shoulder. “Here, let me take that,” he said, as he took the burden from Jeremy.

“I’m Arthur Blauefee,” he said. “Welcome home.”

“Hi,” was all the boy could think to say. Relieved of his bag, yet still heavy with fatigue, Jeremy lurched through the doorway then froze. There was no way he belonged here, no way he would ever feel comfortable enough in this palace to have it feel like home.
Home
meant chaos and a Dumpster ten feet from the front door.

“Come in, dear.” Katharine waved him in from the back entry into the kitchen as Bill brushed past them. “Mr. Blauefee takes excellent care of us, so if there’s anything you should need, please see him.”

“Call me Arthur.” He smiled and nodded, and the boy nodded back. “The pizza place was closed, so I had to whip up something strange and exotic,” he said with a wink. “Mac and cheese, a salad, and some garlic bread, choice of beverage. Have a seat, and the waiter will be with you shortly.” He motioned to a barstool.

Jeremy hesitated, complied, and cocked his head.

How had Arthur known?

He looked around and saw that over his head hung an iron rack as big as a king-size bed, from which dozens of gray metal pans and copper pots dangled between ropes of garlic and dried plants he didn’t know the names of. To his right, a vaultlike refrigerator stood beside twin restaurant-size ovens, and at the far end of the room was a fireplace so immense he figured he could walk inside it and stand up. The opening was topped with a thick wooden mantel, above which hung a gloomy painting of a whale harpooned by a sailing ship that seemed about to smash upon the rocks. And to his left, there was a series of plate-glass windows so large that the moonlit ocean beyond loomed as if projected on a drive-in theater screen.

As he scanned the room, he caught a glimpse of his reflected self in the glass and realized he looked like a runaway getting a charity meal in some fancy restaurant. He looked down, checking to see if he’d tracked in dirt.

“We’re going to the salon tomorrow, dear boy. First thing,” his aunt announced. Their eyes locked and he nodded. Had she read his mind?

“I think a crew cut would work,” Arthur suggested, sliding a plate of steaming food under his nose. “Very Bruce Weber.”

“Very who?” Jeremy snatched his fork and dug in, the first bite scalding the roof of his mouth.

“Never mind,” Arthur chuckled, leaning against the bar. “Careful, it’s hot.”

In spite of his nervousness, it took him only a few minutes to shovel through his meal, which he barely tasted due to the screaming in his head to take smaller bites and chew with his mouth closed and use his napkin. In the meantime, Arthur attended to his kitchen duties while Katharine scrutinized her great-nephew’s table manners from across the room with narrowed eyes, like an anthropologist might have.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

Jeremy blinked up at her. Wasn’t it obvious? His plate was scraped clean.

“Would you like some more?” she offered.

“No thanks,” he replied, wanting more.

“Then come. I’ll show you the grounds. It’s a lovely evening.” She held out her hand, and he jumped from the barstool. Together they stepped out of the kitchen onto an immense patio.

It does look like a hotel,
Jeremy thought again, noting the white-cushioned chaises arranged around the huge rectangular pool that bathed the area in flickering turquoise light, as well as the clusters of tables and chairs with their white canvas umbrellas flapping in the breeze.

“The house was modeled after the Villa de Flores in S’Agaro on the Costa Brava in Spain, where Bill and I spent our honeymoon,” she said, hooking her arm through his while gesticulating grandly with her free hand. “The original dates back to the late Renaissance, but ours was finished in 1963, which now makes it one of the older structures in Ballena Beach.”

They made their way to the edge of the patio to peer over the stone balustrade, where Jeremy saw that the house sat on a peninsula surrounded by a sheer drop on three sides to a shadowy beach below. On the western end of the compound, a jetty protruded away from the main property, upon which, high above the sea, a small, round wooden structure perched, appearing and then vanishing between puffs of fog.

“What’s that?”

“That’s the gazebo. Your parents were married there.”

Parents.
For so long it had just been himself and his mother, so it was strange to have himself referred to as part of a trio instead of the usual miserable pair. But he liked the reference. It sounded homey.

She continued with the tour, telling him how the waves could be illuminated at night by powerful beacons installed on the cliff’s edge, then walked them through the immense cross-shaped rose garden, which had been established with cuttings brought in from Tuscany. The drizzling fountain at its center was copied after one carved for Catherine de Medici.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” was all he could say.

“It is remarkable, yes,” she replied. “Your father loved this place dearly.” She paused for a moment, her face frozen. Then her eyes met his. “My hope is that you grow to love it as much as Jonathan did. And that you never take it for granted, or become ‘numb,’ as I’d mentioned earlier.” She turned to him, and the careful smile vanished. “No matter what happens in the future to any of us, I don’t want you to forget that we are a very special and fortunate family.” She reached her hand to his face and pushed the hair from his eyes. Then she smiled. “You’re like him, you know. I can feel it in you, all that Tyler blood. I see it, too, in your eyes. Your father is inside you.”

Jeremy looked away.

“Oh, I’ve made you uncomfortable. Will you forgive me?” She broke out her smile again, then threaded her arm through his. “Now, where was I? Yes, well there had been an old termite-ridden Cape Cod on the site originally. It’d been built by my grandfather in the 1920s, but fire took it while your uncle and I were on our honeymoon. And when the old house perished, we couldn’t imagine being happy anywhere else, so we built this on the same spot. As I recall, we were notified of the fire during brunch at the villa, and by dinnertime we’d gone nearly crazy sketching measurements and taking photos all day. We’ve had some close calls through the years, with those dreadful El Niño storms and the fires in ’96. But somehow we’ve been spared.”

They turned around and climbed the steps back to the kitchen. Once they were inside, she touched him lightly on the wrist. “I should think you’d like to wash up and unpack your things—it’s been a very long day for you, I’m sure. After all, we have tomorrow to catch up and talk about your future.” She turned and leaned over to a small panel of numbers and blinking lights on the wall, then pressed a button. “Arthur, please come back to the kitchen for a moment,” she said. “Mr. Blauefee will see you to your room. I’m certain he’s set out everything you might need for the night. I’ll see you bright and early for breakfast, and then we can go into town for that haircut and some shopping.” She smiled brightly, smoothing his hair again from his eyes. “It’s so good to have you here, my dear. You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this day.”

“Thanks. I’m glad I’m here too.” He tried a smile.

“Wonderful then. Good night.” She made an about-face and left.

After she had gone, he, beckoned by the film of mac and cheese coating his mouth, stood before the refrigerator, tempted to yank the door open but afraid some shoplifting-type sirens would go off.

“I expect you’ll need a map for the first few days. To find your room, I mean.”

He spun around and found himself staring into Arthur’s broad grin.

“Oh, I was just…”

“Sit down. I’ll fix you a plate you can take to your room.”

“Thanks, Mr. Blauefee. Arthur.” While the man prepared the snack, Jeremy saw that initially, he’d misjudged the man to be in his thirties, but the silver specks in his army-style haircut and the friendly wrinkles fanning the corners of his eyes placed him comfortably into his next decade. But he was still quite handsome for an older man, with an angular jaw and the body of an athlete. And there was something nice about him, something that Jeremy couldn’t name, except that it made him feel somehow…teeny. And safe. Like instead of being a servant, he was the kind of guy you’d see in the park playing catch with his son.

A few minutes later, Arthur presented him with a cellophane-covered plate in one hand and a sports bottle full of milk in the other. Jeremy followed the man down a hallway to a narrow back staircase that wound upward in a tight spiral. Once they were at the top, he followed him down another hall to an open door.

“This one’s yours.” Arthur nodded, and they went in. “There are fresh towels in the bathroom there, along with every grooming product known to man.” He then crossed the room to a bank of shuttered doors, pulled open the nearest, and flooded the room with fresh air. “Your own patio is out here—you look pretty worn out, so I’ll show you how to work the alarm system and the intercom tomorrow. Just don’t open any of the exterior doors or go downstairs after midnight, which is when the motion sensors come on. If it gets too hot or cold, you can adjust the thermostat on the wall, or you can ring for me—just press one then three on the keypad.” He smiled. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No thanks.” Jeremy shook his head. “Oh…just one thing. If it’s not too much trouble, could you make sure I don’t sleep too late? I’m going out with my aunt kind of early.”

“I’ll wake you at seven, and in the meantime ring me if you need anything. Remember, lucky thirteen.”

“Great. Thanks.” How could he make this man go away? He couldn’t wait to be alone.

“No problem. Anything you need out of that duffel bag before I take it to the laundry?”

“That’s OK. I can do it myself. I’ve been doing the wash since I was little.”

“Hey, it’s what I’m here for, but suit yourself. I’ll show you where the machines are tomorrow. Call me if you need anything.”

“Lucky thirteen. I know.”

Arthur smiled, turned, and then pulled the door shut behind him.

Jeremy looked around.

His quarters were about the same size as the old apartment back in Fresno, with a main area furnished with a fancy queen-size bed, a prissy-looking sofa and two matching club chairs, a fussy desk and chair that looked like it would break under his weight, and an old carved wardrobe encrusted with beveled mirrors. Every fabric in the room was the same guacamole-green, the walls were painted butter yellow, and the trim and woodwork gleamed white. A bouquet of fresh sunflowers drooped their heads from a crystal vase on a marble stand between the two pairs of French doors leading to his own terrace and a pair of luxuriously padded chaises. And beyond that stretched the Pacific, as well as the faraway sparkle of other rich folks’ homes hugging the coastline.

After finishing his leftovers, Jeremy kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the bed, his nose aimed at the chandelier. He lay that way for some time wondering why, in this fantastic place, he felt so sad and even scared, like he’d just been shipped off to battle.

And then it hit him.

From now on, every aspect of his life would need to pass a very rigorous inspection based on a code he knew little of: his grades, his manners, his clothes, his grooming, how he spoke, even his friends, if he ever made any. And every choice would now be made for him months, even years, in advance. But what terrified him most was the realization that he was now expected to be, by Tyler standards,
successful.
Valedictorian, Class President, Dude-Most-Likely-to-Succeed.

So he
had
been shipped off to war, only this was the battlefield of manhood and he was armed with a squirt gun.

What would he do when, inevitably, he failed?

He closed his eyes and made a wish.

I guess I should write that down.

He found a pen in the nightstand drawer, dug his journal out of the duffel, and cracked it open.

A few minutes later, he closed the cover, having found the courage to scrawl, with pessimistic fingers, his most secret wish on the blank page. He got up and stuffed the book far in between the mattress and box spring, went over and locked the patio doors, turned off the lights, then lay on top of the comforter facedown.

An hour or so later, he reached the conclusion that he couldn’t sleep.

He got up and went to the duffel bag, pulled out his pillow, and threw it on the bed. He buried his nose in it. It stunk like home.

He slept.