Strings Attached (5 page)

He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he rounded the corner of the kitchen and nearly bumped his aunt off her barstool, causing the teacup in her hand to splatter the skirt of her beige suit.

“Oh!” she said.

“
Shit!
Oh God, I’m sorry.” He blinked stupidly, waiting for her to scream at him, while at the same time amazed by how put together she looked for so early in the morning. Like the First Lady in a commercial for children’s literacy, only classier.

“
Shit,
indeed.” She examined first her skirt, then peered at him over the rims of her horn-rimmed glasses, her momentary irritation melting into amazement at how much, by the light of day, he resembled his father—in spite of that awful hair. Could it be that the boy was salvageable, in spite of that whore’s DNA?

“I trust you slept well?” She switched her attention back to the stocks page; the very sight of him reminded her of those awful dreams she used to have where Jonathan was suddenly here again, grinning and laughing and sublimely ignorant of the fact that he was dead.

“Uh-huh. Thanks.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

“You need to eat breakfast. Sit.” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward the stool opposite her and then arose. “Arthur prepared a meal for you, which I will have to reheat, because apparently you are a late riser. But I don’t mind.” Her lips made a thin smile. “You’re welcome to anything we have here. This is your home now—that is, so long as you leave the
yeahs
and
uh-huhs
and
oh shits
back in Fresno with your mother where they belong.” She made her way to the microwave and tapped some buttons, making the dish inside light up and spin. “Here we use perfect manners, Jeremy, especially when addressing each other. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“By the way, you’ll be starting school tomorrow at Ballena Beach High, so we’ve no time to lose for making you look like a Tyler. We’ll be leaving for the salon as soon as I finish my paper and…change my skirt. Have you bathed?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Finish your breakfast, then run upstairs and ready yourself—and from now on, please do not come downstairs until you’ve made yourself presentable. Mr. Blauefee pulled together an outfit for today; you’ll find it there.” She motioned to a Barneys New York bag on the floor and then read from a list on the counter. “29x33 flat-front khakis, large navy-blue Oxford button-down shirt, size 10 1/2 Kenneth Cole shoes with belt to match. Dark brown socks. Oh, and some Calvin Klein items. Will these fit?”

“Yes, ma’am. Exactly.”

“Good. Don’t ask me how he does it.”

“I won’t.”

“And Jeremy, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Please do not call me ‘ma’am.’ I am not your department store customer. You will call me ‘Aunt Katharine.’”

“Yes, Aunt Katharine.”

“Now hurry and eat. We don’t want to keep Walter waiting.”

“Yes, Aunt Katharine.”

Salon Polendina was part of a modern commercial complex built along a bluff leaning over Pacific Coast Highway, all steel beams and tinted glass and white walls like some government laboratory. Katharine was the one with the appointment with Walter, which was good, because the overly tanned owner of the salon made Jeremy jumpy, as the man made no effort to mask his hungry smile and crotch-checking eyes upon their introduction. Instead, his stylist turned out to be a stunning young woman with sparkling eyes and a jet-black flattop haircut.

“I’m Carmen.” She held out her hand and Jeremy shook it.

“Hi.”

“Young lady,” Katharine announced from the neighboring chair. “I’m picturing for him something that a young Kennedy…a
respectable
young Kennedy might wear. Ivy League and not bowling league, if you will.”

“Uh-huh.” She confirmed her understanding with a bite of her lower lip and a scrunching of eyebrows. “It
would
be a shame to cut all this off.” Carmen shook her head. “But—” her voice dropped to a murmur “—it would be even worse to hide all this.” She studied him with one eye shut, scrunching his hair in a ponytail with one hand while standing to the side and scrutinizing his face. “Yep. I know
exactly
what I want to do to you.” Their eyes caught at reflected angles in the mirror.

He looked down.

Gay,
she concluded.
And just Carlo’s type.
“How about real short in back, buzzed even, but long enough in front to bed-head it for school or gel it back for going to church with your grandma.”

“I’m his great-aunt, and that sounds fine,” Katharine muttered into her
New Yorker.

“Well how about you? It’s your hair.”

“Like she said, it sounds fine. Anything’s better than this.” He laughed, pushing the mop out of his eyes. “Anyhow, my aunt’s trying to make me look respectable.”

“I think I can make you look better than
respectable.
” Carmen smiled, revealing two rows of perfect teeth between rosy-brown lips. “So let’s see what we can do. But first tell me about yourself. I’ve never seen you around before.” She grabbed his hand. “Let’s go over and wash your hair. My assistant’s out sick today, so I’ll do it.”

“Your
assistant
didn’t look sick the other night dancing his little butt off on the go-go box at the Frat House,” Walter corrected, brushing red goop onto Katharine’s head.

“Are you suggesting Carlo is neglecting his duties here, Walter?”

“That boy’s
duties
are his business, sweetie. All I know is what I and most of West Hollywood saw; your baby brother’s healthy as a horse. How else could he have put on such a memorable show?”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Carmen whispered into Jeremy’s ear as she guided his head back into the sink. “So where’ve you been hiding all this time?”

“I’m from Fresno. I just got here last night.”

“You visiting or here to stay?” She sprayed some warm water through his scalp, then massaged in some bubble-gum-scented shampoo.

“Kind of both, I guess. My mom’s sick, and Aunt Katharine, actually she’s my dad’s aunt, told me I could stay with her until my mom gets better. But that’s gonna be a while.”

“You go to school?”

“I’m starting at Ballena Beach High tomorrow.”

“You’re kidding! That’s where I graduated from last year, and my brother Carlo is a senior there now too. His real name’s Carlos, but he thinks dropping the ‘s’ is more European or exotic or something. You’d like each other I think…I’ll tell him to keep an eye out for you.”

“Thanks.” He shifted in his seat.

She rinsed the lather out of his head. “So where’s your dad, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“He died when I was two. Car accident.”

“That sucks. Lots of accidents up here. Mostly drunk tourists pulling out of the restaurants on PCH. Do you drive?”

“Not yet.”

“Well then, if you need someone to show you around, call me. I was born here. In fact, my brother and I were raised on one of the oldest
ranchos
in the area, way up in Topanga; it’s been in my family since the 1800s, so there’s not an inch of this town I don’t know. Now let’s get to work.”

She toweled him dry, then began combing and snipping his hair with quick precision while he watched his covered lap and the floor around his chair become littered with long moist strands, the only remaining evidence of his former life.

After she finished, she ran some gel through his hair, then stood back and grinned while blocking his view of the mirror.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“See for yourself,” she replied, stepping aside.

He caught his reflection, but then looked away.

“Too sexy?” she asked.

“It’s fine, I guess.” He smiled at her.

She unpinned the huge plastic bib. “Now go show your aunt.”

He got up and shuffled over to where Walter worked and Katharine sat reading, her glasses threatening to drop from the tip of her nose, her hair now wig-perfect.

“Aunt Katharine?”

She looked up and narrowed her eyes. “Turn around.”

He complied.

“I’d pictured something shorter on top, like your father used to wear…more collegiate…more conservative. Young lady?”

“Yes, ma’am?” answered Carmen.

“I must say, this is not what I was picturing—but I suppose it will do for now; we’ve shopping to do and reservations to keep. Next time, shorter, if you will.”

“Absolutely.” Carmen nodded. “Shorter.” And then, “Here,” Carmen said, pressing a Polendina business card into his hand. He saw that a phone number was scribbled on it. “Give me a call, OK? I mean what I said about showing you around, and I’ll tell my brother to look for you at school. Like I said, you two are gonna hit it off.”

As they sped down Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Monica, Katharine phoned, upon Arthur’s suggestion, the Banana Republic store on the Third Street Promenade. “I need an autumn wardrobe for a seventeen-year-old boy. Listen carefully and have these items bagged and ready to go in, say, fifteen minutes? Do you have a pen? Good. Just a moment, please.”

She handed the phone to Jeremy as she rolled through a reddening yellow light at the corner of Temescal Canyon and PCH. “Tell the young man your measurements. Mr. Blauefee wrote them on that little yellow paper in my handbag.”

“Hi, hold on a sec,” the boy said into the tiny silver phone, feeling very uncomfortable at rummaging through his aunt’s purse. Finally he came upon the paper and began reciting the specifications. “I have a 29 waist, a 34 inseam, wear a large shirt, and…” he was amazed that Arthur had been so precise in his recommendations “…look best in olives, tans, rusts, beiges, and black. Absolutely no orange or light green or turquoise. A nice mix of dress and casual. And flat-front pants, no pleats.”

“Anything else?” asked the voice.

“Uh, nope.”

“OK. Let me talk to your mom.”

“She’s not my mom.”

Jeremy handed the phone back as they made a sharp left on Chataqua and then continued up the steep hill to the stoplight at the top, across from Palisades Park.

“We’ll need five pairs of slacks, five jeans, five sweaters, five sweatshirts, three jackets, three belts, two pairs of athletic shoes, two pairs of dress shoes…” the light turned green and she gunned the engine, nearly hitting a man crossing the street sipping from a Starbucks cup “…some colored socks. Oh, and a nice leather book bag of some sort. We are now ten minutes away. Please meet us in the alley with the bags. My American Express number is five-nine-one-seven…” she recited her fifteen-digit card number from memory while navigating between a merging transit bus and two bicyclists “…yes, yes. You’re most welcome.”

She snapped the phone off as they roared down West Channel, made a right on 7th, then another right onto Wilshire. Just past 5th Street, they turned left into an alley lined with yawning Dumpsters and sagging cardboard boxes. At the end of the roadway, two well-dressed young men, laden with a dozen or so shopping bags, emerged from behind a heavy metal door.

“For the record, I believe that shopping this way is crass,” she said, slamming the car to a halt while popping open the trunk in front of the silent salesmen, who dutifully filled the trunk with her purchases and then presented to her, through the driver’s window, a lengthy receipt to be signed. “But the paparazzi is so brazen now that anyone noteworthy can’t take the chance of trying on clothes in a fitting room.” She scribbled on the receipt, handed it back, and then nodded to the young men. “But alleys are tricky business, my darling. Those with anything to lose should
never
be caught in one alone.”

Thirty minutes later, the pair was headed again along the Coast Highway, traveling farther north past The Colony. Jeremy squinted through the windshield as the noonday October sun danced on crayon-blue waters. As he tilted his head back, the rush of the clouds and tree branches through the sunroof made him dizzy, like he was flying upside-down.

She glanced at her watch. “Good. We made better time than I expected.”

“Why the big hurry?” he asked.

“We have 12:30 reservations.”

“Wouldn’t they wait for you?”

“Of course they would hold our table, but that isn’t the point. There are two kinds of people in Ballena Beach: those with manners and everyone else. And Tylers have manners, of which you are one…officially, as of yesterday. Our first lesson takes place this afternoon, when we review the dying art of dining in public.”

“Oh.”

“We have so much to discuss, young man. Ah, and here we are.”

She waited for the traffic to clear and then made a left into a driveway that plummeted sharply down and to the left, where she nearly plowed into two handsome valets in navy blazers.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tyler,” the first said while opening her door and offering his hand, which she took. The second opened and held the door wide for Jeremy.

“Thank you, and good afternoon to you, Miguel. This is my nephew, Jeremy Tyler.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” the man said. “And this is Ernesto. He’s my cousin from Durango.”

“Mucho gusto, Don Ernesto,”
stated Katharine, with a coy smile. And with that, Ernesto bowed to her.

“Hi.” Jeremy waved first at one and then the other.

“And how are the children, Miguel?” she asked while gathering her purse and sweater from the backseat.

The man smiled broadly. “Oh, they’re growing up so fast, Mrs. Tyler.”

“Miguelito—is he ten now? And Carolina, she must be in third grade this year.”

“Yes, Mrs. Tyler. Thank you for asking.”

“I would love to see pictures of them—I’ll bet they’re both simply beautiful.” She waved Jeremy along. “Miguel, I would so appreciate your parking my car in the shade, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course, Mrs. Tyler.”

They climbed the steps toward the maître d’, who greeted Katharine as if she were his very best friend and then guided them past the other diners toward her favorite table at the far end of the flagstone terrace, tight against the railing overlooking the ocean. On the way, two sharply dressed men lunching together waved a cheerful hello to his aunt, and she returned their gesture with equal enthusiasm. Jeremy noticed, as soon as she looked away from them, that the men tracked his own progress across the patio.

“Who are they?” he asked when they reached their table.

“They are two of my best clients from the gallery.”

“What gallery?”

“Oh, it’s nothing much.…” The maître d’ pulled out her chair, and she folded herself down into it as gracefully as the Queen. Jeremy followed suit. They were handed menus. “A few years back I bought a little shopping center near the center of town and then found that I couldn’t rent out the last two spaces. Primitive art has always fascinated me, so I decided to combine the spaces and build a gallery to showcase some of the Chumash Indian art from this region. With its success I’ve branched out, of course, and now feature antiquities as well as work done by some of the local artisans; I have a special passion for wood carvings, as you’ll see. I’ll swing you by the space sometime. It’s called Galleri Collodi.”

“Sounds interesting,” he noted blandly. He looked over and caught the men stealing glances at him. One threw him a bold smile. Jeremy grabbed his menu and studied it. “What’s the name mean?”

“It’s an obscure reference to the author of
Pinocchio
; there’s something about that story that I’ve always loved. And there are those wood carvings that I mentioned.”

Presently their waitress, a pretty young blonde dressed in a spotless white shirt and slacks, took their drink order. Aunt Katharine decided on a glass of Chardonnay for herself and an iced tea for Jeremy, then ordered a grilled salmon for him and a shrimp salad for herself. The waitress nodded courteously and then disappeared.

“I suppose you’d prefer a soda, which is fine at home,” she said, “but not in a place like this.”

“It’s OK, there’s sugar here.”

“Yes, of course.” She smiled thinly, then knitted her hands together. “If you don’t mind, I’ll suggest your food order the first few times we dine together. To help refine your tastes.”

“Sure, Aunt Katharine. Whatever.”

“Good.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You
may.
”

“What was with those guys in the parking lot? Back in Fresno, my mom said you shouldn’t talk to Mexicans.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, Jeremy; Tiffany had the breeding of a rodeo clown. So your first lesson for the day is this: a true gentleman treats everyone with the same respect, from a senator down to the lowliest beggar on the street. Unfortunately, our society confuses class with money, both of which are often mutually exclusive. Your second lesson is that it is always good form to show interest in other people’s lives, even if you have none. And while we are discussing good form, we need to discuss your poor posture. Hasn’t anyone told you to walk and stand tall, imagining that a string is holding up your head?”

“A string?”

“Yes, a string, such as that which holds up a marionette. If you accustom yourself to visualizing this, you shall, with practice, never slouch.”

“OK. I’ll try it.”

“Very well. But these are trivial matters.” She removed her glasses, squinted at him, then slipped on a pair of sunglasses drawn from her purse. “Jeremy, please tell me, are there any serious character flaws that you possess? I’d much prefer you tell me now so that I might get you the help you need.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” His eyes shifted.

Their conversation halted as the waitress deposited their drinks on the table then fled. “What I mean, if I may speak frankly, is that you are your mother’s son.”

Jeremy stiffened. “Why’s that so bad?”

“It’s worse than you might think.” She stopped, took a sip of her wine, grimaced, and then continued in a softer voice. “How much do you know about her past?” She touched him on the wrist.

“Not much. Only what I can remember. She wouldn’t tell me much about my father or herself. She always said there was no point in digging up buried garbage.”

“What, if you don’t mind me asking, did she ever tell you about me?”

He looked down at his iced tea, snatched some packs of sugar, tore them open, and then dumped them into the glass. The substance floated atop the ice cubes like a miniature snowy island. “I only knew that she talked like…she hated you.”

“She hates me?” she snapped. “That is lunacy! If not for that woman, my Jonathan would still be alive! If anyone should hate, it should be I!”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, nervously stirring his now cloudy tea.

She sighed. “Well, I’d better start at the beginning if I’m to make any sense of this for you.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Where is that waitress? I’m going to need a better Chardonnay to get us through this.”