Allison (A Kane Novel) (6 page)

“Well, I suppose you were just doing your job,” I conceded.  “I
was
kind of shocked seeing myself on the
CBS Evening News
, though.”

“I’ll bet.  It was just supposed to be a local-color segment, but Newspath picked it up and farmed it out to all the CBS affiliates.  Eventually network decided to use it to plug a hole in the six o’clock national lineup.”

“Newspath?”

“They supply video clips to network affiliates.  Sort of like a wire service.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, the reason I’m calling is that I looked into an intern position for you at Channel 2.  Nothing’s available here at KCBS, but I contacted a friend at network.  He says they might have a slot for you over there.  Nothing’s guaranteed, but you have an appointment at CBS first thing Monday morning.  It’s on Fairfax Avenue.  Go to the main desk and ask for Brent Preston.”

“Brent Preston, the news correspondent?”

“That’s him.  I know Brent from when he started at Channel 2.”

As I’d told McKenzie, I had originally considered Mike’s talk of a news intern job simply that:  just talk.  Now, presented with the possibility of actually working at a news station, and a
network
news station at that, I found myself at a loss for words.  “Monday morning.  I’ll . . . I’ll be there,” I finally managed.

“I’ll let Brent know,” said Mike.  “And good luck.”  With that, he rattled off Brent’s phone number at the station and said good-bye, disconnecting before I had recovered enough from my surprise to say thanks.

Everyone was assembled outside at the picnic table when I finally arrived downstairs.  “C’mon, Ali,” urged Nate.  “Get a move on.  We’re starving.”

I slid in beside McKenzie, who had taken a seat across from Nate.  From his position at the head of the table, my dad began serving salad.  “Hope you like anchovies, McKenzie,” he said, passing a bowl down the line.  “In my book, Caesar salad isn’t Caesar salad without ’em, so I use plenty.”

“I’ve had your Caesar,” said McKenzie, “and I love it.  Anchovies and all.”

“Let’s say grace before everyone digs in, Dan,” Mom suggested.

Dad ducked his head quickly.  “Right.”

My mother led a short prayer in which she asked God’s blessing for everyone we loved—family and friends both present and absent—and especially Travis, who would be performing his own work in concert the following weekend.

“Amen,” said Dad, lifting a tumbler of Coke, his customary beverage since he had stopped drinking.  “And here’s to the hero of the hour,” he added, glancing at me.

McKenzie, who had turned twenty-one earlier that spring, lifted a glass of white wine.  “To Allison.”

As the rest of the table joined in, I felt a blush rising to my cheeks.  Though my mother remained silent, I saw her also raise her wine glass.  Nate, after clunking his mug of milk against mine and taking a drink, reached for Mom’s wine.  “Can I have a sip, Mom?”

“Great idea, sport,” said Dad.  “One more suggestion like that and you’ll be doing pushups till your arms fall off.”

“Never happen,” said Nate, again flexing his biceps.  “Not with these arms.”

“Who was that on the phone, Ali?” asked Mom, smiling at Nate’s posturing.

I speared a steak from the meat platter, then reached for the corn.  “Somebody from school,” I lied.

“Oh?”

“He, uh, wanted to borrow my notes,” I explained, digging myself in deeper.  McKenzie glanced at me curiously but said nothing.

“I hope he didn’t want your notes from today,” my mother observed dryly.

“Jeez, give the girl a break, Kate,” said Dad, serving the last of the salad.  “She skipped a couple of classes, saved some kid’s life, and wound up on national TV.  What’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing, except for the small matter that her rashness could have resulted in her death,” Mom countered irritably.  “This isn’t the first time she’s pulled a daredevil stunt like that.  What’s she trying to prove?”

“Kate, that kid in the water needed help.”

“And Allison should have let the lifeguards handle things.  That’s their job.”

“It’s a tough call to make without being there,” Dad pointed out.  Then, sensing the afternoon’s argument threatening to resurface, he changed the subject.  “Speaking of jobs, I have the weekend off.  I should be able to start on your closet organizer tomorrow.”

“Really?” asked Mom.

“Absolutely,” said Dad, ladling a steaming portion of three-bean casserole onto his plate, then tearing off a hunk of freshly heated French bread.  “Maybe I can even get going on those living room bookshelves you’ve been bugging me about.  You want to help, champ?” he asked, passing the breadbasket to Nate.

“Sure,” Nate replied enthusiastically.  “I have a baseball game tomorrow morning, though.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  I’m one of the coaches, remember?  We’ll get working on things here after that.”

“The house is sure coming along, Mr. Kane,” interjected McKenzie, gazing up at our new home.  Mom’s mother, Dorothy Erickson, had grown up in an ancient structure built on the site during the mid-thirties, and she had subsequently bequeathed it to my mom and dad as a wedding present.  The original home, a sadly sagging construct of termite-ridden beams and quick-fix repairs that time had eventually lent an air of permanence, had burned to the sand several years back.  Though our family had escaped for the most part unscathed, it had been a heartbreaking loss for all of us.  Following the fire, Dad had spent a year getting the requisite permits to rebuild.  After securing a bank loan to augment the fire-insurance money, he had taken substantial blocks of accumulated LAPD sick leave and vacation time to supervise the framing—later setting up a workshop in the new garage and spending every free weekend working on various finish details.  Although months earlier my family had moved back to the beach from our temporary quarters in a nearby rental condo, there was still much to do.

“It really
is
coming along, isn’t it?” Dad agreed proudly.  “I miss the old place, though.”

“I never thought I would admit it, but I do, too,” said Mom, absently brushing back a lock of hair from her forehead.  “Still, it’s nice having a modern kitchen, not to mention a bigger music room and windows that actually open and close.  And the upstairs balcony is heavenly,” she added, referring to the deck above us that Dad had cantilevered off the second story.

“No argument there,” said Dad.  “You should use it more often, sugar.  Catch a few rays.  You’ve been looking a bit peaked lately.”

I stole a glance at my mother, thinking her color did seem a little pale.  A small, purplish bruise marked the skin of her forearm—a blemish that would have ordinarily gone undetected had she displayed her normal tan.

“With the Philharmonic’s rehearsal schedule and helping Trav prepare for his concert, I haven’t had much time to be lounging around in the sun,” Mom replied.  “But it’s sweet of you to notice, Dan.”

“Just watching out for you, honeybunch.”

“How
is
Trav’s concert preparation coming along?” asked McKenzie.

“Fine,” Mom answered.  “Trav’s been in D.C. for the past two days working with the NSO music director to fine-tune his concerto, as well as rehearsing it with the orchestra.  Next weekend’s performances should go perfectly.”

“He’s really nervous about debuting his own work, though,” I noted.  “I talked with him last night on the phone.  He says a lot is riding on this first concert.”

Mom nodded somberly.  “Performing his own composition will be a tremendous step up for Trav, especially if it’s well received.”

“How come Trav gets to play with the NOS, anyway?” asked Nate.

“NSO,” I corrected.  “National Symphony Orchestra.  And it’s because our older brother Travis is such an ineffable genius.”

Nate looked confused.  “Ineffable?”

“Unspeakable,” explained Mom, squinting at me with irritation.  “Your sister is being sarcastic.  It’s an ineffably unattractive trait in a young lady, I might add.”  Then, turning back to Nate, “To answer your question, the NSO’s music director heard Trav play one of his compositions at the Kennedy Center last year.  Your brother was on a recital tour that was part of his winning the silver medal at the Van Cliburn International.  You remember.”

Nate nodded.  “And the conductor liked Trav so much he wanted him to play with his orchestra?”

“Something like that.  The music director happens to be old friends with one of Trav’s professors at USC.”

“Mr. Petrinski?”

“That’s right.  Anyway, the NSO regularly supports young musicians, and Mr. Petrinski sent his friend a recording of Trav’s work.”

“And the rest, as they say, is history,” I finished.

Once more Mom frowned at my tone.  Sensing the strain, everyone at the table fell silent, and for the next few minutes the only sound heard was the clink of silverware and the incessant jangle of the upstairs telephone—the latter a distraction that Mom insisted we let the answering machine handle.

The steaks proved juicy and delicious, the Caesar salad a delightful contrast to the smoky flavor of the barbecued corn, the bread fresh and aromatic.  But as usual at any Kane family barbecue, Dad’s sweet-and-sour bean casserole was everyone’s favorite—the savory dish demanding a second helping, and then possibly a third.  Nate finished his without touching any of the other food on his plate and clamored for more.

“There
are
other things to eat,” Dad noted dryly, dishing out another portion.

“I’ll get to ’em soon as the beans are gone,” said Nate.

My father, far more understanding with Nate than he had ever been with any of his other children, especially me, smiled patiently.

As twilight descended, table conversation ricocheted from topics ranging from my transfer to USC in September to Mom’s upcoming concert season, continuing unabated until everyone finished eating.  After we had cleared the table and carried the dishes up to the kitchen, we again reassembled outside for dessert.  Though I could have sworn I had no room left for anything, not even a morsel, I changed my mind when Mom’s mud pie made its appearance.

“Mmmm, that looks scrumptious, Mrs. Kane,” said McKenzie, admiring my mother’s creation of vanilla ice cream in a crumbled Oreo-cookie shell, with layers of fudge sauce and whipped cream topping the delicious-looking concoction.

“And it
tastes
even better,” said Nate as Mom began cutting thick slabs and serving them on paper plates.

Once desserts had made their way around the table, everyone again fell silent, concentrating on eating.  Predictably, Nate had seconds.  By the time everyone finished, a full moon had risen over the lights of Santa Monica, illuminating the deck with a soft yellow glow.  Pleasantly full, Dad rocked back and laced his hands across his stomach.  “Okay, rookies, listen up,” he said, his voice unconsciously assuming the autocratic snap of a drill sergeant.  “I’ve been doing some thinking lately—”

“Somebody alert Mensa,” I whispered to Nate.

“—and I have an announcement to make,” Dad finished, ignoring my gibe.

Like all the Kane children, I had learned from experience to distrust my father’s postmeal announcements, the majority of which involved summaries of each of our shortcomings and failures regarding schoolwork, chores, and family duties—invariably followed by a compulsory plan by which we could redeem ourselves. 

“Oh, joy,” I groused.  “We have company, Dad, and we certainly don’t want McKenzie getting the right idea about you.  Don’t forget your rule about no negativity at the dinner table.”

“I’m not being negative.”

I smiled.  “There.  See?”

“Hey, the ol’ dad might have something positive to say,” my father objected, feigning insult.  “Don’t you kids trust me?”

“No!” Nate and I laughed as one, emboldened by Dad’s unusually sunny mood.

“Tough,” said Dad.  “You’re going to hear this anyway.  What I was about to propose before that rousing vote of confidence was this:  With rebuilding the house and all, it’s been quite a while since we’ve had one of our annual Fourth of July bashes—”

“Here’s a news flash,” I broke in again.  “The Fourth is over.”

“I know that, petunia,” he said patiently.  “Contrary to popular belief, I
can
read a calendar.  I’m talking about another date that’s coming up in a month or so.  August eleventh, to be exact.  Your birthday.  Now, your mom and I talked it over, and we both agree that in the tragic absence of our customary Fourth of July gathering while we’ve been rebuilding, we should do something memorable to kick off your upcoming twentieth birthday.”

“All right!” exclaimed Nate.  “A beach party for Ali!  With hundreds of people like on the Fourth?”

Dad grinned.  “What’s the point of having a beach party if you don’t invite everybody?”

Nate’s face lit up.  “Can we have a bonfire?”

“It’s possible.”

“Fireworks?” asked Nate.

“No fireworks.  It’s not the Fourth.  Besides, I have something else planned.”

“Food?” I suggested.  “You’re doing something special with the food?”

“No more guessing.”

“You’re not really thinking of inviting every single person we know like on the Fourth, are you?” I persisted, secretly pleased but trying not to show it.

Dad gazed at the moon without answering.

I turned to my mother.  “Mom?  What’s Dad planning?”

“It’s a surprise, honey.  Your father swore me to secrecy.”

“C’mon, Dad,” I begged.  “What are you going to do?”

“You’ll see,” Dad answered mysteriously.  “Just keep that weekend open.”

*        *        *

In the mountains north of Malibu, the same summer moon shining down on the Kanes’ deck also bathed the surface of a large reservoir.  As moonlight pierced the water’s inky depths, the slanting rays quickly diminished, barely illuminating a small object submerged a dozen yards offshore.  Strands of hair swayed like eel grass in the slight subsurface current, billowing around a face whose eyes stared sightlessly into the dark.

Buoyed by gases of decomposition, the ghostly white shape lifted gently from the bottom, partially shedding an enclosing shroud of black plastic.  Loops of rope binding the wrists and ankles prevented the body from rising more than a foot.  Bit by bit, the body rotated.  Cut by coils of encircling cord, a patch of water-softened skin bunched like wet newspaper, sloughing from the underlying tissue.  Loosened, a cord fell free.  And gradually, as another restraining tether came undone, the body began a slow ascent to the surface.