Fallen Idols (13 page)

Clancy sat in his rental car, staring at the house from across the street. Now that he was actually here, he didn't know what to do. Okay, so he'd seen the house.

Now what? It was a very nice house, nicer than he'd expected, but that's all it was—a house. What he wanted to see was his father, and his father didn't want to see him. Or his brothers. His father had hastily improvised a trip to take him a thousand miles out of town, to avoid seeing his son.

Nothing I could do about that, Clancy thought, looking at the house. If he doesn't want to see me, I can't force it.

He got out of his small, cramped car and leaned against the door, stretching his back and legs. There was no foot traffic on the block. The people who lived on this street were either inside minding their own business, or at work.

A silver BMW Z3 convertible, the top down, turned onto the street and headed in his direction. As it approached, Clancy ducked around to the opposite side of his rental car, using it as a shield. Whoever was driving the Beemer wouldn't know him, but he didn't want to be seen—an instinctive, gut reaction.

The Z3 turned into Walt's driveway, stopping when it was parallel to the front of the house. The driver, a woman wearing sunglasses and a Nike baseball hat over her light blond ponytail, got out. She was dressed in shorts and a tank top. The shades and hat obscured her face, but she looked good. Nice figure, stellar legs. Bare, tan, long. Opening the trunk of the little car, the woman took out a couple of shopping bags—Fred Segal and Gelson's, Clancy could read the logos from where he was watching—closed the trunk, walked along the stone pathway that led from the driveway to the front door, unlocked the door, and went inside. The door closed behind her.

What the hell?

Could he be at the wrong house? Or even on the wrong street?

He looked at the address he'd written down. No, he was in the right place. Right address, right street. That was his father's new house.

Who was this woman? She had her own house key, she was carrying groceries. Walt hadn't mentioned anything about a woman. But he had been tight-lipped about his new life in general.

His mother had been dead for a year now. Clancy knew one thing about his father—Walt wouldn't remain celibate. He was a robust, attractive man who had always liked women, and had been liked by them, too.

He didn't know how to handle this. He could go over, knock on the door, introduce himself. Assuming the woman was involved with his father, she would know who he was, certainly. But then what? Go inside, look around? Clancy didn't care what was in the house. Old furniture and pictures belonging to his parents? He knew that stuff, he'd lived with it all his life. Seeing their old furnishings in new, unfamiliar surroundings would make him feel melancholy, another sad reminder of the special woman who was no longer with them.

This had been a bad idea, coming up here. He should have respected his father's wish to rejoin the family on his terms, when he was ready. Not before, and not forced.

He turned away from the house and started to get into his car. A sleek new-looking black Mercedes sedan, gleaming in the midday sun, came in sight around the corner. As it drove closer Clancy pulled his door shut and scrunched down in his seat. The Mercedes turned into his father's driveway and parked next to the BMW.

Walt Gaines got out.

He looks good, was Clancy's first, ffom-the-gut reaction.
You ‘re not breathing
was the thought that followed immediately after the first. He forced himself to take a deep breath: in through the nose, out through the mouth. He worked with athletes, he knew that deep, steady breathing was the best way to keep yourself from freaking out.

His father stood in the driveway for a moment, like a stag in the forest who is sniffing the air, checking for signs of danger. Clancy was frozen, crouched down in the too-small car seat. He knew that his father couldn't see him, hidden there in the protective cocoon of the rental car.

Stay where you are, he cautioned himself. Wait until he goes inside, then drive away, go to the airport, get on your plane, and go home.

He took another deep, cleansing breath. Then he opened the door and got out of the car.

It was like throwing a pebble into a cosmic stream— Walt sensed the ripple. He turned in Clancy's direction and looked at him, squinting against the sun in his eyes. For a moment, who he was seeing didn't register; then his mouth opened wide, an involuntary jaw drop.

The two men, father and son, stared at each other, as if taking the other's measure. Then Clancy walked across the street, into his father's driveway. He stopped fifteen feet away from Walt.

“Hey, dad,” he said.

Walt peered hard at Clancy, as if not believing what he was seeing; or not wanting to. Then he nodded, a gesture of recognition, Clancy thought, rather than of invitation.

“What're you doing here?” Walt asked. His tone was not accusatory, exactly. The words were neither angry nor inquisitive. It was more a statement than a question.

Clancy took in his dad. Walt was dressed casually—shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, sandals. Like he always dressed in the summer. Except the shorts were Ralph Lauren, not Dockers, the old Hanes pocket T-shirt was now a Tommy Bahama silk, and the sandals were Italian leather.

The older man raised a hand over his eyes to shade them from the high, hot light. “Do I get an answer?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Clancy answered.

Walt twitched. “I live here.”

Clancy walked a step closer. “You were going to Seattle. Some last-minute conference or something.” His father hadn't said “last-minute,” but Clancy knew that it was. If there had been a conference at all.

Walt didn't bite at the implied accusation. “Oh, yeah, I forgot about that,” he said casually, as if the question was a fly he was brushing off his leg. “One of the participants got sick at the last minute. They canceled it.” He gave his son a wary smile. “So you. What's your excuse?” His smile widened, a joker's smile. The boys and Jocelyn had nicknamed this look Walt's
I'm the boss motherfucker in town
smile. It could be intimidating. It was now. “You spying on the old man?”

Clancy almost winced visibly. This was his father, he knew his son from the inside out.

“I had to come to L.A. anyway,” he lied. “There's a clinic up here a friend runs. I wanted to check out his new equipment.” It was important to tell Walt the same lie he'd told Callie. Someday, hopefully a better day, this might come up, in casual conversation. He needed to keep his lies straight. It was getting harder. “I had a few hours to kill before going to the airport, so I decided to drive by the old man's new digs, check ‘em out. Wanted to make sure you weren't living in a double-wide,” he said, forcing what he hoped sounded like an easy laugh.

Walt grinned. “Nope, no trailer park life for me. Not yet, anyway.” He paused. “You don't have to sneak around,” he said. He sounded hurt. “What's mine is yours, Clancy. You and the others. You've always known that. Haven't you?”

“Yes, dad. That's how it's always been.”

Always
had
been.

They eyeballed each other for another moment. Then they came together, their arms around each other's bodies, bear-hugging tightly.

“Goddamnit!” Walt cried out, when they broke and looked at each other from close range. “I've missed you, son.”

It was hard for Clancy to speak. “We've all missed you, dad.”

“You have some time? Before you have to go?”

“I have as much time as you want to give me.”

Except for a few artifacts his father had collected from his expeditions over the years, Clancy didn't recognize anything inside the new house. In their old place the furnishings had been a hodgepodge of couches and chests and armoires, the rooms overflowing with too many pieces, heavy wooden things given them by Jocelyn's parents, or items they'd bought piecemeal at department stores. Mix and match, or unmatch, as his mother used to joke. It was homey furniture, unpretentious. Theirs was the kind of house that had coffee tables overflowing with academic journals piled next to MAD comics cheek by jowl with books, books, more books. Half-made beds, pots and pans in the sink.

A decorator had furnished this house. That was obvious. Stickley furniture, beautiful dark wood, hand-rubbed, covered with rich leather. Native American rugs were scattered over the hardwood floors. The art was a mixture of California plein air realistic landscapes, some of Walt's Central American pieces, African masks, a few abstract sculptures. It was all first-rate.

Walt led his son on a quick tour. Living room, dining room, newly redone kitchen, big master bedroom and bath, nice study, the works. It was impressive. A house for people with taste and culture. And the money to spend making it so.

Clancy didn't see the woman he had spotted earlier. She was making herself scarce deliberately, he was sure.

The backyard was spacious. More lush grass, recently mowed and edge-trimmed. A fieldstone deck, furnished with Adirondack chairs and lounges and a wrought iron dining set, abutted the rear of the house. Deeper into the property there was a barbeque area with a built-in range, a lap pool with an accompanying Jacuzzi, and at the far reaches of the property, a good-sized greenhouse.

“Very impressive,” Clancy said admiringly. “Who's the gardener?” he asked, pointing at the greenhouse. He griinned. “Have you finally developed a green thumb?”

Walt was notorious for never seeing a garden through a full crop. He had started half a dozen vegetable gardens over the years, but had always let them go fallow—he liked to plant, but then he lost interest. The zucchini and melons and tomato plants, so lovingly placed in the fleshly turned soil, would turn to weeds.

“Not much,” Walt answered. “That was already here. Gives the place a Midwest touch, don't you think? Out here, you don't need it, the weather's good year ‘round. One of the earlier owners raised orchids,” he explained. “That's one of the few plants you need a hothouse for. Not my style, orchids.”

They were bantering easily enough, but Clancy sensed an uneasiness coming from Walt, a reticence to open up about anything under the surface. That was understandable; they hadn't seen each other for almost a year, you don't jump-start deep feelings in an hour.

It was good to see his dad, nonetheless. Clancy hadn't realized how much he missed him, and how hurt he was about Walt's turning his back on them.

“Let's go inside,” Walt said, throwing an arm around Clancy's shoulder. “I'll buy you a beer.”

They sat in Walt's spacious study, drinking Mexican beer from the bottle. Walt's desk was snugged up against one wall; adjacent to that was a block of poster boards covered with pictures of La Chimenea and other sites Walt had worked on. Archaeological volumes overflowed the bookshelves. It was the only room in the house that had any feeling like old times, Clancy thought; except there was nothing of the family. No pictures of his mother, or him and his brothers. It was as if Walt was forging ahead into a future that had no relationship to his past.

Walt eyeballed Clancy over the top of his beer bottle. “You're pretty uptight about this,” he commented.

“About what?”

“Me. What I've been up to.” Walt tilted his bottle back and took a drink. “That's why you came up here. To scope out the mystery. Whatever happened to Walt Gaines.”

“I didn't expect you to be here,” Clancy said cautiously. “But of course I want to know what's going on with you, dad. It's like you're not there anymore. Not for us.”

Walt shifted in his chair. “I kind of feel, in some ways, like I'm not there for me, either.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Clancy's tone of voice was harsher, more judgmental than he'd intended.

“Hey.” Walt pointed a finger at Clancy. “Back off with the attitude. I'm your father. Don't forget that.”

“Sorry,” Clancy apologized. “I don't mean to be … it's been weird, dad. You've been avoiding us, and we don't know why. I know you're going through a lot of grief, with mom dying and the school screwing you over, hut we're your family. We're the ones who you can count on to stick by you.”

“I know that,” Walt said. “That's not the problem for me.”

“What is the problem?” Clancy pressed. “That is, if you're willing to talk to me about it.”

He was uncomfortable about setting out into these uncharted waters. Walt had never confided in his children about things that bothered him, even after they had reached adulthood. He always had to be on top of everything—his self-image and need to be in control was too powerful for him to ever show any signs of weakness, especially emotional. But things were different now, Clancy felt. He had lost his wife and his career, the two most important pieces of his life.

Walt nodded, as if thinking about what Clancy had said. “The problem. Yeah. I'm not going to lie to you, say there isn't one. It's complicated. It's not one thing, it's a bunch of things.”

“Mom.”

“Of course. That the most.”

“And the university. Leaving.”

‘That, too. Although I don't miss it nearly as much as I thought I would. I thought I needed it as a security blanket. I've found out that I don't. In some ways, that part of what's happened to me is liberating.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Clancy said.

“Not that I don't miss some of it. The perks. It's not as easy to do what I do without the institution being behind me. I still have the Smithsonian and the other grants, but it's harder. The money people get nervous without some official imprimatur to blame if the shit hits the fan, like it did.” He paused. “I haven't been back to La Chimenea since …” He waved his hand in the air, as if brushing away a cobweb.

Clancy didn't know that—this was the first he'd heard of it. La Chimenea had been the focus of Walt's work for the past several years. It was going to be the crown jewel in his career.

“That's a bitch,” he said. “What's going on down there? Who's running the show?”

“I don't know.”

“When are you going down again?”

Walt looked away. “I don't know that, either.” He turned back to Clancy. “I don't want to talk about that now. Later, okay?”