Fallen Idols (14 page)

“Sure. Whatever you want, dad.” He wanted to ask his father about the woman he'd seen entering the house, but he didn't think the time was right for that yet. “So what have you been doing? Besides buying a house,” he said instead, trying to make a joke of it.

Walt shrugged. “I have plenty to do.” He pointed at the computer on his desk. “I'm writing a big overview-style book on Maya culture, something I've wanted to do for years, but never had the time. A definitive book,” he proclaimed. “Who better than me to write it, right?”

“Absolutely,” Clancy agreed. He believed it, but he also knew his father wanted to hear it. “You're the man, dad.”

“And I'm lecturing,” Walt went on. “UCLA, USC, I've been up to Berkeley and Stanford as well. I'm dickering with UCLA on something longer-term, it would be a cherry position, full professorship pay and benefits and I wouldn't have to teach too much, mostly do my research and have a few graduate lectures a quarter. They have a strong department, but I'd bring a lot of prestige.”

“That sounds great,” Clancy said, making sure he sounded enthusiastic. “Would you begin this fall? They must be starting the fall quarter soon.”

“Yes, they are, but no, I wouldn't start now. Next quarter, maybe. I have to decide whether it's what I want to do.” He finished off his beer, tossed the empty into a nearby trash can. “I've been teaching my entire life, until the last few months. It's nice to not have to read a bunch of crappy papers and prepare for classes every week. So I'm pondering on it. F11 be associated with them, one way or the other,” he said airily. “Exactly how is yet to be decided.”

There was a light knock at the study door.

“Come on in,” Walt called out.

The door opened. A woman took a step into the room. Clancy recognized her as the same woman he'd seen getting out of the BMW earlier. She had changed into a sundress and her hair was damp, as if she'd just showered and toweled it dry. Now that he could see her up close, he realized she was young—his age, maybe a few years older.

“I'm going to the market,” she said to Walt, glancing over at Clancy. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I'm set,” Walt answered. He extended his arm. “This is my oldest son, Clancy. Clancy, this is my friend, Emma Rawlings.”

Clancy stood. “It's nice to meet you.”

“Thank you,” the woman said. She smiled.

This was disconcerting. Clancy glanced over at his father. Walt gave him a nod, as if to say, “I'll explain about her later.”

“I'll be back soon,” Emma said. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asked Clancy.

Before he could answer, Walt did it for him.

“Yes. My son is staying for dinner.”

“Where are you?” Callie asked.

“At my dad's.”

“Where?
”

Clancy was on his cell phone. He had gone out into the backyard to have privacy; he didn't want Walt inadvertently overhearing him. His father was in his study, banging away on his computer—urgent mail he had to get out before the end of the day, so he claimed. Before Clancy went home he would answer all his questions: a promise from father to son.

“What are you doing there?” she asked. He could hear the concern in her voice. “Is he there?”

“Absolutely, he's here. I mean, he's not standing next to me. He's in his study, working, and I'm outside. But yeah, he's here.”

“How is he?”

“He seems fine. Healthy.” He paused. “Sane.”

“That's good to hear.” She took a moment. “How did you connect with him? I thought he wasn't going to be there.”

“It's complicated. I'll tell you later.” “When are you getting into Chicago? What plane are you on?”

“That's another thing. I'm staying over. I won't be home until tomorrow.”

There was a moment's silence.

“You're staying over? There? With him?”

“Yes. He insisted, and of course, I wasn't going to say no, not after wanting to get together with him for all this time. We're going to have dinner together, and then we're going to have a good talk. His choice of words.”

She whistled through her teeth. “What's going on out there, Clancy?”

“All kinds of interesting shit. I'll fill you in on everything when I see you.”

“What kind of interesting shit?” she persisted. “You can't leave me hanging like this.”

Clancy glanced toward the house. “I don't have time now.” He didn't want his father catching him on the phone. “I'll give you one tidbit that'll blow your little mind. There's a new woman in his life. I think she's living with him.”

He could hear her sharp intake of breath.

“She's young,” he continued. “My age, a little older, maybe.”

There was a silence on Callie's end. Then she asked, “Mow does this feel to you, a new woman in Walt's life? Who's so much younger.”

“Very strange. Like an episode out of Alice in Wonderland.”

“Well, don't go falling down any rabbit holes, okay?”

“I'll watch my step.”

“And call me if you learn anything else important,” she said, her voice rising in excitement. “This bothers me, Clancy. Not that he has a new girlfriend—that's good … I hope … but that we hadn't heard anything about her. I know he's been uncommunicative, but this is going pretty far in the secrets department. And her being that much younger than him kind of bothers me, too.”

“It's bizarre all around, I agree. But that's what he's been doing, keeping his life secret from us. On the plus side, though, he seems to be in great shape. He's active, he's working, he appears to be coping better than we've been imagining.”

“That is good,” she conceded. “But this still sounds off-kilter to me.”

“We shall see. I'll have a better feeling before I leave.” He glanced back at the house again as he heard a car pulling into the driveway. “Somebody's coming. I'd better get off.”

“Okay.” She made a kissing sound over the line. “I love you. Be careful.”

“Me, too. I will.” He started to say good-bye; then he added, “Don't mention anything about this to my brothers, in case you speak to them before I get home. I don't want them calling while I'm here. It's going fine, but I'm walking on eggshells.”

“Mum's the word. I'll see you tomorrow, honey. Give Walt my love.”

Emma Rawlings carried the bags of groceries into the house, went into the kitchen, and began putting the food into the refrigerator.

“Need any help?”

“Oh!” She jumped, then turned. “I didn't hear you.” She smiled at Clancy. “You snuck up on me.”

“Didn't mean to. Sorry.”

“Don't be silly. I wasn't expecting you, that's all.”

He smiled back. ‘There's a double entendre there, I think.”

She nodded. “Yes, that's true. And no, I don't need help with this. Is Walt in his office?”

“Uh huh.”

“He's a workaholic,” she said. “Has he always been?”

“Yes.”

Clancy pondered whether or not he wanted to talk about his father with this woman, who was a stranger to him. She's here, he decided quickly. No getting around that.

“He always wanted to stay ahead of the competition,” he told her. “He used to tell us the academic world is filled with piranhas who will tear you to shreds if you let down your guard. So he didn't.”

“But they ate him alive anyway,” she commented, in a soft, supportive voice.

Her frankness threw him. “He lost his balance,” he said.

She looked at him as if making a calculation. “You don't know me,” she said, voicing what he had been thinking. “We shouldn't be talking about your father this way. Until we get to know each other better, which I hope we will.”

Now it was he who was off-balance. Who was this Emma Rawlings person, what was her story? She was very cool, very much in control of herself, particularly considering that he had barged in, unexpected and uninvited.

Yes,” he agreed. “Let's not discuss him.”

She started putting the rest of the groceries away. Over her shoulder, she asked, “You aren't allergic to shellfish, I hope?”

“Nope, no food allergies. What're you making?”

“Cioppino. The same as bouillabaisse, except it's Italian instead of French. More San Francisco than Italy, the way I make it.”

“Sounds great.” Here was an opening. “Are you from San Francisco?”

“No. This is going to take a while,” she added.

As is getting an answer from you, he thought. He was going to have to be more adroit in his prying. “In that case, I think I'll take a walk around the neighborhood.”

She nodded in approval. “There's a park a couple of blocks down, with a pretty flower garden.”

“I'll head there then.”

“Do you want to take a beer with you?”

“Won't I get busted? I've read stories about the LAPD.”

She laughed. “You don't have to worry, you have the right skin color. But if it'll make you feel less threatened, I'll put the bottle in a paper bag.”

Clancy dropped his spoon in his bowl. He was stuffed. His platter was littered with empty shells from the fish stew—clams, oysters, mussels, crab, Pacific lobster. “Awesome,” he told Emma.

“Thank you, kind sir. The chef accepts the compliment.” Emma mock-curtsied as she got up and started cleaning the table.

“Let me do that,” Clancy offered, starting to get up.

She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down. “You're our guest. Guests eat, they don't bus dishes.”

“She can cook, can't she,” Walt praised Emma, patting her on the behind as she leaned over the table. She batted al his hand playfully.

“And then some,” Clancy agreed. It was disconcerting, seeing his father being openly familiar with a woman other than his wife. Of course, Jocelyn was dead now, so Walt could carry on with anyone he wanted; still, this behavior was unsettling. He felt like a voyeur.

Wanting to redirect the focus, he picked up the bottle of wine they'd had with the meal and read from the label. “Brewer-Clifton Chardonnay, Sanford & Benedict vineyard. This is good.”

“It's from Santa Barbara County,” Walt informed him. “Great Burgundy grape region,” he said, with the assurance of a connoisseur. “Emma and I have started going up there on the weekends. I'm putting a decent wine cellar together, under the house. I'll show you later.”

A wine cellar? His father had always been a shot-and-a-beer Midwesterner, a self-styled regular guy when it came to “lifted-pinkie crap” (his scornful term) like being a wine snob. How many ways was his father changing? he thought.

“Do you want dessert?” Emma asked. “I have fresh raspberries. I could whip up some cream with a little Kahlúa or brandy,” she offered.

Thanks, but no.” Clancy patted his stomach. “I'm full. Couldn't stop eating. It was too good.”

“We'll get out of your hair,” Walt told Emma, getting to his feet. “Come on,” he said to Clancy. “We have some serious catching up to do.”

They were in Walt's study again. This time, with cognacs in hand—Rémy Martin XO, which Clancy, a saloon owner, knew retailed for close to a hundred dollars a bottle. Not a cognac that a self-styled shot-and-a-beer kind of guy buys, he thought.

Clancy was comfortably settled in a deep-cushioned love seat that was draped with a worn Navajo rug. Walt sat across from him in a Herman Miller Eames lounge chair, his feet propped up on the matching ottoman. One lamp, a Tiffany (a real one; Clancy had checked it out earlier), burned on Walt's desk; otherwise, the room was unlit, giving the space a pleasant shadowy glow.

Clancy looked around the room more carefully than he had the first time they'd sat here, when he'd been flummoxed merely by being with his father. The Maya artifacts and pictures of the various digs Walt had supervised he remembered from the past, of course; they were, in large part, the physical evidence of his father's life, the work side of it. But there were other items on display that were new, that didn't jibe with what he knew about his father.

I don't know a lot of things about him, he thought as he sipped the cognac, which went down like liquid gold. It was a disconcerting thought—the dominant one he and the others had had for months:
Who is dad? We always thought we knew, but did we?

“So you want to know what's been going on in my life.”

“Damn straight I want to know,” Clancy answered more testily than he wished, in response to what felt like a disingenuous question. “Doesn't that go without saying?”

“Of course it does. And I'm glad you care enough to get pissed off at me for how I've been toward you and the others.”

“You're our dad. Our only remaining parent. What else could we feel?”

Walt nodded. “Yes.” He drank some cognac. “It's nice here, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is,” Clancy agreed. “It's real nice.” His father was taking his sweet time getting to it, and he didn't want lo push any more than he already had. “Did you pick out the furnishings?” he asked, thinking of something to say that was neutral, nonthreatening. “Doesn't feel like your style, dad.”

“You mean the organized chaos school of decorating?” Walt asked, his mouth widening into a big grin.

“More
disorganized,
but yeah. This is like … very neat. Nothing out of place.”

“One person doesn't make much of a mess,” Walt offered by way of explanation. “You're thinking of how things were with three active boys in the house. Back when.”

Clancy nodded. His father was right—he had been recalling the family as an idyllic memory, a frozen group of moments from their past. Not a good way to think now. Dangerous. He needed to be here, in the less-comfortable present.

“What're those?” he asked, pointing to a shelf behind Wall's desk.

Walt swiveled around in his chair. “Kachina dolls. Hopi. They represent deified ancestral spirits. I suppose I should research them, to find out what each one means. They could have negative mojo that I ought to know about.”

“Yeah, you don't want to bring bad mojo into your life,” Clancy agreed.

As soon as the words had left his mouth he realized that what he'd said could be taken several ways, most of which were accusatory. “They're only dolls,” he added, covering.

If his father felt stung by the unwitting remark, he didn't show it. “This is true. And since we aren't Hopi, we probably don't have to worry.” He swirled the contents of his glass and took another sip, holding it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, then leaned forward.