Final Arrangements (6 page)

"What's in that bag?"

"My portable chess game. It folds up, but I
find it easier to keep the pieces in a bag. I take it
everywhere."

"Stretch, are your parents rich?"

"They're rich in faith, but not particularly
in money. My dad worked for Bendix as a mechanic and shop foreman
for 30 years. And now he works for me as my senior manager. But
only because he needs something to do, something to get him out of
the house a couple of days a week."

"If your parents aren't rich, then where did
you get this expensive car?"

"Simonson Mercedes in Santa Monica."

"Not where, how?"

"The same way everybody does. I bought it. My
accountant begged me to buy it. He said I needed a write-off. He
was running out of places to put all the money I was making."

"An accountant? I thought you said your
mother kept your books."

"Well, she oversees things, such as the
collecting of the receipts and such. But I have an accountant for
most of it. And a tax attorney. He paid for his services the day he
got me off the accrual system and doubled my deductions."

Shannon sighed. Questioning Stretch would
never break the fantasy. It was time to be completely honest.
"Stretch, before we go a step further, I have to tell you
something. And when I do, if you choose to walk away, I'll
understand. You can drive away and leave me standing here at the
entrance to this supermarket and I won't say a thing."

"I won't do that," he said.

"You might. Stretch, I realize that you have
some sort of little problem. I know there's no tactful way to bring
this up. I don't even know what they call it nowadays. I only bring
this up because I want you to know I know about your situation, and
because I don't want you to feel you have to hide it from me."

"Shannon--"

"--Don't interrupt. I have to get this out.
I'm telling you this to set you free, Stretch. I know you're not a
millionaire. I know you probably only make 10 bucks an hour
cleaning pools. I know why you didn't finish High School, and that
you probably don't really have your G.E.D. Of course, I have no
idea where you got the Mercedes. I only hope it isn't stolen from
one of your customers who's on vacation or something. The most
important thing I want to tell you is, that I do find you
attractive. And that your fantasy about us getting married by an
arrangement of our parents is, I think, a very sweet and romantic
one. Actually, I'm very taken by the idea of a completely platonic
arrangement, one where the weaknesses of the flesh don't cloud
one's ability to choose a partner with similar values. Although
it's old-fashioned, archaic even, you've shown me that there's a
lot of merit to the custom. I was realizing earlier that perhaps
even Mary and Joseph had such a marriage, in the best Judaic
tradition, as of that of Isaac and Rebecca. One completely selfless
and devoted to God, where it was arranged by loving
intermediaries."

"You're warming to the idea," he said. "And
just think of the passion that will come when--"

"--Don't interrupt. Because I'm not warming,
not like you think. I'm just saying that the fact that personal
choice isn't part of an arranged marriage could be a tremendous
asset. Especially in light of all the divorces which have come
about with the advent of personal choice in choosing a mate. People
who have to decide on choosing their own mates tend to let their
passions run and they ignore the most important stuff, which is
family and loyalty and commitment."

"The problem with the dating scene," he said,
nodding in agreement, "is you wind up lighting the fire first and
then go shopping for the fireplace. By the time you have the
fireplace installed, the rest of your house has burned down. The
fire being, of course, the emotional and physical involvement which
occurs between two persons of the opposite sex."

"Clever analogy, Stretch. Two people are
drawn together by physical attraction, but when the family problems
begin, and there's no commitment, pop goes the divorce. But we've
already gotten way off track."

"Right. We were discussing my apparent
disconnect with reality."

"Yes. And I'm sorry to be so abrupt about it.
So there. I've said it. I hope you won't hate me for telling you I
know your secret. And believe me, I don't think less of you. I
don't think I'm better than you, just--"

"--different," he said, finishing her
sentence. "I'll follow you back."

"That's it? You'll follow me back? That's all
you want to say? You don't want to say anything to what I just
said?"

"No. I could say I don't think there's
anything wrong with me, but that's what all the crazy people say,
isn't it? If you're crazy, how do you know? So I won't say I'm not
crazy. I'll follow you back to your dad's house." And he did.

The sight of him, behind her as they traveled
down Ventura Boulevard, cruising with the top down, blue Dodger cap
pulled down low, giving her a feeling she couldn't describe. Yes,
she could. It was one of more than casual interest. And a certain
shame she felt because part of her interest stemmed from the fact
the man was not only single and available, but perhaps not on the
same mental plane as she. Did such a thing have to matter as much
as it did? Perhaps it would be desirable. Would make it easy for
her to get along with, and control him. He didn't seem to have any
meanness in him.

And it was possible he really was rich.
Stranger things had been known to happen in the City of Angels.
Even if he was living in a fantasy world, the car was some kind of
indicator. He could be rich and clean pools at the same time. Or
was his Mercedes simply a mirage, a vehicle with a heavy debt
service, something which would disappear at the first frown of the
Regional loan manager for whatever private bank Murphy's pool
business was attached to? Assuming he even had a pool business.
Doubtful, but possible. The man said he cleaned swimming pools. Of
which there were beaucoup in L.A. Which needed cleaning all year
round, even in the winter.

Murphy appeared to be well off, if one judged
solely by demeanor. He looked relaxed. Cool and unpretentious. Very
L.A. cool, toodling around in a huge Mercedes while wearing a
baseball hat and Hawaiian shirt with green parrots. A man with
other things on his mind besides toys. Who had met the basic
requirements of life. Attained the basic needs and had moved on to
the search for the dream, moved into the area where faith in
something as yet only partially understood and far greater than
himself was key to future accomplishments.

Which led to one other possibility, one she
didn't want to entertain. That he was for real. Was exactly who he
said he was. A man her very own father had chosen for her and with
the consent of his parents, made a formal arrangement for them to
marry. The fly in the ointment being that her father hadn't said
one word about it to her. It was absurd, and even a little obscene.
Her father had been gone from this earth less than a day, and she
was suddenly having the prickly sensation something big was about
to happen. Something huge. With a shiver, she understood the
feeling. At this time in her life, a time when she was most
vulnerable, at her absolute weakest point, at this very time, a man
was entering her life.

Dear Lord
, she said.
Of all things
to be happening. I've met someone. Who I find very attractive in
spite his fantasizing. Of all the confusing things to come my way.
And at a time when I'm least able to handle it. Why did he have to
tell me he wrestled a hippopotamus? I could have worked with
everything but that!

She avoided the San Diego Freeway and instead
chose to creep northward up Sepulveda, taking her time, sitting at
signal after signal, staying to the rightmost of the four
northbound lanes, moving slower than the brutish pack of native
drivers, delaying the moment when she'd find herself back at the
house. And at this moment, a third possibility came to her. Maybe
he was some sort of con man. Los Angeles was full of smooth talkers
who only wanted your money. The intuition made a lot of the pieces
fit together. Too many for comfort.

The urge to flee came upon her. A right turn
at Vanowen would take her all the way to the Burbank Airport. From
there--after the now typical arduous security check whereby they
satisfied themselves she was not armed with tactical nuclear
devices, toenail clippers, or other dangerous objects--a one-hour
flight back to SF International. She'd cab back to her flat and
collapse on her own couch, the one in front of the window facing
Fillmore. At which point it would be a simple matter to collect
herself, and make a few phone calls to the right people, who,
though they be perfect strangers, would cremate Dad's earthly
remains and ship them in an attractive urn to anywhere in the world
she chose. The thought of her father's bones, sailing through the
ether at 500 miles per hour in the airless baggage bin of a cargo
plane made her cringe. She remembered reading somewhere they mixed
the remains with sand so the loose pieces wouldn't rattle inside
the urn.

Which was when she suddenly remembered
something else very upsetting. She didn't turn right for the
airport. And found herself a minute or so later pulling into the
driveway of the Van Nuys house, waiting for the garage door to come
up, watching Stretch park on the street and get out, realizing
again just how big the man was, it constantly surprising her. He
came alongside her as she shut off the Suburban and opened her
door. A gentleman.

"Stretch, I need to tell you something kind
of strange. Two years ago, when my mother died, Dad brought her
cremated remains home. He was going to scatter the ashes up in the
Sequoias someplace. At a meadow he and mother used to visit."

"And he never did it," Stretch said. "He
never scattered her ashes."

"He told you?"

He nodded. "Your mom's ashes are somewhere
inside. Do you know where he keeps them?"

"No," she said.

"Then we'll have to find them."

"Stretch, I can't do it. It's more than I can
bear. I simply don't have the strength to go inside and look in all
the closets for the box my mother is in."

"I understand. So what we're going to do is,
we're going inside and you're going to watch TV while I search the
house."

"Watch TV?"

"It's after 11. Judge Judy should be on."

"Oh please. Maybe there's an old movie on
cable. No, wait. Dad didn't have cable. He was the last holdout in
the Western Hemisphere. So I guess Judge Judy it will be. But first
I have to know something. How is it you really came into Dad's
life? And you better be completely honest with me. I'm going to
watch your eyes. I'll know if you're lying."

"Shannon?"

"C'mon Stretch. I'm not a fool. This is all a
bit too convenient. There you are, the day my father dies, hanging
out in my backyard. With what may or may not be a phony business
card. I almost believed you, but the car doesn't fit. Pool guys
don't drive SL-600's. At first I thought you were a little off, but
suddenly I'm wondering if you aren't some kind of con man. What
kind of a game are you running? Are you some kind of sick scavenger
who preys on lonely heirs? If so, you can forget it. My dad was not
a rich man."

"Okay," he said. "I'm not going to fault you
for not trusting me. We're not in Kansas anymore. It never hurts to
be careful. Look, I met your dad while he was in the hospital last
year for some tests. He was having trouble with his Parkinson's
medication, so they kept him there for a few days to get the dosage
corrected. I was working at the Medical Center as a volunteer. I
noticed he had a portable chess set, and we got to talking and he
showed me a few chess moves on the portable board he always carried
around."

Another detail most people wouldn't know.
Dad's portable board, a little cardboard arrangement which folded
up into a square the size of a wallet.

"You? A hospital volunteer?"

"You should try it sometime. It's very
rewarding. In fact, it was talking to your father which encouraged
me to think about considering youth ministry as a vocation."

"My father encouraged you?"

"Yes. He's a very spiritual man."

"He was."

"Is. Still."

"Okay. Still. In his own quiet way. Which was
maybe why I didn't see him very much the past two years. Dad was
something of an anti-materialist. He told me I'd never have
anything because I was always buying myself a new car. I never keep
a car over two years. We had a fight over the Lexus SUV I leased
last year. Of course, at the end, he goes out and buys a new
Suburban."

"Lot's of elderly people buy Suburbans. It's
because they can't see as well, and they feel safer surrounded by
six tons of steel when they're out driving around."

"Anyway, Dad and I didn't see eye-to-eye on
material riches. No. Wait. That's not the reason I didn't spend
time with him."

"Because you wanted the world," Stretch said.
"And he wanted something else for you."

"No. The arguments over the cars and things I
bought were just an excuse to vent the fact that we were
uncomfortable around each other. It was because I couldn't get over
my mom's death, and neither could Dad. Mom was the center of the
family. After she died, it was painfully evident Dad and I were
practically strangers to each other. At least as far as our adult
relationship went. And neither one of us could get over our grief
over losing Mom. We cried our eyes out every time I came down. It
was too painful for me. So I started making excuses not to
come."

"You told him you were busy at work. You hold
a Master's from UCLA. You've made the right connections. You're
good at what you do. You live in Pacific Heights. You show the rich
how to get richer. You're dating a wealthy San Franciscan."