Follow the Dotted Line (4 page)

It was an “epic” concert, according to Harley, as the applause finally flamed out and the audience made its way out of the theater, elbow to elbow.

“Where are we meeting Ian?” Andy asked.

“The Tofu Cafe on Western,” Mitch told her.

Harley looked up at his aunt.

“It’s Korean food,” she said.

His lingering excitement seemed to drain away suddenly. “What’s tofu?” he wanted to know.

Andy and Mitch both turned to Melissa to handle this one.

“Anything you want it to be,” she said, putting her hand on Harley’s shoulder. “Kind of like polenta or bean curd.”

Harley’s eyebrows shot skyward.

“You’re only feeding his anxiety,” Mitch pointed out.

“Oh, don’t be scared,” she said, taking the teenager’s hand and smiling seductively. “Stick with me,” Melissa whispered. “I shall lead you to a garden of earthly delights.” His spongy fingers melted into her touch.

“Oh, my god,” quipped Mitch, turning to his mother. “Look at the poor kid’s face.”

“I think he’s just discovered a whole new meaning for the ‘rapture’,” Andy suggested.

They watched the boy walk off with The Impresario, hand-in-hand.

Mitch wrinkled his brow, admiring the awesome power of the woman he was dating. “Uh huh, and she’s probably just committed some kind of statutory offence in the process.”

Besides the exotic Asian food, Harley was treated to one of Koreatown’s finest traditions: Elvis impersonators. Throughout the meal, four different men, three Koreans, and some Anglo in a wig, jumped on stage and did their best to imitate The King, accompanied by a karaoke machine. Andy noticed that her nephew was so absorbed in the entertainment that he plowed through the food without once asking her to identify any of the ingredients.

Andy assumed the conversation between her sons would inevitably turn to the passing of their father, but Ian spent most of the meal filling his older brother in on some financial hiccup the band was experiencing.

“Avocados,” explained Ian, so distraught that he didn’t seem to care his mother could hear every word. “Somewhere out of the country. Puerto Rico, maybe, I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“And who recommended these avocado orchards?” Mitch asked.

“I don’t know. Some investment guy our manager knows. All I know is that avocados were supposed to be very big.”

“Really, Ian?
Really
?” Mitch said, with an edge of skepticism that clearly cut through Ian’s thin skin.

Melissa was on it like a hawk. “We’re not all CEOs, Mitch,” she shot back. “And you’ve made a few mistakes of your own with the IRS.”

“Honest mistakes,” Mitch said, defensively.

“This was an honest mistake!” Ian nearly shouted. “We were all told it was a legitimate tax shelter.”

Andy could tell her youngest child was dazed and confused by how to handle the situation and would like nothing better than go in his room, close the door and practice, over and over, the fingering to ‘Black Bird.’ But the days of running away from the chaos surrounding him had long passed. She began to mull over what she might say to comfort Ian, but what the hell did she know about avocados?

Then Mitch, who was never one to mull over anything, said something that amazed even his mother. “Well, congratulations, bro. You’ve made it!”

Everyone, including Harley, looked at her eldest, who had finished his dinner and was rolling an unlit cigar in his fingers.

“What do you mean, I’ve made it?” Ian asked, perturbed.

“Unless you’re a poor starving artist or a drug dealer, being audited is part of the American experience,” Mitch pointed out. “You’re grown up now, Ian. Even Uncle Sam thinks you’re important. It’s part of life. Part of a successful business life. Be proud of yourself.”

Ian considered this, as Mitch continued to roll his cigar. “It’s only money, little bro,” Mitch concluded. “I doubt they’ll put you in jail.”

Melissa, whose hand had been resting on Mitch’s arm, dug her black enameled nails into his skin. “No one is going to jail, Mitchell!” she hissed. “It’s an IRS audit, for god’s sake.”

The waiter arrived unannounced with the bill and glanced subtly around the table. “That goes to
him
,” the Impresario instructed, taking the bill and handing it to Mitch. “Because paying the bill means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Smoking Cubans

The party of four adjourned to Mitch’s new house in the Gillette Regent Square neighborhood of Santa Monica. The tony housing tract, situated in the midst of what was arguably some of the finest weather on earth, had been developed by the guy who made it big in razor blades and who then went into real estate. Mitch had worked 15 intense years to afford to live on one of the tree-lined streets. He was beyond proud of himself and swore up and down he would never need to move again in his life.

More than anyone else in the family, Mitch Kornacky was his father’s son. Like Mark, Mitch lived life to the hilt. He collected friends as easily as kids collect Matchbox cars, and he loved to surround himself with a bunch of them and hold court. He could keep up his end of any conversation and everybody else’s, if necessary. High energy and high risk, Mitch was the consummate salesman; he loved nothing better than telling people what they really wanted and then making them buy it.

Mitch also inherited his father’s love of indulgence. He threw himself into work. He threw himself into vacation. He lived for fun and excitement. And he worshipped food. But unlike the father, the son had a sense of proportion. He stayed trim and fit by running nearly 20 miles a week to keep all the calories he consumed from accumulating. He went home every day from the office at seven o’clock to stay sane. And he never touched alcohol or cigarettes. Those were the rules. He did, however, smoke cigars, about eight each week. And when he did, he always talked as many dupes as he could into joining him. Tonight Andy and Ian sat puffing away with him on the patio beside the pool. Harley was in the TV room playing video games with The Impresario.

“So let’s talk about this funeral,” Mitch suggested, after exhaling smoke from one of his newly arrived Cubans, bought not-so-legally via the Internet. “When is Sam coming to LA for the lecture series?” he asked Andy.

“Next week.”

“But I’ll be in Cleveland next week,” Ian said.

Mitch thought for a moment. “No, that’s too soon, anyway. I don’t think I could pull it all together by then.”

“Please, Mitch, let’s not overdo it,” Ian said with a slight wince. “Just something simple. What about getting together at the end of the month?”

“I’m in Amsterdam the last week,” Mitch said.

“And whatever we do, we need to give Lilly some notice,” Andy reminded them. “Especially if she’s going to bring the whole family.”

The complexity of gathering them all together at one time took the life out of the discussion. Andy savored the Swisher Sweet smoke in her mouth and waited to see what else the boys had to say on the subject of their father. When the discussion seemed on the verge of petering out, she decided to wade into the waters that had been troubling her.

“Did Tilda really say nothing about how your dad died?” she asked Mitch.

“Nope. I guess she thought we wouldn’t care how it happened. “

“Well, do you?” Andy asked.

Mitch shrugged. “Heart disease. Liver failure. Does it make a difference?”

“Maybe not,” admitted Andy. “But I, for one, would like to know.”

“Okay, point taken,” Mitch agreed.

“And what about a will?” she asked. “Did he have one?”

Mitch shrugged again. “Look, the woman’s a sorceress or something. She thinks his children are heathens, and all we care about is money.”

“I don’t care that much about money,” Ian protested.

“Right. You care about your art. But we all know that money is my drug of choice. So I sure as hell am not calling her to ask about a will,” he said. And then, as an afterthought, “Don’t we have to be notified if there’s a will?”

Andy considered this. She’d never inherited anything or been involved in any probate and wasn’t sure. “I suppose,” she said. “But it would be foolish of us not to at least find out if he made a will, no matter what’s in it, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” Mitch said. “Frankly, this whole thing makes me feel a little foolish. The guy’s my dad, but I only talked to him a couple of times a year. I’ve never met his wife, and I know nada about his health issues. Now I’m the one left holding a carton of his ashes. Makes you question your value as a son, you know.”

Oh, let the guilt begin, Andy said to herself. How was it that Mark had walked out the door one day, never to return or place a phone call to any of his children, and
they
were the ones grappling with feeling guilty?

“You’ve done more than anyone else to stay in touch with your dad, Mitch. You have no reason to feel bad about your relationship,” Andy said. “I thought he used to ask you about investment ideas.”

“He did. Whenever I’d call. We haven’t talked that much since he got married this last time.”

“But he had assets,” she said, more as a statement than a question. “Don’t you suppose he left you all something?”

Ian laughed. “Hey, maybe I could use my inheritance to pay off the IRS.”

“Maybe you could,” she said, trying to illustrate the importance of her question about a will.

Mitch smiled. “Look, the man never gave any of us money when he was alive, and none of us expects money from him now that he’s dead, whatever he was worth.”

“Okay, but you know what they say,” Andy found herself parroting, “absent parents sometimes make up for their emotional negligence through their estate.”

The two boys stared at their mother, as if they’d just witnessed the first sign of dementia.

“Really? I’ve never heard that before,” squinted Ian.

Mitch erupted in an irritated laugh. “That’s horseshit, Mom, and you know it. Negligent parents are just negligent. And Dad was what he was.”

She pressed on. “Yes, but maybe we’ll feel differently about him if he left you all something in his will—”

“Will you quit trying to defend him?” Mitch suddenly shot back. “He’s not going to make any of us feel better about our family, no matter what’s in his will.”

Andy halted instantly. She knew Mitch was right. Nothing was going to redeem their father this late in the day. And nothing was going to redeem her from having married him, either. She leaned back in her chair, put the cigar to her lips and retreated.

Ian wondered if Mitch had any idea how hurtful he could be, even when he didn’t intend it. Their mother was just doing what mothers do: trying to make a bad situation better. She wanted to fill in the blanks. Find a little closure. Frankly, so did he.

“You know,” Ian began, as forcefully as he could, “I think we
should
find out about the cause of death. And if there’s a will.” He looked pointedly at Mitch, indicating his big brother’s remarks had gone too far.

“Do you, Ian?” Mitch sighed, backpedaling for at least the third time this evening.

“Absolutely. Only, I haven’t really got the time. Have you?”

Mitch picked up his cue. “No. Unfortunately not.”

“And the girls work even harder than we do,” Ian continued.

“No, they don’t—”

“Yes, they do,” Ian countered. “So they can’t do it, either. But maybe Mom could.”

The boys both turned to look at Andy, who knew they were trying to placate her. Still, she appreciated their attempt to make her feel useful. “Well, getting a death certificate and a copy of the will should be fairly straightforward,” she said. “I’m sure I could find the time.”

“You’re not too busy?” asked Ian.

Her youngest had always been so sweetly co-dependent, Andy reminded herself, reflexively ferreting out people’s feelings and then trying to rescue them from the pain. Even as a little boy of seven, Ian knew Andy felt bad about the way Mark had disappeared from their lives. Now he sensed his dad’s death was bringing all that excess of regret to the surface, and he was working furiously to bail her out.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t mind?” he repeated.

“No. Really. I’d like to find out,” she said.

Mitch felt the volley was his. “Well, if it helps,” he offered, “I’d say Dad had a couple hundred thousand in assets. So he
should
have had a will. But that’s the kind of thing normal people do, so he probably didn’t.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Andy. “Where are the ashes, by the way?”

“I brought them home. They’re in the freezer,” Mitch answered. Nobody seemed impressed by his answer. “What do you do with ashes?”

“I don’t think they need refrigeration.”

Mitch shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t really like having them—
him
here in the house. Can you take him, Mom? Until the memorial service.”

Wow, thought Andy. Even in death, Mark was the family hot potato.

With that, the three fell silent. Mitch smiled, turned his face upward to the night sky and began blowing smoke rings until the other two couldn’t resist the challenge and joined in.

What Goes on in Texas

Tucked up against the Rio Grande just north of the Mexican border is McAllen, Texas; not the sort of place Andy expected Mark Kornacky to put down roots. He had been an LA boy, born and bred. But after the divorce, he headed to Texas to stay with an old college buddy and never returned. It was there he had worked at his lucrative, if unsteady, occupation as a salesman for several car dealerships, a medical supplier, a pesticide manufacturer, and half a dozen cell phone companies.

Texas was also where Mark had married his next three wives. His first new wife, post-Andy, was named Kathy, and the relationship lasted five years before she had enough. Andy suspected that his next choice, Renatta, was likely a keeper because the couple stayed together nearly 15 years. She developed cancer late in the marriage, and Mark reportedly remained at her side until the end. Tilda, on the other hand, was just getting fired up.

It had been a whirlwind romance, according to Mitch, who periodically filled his mother in on the basics. In the few short months they’d been together, Mark and his young wife had been to New Age conventions in New York, New Orleans and Chicago, where Tilda performed tarot card readings, while Mark sold ambience oils and scented candles. They had also taken up salsa dancing and gone on several short cruises south of the border to learn new steps. And in a move that impressed even Andy, Mark and his latest love had both been cast as members of the chorus in a community theater production of
Les Miserables
at the McAllen Center for the Performing Arts. It was as if her ex-husband was determined to get the party started again after Renatta’s long, drawn-out illness. No matter how Mark had actually died, Andy felt fairly confident that he was likely having a blast at the time.