Spider Season (14 page)

“Go, go, go,” he whispered.

The half-grown bird flapped its wings tentatively a few times. Then it suddenly lifted off, flying as far as the limb of a nearby purple plum. It stayed within the leafy protection of the tree for several minutes, flapping with more vigor as it grew bolder. Then it alighted again, flying up to the power line where its father had spent so many hours serving as a beacon. For a moment, it sat there, exposed and vulnerable, while we thought about the neighborhood hawk that sometimes swooped from the sky to grab a small bird in midair or even a caged parakeet on someone’s balcony, seizing the bird with its extended talons and feasting on it through the bars of the cage.

A few tense seconds passed and then the small dove took off again, this time in full flight. Gone.

“One down, one to go,” Maurice whispered.

But the other chick stayed where it was, hunkered down in its comfort zone. The father returned later in the day, continuing the flying lessons. The mother replaced him that night, bringing food and watching over the nest. This pattern continued for two more days, until the adults failed to return, leaving the timid chick alone. We thought it might be sick or injured, which caused Maurice no end of consternation. Finally, on Friday morning, forced to fend for itself, the chick gathered its courage and fluttered from the nest, but only far enough to drop softly to the lawn and hop into the shrubbery for cover.

“It’s perfectly healthy,” Maurice said, “just afraid, poor thing.”

There had been a time, many years ago, when Fred would have reminded Maurice that the bird was simply part of the food chain, not to belittle him but to help him accept the reality that the bird might not survive. But Fred had become more sensitive in recent years, and in particular since his health had gone into serious decline.

He urged Maurice to keep the two cats inside the house until the baby bird had finally alighted and taken to the sky. Hour after hour, Fred continued to sit vigil on the patio, until dusk approached and Maurice insisted he come in for the night.

*   *   *

My reading at Book Soup was set for seven-thirty that Thursday evening, my name positioned on the plastic marquee between two Hollywood-connected authors, above the hustle and bustle of the Sunset Strip. Judith Zeitler had reminded me more than once how lucky I was that such a high-profile bookstore had agreed to put me on their events schedule, even if my publisher wasn’t willing to pay for a window display.

“Must be a slow week,” I told her.

I arrived fifteen minutes early, expecting to face a blast of her usual energy and exuberance. Instead, she appeared downbeat as I approached. I asked her straightaway what was wrong.

“I don’t like being the bearer of bad tidings,” she said, pursing her lips regretfully. “I wanted Jan Long to be the one to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Zeitler grimaced.

“Someone’s been sending nasty messages in your name to various book reviewers across the country. Very insulting messages.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“It started just before your book came out. Jan only learned of it this afternoon. She’s planning to call you.”

“Wonderful. That might account for some of the more savage reviews, anyway.”

“They’ve turned it over to the legal department for investigation and notified
PW,
which plans to run an article on it, clearing it up.”

“Please don’t tell me there’s no such thing as bad publicity, okay?”

She looked properly chastened. “No, not this time. Benjamin, do you have any idea who might want to hurt you like this?”

“Someone comes to mind,” I said.

“Be sure to let Jan know.”

We went inside and met the manager, who announced over the PA system that I was about to read from my new book,
Deep Background,
in the annex next door. At half past seven, as I stood behind the podium, my audience consisted of exactly three people: the manager, Judith Zeitler, and a homeless man who’d parked his shopping cart and belongings outside. The manager suggested we wait an extra few minutes for late arrivals and made another announcement over the PA system.

“Don’t be discouraged by the small turnout,” Judith whispered. “You can’t predict these things.”

When no one else had shown by a quarter to eight, the manager stepped to the podium and introduced me to the homeless man, who was already dozing. I opened a copy of my book to the epilogue, where I’d marked a passage recounting a Chinese lunch I’d shared with Alexandra Templeton twelve years ago. At the time, we were each deeply suspicious of the other, as she dug relentlessly into my past, attempting to understand me and figure out why I’d self-destructed six years earlier.

“‘“You were seventeen,” she said, referring to my fateful last year in Buffalo. “Your name then was Benjamin Osborn.”

“‘I reached for the teapot, drew it over, but didn’t pour. I just stared at it stupidly, wishing I’d never agreed to be her mentor as a way of settling old debts with Harry Brofsky. When I finally looked over, she had an Eastman Reporter’s Notebook open, the same kind I’d used when I worked under Harry at the
LA Times.

“‘“According to court records in New York City,” she said, “you legally changed your name shortly after your eighteenth birthday.”

“‘“I took my mother’s maiden name, Justice. I thought it would look good on a byline.”

“‘“I also came across news accounts from the Buffalo area papers. Accounts of what happened on a Saturday afternoon in late November, in the three-bedroom house where you grew up.”

“‘The waitress cleared our plates and disappeared to get the check. Templeton continued scanning her notes.

“‘“Your father was a police detective. Homicide. Quite a good one, when he wasn’t drinking.”

“‘“So people said.”

“‘“Some of your neighbors and teachers thought you might become a cop yourself. If only to please him, win his admiration.”

“‘I glanced at a booth across the way, where a little Chinese girl sat on her father’s lap, eating chow mein with chopsticks. He was patiently coaxing her, as she repeatedly let the noodles slip back into the bowl.

“‘Templeton continued. “They characterized him as a cold, hard man. He was also violent, mostly at home.”

“‘I turned my eyes back to her. “You’re stirring up some warm memories, Templeton.”

“‘“Your mother was also an alcoholic. But she was a decent person, from all accounts. She tried courageously to keep the family together, took a lot of abuse.”

“‘“She believed in keeping up appearances,” I said. “Plus, she was Catholic, and considered divorce out of the question. That’s not necessarily decency, or courage. Especially when kids are being hurt.”

“‘Templeton flipped a page, glancing through her notes. “As you got into your teens, you started fighting back. You were getting bigger, and when you began wrestling in high school, he couldn’t beat you up so easily.”

“‘“No, it took him a little longer.”

“‘“Then, that Saturday, in your senior year, you and your mother went to the store. Your father stayed behind with your little sister, watching football and drinking bourbon while she did her homework. I believe she was eleven at the time.”

“‘“She’d just turned eleven,” I said. “We’d had a party for her the Saturday before. I’ve still got a photo.”

“‘“On the way to the store, your mother realized she’d forgotten her checkbook. She drove back. As you entered the house, you heard your little sister crying in a rear bedroom.”

“‘“So far, so good.”

“‘“When you went to check, you found your father molesting her.”

“‘“He’d penetrated her. He was halfway in, and still pushing.” I saw Templeton wince, which pleased me. “I believe that’s called rape.”

“‘She swallowed dryly, turned another page, kept going. “You attacked him, pulling him off. Your mother went for the phone, to call the police. He grabbed the phone from her hands, started beating her. Worse than he ever had. He said he’d kill her if she told anyone, kill all of you.”

“‘“Correct.”

“‘“You tried to keep him away from your mother, but it was impossible. He kept hitting her, while your little sister cowered in a corner, sobbing.”

“‘She looked up from her notes, as if seeking my permission to continue.

“‘“Don’t stop now, Templeton. You’re almost at the best part. The payoff every reporter lives for.”

“‘“You ran into the next room.” She recited now from memory, abandoning her notes, keeping her eyes on mine. “You grabbed your father’s police revolver, raced back, and killed him. You were never charged. It was ruled justifiable homicide.”

“‘I smiled grimly. “Don’t you just love a happy ending?”

“‘“Four years later, your mother died of cirrhosis of the liver. You were in college then, studying journalism. When she was nineteen, your sister died of a drug overdose. According to an article I read, she was a promising painter.”

“‘“Her name was Elizabeth,” I said. “Elizabeth Jane. Yes, she was quite a good painter, though she never quite believed it herself.”

“‘Templeton slipped her notebook into her handbag. “I’m sorry, Benjamin. I really am.”

“‘It was the first time she’d addressed me by my first name.

“‘“Don’t be sorry for discovering the truth,” I said. “That’s what you’re trained for. It’s the career you chose. You’d better get used to it.”

“‘The waitress brought the check, thanking us in broken English. Then she went away again.

“‘“You have no reason to feel any shame about what you did,” Templeton said. “You shouldn’t have to carry that kind of pain around with you anymore.”

“‘She meant well, but I was tempted to laugh; she was so young and saw things so simply. She leaned toward me and covered my hand with hers. I drew mine away.

“‘“He raped your little sister, Benjamin. He almost killed your mother. You had every right to shoot him.”

“‘I smiled, which was unfortunate.

“‘“I didn’t shoot my father, Templeton.”

“‘She gave me a curious look.

“‘“I emptied his revolver into him. Then I beat him with the butt end of it until his face was a bloody pulp and I couldn’t stand to hear my mother screaming anymore.”’”

I’d intended to read more but couldn’t stomach the rest, so I stopped. Zeitler and the manager looked stunned and sickened. The homeless man snored audibly. Seeing the look on Zeitler’s face, I realized she hadn’t read the book, at least not all the way through. I suddenly felt bone weary, disillusioned, and painfully ridiculous.

“I’d be happy to sign a copy for anyone who wants one,” I said.

The manager suggested I sign only ten copies of stock. I understood the unspoken subtext of that: Don’t sign more because we’ll probably be sending the rest back.

*   *   *

Zeitler offered me a ride home, but I told her I’d walk, since Norma Place was only a few blocks down the hill and the exercise would do me good.

I trudged home in a deep funk, thinking about all the crap that had come down on me in recent weeks. At one point in my life, when I was young and ambitious, my most fervent desire had been to one day see my first book published. I suppose I’d looked at it as an event that would somehow change my life, a milestone that would catapult my career to a new level, a magic elixir that would make everything right.

Be careful what you wish for, I thought.

I arrived home to find the mother dove in the backyard, feeding her chick on a garden bench. In the moonlight, I could see seed husks and droppings on the velvety lawn beneath the slats. I was approaching the stairs quietly, to avoid disturbing the birds, when I heard the back door open and turned to see Maurice step from the house. He was dressed in his robe and bunny slippers, his white hair contained in a hairnet for the night. He motioned me silently to join him on the driveway.

“I didn’t know if I should call the police,” he said, “or if you’d want to handle it yourself.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, and said so.

“Your car, Benjamin. Didn’t you see it as you came in?”

He led me to the end of the drive, where the Mustang was parked at the curb fifteen or twenty feet beyond the house. Someone had vandalized it savagely. The tires were slashed and flattened, the cherry red paint job ruined with acid that was still smoking, the convertible top sliced open, the tuck-and-roll upholstery ripped to shreds. The word
FAG
had been spray-painted across the windshield. I’d bought the Mustang twenty-odd years ago with the first real money I’d made as a journalist, in part because Jacques had considered it such a cool car. He’d loved riding around beside me with the top down on Sunday afternoons while Queen’s “We Are the Champions” blasted from the speakers, in those fading years of gay liberation, as a plague descended on us like a mass of locusts from a darkening sky. It wasn’t the material value of the car that mattered to me; it was the memories. Whoever had done this, I thought, knew more about me than they had a right to.

Be careful what you wish for.

I thanked Maurice for pointing out the damage and told him I’d notify the authorities on my own.

SIXTEEN

I waited until morning to report the vandalism.

I didn’t know if Jason Holt was responsible, or the skinhead named Lance, or someone else entirely. Without a witness to the act, I didn’t expect the cops to pin the crime on any one person, or even to investigate it. But there was the matter of insurance, and I knew my carrier would insist on a police report.

I found the same deputy behind the desk who’d given me a form to fill out the previous time. I told him why I was there and that I had two possible suspects in mind, though I couldn’t prove that either one had done it. The fact that the word
fag
had been used got the desk officer’s attention, since it suggested a hate crime. He took my name and contact information and told me a deputy would call and arrange a visit, to see the damage for himself and take photographs. Before I left, I asked about the copy of the police report I’d requested when I’d been in before, the one involving the incident with Lance. The deputy didn’t remember anything about it until I filled him in on a few details.